Late January 2015, three of us were climbing rock in Badami, Karnataka. On the weekend before Republic Day, which fell on a Monday, the number of people in town rose sharply. Including Saturday and Sunday, it was three holidays in a row. Visitors poured in. We were among tourists staying longer.

But for us too, January 26 had been set aside as a no-climbing day. We wanted to see the telecast of the Republic Day parade. For the first time, an American President was the chief guest.

I know Barack Obama only through the media. Seeing from far, there was one thing I liked. He could articulate well; he could connect with an audience. I like music. Every now and then, I watch on YouTube one of those concerts at the White House.

I like to remember the one devoted to Memphis Soul music and the one titled Women of Soul. Then there is the video of the President and the First Lady at the Kennedy Center event honouring Led Zeppelin, a performance made memorable by Ann and Nancy Wilson's version of the band's classic song: Stairway to Heaven.

I recall a video in which Buddy Guy coaxes the President to sing the opening lines of Sweet Home Chicago. Mick Jagger hands him a mike. Obama sings the lines, B.B. King chips in.

I was in the assembled media at the Bombay Stock Exchange, a day many years ago, when Bill Clinton arrived as US President. Both he and Obama are gifted speakers. At BSE, I remember a gentleman, then secretary-general of an industry federation and now minister in a state government, going into raptures over Clinton in the neighbourhood.

I don't blame him. The American juggernaut has always been envied for its infectious energy. No wonder, some of the world's best-known protest songs, too, are from there. I haven't visited the US. I am happy keeping my American experience as the sum total of many films seen, much music heard and writing read.

Until recently, you remembered what the American people did much before you remembered what their armed forces did. The questionable engagements of the latter cause worry nowadays. Maybe I will be called a victim of American propaganda for being this charitable. I don't mind being one if that brings more films, music and books to my side.

Badami has beautiful rock. It is kind on the fingers; perfect for my middle-aged self returning to climbing after a long while. Perched on rock, high above the ground, one's sense of the world is pleasurably reduced to immediate with no room for religion, community and fortress nation.

Ahead of the telecast, my expectations were nebulous. The Republic Day parade is all about military, the view of India from government departments, tableaux from states and schoolchildren, dancing and singing as the promise of the future. I knew that. Over time, the parade has become formulaic.

Still, I thought perhaps they will spruce up the whole act, make it interesting. Above all and in line with the meeting of two democracies - have a robust civilian contingent showcasing what Obama can expect should he take a tour of India's cultural stage. Add to that last bit, the demographic data we never tire of highlighting - India is overwhelmingly young.

I expected to see an engaging mix of creativity and energy. Indeed with old India determined to impose its dour ways on the country for good, the sheer size of the young seem the sole antidote to the tyranny of tradition.

I thought this time, we would let a parade come alive, let the armed forces march by with characteristic discipline and then have a wonderful cross-section of life within the borders they guard. If not life, what are we guarding the borders for? I wanted Obama to shake a leg to music from India, playing as we do everything from Indian classical to western classical, pop, rock, blues, jazz, Bollywood, folk songs, tribal music and of late, rock laced with Indian folk.

Why not? That's us! The thing about music, as they discovered in the US of the mid-20th century (when the country tackled deep-set social divides), is - it cuts across barriers. I remember a trip to Dharwad chasing Hindustani classical music and singers there remarking that for them, the politics around language didn't exist. Only music mattered.

By noon on Republic Day, I was disappointed. The parade felt no different from previous editions. Forget some states missing from the tableaux section, from commentary to creativity, the experience stayed predictable, loyal to formula.

My friend, who was watching the telecast with me in our Badami hotel room, told me that the amount of time Obama was spending on Rajpath was quite long for any US President. I felt sad that we took a man, often seen enjoying his social engagements and interactions with the world of music, and plonked him down in a seat for two hours.

I felt sad that despite being overwhelmingly young, our face to the world is still a stiff family portrait on chairs with emphasis on power. Couldn't we have imagined better? And let's not debate whose cultural imagination it should be, when being free and celebrating it is such a simple idea.

Maybe another time, another visiting President - and hopefully, by the time we learn to relax, be a people and shake a leg, we are not reduced to demographically old and questioning change.

(The author is a freelance journalist based in Mumbai)