Gulzar has called on the new generation of Indians to come up with an anthem for our times. Not a replacement for ‘Jana Gana Mana’, the national anthem, or ‘Vande Mataram’, the national song, subject to a lot of unnecessary excitement of late. But a song, a qaumi tarana as he calls it, that supplements our official tracks, that can be hummed by crores of young Indians, that can invoke deep feelings of belonging to a community called India.
In his opening remarks to the video rendering of his latest song, he points out an obvious void: All the patriotic songs we use today are dated, some by a century. We need something new. His own new song, ‘Ek akela Hidustani, do bane to Hindustan’, is a subtle message against divisive politics and an invocation of diversity, so necessary in our times. Like ‘Mile sur mera tumhara’, there is a feel-good quality to it, even if the music video is a tad extravagant. Yet, even a card-carrying Gulzar fan like me would not say this is the song we have been looking for. The poet himself does not claim to have filled the void. He challenges us. He invites us.
Thankfully, the national anthem and the national song have not lost their motivational quality. T M Krishna’s latest book, We The People of India: Decoding A Nation’s Symbols, devotes a chapter to tracing the journey of both these songs. For me, like most Indians of my generation, springing up to attention whenever we heard ‘Jana Gana Mana’, often to the annoyance of radical friends, was not just a school drill. The ritual invoked something deeper, something that grew with time as its meaning unfolded. The anti-CAA protest re-enchanted the national anthem, infusing it with fresh meanings and energies. I find ‘Vande Mataram’ no less stirring — unlike most musically tuned friends, I prefer the filmi version of Anand Math over the official Akashvani composition — though it is a song of longing for a nation, not quite for a nation that has come into being. Yet, these officially sanctified, and often mechanically regulated, songs remain too lofty, too sacred, to be hummed in any other context.
I grew up in an India where deshbhakti songs did not invite disbelief or ridicule. ‘Saare jahan se achchha’ — here I prefer the melodious over the military band composition — was still the one song inherited from the freedom struggle that moved us. ‘Mazhab nahin sikhata apas mein bair rakhna’ was echoed by ‘Tu Hindu banega na Muslamaan banega’. These songs did not just remind you of the value of freedom (“apni azadi ko hum hargij mita sakte nahin”), they invited every Indian into the project of nation-building (‘Saathi haath badhana’ or ‘Chhodo kal ki baten’). Indian nationalism was not about being one-up on our neighbour or our enemy. India was defined by openness to the universe: “Jo jisase mila seekha hamne/ gairon ko bhi apnaya hamne”.
We, the children of the 1960s and 1970s, were often the target of these songs (‘Aao bachcho tumhe dikhayen’ or ‘Hum layen hain toofan se’) that invited us to a republic of virtues. These lines from ‘Insaaf ki dagar pe’’ still move me to tears: “Insaniyat ke sar pe izzat ka taj rakhna/tan man ki bhent dekar Bharat ki laaj rakhna”. This was my nationalism. Serving humanity was the way to honour my motherland. The three wars of 1962, 1965 and 1971 foregrounded grief (‘Ae mere watan ke logon’) and sacrifice (‘Kar chale ham fida’) but did not unleash jingoism. Even the Manoj Kumar variety of flat nationalism spoke of love as the marker of Bharat (‘Hai preet jahan ki reet sada’). Watching cinema was taboo in my childhood. So I connected to the national imagination through these songs on the radio rather than on screen.
Something changed after that. Maybe I grew up and was unwilling to suspend disbelief. Maybe the country was taking a different turn, unable to sustain the earlier credulity. In any case, my political self could not connect with the popular songs of the day.
Poetry made more sense to me. Apoorvanand’s book Kavita me Janatantra captures something of the journey of Hindi poetry through the political lens. For me, Raghuveer Sahay’s stinging indictment of the anthem now sounded more true: “rashtrageet me bhala kaun vah bharat bhagya vidhata hai/fata suthanna pahne jiske gun harcharna gata hai”. Or Vinod Kumar Shukla’s ‘Lagbhag Jai Hind’ that quietly interrogates the hollow nationalist symbolism. Sarveshvar Dayal Saxena and Dushyant Kumar gave expression to the mood of those times. My quest for songs took me to the magic of Faiz and Iqbal Bano. Popular Hindi songs did not figure on my horizon.
Not that there was a complete absence. ‘Chak de India’ touched me, but fleetingly. The longing of ‘Sandeshe aate hain’ did not carry the same feeling as ‘Kar chale hum fida’. ‘Yeh jo des hai tera’ needed a diasporic distance that I did not possess. The musical language of ‘Maa tujhe salaam’ was global and contemporary, but its message drew upon a century-old jaded language of devotion to the motherland. ‘Rang de Basanti’ was something of an exception, with a sharp distinction between loyalty to the country and to the government. Over the last decade, we have had songs like ‘Teri mitti’ or ‘Challa’ that invoke a muscular nationalism, very unlike the humane nationalism of my childhood. The musical language of Dhurandhar is globally hybrid, at odds with its territorial assertiveness.
Gulzar’s challenge is, therefore, timely. But today, a song for India needs more than just a poetic and musical genius. It needs nothing short of reimagining India. We live in a country with a voracious appetite for celebration but much fewer reasons to celebrate. We live in times where voices from the margins — those of Manipur or Dalits or Adivasis or women or the queer community — cannot be wished away in weaving a new tapestry of the nation. We live in a precarious moment. The July protests have reminded us that the youth are unwilling to buy the dreams they have been sold.
So, the problem is not just that we have lost those moving songs about the nation. Or that we lost the imagination that produces such songs. We may have lost the imagined community that we call a nation.
The writer is member, Swaraj India, and national convenor, Bharat Jodo Abhiyaan. Views are personal
We may have lost the imagined community that we call a nation.
(Illustration: C R Sasikumar) 
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