This Independence Day, stand-up comedian Shraddha Jain (Aiyyo Shraddha) revisited the iconic national integration song of the 80s that many of us grew up listening to – Mile Sur Mera Tumhara. Her message was simple yet powerful: our greatest strength as Indians lies in our ability to understand each other, even if we don’t speak the same language. That sentiment instantly brought back a flood of memories for me, reminding me how fortunate I am to have been born into a family of freedom fighters, writers, and poets — a legacy that rooted me deeply in India’s cultural richness and spirit of unity.
Being originally from Uttar Pradesh, yet born and raised in Gujarat, I was exposed to the rich diversity of India in its truest form. I never identified as just a “UPite” or a “Gujarati” — I have always felt deeply, unapologetically Hindustani. Growing up in the “Sanskari Nagri” Baroda, in a cosmopolitan community shaped by my father’s workplace at ONGC, I absorbed languages, religions, and cultures with ease. Studying in a Muslim school with a Hindu majority, beginning our mornings with Surah Fatiha followed by the Sanskrit prayer Adharam Madhuram, I saw how beautifully faiths intertwined. Every child knew both prayers by heart — without hesitation, without reluctance, only with acceptance and respect.
Doordarshan, our only window to the world, played a profound role in shaping our sense of national pride and unity. Songs like Mile Sur Mera Tumhara, Ek Anek, and countless others planted seeds of love for our diverse yet deeply connected culture. Despite Urdu being my mother tongue and Gujarati my regional language, it was Hindi that I grew to love the most — thanks to my father, who led the Hindi Rajbhasha movement from the frontlines of his training division at ONGC. All through my growing years, I was immersed in kavi sammelans, mushairas and nashists, where poetry opened doors to the richness of languages and fearless expressions of thought.
Language was never a barrier — it was my gateway. I wrote my first Hindi poem, Naari, at 14 and won an award for it. I scored highest in Gujarati, much to my teachers’ delight, who would tease my classmates saying, “Imagine, she scores more than you in your own mother tongue!” I devoured Satyajit Ray’s Bengali films on Doordarshan, understanding and enjoying every word, as though the language had always lived within me. Marathi heritage surrounded me in Baroda — through the grand palaces of the Gaekwads, Laxmi Vilas Palace, Kala Bhavan, and the city’s music and art colleges, the Sur Sagar and numerous baghs across the city. At home in ONGC colony, my neighbors were Bengali, Telugu, Assamese. Our apartment was called Vasudha — rooted in culture, unlike today’s modern, imported names like Irish Platinum, Cleo County, etc. that distance us from our own heritage.
At just 11, I felt empowered as a young Muslim girl, taking charge of my building’s Independence Day cultural program. I brought together children from across the community, scripted the show, choreographed dances, taught songs, and even compered the event. Through our little performance, we showcased the diversity of India — and the program was received with immense appreciation.
At the age 15 and 16, I twice had the rare honor of representing Gujarat at the National Integration Camps in Delhi organized by Nehru Bal Sangh— gatherings that united hundreds of children from across the country in a celebration of India’s diversity. The experience was nothing short of transformative. Sharing a tent with nine others from different states, I tasted their food, sang their songs, learned their dances. Each morning we woke up to patriotic songs in different languages, followed by the parade. We visited historic landmarks, met war veterans and ministers, and prepared for a grand cultural showcase — we learnt and performed Nagaland’s bamboo dance and Maharashtra’s koli dance, and of course, presented Gujarat’s colorful dandiya. Performing in the Mughal Gardens at Rashtrapati Bhavan before President Shankar Dayal Sharma remains etched in my memory as one of the most cherished experiences of my life. That camp shaped us beyond our years; we walked away not merely as teenagers, but as proud Indians, enriched with friendships and lessons woven from the diversity of our land.
And yet, today, I find myself asking: what happened to that India? How did we lose the tolerance and warmth that once defined us? When did region, religion, and language become barriers instead of bridges? It pains me to see the beautiful fabric of our composite culture fraying at its seams.
But perhaps, on this Independence Day, songs like Mile Sur Mera Tumhara can remind us of what we once believed in — and what we still have the power to rebuild.
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