Independence Day
It was the year 2007. The August sun shone bright, its rays bathing Fremont in warm light. It was not uncommon for the California city, where most days are sunny and bright. Over the years, the town became a hub for the Indian community of the Bay Area. Though not quite 8:00 a.m., Chetan Malhotra was already at Lake Elizabeth, where the mela, a big carnival, was being set up.
Chetan was a man in his mid-thirties with light brown skin, or what they call “wheatish” in India. His brown eyes were hidden behind his eyeglasses. His mother would tease him about his small eyes.
Are you trying to be angry? I cannot tell from your tiny eyes, she would say and laugh at him.
His black curly hair was cut short. Gray showed at the sides, though. He would not color his hair and never believed he had to hide his age to look a certain way. It was a Saturday, so he had not shaved. He never shaved on weekends. Chetan was about six feet tall, but one could not tell because of his habit of waking with a slight hunch and drooping shoulders. Very unlike the Punjabi boy that he was.
The crowd amassed. People were taking their places alongside the road well before the start of the event so they could get the best view. Many brought their garden chairs and set them up on the roadside, some spread mats on the ground, and a few just sat on the sidewalk. Chetan cautiously walked around the park with a blue camping chair hanging on his shoulder.
The India Day parade, meant to celebrate Indian independence from British rule in 1947, was to start in a couple of hours. India got its freedom from the empire on August 15, 1947, when the British finally left India, but the scars of the imperial atrocities stayed with the country and its people for a long time.
This was August 18, but holding celebrations over the weekend was more convenient for the organizers and participants. Interestingly, Indo-Americans decided to organize the parade for Independence Day and not for Republic Day, January 26, when India actually has the annual parade. More than sixty thousand people from all over the San Francisco Bay Area were expected to flock to the streets of Fremont to watch it.
Many came to see the grand marshal, usually a Bollywood actor. The Indian diaspora in the Bay Area was strong, and they raised enough money to get some A-listers from the tinsel town of Mumbai. Previously, heavyweight such as Urmila Matondkar, Sunil Shetty, and many other superstars had graced the occasion. This year, as well, a top actor was expected to join. But Chetan was not interested in meeting the Bollywood stars. Large gatherings made him nervous, however, he still visited the parade every year.
Chetan found some comfort in the presence of officers from the Fremont Police Department, who had already taken their positions at the designated spots. There were about twenty police cars scattered along the length of Paseo Padre Parkway in case there was any unexpected violence. A few police officers with bomb-sniffing dogs randomly inspected parked vehicles. Half a dozen police motorcycles were making rounds up and down along Paseo Padre Parkway, where the procession took place every year.
Chetan nervously scanned all the activities around him. Preparations for the mela were in full force. Vendors had set up their stalls along the sides—the usual Indian food and handicrafts. The tea stall was already seeing some lines. The dosa vendor was setting up the equipment. There were stalls for mouthwatering chaats, aromatic biryanis, and snacks, including samosa, jalebi, and gulab jamun. The aroma of delectable Indian cuisine wafted through the air, drawing everyone toward the numerous food stalls set up under white makeshift tents.
Chetan watched as many NGOs put up their banners and decorated their stations. The day of the parade was one of the most significant fundraising events. Social organizations used this opportunity to raise awareness about their initiatives, ranging from promoting Indian culture and art to providing assistance to those in need. Their causes varied from promoting child education, providing shelter for orphaned children, and supporting widows to providing free eye clinics to the less fortunate in India. There were booths displaying large banners to promote yoga and save Indian culture.
Promote yoga? Chetan thought. Does it need any more promotion? Every twenty-four-hour fitness center has four classes a week, and the city has two dozen other yoga studios.
A smirk played on Chetan's lips at the sight of the growing queue before the samosa stall. The vibrant energy of the crowd intrigued him, their animated conversations punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter. He couldn't wrap his mind around the idea of indulging in samosas this early in the morning. It seemed absurd to him. Samosas were always an evening tea snack, at least from where he came. Jalebi and samosa are the quintessential Punjabi evening tea menu items. Chetan’s favorite breakfast was fried egg over buttered toast. He walked from stall to stall, nodding to people setting up their booths, smiling to some, and gesturing with a slight bow of his head, offering his humble wishes.
He had more than an hour to spend before the parade crossed Lake Elizabeth. He stopped by the free health check booth and got his height, weight, and blood pressure measured. The lady in the booth asked him to read the eye charts for far and near sight, and went on to complete his health report.
“Your BMI is twenty-six. You should try to lose ten pounds,” the woman said as she handed Chetan his report.
He nodded and smiled. He had been lanky all his life. He was not particularly athletic, but he surely did not need to lose ten pounds.
“Thank you.” He folded the report and slid it into his pocket as he walked toward the stall serving free Starbucks coffee.
As Chetan walked along the park with coffee in his hand, he admired hundreds of Indian national flags, Tiranga – the tricolor, fluttering alongside the road. Horizontal rectangular flags with saffron, white, and green colors and a blue Ashoka Chakra – 24-spoke wheel – in the center added a remarkable color to the otherwise bland street. Spectators lined up on the street, waving flags of various sizes and waiting for the procession to pass by. Families, friends, and people from different walks of life came together to celebrate their roots and connect with their shared cultural identity. Children excitedly held mini flags while elderly community members gossiped in groups or cared for their grandchildren.
The performance stage was set up, where some children and women practiced their dance performances to showcase the diverse cultural heritage of India. Crowds were now amassing quickly, and Chetan sped his way to his spot. The loudspeakers played an old patriotic song, “Aao Bachcho Tumhain Dekhain Jhanki Hindustan Ki.” Chetan smiled and shook his head. He was never one of the patriotic kinds who would wear emotions on his sleeve, but he had attended this parade yearly since 1999.
The parade began at the Paseo Padre Parkway and Capital Avenue crossing, and it would take twenty-five minutes for the first float to arrive at Lake Elizabeth. Chetan pulled out the camping chair from its carry bag and sat with his back to the lake, comfortably sipping his coffee. He looked at the row of houses across the street with the lake view. The houses, each with a balcony overlooking the lake, were neatly lined across the road. Each residence boasted panoramic views of the glistening lake, adorned with charming gardens that whispered tales of a peaceful suburban retreat. A few of them had older people sitting on their balconies, sipping their tea or coffee and waiting for this annual spectacle. Chetan wondered about the house prices in that area and whether he could afford such a house. Probably not.
It’s called a home, not a house., a voice in his head corrected him.
He nodded. Yes, a home.
The first float of the parade had just appeared. In the front were two young men in their early twenties. Chetan’s cynical mind assumed they must be sons of some city socialites or some start-up CEOs who donated to the parade. They were each holding a flag and waving it vigorously. One had the US Stars and Stripes, and the other had India’s Tiranga. This year, the plan was to have the grand marshal lead a caravan of one hundred cars and more than two dozen floats representing various Indian states, local temples, and some not-for-profit organizations. Volunteers from multiple groups and clubs across the Bay Area had converted flatbed trucks into floats and colorfully decorated them. It was supposed to be the biggest parade that northern California had ever seen.
Organizations representing various states brought their floats, or tableaux as they were called in India. Rajasthan, Andhra, Tamil Nadu, Gujarat, and all other states were duly represented. The first float was shaped like a peacock, India’s national bird. Many floats were decorated as palaces, some as temples, and Uttar Pradesh’s float was the quintessential Taj Mahal.
Amateurish quality, Chetan thought.
Men with dhols, the Indian drums, around their necks accompanied the peacock float. They wore Nehru caps on their head, a tricolor sash across their chests, and big red tilak on their foreheads. Their puffed chests and their attempts at synchronized marching amused Chetan. Twelve women were on top of the float, another six on each side, posing in different Indian classical dance mudras, or forms.
The excitement ran high—as did the hopes of Indians in 1947.
Rallying cries filled the air.
“Bharat Mata ki Jai!” Victory for Mother India.
“Hindustan Zindabad!” Long live India.
“Jai Hind!” Victory to India.
The crowd along the stretch of road was in the thousands, and the noise of slogans was deafening. Chetan’s eyes cautiously scanned each float. As soon as the Cadillac Convertible with the grand marshal appeared, his head turned toward another group of about seventy-five people across the street.
Amid the jubilant festivities of the Indian Independence Day parade, a somber undertone was brought forth by a small group of people with grim faces. They did not seem to be enjoying the festivities around them. The ones with the black flags. The protesters. The group had people of all ages, including young boys and girls and their old grandparents, holding placards and banners with scathing messages demanding justice and accountability from the Indian government. Many were wearing their turbans, primarily black. Half a dozen police officers flanked them with their hands on their batons. As the grand marshal’s car came near the group, it erupted.
“Down with the terrorist state!”
“Bring us justice!”
“Shame on India!”
“Hang the 1984 killers!”
“Jo Bole So Nihal, Sat Sri Akaal!”
The commotion became Thunderous. A protester ensured the group stayed staying behind the temporary metal barriers. As long as they stayed put, the police would not have any issues with their protest. Another police officer crossed the crowd on a motorcycle, signaling with the hand to remain behind the barricade.
Protesters made every attempt to embarrass the grand marshal, a movie actor. He was greeted with the piercing “Hai, hai” slogans and “Shame on you.” There were calls to boycott his movies. The actor did not look at that side and just waved to the friendlier crowd on the opposite side of the street. Clearly, the organizers had prepared him for the sequence of the events.
Chetan’s heart beat faster, and anxiety permeated his body. He felt as if blood was draining out of his cheeks, and a side of his face was getting numb. He stood there frozen and tried hard not to reveal his emotions. However, the more he tried to suppress his feelings, the stronger they got and transported him into another world. A world that he wanted to forget about.
Chetan’s thoughts were interrupted by a person standing next to him. The middle-aged male wore a white kurta, green pants, and orange Modi jacket—he was dressed as patriotic as possible. He attempted to have a conversation with Chetan.
“Why do these people come and protest here every year? Why don’t the police drive them away?”
Chetan glanced at him and shrugged. “Don’t know. Free country, you know.”
Chetan knew very well why those people were there. He had been with them. He grew up with them.
Their voices became louder as floats drove in front of them, as if there was a competition – no, not a competition, a war between the black and tricolor flaggers. With each passing float, the passions kept rising. Anger in the voices and bloodthirsty eyes made the police cautious. Their radios crackled with commands, and the grips on their batons tightened. Officers exchanged wary glances, each one acutely aware of the potential for the situation to escalate. The protesters were just a thin line of barricades away from the parade route, and the anxiety among the officers was palpable.
The shouting became more animated, fists punched the air, and the barriers were rattling. The protesters were impassioned and determined to ensure their message was heard loud and clear.
A group of ladies started screaming.
“Hindustan, hai, hai.”
“Hai. hai.”
“India kills minorities.”
With each shout of “Hai, hai,” they slapped their chests harder and harder, their pain evident in their screams.
An old lady caught Chetan’s attention. She must have been over eighty. She was short, with a hunched back, wearing a white salwar and kameez with a black dupatta carefully covering her head. The attire of mourning. She seemed familiar, and maybe she was here last year as well. There was a quivering pain in her voice. Chetan could feel it. His ears were isolating her screams from the other voices of dissonance. Few teardrops escaped her eyes, but her voice was firm and loud. Even with her throwing her hands in the air with each “Bring us justice” or beating of her chest on “Hai, hai,” the dupatta covering her head never moved an inch. Like a security cover, a cover protecting her honor. Chetan was wondering: How did it stay there?
The tricolor people were not going to take this lying down. Their voices went louder and louder, trying to drown protests.
“Hindustan zindabad!”
“Bharat mata ki jai!”
“Jai Hind!”
Amid the chaos, Chetan’s eyes locked onto a young woman who conveyed a remarkable tranquility. She had a tray with a dozen paper cups filled with steaming hot chai. She was there making rounds from a table she had set on the roadside to the passing parade, as well as the protesters standing behind the barricade. She did not look worried and did not seem to take sides. Instead, she was busy going back and forth from her table, filling more cups, and serving chai.
She looked to be around Chetan’s age. She wore a yellow kurta over blue denim jeans and had covered her head with a sky-blue dupatta. It was an odd way to dress, but it had become commonplace in the Bay Area. Bringing the East and West together or a marriage of convenience. She was committed to her seva, her duty, insisting that people pick a cup of chai.
Amid the spew of violent slogans, she had the strength and calmness of a dam that appeared to keep the two sides separate. It seemed if she were not here, the two groups would have leaped at each other and torn each other apart.
Every Independence Day parade, Chetan watched her serving chai to both sides. As the event grew over the years, so did her stock. This year, she had over a dozen hot tea dispensers ready. A glance at her would bring a sense of serenity to the most agitated mind. Chetan visited the parade every year just to watch her smile as she served people and offered chai.
The coffee had cooled to lukewarm now. Chetan put the cup down, sliding it under his folding chair so no one would kick and spill it. He checked the time. It was almost eleven. His eyes were now rapidly moving, scanning the crowds, their belongings, and the slightest sudden movements. It was the kind of area sweep one would expect Secret Service members to do behind their dark glasses. Crowds made him uneasy, and this compulsion of intentionally trying to find something wrong in every situation had become an annoyance he had struggled with for many years. He would always find himself in a conundrum of worst-case scenarios. Yet, every year, here he was, fighting his fears.
As Chetan surveyed the crowd, his eyes stopped at a middle-aged man standing among the protesters. The man with a brown-colored backpack hanging on his back. He was not shouting slogans but standing quietly, leaning on a tree with both hands in his pockets. He had a full-grown beard but was not wearing the turban, like most other protesting men. Instead, he had his head covered with a saffron-colored cloth. He was not screaming slogans like others, and Chetan wondered why. Chetan looked at the other people standing next to him. He hoped someone would speak to this person. He wanted to ensure that this person had company and was not some loner.
Does anyone know him? Did he come alone?
Why are his hands in his pockets?
What is inside that backpack?
A series of thoughts engulfed his mind. His mind was racing like a bullet train. Sudden fight or flight instincts kicked in. He searched for escape paths and calculated his distance from the person. He checked out the nearest policeman.
How far could the impact go?
Should I alert the police?
Why are they not checking his backpack?
But there was a metal detector at the entrance. Chetan’s mind raced.
So, we have nothing to worry about.
What if he snuck in from the back road and jumped the fences?
His heart pounded. He put his fingers on his wrist. His pulse was high, one twenty, one thirty. He whispered to himself.
“It’s just in my head. It’s just in my head.”
“Breathe.”
“Breathe in 1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . . 4 . . . 5 . . .”
“Hold 1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . . 4 . . . 5 . . .”
“Breathe out 1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . . 4 . . . 5 . . .”
Chetan continued his breathing exercises with his fingers on his wrist. He tried to look away from that person, hoping that the feeling would disappear if he somehow could find a way to ignore him. He thought of walking up to him just to say hello. Maybe that would ease his fear. But he could not muster the courage. Courage was not something that came naturally to him. He was just hoping that the person would simply disappear or for cops to take him away.
It felt like something was wringing his heart. A vise squeezing it hard. His breaths were shallow. His arms were overpowered with a debilitating numbing and tingling sensation. It felt like he was getting a heart attack and would collapse anytime now.
Chetan tried to take control of the situation. He did not want to scream or cry lest he embarrass himself again. A trip to the emergency room would have been sure if this had happened a few years back. He had made more than a few trips to the ER, but now he knew what it was and learned how to manage it. Chetan had learned to identify the onset of panic attacks. He had had them for as long as he could remember.
The Independence Day parade in Fremont proceeded without any incident. The protesters continued their slogans, and the floats kept on moving. Chetan kept his eye on the man with the backpack. The man moved toward the barracks and grabbed a cup of tea.
He is not here for any trouble. Chetan told himself. He is picking tea, just like the others. If he meant harm, he would not walk all the way to grab tea–another false alarm.
Chetan kept reminding himself to calm down until his pulse came back to normal. He despised himself for these thoughts.
Why do I not have the courage like others, and why am I always so scared?
I guess I was brought up that way, to be afraid.
He continued his breathing exercises, feet flat on the ground, holding his breath, fingers on his wrist, and thought about how this all began.
