“Jayati Jayati Bharata-Mata!” What a simple, sweet and deeply Indian invocation. Yet, after Independence, when the young nation was searching for symbols of its new identity, why did this beautiful Sanskrit song never make it to the national stage?

The clouds refused to come. Karnataka looked up at the sky. Then the government looked in two directions. One team turned to aircraft, weather data and atmospheric science. Another turned towards a temple, sacred fire and ancient mantras. And, believe it or not, both were official responses.

The nation was locked indoors. Streets were deserted, markets silent, factories shut. Fear had entered almost every Indian home, and nobody knew how long the invisible enemy would stay. Then came a voice on television.

Imagine the final scene of Shyam Benegal's celebrated film Ankur. A little village boy silently watches everything around him: the landlord's authority, the poor's helplessness, and the daily drama of injustice. Then, suddenly, he picks up a stone.

How many times must a woman speak before the system listens? How many headlines must scream before a powerful man is made to answer for an alleged sexual crime?

Picture it. A woman walks onto a public stage. She questions the government. She takes on her opponents. She defends her party without flinching.