Good Appa!!! — A Small Independence Day Conversation That Became Something Bigger

A Three-Year-Old, a School Dance and “Indedence Day”

Good Appa!!

My three-year-old daughter came to me the other day and said, “Appa, we are dancing for one song in our school.” I casually asked her, “For which festival?” and she replied, “Independence Day.” Well, that is what she was trying to tell me, but it did not come out that easily. It went through multiple versions like, “Appa, I don’t know…”, “Addu Inde Day…” and when I asked, “Entha sariyagi helu?”, she tried again, “Appaaa… addu Indedence Day…” Finally, after a few attempts, I understood that she was trying to say Independence Day.

Naturally, my next question was, “For which song are you dancing?” Now that became another challenge. She knew the steps, but she was not able to tell me the song.

The Investigation Officer in Me Woke Up

Investigation Officer Appa

Immediately the investigation officer inside me became active. Which song could this be? Something similar had happened during her Republic Day celebration also. They had one group dance, and after enough investigation I somehow managed to crack that song. The satisfaction I got that day was almost like solving some complicated case.

So this time also I started asking questions. “Can you dance and show me?” My thinking was simple. Somewhere while dancing she might hum the tune, say one word, or give me some clue. Once I identify the song, I can play it for her and get that million-dollar smile and, if I am lucky, the greatest appreciation I normally get from her: “Good Appa!”

But that day nothing worked. After a lot of struggle, the day just vanished, and then came Sunday morning. Sunday mornings are usually the time when all these innovative ideas suddenly start coming into my head. When she came to me again saying, “Appa…!!”, I was ready with my playbook. Since the school is modern, I thought I should start with some popular songs related to India, patriotism and Independence Day.

Vande Mataram… Aye Watan… and Finally Jai Ho!

The first song I played was Vande Mataram. No major reaction, even though that was the song she had danced to during Republic Day. Then I tried Aye Watan. Again, nothing.

Then came Jai Ho.

The moment the song started, her head suddenly turned towards me. She nodded excitedly and said, “Appaaa… adu nanna song! Ede… ede… nanu dance madta irodu!”

That was it. Case solved.

I don’t know why, but the feeling was as if I had achieved something really big. I gave a big smile, and then came my reward: “Good Appa!!!”

All this investigation had gone on for almost one hour.

But I did not know that finding the song was actually going to be the easiest part of that Sunday, because now it was her turn to ask questions.

“Appa… What Is Independence Day?”

What Is Independence Day?

“Appa, what is Independence Day?”

Before coming to me, she first went to her elder sister and asked the same thing. Her sister’s explanation was very simple:

“Independence means free. Neenu dance madalakku free, free-yagi mathadalakku, you can roam freely…”

I smiled listening to her.

In a very simple way, she was actually correct, and surprisingly the little one seemed to understand it too.

When One Sister Explained Freedom to Another

While my elder daughter was explaining freedom to her younger sister, my mind suddenly went back to that famous classroom scene from 3 Idiots, where the professor asks, “What is a machine?” and Rancho gives the simplest explanation: anything that reduces human effort. The professor expects a textbook definition, but Rancho explains it in a way everybody can understand.

Something similar was happening in front of me. There was no complicated definition of freedom. One child was simply explaining it to another child in the language she understood.

I was enjoying this little conversation without realising that the question was soon going to boomerang towards me.

My elder daughter suddenly asked:

“Appa, how did we get independence from the British?”

Now it was my turn.

India Was Like One Big House

India Was Like One Big House

I wanted to explain it in a way that both of them could understand. I did not want to make it a history class filled with dates, kings, wars and complicated explanations. So I told them a simple story.

I said, “Imagine India is one very big house. Inside that house many families live. They speak different languages, eat different food, wear different clothes and celebrate different festivals, but all of them call the same big house their home.

Now imagine somebody from another street comes into your house. At first they come for some work. Slowly they start controlling things, and after some time they begin telling you, ‘You cannot decide everything in your own house. We will make the rules. We will decide many things for you.’

Would that feel fair?”

Both of them immediately said, “No!”

I continued, “A long time ago, something similar happened to India. The British came from far away and over time started ruling large parts of our country. Slowly many Indians began asking a simple question: ‘This is our home, so why should somebody else decide how our home should be run?’

Some people protested, some marched, some wrote, some went to jail, some refused to follow unfair rules and some even chose to fight. Slowly more and more people joined the struggle. Finally, on 15 August 1947, India became free from British rule.

That is why every year on August 15 we celebrate Independence Day. We hoist our flag, sing our national anthem, schools conduct programmes and yes… sometimes little children dance to Jai Ho.”

My younger one smiled when I said that.

I thought I had successfully answered the question and could relax.

Not even close.

Then Came the Question That Bamboozled Me

My elder daughter looked at me and said, “Our country is very big and we know some big people who fought for our country.”

I asked, “Like who?”

She thought for a moment and started naming them.

“Mahatma Gandhi, Subhas Chandra Bose, Bhagat Singh, Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel, Rani Lakshmibai, Chandrashekhar Azad…”

Then came the question that completely bamboozled me.

“Only these people got us independence?”

For a few seconds, I did not know what to say.

Of course I knew that thousands and thousands of people had contributed to our freedom struggle, but suddenly I started asking myself how many of them I could actually name.

We remember a handful of famous names very easily, but behind those names were thousands of students, farmers, workers, women, tribal leaders, teachers, writers and ordinary people whose photographs may not even be present in our school textbooks.

The Newspaper Cutting I Had Kept Like a Treasure

 The Newspaper Cutting

Then I suddenly remembered something.

A long time ago I had kept a newspaper cutting about some of the young people who had taken part in India’s freedom struggle. I normally keep such things safely in what my family probably considers junk, but for me it is my little treasure collection.

I went searching and luckily found it.

I came back, sat with both of them and said, “Today I want to show you something very special. Look at this newspaper page. See all these faces? Some have moustaches, some look very serious, some look almost like college students and one of them was actually a child. Do you know what connects all of them? They lived during the time when India was still fighting for freedom.”

Both of them were now looking at the page.

And for me, the narration started again.

Faces They Had Never Seen Before

I pointed towards Khudiram Bose and told them that he was only around eighteen years old.

“Think about it. An eighteen-year-old today may just be finishing school or starting college, but he was already part of India’s freedom struggle.”

Then I showed them Kartar Singh Sarabha, who was only nineteen. At an age when most of us would probably be thinking about our studies, friends and our own future, he was thinking about the future of his country.

Then there was Pritilata Waddedar.

I told them, “See, freedom struggle was not something only men were part of. Women also showed extraordinary courage and played an important role.”

Then came three faces they already recognised: Bhagat Singh, Rajguru and Sukhdev. I told them that all three were very young. They believed strongly that India should be free and stood by that belief even when they knew the consequences could be very serious.

Not Everyone Fought in the Same Way

But I also wanted them to understand that not everybody fought in the same way.

I showed them Jatin Das, who protested against the unfair treatment of Indian political prisoners through a hunger strike. His method was different, but his struggle was also about dignity and justice.

Then came Birsa Munda. I explained that he came from a tribal community and saw his people losing their land and being treated unfairly. Even at a young age, he became a leader and inspired people to stand together.

We then spoke about Chandrashekhar Azad, Ashfaqulla Khan and Ram Prasad Bismil.

While talking about Ashfaqulla Khan, I told them something I really wanted them to remember: many people in the freedom struggle came from different religions, languages, regions and communities, but their differences did not stop them from standing together for the country.

When I came to Ram Prasad Bismil, I told them, “He was not only a revolutionary, he was also a poet. Sometimes people fight with protests, sometimes with actions and sometimes with words. Words can also inspire people.”

Then I showed them one of the youngest faces on that newspaper page.

Baji Rout.

I asked them, “Can you guess how old he was?”

They had no idea.

“He was only twelve.”

That made both of them pause.

Twelve was an age they could somehow imagine. It was not like saying somebody was thirty, forty or fifty. Twelve was closer to being a child.

I told them that Baji Rout was still a child, but his courage during the freedom struggle made his name part of history.

Freedom Was Never One Person’s Achievement

After talking about all these people, I placed the newspaper cutting in front of them and said, “Now look at all these faces again. India did not become free because of only one person, and it did not become free because of only one type of struggle.

Some followed Mahatma Gandhi’s path of non-violence. Some believed in revolutionary resistance. Some organised people. Some wrote newspapers, books and poems. Some refused to obey unfair rules. Many went to prison.

Farmers participated, workers participated, students participated, women participated and tribal communities participated. There were also thousands of ordinary families whose names we may never know.”

Freedom was never one person’s achievement.

It slowly became a country’s struggle.

Freedom Fighters

“Then What Should We Do for India?”

After all this explanation, I asked them, “Now tell me, what should you do for India?”

My elder daughter started thinking seriously.

The younger one, I am quite sure, was still somewhere mentally dancing to Jai Ho.

I laughed and told them, “You don’t have to fight a war. You don’t have to become a freedom fighter. Your responsibility today is much simpler.

Study with curiosity. Be kind. Don’t bully somebody because they are different from you. Keep your surroundings clean. Protect trees. Don’t waste water. Be kind to animals. Respect people who speak another language or follow another religion. Help someone whenever you can. Speak the truth.

And when you see something that is clearly wrong, have the courage to say, ‘This is not right.’”

Because patriotism is not only about holding the flag and saying, “I love my country.”

It is also about asking yourself:

“What small thing can I do to make my country a little better?”

They Dreamed About a Free India

They Dreamed About a Free India

I looked once again at the newspaper cutting and told my elder daughter, “Whenever you see these people, don’t remember them only for how they died. Try to remember what they were dreaming about while they were alive.

They were dreaming about a free India, a country where Indians could decide their own future.”

And today, in many ways,

we are living inside that dream.

By then both my elder and younger one seemed happy that they had got some answer, and I was equally relieved that I had somehow managed to narrate the story without turning Sunday morning into a full history lecture.

Maybe, for Her, Independence Day Is Still Jai Ho

I am still not sure how much my three-year-old actually understood. Maybe for her Independence Day is still mainly about school, dancing, her friends and Jai Ho.

And I think that is perfectly okay.

She is only three.

For now, freedom can simply mean what her sister told her: you can talk freely, dance freely, learn, play and ask questions.

The deeper meaning can come slowly as she grows.

Parenting Is Strange Like That

When I thought about the whole morning later, I smiled. It had started with one very simple mission: find my daughter’s dance song.

Somewhere along the way, I became an investigation officer, cracked Jai Ho, received my precious “Good Appa”, explained British rule using a big house, searched through an old newspaper cutting and ended up talking about people who had sacrificed so much for India’s freedom.

Parenting is strange like that.

Sometimes you start Sunday morning searching for a song on your phone, and before you know it, you are sitting with your children talking about history, freedom and what it means to love your country.

Sometimes Children Just Need an Answer for Today

Perhaps children don’t always need the perfect textbook answer.

Sometimes they only need an answer they can understand today.

The rest, they will understand tomorrow.

And somewhere between all their questions, doubts and little smiles, if you are lucky, you may also receive the greatest award a father can get.

“Good Appa!!!”

 

The Woman Who Called Herself Vrishabhavathi

A Metro journey, a disregarded river, and a conversation Bengaluru desperately needed.

There are journeys that end when you reach your destination.

And then there are journeys that continue long after you have stepped off the train.

This is one of them.

Vrishabhavathi 

A Morning Like Any Other

Metro ride

The other day, I was travelling to my office.

Whenever work takes me to the other end of Bengaluru, towards Global Village, there is one companion I never complain about—the Bengaluru Metro.

On most days, it saves me from spending hours in traffic that never seems to end.

That morning was no different.

I boarded the train and found myself standing near the door, holding that familiar steel handle that thousands of commuters hold every single day.

After Majestic, the crowd gradually became thinner.

On the other side, the trains heading towards Whitefield are usually packed like festivals.

The Kengeri side somehow breathes a little easier than Whitefield or the Electronic City side during the morning, but the opposite by evening.

For the first time that morning, I could actually look outside.

I have always enjoyed watching Bengaluru through the Metro windows.

It tells stories that roads never do.

Buildings.

Flyovers.

Apartment towers.

Concrete after concrete.

Every few seconds, a lonely water tank would rise above the rooftops.

It stood there almost like a watchman reminding everyone that water once mattered here.

A few old trees somehow survived between endless blocks of cement.

They looked tired.

Yet they were still standing.

The Stream That Refused to Disappear

Stram that RefusStreamed to disappear

As the train crossed Deepanjali Nagar and headed towards Pattangere, just before the RV College station, my eyes caught sight of something below.

A narrow water channel.

At first glance, it looked exactly like another sewage drain.

Dark water flows through the channel.

Here and there, concrete walls that say, 'This is modern human-built architecture .'

The kind of sight every Bengalurean has sadly become used to.

But as the train moved a little further, I noticed something unusual.

Hidden beneath the filth were natural rocks.

The curves did not look man-made.

The land looked ancient.

Almost as though a real stream was struggling to breathe beneath everything we had built over it.

I found myself wondering...

"How did a natural stream become this?"

Before my thoughts could go any further, I noticed someone standing beside me.

The Woman With Tears in Her Eyes

Tears in her eyes

She was quietly crying.

Not loudly.

Not asking for help.

Just tears flowed as she stared out the window.

There was something about her that felt different.

She carried no laptop bag, which is common in Bangalore metro.

No phone, a must-have for daily life.

No earphones, without which people look like they don't have a job to do.

No hurry.

Her face carried an age that could not be measured in years.

For a few moments, I hesitated.

Then I asked softly,

"Ma'am... are you alright?"

She slowly turned towards me.

Her eyes carried the pain of centuries.

She smiled faintly.

"You noticed."

I looked confused.

"Most people don't."

"Why are you crying?"

She looked outside once again.

Then she said something that completely changed my journey.

"My name is Vrishabhavathi."

I smiled politely.

"That's a beautiful name."

She smiled.

"It wasn't just a name."

"I was once Bengaluru's river."

When a River Began to Speak

When a river began to speak

For a second, I thought I had misunderstood.

She looked at me as though she already knew.

"No... You are not dreaming."

"I have simply come because someone finally looked down from the Metro instead of into a mobile phone."

Silence filled the space between us.

Then she began telling her story.

When Bengaluru Knew How Water Flowed

When Bengaluru knew how water flowed

"I was born near the feet of Basava."

"People now remember the giant Nandi statues."

"Very few remember that I began there as clear flowing water."

She spoke of children playing on her banks.

Women collecting water.

Farmers are waiting for the monsoon.

Birds are nesting beside her.

Fish swimming beneath the surface.

"I was never as mighty as the Ganga or the Cauvery."

"But I gave life to everyone who lived beside me."

She smiled.

"I knew a young city called Bengaluru."

"It was not built with glass."

"It was built with wisdom."

Kempegowda Understood What We Forgot

What we forgot 

Her eyes brightened.

"When Kempegowda dreamed of this city, he understood something today's planners often forget."

"He never fought nature."

"He worked with it."

She spoke about valleys.

Natural streams.

Rainwater.

Hundreds of interconnected lakes.

Overflow channels.

What we now call Raja Kaluves.

"We simply called them home."

She spoke of forests.

Peacocks.

Otters.

Turtles.

Jackals.

Fish.

Countless birds.

"The monsoon had somewhere to rest."

"Groundwater had somewhere to sleep."

"The lakes spoke to each other."

"The rivers breathed."

When Growth Forgot Gratitude

Growth forgot gratitude

Then her smile disappeared.

"People discovered another kind of gold."

Factories.

Industries.

Layouts.

Technology parks.

Flyovers.

"The Silicon City was born."

"I was happy."

"Cities must grow."

"People deserve opportunities."

"I never hated development."

Then she looked directly into my eyes.

"But development forgot gratitude."

"It forgot limits."

"My floodplains became layouts."

"My streams became drains."

"My lakes became real estate."

"Storm-water channels carried sewage."

"Factories emptied poison into my body."

"Every day I carried what nobody else wanted."

She paused.

"Slowly..."

"People stopped calling me a river."

"They called me..."

"Kengeri Mori."

Those two words felt heavier than everything else she had said.

Imagine giving water for centuries...

Only to be remembered as a drain.

The Forgotten Sisters

Forgotten Sisters

She spoke of her sisters, too.

Arkavathi.

Kumudvathi.

The eastern valleys feed Bellandur and Varthur.

"When rivers lose their paths..."

"Lakes lose their purpose."

"Then people wonder why lakes catch fire."

She wasn't blaming anyone.

She was simply remembering.

"The saddest part isn't pollution."

"It is forgetfulness."

"You forgot we were alive."

She Saw Memories. We Saw Buildings.

Memories vs Buildings

Outside the Metro, another apartment tower rushed past.

She pointed.

"A wetland."

Another place.

"A grove."

Another.

"A stream."

Another.

"A nesting ground."

Then she turned towards me.

"You see buildings."

"I still see memories."

The Last Question

Last Question

The announcement interrupted us.

"Next station... Kengeri."

I realised I had crossed the station where I was supposed to get down.

But somehow I didn't care.

I wanted her to continue.

She stood up.

I quickly asked,

"Can we still save you?"

She smiled.

"That is the wrong question."

The doors opened.

Without turning back, she said,

"Ask instead whether you can save yourselves."

"Rivers always find a way."

"It is civilisations that disappear."

The doors closed.

The train moved.

Only then did I realise...

She had never walked out.

She had simply vanished.

The Journey That Never Ended

Journey that never ended

A few minutes later, I finally got down at Kengeri Satellite Town.

I boarded another Metro back towards the office.

The journey lasted only a few minutes.

But my mind was still travelling with her.

Even after reaching work...

Opening my laptop...

Joining meetings...

Her words refused to leave me.

Urbanisation is not the enemy.

Progress is not the enemy.

The enemy is the belief that nature exists only until we need the land beneath it.

Every civilisation believes it has endless time.

Every city believes growth has no limits.

But everything has an expiry.

Even uncontrolled urbanisation.

When rivers die...

Groundwater follows.

When wetlands disappear...

Floods arrive.

When biodiversity vanishes...

The silence that replaces it cannot be engineered back.

By the time we realise what has been lost...

Nature may no longer be waiting for our apology.

Every Time I Cross That Bridge

Every time I cross that bridge

Sometimes I still travel on that Metro route.

Every time the train crosses that narrow channel near Pattangere, I look outside.

Most passengers continue scrolling through their phones.

Some are sleeping.

Some are talking.

I simply look down.

Searching.

Hoping.

Wondering...

Who was that woman?

Was she only my imagination?

Or did Bengaluru's forgotten river finally find someone willing to listen?

Now let me bring a few details on the river ( Infographics)

Rivers of Bengaluru

My  Note

This is a work of magical realism inspired by the history of Bengaluru's rivers, lakes and vanishing wetlands. While the conversation is fictional, the ecological decline of the Vrishabhavathi River and Bengaluru's interconnected water systems is very real. Sometimes, stories can help us hear what facts alone cannot.