Friday, November 28, 2008

E-eavesdropping

Dear Friends

Here's another of those juicy pieces, which I occasionally write as a respite from academic writing. It's based upon a real incident, as much as most of these pieces often are. That's about the only 'intro' I'd like to give. You must read it to know whether there's something worth reading about in there. (Incidentally, this has been published in The Tribune, November 29, 2008 as a middle on the edit page).

Now the text of the middle:

You may wonder what this ‘e-Eavesdropping’ is all about. No, I’m certainly not saying that ‘e’ stands for ‘eavesdropping,’ which it does, but I’m sure, you don’t expect me to state the obvious, or do you?
Well, you may have heard of all sorts of e-words. Please for e’s sake, don’t get me wrong. I’m only saying, e-words, not ‘f,’ ‘g’ nor ‘h’ words. And though ‘e’ does figure in the middle of ‘swear,’ I’m certainly not using it in that sense, either. None of the ‘s’wear words, I suspect, ever begin with ‘e’ or do they?
‘E’ was known for its ‘elephantine’ associations, once. At least, that was the case when we all used to learn our alphabets. I don’t really know what children do these days. Perhaps, they have moved on to ‘e-learning,’ already.
In the past few years, ‘e’ has become a short hand for all things ‘electronic.’ So, our lives have suddenly been invaded by all kinds of hyphenated ‘e-ees,’ such as e-mail, e-transfer, e-teaching, e-shopping, e-commerce, e-management and now e-governance.
But again, I doubt if you have ever heard of e-Eavesdropping! Until very recently, I didn’t even know, it existed. But wasn’t it Nietzsche who said, if God didn’t exist, we would have had to invent one. So I simply went ahead and invented this phrase, without which I couldn’t have possibly shared this experience of mine.
One fine morning (or was it a foul one!), a message was flashed on my mobile, saying, “Wah, mukti, Kya baat hai! Life is looking rosy 4 me after that, and I hope 4 u 2.” Though I keep getting all kinds of ‘bizarre’ messages, this one seemed to beat all of them hollow. Mystified, I rolled it down to see if I knew the sender. Of course, I did. It was a friend, but with her I had no known history of ‘ex’-changing ‘coded’ messages.
Believe me, being a very ‘insipid’ person, I only send straight-‘forward’ messages, not the ‘coded’ ones. All my efforts at decoding the message failed to yield results. Even my little knowledge of literature didn’t help much. What is literature, in comparison with the mysteries of the e-world, after all?
I was wondering, when and where did I talk of either my ‘nirvana’ or hers? And what mystical experience was it that transformed both of us, all at once, leaving the fragrance of roses in the air.
I immediately checked with my diary to see who all I had met over the past week, and in what connection. I know, you’re tempted, but don’t you say ‘eeks’ now! When nothing worked, I turned to my friend for help.
Her answer was a real damper. With a single stroke, it took away all the fragrance of roses, leaving me to my dowdy pre-occupations.
Her message simply said, “Sorry, wrong number! Not meant for u.” Do you now realize what this ‘e-Eavesdropping’ is all about? And tell me, do you have a better word for whatever happened? Don’t you tell me, you aren’t ‘e’-mused!



India under Siege


It is not just another terrorist attack. It's an attack on the sovereignty of India. It's a breach of India's territorial integrity. It's literally a war against the Indian state. A handful of intruders (I prefer to call them 'marauders') enter Mumbai through the Gateway of India, breaching the maritime boundaries, unnoticed by our coastal guard, escape the vigilant eyes of our security forces and storm inside Taj, Oberoi, Trident, Nariman House and CST, killing hundreds of unsuspecting, innocent individuals, Indians and foreigners included.
And what do we do? We sit in front of our television screens, watching the sordid drama of mounting tension and death-toll figures, listening to the sound bites of the hostages who manage to escape or flee, waiting for the siege to end, waiting for the nail-biting finish. Hasn't our life become more theatrical than theatre itself? Mumbai is not under a siege, India is.
Our Prime Minister goes on the air and in his characteristic monotone, spews forth a few predictable phrases, a few shibboleths he himself doesn't believe in (but certainly expects the people to believe in them). The news-hounds are chasing people, in search of the elusive sound-bites, competing with the rival channels to get on air just one exclusive story, just one rare sound-bite that would put them ahead of others.
Paratroopers are air-dropped on the Nariman House, NSG personnel take their positions in and around all the main buildings the 'terrorists' have laid siege to. And the bleeding, traumatized 'rescued hostages' are bundled into already choked ambulances, rushing off to the city hospitals.
Amidst all this, something lies completely torn and tattered, even irretrievably shattered...and that is the concept of India as a Nation, as a State. Somewhere, I think, we deserve all this. In a country, where the politicians are more interested in labelling 'terrorism' and less interested in dealing with it, we deserve no better. (Have you forgotten how Amar Singh and Mulayam S. Yadav pitched in for the 'Muslim terrorists' and L. K. Advani and Rajnath Singh plumped for the 'Hindu terrorists'? Who will ever tell them that the terrorists have no religion and that the only religion they practice is the religion of violence, gore and blood-letting? And who will ever explain to them the urgent need to exercise restraint in face of such crises of national importance and character?)
My suspicion is that one day, we shall wake up to this (c) rude and sordid reality that 'Muslim terror' and 'Hindu terror' are simply two sides of the same coin. One day, we shall realize that beneath the surface appearances, Muslims and Hindus are driven by a common lust for money and life that ultimately drives people into becoming 'hapless' or 'willing' accomplices in the terrorist crimes.
In a country, where people are up for sale and every human being, regardless of his status, position or power, has a price-tag around his neck, anything and everything is possible. In a country where money can buy and sell people almost as easily as some others can trade in the stock-market, terrorism is bound to prosper and flourish. It's 'crisis of credibility of the system' and the 'crisis of character of the individuals' that often combine to give birth to other more serious crises within the family, the institutions, the state and the nation.
And this is where every citizen of India has to do some soul-searching and ask himself this vital question: where have I gone wrong? In what way am I contributing either to the cause of the national security or to that of national threat. If I'm accepting bribe in my own 'small' way, am I not becoming anti-national in some unknown 'big' way? Watching the sordid drama of terrorist attack on the television is certainly not the only way of demonstrating our national concern. This would neither help us exorcise our collective demons nor establish our credentials as good citizens. This would only make die-hard voyeurs out of us or just plain and simple, charlatans,
Somewhere we need to ask ourselves: Haven't we failed miserably to perceive 'terrorism' as a national problem? Have we been able to rise above the narrow, sectarian and partisan party-lines to develop a national perspective on an issue that demands 'national consensus'? How long will we keep serving our narrow party interests and how long shall we continue to sacrifice the innocent human beings at the altar of sectarianism, communalism and terrorism. How long shall we continue to taint our souls with the blood of innocents?
Though Mumbai might ultimately find its liberation (as more than forty hours have gone by, not many are willing to lay a wager on 'when' it shall finally become a reality), you take it from me that India shall continue to remain under siege (M. J. Akbar, a seasoned journalist, had predicted that in his book titled: India Under Siege, several years ago) so long as we don't develop this national perspective.
Will we ever rise above voyeurism? Will the better sense ever prevail among our politicians and citizens, alike? Will we ever rise above narrow, sectarian interests and start thinking in terms of a 'National Government'? I bet, if we do not start thinking about it now in what may only be described 'as one of the darkest moments in the recent Indian history,' then we may soon become 'history' for the rest of the world.


Thursday, November 27, 2008

India Under Siege

It's not just another terrrorist attack. It's an attack on the sovereignity of India. It's a breach of India's territorial integrity. It's literally a war against the Indian state. A handful of intruders (I prefer to call them 'marauders') enter Mumbai through the Gateway of India, breaching the maritime boundaries, unnoticed by our coastal guard, escape the vigilant eyes of our security forces and storm inside Taj, Oberoi, Trident, Nariman House and CST, killing hundreds of unsuspecting, innocent individuals, Indians and foreigners included.
And what do we do? We sit in front of our television screens, watching the sordid drama of mounting tension and death-toll figures, listening to the sound bites of the hostages who manage to escape or flee, waiting for the siege to end, waiting for the nail-biting finish. Hasn't our life become more theatrical than theatre itself? Mumbai is not under a siege, India is.
Our Prime Minister goes on the air and in his characteristic monotone, spews forth a few predictable phrases, a few shibboleths he himself doesn't believe in (but certainly expects the people to believe in them). The news-hounds are chasing people, in search of the elusive sound-bites, competing with the rival channels to get on air just one exclusive story, just one rare sound-bite that would put them ahead of others.
Paratroopers are being air-dropped on the Nariman House, NS Guards are taking their positions in and around all the main buildings the 'terrorists' have laid siege to, and the bleeding, traumatized 'released hostages' are being bundled into already choked hospitals.
Amidst all this, something lies completely torn and tattered, even irretrievably shattered...and that is the concept of India as a Nation, as a State. Somewhere, I think, we deserve all this. In a country, where the politicians are more interested in labelling 'terrorism' and less interested in dealing with it, we deserve no better. (Have you forgotten how Amar Singh and Mulayam S. Yadav pitched in for the 'Muslim terrorists' and L. K. Advani and Rajnath Singh plumped for the 'Hindu terrorists'? Who will ever tell them that the terrorists have no religion and that the only religion they practice is the religion of violence, gore and blood-letting? And who will ever explain to them the urgent need to exercise restraint in face of such crises of national importance and character?)
My suspicion is that one day, we shall wake up to this (c) rude and sordid reality of 'Muslim terror' and 'Hindu terror' being two sides of the same coin. One day, we shall realize that beneath the surface appearances, Muslims and Hindus are driven by a common lust for money and life that ultimately drives people into becoming 'hapless' or 'willing' accomplices in the terrorist crimes. In a country, where people are up for sale and every human being, regardless of his status, position or power, has a price-tag around his neck, anything and everything is possible. In a country where money can buy and sell people almost as easily as some othes can trade in the stock-market, terrorism is bound to prosper and flourish. It's 'crisis of credibility of the system' and the 'crisis of character of the individuals' that often combine to give birth to other more serious crises within the family, the institutions, the state and the nation.
And this is where every citizen of India has to do some soul-searching and ask himself this vital question: where have I gone wrong? In what way am I contributing either to the cause of the national security or to that of national threat. If I'm accepting bribe in my own 'small' way, am I not becoming anti-national in some unknown 'big' way? Watching the sordid drama of terrorist attack on the television is certainly not the only way of demonstrating our national concern. This would neither help us exorcise our collective demons nor establish our credentials as good citizens. This would only make die-hard voyeurs out of us or just plain and simple, charlatans,
Somewhere, we need to ask ourselves: Haven't we failed miserably to perceive 'terrorism' as a national problem? Have we been able to rise above the narrow, sectarian and partisan party-lines to develop a national perspective on an issue that demands 'national consensus'? How long will we keep serving our narrow party interests and how long shall we continue to sacrifice the innocent human beings at the altar of sectarianism, communalism and terrorism. How long shall we continue to taint our souls with the blood of innocents?
Though Mumbai might ultimately find its liberation (as more than forty hours have gone by, not many are willing to lay a wager on 'when' it shall finally become a reality), you take it from me that India shall continue to remain under siege (M. J. Akbar, a seasoned journalist, had predicted that in his book titled: INDIA UNDER SIEGE, several years ago) so long as we don't develop this national perspective. Will we ever rise above voyeurism? Will the better sense ever prevail among our politicians and citizens, alike? Will we ever rise above narrow, sectarian interests and start thinking in terms of a 'National Government'? I bet, if we do not start thinking about it in what may only be described 'as one of the darkest moments in the recent Indian history,' then we may soon become 'history' for the rest of the world.

Friday, November 21, 2008

Class, Ideology and Politics of Globalization: Story of Adiga’s Success

It is after more than a decade that the prestigious Booker has come to an India-born author for a debut novel. (The Inheritance of Loss for which Kiran Desai won the Man Booker in 2005 was her second, not her debut novel). Last time, it was Arundhati Roy (1997), and this time round, it’s Aravind Adiga.
Apart from the fortuitous first letter of alphabet they both share, there is very little one is likely to find worthy of comparison between these two Booker sensations.
Arundhati Roy’s was undoubtedly a ‘rites-of-passage’ novel, whereas Adiga’s work is not even remotely connected with his personal life and/or milieu. Arundhati turned to journalism only after her resounding success as a novelist, whereas Adiga has ventured into novel-writing after many years as a working journalist with Time. Somewhere, all of this is reflected in the way he has gone about crafting his novel, The White Tiger, with a razor-thin prescience and almost clinical objectivity.
Arundhati found inspiration in her Syrian Christian background and the childhood days spent in the backwaters of Kerala, whereas Adiga descends into the dark alleys of Patna and Delhi, to create a story of India, at once, disturbing and fascinating. No wonder, Michael Portillo, the head of the Booker jury, went so far as to say that Adiga’s novel had literally ‘pulled his socks off.’
While many people, including the other aspirants, are busy adjusting their socks and shoes, Adiga is well on his way to become the latest literary icon. Newspapers are vying with each other to fill their columns with articles on and interviews with him; while the reviewers are getting edgier in their bid to canonize him.
Perhaps, he is zealously being hounded by the banks, too, both Indian and American (ever since they heard him say that he was looking for one) to lure him into opening an account with his prize money of 50,000 pounds.
Of course, the gaze of his publishers, like that of the eternal ‘sensex- watchers,’ is constantly riveted on to the soaring sales figures, both in India and abroad. After all, these are some of the ‘professional hazards’ of becoming famous overnight and Adiga, too, must be getting used to his share under the sun.
In the midst of all this whirling confusion, it’s important to look beyond the glare of publicity and ask some serious questions. We must ask ourselves, for instance, what kind of future does this Booker augur, not only for the author (a purely speculative enterprise!) but for Indian fiction in general, and/or Indian English fiction in particular?
We must also ask ourselves: Is Adiga charting a new territory or breaking fresh ground in this novel, something that has never been explored before? Or is he simply returning to the well-trodden, over-beaten path that so many of his predecessors, both in Indian English and regional languages, have traversed already?
Beyond that, one may also go into the question of what kind of impact overvaluation of Man Booker (media suddenly goes into an overdrive each time this award is announced, hailing it as a ‘global event’) is likely to have upon the growth potential of Indian fiction, both in English and regional languages?
It is being argued by a good number of reviewers/media critics of The White Tiger that its main strength is that it puts the question of ‘class’ back on our ‘literary plate.’ While some would have us believe that this is where the novelty or originality of Adiga’s novel lies, others are willing to push the point further by claiming that the question of ‘class’ has surfaced in our literary imagination, perhaps, the first time ever.
Someone is busy comparing the novel to ‘the rooster coop,’ about which Adiga’s protagonist says, “(it’s) the greatest thing to come out of this country in the ten thousand years of its history.” Doesn’t this analogy sound somewhat like Rushdie’s “chutnification of history”? And so, doesn’t it then remind us of his notorious comment on ‘poverty of Indian fiction,’ too? A media-watcher has actually said that “The book gives expression to the underclass anger, which the privileged ignore.”
Undoubtedly, such preposterous claims may not actually stand the scrutiny of history. In presence of history and its multiple burdens, such claims begin to fall apart sooner than we expect them to. For as long as one can remember, Indian English fiction has prospered, thanks to the exclusive patronage of the middle-classes, and enjoyed an equally exclusive affiliation with the bourgeois ideology, too. This was partially so, owing to the fact that novel has everywhere been regarded as a genre, closely tied to the apron-strings of the bourgeoisie.
Rarely do we come across such avant-garde novelists as Mulk Raj Anand, who in Untouchable (1935), Coolie (1936) and The Village (1939) portray the downtrodden and rural poor with both compassion and sympathy. Most of these novels are dictated by an egregious impulse to overturn the bourgeois ideology, so that fictional space for the lower classes or the marginalized groups could effectively be mapped out.
In a way, it was the residual effect of the Marxist ideology and its strong hold over Indian literary imagination that had initially propelled it towards the question of ‘class’ and/or ‘ideology’.
As far as Indian fiction in regional languages is concerned, this process started somewhere in early 1930s. That’s when ‘the progressive movement’ got off to a resounding start, slowly seeping through different regions of India, luring scores of writers into its fold. Much before this question could leap into Indian English fiction, Munshi Prem Chand, Phaneshwar Nath Renu. (the pioneer of Anchalik Upanayas in Hindi) and several others had already projected it through their fiction. One is reminded of Prem Chand’s Kafan and several similar stories that deal with the plight or sufferings of the landless peasants in a predominantly feudal Indian society.
This was the phase of ‘critical realism,’ and the portrayals of the peasants, workers and/or the poorer sections of society were largely matters of personal conviction, ideological preference, and cultural necessity (this being the high-mark of ‘nationalism’). In the context of Punjabi fiction, however, the phase of progressive writing started around 1950s, with the novels of Sant Singh Sekhon, Narinder Pal Singh and Amrita Pritam.
It’s another matter that the real concern with the twin questions of ‘class’ and ‘ideology’ didn’t enter the lexicon of Punjabi fiction until Gurdial Singh. It was in his person that Punjabi fiction acquired a true representative, a forceful, genuine advocate of the subaltern and the oppressed. Marhi Da Deeva (The Last Flicker), published way back in 1964, was hailed as a landmark novel precisely because it sought to push the socially and economically challenged common man to the centre-stage of fiction. By doing so, he not only energized Punjabi fiction but also paved the way for re-examining the history of Punjabi society and culture from below.
Those times were different, and so were the impulses behind such fiction. Such a fiction was mainly the outcome of a society in the throes of change and transition, poised delicately between the pulls and counter-pulls of tradition and modernity. The overarching context of socialism, within such stories often flourished, has now long ceased to exist, both as a seductive idea and impinging reality.
It was the growing awareness of human dignity, freedom and personal worth coupled with a political consciousness generated by Nehruvian socialism that ultimately brought Dalit writing to the fore in 1960s. And it was in Dalit writing that ‘class’ and ‘caste’ entered into an entirely new sociological equation, perhaps, the first time ever. Though Dalit writing is known to have flourished in other Indian languages, too, yet it was Marathi language and culture that became its nodal epicentre.
Unlike other novelists, such as Anand or Munshi Prem Chand, who chose to focus on the problems of the marginalized, despite being middle-class themselves, it’s the inwardness and exclusiveness of Dalit writing that makes it truly pungent, even distinctively authentic.
Such writing was an attempt to reclaim Dalits’ true voice and idiom, a form of articulation that enabled them to represent themselves, rather than being represented by the ‘other,’ as had happened earlier. No wonder, it was in this form of writing that the ‘subaltern’ truly began to rip apart the facetious, bourgeois logic of Gayatri Spivak’s rhetorical question, “Can the Subaltern Speak?”
In this respect, one may think of the significant contributions of Baburao Bagul, Daya Pawar, Namdeo Dhasal in Marathi, Om Parkash Balmiki in Hindi and Prem Gorki in Punjabi. All of these are vibrant, strong and assertive voices, which have not only challenged the limits of societal and political conventions, but also the literary and cultural norms.
Moreover, they have created new literary landscapes, even aesthetics that lie beyond the ken of our middle-class sensibility, much in the manner Balzac, Maupassant and Charles Baudelaire had done in the middle of 19th century. That’s how Dalit writers have managed to re-inscribe the rules of what it means to be human in an unequal, unjust, exploitative and repressive world.
Significantly, most of these voices have emerged in the regional languages, not in English. One may ponder over this question, however, why Indian English fiction chooses to construct its sociology differently from the other Indian languages?
Why has it not always dealt with the issues and problems that perennially engage writers in the regional languages? Could it have something to do with its inherent dominant ideology per se; or its peripheral engagement with Indian social reality, or its nagging anxiety to target an audience out there in the West?
It is against this backdrop that Adiga’s novel must necessarily be seen or read. For he certainly constructs the sociology of his novel very differently from the way it is being done by most of his contemporaries, especially in the Indian languages. But the question is, could there be a hidden agenda or a definite politics behind it?
Of course, it is for the readers to ponder some of these questions, as they pore over the pages of The White Tiger. But while doing so, they must remember that we, in Indian English fiction, are yet to witness the kind of literary movement supporting the ‘working class ideology’ that England saw in the Post-War period.
Even at the risk of sounding presumptuous, let me say that with all its hype and hoopla, I don’t expect Adiga’s novel to trigger off one such movement at this stage, now. If we do understand the history of Indian English fiction, we’d know that it hardly ever had a perceptible, identifiable movement, only passing trends that come and go.
We have writers, who either plough their lonely furrows or just keep up with the Joneses, doing what is trendy or t(r)opical. Perhaps, we aren’t really as fortunate as some other cultures that have had the benefit of such thinkers as Walter Benjamin, Georg Lukas, Raymond Williams or Frederic Jameson. Critics of such stature alone could have lent credibility to our literary causes, turning them into self-sustaining, literary movements.
In 1960s, if Richard Hoggart, Raymond Williams and several others were around to theorize on the working-class culture; John Osborne, Arnold Wesker and Alan Bennett, too, were there to inscribe this culture in their works. In our context, apart from Dalit writing, which definitely did evolve into a full-scale literary movement, with its own historical and political logistics, our literary concerns with the ‘working class ideology’ have remained, at best, only perfunctory, and, at worst, fitfully sporadic. .
Now, this is where Adiga’s story gains its literary and historical edge. He has chosen to focus his attention upon the Marxist notions of ‘class’ and ‘ideology’ in an era of hard-core globalization. This is where the ‘politics of globalization’ or that of the insidious market forces essentially takes over. To some of us, the magical sales-figures may appear far more seductive than the actual content of the novel. Besides, let us not delude ourselves into thinking that Adiga’s novel sets out to critique the invasive forces of globalization. Quite simply, he is legitimizing their pervasive sweep, power and influence.
Does it not speak for the vicious-hold of these forces over a common man’s imagination that even a small-time driver Makhan Lal, born and brought up in Bihar (the underbelly of India), develops a strong yearning to participate, even capture this mirage of success and glory they prop up?
That he happens to nurture this dream in the times of ‘global meltdown’ is only one of the several ironies this novel is tempered with. Variations apart, Makhan Lal’s story throws us back to the dark days of the ‘Great Depression,’ reminiscent of Fitzgerald’s famous novel The Great Gatsby.
However, the final answer to all the queries is provided by the symbolism of the title itself. It nudges us into believing that regardless of how we choose to look at Indian reality, as an area of darkness (with its definite resonance of Naipaul’s anti-India bias) or as a continent of light (not ‘Circe’ as Nirad Babu saw it), everyone, including Makhan Lal, simply wants to ride this ‘white tiger’ called ‘globalization.’
And the only rules for riding this tiger are that there aren’t any rules. This tiger is ‘white’ (with all its racial and hegemonic undertones) precisely because it won’t allow us any longer to retain our distinct cultural identity, stripes and all.
In context of the recent ‘global meltdown’ (which coincided with the publication of the novel, but certainly pre-dates its conception) this ‘whiteness’ acquires a totally new signification. This ‘tiger’ has been as ruthlessly bleached as the American economy, thanks to its unreliable financial institutions and wayward ‘sub-prime borrowers.’
Our altered economic realities lend to Adiga’s novel a sense of urgency, even poignant topicality and immediacy. The extent to which Makhan Lal shows a typical picaro’s lack of concern for ethical norms in his search for personal success, this novel almost ends up valorizing the dubious ethics of capitalism that sustains itself on the predatory principle of ‘foul is fair and fair is foul’
And why ever not, when it offers such an alluring, albeit deceptive, promise of upward social, economic mobility?
For all the disclaimers of Adiga, this novel fails to become “a potent instrument of social dissent and protest,” and remains out-and-out status-quoist. One really wonders what is it that Adiga is actually protesting against when his complicity with the ‘politics of globalization’ is near total.
For Adiga, globalization is not so much of an exclusionary choice as the only choice available to most of us, even those residing on the periphery or in the backwaters of India.
Only if one were to read this novel along with the recently released Global Human Index (which paints a hopelessly grim picture of rural India, where 47% of all Indian children suffer from severe malnutrition, and three fourths of our population still survives on an income of Rs.25 a day, if you please!) would the complete picture of contemporary India emerge before our eyes!
And needless to say, such a realization makes this novel, truly an over-hyped, ‘celebration’ as well as ‘lamentation’ of our times. Of course, the paradoxes never cease to surprise us.
Whoever said that India is a land of gloomy, not groovy, paradoxes, perhaps knew it better than most of us!

(Note: Edited version of this commissioned article was published in THE HINDUSTAN TIMES , October 26, 2008)

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The writer is Professor of English at Panjab University, Chandigarh and can be contacted at rananayar@gmail.com

Sunday, November 16, 2008

Dear Friends
You'll find here the unedited version of a middle I published in The Tribune last month. The newpapers are always short of space. And they keep telling you to reduce the length of your piece. That is, if at all they accept it in the first place (which is hard enough, anyway). Sometimes, they give you the unkindest cut of all by chopping off your piece rather arbirtarily. And you know, how possesssive all the members of our tribe are about their 'writing.' Just one word out of place is enough to make us start tearing our hair off. So, putting these unedited versions on the blog is the only way we know of indulging our vanity. I suppose, it's your turn now to indulge yours by reading it (or not reading it!).
Penny Wise, Pound Foolish
So goes a popular adage. I gathered so many of these all along the way, as I grew up in the backwaters of a Punjab village. It was our Class VI mathematics teacher, perhaps, who drilled the importance of ‘savings’ into our thick little heads, saying, “A penny saved is a penny earned.”
Often, as he uttered these words, he’d also tug at his trousers, slipping over his protruding belly, with the sudden jerk of his elbows. His characteristic habit of fumbling into his over-bloated pockets as he did so, made us suspect that he was feeling crisp, currency notes inside. Looking back, I now realize that frayed cuffs and collars of his shirts had quite a different story to tell, though.
Our Class VIII English teacher, who preferred to sport a pint-sized dhoti and a half-sleeved khadi kurta, was very fond of repeating “Always cut your coat according to your cloth.” All of us knew that his father was a Gandhian, and had taken part in the freedom struggle, too. Occasionally, the boys laughed up their sleeves, wondering if he had lost his only ‘coat’ to the ‘greed’ of an Englishman or the desperate ‘need’ of a street-beggar.
God be thanked, those days, ‘economics’ wasn’t taught in schools. In my case, though, it wouldn’t have made much of a difference, even it had been. All my efforts in college to wrestle with knotty problems of ‘economics’ (something I was forced to opt for) invariably came to naught.
The intricacies of both the ‘macro’ and ‘micro’ continued to elude my naive mind. And so did the laws of taxation or the hard-to-grasp theories of ‘income and expenditure.’ Despite all the inputs, the curve of my economic understanding never showed an upward, bullish trend, receding instead like the laws of diminishing marginal utility.
Of all the nerve-wracking lessons in undergraduate economics, perhaps, the only ones I still remember are the harrowing tales of how we had failed the Indian poor and poverty after independence, or more sordid ones of how the British had looted us in the pre-independence era.
And yet, all this and so much more had failed to impress upon me the virtues of an over-glorified Indian habit of ‘savings,’ which my teachers, too, had tried so desperately to instill in me. My first teaching assignment took me to Shimla, a pretty expensive town in the early 80s. Worse still, I was expected to survive on what my MBA daughter now describes as ‘a ridiculously small salary of a thousand odd or so.’
The going was pretty tough. In the first month itself, I ran into rough weather. Fortunately, a colleague of mine, whom I had befriended in good time, played the ‘World Bank’ and bailed me out by offering a liberal loan of two hundred or so. Then on, I started borrowing from him frequently, almost as if it was my birthright to borrow, and his to lend.
Into the third month, he bolted, saying that if he continued to help me through, I’d perhaps never learn the much needed lesson in self-reliance. To convince me of his theory, he narrated how in the early 70s, when he had just started out on a salary of less than five hundred, he lived within his frugal means, often cutting down on essentials like ‘newspapers’ and ‘books,’ too.
Reading of the ‘global meltdown’ recently brought back memories of another era, when money was still paper, not plastic; when the ‘savings’ were still sacred; and the ‘sub-prime borrowings’ hadn’t yet begun to squeeze us.
You may say, the times have changed, but have they? The common people continue to look skywards, as they always have done since time immemorial.
The only difference is that earlier they watched the ‘vagaries of weather;’ but now they observe the ‘swings of sensex.’
Why ever not? After all, this ‘sensex,’ too moves as unpredictably as the good old ‘wheel of fortune’ once did. No?
By Rana Nayar




Penny Wise, Pound Foolish

Dear Friends

You'll find here the unedited version of the middle I published in The Tribune last month. Somehow, the newspapers are always short of space. As a result, the meaty sections of the write-up often get excised. The writers are known to be quite possessive about their writing.

But they have no choice but to submit to the arbitrary editorial cuts. The only other option is to start your own blog (the way I have done) and inflict your write-up twice upon the readers.

Well, it's also being done for another reason. Often the readers of the blog and that of the newspaper(s) live in two separate worlds.



Here is the unedited version for your eyes:

So goes a popular adage. I gathered so many of these all along the way, as I grew up in the backwaters of a Punjab village. It was our Class VI mathematics teacher, perhaps, who drilled the importance of ‘savings’ into our thick little heads, saying, “A penny saved is a penny earned.”
Often, as he uttered these words, he’d also tug at his trousers, slipping over his protruding belly, with the sudden jerk of his elbows. His characteristic habit of fumbling into his over-bloated pockets as he did so, made us suspect that he was feeling crisp, currency notes inside. Looking back, I now realize that frayed cuffs and collars of his shirts had quite a different story to tell, though.
Our Class VIII English teacher, who preferred to sport a pint-sized dhoti and a half-sleeved khadi kurta, was very fond of repeating “Always cut your coat according to your cloth.” All of us knew that his father was a Gandhian, and had taken part in the freedom struggle, too. Occasionally, the boys laughed up their sleeves, wondering if he had lost his only ‘coat’ to the ‘greed’ of an Englishman or the desperate ‘need’ of a street-beggar.
God be thanked, those days, ‘economics’ wasn’t taught in schools. In my case, though, it wouldn’t have made much of a difference, even it had been. All my efforts in college to wrestle with knotty problems of ‘economics’ (something I was forced to opt for) invariably came to naught.
The intricacies of both the ‘macro’ and ‘micro’ continued to elude my naive mind. And so did the laws of taxation or the hard-to-grasp theories of ‘income and expenditure.’ Despite all the inputs, the curve of my economic understanding never showed an upward, bullish trend, receding instead like the laws of diminishing marginal utility.
Of all the nerve-wracking lessons in undergraduate economics, perhaps, the only ones I still remember are the harrowing tales of how we had failed the Indian poor and poverty after independence, or more sordid ones of how the British had looted us in the pre-independence era.
And yet, all this and so much more had failed to impress upon me the virtues of an over-glorified Indian habit of ‘savings,’ which my teachers, too, had tried so desperately to instill in me. My first teaching assignment took me to Shimla, a pretty expensive town in the early 80s. Worse still, I was expected to survive on what my MBA daughter now describes as ‘a ridiculously small salary of a thousand odd or so.’
The going was pretty tough. In the first month itself, I ran into rough weather. Fortunately, a colleague of mine, whom I had befriended in good time, played the ‘World Bank’ and bailed me out by offering a liberal loan of two hundred or so. Then on, I started borrowing from him frequently, almost as if it was my birthright to borrow, and his to lend.
Into the third month, he bolted, saying that if he continued to help me through, I’d perhaps never learn the much needed lesson in self-reliance. To convince me of his theory, he narrated how in the early 70s, when he had just started out on a salary of less than five hundred, he lived within his frugal means, often cutting down on essentials like ‘newspapers’ and ‘books,’ too.
Reading of the ‘global meltdown’ recently brought back memories of another era, when money was still paper, not plastic; when the ‘savings’ were still sacred; and the ‘sub-prime borrowings’ hadn’t yet begun to squeeze us.
You may say, the times have changed, but have they? The common people continue to look skywards, as they always have done since time immemorial.
The only difference is that earlier they watched the ‘vagaries of weather;’ but now they observe the ‘swings of sensex.’
Why ever not? After all, this ‘sensex,’ too moves as unpredictably as the good old ‘wheel of fortune’ once did. No?
By Rana Nayar



Friday, November 7, 2008

Raj Thackery & His (Maha)rastrian Pride

It appears that Raj Thackery has raised this new bogey of (Maha) rastrian pride to steal a march over Uddhav in the ongoing war of succession raging between the two. The internal wranglings of Raj and Uddhav are proving to be too costly for the rest of the country. While each one of them is trying to outdo the other in his effort to win friends and influence voters, the whole concept of India as a nation lies in shreds around Bal Thackery's feet. But is he doing anything, except yawn lazily over it?
After the linguistic division of the states, what are we trying to achieve now? Demanding that all the non-Maharastrians be thrown out of Maharastra is certainly no way of creating a (Maha) rastra. Over the years, Mumbai has gained reputation as a truly cosmopolitan city. Repeated acts of terrorism and subsequent communal riots have already taken toll of this cosmopolitanism.
What are we waiting to do now? Dump the concept of Mumbai along with its long, chequered history into the Indian Ocean? Mumbai came into existence with several little islands coming together. Do we now wish to go back and restore status quo ante? Let's not allow such narrow, provincial forces to prevail. Let us find ways of getting rid of all those politicians who only serve their own petty ends at our cost. Let's not allow ourselves to be guided by their false rhetoric and be eager to shed each other's blood. For their greed knows no limit, and no amount of human blood shall satiate their insatiable lust for it.
It's time we stopped following these "agents of devil" and started thinking where our redemption lies. It lies in protecting each other, in developing a sense of brotherhood and in marching together towards a NewIndia. Let's not sleep in darkness but wake into light.
Hey Indians! Shed your hatred, not your blood; shed your prejudices, not your compassion; shed your so-called 'leaders,' not your ability to lead. India, the time is now ripe for you to take over. Down with this defunct, decadent and rotten 'leadership.'

Monday, November 3, 2008

RTI Act & Common People

RTI Act is a legislative measure with radical, rather revolutionary, potential. For the first time, you and I can peep into the official files and know why the bureaucrats and politicians have taken the kind of decisions they have. It's our opportunity to look beyond the iron-curtain and penetrate the layers of Official Secrecy Act (1923). Now you can have as much transparency as you wish to have. Democracy is no longer the prerogative of the more privileged or the less educated. RTI Act has truly introduced an element of public accountability into our system. But friends, don't expect it to work like a magic wand. It's an instrument of power in the hands of well-meaning people and can actually help us move towards the laudable goal of establishing a civil society (right now, we are far from being one. Aren't we?). But at the same time, it could also become a subversive tool of arm-twisting and subtle manipulation of the powerful, even power-brokering in the hands of those who only know how best to serve their own selfish ends. So, let's use this great tool of empowerment of common people in the service of the common people and furthering social causes, thus triggering off a tiny revolution in our decadent system, as and when and wherever we can. Let's not use it to further our own petty ends, but only to create greater public accountability and transparency into our system. Without this, democracy is nothing more than a pack of 'demons' 'crazy' for 'power,' which has been the story of our nascent democracy since Independence.