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By:

Bhalchandra Chorghade

11 August 2025 at 1:54:18 pm

Colour of Victory Should Never Need a Political Palette

For nearly a century, Indian hockey, or for that matter any team representing the country, has been synonymous with one colour, ok blue. It is the shade that witnessed eight Olympic gold medals, the artistry of Dhyan Chand, the revival under Harmanpreet Singh, ICC ODI and T20 World Cups, and countless moments when the tricolour rose above the podium. The jersey was never merely a piece of fabric; it became part of India’s sporting identity. Now, Hockey India’s decision to replace the...

Colour of Victory Should Never Need a Political Palette

For nearly a century, Indian hockey, or for that matter any team representing the country, has been synonymous with one colour, ok blue. It is the shade that witnessed eight Olympic gold medals, the artistry of Dhyan Chand, the revival under Harmanpreet Singh, ICC ODI and T20 World Cups, and countless moments when the tricolour rose above the podium. The jersey was never merely a piece of fabric; it became part of India’s sporting identity. Now, Hockey India’s decision to replace the traditional blue with saffron for the away kit has triggered a debate far larger than sport. Is this simply a marketing exercise? A harmless aesthetic choice? Or another step towards painting every national institution in the colours of the ruling political narrative? The answer perhaps lies not in the jersey itself, but in the context. No one disputes saffron’s place in India’s history. It is one of the colours of the national flag and symbolises courage and sacrifice. Equally, blue carries deep civilisational and constitutional significance—from Lord Krishna to Dr. B.R. Ambedkar, and from the Ashoka Chakra at the centre of the Tiranga to the identity Indian sport has built over decades. The irony is striking. For years, administrators proudly marketed India’s teams as the “Men in Blue” and “Women in Blue.” The colour transcended cricket and became the common sporting identity across disciplines. Today, without any compelling sporting necessity, that identity appears expendable. Supporters argue that many countries use alternate jerseys. Indeed, they do. Australia wears green and gold. Brazil alternates between yellow and blue. Football clubs routinely unveil fresh designs every season. But there is a difference between refreshing a brand and redefining a national sporting identity. When symbolism repeatedly moves in only one ideological direction, questions become inevitable. Perhaps the next logical step would be renaming the blue astroturf into saffron turf as well. After all, consistency is important. Sarcasm aside, sport derives its greatest strength from its ability to unite people beyond politics. Fans cheer goals not governments. They celebrate drag flicks not ideological colour charts. An Indian victory over Pakistan or Australia has never depended on whether the players wore blue, white or orange. It depended on skill, preparation and character. The danger lies in normalising symbolic interventions that appear unnecessary. One isolated decision may be dismissed as coincidence. But when institutions across sectors—from textbooks to public spaces, from cultural bodies to sporting symbols—begin reflecting similar aesthetic choices, citizens are entitled to ask whether coincidence has quietly become policy. This is not an argument against saffron. It is an argument against selective symbolism. India’s greatest strength has always been its pluralism. The Tiranga itself does not privilege one colour over another. Saffron stands with white and green, held together by the blue Ashoka Chakra. Remove the balance and the flag loses its meaning. Ironically, the colour being sidelined is the one sitting at the heart of the national flag. Administrators would do well to remember that sporting institutions inherit traditions; they do not merely manage brands. Jerseys evoke memories that marketing campaigns cannot manufacture. The blue shirt reminds millions of Olympic triumphs, Asian Games glory and generations of hockey lovers who never asked what ideology their team’s colour represented. Sport should remain one of the few arenas where citizens see only India—not competing political shades of India. If Hockey India genuinely wishes to modernise the sport, there are more pressing priorities than changing colours. Better domestic leagues, stronger grassroots programmes, improved infrastructure and higher player welfare would generate far more excitement than a redesigned jersey. Winning medals, laurels and titles changes history. Changing colours merely changes wardrobes.

Lingua Pragmatica

Updated: Mar 20, 2025

As Southern leaders like M.K. Stalin rage against Hindi, Andhra Pradesh’s Chief Minister Chandrababu Naidu offers a model of pragmatism over parochialism.

Chandrababu Naidu
Andhra Pradesh

Amid the cacophony of opposition in southern states to Hindi, Andhra Pradesh CM N. Chandrababu Naidu has taken a markedly pragmatic stance by remarking recently in the state Assembly that there was no harm in learning other languages. Hindi, Naidu noted, was useful for communication across India, particularly in political and commercial hubs like Delhi. His remarks, though avoiding explicit mention of the NEP, were widely seen as an endorsement of multilingualism and a rebuke to the linguistic chauvinism that has gripped parts of the South.


Few issues in India stir political passions quite like language. It is not merely a means of communication but a marker of identity, a relic of colonial resistance, and a source of political mobilization. In the southern states, where anti-Hindi sentiment has long been entrenched, the National Education Policy (NEP) 2020 and its three-language formula have reignited old tensions. No state embodies this defiance more than Tamil Nadu, where the ruling Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam (DMK) led by M.K. Stalin has framed the policy as an assault on its linguistic autonomy.


Naidu’s words, welcomed by his ally and Deputy Chief Minister Pawan Kalyan, mark a sharp contrast with the DMK’s position. Tamil Nadu’s hostility towards Hindi dates back to the 1930s, when C. Rajagopalachari’s attempt to introduce it in schools met with fierce resistance. The anti-Hindi agitations of the 1960s cemented the DMK’s ideological stance, with its first Chief Minister, C.N. Annadurai, famously warning that Hindi imposition could push Tamil Nadu towards secession.


The question, however, is whether this rigid opposition serves Tamil Nadu’s interests. While Stalin, with an eye to the upcoming Tamil Nadu Assembly polls, has been relentlessly portraying Hindi as a threat to his state’s regional identity, Naidu, a partner of the BJP-led Centre, is framing it as a tool for economic mobility. His argument is not that Hindi should replace Telugu or English but that it offers a competitive advantage.


The economic case for multilingualism is compelling. Indians who speak multiple languages tend to have better job prospects, higher earnings and greater geographic mobility. Andhra Pradesh’s Telugu-speaking diaspora is a case in point. Telugus make up a significant proportion of Indian-origin professionals in the United States, the Gulf, and Southeast Asia as Naidu pointed out, hinting that this success story was built not on linguistic rigidity but on adaptability.


In a country where inter-state migration is rising and where Hindi remains the most widely spoken language, refusing to learn it amounts to self-imposed isolation. Tamil Nadu’s approach, by contrast, risks limiting its youth. The DMK government has refused to implement the three-language policy, keeping schools strictly bilingual with Tamil and English. Its justification that Hindi is not necessary for global success could be true in a narrow sense but ignores the domestic context. If Tamil filmmakers can dub their movies into Hindi to expand their audience, why should Tamil students be denied access to the language that could open more doors for them within India?


The DMK has accused successive central governments, particularly under the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP), of pushing Hindi at the expense of regional languages. Yet, rejecting Hindi outright is an overcorrection. The reality is that Hindi is an important language in India’s economic and political landscape. Naidu’s position, one of accommodation rather than confrontation, offers a middle ground that other Southern leaders would do well to consider.


Some states already recognize this. Karnataka, despite its own history of linguistic pride, has allowed Hindi to be taught as an optional language. Kerala, whose migrants work in Hindi-speaking regions and the Gulf, has been less hostile to Hindi education. Naidu’s model, balancing regional identity with practical necessity, offers a way forward. Languages should be embraced, not politicized. Southern leaders would do well to listen to him.

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