There’s something about the word Swadeshi that makes the chest swell and the voice quiver with patriotism. We picture Gandhi at his spinning wheel, khadi clothes fluttering, and villagers proudly making salt. Today, the Prime Minister thunders about Swadeshi, and dutifully, like good children of the soil, we nod our heads and vow to “buy Indian.”
And just as I was about to puff myself up with nationalistic pride, I heard a whisper. Not from the PM, not from the television, but from my past, from my old Maruti 800. “Master,” she wheezed, “do you remember those glorious days, forty years ago, when I raced down the roads of India like a tiny chariot of fire?”
Ah, how could I forget! I was one of the first to own the 800. She was small, tinier than the ambassadorial behemoths, but she zipped! She was the Cadillac of India—at least in our eyes. While the Ambassadors huffed and puffed, while the Fiats demanded their ritual pit stop at Khandala before braving the ghats, my little Maruti darted ahead like a sprinter on steroids.
And then I remembered my old Fiat.
Oh, the memories! Not of speed, but of agony.
The engine overheated at Kapoli, and my family and I sat drinking warm water while other cars overtook us.
Or my Tata Estate—what a beast! A giant of a car, yes, but with problems so gigantic they could have filled Parliament’s question hour.
All Swadeshi products. All ours. And all, tragically, unreliable. Why? Because we cheated ourselves. We cut corners. We lied to our own people, selling them junk at the price of dreams.
And so my Maruti 800 chuckled, “You praise Swadeshi, master. But was I not born of Suzuki’s Japanese genes, clothed only with a little Indian tailoring? Without that Japanese discipline, you’d still be standing by the roadside, cooling engines with buckets of water.”
Point taken.
If we are to talk Swadeshi, let us not just wave flags and pat our backs. Swadeshi should not simply be about building in India—it is about honesty at the production table, truth at the drawing board, and integrity at the assembly line.
But what do we see? Allegations of voter fraud. Investigative agencies chasing opposition while the corrupt laugh over chai. Politicians promising the moon, but delivering potholes. And we, with our chests puffed up, say proudly, “Swadeshi!”
Let’s not fool ourselves. Swadeshi is not just about the badge on a product; it is about the soul behind it. If we continue to lie, cheat, and corrupt, then all the slogans in the world won’t save us. We’ll be back to the days of terrible Fiats and Standard Heralds, while the rest of the world zips by in their Teslas and Toyotas.
So, my dear Prime Minister, and my dear fellow Indians, if we want Swadeshi to truly mean something, let’s first start by cleansing ourselves—our politics, our promises, our honesty. Only then will our cars, our products, our very nation, race ahead like my Maruti once did.
Otherwise, well, don’t blame me if my old rusted, rutt-putt Fiat grins from the scrapyard and says, “Welcome back.”
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