Patriotism for the Camera

https://www.telegraphindia.com/opinion/show-of-honour-the-tweak-in-indias-military-traditions-prnt/cid/2118942

Two images remain stuck in my mind—not painful, but irritating thorns you can’t quite pluck out. The first is of Colonel Santosh Babu, killed in the brutal hand-to-hand clash with Chinese troops in Galwan in 2020. He was posthumously awarded the Maha Vir Chakra, India’s second-highest gallantry honour. So far, so dignified. But at Rashtrapati Bhavan, the medal wasn’t simply handed to his widow, Santoshi Babu. No, his mother, Manjula, was pulled into the frame. The cameras swooned, godi-media cheered—“See, for the first time, both wife and mother honoured. A new age of female emancipation!” My question was, where was the father? Is his grief of lesser value in the marketplace of sorrow? Or simply inconvenient for the photo-op? Grief, too, had been scripted for the storyboard. Call me old-fashioned, even chauvinist, but found it theatrics in poor taste.

The second image rankles more. In 2019, with elections looming, Modi was photographed in Allahabad washing the feet of sanitation workers (Safai Karmacharis). Cameras rolled, hashtags trended, and then came the Ganga aarti and Triveni puja interspaced with costume changes—every frame polished for WhatsApp and television. This was not continuity with tradition, nor civilizational revival. It was a charade, a costume change designed to project Modi as both saint of the ghats and saviour of Hindus. Rituals became stagecraft, sincerity replaced with spectacle.

Both episodes served one goal: propping up a wobbling image. The foot-washing stunt before the 2019 polls wasn’t piety—it was packaging, Modi cast as the resurrector of Hindu traditions. The staged inclusion of Colonel Babu’s mother after Galwan wasn’t about honour—it was damage control, a desperate attempt to inflate strength and preserve the Vishwaguru illusion after twenty soldiers fell. In both cases, optics muscled out honesty, and rituals stood in for responsibility.

If you want further proof, these were gimmicks, not protocols, look no further than Lance Naik Gopal Singh Bhadoriya in 2022. A decorated NSG commando, Shaurya Chakra awardee, killed fighting terrorists in Jammu & Kashmir. His medal? Delivered by Speed Post. No Rashtrapati Bhavan, no ceremony, no grieving mother or widow in the frame. Just a postman’s knock at the door. So much for “new traditions.”

This year’s Independence Day medals drove the point home. Pakistan distributes awards like carnival tickets, outrageous but harmless. India, however, turned it into farce. Operation Sindoor lasted four days, hung over civilian casualties we never acknowledged, and yet produced 127 gallantry awards, 40 distinguished service awards, seven rare “Sarvottam Yudh Seva Medals” (given only thrice since 1980), and nine Vir Chakras. Gallantry awards are not participation trophies. They are history written in metal and ribbon. Napoleon once said, “Men are led by such baubles.” He was right—but when baubles are handed out like party favours, they lose their meaning, and the true heroes are diminished.

Then came the silence on the fallen. Modi thundered from the Red Fort about punishing enemies “beyond imagination.” Yet not one airman named, no next-of-kin acknowledged, no martyr elevated. In earlier wars—Kargil, Galwan—names were read, tears shed, flags draped. Today, casualties are hidden, citations suppressed, even injured soldiers erased. Democracy does not demand every secret, but it demands the dignity of stories. The refusal betrays fear—fear of grief spiralling into scrutiny, fear of exposure.

Even the Border Security Force released citations: tales of drones neutralised and cameras destroyed. The army, navy, and air force? Silence. If bravery breathes in stories, nationalism suffocates without them. To stifle the story of valour is to sow doubt not only in government but in the very institution of service.

And yet the spectacle continues—fly-pasts with logos fit for TV soap, not “operational insignias”, themed banners, medal showers—reducing noble deeds to tableau. If history is to remember anything, it should recall heroes—not the circus that pretended to honour them.

Sushant Singh, in his essay, lays this bare. I endorse him fully. Let us remember Lance Naik Albert Ekka—not as a star on a shoulder, but as a soul who gave his life without fuss. In the 1971 Battle of Hilli, he charged tanks with a beanbag gun because the nation demanded it, not because a camera was waiting. His name endures because it was told truthfully, not because it was wrapped in spectacle.

Let us remember Galwan honestly. Men died with stones and rods in their hands in freezing mountains, not for trophies but for duty. Their families deserved candour, not photo-ops. We have a responsibility to admit that.

And let us recall Squadron Leader Ajay Ahuja in Kargil, shot after ejection. His story was told, his sacrifice openly acknowledged, his family given every detail. That openness made his name larger than any medal. That is tradition worth preserving—honour through truth.

If every medal begins to feel like a campaign prop, valour itself is hollowed out. Gallantry deserves ceremony, yes—but first it deserves honesty. Accountability is not disrespect; it is homage.

So, my endorsement is simple: give us deeds, not décor. Honour us with honesty, not hugger-mugger. History immortalises truth, not theatre. In a land overflowing with jugglers, let us not turn our soldiers into sparklers on a platter. Their sacrifice must be shared, not staged.

If you cannot name the man, how do you name his valour with a medal? Sushant Singh does just that, and for that, he deserves praise—and perhaps a medal of integrity himself. And as a parting ask, when is the next time Modi is washing someone’s feet?