A musical instrument is more than an object. It carries the knowledge, skill and imagination of the community that makes it. Across India, generations of craftspeople have learnt to understand wood, leather, metal, strings, and sound—and turn them into instruments that can sing. Their knowledge is not always written down. It is learnt by watching, listening, practising and passing it on. 

The Mridangam Makers of Chennai 

Walk through the lanes of Mylapore in Chennai and you may hear the unmistakable sound of a mridangam coming from a small workshop. For some families, making these instruments has been a tradition for generations. One family (of Sebastian and Fernandes) documented in Mylapore, traces its mridangam-making lineage through five generations.  

A mridangam’s main body is traditionally made from a single block of jackfruit wood, which is carefully hollowed and shaped; and the two heads from layers of animal hide. The hides must be prepared and stretched to the right tension, while the maker carefully works on the black paste (made of rice powder and iron filings), or soru, on the right head. Small changes in the thickness, tension and placement of these materials can alter the instrument’s pitch, which supports the vocalist it accompanies. The makers have to match the pitch, a skill that takes years to acquire. 

Yet this highly specialised craft remains undervalued, and its makers have historically faced social and economic marginalisation. Their expertise may be essential to music, but the people who possess it are not always recognised as experts. 

The Veena Makers of Bobbili 

In Gollapalli, near Bobbili in Andhra Pradesh, the Sarwasiddi community has preserved a remarkable tradition of making the Bobbili Veena. This traditional instrument is carved entirely from a single block of seasoned jackfruit wood (unlike standard veenas which have separate parts). The artisan must carefully shape it into the veena’s distinctive body, neck, and resonating chamber. 

The veena is then fitted with metal frets and strings, while decorative elements may be added to its surface. But the beauty of the instrument is not merely ornamental—the proportions, thickness, and construction of the wood all affect the sound it produces.  

Today, the material itself presents a challenge. Good-quality jackfruit wood is becoming harder and more expensive to obtain, threatening both the craft and the livelihoods of the artisans who depend on it. 

The Tabla Makers of Andharjhor 

In Jharkhand, the village of Andharjhor is known for its traditional instrument makers. Around 70 families have been involved in making instruments such as the tabla, dhol, mandar, and mridangam. Their workshops are part of a community where the skills needed to make percussion instruments have long been a way of life. 

A tabla has two parts: the dayan, usually made from wood, and the bayan, traditionally made from metal such as brass or copper. Both are covered with prepared animal hide, while the centre of each drumhead is coated with the distinctive black syahi (soru in Tamil), a mixture of materials that gives the tabla its characteristic tonal quality. 

With the advent of virtual instruments and rising material costs, the shrinking market and slow returns are now making it increasingly difficult to sustain the craft. 

The Sitar Makers of Miraj 

For more than 150 years, the town of Miraj in Maharashtra has been a centre for making string instruments. A Miraj sitar begins with simple materials: a dried bhopla or gourd for the resonator; teakwood for the body; metal strings; and traditionally, deer horn for the bridge. Each is carefully prepared—the gourd dried, the wood shaped and polished, and the strings fitted by hand. But the real skill lies in crafting the jawari, the bridge that gives the sitar its distinctive sound. Shaping it takes years of practice and a finely trained ear. 

Today, younger generations of Miraj’s instrument-making families are increasingly moving towards other careers. As fewer young people take up the craft, the wealth of specialised knowledge accumulated over generations, risks disappearing with the people who carry it. 

Listening to the Makers 

These communities are only the tip of the iceberg. India has many such communities whose knowledge and craftsmanship have shaped the sounds of our music. We remember musicians for the music they leave behind. Let us also remember the people who make that music possible. Their knowledge lives in the grain of wood, the tension of hide, the shape of a reed—and in years of experience that can be almost impossible to put into words. 

Today, these craft communities face changing livelihoods, scarce materials and fewer young people taking up the craft. When a community disappears, we lose more than an instrument—we lose generations of knowledge that may never be recovered.  

Perhaps the first step towards keeping these communities visible is simply to become more curious. Who made the instrument? Who gets to be recognised as an expert in music? What happens when the materials run out or the craft can no longer provide a livelihood? And what happens to all that knowledge when there is no one left to pass it on?

Check out our latest title, Musicians of India, to read about the musicians we know and love. 

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August carries some of the most important dates of the Indian Freedom Struggle. On 8th August 1942, Mahatma Gandhi gave the call for the Quit India Movement, pushing the country towards its final phase of struggle against British rule. On 12th August, the world observes International Youth Day, a fitting occasion to remember how young India shaped its own liberation. And on 15th August, we celebrate the day independence finally arrived. Between these dates lies a quieter story, of not just the marches led by well-known leaders, but the thousands of ordinary Indians — farmers, students and homemakers — who carried the freedom struggle forward on their own shoulders.  

A Flag for Everyone: The Flag Satyagraha of 1923 

In March 1923, the Jabalpur Municipality resolved to hoist the national flag on its building, right beside the Union Jack. The District Magistrate banned it, but municipal members went ahead anyway, hoisting the flag on 18th March. Colonial police pulled it down and trampled it underfoot. The outrage this sparked did not stay confined to Jabalpur for long and grew into what came to be known as the Flag Satyagraha. It soon spread to the nearby city of Nagpur. 

What made the Flag Satyagraha remarkable was how ordinary its participants were. Under the Nagpur District Congress Committee, volunteers set out daily in small batches to march through the city carrying the national flag, defying the government’s ban on public gatherings, and courting arrest without resistance, in true satyagraha fashion. Over the months that followed, an estimated 17,000 volunteers were arrested — not soldiers or seasoned political workers, but shopkeepers, students and farmers who travelled from across the country, some from as far as the princely state of Travancore, to take their turn at the front of the procession. 

When the movement’s local leader, Jamnalal Bajaj, was arrested, leadership passed to Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel. On 17th August 1923, after months of sustained, non-violent pressure, the government relented and permitted a flag procession through Nagpur’s restricted Civil Lines.  

Villagers and Women on the Dandi March 

Seven years later, in 1930, Gandhi opposed the harsh salt laws passed by the British Government. On 12th March, he set out from Sabarmati Ashram with 78 chosen followers, walking towards the coastal village of Dandi to break the government’s monopoly on salt production. 

Along the 240-mile route, villagers swept and watered the roads ahead of the marchers and showered them with flowers, and the walking crowd grew larger with each passing day. By the time Gandhi reached the sea on 5th April and broke the law the next morning by making salt, the march had grown from a small band of volunteers into a movement carried forward by entire communities along its path. 

Gandhi had initially hesitated to involve women directly in the march, but Sarojini Naidu and Kamaladevi Chattopadhyay were among those who insisted on taking part. When Gandhi was arrested in May 1930, just before the planned raid on the Dharasana Salt Works, it was Naidu who stepped forward to lead the volunteers in his place. Across the country, women picketed liquor shops and stores selling foreign cloth, made salt illegally in their own homes, and courted arrest alongside the men, a scale of participation that British officials themselves noted as an unprecedented turn in the freedom struggle. 

Quit India and Its Many Fronts 

By August 1942, with the Second World War underway and negotiations over India’s future stalled, the Congress made its most direct demand yet: an immediate end to British rule. On 8th August, Gandhi addressed a session of the All India Congress Committee at Bombay’s Gowalia Tank Maidan, giving India the mantra of ‘Do or Die’. Within hours, the British moved to crush the movement before it could properly begin, arresting Gandhi, Nehru, Patel and nearly the entire Congress leadership overnight. For a moment, it looked as though the Quit India Movement might collapse before it had truly started. Instead, it was carried forward by those the British had not thought to arrest. 

The next day, 9th August, a 33-year-old Congress worker named Aruna Asaf Ali took the stage the senior leadership had just been dragged from and hoisted the Congress flag at Gowalia Tank Maidan before the waiting crowd, formally launching the movement in the leaders’ absence. She went underground soon after, evading capture for years while helping coordinate the resistance from hiding. 

Elsewhere in Bombay, a 22-year-old postgraduate student named Usha Mehta took up a different kind of resistance. With press censorship tightening, Mehta and a small group of associates built a clandestine radio transmitter that went on air on 27th August 1942 as the Secret Congress Radio, broadcasting news of the movement, Gandhi’s messages, and nationalist songs to listeners across the country, reportedly reaching as far as Japanese-occupied Burma, from wavelength 42.34 metres. Mehta and her team moved the transmitter constantly to stay ahead of British trackers, until she was finally arrested that November and imprisoned for four years, having refused to give up her associates even under interrogation. 

Beyond Bombay, the movement took root in ways the Congress leadership, locked away in prison, could not have coordinated. In pockets of the country where British administration had crumbled under the weight of protest, ordinary people set up parallel governments of their own: in Ballia, Chittu Pandey led locals in briefly taking over the district administration; in Tamluk in Bengal, the Tamralipta Jatiya Sarkar ran cyclone relief and local justice for close to two years; and in Satara, the Prati Sarkar organised village courts and welfare work well into 1945. None of these governments lasted, and most were eventually reclaimed by British forces. But together, they demonstrated something the British could not easily suppress, that after August 1942, the demand for freedom no longer depended on any single leader to carry it forward. 

From a flag torn down in Jabalpur to a radio broadcasting in secret, India’s freedom was built as much by these lesser-told acts of defiance as by the leaders whose names we remember first. As we mark Quit India, International Youth Day and Independence Day this August, it is worth remembering that the freedom struggle was never carried by one voice alone, but by thousands who each found their own way to answer it. 

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In January 1967, Goans stood in long lines, waiting to cast a vote that would change their future. It was the moment when the people of Goa were given the choice to either merge with Maharashtra or remain a Union Territory. Their choice eventually led to Goa being vested with full Statehood. Decades later, that moment is remembered with pride every year on Goa Statehood Day, celebrated on 30th May. 

To understand why this opinion poll mattered, we should look back at Goa’s colonial history and the long journey that led to statehood. 

Operation Vijay – The Liberation of Goa 

In 1510, Portuguese Admiral Afonso de Albuquerque captured Goa from Yusuf Adil Shah, the Sultan of Bijapur, thus beginning Portuguese rule in Goa. From then on, Portuguese was imposed while Konkani, the native language, was discouraged for official use. This deeply distressed the Goans. They were forced to adopt Portuguese culture and identity against their will. Over time, Goans resented the censorship and lived in fear. They faced harsh consequences that included police crackdowns due to their resistance. 

Even after Indian Independence in 1947, the Portuguese refused to give up their colonies (Goa, Daman, Diu). So, the people protested more than ever along with leaders like Dr Ram Manohar Lohia and T.B. Cunha. They participated in the Satyagraha movement, and the Konkani language was revived. Many suffered and risked imprisonment by hoisting the Indian flag and distributing secret pamphlets to spread the movement. In 1961, the Indian government finally decided to take military action. The Indian Armed Forces launched ‘Operation Vijay’, which successfully liberated Goa, Daman, and Diu, with minimal casualties, in just 36 hours. In a poignant irony, the Indian Navy sank the Portuguese warship, NRP Afonso de Albuquerque, putting an end to colonial rule. With the local population’s support, Goa, Daman, and Diu were integrated into India as a Union Territory. 

The Battle of the Flower and the Two Leaves  

Though freed in 1961, the future of Goa and its people remained uncertain. While some assumed that Goa would merge with Maharashtra, the majority of the Goans feared that Konkani and their distinct lifestyle — a unique blend of Indo-Portuguese traditions that are seen in their vibrant festivals like Shigmo, their soulful Fado and Mando music and their cuisine — would slowly die after the merger. Hence, the Indian government took a historic step on 16 January 1967.  

Goa held the first and only Opinion Poll (a referendum) in the history of independent India. The simple symbols on the ballot represented the choice. The ‘Flower’ for those who wanted to merge with Maharashtra and the ‘Two Leaves’ for those who wanted Goa to remain a separate Union Territory and preserve their unique language and culture. When the votes were counted, the ‘Two Leaves’ won by a margin of over 34,000 votes, much to the people’s delight and Goa continued to remain a Union Territory with Daman and Diu.  

The Final Road to Statehood 

The Opinion Poll ensured that Goa would not be merged with its neighbour. But as years passed, the Goans were disappointed that Konkani still lacked official recognition from the Indian government. For the next two decades, the desire for statehood and Konkani’s recognition as the official language of the territory grew. These desires were supported by prominent figures, most notably Luizinho Faleiro, who tabled resolutions in the State Assembly in 1980 and 1983 demanding ‘official language’ status for Konkani and statehood for Goa. The turning point came in the mid-1980s, when the Konkani Porjecho Avaz (Voice of the Konkani People) Movement began. The movement grew stronger with each protest as students marched through the streets, slogans for Konkani echoing across Panaji. In response to these demands, the ‘Official Language Act’ was finally passed by the Goa, Daman and Diu Legislative Assembly on 4th February 1987, making Konkani the official language of the territory. On 30th May 1987, Goa was granted statehood and became the 25th State of India. Daman and Diu remained a Union Territory. Goans celebrated as it was the result of their decades-long struggle to ensure that the ‘Goan identity’ would be preserved forever.  

Goa Today  

Today, Goa’s unique heritage and culture is not only protected but also actively celebrated through its festivals, music, dance, and dishes. During Statehood Day celebrations, people enjoy parades, cultural performances, and official ceremonies across the state.

On such occasions, the stories of the 1967 Opinion Poll are passed down to the younger generations. They are reminded that the power of their democratic choice and the need to preserve their centuries-old way of life are the main foundations of Goa’s identity and its future. 

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‘Ecology is a permanent economy.’ – Sunderlal Bahuguna

In the Himalayan forests of Uttarakhand, a group of women once stood between axes and the trees that had sustained them most of their lives. This gave birth to the ‘Chipko Movement’ — one of India’s most important environmental movements. On this World Earth Day, let us learn how this story feels more relevant now than ever. 

Background: Why the Movement Began 

The villagers who lived in the Himalayan region of Uttarakhand (then part of Uttar Pradesh) depended heavily on the nearby forests for their daily needs, such as fuelwood for cooking, timber for houses, and protection from soil erosion. During British colonial rule, laws were introduced under the Indian Forest Acts, which gave the government rights over natural resources in certain regions while limiting those of the local communities. After the Sino-Indian War in 1963, increased road construction and development led to further deforestation, which distressed the villagers.  

The tipping point came when the Uttar Pradesh Forest Department granted logging contracts to Symonds Company from Allahabad to cut trees. This angered villagers in the Chamoli district who felt that their needs were being ignored. With support from environmentalists such as Chandi Prasad Bhatt and his organisation, the Dasholi Gram Swarajya Sangh (DGSS), later known as the Dasholi Gram Swarajya Mandal (DGSM), the villagers began to protest to protect their trees. 

The Famous Reni Village Incident (1974) 

A defining moment came in March 1974, in Reni village (present-day Raini). When loggers were appointed to Reni, the men of the village were deliberately lured away under the pretext of receiving compensation. The women knew that saving the trees meant saving their children’s future. When the loggers arrived, they underestimated the determination of these women. As they advanced, the women, led by Gaura Devi, hugged the trees and refused to move till they left. The loggers realised that harming the trees meant striking the women first. Faced with such fierce and non-violent resolve, the loggers retreated.

The protest was so impactful that the government ordered a 10-year ban on cutting trees in the region.

The word ‘Chipko’ means ‘to embrace’ in Hindi. Since the women had ’embraced’ the trees, as news of the protest spread across the nation, it came to be known as ‘The Chipko Movement’.    

The Spread of the Chipko Movement  

Environmentalists like Sunderlal Bahuguna spread the message of the movement across the nation after this incident in 1974. During that time, people in the Himalayan villages had limited access to newspapers and other types of media. So, the villagers used folk songs and marches to spread the message to other parts of the hills and India. They began organising similar protests to protect their forests. Between 1972–1979, more than 150 villages were involved, resulting in 12 major protests and many minor confrontations in Uttarakhand. In 1978, the local women in the Tehri Garhwal district, Uttarakhand, tied sacred threads around the trees and recited verses from the Bhagavad Gita to stop the loggers. In Pulna village in the Bhyundar valley in the same year, the women confiscated the loggers’ tools and left receipts for them to be claimed if they withdrew from the forests. In some areas, chir pine trees that had been tapped for resin were also bandaged to prevent further exploitation of trees. The Chipko movement also inspired other environmental movements in India, including the 1983 Appiko Movement (‘Appiko’ means ‘to hug’ or ‘to embrace’ in Kannada), in Karnataka. As the support grew, the pressure also increased on the government to adopt policies that addressed people’s needs and were beneficial for the environment.  

The Leaders who helped the Movement 

While the movement was carried out by thousands of villagers, several leaders joined them and strengthened their hands. Among them, besides Gaura Devi and Sunderlal Bahuguna, were Chandi Prasad Bhatt and Dhoom Singh Negi. Sunderlal Bahuguna started the ‘Save the Himalayas’ movement and went on a historic 5,000 kilometre Trans-Himalayan foot march that took almost two years to complete. In this time, he highlighted the importance of protecting nature for future generations and connected with the villagers through folk songs. Social activist Dhoom Singh Negi fasted for five days to protest the commercial logging of the forests, which inspired people to participate in the movement. 

Impact and Importance 

In 1980, the movement reached a turning point when Prime Minister Indira Gandhi announced a 15-year ban on commercial tree felling in the Himalayan forests. It was a landmark victory that proved a movement led by ordinary people, especially women, could bring positive changes to national policy through peaceful, collective action. 

The Reni village protest showed women leading and carrying the movement across the nation. The image of women hugging trees in the hills of Uttarakhand remains one of the most powerful symbols of environmental care in India. Decades later, as the world faces environmental challenges, the voices of those Himalayan villages still guide us, reminding us that even the smallest acts of courage can protect the planet. 

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On 13th April 1919, General Reginald Dyer of the British Indian Army opened fire on a large gathering of people in Jallianwala Bagh, Amritsar. What was a joyful and lively gathering of people for the Baisakhi fair and a peaceful protest against the British Raj, turned into a gruesome scene as the British attempted to silence Indian voices against their repressive laws. This incident has since been remembered through the years as the Jallianwala Bagh Massacre, and on 13th April, we solemnly recall and honour the lives lost on this dark day. 

The seeds that led to the Jallianwala Bagh massacre were sowed with the Rowlatt Act of 1919 which gave the colonial government the power to arrest and imprison anyone without a trial, leading it to being called ‘The Black Act’. In response to the Rowlatt Act, Mahatma Gandhi called for a nation-wide Satyagraha, a campaign of peaceful civil disobedience and hartals, to protest the act.  

In Punjab, Lieutenant Governor Michael O’Dwyer responded to the situation harshly. He ordered the arrest of two popular local leaders, Dr Saifuddin Kitchlew and Dr Satyapal, both supporters of the Satyagraha movement. The news of their arrests spread widely in no time, sparking violent protests across Amritsar. O’Dwyer responded by imposing martial law and banning all public gatherings. 

Despite the ban, the occasion of Baisakhi on 13th April, drew thousands of men, women and children to Jallianwala Bagh, a walled public garden near the Golden Temple. Many came to celebrate the harvest festival. Others came to pray. And some came to protest the arrests of Kitchlew and Satyapal. Because of the martial law, news of the ban on gatherings had not reached most people.  

While vast, Jallianwala Bagh was not an open field but enclosed on all sides by high walls with only one open exit and entrance, the rest being locked. The gathering grew and while people feared a British response, they did not believe it would occur. However, Brigadier General Dyer, who had been given the task of maintaining law and order in the city, arrived with roughly 90 soldiers and ordered his troops to shoot directly at the gathering, without issuing any warning or asking the crowd to disperse.  

1650 rounds were fired in ten minutes, with soldiers deliberately aiming at the narrow exit, the very places people were running towards. Some tried to scale the walls but were shot down. Others jumped into the well inside the Bagh to escape the bullets and were suffocated to death. Most did not survive. Dyer stopped only when the ammunition ran out, then turned around and left. The wounded were left where they lay. The British government put the official death toll at 291. The Indian National Congress estimated closer to 1,000. The true number has never been established. 

The British attempted to supress and censor the news of the massacre but word of the atrocity spread quickly. Across India, the public and leaders responded with outrage.  

Gandhi had a swift response. He returned his Kaiser-i-Hind medal, awarded to him by the British government for his services during the Boer War. It was after the Jallianwala Bagh incident that Gandhi fully committed to mass non-cooperation as the only path forward. Just like the massacre made Indians more adamant to gain freedom, it made Gandhi more determined on the path of Satyagraha. Similarly, when Rabindranath Tagore heard the news nearly a month later on 22nd May 1919, his act of protest was quiet yet very powerful. On 30th May, he wrote to the Viceroy of India, renouncing the Knighthood bestowed upon him. Both Gandhi and Tagore chose to shed their colonial honours rather than carry them.  

Jawaharlal Nehru got the news from Dyer himself, on a train journey, when he overheard General Dyer casually boasting about the massacre to fellow passengers. The experience shook him deeply. When he visited Jallianwala Bagh later, he noted the bullet ridden walls and the Martyrs’ Well, that the desperate people had jumped into. It became clear to him then that India’s freedom would not come through appeals to British fairness. People such as Annie Besant, C. Rajagopalachari, and other public voices condemned Dyer’s actions and spoke against the brutality faced by Indians.  

The massacre did not only anger leaders at the top, it also spread grief and defiance among ordinary Indians. Among those who were present during the massacre, few carried the weight like Udham Singh did. He was at the Bagh when the massacre took place, and narrowly escaped with his life. While he sustained no physical injuries, the incident became a lifelong wound. It intensified his efforts towards the independence movement, leading him to be arrested several times by the British government for his revolutionary activities. Years later, in 1940, it culminated with him shooting Michael O’Dwyer in London. 

Back in Britain, the news of the massacre drew mixed responses. Some officials and politicians condemned Dyer and saw the firing as an abuse of power, since he had commanded the soldiers to shoot without warning and kept shooting even as people tried to flee. The Hunter Commission later criticised him for this, and the British government eventually removed him from service. Winston Churchill, who was then the Secretary of State for War, condemned Dyer and supported the motion against him in his speech before the House of Commons. 

But Dyer was also defended in several British circles, where he was praised for being firm and for preventing what they called a wider rebellion. Some newspapers and public supporters treated him like a hero. Dyer himself showed no remorse. He insisted that he had done the right thing, said he had saved Punjab, and continued to defend the massacre as a necessary lesson. 

The massacre showed to Indians how little the British valued their lives. It did not do what Dyer had hoped, to silence India. Instead, the massacre renewed in the people the desire for liberation from the British and gave a fresh impetus to the freedom struggle. 

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On the evening of 23rd March 1931, a revolutionary walked to the gallows in Lahore Central Jail singing ‘Inquilab Zindabad’. This was Bhagat Singh, who remains one of the most revered personalities of the Indian freedom struggle.  He was sentenced to death, along with his comrades Shivram Hari Rajguru and Sukhdev Thappar, for the killing of British police officer John Saunders, carried out in retaliation for the death of Lala Lajpat Rai.  

Wisdom at 23 

At the time of his martyrdom, Bhagat Singh was only twenty-three years old. He was single-minded in his vision for a free India, and that reflected in his calm and collected nature in the hours leading unto his death. A few months earlier, in October 1930, Bhagat Singh had written ‘Why I Am an Atheist’ in his Lahore jail cell as a reply to religious friends who felt his atheism was born of vanity. He argued that he would not seek comfort in blind faith, not then, not at the gallows. He argued that when you reason through what you believe, there is very little left to be afraid of. 

Change of Plans 

His execution was scheduled for the 24th of March, but it had been secretly moved forward by eleven hours, carried out on the evening of 23rd March instead, at 7:30 pm in the Lahore jail. The colonial government feared the crowds that would gather, and that the sight of the young revolutionary being led to his death might ignite a restless nation.  

The Last Letters 

That morning, the government allowed Singh a last meeting with his family and friends. In such a moment, while Bhagat Singh retained his composure, his youngest brother and sister wept. Instead of preparing himself to face death, Bhagat Singh spent his last hours writing letters to his family and reassuring them, a testament to his bravery and dedication to his country. He then wrote a letter to his comrades on the same day, telling them he awaited the final test with great eagerness. 

The Revolutionary 

In the minutes before he was hanged, he was reading a book on Lenin. When the warders came to take him, he is said to have held up a finger and asked them to wait, saying, “One revolutionary is meeting another.” He finished the page. Then he put the book down and walked out. 

The Last Meal: A Final Act of Equality 

Days before he was led out, Bhagat Singh made a request that surprised the jail authorities. He asked that his final meal be prepared by Bogha, a Dalit prison employee who worked as a sweeper in the jail. 

In a time when caste barriers were incredibly rigid, Bhagat Singh called Bogha  ‘Bebe’ (a Punjabi term of endearment for a mother). He explained that because Bogha cleaned his cell and handled his daily needs, she was like a mother to him. By choosing Bogha to cook his final meal, Bhagat Singh made a quiet but profound statement: his vision for a free India was one where nobody was considered ‘untouchable’, and everyone stood on equal ground. 

A Song for the Soil 

As Bhagat Singh, Rajguru, and Sukhdev emerged from their cells, they did not walk in the sombre silence usually expected of the condemned. Instead, they cheered “Inquilab Zindabad!” with linked arms and also began to sing. Their voices filled the corridors of Lahore Central Jail with the lines: 

Dil se niklegi na mar kar bhi watan ki ulfat, Meri mitti se bhi khushboo-e-wafa aayegi.  

(Even after death, the love for my motherland will not leave my heart; even from my ashes, the fragrance of loyalty will arise.) – Written by Lal Chand Falak

The sight of the three young men singing as they walked toward their death was said to leave the jail staff and fellow prisoners in a state of stunned awe. 

Facing Death Unveiled 

Upon reaching the execution platform, the trio was met by the Magistrate. In a final show of defiance, they refused to wear the traditional black hoods that would have blindfolded them in their final moments. Bhagat Singh spoke to the Magistrate, famously remarking that he was lucky to see how Indian revolutionaries could embrace death with a smile. 

The Secret Farewell on the Sutlej 

Terrified that a public funeral would spark an immediate uprising, the British authorities chose not to return the bodies to the families. Under the cover of darkness, they smuggled the remains through a back gate of the jail. They drove to the banks of the Sutlej River near Ferozepur, where they performed a hurried, secret cremation in the dead of night. 

The British tried to silence three young voices in the dark, but in the end, they only made them echo across the nation. Bhagat Singh, Rajguru and Sukhdev redefined what it meant to be freedom fighters. In their courage, there was no fear; in their defiance, no hatred and in their sacrifice was a vision of India that was fearless, equal and free. 

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Often, the first words we ever speak are in our mother language. As we grow up, due to school, work, and the internet, we end up going about our daily lives in more ‘useful’ or ‘global’ languages. Slowly, the language of our childhood falls silent. We still understand it, but we might hesitate to speak it.  

The fear of such loss led to the creation of International Mother Language Day, observed on 21st February. After the Partition of India, present-day Pakistan and Bangladesh were one country divided into two parts, West and East Pakistan, respectively. They majorly followed the same religion but were separated by thousands of kilometres and many differences, including language. After Independence, in 1948, Urdu was declared the only national language of all of Pakistan. This included East Pakistan and its people, for whom Bengali was the mother tongue. They protested this decision and demanded that their language also be recognised. On 21st February 1952, police fired on student demonstrators in Dhaka and several young people died in defence of their mother language. Their sacrifice not only strengthened the Bengali language movement but also paved way for the freedom struggle that led to the birth of Bangladesh in 1971. Bangladesh later commemorated this as Shaheed Day, and in 1999, at Bangladesh’s initiative, UNESCO proclaimed 21 February as International Mother Language Day to honour these martyrs and to celebrate and protect all the world’s mother tongues. 

In India, only Hindi and English are official languages used for central government affairs, and the constitution recognises 22 languages in its Eighth Schedule. However, the number of languages spoken is about 19,569 according to the 2011 Census. This includes tribal, regional, and minority languages, which are spoken across the country, many by small communities. Each carries oral histories, knowledge, songs, rituals, and ways of thinking that cannot be fully translated into another language. When a language falls silent, an entire way of being in the world is diminished, and so is the richness of India’s composite culture. 

Today, the challenge is not only to remember this history but to actively restore our own mother languages. One heartening effort is that of Sripati Tudu of the Santhal Community. As an assistant professor of Santali at Sidho-Kanho-Birsha University in West Bengal, he undertook the enormous task of translating the Constitution of India into Santali, using the Ol Chiki script. Over 235 pages, he rendered the country’s most important document into the language of his people so that ordinary Santhals, who may not be comfortable in English or other dominant languages, can understand their rights and duties in the words closest to their hearts. His work is a powerful reminder that true democracy is possible only when people can access knowledge in their own tongue. 

In another far corner of India in Ketetong village of Assam is a small but powerful movement. The Singpho Mother Tongue School was started by elders who feared that their language, and that of their neighbours, the Tai-Khamyangs, might vanish within the next generation. In small classrooms, children, young adults and even elders learn Singpho and Tai-Khamyang alphabets, words and songs, often with very limited resources but enormous dedication. For these communities, the school is not just about language lessons; it is about holding on to stories, rituals and identities that have survived for centuries. While the school has unfortunately stopped operating, it has sparked a wave of efforts to conserve the Singpho language in Assam.  

Beyond basic communication, mother languages carry a rich world of cultural and historical knowledge about communities and their ways of thinking. Keeping these languages alive is not only keeping the memories and words of our childhood alive but also keeping intact the rich cultural heritage of India. 

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For nearly a century, a single sound has resonated through the diverse landscapes of India. Long before the era of glowing screens and instant notifications, there was a wooden box that brought the world to our doorsteps. This is the saga of All India Radio (AIR) — known to millions as Akashvani. 

The Early Crackle: A Spark in the Air (1920s) 

The story of radio in India did not begin with a government decree, but with a crackle of curiosity. In June 1923, the Radio Club of Bombay made history by transmitting the first-ever broadcast in the country. Within months, enthusiasts in Calcutta and Madras followed suit, forming their own clubs to experiment with this ‘wireless’ magic. 

By July 1927, the Indian Broadcasting Company (IBC), a private venture, was inaugurated by the Viceroy, Lord Irwin. IBC set up two stations: 7BY in Bombay and 7CA in Calcutta. These stations were ambitious, featuring live music and news. However, with only about 3,000 radio licenses in the entire country, the company could not sustain itself and went into liquidation in 1930. The airwaves were nearly silenced, but the people’s hunger for news had already been ignited.  

From Service to Signature (1930–1936) 

When the private IBC failed, the British government stepped in to prevent the medium from dying. On April 1, 1930, the Indian State Broadcasting Service (ISBS) was formed under the Department of Industries and Labour. This was the beginning of public broadcasting in India. 

The real transformation came in 1935 when Lionel Fielden, a senior producer from the British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC), was appointed as India’s first Controller of Broadcasting. He was a visionary who believed that ‘broadcasting’ should belong to the people. On June 8, 1936, the ISBS was renamed All India Radio (AIR) — a name Fielden championed because it felt more national and inclusive. 

Shortly after, in 1936, the station’s soul was found. Walter Kaufmann, a Jewish refugee from Europe who became the Director of Music at AIR Bombay, composed the iconic Signature Tune. He used a blend of the violin, cello, and tanpura, basing the melody on the morning Raga Shivaranjani. To this day, those eight seconds of music are among the most recognised sounds in Indian history. 

The Secret Airwaves of Freedom 

During World War II and the height of British colonial rule, AIR was a controlled mouthpiece for the Raj. News was heavily censored to keep the Indian public away from the “seditious” calls for independence. But the freedom fighters were clever. 

During the Quit India Movement of 1942, a 22-year-old student named Usha Mehta and her comrades started the Congress Radio. Broadcasting on 42.34 metres from secret locations across Bombay, they moved their equipment frequently to escape the police. Their broadcasts began with the defiant words: “This is the Congress Radio calling on 42.34 metres from somewhere in India”.

They played patriotic songs, shared news of arrests, and gave instructions to protesters that the official AIR would never dare to mention. Though the operators were eventually arrested, the “Ghost Radio” of 1942 proved that the airwaves could be used as a powerful weapon for liberty.  

1947: A Witness to Destiny 

At the dawn of independence, AIR was a modest network with only six stations — Delhi, Bombay, Calcutta, Madras, Lucknow, and Tiruchirappalli. Yet its reach was monumental. Under the leadership of Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel, India’s first Minister for Information and Broadcasting, the radio became the primary tool for weaving a fragmented nation together. 

On the night of August 14, 1947, millions huddled around their sets to hear Jawaharlal Nehru’s ‘Tryst with Destiny’. But in the months that followed, AIR did something even more critical: it became the ‘Search and Rescue’ frequency of the nation. During the Partition, a special unit was set up to broadcast messages for missing persons, helping thousands of separated families find one another across the newly formed borders.  

Akashvani: The Voice from the Sky 

While ‘All India Radio’ was the official name, the term ‘Akashvani’ — a Sanskrit word meaning ‘Voice from the Sky’ came later. It was first used in the context of radio by Rabindranath Tagore in 1938 for the inauguration of the Calcutta shortwave service. In 1956, it was officially adopted as the national name for the broadcaster. It signalled a new era where radio was a tool for nation-building, education, and cultural pride. Akashavani became the world’s largest patron of Indian classical music, organising the ‘Akashvani Sangeet Sammelan’ to ensure that the heritage of maestros like Pandit Ravi Shankar and Ustad Bismillah Khan reached every village home. 

Vividh Bharati  

By the mid-50s, Indian listeners were tuning into Radio Ceylon to hear film songs, which were then restricted on AIR. To bring the audience back, AIR launched ‘Vividh Bharati’ on October 3, 1957. It was an instant revolution. Programmes like Sangeet Sarita and Bhule Bisre Geet  became legendary. This era also gave us the most iconic voice in Indian radio history — Ameen Sayani. His show, Binaca Geetmala, became a weekly ritual for millions, proving that radio could be both a formal educator and a vibrant entertainer. 

AIR became the custodian of India’s soul, recording and preserving the masters of classical music and regional folklore that might otherwise have been lost to time. 

A Giant among the Airwaves 

As India faced wars in 1962, 1965, and 1971, the radio was the only source for verified news, silencing rumours and boosting national morale. In 1976, a major administrative shift occurred: the television wing was separated from AIR to become Doordarshan. As decades passed, Akashvani grew with the nation. Today, it stands as one of the largest public broadcasters in the world — broadcasting in 23 languages and over 100 dialects, reaching an incredible 99% of India’s population. 

Why we Listen Today 

On World Radio Day, we celebrate more than just technology. We celebrate the medium that remains the most democratic of all. In an era of flickering screens and fragile networks, the airwaves of Akashvani remain an unbroken thread. It has carried the voices of leaders, the songs of farmers, and the cheers of cricket fans for a hundred years. 

Akashvani remains true to its motto: Bahujana Hitaya Bahujana Sukhaya — For the welfare of many, for the happiness of many. An eternal narrator of our journey, Akashvani remains the voice that listens to India’s heart and speaks her truth. 

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Each year on 26 January, the sound of military bands marks India’s Republic Day celebrations along Rajpath (Kartavya Path). From the opening notes of the parade to the final march-past, music sets the rhythm of the nation’s most important ceremonial event. These bands do more than accompany the spectacle—they embody discipline, tradition, and the ceremonial language of the Indian Armed Forces. Behind this familiar sound on Republic Day, lies a long and layered history of military music in India.

Where Military Bands Began 

Long before modern parades and ceremonies, music played an important role in warfare. In India, martial music traditions can be traced back to the Maratha Empire in the 17th century, where drums, wind instruments, and rhythmic calls were used to energise troops and mark movement. 

Organised military bands, as we recognise them today, were introduced later by the British Army in the 1700s. These bands followed European traditions, using brass and percussion instruments to maintain discipline and coordination, both on the battlefield and during ceremonial occasions. 

By the late 19th century, military music in India had developed its own distinct forms. Pipe bands emerged within Sikh, Gorkha, and Pathan units, blending local identity with military structure. One of the earliest examples was the all-Sikh pipe band of the 45th Rattray Regiment, formed around 1856. Before the First World War, almost every battalion-sized regiment of the Indian Army maintained its own band, making music an essential part of regimental life. 

From Empire to Republic: Military Bands in Independent India 

After Independence, India inherited this rich but colonial musical structure—and reshaped it to reflect a new nation. A key moment came on 23 October 1950, when the Military Music Wing was formally established under General K. M. Cariappa, the first Indian Commander-in-Chief of the Indian Army. 

The years that followed saw a conscious effort to Indianise military band music. During the 1950s, musicians and trainers such as Harold Joseph worked to replace purely European marches with Indian melodies, patriotic songs, and indigenous rhythmic patterns. 

This transformation gave military bands a new voice—one rooted in Indian culture and national pride. Nowhere is this change more visible than in the Republic Day parade, where the music no longer echoes empire, but celebrates the sound of a republic. 

What Service Sounds like Today 

Today, the Indian Armed Forces maintain a vast and well-organised musical network. Across the Army, Navy, and Air Force, there are over 50 brass bands and more than 400 pipe bands and corps of drums. Infantry regiments continue to maintain dedicated pipe bands as part of their regimental tradition.

A typical brass band is led by a bandmaster and includes around 33 musicians, while a pipe band usually has 17 members. Beyond music, bandsmen are trained soldiers first. In times of conflict, many serve in operational roles, often as medical assistants on the battlefield. 

Each wing of the Indian Armed Forces is represented by a premier military band that performs at national ceremonies, official functions, and important public events. Depending on the occasion, they can be configured as marching bands, concert bands, jazz ensembles, or traditional formations. 

The Indian Army Chief’s Band is the senior-most band of the Indian Army and functions under the Army Headquarters in New Delhi. The Indian Naval Symphonic Band represents the Indian Navy and is known for its orchestral format. Unlike traditional marching bands, it performs symphonic and concert music, reflecting the Navy’s ceremonial and cultural presence. The band performs at naval functions, official ceremonies, and cultural events, both in India and during international engagements. The No. 1 Air Force Band is the premier band of the Indian Air Force. It performs at Air Force Day celebrations, ceremonial parades, and official events organised by the Air Force.  

The Sounds of Service  

From the 1950s onwards, Indian military bands began gradually expanding their repertoire beyond Western marches to include compositions rooted in Indian musical traditions. Band masters within the armed forces composed new ceremonial tunes inspired by Indian folk and classical music, giving rise to an identifiable Indian sound. Marches such as ‘Veer Bharat’, ‘Amar Senani’, ‘INS Vikrant’, and ‘Priyadarshini’ are examples of works composed by military musicians themselves and remain in ceremonial use. The influence of Ram Singh Thakuri, a former member of the Indian National Army (INA) and composer of the INA’s music, was especially significant; his work helped shape post-Independence military music in India. This Indianisation was further strengthened when General Shankar Roychowdhury, as Chief of the Army Staff (1994–1997), formally directed the inclusion of the INA’s patriotic song and regimental quick march “Kadam Kadam Badhaye Ja” into the Indian Army’s marching repertoire. 

In addition to new compositions, military bands also adapted Indian classical forms for ensemble performance. Lieutenant Manjit Singh Neer of the Indian Naval Band composed a widely performed piece based on Raag Lalit, demonstrating how classical Indian music could be integrated into military settings. Today, over 200 Indian compositions are used across ceremonial, regimental, and public performances. To support this shift, traditional instruments such as the tabla, mridangam, santoor, sitar, and jal tarang have been incorporated into select military ensembles, broadening both the sound and cultural reach of Indian military band music.

Today, Indian military bands stand as living institutions where discipline, tradition, and music intersect. Their evolution—from colonial formations to distinctly Indian ensembles—reflects the larger journey of the Armed Forces themselves. Whether performing on the parade ground, at state ceremonies, or for public audiences, these bands combine military precision with a musical legacy rooted in service and national identity. 

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Our childhoods are shaped by noisy school classrooms, neighbourhood parks, playing with friends, and lots of games. These games filled out days and afternoons, or any free moment we could get. Regardless of when you grew up, childhoods were always full of the simple joy of playing, waiting for your turn, and laughing together. Along the way, these games taught us much more than just play and song. If we look beyond the fun moments, we see that they connect us to our roots, passing down culture from one generation to the next. They offer lessons in balance, agility, and teamwork that stay with us long after we have left the playground. No surprise then, that despite the world constantly changing, certain traditional games have stuck around. 

Hopscotch 

You just need a small piece of chalk to begin playing Hopscotch. The exact origin of hopscotch is debated, though variants trace back thousands of years. Children draw a set of numbered boxes on the ground and hop through the squares on one foot, picking up a small stone or marble while avoiding breaking the pattern or stepping on the edges. The game usually starts with tossing a stone into the first box. Every child remembers the challenge of balancing and the thrill of getting through all the boxes. Hopscotch helps develop balance and coordination, but it is also as much about focus as it is about movement. 

Kho-Kho 

This classic chasing game is popular across India and is said to have originated in Maharashtra, in the form we now know it in. In ancient times, a version of the game, called ‘Rathera’, was played on chariots. In Kho-Kho, two teams compete, where one team chases while the other tries to avoid being touched. Players from the chasing team sit or kneel in a line, and one active chaser runs around trying to tag runners from the opposing team. The chaser can switch places with teammates by tapping them and saying “Kho”. Chasers must use speed, agility, and teamwork to catch opponents.  

Many even believe that the game originated from the Mahabharata. On the thirteenth day of the war, Dronacharya created the ‘Chakravyuh’ formation, a military defensive circle. Arjuna’s son, Abhimanyu, was the only warrior who dared to go inside and heavily injured the Kaurava warriors. However, fighting seven to one, Abhimanyu was eventually overpowered and lost his life. The method Abhimanyu used to fight this defensive circle is frequently used in Kho-Kho. 

The modern form of Kho-Kho was formalised in 1914 in the Gymkhana of Pune, which was founded by Lokmanya Tilak. Since then, Kho-Kho has been played across the nation and has even found an international stage in places such as the South Asian Games. 

Se Se Seboti 

In the green hills of Manipur, children have their own folk classics. Se Se Seboti is one such game which blends rhythm, movement, and song. The game has its own unique song which goes: 

“Se se seboti Boboti son of Laishram,  

Let us have a duel  

To see who defeats who  

Like a Kouna (reed) I can uproot you  

Like a Thambou (stalk of lotus)  

I can break you” 

Children gather and sing the song while challenging each other to various feats, such as arm wrestling, hopping or other challenges inspired by the song. The game is rooted in the stories and traditions of the Meitei community, with references to traditional elements and local flora (thambou), embedding elements of Manipuri everyday life. Martial arts is a key feature of Meitei culture and Se Se Seboti’s competitive spirit honours the region’s heroic past and warrior heritage.  

Kola Kolaya Mundhirika  

Down in the south, in Tamil Nadu, ‘Kola Kolaya Mundhirika’ is a popular game, where one person walks around a group seated in a circle, while singing a rhyme and holding a handkerchief. At any moment, the child can drop the handkerchief behind someone, who must chase and tag the child who dropped the handkerchief. Simple and energetic, it requires only a handkerchief and can be played anywhere at any time.  

One Game, Many Names 

An interesting thing about a lot of these games is that the same game is found with regional variants in different states and communities, being known by different names. For example, Hopscotch is called “Stapu” in North India, “Kith Kith” or “Ekka Dukka” in other Hindi regions, and “Paandi” in Tamil Nadu, with each region having different patterns and singing different rhymes. Tamil Nadu’s Kola Kolaya Mundhirika is not only played across India, but also across the world and called ‘Drop the Handkerchief’. This shows how games travel, adapt, and become part of local cultures all over the country. 

The language, location and community might change, but the spirit of these games remains the same. These traditional games are more than just a way to pass time; they connect children across the country and bring people together. 

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