Dharma Kumar rejected both positions by affirming the inclusive and democratic idea of India upheld by its founders. As she put it, ‘instead of deploring our lack of homogeneity we should glory in it. Instead of regarding India as a failed or deformed nation-state we should see it as a new political form, perhaps even as a forerunner of the future. We are in some ways where Europe wants to be, but we have a tremendous job of reform, of repairing our damaged institutions, and of inventing new ones.’
I have myself been fortunate in being witness to the work of many Indians who have sought to repair or redeem our institutions. I think of groups like the Association of Democratic Reform, which succeeded in making the criminal records and assets of politicians public; or like Pratham, which works closely with state governments in improving our public education system. I think of Ela Bhatt and Chandi Prasad Bhatt, respectively the grandmother and grandfather of modern social activism in India. Elabehn has challenged the state to be more alert to the rights of working women; Bhattji has forced it to move towards a more community-oriented (and ecologically sensitive) forest policy. I think of the scientists Obaid Siddiqui and Padmanabhan Balaram, who have nurtured world-class, non-hierarchical, research laboratories in a funds-scarce, anti-intellectual, and deeply inegalitarian society. I think, too, of my exact contemporaries and fellow PhDs Jean Dreze and Mihir Shah, who could have enjoyed comfortable careers as teachers and writers, but who chose instead to become full-time activists, and bent their expertise to making the Government of India more responsive to the lives and interests of the rural poor.
The groups and individuals mentioned in the preceding paragraph are, of course, merely illustrative. The work that they and others like them undertake is rarely reported in the mainstream media. For, the task of reform, of incremental and evolutionary change, is as unglamorous as it is necessary. It is far easier to speak of a wholesale, structural transformation, to identify one single variable that, if acted upon, will take India up and into the straight high road to superstardom. Among the one-size-fits-all solutions on offer are those promoted by the Naxalites, whose project is to make India into a purer, that is to say more regimented, version of Communist China; by the Sangh Parivar, who assure the Hindus that if they rediscover their religion they will (again) rule the world; and by the free-market ideologues, who seek to make India into an even more hedonistic version of the United States of America.
Based as it is on dialogue, compromise, reciprocity and accommodation, the idea of India does not appeal to those who seek quick and total solutions to human problems. It thus does not seem to satisfy ideologues of left or right, as well as romantic populists. To these sceptics, let me offer one final vignette. One Independence Day, I was driving from Bangalore to Melkoté, a temple town in southern Karnataka which incidentally also houses a celebrated Gandhian ashram. The first part of the drive was humdrum, through the ever-extending conurbation of Greater Bangalore. Then we turned off the Mysore highway, and the countryside became more varied and interesting. Somewhere between Mandya and Melkoté we passed a bullock cart. Three young boys were sitting in it; one wore a suit with spectacles, a second a bandgala with a Mysore peta atop his little head, the third a mere loin cloth.
The boys had evidently just come back from a function in their school, where, to mark Independence Day, they had chosen to play the roles of B.R. Ambedkar, M. Visvesvaraya and M.K. Gandhi respectively.
Remarkably, none of their heroes were native Kannada speakers. Yet all spoke directly to their present and future. The boys knew and revered Ambedkar as the person who gave dignity and hope to the oppressed; knew and revered Visvesvaraya for using modern technology for the social good, as in the canals from the Kaveri that irrigated their own fathers’ fields; and knew and revered Gandhi for promoting religious harmony and leading, non-violently, the country’s fight for freedom.
The vision of those young boys was capaciously inclusive. Ideologists may oppose Ambedkar to Gandhi; historians may know that Gandhi and Visvesvaraya disagreed on the importance of industrialization in economic development. Yet the boys understood what partisans and scholars do not—that our country today needs all three, for all were Indians of decency and integrity, all seeking sincerely to mitigate human suffering, all embodying legacies worthy of being deepened in our own age. What I saw that day was a spontaneous, magnificent illustration of the idea of India. To more fully redeem that idea would mean, among other things, matching the pluralism that those schoolboys articulated, with the democracy defended so precisely by the Muria schoolteacher in Dantewada.
Chapter Two
A Short History of Congress Chamchagiri
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I
One day in June 2005 I was forced away from my home town, Bangalore, to attend a meeting at the culture ministry in New Delhi. When I boarded the plane the outside temperature was 22 degrees Celsius; when I disembarked in Palam it was 45 degrees. I was muttering imprecations to myself through the ride into the city, through the meeting in Shastri Bhavan, through dinner at the boarding house where I was staying and, for all I know, right through my sleep as well. It was only the next morning that I cheered up. For one thing, before noon I would be winging my way back to Bangalore. For another, the newspaper that day printed a photograph of a group of young Indians who were much more under the weather than I was. And apparently quite willingly, too.
These were a band of Congress chamchas who had gathered outside 10 Janpath, to greet Rahul Gandhi on his thirty-sixth birthday. Dressed in white, they were lined up in rows, the vanguard holding up, for the photographers to see, a cake weighing fifty kilograms which had been inscribed for their leader.
The chamchas had gathered around the Gandhi home early in the morning, and stayed on until dusk. My meeting had been rather dreary, but I noted (to my satisfaction) that these fellows had a duller day still. (As well as a much hotter one—at least my room was air-conditioned.) They had periodically sent messages through the watchmen asking their hero to step out, and periodically stirred themselves to shout: ‘Desh ka neta kaisa ho/Rahul Gandhi jaisa ho.’ But however hard they tried, Rahul bhayya would not come, though whether it was out of embarrassment (justified) or fear of the heat (even more justified) the report did not say. By the time the chamchas departed, the remains of their cake were seen to be running a rather gooey line from 10 Janpath, quite a long way down in the direction of Connaught Place.
Not that the cake-carriers could ever bring themselves to refer to that part of New Delhi by its original name. Connaught Place and Connaught Circus is how I know those graceful rings, but these names were changed in an earlier Congress regime to ‘Rajiv Chowk’ (the inner ring) and ‘Indira Chowk’ (the outer one). In a tearful speech in Parliament, a Congress MP announced that this was done so that in death, as in life, Indira would forever hold Rajiv in her embrace. For the ordinary folk of Delhi, Connaught Place (and Circus) remain de rigueur, but for all members of the Congress those older names are, of course, verboten.
And the rush to name ever more places after the Family continues. Not long ago, I was a participant in a TV debate on the renaming of the new Hyderabad airport after Rajiv Gandhi. I suggested that one could name the airport after a genuinely great figure, such as the composer Thyagaraja, a choice that would be applauded across party–political lines. In any case, it was time we went beyond remembering only one family. Somewhere along the line, in response to a term I had used, the other member of the panel, a still-serving Union minister, said: ‘We are happy to be Congress chamchas.’
II
The epithet the minister proudly owned is part of our political lexicon. I have myself used it here in the knowledge that readers shall know exactly what I am referring to. Still, it might be helpful to more precisely date and define it. ‘Chamcha’ is a Hindustani word whose nearest English equivalent is ‘sycophant’. There have been chamchas since the birth of the Indic civilization—the lords Rama and Krishna are alleged to have had countless such—b
ut there have been Congress chamchas only since about the year 1969. Contrary to what the term might suggest, it does not connote loyalty to the party in general but to the family which now leads it in particular.
Most Indians are too young to know this, but the truth is that until about 1969 the Congress was more or less a democratic party. The great leaders of the freedom struggle—Gokhale, Tilak, Bose, Gandhi and others—had followers and admirers, but these were not publicly slavish in their sycophancy. The same was the case with Jawaharlal Nehru, who kept his distance from courtiers and flatterers.
Nehru did not much like chamchas; and, contrary to a widely accepted myth, Nehru did not start a ‘dynasty’ either. He had no wish, nor desire, nor hope, nor expectation, that his daughter Indira would ever become prime minister. In a book published in 1960, the respected editor Frank Moraes wrote that ‘there is no question of Nehru’s attempting to create a dynasty of his own; it would be inconsistent with his character and career’. This was (and is) entirely correct. When Nehru died in 1964, an otherwise bitter critic, D.F. Karaka, nonetheless praised his resolve ‘not to indicate any preference with regard to his successor. This, [Nehru] maintained, was the privilege of those who were left behind. He himself was not concerned with that issue.’
True, in her father’s lifetime Indira Gandhi was made President of the Indian National Congress. But after a single term in this post she retreated to domestic life. There she stayed for five years, with no wish, nor desire, nor hope, nor expectation, that she would assume a position of importance in Indian political life. Indeed, on the 8th of May 1964, Mrs Gandhi wrote to her friend Dorothy Norman that ‘the whole question of my future is bothering me. I feel I must settle outside India at least for a year or so …’ Since both her sons were then studying (after a fashion) in the United Kingdom, it was to that country that Mrs Gandhi was thinking of moving.
Three weeks later, Nehru died. The new prime minister, Lal Bahadur Shastri, now appointed Indira Gandhi the minister of information and broadcasting, this being a gesture to the memory of her father rather than an acknowledgement of merit or capability. When Shastri died in January 1966, Mrs Gandhi was, to her own surprise, catapulted into the post of prime minister. There were other and better candidates for the job, but the Congress bosses (notably K. Kamaraj) thought that they could more easily control a lady they thought to be a gungi gudiya (dumb doll).
It turned out otherwise. In power, Mrs Gandhi displayed a streak of ruthlessness few had seen in her before. She split the Congress, threw out the bosses, and with the slogan of ‘Garibi Hatao’ refashioned herself as a saviour of the poor. The once-democratic and decentralized Congress party became, in effect, an extension of a single individual. I recently came across an article entitled ‘Mummy Knows Best’, published in the now-defunct New Delhi journal, Thought, in October 1971. In recent weeks, Mrs Gandhi had sacked two chief ministers. First it was Mohan Lal Sukhadia in Rajasthan, then Brahmananda Reddy in Andhra Pradesh. As Thought wrote, it mattered little who would succeed Reddy in Andhra; for, ‘he that ascends the gaddi will have to look for his survival to the lady in Delhi rather than to the Legislators in Hyderabad or the Constituents in Andhra at large’.
While she was growing into her new job, Mrs Gandhi’s two sons were trying out careers of their own. The elder boy, Rajiv, after having followed his mother in having failed to complete a degree, took a pilot’s licence and joined Indian Airlines. The younger boy, Sanjay, prudently chose not to go to university at all. He apprenticed at Rolls Royce, where his lack of discipline provoked a flood of anguished correspondence between his mother and the Indian high commission in London, who were naturally worried about the repercussions of the son’s waywardness on the reputation of the prime minister.
In time Sanjay returned to India, and sought to set up a car factory of his own. He said he would manufacture not limousines but a ‘people’s car’ named Maruti. Despite the gift of cheap land (from a sycophantic chief minister of Haryana) and soft loans from public sector banks, the project failed to deliver on its promises. Another of Sanjay’s chamchas, Khushwant Singh, then the editor of the Illustrated Weekly of India, claimed that his factory would roll out 50,000 cars a year. ‘Soon little Marutis should be seen on the roads of Haryana and Delhi,’ wrote the editor: ‘and a month or two later they will be running between Kalimpong and Kanyakumari.’
As it happened, Sanjay Gandhi’s factory did not produce a single roadworthy car. (The little Marutis that now run on Indian roads are based on the Japanese design of a standard Suzuki vehicle.) It seems that Sanjay anticipated this, for, in 1975, when his factory was yet to be completed, he went in search of another career. He had not to search very far—no further than his own home, in fact. Mrs Gandhi had just imposed the Emergency; to keep it going she needed support, and her younger son was happy to provide it. He soon showed that he enjoyed the exercise of authority even more than his mother did. Some of the more notorious events of the Emergency, such as the forced sterilizations and the demolition of homes in Old Delhi, were the handiwork of Sanjay.
By the time the Emergency ended, Sanjay Gandhi had discarded any pretence of being a maker of cars. Henceforth it was all politics for him. He fought two Lok Sabha elections, became general secretary of the Congress, and served as his mother’s deputy on all matters concerning the party and (from January 1980) the government. But then in June of that year he died in an air crash. The mother, bereft, turned to her elder son to take Sanjay’s place.
While Sanjay was alive, Rajiv Gandhi had shown no inclination to join politics. His greatest professional ambition was to graduate from flying Avros on the Delhi–Lucknow run to flying Boeings between Calcutta and Bombay. By June 1980 he had been flying for twelve years, but his record did not yet merit the promotion he so ardently desired. He was rather luckier in politics. Once he had answered Mummy’s call, and changed his career, the rewards were swift. Within five years of joining the Congress, he had become prime minister of India.
No sooner had Rajiv joined politics than Congress members and ministers all across the country queued up to salaam him. He was asked to lay foundation stones for medical colleges, open electric lines to Harijan colonies, give speeches to Congress clubs on Nehru’s birthday. This build-up of the future leader was the subject of a satirical column by the Bombay writer ‘Busybee’ (Behram Contractor), a still unparalleled commentary on the culture of sycophancy in India’s oldest political party. Here is the column, reproduced more or less in full:
The Padayatra (Walking Tour) Programme
Apropos Sunday morning’s padayatra through the Dharavi slums by Mr Rajiv Gandhi, the following is the programme (Congress-I volunteers to note):
7.30 a.m.: Mr Rajiv Gandhi arrives at Santa Cruz Airport, received by 20,000 party workers (trucks will be provided to transport them …) Garlanding ceremony. Workers to shout: ‘Rajiv Gandhi ki jai!’
8 a.m.: Motorcade leaves airport and proceeds to Dharavi passing under welcome arches along the route …
8.10 a.m.: Housewives of the government housing colony at East Bandra to spontaneously halt the motor cavalcade and perform the arti ceremony for Mr Gandhi. Local Congress (I) councillors to organize the housewives.
8.30 a.m.: Arrive at Dharavi … Welcome speech by Dharavi councillor and MLA. Garlanding ceremony. Flag-hoisting of Congress flag by children of the Dharavi municipal school.
9 a.m.: Tea and refreshments in school hall. Mr Gandhi receives telephone calls from … chief minister … and deputy chief minister, welcoming him to Bombay. A special telephone line to be installed … to enable Mr Gandhi to receive the calls.
9.30 a.m.: Mr Gandhi changes his chappals for gym shoes … Padayatra begins. (Organizers to note: Mr Gandhi should be taken only along those lanes which have been specially swept and cleaned for the padayatra.)
10 a.m.: TV cameras in position to take special shots of Mr Gandhi talking to oldest resident of Dharavi. TV shot of Mr Gandhi inaugurating new public tap.
(Note to organizers: Arrangements should be made to fly colour film back to Delhi in time for inclusion in national news same night.)
10.30 a.m. to 11.30 a.m.: Mr Gandhi makes four speeches at four different locations in Dharavi, preferably where pressmen are present. (Further note to organizers: cars to be kept ready for Mr Gandhi to travel from one padayatra spot to another. Arrangements to be made for a man to hold umbrella over Mr Gandhi’s head.)
Noon: Padayatra ends. Mr Gandhi changes gym shoes for sandals.
Before he joined politics Rajiv Gandhi was known to be a gentle character. But after he joined politics he quickly took to the authoritarian ways of his mother and brother. I recall him visiting Bangalore in the late 1980s, and giving a press conference at the airport on his way out. At some stage a journalist summarized the views on some subject of the chief minister of Karnataka, Veerendra Patil, a veteran freedom fighter and first-rate administrator. Rajiv Gandhi’s response was to say: if that is what Patel believed, he would no longer be chief minister. Within a day or two this indeed came to pass.
The greatly reduced majorities of the Congress nowadays mean that its leader cannot be anywhere near as arrogant. Yet crucial positions are still decided on the basis of personal loyalty rather than professional competence. To get their job and retain it, Union ministers and chief ministers belonging to the Congress have to depend on the will and whim of the First Family. But the culture of sycophancy percolates right through the party and into the wider world beyond. Thus high posts in the civil service and diplomatic corps, as well as prestigious academic positions, are often allocated on the basis of a candidate’s closeness—real or imagined—to the Family. Say, you are a professor or judge who is keen on a particular job. Then, if you lobby A who is close to B who is friendly with C who is known to be in the inner circle of the First Family—then, if you work away and are fortunate, you might even get that assignment.
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