Superstar India

by Shobhaa De

  I frequently look at their stupefied expressions as PYTs troop into the elevator clad in skimpy, Britney Spears gear. Very often, these nymphets are sozzled and falling over equally sozzled boyfriends. Frequently, they stub out cigarettes hastily before getting into the lift. Their language is affectionately abusive and sprinkled with four-letter words. Their parents get in at about the same time, dressed similarly and in an identically hammered state. Women drip diamonds and the men flash fancy watches as they emerge from Baby Bentleys or Lamborghinis which cost as much as the reconstruction of an entire village back in Bihar. The awestruck liftmen can't stop staring at these incredible sights. Sometimes, memsaabs take offence and ask belligerently, ‘Kya dekh raha hai?’ The man should reply, ‘Tamasha’. But doesn't. He instantly lowers his eyes, folds his hands and apologizes. For being shocked?

  These disparities are indeed shocking. A savvy wealth manager from a sharp financial company told me India's money no longer forms a pyramid, with a wide, largely poor base, narrowing to a sharp tip made up of the rich and super-rich. Rather, it resembles a diamond—a prosperous middle class occupying the wide, middle space, with the mega rich and mega poor at opposite ends. This, he pointed out, is a sign of a very healthy economy. At the same time, India-watchers never fail to highlight the disparities, and it comes as no surprise that a recent BBC survey threw up clichés about India being a country of elephants, snake charmers, the Taj Mahal—and poverty. Abject poverty. It is something that hits foreigners as soon as they land. They just have to move outside the charmed circles of the metros for the contrasts to become more acute. Pockets of prosperity and enormous wealth co-exist with subhuman living conditions. There are thousands of villagers across India who are so backward that the discovery of electricity remains unknown to these inhabitants of huts which are lit by oil lamps and where food is cooked on wood fires. This is the ‘other’ India. To most outsiders, also, the ‘Only India’, or the ‘Real India’. It's impossible for them to reconcile the differences or come to terms with the irony of the present situation. India is indisputably in the big league today. It is a superpower. It can so easily use that position to implement sweeping change where change is most needed—in the villages. But, as the resigned cop at the police chowki rightly said, ‘Why should the politicians bother to educate the masses? These slums will keep growing. We live in a “Note for Vote” country. Education remains the last priority. Illiterate and poor people are easier to control.’

  Who's afraid of Mayawati? Well… nearly everyone.

  I remember, around three years ago, saying (half-jokingly) to a self-styled intellectual at a dinner party that I was sure Mayawati was India's future. I also said she'd be prime minister someday. The man had spluttered into his whisky tumbler and stated vehemently that I was way off the mark. ‘Bullshit,’ he kept saying over and over again. Well, the future is here. And surprise, surprise so is Mayawati! This time she's here to stay. Mayawati ain't going anywhere. If we don't get used to the idea of a future that features her, we'll be kidding ourselves.

  There are those skeptics who believe Mayawati is the worst thing to happen to India. They are the ones still clinging to the Nehruvian photocopy image of good-looking leaders, speaking impeccable English with the right Oxbridge accent, clad in expensive-to-maintain khadi, addressing the unwashed, toiling masses from a distant podium, with a cowering minion holding a gigantic umbrella to protect the neta from the harsh rays of the Indian sun. This lot cannot accept a Mayawati—crude coarse, badly-dressed, and guilty of the worst crime of all—not speaking the Queen's English. Oh, my God! Can such a person be a national leader?

  Don't be ridiculous!

  What would Mayawati say to a Gordon Brown if she ever made it to 10 Downing Street? Would Sarkozy break baguettes with her? And Merkel—heavens—imagine Mayawati at the Oktober Fest waving a tankard of Bavarian beer with her! Does she know Western table manners? Mayawati would be a huge embarrassment for this new, glamorous and glittering India ‘we’ are so proud of. But guess what? Mayawati it will be who'll one day occupy 10 Janpath (or its equivalent), and entertain visiting heads of state. It is they who shall have to get used to hospitality desi-style. Mayawati may progress from wearing pink polyester salwar kameezes to crepe de chine ‘designer’ outfits from Lajpat Nagar, but she will never be ‘one of us’. One can almost hear Ambika Soni sniffing in derision.

  Well, the rest of India—the ‘real’ India, as it has been classified, has been waiting for a Mayawati for sixty years. It wasn't about gender, unlike in America. It was about a person capable of galvanizing the masses and launching a movement. Mayawati is like a Martin Luther King with his ‘I have a dream’ and black pride. He changed things forever. Today, one can hear polite but essentially superficial opinion-makers in posh drawing rooms across India holding forth in chi-chi accents about the Neo-Dalits. ‘Some of them are really intelligent,’ a women told me at an awards ceremony, her voice lowered suitably and her expression one of pleasant excitement at a major discovery (‘Beluga goes great with aapams—really!’). I'm sure Mayawati is acutely aware of this sort of condescension. She's smart enough to turn it around and flog her detractors with it. A young politician with heavily kohl-lined eyes pointed out in awestruck tones, ‘That woman is too much… she has spread her tentacles everywhere. All the neighbouring states are being infiltrated by her men.

  Is the writing on the wall? I would say so. Businessmen who've interacted with Mayawati in the past talk about her in admiring tones. Especially one industrialist who was looking for mucho favours and had gone allegedly prepared with suitcases stashed with cash. He was granted an audience after a longish interval (part of a strategy she shares with Sonia—keep 'em waiting, keep 'em sweating). What he wasn't ready for was the unusual venue (Mayawati's bedroom!), and madam's attire (a fluorescent pink nightie). Oh, the bizarre doesn't end here. She was mid-facial and most un-self-conscious about the face pack that made her resemble a ghoul. Madam was ready to talk! Years after that encounter, the man recalls the short meeting with a note of reluctant respect. ‘She's tough, ruthless and efficient. She knows what she's doing…’ No argument, there.

  Businessmen who've interacted with Mayawati in the past talk about her in admiring tones

  It's coming to a point where one does not dare utter ‘D’ for ‘Dalit’, for fear of being arrested. It's like the ‘n’ word for ‘nigger’.

  The exaggerated reaction to a lyric in a film (Aaja Nachle) led to a ban. It was an innocuous-sounding line about a mochi who becomes a goldsmith. But so violent was the backlash to the perceived ‘insult’ that the producer (Yashraj Films) was forced to apologize and delete the reference. Mayawati's dadagiri takes care of all issues (big and small) that trouble her followers. But Mayawati has also established the fact that she is no maverick flirting with the system. Political pundits are certain she has her eyes on the kursi (the PM's position) and will work towards that goal aggressively. Should she succeed through a complicated manoeuvre involving the numbers game in coalition politics, she will send shock-waves through not just India but the watching world. Corporate India, in particular, is monitoring Mayawati most closely, since it is believed her ascent to even greater power will adversely affect the Dazzling India story. ‘Mayawati will set us back by twenty years,’ a businessman grumbled. Another one interjected more optimistically, ‘Don't worry, yaar. She is too smart. She will not interfere. She knows her success depends on pushing for growth and keeping up the current momentum. She may fix her enemies and rivals—but not at the cost of progress.’

  If India indeed has a ‘Mayawati honeymoon’ on the cards, it may not be such a bad thing. A fire-breathing dragon lady entirely in touch with the aam janata may come as a welcome change from the sabjanta World Bankwallahs, who, some fear, have sold Indian interests to American cronies—cleverly camouflaged, of course. Besides, if Mayawati's reign turns out to be short and far-from-sweet, it will pave the way for the emperor-in-waiting, Rahul Gandhi. That Rah
ul is being groomed for the family business is obvious enough. Regardless of his ability or reluctance, Rahul is the anointed one. Indians believe that the fourth generation is the tricky one. Decline sets in by the third, while the fourth finishes off the job! Tracking Rahul will be a fascinating exercise for political analysts. As of now, Rahul looks all set to glide into history books— a dimpled prince with a penchant for faux pas. But seriously cute, nevertheless!

  It can be fun, too

  There are any number of pretenders ready to define themselves as Dalits these days in order to take advantage of the prevailing situation. A young painter confessed he'd fudged his caste in order to secure admission into a prestigious college. ‘It was my father's decision. He thought it would be easier to educate all his children by playing the SC/ST card.’ Did he regret the fraud? ‘Not at all… for my generation, all these things don't really matter. Whether I'm described as a Brahmin, Kshatriya or Dalit, as long as I'm good at what I do, that's what counts.’

  A young friend of my daughter declined lunch saying she was observing Ramzan (her mother is Muslim). This was her first fast and she seemed determined to keep it, ‘Nothing to do with religion. I'm testing myself,’ she explained while she watched us enjoy our meal albeit guiltily! Caste may not be a big issue in urban India. Religious differences may be blurring, but even those who cling to age-old prejudices are aware of how shrewdly politicians manipulate both—the conformists and those who ignore such differences. ‘Either way, you are made to feel bad by one or the other faction,’ said a friend. At the same time, in a city like Mumbai, what one witnesses over and over again is the increasing irrelevance of both. While attending a Ganpati aarti at a friend's home, I looked around idly at the worshippers participating in the ritual. Most were neighbours belonging to different religious streams. A Parsee lady had done the elaborate rangoli at the entrance, while Muslim business associates joined in when we all chorused ‘Ganpati Bappa, Morye…’ Later, as we sat around chatting informally over samosas and chai, we could've been one big happy family—exactly as I recall my own childhood, growing up in a multi-religious, multi-cultured apartment block, where Diwali was celebrated with as much enthusiasm as Id. I find it hard to believe all those sentiments have vanished in the intervening years. The character of a city has more staying power and endurance than that, surely? Yes, Mumbai has been devastated, and attempts to divide or polarize it further still continue. As they do, elsewhere in the country. But what puzzles me is if India's youth remains indifferent to these issues and middle-aged India is too tired of being pushed around to suit the shifting agendas of the parties in power—who is involved in furthering the divide? Who cares?

  The ageing population has no voice to speak of. Senior citizens are far more preoccupied with issues that impact their lives directly, like being abandoned by their families, to bother with the caste or sub-caste of their neighbours. The middle class wants to make money—not war. Women want to get ahead in their careers at all costs. The upper classes have always played ball with whosoever best serves their financial interests. The answer to the question of ‘Who cares?’ is obvious—it's the poor of India. The weakest and most vulnerable of all. It is these suppressed-for-centuries individuals who are being seduced by irresponsible, disingenuous promises made by politicians only interested in hanging on to their precarious power. The old ‘Garibi Hatao’ slogan fooled an earlier generation, lulled them into believing the Congress party would do something for them. Nothing was done. They remained where they were, eking out a miserable existence on land that was too exhausted itself to feed them. They are still exactly in the same spot—except that their children are no longer prepared to toil in those parched fields. These restless, frustrated children are perfect recruits for those intent on causing trouble. Lured to the big cities with even bigger promises of prosperity and the good life, they leave home, never to return. Struggle is not new to them. Neither is starvation. Once holed up in ratty tin shacks, they become soft targets for agents in search of helpless youth, willing to try anything in order to survive—smuggling, drugs, prostitution, kidnapping, extortion—and that final, most terrifying option—terrorism. Uneducated, easy-to-influence, these wild-eyed strangers travel vast distances to get a shot at a better life, far away from the wretchedness back home. Once they arrive, they never leave. As it's marvellously put in Bambaiya lingo, ‘Setting ho gaya hai, boss. Aapun idharrich rahega.’

  *

  Each time I look at Mumbai's Stock Exchange building (bombed during the blasts of 1993), I am filled with contradictory feelings—of revulsion, fascination, awe and hatred. Is it really the Tower of Evil that controls our lives in ways we cannot quite fathom? Or is it the Tower of Hope, that symbolizes the New India with its amazing GDP? Are we deluding ourselves that as long as the Sensex climbs and the financial world remains bullish about the India story, all will be well and one day we shall wake up to a bright new dawn which will finally herald the Golden Age we've been dreaming about—promised? Will a twenty-first-century messiah emerge out of nowhere and lead the flock from despair to redemption? Are we really that gullible? Is it going to happen now? Ten years later? Twenty years later? Never?

  The building itself is not all that impressive. And if you walk around the area, you'll certainly not experience a buzzy, upbeat feeling that says, ‘Oh wow! Aren't we on a roll?’ Dalal Street is overcrowded, dirty, shabby and indistinguishable from any other narrow street in Mumbai. The few Raj-era stone buildings that remain in the area could do with a major clean-up. The others are more ‘modern’ (read: ghastly) and badly kept, like most buildings in Mumbai. There are roadside sandwich-sellers and handcart-owners doing brisk business selling Mumbai's number one snack—vada pau. Oh, enterprising cooks also stir-fry mixed veggies in gigantic woks and sell them with greasy noodles. ‘Manchurian’ cuisine was perhaps invented on these pavements! Ice-golas in summer, home-made kulfis, limbu-paani, idli-dosas and a terrific assortment of tongue-tickling munchies, make this area a foodie heaven for the hundreds of dalals milling around, trading stocks, exchanging market gossip and chasing an elusive, get-rich-quick dream. Beer bars, seafood restaurants, biryani places, Parsee eateries, and numerous stationery stores ensure a packed locality during business hours. Dominating this nearly inaccessible street (with elaborate police barricades after the 1993 blasts), stands the mighty Stock Exchange building, once the nerve centre of India's economy, but rivalled today by its newer, swankier cousin in a spanking new district which resembles a James Bond set.

  Strange. Even though I grew up within a five-mile radius of the edifice, I was not really aware of its existence. I hadn't noticed it till years and years later, when I was left a few shares of Hindustan Lever and didn't know what to do with them! Till that point, I had never seen a share certificate (pre-demat, pre-electronic transaction days), and stared at the elaborate sheets of paper for a long, long time.

  I'm almost certain my father didn't know what these certs looked like either. For him (and therefore, me!), the share bazaar was a wicked place meant for people who indulged in satta. Gambling was the next, most awful sin, after whoring. Dalals were no better than pimps and touts out to loot the unwary and cheat the innocent who trusted them with their hard-earned money. Dalals looted widows and misled young men by promising them overnight riches. This thought was so deeply entrenched in my mind, I suspected anyone who played the market. It seemed like a really dodgy way to make money. Aaha. That is till I asked someone the value of those parched-with-age sheets. The amount was modest, but I have to confess, it was a thrill to discover I could actually make some money trading in the papers. It seeming easy and attractive. I cashed out at the right time, and that money really helped finance a worthy cause. That's when I started to take an interest in bazaar info.

  Soon, I found myself with a bright and beautiful young lady called Sapna (what an appropriate name for someone who offers dreams to clients!) who was supposed to hold my hand and help me manage my resources more eff
iciently. This is a very parochial, narrow-minded and bigoted thing to say, but the reason I went along with her may have had a lot to do with her wonderful personality (it inspires trust and confidence), but even more with the fact that, like me, she too was a Maharashtrian. We both laughed at this, since Maharashtrians are known to be the least competent when it comes to money matters. And here she was, a highly respected whiz in her field, initiating a duffer like me into the complexities of financial structuring. I still don't know the difference between debt and equity funds. But the good thing is, I don't need to— I know I'm in conservative, cautious hands. No hot stocks for me. Slow and steady goes it, regardless of which high the Sensex hits. Or whether a market correction is on the cards.

  My father would've been surprised at my ‘greed’, as he would put it. He saw this entire bulls-and-bears game differently, as people of that era did. ‘Money for nothing,’ was his reaction when told about someone making a killing during a rally. Which explains why I feel a little guilty, a little sheepish, each time I find myself gloating over a stock in my portfolio that has surprised everyone by actually outperforming the Sensex. Talking to Sapna, my earnest friend, I've picked up a few key phrases, which I throw around knowledgeably as and when India's ‘Booming Economy’ is mentioned. In fact, at a dinner following the Frankfurt Book Fair in 2006, a stuffy German banker, who was holding forth on global financing, was just asking for it—I spoke with such convincing authority on the upside of India's growth potential over the next twenty years, he actually asked me whether I was a banker in my day job! That's called the power of BS. It's always tempting to educate those foreigners who express their wonderment at India's ‘amazing progress’. Even though there are times when we too are equally wonderstruck at this incredible turnaround in our economy, my attitude is to shrug nonchalantly, as if to say, look at us… we are doing great. The boom is not some kind of a freak-trick. Our GDP figures haven't been pulled out of a magician's hat, we have worked sixty long years to get to this place. For us, our current achievements are not a matter of surprise. Excuse me, it's the most expected boom—so why are you guys making such a big deal out of it? That stumps the cynics, who are used to Indians themselves joining the chorus and agreeing with them that the present scenario is nothing less than a miracle.