by Shobhaa De
As we strenuously argued about our country's countless merits and virtues, a few protesting voices ruined the party by bringing up the ‘p’-word (poverty).
Everyone bristled—here we were, the well-heeled and the well-educated, grandly discussing our country's newly-acquired halo—how dare anybody tarnish it? An articulate ‘guru’ spoke in an indeterminate American/Telugu accent about exporting our spiritualism and yoga to the West. Like he'd just discovered the next big thing after antibiotics. Uncomfortable questions from the audience regarding the plight of the poor farmers, the lack of education, the denial of basic rights, the absence of electricity, drinking water and sanitation in large tracts of the same country were stonewalled by all. It was hosannahs that we were programmed to hear. Only hosannahs, without pauses for breath or reality checks in place. We heaped praise on ourselves shamelessly, and the small voices of dissent from the audience were effectively silenced by cocky anchors in smart grey suits. Yes, I was part of the pantomime and, while it lasted, it was fun.
Driving back, I thought of all the things I could have said, should have said… the standard regrets post any TV show, where the best comebacks and repartees do the vanishing act when the cameras are rolling and vividly spring to mind micro-seconds after wrap-up.
As I lay awake that night, troubled by my own lacklustre performance, I thought how absurd the whole thing was. Which ‘India’ were we talking about, anyway? There are thousands and thousands of Indias—each one as valid as the other. Each one as complete or incomplete, too. The India we were lauding forms but a microcosm of this vast land. It is the India of the elite, the privileged, the affluent. The only India we want the rest of the world to see and acknowledge, because we are so damned ashamed of the other. Ashamed and ignorant. We want to carefully crop out all those unflattering, ugly details that spoil the picture. Like when my husband and I got a photo-studio to cut out intrusive images of unattractive overweight tourists, spoiling the pretty frame of the two of us sitting on the famous ‘love bench’ in front of the Taj Mahal.
Which ‘India’ were we talking about, anyway? There are thousands of Indias
That was it—I got my answer. All of us on those panels you listen to at prime time are doing just that—Photo-Shopping India, cutting out all that displeases us and highlighting the best parts. Like a Vogue photo shoot for the prestigious X'mas issue, where a supermodel's smallest flaws are taken care of by experts in the art department. In a way, it is a sweet and naïve attempt on our part. We genuinely want India to look pretty—no, gorgeous—after decades of negative imaging in the international press. Nothing wrong with that. Except for the danger inherent in our cheesy sentimentality—we are actually air-brushing all that we don't wish to acknowledge. Every flaw, every wart, every pimple, is carefully touched up. Now, that's really a short-sighted strategy. It's like a flat-chested starlet letting her falsies fall out mid-dance. Here we are, gloating about how great we look on world-screens, when in reality we are camouflaging the fact that we have dirty, hairy armpits and much else that's pretty ugh about us.
If we don't stop this game of ‘Let's Pretend We Are Perfect’, we are going to end up with our feet stuck in quicksand. An act, no matter how clever it is, remains an act. A trick that can't be sustained over a long period of time. People see though the charade—and laugh! Do we want the world to laugh at us, two years… five years… ten years down the line? Think about it.
*
As I hope all our newly-minted billionaires recognized by the Forbes' team will do each time they visit the Temple of Greed at Davos. What must their counterparts think, as our tycoons arrive in spiffy corporate jets, their wives wearing floor-length mink coats and sporting serious diamonds? Do those jaded European/American business legends look at our in-your-face flash and exchange knowing looks? Or do they see opportunity? Am I being defensive or is the truth even worse? Does India need more Narayanmurthys or should we clone Brothers Ambani? The former presents a stark contrast, preferring to flaunt his man-of-the-masses story, insisting he cleans his own toilet and sweeps his house, even though he's ranked amongst the richest men in the world, with Infosys being seen as a flag-bearer for India's IT fairytale.
On the other hand, Brothers Ambani live in a palatial residence not far from where I stay. It's official: they are the richest Indians. They live rich. As they are expected to. The all-important ‘wow’ factor hits you in the driveway itself and extends well into the areas which are reserved for entertaining guests—from the dean of Stanford to Bill Clinton.You are made aware in no uncertain terms that you are in a rich man's home—a very rich man's. Every detail underlines that—from the dozens of liveried staff, to the opulence of the private movie theatre, apart from the priceless art on the walls and the perfectly tended tropical garden on the terrace. Even jaded foreign guests gasp at the opulence. Especially first-timers to India. ‘Gosh… we could never have imagined…’ they trail off. Guess what? Neither could we! The Ambani success story is an extraordinary one by any standards. They are the Rockefellers of India—let's face it. Admirers call them gutsy. Critics prefer ‘ruthless’. Either way, the Ambanis have rewritten the rules. Business will never be the same again.
So… which of these billionaires represents the New India? Narayanmurthy, with his deliberate downplaying of personal wealth, his unassuming mannerisms and unremarkable appearance? Or the Ambani style that reeks of excess? How should this India represent itself at world fora of the high-profile kind? Should the attractive ladies of these billionaires dress down for the occasion, go easy on the bling? Or say ‘to hell with it’, and dazzle as only they can? Should the men cling on to the old stereotypes of Gandhian restraint, and stick to khadi bandgalas? (‘Be gone, ye hypocrites! Your time is long over.’ ) Or join their wives and indulge in an over-the-top display of serious wealth? Is there a via media? Will those other international captains of industry in bespoke suits secretly snigger at our attempts at one-up-man-ship? Or will they sit back and say, ‘All right! Those Indian buggers have done it—let's hand it to them.’
*
My husband and I were invited to spend a few days in St Moritz. We jumped at the chance, since it's the sort of destination we wouldn't go out of our way to discover. We don't ski. And we don't gamble. There's nothing much else to do in this divinely decadent resort town, unless you enjoy deer-hunting or hiking in the Alps. We decided to snoop around instead, especially since we were told there was a gigantic chateau under construction in the poshest area overlooking the lake St Moritz and it belonged to ‘some Indian’. We knew it was Laxmi Mittal's grand Alpine residence and expressed our wish to drive by and take a look. But more than merely clicking touristy pix of the property, I was interested in knowing the residents' perceptions on the brown-skinned ‘intruder’ in their midst. Was he welcome in the tiny, closed society that attracted the likes of Agnelli and the Monaco royals? Surprisingly enough, Mittal got a clean chit—his money was more than welcome. And he had worked his famous charm on the villagers himself by hanging around at the world-famous whisky bar and chatting informally with whosoever approached him. He'd gone about acquiring his dream home in the right way, without alienating neighbours. Oh… his noisy parties? Well… with DJs from London playing Bollywood tracks and tandoori food arriving over Alpine highways by the truckloads to feed his 500-strong celebrity guests… it was enough to impress even the blasé St Moritz regulars!
Vicariously pleased by the recognition accorded to ‘one of us’, we didn't stop to ask ourselves just how much of a bonafide Indian Mittal actually is. Of course, he's of Indian origin, but he lives and works out of London. His business interests cover the world, but so far, he has yet to bring his money to India. And yet, we want to claim him as a son of the soil, and continue to heap national honours on the man whose own ambition seems to begin and end with a peerage. With reports of a hefty donation to Britain's Labour Party, Mittal appears to want to become a Lord shortly. Well, good for him. Perhaps that honour will
thrill us enough to bestow half-a-dozen other awards on an absentee Indian. Such is our eagerness to ‘own’ successful Indians, sometimes against their will.
For years, we've gone on and on about ‘aapro Zubin’, sounding sickeningly foolish in the bargain. Zubin Mehta is definitely one of the world's greatest conductors, and he enjoys going native when he comes to India once every few years. But he has lived overseas for most of his life, is married to an American actress, and has carved out a spectacular niche for myself in his chosen field. Yet, each time he flies in, the media goes crazy covering his every move, and acting altogether proprietorial about the man. Of course, he's Parsee (born one), and of course he loves India. Why shouldn't he? Look at how passionately India loves him! Such a pity that we don't reserve even half the adulation Zubin gets for indigenous musicians in our backyard, who are also world-famous and as successful— people like Hari Prasad Chaurasia or Bhimsen Joshi. Why? Because they remain as desi as desi ghee. They dress Indian, talk Indian, walk Indian, eat Indian (paan, horror of horrors!), think Indian, feel Indian.
How uncool!
*
Back to the same annoying, frustrating question: Who is the real Indian here and which the real India? Mahesh Bhatt is one person who can be counted on to provoke, and frequently provide, a great take on the subject. We were together on a panel discussion in which Bhatt came up with an interesting perspective on professional ethics involving an impoverished boatman. Bhatt got talking to this person who narrated the story of his life—three generations before him had done exactly what he was doing: they ferried people from one shore to the other. Bhatt pointed to an impressive bridge that was being built, spanning the river. ‘What will you do once the bridge is ready… how will you earn a livelihood?’ The boatman shook his head and replied, ‘I don't know what I'll do… but so long as the bridge helps more people and makes it easier for them to get to the other shore, it's a good thing.’ His story was met with thunderous applause—it had struck a chord in the audience. Everybody could relate to it with absolute ease. It made everyone comfortable knowing that our great Indian values were intact… at least, in some small hamlet in the back of beyond.
The irony of the situation didn't strike anybody—how paradoxical it was for us to be praising the boatman's unselfish declaration. How noble the man appeared. And so Indian! What did that make Bhatt, me and the others? Un-Indian? Selfish? Westernized? I guess so.
When we talk carelessly and foolishly about our great Indian values, what exactly are we referring to? I think I have some idea. We love the underdog. We worship failure and loss. We adore martyrs. And we glorify austerity… almost as much as we applaud sacrifice. God! I hate that word. I've heard it often in my life, and have grown to detest its implications in our day-to-day interactions. ‘Unless you sacrifice something, you won't understand the value of it…’ Says who? ‘Unless you give up something for the good of the family/community/country, you'll never appreciate it.’ ‘As a wife/mother/daughter/sister, you must sacrifice a few things. After all, you're a woman…’ ‘Our country will never progress unless more people learn the meaning of the word “sacrifice”.’ ‘The more you sacrifice, the more you get.’ ‘Our leaders sacrificed so much, so that our country could be free…’ ‘Mothers should never think of themselves—mothers must sacrifice.’ ‘Our culture is about sacrifice—look at Sita… look at other mythological characters… everybody sacrificed…’ Ugh! Ugh! Ugh! Sacrifice has become such an overused word, it is enough to convert the most giving Indian into a self-seeking monster. ‘I sacrifice… therefore, I am… an Indian,’ could well be our motto. And it impresses nobody.
Right now, the mood in India is anything but sacrificial. Young people think exclusively about themselves, their interests, their future. Why not? That is the prerogative of youth. If they don't focus on themselves, how will they compete… get anywhere? And yet, the whole idea of sacrifice is still so strong, that across campuses, the person who preaches the virtues of sacrifice and tinsel patriotism gets the vote. The double standards and contradictions don't seem to bother anyone. Keeping their killer-instincts intact, these students clap enthusiastically when that dreadful word ‘sacrifice’ is uttered.
Traditional Indian Values—is another bogus phrase that nobody seems to be able to define. What exactly are these mysterious ‘values’ and how different are they from the world's? We talk about respecting our elders, respecting family members, respecting authority, respecting teachers, respecting spiritual leaders, and so on. And on. But show me one culture, one society, that doesn't say exactly the same thing! Are Inuits averse to respecting their elders? Do the Japanese not respect community leaders? Would Australians harm members of their family on purpose? Come The fact of the matter is that our society places an absurd premium on displaying this respect for the benefit of others, regardless of whether the governing sentiment is genuine or not. So long as one goes through the motions, it's fine… we are keeping up our great values. Three cheers!
What exactly are these mysterious ‘values’ and how different are they from the world's?
The same packaged ‘respect’ is generally the centrepiece in a majority of popular Hindi films—the moment youngsters (please ignore the biological age of the actors) ‘misbehave’ with their elders, audiences boo and start to tch, tch. The big lesson in Baghban was about a foster son doing what the nasty, loutish, flesh-and-blood offspring miserably failed to—look after ageing parents and show them adequate respect. With that, Salman Khan, the faux son, walked away with all the applause. Perhaps the film was intended as a wake-up call or a timely warning to the thirty-somethings of our Bharat Mahaan—neglect your old folks at your own peril, for in our culture, you'll be committing the biggest sin.
Not too many professionals in the fast track seem to have heeded the note of caution or even seen the film. There is currently a huge demand for Old Age Homes— it's perceived as a felt market need and those who provide a comfortable alternative at a good price will strike gold. In Mumbai, a canny politician and social worker called Pramod Navalkar (who died recently) came up with the idea of a ‘Naana-Naani’ park in one corner of the crowded Chowpatty Beach in central Mumbai. He'd seen how marginalized the older generation had become, with no physical space to call their own, and certainly no privileges. Pramod once told me, during a Republic Day march he organized for the elderly who were regulars at the park, that most of those senior citizens, participating so enthusiastically in a flag-hoisting ceremony inside ‘their’ park, were denied access even to the morning newspapers (and the loo) by their sons, daughters-in-law and grandkids and told to wait their turn patiently since they had ‘nothing to do, anyway…’ Daily humiliations had become routine—can't use the phone, can't ask for tea or food when hungry, can't occupy any chair needed by someone more active, can't invite visitors in, can't use the bathroom till the others were done, can't watch TV without prior permission and can't join in a conversation till asked to do so. If that sounded cruel and against Indian values—it certainly was so.
But… Pramod shook his head sadly and said, ‘Times have changed… nobody wants old people these days… the world belongs to the youth…’ At his pocket-sized park, all the oldie-goldies who hobbled across, often walking over two kilometres to get there, found companionship, newspapers, tea and sympathy, too! So successful was this model, that it was rapidly duplicated and funding began to trickle in. Kind-hearted strangers offered weekend trips, outings, picnics, snacks, movie dates, even fun events like talent contests and fashion shows. But the fact that Navalkar had forseen such a scenario is in itself rather terrifying. There was a time, not more than thirty years ago, when sons and their families assumed it was their duty to look after aged parents. Today, they frantically search the Net for services and accommodation, preferably at a distant hill-station, where visits are limited to once a month, if that.
Old isn't gold
Most teenagers have little or no contact with their grandparents. The off
icial excuse is ‘Where's the time, yaar? We have our studies, tuitions, sports, movies, TV…’ This is why countless NGOs have sprung up during the last decade addressing the physical and emotional needs of deserted senior citizens. Scarier still are the physical threats these vulnerable old people face, without any family to look after them. Newspapers are filled with grisly stories of eighty-year-old widows who have been brutally murdered in their own beds, often over ugly property disputes. (‘How much longer do I have to wait for this old woman to die…? I need the flat for my own family…’) There was a sad case of a slain widow, whose son lived in the very next building, but had not bothered to visit his mother for over two years! When asked why, by the press, he replied indifferently, ‘Senior citizens must learn to look after themselves… I have my own life to handle.’ This sort of a brazen admission would've been considered unspeakably cruel in the ‘old India’. Today, his words found many takers, as a poll demonstrated. ‘It's true… we feel bad… but that's life,’ a vast majority declared, much to the shock of the older generation.
It will take a while to get used to such callousness. But I'm not willing to take the chance. I'm making sure I'll never find myself in such helpless circumstances, by taking care of my hard-earned finances. I have informed my children of this well in advance, so they needn't be filled with dread at the prospect of having to take care of me down the line. These were issues one could take for granted in the past.
‘It's all about loving your family,’ Karan Johar's big movie hit Kabhi Khushi, Kabhie Gham declared, as audiences wept buckets across the country and overseas! The film had obviously tapped into our worst fears about ourselves—we were slowly but surely turning into a selfish, hard and mercenary nation, motivated solely by personal goals and little beyond. Just like the Wicked West where children were virtually thrown out of the family home at the age of eighteen, and expected to fend for themselves, financially and psychologically. We used to say smugly, ‘No wonder they have no love for their parents… look at how parents treat them.
