bakchodi in room “Paradeeeee saavdhaan!” If only I had a dollar for every time our PT sir bellowed those words across the school grounds, I probably wouldn’t be whining about America being expensive.

Patriotism in India is a curious thing. It’s deeply ingrained yet oddly selective. For most of us, it awakens twice a year—on January 26th and August 15th. I remember Republic Day celebrations back in school vividly. The day was always a half-day, something I haven’t seen in years. Life now is too buried in work to remember what “half-day” even feels like. (If you happen to spot it, do give it my regards. Sorry, bad joke—I’m creeping toward 30, so dad jokes are par for the course now.)

School parades were something else. While many kids groaned about marching under the hot sun, I loved it. Any other day, I’d have cursed every ancestor of whoever made me march around a dusty field, but not for the Republic Day parade. Never. I don’t know why, but it felt different—important, even.

Outside of school, the day had its own charm in our society. After finishing school in 2015 (wow, it’s been 10 years), I remember slipping into the brightest white sadra I could find—what we called pandhra sadra in Marathi. I’d pin a tiny tricolor flag to my chest and head to the flag-hoisting ceremony.

An enthusiastic uncle would give a speech, and we’d all pretend to listen while secretly waiting for it to end. A kid—almost always a nepotism pick—would sing, dance, or both. Then came the part I loved the most: singing the national anthem, followed by shouting “Bharat Mata ki Jai!” and “Vande Mataram!” at the top of our lungs.

I especially loved this because, for some reason, God gifted me with an unusually strong larynx. Yelling those words filled me with a sense of pride that still lingers to this day.

Attaching an image of vadapav I had in India Square for now:

bakchodi in room

And then, the snacks. Oh, the snacks. Without fail, it was either hot vada pav or samosa pav served with tangy chutney, lovingly prepared by some member of the society. That was Republic Day in a nutshell for me—a core memory that still makes me smile.

Back home, Dad would switch on the TV, and we’d spend the afternoon watching patriotic Bollywood movies. Think Sunny Deol, intense dialogues, and a whole lot of Desh Bhakti. Those afternoons were pure bliss.

But as I’ve grown older, I’ve started noticing a pattern. Patriotism in India peaks on January 26th and August 15th, only to fizzle out the next day. For many, Republic Day is just another public holiday—worse, a reason to grumble if it falls on a weekend.

I get it. People are tired. They work hard and need their breaks. But I think we’ve forgotten the significance of the day. January 26th isn’t just a date on the calendar. It’s the day India became a republic—a democratic nation where every voice matters.

No, I don’t think India is perfect. We’re far from being the greatest country in the world, and I’m not some blind bhakt who refuses to see our flaws. Yes, we still carry the baggage of colonialism. Yes, women aren’t entirely safe in our country. But I also believe we’ve come a long way, and we’re improving.

Some might call my optimism a typical NRI perspective. “It’s easy to talk about progress while sipping coffee in a cozy Boston café,” they might say. And maybe they’re right. But hear me out:

In just 75 years as a republic, India has transformed itself. Look around—Indians are leading industries worldwide, from tech to healthcare to academia. Twenty-five years ago, the world saw us as taxi drivers, gas station attendants, and airport workers. Today, we’re software engineers, doctors, surgeons, and researchers.

I’ve seen this shift firsthand here in the U.S. While I don’t seek validation from anyone, it’s hard to ignore the respect Indians now command. Back home, too, life is changing. Sometimes, my friends in India seem to be living better lives than I am here. Five-minute food, groceries, and medicine delivery. Housemaids. There’s a certain comfort to life in India that I genuinely miss.

Maybe this post feels like a rant—perhaps it is. But what I’m really saying is this: I yearn for the simplicity of those times. Wearing my bright white sadra, hanging out with friends after the flag hoisting, devouring hot vada pav—those moments of joy, pride, and togetherness.

One day, I’ll go back and relive it all. For now, I’ll hold onto the memories and remind myself that, no matter where we are, Republic Day is an opportunity to reflect on how far we’ve come—and how much further we can go. Perhaps, someday, people will embrace patriotism in its truest sense, not as something reserved for just two days, but as a sentiment carried throughout all 365 days of the year.