Republic Day morning.

Every time Republic Day comes around, my mind does not go first to constitutions, governance, or political debates. It quietly slips back into my childhood classroom.

I see myself dressed in crisp white, slightly oversized, slightly wrinkled standing in a long, uneven line in the school ground. A tiny tricolour flag in hand, the smell of freshly watered mud under our shoes, and a loudspeaker that always crackled at exactly the wrong moment.

Somewhere in the background, “Sāre Jahān Se Achchā” begins slightly off-key, but sung with absolute conviction.

And suddenly, faces appear.

My teachers. The ever-serious PT sir with his whistle and stopwatch. The drill master who believed discipline could be installed like software, one command at a time. And of course, the headmistress, standing tall, surveying the nation’s future with one raised eyebrow.

At that age, I did not know what a Republic really meant. I just knew that on this one day, we stood straighter, sang louder, and believed without question that we were part of something much bigger than ourselves.

Only much later did I realise: that feeling was my first lesson in Gana Rajya.

Today. 7.00 a.m.

I am on my terrace, walking in slow philosophical circles because that is what all serious thinkers do holding a steaming hot South Indian filter coffee. Not tea. Filter coffee. Thick. Strong. Democratic. No hierarchy between chicory and decoction.

Somewhere in the distance, a neighbour’s TV is already shouting “Jhanki number one!” at full volume. The national anthem is warming up its vocal cords.

And there I am, coffee in hand, thinking: “So… what exactly are we celebrating today?”

Not just a holiday. Not just a parade. And definitely not just a long weekend.

We are celebrating the day India collectively said:

“Boss, no kings, no crowns. We’ll manage ourselves, thank you very much.”

That, my friends, is called a Republic.

What Is a Republic, Really?

A Republic simply means power does not sit on a throne. It sits in the people’s lap. Slightly heavy lap, sometimes messy, occasionally argumentative but still our lap.

Technically speaking (yes, I checked between two sips of coffee):

• We elect our representatives
• Everyone is subject to the same law
• Power is split so nobody gets too excited with authority

In Sanskrit, we called this गणराज्य (Gana Rajya) long before it became fashionable in textbooks.

Gana = the collective Rajya = governance

Translation? “Sab milke chalayenge.”

When Democracy Was Already Old News

As I complete my third terrace round (fitness is also a republic, slow but collective), I remember something most of us forget:

India did not borrow democracy. We remembered it.

Long before microphones, manifestos, and prime-time debates:

• Vaishali ran on assemblies and discussions
• Shakyas voted and debated
• Mallas argued fiercely and governed collectively

No royal bloodlines. No divine right to rule. Just human responsibility.

Democracy, Indian-style: noisy, argumentative, philosophical, and deeply inconvenient but surprisingly durable.

By now, my coffee is halfway done, and my thoughts drift to present-day India.

Is everything perfect? Of course not.

Democracy today feels like:

• A WhatsApp group where everyone is an expert
• A family function where nobody listens but everyone speaks
• A cricket match where the umpire, batsman, and commentator are all under pressure

There are concerns. There are debates. There are disagreements loud enough to wake my next door neighbour.

But here is the thing:

The fact that we can argue about democracy… means democracy still exists.

A republic is not silence. It is structured noise. The anthem plays again. I stand still. Coffee finished. Thoughts settling.

I realise something quietly profound:

This country runs not because we agree on everything, but because we agreed on one thing. That no one is above the Constitution.

Not kings. Not governments. Not corporations. Not even our favourite opinions.

And that agreement, signed on 26th January 1950, is why I can walk on my terrace, drink my coffee, think freely, disagree respectfully (or not), and still belong.

So today, I do not just want to wish you Happy Republic Day.

I wish us all:

• More listening
• Better questioning
• Stronger institutions
• And slightly hotter filter coffee

Because a republic, like good coffee, works best when it is strong, balanced, and shared.

As my coffee cup empties and the terrace walk slows down, my mind drifts back once more to that school ground.

The uneven lines. The tricolour flags waving with more enthusiasm than coordination. The loudspeaker crackling its last patriotic protest. And a small group of children in white, standing straighter than they ever did the rest of the year.

We did not understand constitutions then. We did not debate institutions. We did not analyse democracy.

But we showed up. We stood together. We sang even if it was off-key. Perhaps that was the purest form of a Republic. Not perfect. Not polished. But participative.

And as the national anthem now plays from a neighbour’s television- clearer, louder, more professional, I realise something quietly comforting:

That school ground never really left us. It simply grew into a nation.

Happy Republic Day.