“Declare what you are carrying!” the stern-looking customs officer at the US airport growled at me the other day, and I wondered, what if I wasn’t just me, the lone traveler, but India herself walking through international customs?
What would the declaration form of India look like?
Under Exports, instead of “Textiles, IT Services, Pharmaceuticals,” the form might boldly state: Intolerance, Hate, Hypocrisy.
For intolerance, the weight would be declared as “heavy consignments,” packed neatly in cartons labeled: “Communal Clashes – Handle without Care!” Each package already battered, bloodied, and still oozing.
For hate, there’d be barrels of it, overflowing, seeping out onto airport floors. Labels would warn: “Highly Inflammable. May ignite at the slightest provocation: a social media post, a religious procession, a movie song, or even someone eating the wrong kind of meat.”
And hypocrisy? Ah, that would be the duty-free item. Exported without tariffs, without quotas, without restriction. Hypocrisy would glide past green channels with the smoothness of a diplomat’s passport. The form would say: “Special status granted. Exports unlimited.”
How else to explain that while we shout “Vishwaguru!” and lecture the world on peace, we can’t keep peace within our own borders? How else to explain leaders thundering about “Mother Earth” at international summits while back home rivers choke with garbage and forests vanish into malls? How else to explain we proudly market ourselves as the “largest democracy” but the export container is marked: Censorship?
I can see the customs officer, puzzled: “Excuse me, sir, what is this shipment marked Freedom of Press?”
“Oh, don’t worry,” replies India breezily, “that’s not an export—it’s scrap. We don’t need it anymore.”
And imagine the duty invoice:
Hate: Zero tariff.
Hypocrisy: Zero tariff.
Intolerance: Zero tariff.
But for mango pickle? Twenty-five dollars extra, please!
Isn’t it strange, dear reader, that the things the world actually respects us for—our music, our films, our ideas, our tolerance—are slowly being taxed out of existence, while what should have been banned at the border is exported freely, gleefully, triumphantly?
Yes, India may one day be Vishwaguru, but at this rate, our gurukul syllabus will teach the world how to silence dissent, demonize difference, and distribute hate like free prasad.
So next time I stand at an airport counter and declare my tiny treasures of food, I think of my country’s big consignments passing through international scanners. And I pray that one day, when the world reads “Made in India,” it will smell not of hate and hypocrisy but of hope, harmony, and healing, it did once, when Gandhiji exported non-violence to the rest of the world.
But till that happens again, welcome to the only nation where mango pickle is charged and our hypocrisies travel free…!
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