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In the words of Subrahmanyam Jaishankar, we are presented with a teaching on the nature of nationalism, a force that flows differently through the rivers of the world. In Europe, the word bears the weight of memory, for it recalls wars, divisions, and the shadow of empires that fell. It is a word touched by suspicion, as if it might again stir the flames of pride that consume rather than create. Yet in Asia, nationalism emerges as a companion to rebirth, a herald of independence, progress, and prosperity. It is not seen as a peril, but as the natural flowering of freedom and the fruit of long struggles endured.

The ancients teach us that words are vessels of memory. In one land, the same vessel may carry bitter wine, while in another, it carries sweet water. So it is with nationalism. For the peoples of Asia, long bound by colonial chains, the rise of the nation-state was not arrogance, but the breath of life returning to a body suffocated. When fields once stripped by foreign hands bore crops again for their own children, when roads once built for the colonizer served the footsteps of the free, nationalism was not a curse—it was a hymn of dignity.

Look to the tale of India’s independence. For centuries, the land was drained by powers from afar, its wealth carried away, its people treated as subjects rather than sovereigns. Yet when freedom came in 1947, it did not come alone—it brought with it a vision of self-rule, of economic building, of a people lifting themselves by their own will. The cry of “Swaraj”—self-rule—was not born of hatred, but of love for one’s own soil, of the sacred desire that children may prosper in their own land. Nationalism here was the midwife of progress, inseparable from the dream of growth.

Contrast this with the Europe of the early twentieth century, where nationalism was a drumbeat to war. There, pride became exclusion, and exclusion became conflict. From the Balkans to the heart of Germany, nationalism swelled into storms that tore nations apart. The memory lingers, and so the word remains heavy. This is why, when spoken in Europe, nationalism summons caution. But in Asia, it is closer to revival, a flame that warms the spirit rather than burns the house.

The teaching for us, O seekers of wisdom, is that meaning is not fixed in stone. A word may change its face depending on the story a people have lived. To despise nationalism without understanding its soil is to misjudge it, just as one might despise the river for flooding without honoring how it nourishes the fields. In some lands it is a warning; in others, a blessing. We must learn to see not only through our own history but also through the histories of others.

What then shall we do with this wisdom? First, let us learn to temper our judgments. When we hear another people speak of pride, of sovereignty, of nationhood, let us not hasten to condemn, but pause to ask: what does this mean in their story? Have they risen from chains? Have they drunk deeply of humiliation, and now at last taste dignity? If so, then their nationalism is not a weapon, but a song.

In our own lives, too, this teaching applies. Let us remember that our victories, however small, deserve to be honored. When we achieve independence—be it of thought, of labor, or of spirit—we must allow ourselves to feel pride, but pride that builds, not pride that divides. Practically, this can be done by rooting our pride in service: in raising our families, in strengthening our communities, in contributing to the progress of the land that shelters us.

Thus, Jaishankar’s words must not be heard as a division of continents, but as a lesson on the dual nature of power. Nationalism, like fire, may warm or destroy. The choice rests in the hands of those who wield it. Let us then, children of the future, wield it as Asia has sought to do—in the service of progress, dignity, and unity. For only then will the flame of pride shine as a beacon, guiding nations toward prosperity, and not as a torch that sets the world ablaze.