More Salt Than Pepper

by Karan Thapar

  ‘Kidder jaane ka?’ The taxi-driver’s Hindi sounded defiant but also inviting. It suggested an adventure. No one spoke like that in Delhi. There, conversations were more formal, the grammar more old-fashioned. ‘Peddar Road’, I replied, and settled in to enjoy the ride.

  As we drove to Malabar Hill I tried to imagine what Flora Fountain, Cuffe Parade, Kemp’s Corner and Napean Sea Road would be like. These were names I had long wondered about. They had come to captivate me. Each seemed rich with the promise of money and chic, modernity and difference. Collectively they were a world away from Hauz Khas, Karol Bagh and Dhaula Kuan. For me, Bombay was another country.

  I first noticed little things. In Bombay men wore shorts and women were often in skirts. The taxis were Fiat 1100s whilst the buses were clean, safe and on time. People waited in queues and minded their own business. And no matter where you ate – Bombellis, a bhelpuri stall or the Zodiac Grill – it was a thrilling experience.

  But after a while I became aware of the city’s atmosphere. You could literally feel it and it was compelling. Bombay was youthful, fun, busy. Everyone seemed to be dashing around. And, of course, Bombay kept awake at night. You could buy kebabs at Haji Ali well after midnight or sip coffee at the Shamiana even as the garbage collectors swept the city. In fact, you could have been forgiven if you thought Nancy Sinatra’s hit ‘The city never sleeps at night’ was written with Bombay in mind!

  That first visit lasted a week but there weren’t enough hours in any one day for all the things I wanted to do. Everything was different, special, exciting or simply fun. Compared to Delhi, the cinema halls were bigger and brighter, the ice-cream colder and fresher, the colleges more exciting and youthful, indeed even the clubs seemed less staid. And where in the capital could a teenager drink chilled beer as the traffic honked by?

  Alas, I fear the Bombay that won my heart has disappeared, possibly forever. I won’t claim Delhi is better but the city that was a magnet, that attracted teenagers like iron-fillings, has ceased to be. Or else how do you explain the attacks on Biharis for being outsiders, on the Bachchans for speaking Hindi and on shopkeepers for not putting up Marathi signboards? In fact, it seems the very identity of the city has fractured. Today its residents have become Maharashtrians, Gujaratis, Goans, Punjabis or UPites. No longer are they Bombayites or even Mumbaikars. Bombay has become its many different parts. It’s shrunk. It’s diminished.

  I may be wrong but I’d say this process started when they forced a new name on the city. In 1995 Bombay became Mumbai but, sadly, with the name a lot more seems to have changed. Bombay was India’s most avant-garde city. It’s where Indians flocked to realize their dreams. They said the sky was the limit. Mumbai is simply the capital of Maharashtra. The largest city in India’s richest state but limited by its regional identity. It’s insular and parochial.

  However, this is not a requiem for Bombay. It is, instead, a plea to reverse history. Perhaps the old name cannot be resurrected – although in St. Petersburg and Volgograd that is precisely what happened – but can we not recapture and re-activate the lost spirit? Must the best lie buried with the past? Does the future have to be different to be better? Are there not a few old values we should preserve forever? Otherwise memories will be the only thing left.

  23 October 2008

  Buddhadev’s Calcutta Is a Different Place

  When I looked out of the window I could tell it was raining. Not heavily but a gentle constant drizzle. Enough to turn the tarmac wet and make the runway look unusually black. In contrast, the green fields on either side seemed bright and lush. Despite the grey skies overhead it was a colourful welcome to Calcutta.

  I don’t think I’ve ever found the city bathed in brilliant sunshine. Fluffy clouds, cool breezes and the pitter-patter of raindrops beating against the windowpane are my abiding impression of Calcutta. That’s why I think of it as a respite from Delhi.

  Last week, when I flew in to interview Chief Minister Buddhadev Bhattacharya, it certainly was.

  ‘Taxi, sahib. Taxi.’

  The line of touts beside the aged yellow Ambassadors chanted in unison as I stepped out of the airport building. I tried to behave like a knowing local. I ignored them.

  ‘We go where you go,’ the man at the front of the line said in pidgin English when he realized my Bengali was non-existent. When that too didn’t work he added plaintively ‘You no go, we no go.’

  I stopped beside a cab that looked like the best in the rank. It was only after I stepped in that I realized I was wrong. It chugged along suspiciously slowly. Every now and then it groaned and threatened to stall. Near Chowringhee, within striking distance of the Grand, it gave up. But just as I decided I would have to walk, the engine started again. So, trailing plumes of thick black exhaust smoke, I drove into the hotel.

  ‘How much,’ I asked, anxious to pay and be done with.

  ‘Meter-wise 150, Sir,’ the driver said, ‘but only 100.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked, not believing my ears.

  ‘The pain, Sir,’ he replied. ‘I make you very pain.’

  Writer’s Building is not what you would expect. Admittedly it’s large, red, central and it’s filled to capacity with people. But its atmosphere is languid, unhurried, even casual. Other than the guards in white lounging outside – who do precious little to stop you – there’s nothing to suggest this is the heart of government in West Bengal.

  The chief minister’s suite of rooms open onto a large corridor. From what I could tell its sole distinguishing feature is a collection of oil portraits of Bengali worthies. I could not identify them so I asked some of those who seemed to be on duty who they might be.

  ‘These are pictures of the good men of the past,’ I was informed.

  ‘But who are they?’ I asked persistently.

  ‘We don’t remember who they are.’

  ‘So they can’t be all that good!’ I riposted cheekily.

  ‘No, they are very good. But we are very bad.’

  ‘And when will that change?’

  ‘Ah,’ the man smiled. ‘When the pictures come down.’

  The room chosen for the interview was small. In addition, it was entirely decorated in shades of red. The carpet was dark strawberry, the sofas maroon and even the phones were fire-brigade red. The cumulative effect was claustrophobic.

  However, what intrigued me was the accumulation of dust around the air-conditioning vents. These were embedded in the ceiling and when you looked up at them they seemed to be surrounded by layers of black grime. On one of them there were things growing out of the circular openings and hanging downwards. They looked like surrealistic stalactites.

  ‘What’s that?’ our cameraman enquired.

  Nirmal’s question was met with silence but that only encouraged him to repeat it. He had no idea it might be embarrassing.

  ‘Fungus,’ someone eventually answered matter-of-factly.

  ‘In the chief minister’s office?’ he asked, unabashed.

  ‘Why not?’ said the same voice, somewhat defiantly this time. ‘There’s no hypocrisy in this regime. If it is dirty outside it’s also dirty inside.’

  The chief minister is soft-spoken and gentlemanly. But underneath this easy manner is a sharp intelligence and an uncanny ability to get his way. Within minutes it was clear that he represents the new face of Left Front rule. ‘We have to learn from the mistakes of the past,’ he told me. ‘We have to change or else we’ll perish.’

  I was amazed by some of the things he spoke about. He’s willing to shut down failing public sector companies, he’s looking for ways to involve the private sector in areas such as roads, education and housing, he plans to visit Japan to invite Sony, Marubeni and Mitsubishi and he understands that to do so he has to convince them the days of militant trade unionism are over.

  He also wants to reverse the earlier Left Front policy on English. ‘Children should learn it from Class One,’ he told me. ‘After all,’ he added, ‘it’s the language of the
future.’ He carries no trace of ideological dogmatism nor of narrow bhadralok Bengali chauvinism.

  But will the apparatchiks in the party headquarters at Alimuddin Street and the officials at CITU let him do any of this? The question made Mr Bhattacharya smile but it did not fluster him.

  ‘Initially we may have our differences. There may be debate. But once a decision is taken there is consensus.’

  ‘You mean you will get your way?’

  ‘I mean the right way is agreed upon by all of us.’

  Not surprisingly, the slogan he has chosen for his government is ‘do it now.’ The younger generation of Calcuttans might have a lot of fun with the word ‘it’ but the message is well understood by the rest.

  3 September 2001

  Scenes from Srinagar

  It is the colours of Srinagar that first strike you. After the drab green of the plains – or dirty brown, if the rains have failed – the autumn splendour of the valley is spectacular. It’s like being in the middle of a mellow rainbow.

  I don’t know which is the best view but there can’t be many to beat the gardens of the Grand Palace Hotel. Last week, as I stood in front of its daunting chinars, their leaves rust and golden, looking past the red salvia and yellow dahlias, with the tall auburn poplars in the distance and Dal Lake covered in a thin white mist, I had to blink and rub my eyes before I could believe the beauty I was beholding. Behind me was the deep-green wooded escarpment of the mountains resplendent in its coverage of pine and cedar. Above the sky was crisp blue spangled with the pale-yellow rays of the struggling early morning sun. A Constable landscape could not have been more beautiful.

  It was cold and it was windy. But it was the noise of falling leaves, often like a torrent of crackles and crunches, that filled my ears. It’s not a sound you are accustomed to hear in Delhi. Our year ends – as perhaps it begins – uneventfully. Up in Srinagar the Gods herald each change of season with a fanfare of colours and onomatopoeia.

  Unfortunately, the first sight of Srinagar is very different. As you step out of the airport you could be forgiven for thinking you’ve entered a city under occupation. Tanks and armoured cars (or call them what you will) surround the perimeter. Soldiers, with their guns held threateningly, stare at you. Wild-looking commandoes, with their heads wrapped in long flowing black scarves, strangely resembling human bats, drive menacingly past.

  Ashok Upadhyay, my producer, who was visiting the valley for the first time, could only shake his head in silent dismay. Words seemed to escape him. The shock of what he was seeing was impossible to translate into simple language. But twenty-four hours later, when we headed back to the airport on our return journey, he clearly knew what he felt. And he expressed it pithily.

  ‘The Kashmiri people must hate this,’ he said softly, staring all the while at the check posts with their evil-looking panels of metal spikes. ‘I can’t believe there aren’t better ways of doing this.’

  He’s right. No doubt security is important but so too is the message it sends out. Perhaps in some ways that’s more important. And one must not forget that although an army needs to be effective it must never appear offensive. In Srinagar, I think, this line of distinction has been breached.

  I’m told Srinagar is almost completely free of crime. And believe me I was stunned to hear this just as you must be right now. Our image of the valley is one of recurring violence, bloodshed, insecurity and danger. Crime therefore, one assumes, is commonplace. Where there’s terrorism there must surely be theft, robbery and even rape.

  Well, that’s simply not so. And none other than the police testify to this amazing fact.

  Ashok met an old college chum, Alok Kumar, now posted as the commandant of the Jammu & Kashmir Armed Police. Alok told him there is no need for regular policing in Srinagar. And not just in the capital. Even in the countryside, civil law and order is voluntarily and willingly maintained.

  ‘The Kashmiris are perhaps the most honest people I know,’ Alok added. Which, of course, makes the tragedy of their politics and insurgency even more poignant. But how many of us south of the Banihal recognize this?

  I hope N. Ram takes this as a compliment because that’s certainly how it was meant. It may have been delivered with a wink and a smile and the comment certainly had the feel of a carefully constructed witticism but, nonetheless, it was sincere and heartfelt. Often the best jokes carry a large measure of truth.

  I was talking to a group of Kashmiris in the coffeeshop of the Grand Palace when the subject turned to Indian newspapers. They devour them for news of the state and then argue and debate over the coverage.

  ‘Which is best?’ I asked.

  The answer was unanimous. It was also instantaneous. The Hindu.

  ‘Why?’ I queried. I wasn’t doubting their judgement. I only wanted a fuller explanation.

  ‘The Hindu is only Hindu in name,’ came the answer. ‘It actually should be called The Indian. It’s probably the only truly Indian newspaper we have.’

  I’ll say Amen to that!

  10 November 2003

  Part II

  Out of the Box

  Chapter 10

  Political Takes

  ‘Do weak PMs get re-elected?’

  Follower or Leader?

  Twenty-four hours can change Indian politics. Even as late as Friday night, an assessment of Manmohan Singh’s prime ministership felt like an unintended farewell. By Saturday that had changed and this Sunday morning, Singh was poised to start another term as PM. So how will history remember the last five years?

  The opinion of journalists, I have to admit, is hardly authoritative or even lasting. Indeed, the judgment of one’s contemporaries is often overturned by later generations. But for now it’s all we have. So, with a certain measure of hesitation and a loud note of caution, let’s venture forth. That Singh was a good man — I use the past tense only to emphasize I’m discussing the five years that are over — is indisputable. Neither L.K. Advani nor Prakash Karat would disagree. Both his charm and his moral integrity were unquestionable.

  The paradox is he presided over a cabinet that hardly reflected his virtues. The following were chargesheeted and yet appointed and retained as ministers: Shibu Soren, Lalu Yadav, Taslimuddin, Jaiprakash Yadav, Fatmi. Taslimuddin alone faced nine serious charges. Deve Gowda found him unacceptable. Manmohan Singh chose to live with him. There was even a period when Soren and Yadav were wanted by the police, became absconders but did not resign.

  Beyond this, there were swirling rumours about ministers who used office to make personal fortunes. The most mentioned was the DMK contingent. Did Manmohan Singh, as PM, know? Did he investigate and find the allegations false? His silence left one guessing. History is bound to be more outspoken.

  As PM, Manmohan Singh gave India four years of unprecedented 9 per cent economic growth. But the policy of liberalization and reform, that won him accolades as finance minister, was only feebly attempted and, once rebuffed by the left, forgotten and ignored. This includes disinvestment, pension and banking reforms, raising insurance caps, easier labour laws and the opening up of retail trade. History may conclude that as PM, Singh identified with a different vision of the economy.

  In the last five years, Singh attempted to create a social welfare safety net. The NREGA, the Rs 70,000 crore farm loan waiver, the Rural Health Mission and much of Bharat Nirman falls into this category. Conceptually these measures are difficult to quarrel with. The question was whether in practice they made a difference. Today’s results suggest they’ve brought the Congress unpredicted benefits in UP. If that’s borne out the criticism that the money did not reach those it was intended for could be invalidated.

  The economist PM was successful with his foreign policy. He took a firm and bold stand over the Indo-US nuclear deal, which won support from journalists and could be remembered as his big achievement. In pushing it through Parliament, he showed decisiveness, courage and a capacity for manipulation. If the first two qualities we
re contemporaneously admired, history may conclude differently of the third.

  Pakistan, however, remained a promise unfulfilled. No doubt events, both in Islamabad and Mumbai, intervened but the question historians will grapple with is, Did Singh forego an opportunity to sort out Kashmir when Musharraf was in the ascendant? Omar Abdullah believes he did.

  Finally, there’s the question Advani has popularized and which has ruffled Singh’s sangfroid: was he the weakest PM India has had? This is difficult not just because it’s contentious. It’s also less than straightforward and we probably don’t know enough.

  That he was the first PM who was not the popular choice of his party is true. That he was also the first to accept the pre-eminence of his party president is indisputable. But surely weakness comprises more than this? We need to know how he handled his cabinet, his Left allies and his party president. How often did they force their views on him? Or, to put it simply, did he lead or did he follow?

  Do weak PMs get re-elected?

  17 May 2009

  A Wild Guess?

  Perhaps it’s the heat or maybe it’s excess of politics, but I’m going to make one of those reckless prognostications that make wise men weep and journalists howl with laughter. Worse, I have little more than my gut instinct to back up my prediction. It could seem rational, even logical, possibly analytical but I readily accept it’s also questionable, disputable and controversial.

  Well, so much for the explanation. Or the apologia! What is it that’s prompted this self-effacing preface? Simply this: Priyanka Gandhi will be prime minister of India one day.