India

by John Keay

  In 1963 sectarian sentiment had erupted on both sides of the border when a relic of the Prophet had disappeared from a mosque in Kashmir, then miraculously reappeared. This ‘mysterious affair of the Prophet’s hair’ (it was a single hair, reputedly from His beard) provoked anti-Hindu violence even in East Pakistan, a province not normally very sympathetic to the supposed plight of the Kashmiris. As another Partition-style exodus of Bengali refugees streamed into India, the passion aroused by the affair was taken as proof of the potency of the Kashmir issue. Bhutto hastened to resurrect it at the United Nations; Beijing voiced support; and in what appeared to be a weakening of Indian resolve Sheikh Abdullah arrived in Pakistan on the mission that was aborted by Nehru’s death.

  Through the winter of 1964–5 Bhutto kept up the pressure over Kashmir by promising the Pakistani people ‘retaliatory steps’ against India and ‘better results in the very near future’. As the presidential vote loomed, these threats needed substantiating. Accordingly, in March 1965 Pakistani tanks rolled into a disputed border sector in the Rann of Kutch (between Indian Gujarat and Pakistani Sind). Uninhabited and seasonally submerged, the target was almost irrelevant. The exercise was intended purely as a show of force to impress the electorate, test Indian reaction and boost military confidence. It succeeded to the extent that Ayub had to restrain his own generals and that, as part of a ceasefire agreement, the Indian government accepted international arbitration of the border (this being precisely what it had refused in the case of Kashmir). The Pakistani nation hailed a victory and the press succumbed to an orgy of jingoism.

  Three months later a plan to infiltrate guerrillas into Indian Kashmir was activated. This time Ayub, who may not even have authorised the Rann attack, gave his approval; but it was Bhutto, backed by the intelligence services, who insisted. He was confident that the oppressed Kashmiris would now greet such intruders as liberators and then fight alongside them to eject the Indian presence. He was wrong; no such thing happened. As in 1947–8, the Kashmiri response was negligible and the Indian reaction swift. The infiltrators were rounded up and Indian troops advanced to the edge of Pakistan’s Azad Kashmir.

  In what was proving to be ‘Bhutto’s war’, this setback called for his intended coup de grâce, a full-scale invasion of Kashmir by the might of the Pakistan army. Again Ayub himself seems to have been a reluctant aggressor. The attack was launched on 30 August 1965; Indian forces struck back on 6 September; and two weeks later it was all over. A victim as much of his own rhetoric as of his military inexperience, Bhutto had downplayed the numerical superiority of the Indian forces and grossly underrated their fighting qualities. He had assumed that India’s British tanks and Soviet fighters were no match for Pakistan’s superior American weaponry and that any Indian army without its traditional backbone of martial Muslims would quickly crumble. As the saying went, one Pakistani jawan was worth seven Indian jawans. He had also assumed that New Delhi would restrict hostilities to Kashmir and not gamble on an all-out escalation along the border in the Panjab. Again he was comprehensively mistaken. The Pakistani thrust into Kashmir was quickly blunted, then outflanked by an Indian counter-strike further south. In fact Indian tanks had reached the outer suburbs of Lahore when a ceasefire came into effect. Both sides had succumbed less to one another than to international censure, plus a desperate shortage of ammunition and weaponry occasioned by the inevitable Anglo-American arms embargo.

  A new twist was now given to the contention that this 1965 conflict was peculiarly ‘Bhutto’s war’. He had contrived it and botched it; now he bedizened it and built on it. It was not he, the public were told, who had miscalculated; it was Ayub. Isolated among his unelected sycophants, the president had allowed himself to be betrayed by his American and British friends, then hoodwinked by the Indians and Russians into accepting humiliating terms at the Soviet-sponsored peace talks in Tashkent. But an even greater miscalculation had been Ayub’s earlier acceptance of the ceasefire. With the Chinese supposedly poised to resupply the Pakistan army and create a diversion on India’s eastern frontier, with the Indonesian navy steaming to the rescue and other Islamic states promising support, Ayub should have toughed it out. Instead, he had caved in to Anglo-American pressure and so betrayed both the army and the nation.

  All of which, whether true or false, said much for Bhutto’s intellectual agility and spoke volumes for his political acuity. Frustration over the outcome of the war was already spilling onto the streets. Party leaders spoke out with near-unanimity about ‘unpardonable weakness’ and the ‘betrayal’ of Kashmir. Mujib-ur-Rahman and his Awami League in East Pakistan (Suhrawardy had died) even derived a certain satisfaction from what they saw as an essentially West Pakistani débâcle. In everyone’s eyes Ayub was fatally discredited. He would hang on for another three years but would never rid himself of the stigma of the war. Worst of all, the army, the nation’s premier institution, had suffered a major setback. In its hour of crisis, Pakistan badly needed a new narrative. Bhutto obliged, and not just once but twice.

  PEOPLE POWER

  By the mid-1960s the successor states in what was increasingly being called South Asia seemed set on quite contradictory paths: India’s was democratic, ‘secular’ and avowedly unaligned, Pakistan’s authoritarian, sectarian and mostly pro-West. Yet on closer acquaintance their respective policies showed much correspondence. Similar concerns and a shared environment were eliciting complementary responses. It was as if, moving in different directions, they yet marched in step. For two decades and with varying degrees of success, both had concentrated on nation-building, on grappling with divisive issues like language and ethnicity, developing a domestic productive capacity, adjusting to a treacherous world order and, pre-eminently, seeking to promote and entrench central authority. These priorities would remain, but with the addition at roughly twenty-year intervals of other formidable concerns. In the 1980s and 1990s, for instance, all the states of South Asia would be confronted with a resurgence of religious supremacism, Hindu, Sikh and Islamic; and in the 2000s it would be the challenge, as much political as economic, of globalisation.

  First, though, in what would be dubbed ‘the people’s century’, the blare of a strident populism was heard across the region. It peaked in the early 1970s when in a configuration not seen again for twenty years all of the by then three successor states would be aligned beneath the banner of democracy. And its genesis may be traced back to the fall-out from Bhutto’s 1965 Indo-Pak war and more specifically to the year 1967. At the time, mobs of teenage Cultural Revolutionaries were already pillorying (‘struggling’) the Party’s bureaucrats in Beijing, Paris was bracing itself for the événements de ’68, and Washington, then London, was convulsed by Vietnam War demonstrations. The streets were alive with the sound of protest. Lahore being no exception, there Z. A. Bhutto, having resigned from Ayub’s government in 1966, founded his Pakistan People’s Party (PPP) on a vote-catching platform of reclaiming Kashmir, ousting Ayub and redeeming the nation. Simultaneously Mrs Indira Gandhi, having succeeded Shastri as prime minister of India (he had died of a heart attack after signing the Tashkent agreement that ended the 1965 war), watched the Congress party’s majorities of her father’s era shrinking to wafer-thinness and resolved to look outside the organisational structure of the party for a more popular mandate.

  Notwithstanding assertions to the contrary, Mrs Gandhi could hardly be described as ungroomed for power. Born a Nehru, the daughter and granddaughter of Congress presidents, patriotically named Indira, married to a man called Gandhi (though he was unrelated to the Mahatma) and herself Congress president as early as 1959, the new prime minister seemed preordained. Yet she had not been a serious candidate to succeed her father in 1964, and when as a result of Shastri’s unexpected death the party did call on her in 1965, the prime ministership represented not so much her personal triumph as a bid for greater influence by a ‘syndicate’ of party bosses keen to take advantage of a youngish, gender-handicapped and not too intell
ectually formidable incumbent.

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  THE NEHRU-GANDHI DYNASTY

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  This perception began to change after Congress took a battering in the Indian national elections of 1967. Against a background of post-war Hindu – Muslim violence, secessionist movements in the far north-east and such widespread starvation in Bihar as to cast doubt on the contention that ‘major famines disappeared abruptly with the establishment of a multi-party democracy’, Congress won just over half the parliamentary seats but under half of the state assembly seats and only 40 per cent of the total vote (down from nearer 50 per cent in 1957).7 The communists were back in power in Kerala and were handsomely represented in a coalition government in West Bengal. Elsewhere, rightist parties had done well, including the Hindu nationalist Jan Sangh. And in Madras the Tamil DMK had swept the board. Not obviously a lurch to left or right, then, this was just a lurch away from Congress. Nehru had generally offered the electorate what he thought good for India as a state and nation. But in a novel departure, parties like the DMK were now offering what they thought a majority of their constituents actually wanted. Instead of socialism they provided jobs, instead of equality they demolished Brahmin privilege, instead of Hindi monolinguism they won concessions for Tamil, and instead of sour-faced politicians they fielded glitzy film stars.

  Mrs Gandhi took note. Though not previously aligned with any ideological wing of the Congress party, she suddenly discovered a deep affinity for the poor and downtrodden, plus an unexpectedly dictatorial streak. Both traits were evident in a programme of radical reforms tabled in mid-1967 and which, in a nice mix of socialist orthodoxy and voter appeal, included a minimum wage, nationalisation of the banks and abolition of the ‘privy purses’ enjoyed by the ex-ruling families of the princely states. These measures were welcomed by youthful party activists as a direct challenge to the nation’s reactionary elements, but they were contested in the courts and met with opposition from the old-guard ‘syndicate’ of the party. The courts were temporarily bypassed when the banks were nationalised by ordinance. Differences within the party were less easily resolved.

  They came to a head in 1969 when the prime minster put up a candidate for the vacant presidency of the republic in opposition to the party’s official candidate. In so far as her man was narrowly elected, the gamble paid off; but it seemed to backfire to the extent that she was now expelled from her own party. Relishing the fight, she blamed her opponents for dividing Congress and rallied her supporters under the banner of Congress (R) (for ‘Requisition’ – she had been denied the chance to requisition an emergency meeting of the party to endorse her presidential choice) and later of Congress (I) (for ‘Indira’). The political juggernaut inherited from her father had certainly been split, though she saw it more as purged. Progressive elements stayed loyal to her, and by forging an alliance with the Communist Party of India (CPI) she cobbled together a parliamentary majority. By default the old guard of party stalwarts found themselves sidelined as Congress (O) (for ‘Organisation’ and later just ‘Old’). With their regional followings intact and their power-broking experience invaluable, they licked their wounds and awaited the next elections with interest. Mrs Gandhi accepted the challenge – indeed she discomfited them and delighted her followers by inviting it. Still unable to shrug off legal challenges to her reforms, she appealed directly to the people by calling a snap election. The national poll due in 1972 would be held a year early.

  Elections to the state assemblies were not brought forward, only elections to the national parliament. A first for India, this decoupling of the two electoral exercises promised greater prominence for all-India issues and less scope for the horse-trading at which Congress (O) excelled. That rump’s prospects were further damaged by its electoral overtures to parties of the right for a shared platform of ‘Indira hatao’ (‘Out with Indira’). Stigmatising a supposed tyrant was one thing; it had just worked for Bhutto and it would work against Mrs Gandhi herself seven years later. But against the neophyte leader of 1970 it seemed merely spiteful. She scoffed at the enemy’s opportunistic alliances and hit back with ‘Gharibi hatao’ (‘Out with Poverty’), a mantra as memorable for its banality as for its ambition – but, above all, memorable. Electioneering on an unprecedented scale, in ten weeks ‘she travelled 36,000 miles … addressed 300 meetings and was heard or seen by an estimated 20 million people’.8 Planes, helicopters and cars whisked her from one lofty podium to the next. Instantly recognisable, she became the undoubted star of the show. But in her own constituency of Rae Bareli (in UP) her veteran opponent, a gnarled socialist with a police-inflicted limp called Raj Narain, noted her antics with care and was complaining about her misuse of government facilities even before the vote. Not a man to relinquish any bone of contention lightly, the dogged Narain would continue to pursue this matter through the courts for the next five years, ultimately to effect.

  As the votes were counted in January 1971, an impressive turnout heralded a resounding victory. With 352 out of the 518 seats, Mrs Gandhi’s majority exceeded any of her father’s. In second place the Communist Party (Marxist) or CPM (which had broken from the CPI following the ideological split between Moscow and Beijing) took just twenty-five seats; and as for Congress (O), it fared so badly that the only appropriate explanation for its name was now Congress (Obliterated). The people had spoken; Mrs Gandhi was vindicated. The princes lost their purses, the banks stayed nationalised and a host of other state takeovers were initiated. With her personal authority unassailable, it seemed almost inconceivable that the prime minister’s star had not already reached its zenith. Yet within a year ‘India’s daughter’ was being hailed as India’s deity, in fact as an avatar of the warlike goddess Durga.

  This apotheosis came courtesy of stirring developments across the border. For if appealing to the instincts of the people could overturn electoral preconceptions in India, then so it could in the erstwhile extremities of that country that constituted Pakistan. There the first ever national elections in which everyone got to vote produced such startling results that not even military intervention could save the day. A third Indo-Pak war would follow, leading to a third partition and a third successor state.

  In declining health and universally condemned for his Tashkent ‘betrayal’ and his over-reliance on the Americans, Ayub Khan had clung to power until March 1969. The delay suited his eventual successor, the new commander-in-chief General Yahya Khan, who needed time to restore morale and consolidate support within the armed forces. It also suited Bhutto, who needed time to conjure up for his Pakistan People’s Party an organisational structure capable of converting the wave of student-led protests and civil disobedience into an effective mass movement.

  With a state of Emergency still in force (it had been imposed during the 1965 war), Bhutto was one of many to endure a spell in gaol, as was Mujibur-Rahman of East Pakistan’s Awami League. The Awami League had distilled its demands for provincial autonomy into a six-point programme that included a separate currency for East Pakistan, a separate militia and the devolution of powers to tax, conduct foreign trade and generally manage its own economy. As Ayub surmised, the six points could be interpreted as heralding the fragmentation of the Pakistani state, a suspicion confirmed when it emerged that the Awami League had been holding clandestine talks with representatives of the Indian government. For this so-called Agarthala Conspiracy, Mujib, already in gaol, was arraigned for treason and given a state trial. But the evidence was flimsy, some of the accused had apparently been tortured, and the prisoner’s dock proved the perfect place from which to defy Ayub and incite Bengali opinion. Like Lahore and Karachi, Dhaka too was witnessing massive protests against military rule; but there it was military rule’s West Pakistan basis and its anti-Bengal bias that topped the agenda.

  Ayub tried offering concessions: Mujib’s trial was halted, both he and Bhutto were released and elections were promised. But it was too late even for a humiliating retreat. Though he sur
vived an assassination attempt in 1968, by 1969 Ayub’s authority was so impaired that his promises were worthless. Resignation was the only option. In defiance of the procedure contained in his own constitution, he simply handed the presidency to General Yahya Khan.

  Yahya Khan was said to be a direct descendant of Nadir Shah, the Persian usurper who in 1739 had put late-Mughal Delhi to the sword and made off with the Peacock Throne and the Koh-i-Nur diamond. No such audacious ambitions coursed through his own veins. After the reimposition of martial rule and an initial crackdown, Yahya’s short presidency was notable for conciliar rule and conciliatory intent. Acting as the head of what was effectively an armed forces junta, he distributed departmental portfolios among his own. Home affairs went to a general, education and health to an air marshal and finance and industry to a vice-admiral. It was not quite as crazy as it seemed. During fifteen years of military rule, the army’s interests had diversified. It now had a finger in every pie, from hospitals and schools to farms and pharmaceuticals. In an individual capacity too, generals had found themselves well placed to secure the loans, licences and concessions needed for profitable investments. Expertise abounded, if not application. Civilian bureaucrats were soon appointed to the same ministries; and all these arrangements were to be considered temporary. Yahya himself had no intention of perpetuating military rule. Ayub’s edifice of ‘basic democracy’ and the enforced parity between East Pakistan and a one-unit West Pakistan were quietly abandoned. A new constitution – the third in just over a decade – was to be drawn up. Indeed this was to be the first task of a new national assembly, itself elected on a universal franchise from constituencies of roughly equal population. This meant that the East would at last be fairly represented and have more seats than the West. The provinces were reinstated, and elections to the provincial assemblies were to take place simultaneously. Political parties were free to campaign, new electoral rolls were prepared, the poll was set for late 1970.