You’re standing in the middle of the road with your friends. For your privileged and socially secure humble self, it’s just another day.
To the right, you see the yellow, rani, green and blue tarpaulin- the sun shines in through the colors, another shade of orange. Bhagwa? Saffron? You can’t be too sure. The tarpaulin stretches over mothers who smile at all those who come and go, hold each other, and go about their day, in the saffron lighting and bhagwa set up.
To the left you see gilli-danda and the rather engrossing match beyond the blue foot-over bridges coloured in red with posters and slogans and notice: humare pyaar se saheb darte hain
Your friend points to the left, at the foot-over bridge, “You want to go see the place from the bird’s eye view?” You all chuckle dryly: it’s funny, you get to be at a higher pedestal than the rest.
You climb up the stairs, one by one. You start at unity, then comes freedom, and finally you’re at the landing that ends the flight, nay starts, with we the people.
We the people have freedom and unity. We the people have freedom and unity. We the people have freedom and unity.
The bridge’s a nice place to sit at. You get a chance to point at funny slogans and laugh, you realize the kids come out to play gilli-danda next to the Hitler Modi poster, you crack a joke about school and talk about how you lost your friend to the Sangh.
And when a Boy with a Smile, about your age, approaches your bubble of friends and asks if this is the first time you’re visiting and you say yes: you smile embarrassingly to his warm and welcoming “Aaj toh pachhis din pure hone ko aaye hain, aur aap ab aaye? Chalo koi nahi, aap enjoy karna.” He continues to tell you about how all the “intellectuals” sit on the rocks that spell out revolution and discuss what next over chai-sutta; he’s seen them every day, day one through twenty-five. “Biryani kha kar jaana.” He leaves with the same Smile he came with.
You continue to joke about, with a slightly heavier heart, a little more guilt-ridden about your privilege.
Just when you all fall to a quiet, you hear two very small, extremely young children singing jamia tere khoon se inquilab aayega. Over and over, arm in arm, they’re running up and down the ramp of the foot-over bridge. They’re happier than ever when they sing it together. It’s a merry rhyme to them. Jamia tere khoon se inquilab aayega.
It was after a minute (it seemed longer) that one of them asked the other, “yeh Inquilab kaun hai?”
You and your friends share a look, it’s an almost knowing look, and you all let out a hesitant giggle at their innocence, but you all want to know Inquilab kaun hai. You’re sure just sitting and looking about isn’t a voice loud enough to call out to Inquilab.
So instead you reckon it’s time to go home - take an e-rick or walk to the metro station - but you still wonder, would you meet Inquilab on your way? Even if you do, would you recognise Inquilab? Kaun hai yeh Inquilab?
Mili is an Economics undergraduate at University of Delhi. She is a radical feminist, passionate about Ambedkarite and Marxist ideologies. You can find her sniffling to Iqbal Bano's renditions of Faiz Ahmed Faiz's poetry and hating on neoliberals left, right and centre- mostly right and centre (heh). Count on her to give you the warmest hugs: she is very proud of her hugging skills.
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