Contested emblems

Some seven years ago, when T M Krishna began singing the unsung verses of India’s national anthem, it stirred something deeper within him. The celebrated Karnatik vocalist, activist, author and Magsaysay Award winner found himself asking: what does singing an anthem mean to me?

That question led him to examine not just the anthem but also other national symbols — the flag, the state emblem, the motto, and the Preamble to the Constitution.

The result? We the People of India, a rigorously researched and thought-provoking work that revisits the making of the Republic through the stories of its foundational symbols.

Most Indians are familiar with Jana Gana Mana, recognise the tricolour, and have at least a passing awareness of the Ashokan Lion Capital and the motto Satyameva Jayate. Many would also recall fragments of the Preamble from school textbooks. Yet these symbols often function as ceremonial markers rather than ideas we actively engage with. How did a newly independent nation decide upon them? Who shaped their final forms? What debates unfolded within the Constituent Assembly? And what do these symbols actually demand of us today?

Krishna attempts to answer these questions by carefully sifting through historical records and reconstructing the political, philosophical and cultural currents that led to the adoption of these five symbols. Significantly, he examines their “afterlife” — how their meanings have evolved over the decades in response to social and political shifts.

The book is organised chapter-wise, with each chapter devoted to a symbol, beginning with the national flag. Krishna traces its complex journey, revealing the many iterations it went through before the tricolour assumed its final form. He offers fascinating insights into the flag's colours and how their interpretations have changed over time.

The story of the national emblem follows. Independent India chose the Lion Capital of Ashoka at Sarnath as its state symbol, with Jawaharlal Nehru playing a pivotal role in its adoption. Krishna emphasises the philosophical resonance of the original sculpture: four lions seated back-to-back, symbolising watchfulness and moral authority rather than brute force.

Against that backdrop, Krishna reflects critically on the more muscular interpretation of the Ashokan lions seen in India’s new Parliament building — a change he sees as emblematic of a contemporary ethos where aggression and “killer instinct” are celebrated virtues.

India’s national motto confronts an even more demanding ideal: Satyameva Jayate — Truth Alone Triumphs. In an era of half-truths, post-truth, and “alternative facts”, Krishna’s examination of the motto feels especially timely.

He recounts how the phrase was adopted after considerable deliberation. Public letters even reached Nehru, arguing that the correct Sanskrit form should be Satyameva Jayati, not Satyameva Jayate. After careful consultation, the government clarified that the existing phrase was grammatically sound. The episode stands as a small but telling illustration of participatory democracy — a prime minister willing to listen to citizens.

The chapter on the national anthem is among the book’s most compelling sections. As a musician, Krishna approaches Jana Gana Mana with both historical curiosity and musical sensitivity.

He analyses Rabindranath Tagore’s composition musically and politically, while also addressing long-standing controversies. One persistent claim is that the song was written in praise of King George V and that the word Adhinayak refers to the British monarch — a notion Tagore himself firmly rejected.

In selecting the anthem, several proposals were considered, including God Save the Queen, but the strongest rival was Vande Mataram. Krishna offers a detailed account of the song’s origins and explains why it ultimately proved unsuitable as a national anthem despite its deep association with the freedom struggle. Both songs belong to India’s history, he argues, but they embody very different ideas of the nation.

Krishna also makes a passionate plea for Indians to learn the complete Jana Gana Mana. The rarely sung second stanza, he notes, explicitly invokes Hindus, Muslims, Sikhs, Jains, Buddhists, Christians and Parsis, urging them to unite in harmony.

The final chapter turns to the Preamble. The author highlights what he considers the most arresting phrase: “Fraternity, assuring the dignity of the individual and the unity and integrity of the Nation.”

He reflects on how dignity continues to be denied in many contexts — from the plight of migrant workers during the Covid pandemic to the persistence of manual scavenging, the incarceration of activist Father Stan Swamy, and the controversies surrounding women’s entry into the Sabarimala temple. Each example becomes an invitation to examine how far the republic has travelled from its constitutional ideals.

He also revisits debates within the Constituent Assembly on whether the word “God” should appear in the Preamble, and how the proposal was rejected — a decision that reaffirmed the secular character of the Constitution and the fundamental rights it guarantees. We the People of India arrives at a time when national symbols are increasingly contested, reinterpreted, or appropriated for political ends. The book urges readers to look beyond the ritualistic display of these symbols and engage with their deeper meanings.