My Family and Other Globalizers | How to talk to kids about India and Independence Day

India Gate, Delhi. (Image: Shubham Dhiman via Unsplash)

Note to readers: My Family and Other Globalizers is a weekly parenting column on bringing up global citizens.

Nationalism is an overheated emotion, and one that I’ve always been wary of. I love my country because of its capacious history and its varied beauty. But what I love most about it, is that we Indians are allowed the freedom to think, to criticize, to argue and to dissent.

I am not one for blind love – whether of my children, or my country. A clear-eyed analysis that takes into account warts and all, is what allows a person to be a better citizen/parent.

But such an approach raises a dilemma. I have taught my boys to be critical rather than unquestioningly loyal. The consequence is a host of uncomfortable queries that I must deal with every time we visit India as a family.

The boys are geographically polyamorous. They have lived in countries as vastly different as China and Belgium, and Indonesia and Spain. Their primary loyalty is not to the country of their mother’s birth, for they see this as an arbitrary requirement. Their loyalty is to the earth that they call home.

Yet, they are aware, of course, that while the whole world is the home of us human beings, some places are more special than others. And India is a special place for our family.

It's where everyone is an “auntie.” Where people they meet for the first time physically, are somehow already intimate, known. It's where Nani lives. It's where Nico loves the food more than anywhere else. It's where Ishaan can finally talk about cricket to people who know it’s a sport rather than an insect.

Both boys have a historian’s curiosity combined with a love of nature. And we have played to these interests by making sure that every visit to India includes a wildlife safari and an exploration of the country’s historical heritage. We have visited Khajuraho and Jaisalmer, Nagarhole and Bandhavgarh.

But even as we revel in the warmth of family, and enjoy our archeological explorations, there are hard truths that loom large on every trip: the poverty, the air pollution, the inability to drink water out of a tap, or even to walk about safely.

In my posh south Delhi neighbourhood, aggressive stray dogs and roving bandars have made taking a stroll to the local corner store potentially hazardous. Nico, my younger one, is also mildly asthmatic, which makes the act of breathing in Delhi feel to him like he’s constantly on a treadmill. Spending hours a day hooked to a nebulizer is no one’s idea of a good time.

My boys are not desensitized to the child beggars who tap on car windows at traffic lights. Their eyes grow wide as saucers about to spill over with tea when they see the pavement dwellers camped under the flyover, bang opposite one of the Indian capital’s poshest 5-star hotels.

Why is the government not doing anything for these people? Why are we not doing anything for them? Why are they so poor? Why are we not poor?

I dread the maelstrom of questions that every drive around the city of my birth generates. For how does one explain the callousness that is the armour of everyone who lives in a developing country?

My boys notice how “servants” are never invited to join families at the table. They are bemused at people who call for a maid from another room to bring them a drink from a fridge that they are sitting right next to. “Indians are very lazy, Mama,” Nico has whispered to me more than once.

And they comment on the absence of women in public spaces. Everywhere we look there are gaggles of young men, holding on to each other’s elbows, shooting the breeze. But the women are few, and they rarely loiter. They hunch forward, looking at the floor, rather than laughing up at the sky with their shoulders back.

My boys cannot understand why their mother suddenly hesitates to take a taxi by herself at night. And I find myself hiding the newspapers from them at the breakfast table. I’m usually calm when it comes to helping them navigate the adult world, but “gang rape” is a phrase I’d rather they lack familiarity with for years to come.

As every Independence Day rolls around, I sit with the children and tell them about India’s inspirational freedom struggle. Stories are how we all make sense of the world, and I can sense my boys experiencing the gamut of emotions from indignation at the injustices Indians faced under the British Raj, to the pride at the moral basis for our eventual independence.

And yet, this story does not yet have a happy ending, even though we are all rooting for one. I suppose what I ultimately want is for the boys to love my/their country, but without romanticizing it. So that if and when they are in the position to be the change that they would like to see in India, they will act with clear-eyed compassion. It’s a big ask, but one all of us need our children to rise up to.