Maj Gen Sanjeev Dogra (Retd.)
sanjeev662006@gmail.com
In Jammu and Kashmir, the Republic is not merely a word spoken from a podium. It is a lived reality, tested by distance and terrain, by harsh winters and long silences, and sometimes by the quiet uncertainty that life near the borders carries. Here, mountains do not only frame the horizon; they shape the meaning of belonging. Valleys do not only carry rivers; they carry memory. In villages close to the Line of Control, people learn early that patriotism is not always loud, and governance is not always visible, yet life must go on with dignity.
And yet, on the morning of 26 January, even this rugged land seems to pause. Across the country, the winter air is sharp, the sky is clear, and India looks almost rehearsed. The parade is crisp, the uniforms immaculate, formations moving with clockwork precision. The tricolour is not just a flag in the wind; it becomes an emotion stitched into every salute, every cheer, every moist eye. For a few hours, we feel proud not only of what India is, but of what India can be. We speak of the Constitution with reverence and of citizenship with conviction.
But a Republic is not defined by a ceremonial day. It is defined by ordinary days. The Republic begins when the cameras switch off, when the parade disperses, and when each citizen returns to the roads, queues, schools, hospitals, and marketplaces where the country is truly made or broken.
The very next morning, the contrast often stares us in the face. A red light is treated as a suggestion. A queue becomes a contest of elbows. Public spaces are used and abused as if they belong to nobody. Rules are ridiculed, discipline is seen as weakness, and responsibility is postponed to someone else. We celebrate order once a year, yet practise disorder every day.
In my earlier reflections on patriotism and nationalism, I have maintained a simple distinction. Patriotism is love expressed through contribution, through quiet responsibility, through the daily choice to build. Nationalism can be necessary in moments of threat, when unity must harden into resolve. But when nationalism becomes theatre and patriotism becomes performance, something essential is lost: the moral seriousness of citizenship. A Republic cannot run on emotion alone. It runs on law, institutions, and the self-restraint of its people.
This is where the most underestimated phrase enters the story: civic sense. We often treat it as mere manners, a finishing touch. It is not. Civic sense is the daily expression of constitutional values. It is respect for fellow citizens, regard for public property, and obedience to law not out of fear, but out of self-respect. Civic sense, in short, is not etiquette. It is national character.
Perhaps that is why writing from Jammu and Kashmir gives this issue a different texture. Here, the nation is not primarily a topic for debate; it is a lived experience. The idea of India is carried in ordinary acts of endurance. So let us look at the Republic through the eyes of those who do not have the luxury of rhetoric.
Think of a Bakarwal shepherd moving with his flock across high pastures. The wind cuts through his worn pheran; his eyes scan ridgelines with an instinct refined over generations. Ask him what patriotism means, and he may not offer vocabulary. He will offer truth. For him, the Republic is the freedom to move without fear, the assurance that his children can study, and the hope that his seasonal migration will not be interrupted by coercion or conflict. In his world, the nation is not a headline. It is the difference between dignity and vulnerability.
Now think of the educated but unemployed youth, from Jammu to Doda, from Rajouri to Anantnag. Degree in hand, ambition in heart, uncertainty everywhere. For him or her, patriotism is not blind optimism. Patriotism is faith that effort will matter, that merit will find a place, that honesty will not be punished while shortcuts are rewarded. When that faith weakens, frustration hardens into cynicism. And cynicism is dangerous, because it persuades a young mind that nothing is worth building.
Then picture an old woman near the Line of Control. Winters are harsh here, and nights can be harsher. Her patriotism is not loud. It is a daily decision: to stay, to endure, to keep the home fires burning, to send grandchildren to school, to smile when life gives little reason. She does not wave a flag to prove her love. She lives in a way that keeps hope alive at the frontier.
And then there are the remote corners of Kishtwar and beyond, villages tucked deep into forests and folds of mountains where roads are still dreams and a vehicle cannot easily go. There, the meaning of the Republic is measured in basics: a school that functions, a clinic that has medicines, a bridge that stands, an administration that listens. For them, the Constitution is not an idea. It is a promise, judged not by speeches but by whether the state arrives on time.
Seen through these lives, our national question becomes sharper. Yes, India’s economic ambition is real. We speak of rising GDP, growth, and global confidence. But the Republic is not a balance sheet alone. A nation’s greatness is not declared; it is demonstrated. And the most honest test of greatness is whether human life is valued, protected, and treated with dignity.
This is where accountability must enter our Republic Day reflection, not as a political weapon, but as a civic necessity. Across the country, incidents keep reminding us how fragile life can become when negligence is normalised. Urban roads where unmarked pits and open trenches turn into death traps. Playgrounds where poor maintenance turns sport into tragedy. Hospitals where basic hygiene collapses and a patient’s dignity collapses with it. Crimes that shock the conscience, followed by the familiar cycle of outrage, fatigue, and forgetting. Different events, one underlying message: systems fail when responsibility is diluted and consequences are delayed.
We can debate who is to blame, but the Republic demands a higher standard from everyone. Institutions must enforce safety and maintenance with seriousness, because negligence is not an accident, it is often a culture. Citizens must respect law, because a rule broken casually today becomes a tragedy tomorrow. When accountability becomes selective, discipline becomes optional. When discipline becomes optional, life becomes cheap.
A balanced mind must also acknowledge the other side. India is not a hopeless country. It is a country of extraordinary resilience and quiet excellence. Honest officers do their duty against odds. Doctors work beyond capacity. Teachers keep children learning in difficult conditions. Many citizens follow rules even when others mock them. There is progress, innovation, and aspiration. But progress must be measured not only by speed of growth, but by depth of dignity.
A rising GDP means little if ordinary life remains unsafe and basic services remain uncertain. Growth is not only about creating wealth; it is also about sharing opportunity and securing daily life. The fact that large sections of our people still depend on welfare support for basic food security should move us with compassion, but also with urgency. Welfare that prevents hunger is necessary and humane. Yet a mature Republic must also ask why, after decades of growth, so many still require such support to survive. Are we creating enough livelihoods? Are we strengthening local economies? Are we enabling families to rise, not merely endure?
These questions are not anti-establishment. They are pro-Republic. They arise from love, not cynicism. A patriot does not clap only when things go right. A patriot also insists that the nation become safer, fairer, and more humane.
So where are we heading as a Republic? India stands at an inflection point: young, capable, ambitious, yet sometimes casual about discipline and dignity. The direction we take will not be decided only by policies and budgets. It will be decided by culture and conduct, by how seriously we value life, uphold law, and respect one another.
This 26 January, let us ask ourselves a more demanding question than “Do I love my country?” Let us ask: does my country become safer, cleaner, and more dignified because of the way I live, and because of the way our institutions function? If the answer is yes, even in small ways, we are heading in the right direction. If the answer is no, then no amount of rhetoric will save us. Because in the final reckoning, the Republic is built not only in Parliament, but on roads, in hospitals, in classrooms, in playgrounds, and inside homes, by citizens and institutions who decide every day to take responsibility.
That is the real meaning of 26 January.
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