That was not just Dad, but the norm all Marxists lived by those days.
At that time, the intelligentsia in the country included many Marxists in their ranks. This gave rise to great artistic endeavour in the field of poetry, literature, drama and films. Not only did they bring about something of a renaissance in India’s artistic life, but they also fought for social justice, equality and a classless society. The effete and outdated bourgeois class was anathema to them. The worst expression used by them was ‘that fellow is a bourgeois.’ A closely-knit group, they were forward-looking and secular to the core. Hinduism and Islam as separate religions were meaningless for them; they more or less negated religious belief. They were diehard atheists. Such names as K.A. Abbas, Kaifi Azmi, Sardar Jaffri, Rajinder Singh Bedi, Kishen Chander, Sahir Ludhianvi, Bhisham Sahni, Jaan Nisar Akhtar Saheb and his son, Javed Akhtar, and a host of others who brought about this renaissance in India were a brilliant lot. There was a Progressive Writers’ group headed by Sajjad Zaheer, who was based in Pakistan and was a source of inspiration for intellectuals on both sides of the border. I was only six or seven years old then, but I still remember the passion, enthusiasm and commitment of this ‘progressive’ group. They were afire with the cause and devoted wholly to it. A spark of that fire is still seen in Javed Akhtar Saheb, who espouses those views to this day. He is clear-cut, incisive and logical. His speeches and pronouncements in Parliament reflect the passion, dedication and clear-sightedness of those days. He is a chip of the old block, a worthy son of a great father.
Dad’s Marxist leanings made him humble and sober, morally upright, spartan in his habits, patient, tolerant and a true patriot. Wherever there was a natural disaster in India, be it an earthquake, a flood or a drought, he went there to give succour. After the Bangladesh War, he spent a fortnight in the refugee camps helping the volunteers. And unlike nowadays, he did not publicise his efforts and went about his philanthropic work silently, without telling anybody.
For a short while, he was a cardholder of the Communist Party of India. With time, however, as the party began to take an anti-Nehru stand, he did not agree with its political agenda and resigned from it. Perhaps it was also because he became aware that adoption of Marxism as a philosophy turned people into fanatics. He had noticed that with time diehard Marxists began worshipping their leaders as ‘avatars’ or prophets, as he did Joshi-ji! He confessed that this led to them having ‘no qualms about sacrificing truth in the interest of their party.’
Following his Marxist ideals and applying them to every aspect of his life, Dad treated everyone with an openness and frankness that was often difficult to understand or accept. Even with me, he often discussed things that startled me and about which I had no previous knowledge. My age and inexperience presented no barriers in his mind as to what he could or should talk to me about. I think he followed Joshi-ji’s advice to a ‘T.’
Joshi-ji got a rough deal from the Communist Party when he disagreed with its plans to sabotage the newly formed Nehru Government after Independence. Like Nehru, they dubbed him a ‘petty bourgeois revisionist’, a ‘counter revolutionary’ and a ‘nut case’. When Joshi-ji was made to resign because of his views that the CPI should not oppose the policies of Nehru for the time being (because India had just gained freedom and needed to consolidate itself first), Dad was appalled at this decision of the Central Committee and distanced himself from the party. Ranadive, who replaced Joshi-ji, toed the party line.
As the Communist Party began to lose strength, many members who did not agree with its changing ideology resigned. Dad’s subsequent arrest and imprisonment in 1951, followed by the sense of separatism he felt from the IPTA after his release, was to mark his disillusionment with the party—but not the Marxist philosophy. He remained a true Marxist till his dying day. One of his last wishes was not to call any ‘pundits’ to chant Vedic mantras at his funeral. It was also his desire that he be covered by a red flag when he was taken on his last journey.
How firm and unshakeable was his belief was brought home to me when Dad headed a delegation to Moscow with some interesting people in the mid-sixties, while I was a student there.
Delegation from India
A young boy from Vadnagar in Gujarat, selling tea, could not have foreseen the soaring heights he would reach later in life. During the elections in 2014, Narendra Modi, leading the Bharatiya Janata Party, was called a chaiwala (tea vendor). The opposition parties sniggered at him and made fun of him. But the overwhelming majority with which he won the 2014 elections came as a shock to many.
Modi’s story reminds me of a man, also from humble beginnings, whom I met in 1965. He didn’t look either like an intellectual or a scholar. He did not speak English too well. He was a member of the Congress Party. He came to Moscow with a delegation headed by Dad and didn’t outwardly display any remarkable qualities of leadership. And yet, he went on to become the first citizen of India. His name was Giani Zail Singh.
The delegation came to Moscow in November 1965 (when winter had almost set in) to attend the 7 November celebrations of the Bolshevik Revolution. The delegation comprised only four people. There was a doctor in his late thirties from Bombay—a slim, emaciated and nervous-looking man who wore horn-rimmed glasses and always had a bewildered and frightened look on his face. I think he had heard stories about Siberia and the KGB, and was mortally afraid that he would be taken away at any time to Siberia if he said or did anything untoward.
Then there was a heavily built man from Kerala, who worked for the Indo-Soviet Cultural Society (ISCUS) in Mumbai. In stark contrast to the doctor, he couldn’t have cared less about the Soviet system and looked completely at ease in his surroundings. He was a lovable man, full of fun and laughter. He was potbellied, had a ponderous nose and thick, voluptuous lips. He seemed to be keenly interested in Russian girls and was having a field day admiring the blonde and blue-eyed Russian beauties!
The third member of the delegation was Giani Zail Singh. He was slim, tall and handsome, had a nattily tied white turban, and wore smart churidar (tight-fitting pajamas) and an immaculately stitched achkan (knee-length jacket), and always had an amiable smile on his face. He was a man of the soil and seemed to be from a small-town. Giani-ji spoke very little and had an earthy sense of humour. He looked at his surroundings somewhat questioningly and seemed to have some preconceived notions about the USSR, which he voiced unashamedly. Like Dad, he attracted a lot of attention, but not necessarily for the same reasons. His attire and his turban elicited curious looks as people stared at his stately figure. He stood out among his peers. Indians were universally respected in the USSR in those days, and Giani-ji was a handsome man and the most ‘Indian looking’ in the delegation. By contrast, Dad was fair and dressed in Western clothes, and could have passed off as a European.
Giani-ji and Dad became great friends. Dad had a soft spot for the Punjab and Punjabis. And Punjabi has the distinction (perhaps like other languages in India) of having a different dialect every hundred kilometres or so. Dad, being from Rawalpindi, spoke in the dialect spoken in the Frontier region. Giani-ji spoke a different dialect altogether and Dad loved it. He was forever jotting down Giani-ji’s turns of phrase in his little notebook.
When I met Giani-ji for the first time, for the world of me, I could never have imagined that this simple and seemingly humble-looking man would one day become the President of India! But appearances are deceptive. Although simple, he had native wisdom that showed up sometimes in his conversation at the most unexpected time. One day, when I made a remark about how disciplined Russians were and how much they respected their government in contrast to Indians, Giani-ji said, ‘Parikshat, people worship power and strength. And the Soviet State is both powerful and strong. Absolute and unchallenged power breeds fear. It keeps people on the line. That is why the Russian people are so disciplined. They do not so much ‘respect’ their leaders as fear them. Am I right in saying that, Balraj-ji?’
I had been appo
inted one of the interpreters for the delegation and was witness to some heated discussions between Giani-ji and Dad about Soviet society and the Soviet state. For Dad, the Soviet Union was a perfect social order. It was a glimpse into the future and a boon for mankind. For as long as I could remember, he had been fervently pro-Soviet and could not bear to hear anything against it.
Giani-ji, on the other hand, looked sceptically at almost everything he saw around him. The people, he felt, looked glum; their clothes looked shabby, and so did the cars that plied on the streets. He was fond of repeating the words ‘iron curtain’ often and remarking that according to what he had heard and read, Russia was one big prison. Dad, of course, was appalled to hear this and tried to convince him to the contrary.
The doctor and the ISCUS man didn’t take Giani-ji too seriously. This was the first time Giani-ji was travelling abroad and so he quite often found himself out of his depth in his strange surroundings. Soviet Russia was not like other Western countries. I was often correcting Giani-ji for his faux pas in his behaviour with the Russians. However, he never seemed fazed by his apparent lack of ‘etiquette’, and always had a ready repartee, accompanied by an infectious laugh, which so typified him as a Punjabi.
The other interpreter with the delegation was a Russian by the name of Rozhdestvenskii (I’m not sure of his name!). He was a tall, lean, middle-aged man with a sallow complexion, a hooked nose and a broad smile that displayed an array of crooked teeth. He spoke Hindi fluently and got along royally with the delegation.
Giani-ji was stumped by his name and found it a tongue-twister. He tried again and again, but could not pronounce it. Rozhdestvenskii said he was from the Institute of Foreign Languages. For all one knew, he could have been a KGB man; the KGB was present everywhere in those days.
This man from the Institute of Foreign Languages made it a point to eulogize everything Soviet. He had something complimentary to say about everything. He was a ‘specialist’ of sorts and was an unadulterated chauvinist.
Dad never took sides, but enjoyed the perpetual question and answer sessions (Giani-ji questioned everything he saw!) that went on between the specialist and Giani-ji. I could see that the ‘holier-than-thou’ attitude of the specialist (indirectly implying, that everything Indian was inferior) was not to Giani-ji’s liking. The man’s condescending attitude irritated him.
Giani-ji always managed to deflate the specialist whenever he praised the USSR and the Russian way of life to much. For instance, the man mentioned one day how generous the USSR was in helping India build Bhilai, a steel factory, and also in supplying arms to India and making a contribution to the country’s defence and growth. ‘Politics is not an emotional game, my friend,’ Giani-ji replied coolly. ‘Politicians are not a sentimental lot. You are not helping us for sentimental or emotional reasons, but because it is expedient for you to have India as an ally. You need us as badly as we need you politically!’ Such tussles between them went on all the time. Dad enjoyed these encounters very much.
The specialist accompanied the delegation everywhere, even to the dining room. Often, they were joined by two or three other Russians, who, in an attempt at mehman nawazi (hospitality), always offered the delegates wine and vodka. Dad accepted a glass of vodka with alacrity, as did the ISCUS man, but the doctor and Giani-ji refused to touch alcohol.
Russians have a rich cuisine and lay the table with great finesse. Quite fed up with the monotonous hostel food, I always looked forward to the sumptuous spread that was laid out for the delegation. The specialist pointed to the array of food and started enumerating the health benefits of each of them. ‘You must try our food—it’s the best!’ he said. But Giani-ji was baffled by what he referred to as ‘boiled’ and ‘tasteless’ food laid out before him. Dad had spent many years in England and loved European food, but Giani-ji grimaced when he tasted the borsch and the chicken a la Kiev. ‘Balraj-ji, bande wi fikkey te khana wi fikka (the food is as tasteless as the people). Our lives are in danger. How will we survive on this food for ten days?’ he said. ‘This is very healthy food, Giani-ji. Look how healthy these Russians are,’ Dad replied, eating his soup with gusto.
The specialist was quick to assert that the food was superlative and that Giani-ji should not hesitate to gorge on it. ‘I have been to India, Giani-ji,’ he said in his chaste Hindi, ‘and I perpetually had a bad stomach. Your food is too oily. By and large, Indians are weak.’ He translated what he had said in Hindi to the Russians and they nodded their heads in the affirmative. The Russians were, of course, enjoying their food and vodka.
‘It’s the vodka that makes them put on all that weight and brings colour to their cheeks, Balraj-ji! They are a vapid lot because of the insipid food they eat but I can fix that,’ Giani-ji said, taking out a packet from a small bag that he always carried with him. Turning to the specialist, he said, ‘Evidently you lived in hotels while you were in India. You have not tasted real Indian food, sir. Come to my Punjab. You will stop looking so skinny. We’ll put some meat on those bones of yours within a fortnight.’ Saying this, he sprinkled some masalas, which he had brought from India, on the food on the Russians’ plate before helping himself and Dad. ‘Try this with your food. It will give you real strength!’ he told them. I, being one of the interpreters, translated this into Russian and the Russians thanked Giani-ji profusely, commenting to one another, ‘This must be a mustard powder of some kind from India. Smells good!’ They were a sombre lot (probably also KGB agents). Two of them looked somewhat constipated. This mysterious powder brought some expression on their faces. They attacked their food with gusto. But one mouthful of the food with the spicy masala sent the Russians into orbit! Their faces flushed a fiery red, their eyes began to water and their tongues lolled out. Their insides were on fire! They were too polite to say anything, but the look on their faces gave us the impression that they were ready to give up. Sweat appeared on their foreheads and they dabbed their faces with their napkins; one of them groaned piteously as the intolerable heat made its way down to his gut. He burped loudly a couple of times. Another one went into paroxysms of coughing, involuntarily letting out a soft fart.
Giani-ji took that as a compliment (a fart after dinner in the good old days in the Punjab was considered a compliment to the host!) to his masalas and, wanting to further demonstrate Indian hospitality, helped them to some more of it. The Russians smiled weakly, their eyes and noses watering profusely. It was difficult to say whether they were smiling or crying. However, Giani-ji insisted that they should not feel shy, but eat to their fill. ‘Hindi Roosi bhai bhai! (Indians and Russians are brothers!), he said enthusiastically, raising his fist demonstratively (that was the slogan going around at that time.)
The Russians grunted out the slogan mechanically between coughing and burping with great difficulty and pushed away their plates. Dad, understanding their plight, told Giani-ji that Russians were small eaters and that he should not take it as an insult that they had not finished their food. In the meanwhile, the rest of them had ordered gallons of beer and were downing it in bucketsful to get some relief from the fire in their innards. I heard them talking in undertones, ‘This man will kill us! No more food with the Indians henceforth. He will hospitalize us!’ They took their leave early and so did the specialist after informing the delegates that the next day would be a sight-seeing day and he would come early.
And sure enough he arrived while the delegation was having breakfast in the dining room and said he had been instructed to show the delegates Russia’s rich heritage—the Bolshoi Theatre, the Kremlin, the Tretyakov Art Gallery, etc. While Dad and I were quite enthusiastic about seeing the gallery and the theatre, Giani-ji, surprisingly, expressed a desire to see one of their jails. Everyone was surprised at his request. Why would anyone want to see a jail? The specialist was baffled and looked confused. He offered to show Giani-ji a police station instead, but Giani-ji was adamant; he wanted, in fact, to see their infamous prison—Lubyanka. It was a prison from which,
it was universally acknowledged, very few returned. The horrible conditions prevailing in this prison are described in detail by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn in his book The Gulag Archipelago. The specialist insisted that there were many more interesting places to see, but Giani-ji wasn’t interested. ‘Why are you so frightened to show me this prison. I have spent time in a jail and would like to see one of your jails and compare it to ours!’ he said.
We did not know it then, but Giani-ji had not only been jailed, but also been mercilessly tortured during his five-year incarceration, soon after Partition, by the local authorities in the Punjab. He insisted that he be shown the jail. The specialist had no alternative but to comply with Giani-ji’s wishes. So he took him to see a Soviet jail—a watered-down version, I am sure, since nobody would ever be taken on a tour of Lubyanka, unless it was some high-level Soviet official. They would never expose any foreigner to allegedly the most infamous prison in the world in those days.
On getting back from his visit to the prison, Giani-ji complained that they had not shown him the real thing. A discussion began between him and Dad who asked him, ‘Why did you want to see a prison of all places Giani-ji, when there is so much more to see in this great city?’ ‘Because I have heard that this country is one big prison. It is a well-known fact that there is no freedom of speech or movement here. It is impossible for a normal citizen to move around in this country, let alone travel abroad—and the government tolerates no opposition or criticism,’ replied Giani-ji. Dad would not have that. ‘Not at all! You have been brainwashed by Western propaganda. This is a free society,’ he said indignantly. Giani-ji said earnestly, ‘This Lubyanka is well known as the most brutal and dreaded prison in the world. Balraj-ji, why are you objecting to my visiting it?’ Dad was adamant, ‘Giani-ji, this is the freest country in the world. There is justice, equality and freedom here. Have you seen any poor people in Moscow?’ Giani-ji replied, ‘Not in Moscow. But I am told things are bad in the villages.’ But Dad was intent on dispelling this idea. ‘All false propaganda, Giani-ji! This is an affluent country. Have you seen their Metro? Have you seen their university? Education and medical treatment are free here. Food is cheap. Bread is free in any cafeteria or restaurant. And everyone is guaranteed a job, a flat to live in for which he has to pay minimal rent. And there is a pension for every citizen after their retirement.’ But Giani-ji wasn’t going to budge from his stand. ‘That is commendable, but what about the oppression and injustice? They brook no criticism and come down hard on anyone who does not toe the line.’ Dad was quick to respond. ‘Not so! You don’t understand the situation. You are not familiar with the principles of dialectical materialism. “Freedom”, as the German philosopher Friedrich Engles said, “is recognition of necessity.” And it is necessary for them to be vigilant. The USSR is surrounded on all sides by enemies—NATO, SEATO and CENTO! The West is making it difficult for this country to breathe. The country is full of spies and saboteurs. So why blame them for being vigilant?’ Giani-ji became thoughtful. Dad continued his harangue, ‘And which country, please tell me, has made such spectacular progress as the USSR? At the turn of the century, it was the most backward country in Europe. And look at it now. Russians have sent the first man into space and are preparing for a landing on the moon!’
The Non-Conformist Page 7