Five of us trooped into a beautifully restored downtown Bombay theatre the other night, to watch The Odyssey on the big screen. Full house, surprisingly little legroom at least in our row, but a splendid three hours.

And of course, it began as all public film shows do in Bombay, going back at least 30 years I'd say: with the national anthem. Yes, a female voice in a curious pseudo-American accent urges us to "Please stand for the national anthem", the flag flutters on the screen for the next minute, the anthem plays. Yes, we all stand. Those just entering the theatre stop in their tracks and stand there. I sing along, because I like the goose-bumps that I know will traipse down my spine at some point in those sixty seconds.

That's our one minute, per film watched, of state-enforced, state-mandated patriotism.

Every now and then some politician will vociferously trumpet the virtues of this anthem-before-the-film exercise. It builds the nation, we hear. It shows respect for the flag, we hear. It promotes patriotism among citizens, we hear. I don't want to be cynical about such sentiment. But I wonder why after so many years standing to attention for the pre-film anthem, so many Indians still feel free to litter their country. (Is there another country with a traffic sign that says "Don't Spit on the Highway"?) Why only about 8 percent of Indians file income tax returns; and only about 2.5 percent actually pay income tax (though to be fair, only some, not all, of the remainder are actually evading paying tax). Why so many Indians go home after a film and continue with corruption casual or otherwise: bribing officials for permits and clearances, paying off traffic cops, exam paper leaks ...

... Ahh, paper leaks! The leitmotif of the recent Cockroach Janata Party protests all over the country, the issue that finally saw the resignation of a Minister for Education.

I joined three different such protests. All were energetic, loud, colourful and inspiring. Now without meaning to crow about it, I feel like a street-protest veteran. I've been in others like these going back to 1992, over issues ranging from a brutal rape to a misguided dam project, from a misguided court judgement to calling for punishment of those guilty of massacres. In most respects, the CJP protests were no different. Except in one major way: the numbers in which those who proudly own the Gen Z label turned out. I mean, at the first rally we joined last week, my wife and I out-aged the hundreds swarming around us by easily 35 years, probably more. One young man asked me for a "bite" as we walked. I thought he chose me because I was taller than most there, and thus stood out. My son, a few steps ahead, said more likely it was because my grey hair made me stand out.

Gen Z, in force. And as a hundred - no, a thousand - articles and podcasts, posters and memes have told us, they were creative, irreverent, passionate and wildly effective.

And I want to suggest: they were patriotic.

Sure, the above-mentioned Minister of Education called them the "B-team of terrorists". That didn't save him from becoming an ex-Minister. Nor did his label stick, except as one more prop for satire. Because again, these young Indians were, in the best sense, Indian patriots.

Not because they shouted "patriotic" slogans like "Bharat Mata ki Jai" ("Victory to Mother India"), though there were those too: every now and then, I'd hear a stentorian rendition. Not because they waved flags, though there were those too: at one gathering I was at, there were so many tricolours that it was almost difficult to freely wave the one I held.

And certainly not because they stood respectfully for the national anthem, though there was that too: plenty of times when the protesters sang it.

No, I'm suggesting that what marked these thousands of youth was their obvious knowledge of, feel for and easy familiarity with everything Indian. That thought came firmly home as I listened to a speaker blare AR Rahman's classic, Ma Tujhe Salaam ("Salute to you, Motherland"). It's a catchy enough song, and everyone around me was dancing to its rhythm, roaring the lyrics:

Yahan-wahan sara jahan dekh liya hai/Kahin bhi tere jaisa koi nahi hai.

Assi nahi sau din duniya ghooma hai/Nahi kahin tere jaisa koi nahi.

("I've seen the whole world/But nowhere is there anyone like you.

I went around the world not in eighty but a hundred days/No, nowhere is there anyone like you.")

And yet it was not so much the lyrics that spoke to me that day, as it was the verve and relish with which they were sung. It was infectious. Music to politics, language to film to the issues they were raising ... it seemed there was nothing that could faze these B-teamers, no challenge they were not up for, no argument they were going to shy away from. Certainly there was satire, irreverence and insult, especially on slogans and posters. But that only underlined the point. These were folks who would not be talked at, no longer be condescended to. In spades, they had opinion, facts, conviction and confidence.

This was patriotism not drenched in memories of martyrs and sacrifices, not built on hatred for another country, not labelling others "terrorists". Instead, this spirit was unmistakably contemporary, young at heart and with room for everyone. And in every way - wherever you looked, however you sliced it - it was utterly, whole-heartedly, jubilantly Indian.

And for being so, these cockroaches filled me, like only rarely in these twelve years, with hope.