At a time when Jawaharlal Nehru is portrayed as the villain of the piece—whose so-called incompetence, we are told, led to the Kashmir problem and the country's slow progress—it was thrilling to hear his stirring words echo across continents, from distant New York. The occasion was the victory speech of Zohran Mamdani, the newly elected Mayor of New York and the youngest ever to hold that post.

In an age when Nehru's legacy is being systematically tarnished, it was almost poetic that an American of Indian and Ugandan heritage invoked his immortal words.

Mamdani quoted from Nehru's Tryst with Destiny speech, delivered on the midnight of August 14-15, 1947, when India rose from a colonial state to a free, sovereign nation. "Standing before you," he said, "I am reminded of Nehru's words: 'A moment comes, but rarely in history, when we step out from the old to the new, when an age ends, and when the soul of a nation, long suppressed, finds utterance." Those words, spoken 78 years ago in Delhi, once again lit up the skies over another great city—a reminder that freedom, equality, and democracy transcend borders.

Those were the days when radio was the fastest means of communication. Yet, millions across India stayed awake that night to hear Nehru's address to the Constituent Assembly. In Delhi, a group of Malayalees led by the legendary cartoonist Kutty gathered at the Kerala Club, founded in 1939 by VP Menon—one of independent India's true architects, who rose from the ranks of a clerk to become the right-hand man of Sardar Patel. Today, it gives me a quiet thrill to hold the post that Menon once gloriously occupied.

Kutty and his friends walked from Connaught Place to Parliament House, where a public address system had been installed so that people could hear Nehru's words. Countless citizens thronged the area, their eyes moist with joy and pride. After listening, they walked back to the Kerala Club— located in M Block of Connaught Place—and celebrated with black coffee and dal vada. Those were simple times; even owning a bicycle was a luxury. Yet that night, they felt ten feet tall.

When Mamdani quoted Nehru, tens of thousands in New York—many hearing those words for the first time—were spellbound. Every newspaper of repute, in India and abroad, carried those lines. To those who have tried to erase Nehru's memory, it must have been unsettling to see that it was his words—not theirs—that still moved hearts around the world.

It was Nehru who, as Prime Minister, led India from penury to self-reliance. While the proponents of Hindutva were busy bootlicking the British, Nehru was languishing in prison. He spent nearly ten years behind bars during the freedom struggle. With no access to Google, ghostwriters, or even a proper library, he produced literary masterpieces that still illuminate the Indian mind: An Autobiography, The Discovery of India, and the Glimpses of World History.

Few books written in captivity have had the intellectual and emotional range of The Discovery of India. In that vast tapestry, Nehru traced India's evolution from the Vedic age to modern times, weaving together mythology, philosophy, and politics with a poet's sensibility.

Glimpses of World History, composed as a series of letters to his daughter Indira from jail, remains one of the finest introductions to world civilisation, written with affection and lucidity. Those who call Nehru an "elitist" should try reading him—they will discover a mind nourished not by privilege, but by introspection and suffering.

Mamdani's victory was no fluke. The US, too, follows the "first-past-the-post" system, but in this case, he won more than 50 per cent of the total votes polled—a decisive mandate that reflected both his grassroots campaign and the city's growing inclusivity. His campaign focused on affordable housing, workers' rights, and police accountability. That he won in a city once synonymous with Wall Street and white privilege speaks volumes about America's evolving democracy.

In India, the Mayor's post is largely ceremonial. The Congress party in Kerala recently announced that former MLA KS Sabarinadhan would lead the campaign for the Thiruvananthapuram Municipal Corporation. Once a lawmaker and the son of a former Speaker, he is today better known as the husband of IAS officer Divya S. Iyer, a bold and reform-minded bureaucrat whose tenure as District Collector of Pathanamthitta drew national attention. Many saw his decision to contest municipal elections as a demotion, but in truth, local governance remains the soul of democracy—if only we treated it so.

In India, the Mayor ensures that drains are cleaned and garbage is collected. At public functions, he sits on the dais, a polite adornment beside ministers and bureaucrats. To be frank, I do not even know the name of the Mayor of the city I live in. But I do know—and once admired—a Mayor of New York: Rudy Giuliani.

To say that I "knew" Giuliani is an overstatement, but I respected him. I happened to be in New York a few days before 9/11. I even went up to the roof of one of the Twin Towers and had coffee at an Indian restaurant owned by an Assamese. The memory of that skyline—majestic, serene, unshaken—haunts me still.

The enormity of 9/11 defies description. The towers, once symbols of American pride, turned to dust within minutes. Nearly 3,000 people died. The world watched in disbelief as New York became a battlefield. It was Giuliani's finest and most terrible hour. In those dark days, he provided calm, steady leadership. He walked among firefighters and rescue workers, offering words of solace and reminding a shattered city that resilience was its greatest asset. For a time, he embodied courage. (Alas, in later years, he traded that dignity for political notoriety.)

That was when I understood how different a Mayor in the US is from one in India. He—or she—is not just a ceremonial figurehead but a crisis manager, a civic guardian, the visible face of governance. That is why Mamdani's election mattered.

Zohran Mamdani's Indian roots intrigued me. For long, I believed his mother, Mira Nair, was Malayalee—perhaps because of the spelling "Nair," which in Punjab becomes "Nayar" (remember the great journalist Kuldip Nayar?). Mira Nair is, of course, one of India's finest filmmakers. Her boldness in choosing subjects that challenge social taboos sets her apart.

My son proudly mentioned to me that he was associated with the Salaam Baalak Trust. The Trust was born out of Mira Nair's award-winning film "Salaam Bombay!," which exposed the dark underbelly of Mumbai's streets, where countless childhoods were at risk. The film also inspired Deepalaya — of which I was President and later Chief Executive — to establish a home for children who once roamed the streets of Delhi.

Mira Nair married Mahmood Mamdani, a Ugandan scholar of Indian descent, renowned for his works on post-colonial politics. When Idi Amin expelled Asians from Uganda in the 1970s, Mamdani was among those displaced. His writings on race, empire, and citizenship—especially Citizen and Subject—remain classics in African political thought. Incidentally, nobody accused him of Love Jihad!

Zohran grew up in Kampala and later studied in the United States. Proud of both his Indian and Ugandan heritage, he chose to identify with his father's Muslim faith and speaks openly about it. That confidence—of not needing to hide his identity—is what makes his election remarkable in a world where religion so often divides.

When I heard Nehru's words spoken by Mamdani, I was moved. I shared the quote on Facebook: "A moment comes, but rarely in history..." To my surprise, a Malayalee Christian commented bitterly: "Eventually, New York will become another Dhaka or Lahore. What a pity!" I couldn't let that pass. I replied, "Why not Dubai of today, or Baghdad of yesterday?"

Dubai, after all, is the dream city of every Indian businessman. Owning a flat in Burj Khalifa is a status symbol among the rich. The city exemplifies what vision and tolerance can achieve. Muslims have built some of the greatest cities and monuments on earth—the Taj Mahal, the Red Fort, Fatehpur Sikri, and even the Grand Trunk Road that connects South Asia like an artery of civilisation. Those structures are not relics of conquest, but enduring symbols of synthesis.

I have not visited Dhaka or Sudan, but I have been to Lahore—the capital of Maharaja Ranjit Singh's Sikh Empire that stretched from Kashmir to Multan. Lahore is no less vibrant than Amritsar. I still recall eating roti and kebab at Anarkali Market past midnight, surrounded by laughter, music, and life. These cities, Muslim or otherwise, are living museums of coexistence.

My Facebook friend, in his prejudice, probably didn't know that New York, too, once struggled with filth and chaos. In the 19th century, its streets were filled with horse-drawn carriages, and thousands were employed to clear horse dung from the roads. The transformation came with Henry Ford's automobile revolution. His assembly-line production made cars affordable, changing urban life forever. The lesson? Civilisation progresses not through exclusion but innovation.

When my online interlocutor began abusing a lady who defended Mamdani, I blocked him. There's no point arguing with those whose minds are locked tighter than their phone screens.

The recent US elections were significant for another reason. Mamdani was not alone. Ghazala Hashmi became Virginia's Lieutenant Governor, and Aftab Pureval won a second term as Mayor of Cincinnati. Their victories underscored America's enduring identity as a nation of immigrants—one that rewards talent, not lineage. As The New York Times wrote, "Their victories reaffirm America's inclusiveness, in a world tilting toward walls and fences."

Nothing surprising in a country that elected Kamala Harris as Vice President. Many Indians took pride that an "Indian-origin" woman could be just a heartbeat away from the presidency. But when reports suggested that she was distantly related to Hiren Pandya, the late Gujarat Home Minister murdered under mysterious circumstances, the saffron brigade's enthusiasm cooled overnight.

Today, London and New York—where Muslims are minorities—have Muslim Mayors. But in India, the ruling party cannot find a single Muslim candidate to contest from Bihar. When a journalist asked Home Minister Amit Shah about it, he shrugged it off: "It is not the first time BJP has not fielded a Muslim candidate." No explanation, no embarrassment.

Contrast this with Britain's celebration of Rishi Sunak's rise to the premiership. The Indian media covered it breathlessly, focusing on his marriage to Akshata Murty, daughter of Infosys founder Narayana Murthy. Some channels even aired footage of the couple praying to a cow in their London home—proof, apparently, of his "Indian values." But the larger truth was missed: that a brown man could become Prime Minister in a predominantly white nation, while in India, even a Muslim MLA is eyed with suspicion.

Mamdani's victory signifies inclusiveness—an America that, despite its divisions, still believes in the idea of equality. In India, by contrast, electoral victories are increasingly about exclusion: about who can be left out, not who can be brought in. When Nehru spoke of India's "tryst with destiny," he envisioned a nation where freedom would belong to all, not just the majority.

As I listened to Mamdani resurrect those words, I felt a strange mix of pride and pain. Pride, that Nehru's vision still inspires young leaders across the world. Pain, that in his own land, his name has been reduced to a punching bag for political gain.

History, however, has a long memory. Empires fall, propaganda fades, but words endure. As Nehru himself wrote in Discovery of India: "The past becomes the present, and the present merges into the future in an unbroken continuity." That continuity was visible when New York's new Mayor spoke Nehru's words, and the soul of India—long suppressed, but never silenced—found utterance once again.