Subhash Chandra Bose, three year old. Jawaharlal Nehru, eight year old. Shivaji, ten year old. Rani Luxmi Bai, five year old. The list goes on. A virtual queue of national leaders of varying reputations. Sounds puzzling? Come with me to the corner shop in the busy downtown. It was bustling with people with children of all ages in toe. People clamouring for space, dribbling like players in a soccer match; requesting, beckoning, manoeuvering, trying tricks of any sort to draw attention of the busy shopkeeper. The man at the counter with his two assistants was trying to make everyone happy with their fare but all in vain. Children were quick to revise their options and the parents happier to concede to their demands.

Believe me, the fancy dress shop was in great demand, especially this being the Independence Day eve. I did not have an inkling about it till my two and half year old daughter started going to a play school just a couple of months ago. It was three days before fifteenth of August and I noticed a rather innocuous note in her school diary that asked parents to dress up their wards like any national leader. As I approached the shop I could notice the road ahead chock-a-block with cars small and big and bigger. And the scene inside the shop was more dreadful than it was on the road outside. Here was a crowd that leaves you to ponder whether the struggle for freedom was still being fought on this dingy road.

Why don’t you give me Gandhiji? One voice thundered. Sir, Gandhiji already exhausted. Can you make do with Subhash Chandra Bose - nice army outfil, Sir? The attendant at the counter tried his salesmanship and blissfully toppled Gandhi’s non-violence with the armed struggle of Netaji’s. Papa, I want Netaji’s dress. A little voice just behind me made a timely appeal. Beta, you already have Nehru, he was the first Prime Minister of India, you know. The father lent a historical perspective to the adventure of dress hopping. But the little one was more interested in army dress complete with a revolver. Will you please get me Sarojini Naidu? Who was that, Sir? Anyone related to Chandrababu Naidu? Sorry, we don’t have that. Take Mother Teresa. Wasn’t she in the freedom struggle? Doesn’t matter, Madam, nice get up and she is very popular in the fancy dress category, I tell you. The shopkeeper shared his business experience with his customers. Shivaji and Rani Luxmi Bai were in grand company as they made colourful displays with their attires sans the horses. Lal Bahadur Shastri remained a distant runner while Bhagat Singh made the mark with his romantic heroics.

A barrage of questions, teeming shoppers - haggling and bargaining - and above all, the silent witnesses of our freedom struggle who won us independence. All stored under this roof, ready to be chosen and imitated in a while. The mute museum of forgotten leaders smiles at you while you buy from the proxy gallery for your child. We may ever prefer idols than the ideals. Did you tell them that Bapu was not in Delhi, but in Kolkata pleading for communal harmony on the eve of our first Independence Day? Did you ask them to dress up like a common Indian martyred in Jalianwalla Bagh? Did you tell them about the thirteen-year-old Khudiram Bose whom the British hanged to death? Did you tell them about the thousands of women who sacrificed homely comfort for the sake of a greater movement? Did you tell them that the struggle for India’s independence was not only to be free from the British rule but also to establish the basic norms of humanism in a sovereign state?

Do I hear "Jai Hind?" Or, do I hear a faint "Hey Ram?"
See you there, fifteenth of August, next year.