By Robert Clements
Shout From the Mountaintop, Sir..!
At the BRICS Summit in Rio de Janeiro, our Prime Minister stood with the confidence of a man who believes the whole world is leaning in to listen. Chin high, chest puffed, he thundered for all the globe to hear, “The Global South is not being heard!”
Bravo, Sir! Clap! Clap! Clap! I nearly knocked over my coffee in patriotic excitement. Almost broke into a bhangra right there in front of my laptop in my New York apartment, till a raised eyebrow from my grandson made me pause. And then, as the applause faded in my mind, so did my enthusiasm. Not because the statement was wrong—it was, in fact, bang on. But because it reminded me of a simple truth: shouting louder doesn’t help if you’re shouting from the bottom of a pit.
You see, Sir, it’s not just about what we shout. It’s also about where we shout from.
When one hollers from the valley while the rest of the world has climbed to the mountaintop, the voice may travel no further than the ears of a sleepy cow or a distracted goat. Or worse, bounce back like an awkward echo, making it sound like we’re grumbling to ourselves. And let’s be honest, Sir, there’s been quite a bit of that lately—more grumbling than climbing.
Now let’s talk about this famous “Global South.” That’s us, by the way—India and her distant cousins in Asia, Africa, Latin America. The family reunion nobody really plans for, but which everybody ends up attending with a slightly wrinkled kurta or a weathered batik shirt.
We are nations rich in culture, abundant in talent, and positively overflowing with potential. Our people are brilliant. Our soil fertile. Our minds sharp. But somewhere between potential and policy, we seem to stumble on the same old stones: corruption, casteism, patriarchy, polarisation, and power-hungry politicians who are more interested in selfies than in selfless service.
So yes, Mr. Prime Minister, the world isn’t listening—but not because they’re deaf. It’s because, quite often, we sound like we’re whining, not winning.
Imagine this: Someone on a peak, with strong institutions, real equality, robust infrastructure, and a proven human rights record shouts, “We have a vision!” The world perks up. Heads turn. Pens are uncapped.
Now imagine us in the valley, with dodgy data, gagged media, jailed comedians, and roads where cows walk more freely than women—shouting, “We’re not being heard!” It’s not that they’re ignoring us, Sir. It’s that we haven’t earned the elevation from which a voice becomes a vision.
Let’s not just shout. Let’s climb. Climb out of corruption—not by catching the poor postman accepting a Diwali envelope, but by cleaning the stench from the top floors of power, where horse trading takes place, and politicians are paid or blackmailed to cross floors.
Climb out of poverty—not with election-time jumlas and ribbon-cutting selfies, but by building institutions that don’t vanish once the camera crew leaves. Let every child in a village know that a school means teachers who teach, toilets that flush, and meals that nourish—not mid-day scams.
Climb out of our warped justice systems, where a woman must first prove her decency before her violator is asked about his crime. Where justice for the poor moves slower than snails while VIP cases gallop through like Olympic sprinters.
Climb towards truth—not the manufactured kind that’s convenient, but the real, raw, sometimes uncomfortable truth. A truth where journalists don’t vanish, authors aren’t banned, and truth-tellers aren’t trolled into silence. Where media isn’t just a chorus of nodding heads but brave voices asking hard questions.
Climb towards equality—not just for newspaper ads on Women’s Day or Twitter posts during Independence Day—but equality that reflects in every street, every court, every home. Where a woman can walk at midnight without being labelled “too bold” and a Dalit child can sit in the front row without being told to “know his place.”
Climb until freedom of expression isn’t a weekend sale offered on Independence Day but an everyday right that allows dissent, humour, satire—even the kind I write, Sir.
Climb till the words “Sabka Saath, Sabka Vikas” are not hollow slogans, but lived experiences. Till a young girl in Bihar or a boy in Baghmara believes he doesn’t have to leave his country to live his dream.
Climb till our GDP isn’t just growing on paper, but visible in cleaner hospitals, safer trains, and air we can actually breathe.
Because when we finally reach that mountaintop—where dignity is not a privilege, where truth isn’t selectively curated, where justice doesn’t wear blindfolds only on certain days—then we won’t need to shout at all.
The world will turn and look. Not out of pity. Not with polite applause. But with genuine respect.
And when we speak then, from that higher ground—not with arrogance but with authenticity—the world will listen.
Because that’s how respect works. You earn it. Not by thunderous declarations in air-conditioned halls, but by patient, painful, honest climbing up slippery slopes of reform.
So yes, Mr. Prime Minister—by all means, shout. But please make sure we’ve actually reached the mountaintop first.
Otherwise, it’s just another rumble in the ravine. And honestly, all it does is startle the cows. And we really don’t want to do that, do we? They already have enough to deal with—from traffic to photo ops to political parties fighting over who loves them more.
So, climb Sir. Pull us up. And once you do, the shout won’t need a microphone. It’ll carry by itself—across oceans and summits, respected not just by allies but even by adversaries.
And when that day comes, I might even do a full bhangra—even with my two left feet…!
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