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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.

Seeking Urban Validation

The ruling Congress faces an acid test in the high-stakes Telangana civic polls.

Telangana
Telangana

While the noise in Telangana’s urban local body elections has subsided and the people have cast their votes, the stakes have only sharpened further. The fate of 3,000 municipal seats across 116 towns and seven corporations will be decided. On February 13. This time, the Telangana civic poll contest, like that of Maharashtra, is about political momentum in a state still adjusting to the upheavals of 2023.


For the ruling Congress, the vote is an early verdict on its two-year-old government in the State. It is also a test of whether the party’s dramatic rural comeback can be replicated in cities. Telangana’s political geography is lopsided: of its 119 assembly seats, 80 are rural. It was there that the Congress staged its revival in 2023, reducing the once-dominant Bharat Rashtra Samithi (BRS) to just 19 rural seats from 62 five years earlier. Yet the cities told a different story. In Hyderabad, the BRS retained its urban heft while the Congress failed to win a single assembly seat.


That imbalance haunts the Congress now. Chief Minister A. Revanth Reddy has framed the civic polls as a referendum on welfare schemes and administrative rectitude, repeatedly accusing the previous BRS regime of having “looted” the state. He has also sought to reassure minorities by committing to protect the 4 percent reservation for OBC Muslims. But the subtext is clearer than the slogans: unless the Congress can break into urban Telangana, its grip on power will remain structurally fragile. Party insiders privately acknowledge that a strong showing is essential ahead of the Greater Hyderabad Municipal Corporation elections, which loom later this year.


For the BRS, these polls are existential. The party that once dominated Telangana politics is still struggling to recalibrate after its 2023 defeat. Its patriarch, K. Chandrashekar Rao, has retreated from the public gaze, depriving the party of its most formidable campaigner. The burden has fallen on his son and heir, K. T. Rama Rao (KTR), whose aggressive tone marks a departure from his earlier technocratic image. The civic polls will test whether he can convert visibility into authority.


Complicating matters are the party’s internal fissures. The defection last year of KCR’s daughter, K. Kavitha, who has since accused the leadership of illicit enrichment, has dented the party’s aura of cohesion, even if she has stopped short of forming a rival outfit. Still, writing off the BRS would be premature. Unlike during its decade in power, when the Congress often appeared comatose, BRS leaders have been conspicuously active on the ground, probing administrative lapses and amplifying urban discontent.


The Bharatiya Janata Party, meanwhile, sees opportunity in the turbulence. Having won eight of Telangana’s 17 parliamentary seats in 2024 (mostly in urban constituencies) it hopes to translate its national gains into municipal footholds. Its campaign has leaned heavily on Hindutva, with senior leaders alleging that Hindus were being taken for granted under Congress rule. Yet the BJP’s ambitions are constrained. Its NDA ally, the Jana Sena Party, has fielded hundreds of candidates, muddying arithmetic and message alike. Even so, party strategists calculate that a fragmented opposition and latent anti-incumbency could expand their modest municipal presence.


Hovering at the margins, yet indispensable in Hyderabad, is the All India Majlis-e-Ittehadul Muslimeen. Asaduddin Owaisi’s party has avoided confrontation with the Congress, speaking instead of the need for independent Muslim leadership and hinting at post-poll arrangements. In a fractured verdict, its councillors could once again play kingmaker.


A Congress surge in the results would validate its rural mandate in the Assembly polls in the urban areas as well. A BRS revival would signal that the party still has clout in the cities it built its power on. BJP gains would confirm Telangana as an emerging three-cornered contest rather than a bipolar one.


Either way, the intense campaigning for the Telangana civic polls prove that they are nothing short of a dress rehearsal for the state’s political future.

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