by Shobhaa De
We have native cunning combined with a sound education. It is a pretty lethal combination that can give us a special edge. What we are doing is losing our touch with this very ‘Indianness’, that has seen us succeed on hostile, foreign shores (much like the Koreans and Chinese), by adopting a homogenized Western model of doing business. What works in those environments need not work in ours. Our methods are different, our objectives less defined (subterfuge is not such a bad word, after all!) but our capacity for hard work is legendary (check out the Patels who monopolize motels across the US), and our ambitions are second to none. Which is why it's important for us to cling on to the Mahabharat model, rather than memorize The Prince. Ideally, if we marry the two, we'd emerge clear winners.
Only after a Fashion…
I'm amazed that with all our new-found success in virtually every field, including fashion, we are still enamoured of all things Western. Is it just a hang-over from the colonial past? But then, our youth (remember, over 50 per cent of our one billion people are under thirty-five years old) have no recall of pre-Independence India. They neither know nor care what happened sixty years ago. They're far too busy enjoying the here-and-now.
A Shakira concert generates more excitement than if Charles and Camilla come a-calling. It is the grandparents who can still remember a time when the goras ruled. And, shocking as it sounds, a few from that generation speak nostalgically about how wonderful life used to be when the ‘saabs and memsaabs’ ruled India. One feels sorry for them, especially if they happen to be educated. It's another thing to hear a seventy-five-year-old bearer in one of those ancient clubs in, say, Coonoor, going on and on about what a pleasure it used to be to serve gora tea estate managers, and how well-behaved their baba-log were compared to the junglee bachchas of today's natives. ‘India was better off under the British’—one can still overhear such comments, spoken without shame or self-consciousness. As and when I do, I seethe a little, bristle a little, but keep quiet. Not because I think every Indian has to be unconditionally pro-India, but because I feel it's shameful to want to go back to virtual slavery, regardless of how enlightened and terrific the masters were. No self-respecting individual would (or should) want to endorse non-freedom. But such is the paradox in our perplexing country!
‘We need a modern-day Mahatma,’ I sometimes hear young collegiates say, when they are particularly disgusted with the current state of affairs. ‘Why don't you get involved in that case?’ I counter, urging them to become more aware of the political realities of the country. That is not an attractive option, they say in unison. If the young are already disillusioned and refuse to engage with their own country, what sort of change can one hope for in the next two decades?
Students are the ones who've always pushed for reform if they think it's needed (1968, Paris, is a good example). But Indian students appear either lazy, lackadaisical or worse, cynical. Why is the all-important fire missing from their bellies? Why aren't they taking to the streets, forming a movement and demanding answers? What is the point of passing superficial judgements on the ‘system’ without even knowing what that system is or represents?
It used to be fashionable in Kolkata and Delhi of the '60s to be thought of as a radical, a ‘commie’, a ‘Naxal’, a troublemaker. Women found it sexy. Men admired other men who walked around looking angry and talking about making Molotov cocktails, the way socialites discuss mixing the perfect Cosmo these days. But by the time the '90s came around, those (fake) revolutionaries had discovered comfort. They were all in well-paid jobs… married to a woman, not a cause. With prosperous beer bellies, a car or two in the garage, a weekend home, and kids in foreign universities, their revolution was dead even before it began. ‘Sold out,’ their contemporaries jeered, while congratulating themselves for having stayed out of that chakkar.
‘Where have all the jholawallahs gone?’ replaced the lyrics of Pete Seeger's anthem ‘Where have all the flowers gone?’ Well… the jholawallahs can still be spotted at arty events, but they now look dispirited and charmless, with greying scraggly hair, baggy breasts, bad teeth, dirty toenails and foul mouths. They don't know how crass they sound as they M-C B-C the world, while downing some rich man's liquor. It's pretty gloomy out there. I stare at George Fernandes on television as he stammers his way through interviews on Bofors (Oh God! I'm done with that bloody gun!), and I feel sad—George! Our Georgie Boy, the firebrand leader who was once called the giantkiller—so dashingly dashingly attractive in a rumpled-crumpled way, and look at him now—it's the same khadi kurta-pajama, the same jhola, but how out-of-sync and anachronistic that looks in the twenty-first century.
I stare at some of the nouveau politicians—they remind me of a slightly raw Beaujolais—frisky but lacking in finesse, as they try and sound intelligent, discussing ‘issues’ that are beyond them. But my, my, aren't they spiffily dressed—look at their Mont Blanc limited edition pens, or their Raghu Rathore bandgalas. Look at their designer shades (Oakleys? Prada?), and designer haircuts. Tall and tanned and young and handsome, these guys are political playboys, flirting with their constituencies, two-timing loyal followers, playing footsie with enemies, french-kissing the media… they know how to turn the game around. But young India believes playboys are better than pimps. Those old geezers were the pits—oily, slimey, corrupt to the core. These guys are corrupt too, but they ‘look like us… talk like us…’ They are easier to ‘handle’. Yeah. Sure.
Like Rahul Mahajan—young, privileged, good-looking—and what happened? Nobody could ‘handle’ this one. He turned out to be a bit too hot to handle, when found stark naked in a pool of his own vomit after a sex-and-drugs orgy that left another naked male companion dead. And this was the son of a murdered politician, about to take his dead father's ashes for immersion in a holy river in Guwahati! Aah… do we even remember Rahul's father, Pramod Mahajan? The dynamic minister who was being touted as the future prime minister of India? The man who was once the media's darling? It's a lesson for all politicians, everywhere—it is all about the kursi. The day you vacate your office, you're dead. And the day you die, you're also… errr… dead. If the sons and daughters you leave behind are smart enough, they spend the rest of their lives flogging a dead horse—you! Or else, they slink away to lead lives of anonymity, even penury (in case you've taken the secret bank account number to your pyre).
These days, I see Rahul Mahajan's pictures in the papers as a producer of films. The case against him is largely forgotten by the public. His allegedly battered wife has left him. His uncle, accused of murdering his own brother (Pramod) in cold blood, is languishing in jail—also forgotten. Who bothers and who cares? This is India, bhai— Sab kuch chalta hai—dacaiti, atyachaar, ghoos, katal, bhrashtachaar, rape. We have exceedingly short memories for crimes against humanity (give the Godhra carnage another year or two, and it will also be similarly reduced to a statistic). But we score big on Trivial Pursuits.
Ask anyone about Shah Rukh Khan's favourite pastime (chain-smoking), or the name of Kareena Kapoor's latest boyfriend, and you'll get an instant response. But anything to do with national tragedies, and people go blank. Perhaps wishing they'd never happened or pretending they actually didn't.
Watching The Last King of Scotland, the award-winning film on Idi Amin, Uganda's tyrannical dictator, I felt numb just connecting with the mirror-images. It could've been a portrait of any politician in India. Any corrupt, brutal politician (no dearth of those). There came a point in the film when I forced myself to keep watching, telling myself, ‘It's about Idi Amin and Uganda—don't take it so personally.’
But how could I not? It's such familiar terrain—the rise and rise of a poor, semi-literate, boorish monster, who surrounds himself with chamchas, harbours delusions of grandeur, becomes a copybook, tinpot dictator, starts resembling a caricature of himself, kills anybody who is perceived as an opponent, amasses wealth, degenerates into a megalomaniac, descends into madness and finally disappears… leaving a bloodied trail. How many suc
h samples has India produced, checked only by the saving grace of democracy? How many potential despots have been stopped in their tracks just in time, thanks to timely intervention.
Despite all these checks and balances, we have Narendra Modi in Gujarat (with a vast fan following—and never mind Godhra) and a Laloo Prasad Yadav from Bihar (India's most lawless state), we have Mayawati and Amar Singh in Uttar Pradesh, and several other candidates vying for the same ugly spot. There are documented stories (similar to those that emerged during Idi Amin's regime) of torture, mass killings, harassment and worse, of ordinary, innocent citizens suffering on account of political abuse. And yet, nothing changes, except on paper. We are thrilled each time there's a new legislation that empowers the powerless to some extent. All sorts of sops are handed out (and withdrawn!), making us believe hope is round the corner. The finance minister, P. Chidambaram, proposed to write off a staggering loan of Rs 60,000 crore owed by farmers, in the budget of 2008. This has enraged the elite (watch the Sensex crash, you guys!), but the naive belief is that the relieved farmers will stop committing suicide, now that they know they are debt-free. But it's hogwash, an eyewash, and those who're propagating such change know as much.
But that does not stop the well-oiled propaganda machine from grinding on. Milk schemes, food schemes, slum rehabilitation schemes, midday meals scheme, compensation to riot victims schemes… there's no shortage of schemes, each one more noble than the other. What happens to these lofty initiatives? They disappear into thin air… generally the minister loses his/her portfolio, for even initiating something that's pro-people. That's not the job description, you idiotYou're supposed to make as much money as possible during your tenure— keep some, pass the rest on.
A minister's primary function is to be a fund-collector for the party that has given them the job in the first place. Once you get that coveted job, you are supposed to superglue your butt and hang in there. The longer you stick on, the better for everybody. It gives a minister enough time and scope to network, strike deals, get jiggy with it. In case that threatens someone else in the Cabinet who happens to be more powerful, marching orders follow swiftly, and sans explanations. The worst thing a principled (ha!), idealistic (double ha!) minister can do is his/her job. You are expected to make a pretty convincing show of it, of course. Announce big plans, mighty projects, talk of attracting mega foreign investments, make a noise in the media and circle the rest of the hoopla. But it's shadowboxing and accepted as such. The day a minister takes these responsibilities seriously, you know it's going to be pack-up time soon.
Sycophancy is a national trait
Everybody is busy sucking up to somebody. This is ingrained in you as a child. If it's your primary school principal, then the buttering up begins even before you are born! Anxious parents start cultivating these important people the day the urine tests positive for pregnancy. The scramble to get ‘Baby’ or ‘Baba’ into a good school is so frenzied, nobody wants to take a chance delaying. Principals become gods and goddesses till the run-up to the first interview. If the kid gets in, the flattery continues. This is just the beginning of a long affair. The toddler is told to please ‘Uncle’ or ‘Aunty’ by taking gifts on key occasions. Since the gifting itself is big business now, the toddler learns quickly. It's life's first lesson in chamchagiri and bribing: The more you give, the more you get.
Sickening but true. What hope is there for someone indoctrinated in this way from the tender age of three? Whether it's entry to the village patshala, or later, a job interview in a nationalized bank, the average Indian genuinely believes he/she has to illegally pay his/her way to get anywhere in life. Sycophancy becomes a natural offshoot. When in doubt, flatter, is a national mantra. You hear sweet words of pure bullshit, all the time. You think there's something wrong with the person if flowery, ridiculously exaggerated compliments aren't paid for some silly favour. Nobody is embarrassed, not even the recipient. It's the done thing, and it's done in a manner so obvious, so grotesque, one feels like puking.
From school admissions to train tickets to passport renewals, the story remains the same. I needed a new booklet in my own passport recently. I was perfectly happy to take the standard route: apply… wait… wait… wait. Till a travel agent told me to ‘Stop being idiotic, call up the guy and lagao maska, you'll get your passport in three days!
Well, this is an unbelievable but good story. And it's worth narrating: I did call up the guy. But saved on the maska (can't do it!). He asked me to go over the very next day, which I did. The procedure was explained in under two minutes, money paid and I was free to go home. The entire operation took under ten minutes. Nobody asked for a bribe. And even the underlings didn't hang around for chai-paani paisa. And, hello, it had nothing to do with the gentleman knowing me by name. There were at least thirty other applicants waiting to see him, and each one was handled with the same level of efficiency and courtesy.
The point is: this particular officer is an exception. And because he's doing his job honestly, he's likely to lose it. I wasn't seeking a special favour and he wasn't doing me one. But most people in his position would've capitalized on the situation and extracted their pound of… errr… pounds! Or euros! Or dollars! That I'm marvelling at finding an honest officer is in itself a strong comment on how endemic this problem really is. But… here comes an inevitable, hard-to-digest factoid: According to PERC, a risk consultancy service based in Hong Kong, India is the fifth most corrupt country in the Asian economy. There are those who'll wiggle their eyebrows in amusement and chuckle, ‘At least we have made it to the top ten… not bad.’ Like it's a World Cup Cricket rating.
Corruption has corroded the country in ways that are so insidious, we barely notice them. We passively go along, handing out fifty bucks to the cop who asks you to pull over for speeding or talking on the cell-phone while driving. ‘It's quicker… easier…’ we all shrug, adding, ‘What's the point? If I refuse to give the guy baksheesh he'll take away my licence… eff it… I'll just pay and get out.’ I've done it dozens of times myself. Cursed. Felt ashamed. Said, ‘This is not on.’ Scolded myself. Scolded the driver. And quietly paid up.
Palm-greasing is so prevalent, it's understood nothing will happen unless one offers an incentive. Even if all one wants is to get one's own money back. I remember the sort of humiliation my father had to endure for years in order to get his monthly pension. Considering his advanced years (he was in his nineties at the time), he had to physically present himself at the pension office to prove he wasn't dead before claiming the amount! Okay, I understand that procedures are procedures. And there have been countless scams involving imposters pocketing money meant for pensioners. My father didn't mind the drill. Nor did he take offence. But once he'd established his existence, it was another horror story, when petty clerks skimmed a few hundred bucks off the amount due for ‘facilitating’ the transaction. His early rage was soon replaced by resignation. He turned philosophical about the outrageous demand, reasoning that the petty clerk probably had far too many financial responsibilities to deal with, whereas he didn't really need that pension himself. Even an upright, conscientious citizen like my father finally succumbed. He had no energy left to fight the nasty system. And that's really how it goes for a lot of like-minded people who get worn down and pay up, even though they find it morally reprehensible to do so.
It's a long, winding food-chain that nobody dares to break. Most argue, ‘Corruption starts right at the very top of our society. If those sharks and whales can get away, why pounce on the small fry? Let the example be set by our leaders.’ It makes me wonder: Are there any top dogs out there with a blemish-free record? The average Indian points to the House of Tatas. Whenever there is talk of a level playing field, good governance, transparency, we invoke the Tata name. It has been ingrained in us that it is one industrial house that is spotlessly clean. Nobody talks of Ratan Tata in anything less than a reverential way. We need a beacon. And in our minds, Ratan Tata is that beacon. Thanks to
his forefathers, the TATA name is synonymous with squeaky-clean business practices. Nothing can dent that precious image or mar that well-guarded reputation. Overall, this is the sort of positive imaging the country requires. For, the Tatas have been spectacularly successful. (‘Nano’, anyone?) They are global players, and they've achieved that position by demonstrating their ability to do business in a mucky environment, without compromising on accepted, international standards. India singles them out for praise and recognition, in the hope that others will follow. But given our convoluted laws, other business houses insist it's simply not possible to succeed without bending a few rules here and there.
Traditionally, business people by themselves had a somewhat dodgy reputation. Nobody trusted them, and nobody was willing to concede that not all of them were crooks. Our movies reflected this popular sentiment, each time a businessman appeared on the scene. He was shown as an unscrupulous slimeball who worshipped Mammon, and Mammon alone. Crude, merciless and villainous, he didn't stop at sadistically preventing his children from romancing a garib lover, generally the gorgeous-looking female lead star cast as an impoverished flower-seller, clad in appropriately arranged rags. The poor man-rich man theme was such a staple in the '50s, '60s, '70s and '80s, that to be seen as a crorepati was almost a crime, since it was assumed you'd gotten there through a devious window or two. It was only in the '90s, when people like Aziz Premji, Narayanmurthy and Ratan Tata (pioneering ‘suit’!), placed India on the international business map, that perceptions changed. However, Raj Kapoor's stamp of disapproval on ameer log continues to dominate the screen. Mainstream Hindi movies rarely show a benevolent, well-loved tycoon, even if film-makers have wisely discarded the clichés of men in velvet smoking jackets, strutting around ghastly palatial homes featuring matching velvet drapes and gigantic stairways in the middle of a stadium-sized drawing room. TV soap-makers have borrowed this bizarre setting for their serials these days, not realizing the absurdity of the visual. But then again, who would have thought a game show called Kaun Banega Crorepati would bring India to a standstill? With naked greed at its core, the show was phenomenally successful, as hopefuls across the country vied for the pot of gold. Based on a winning Western formula, the show shrewdly tapped into the new breed of avaricious Indians who'd do anything to make a fast buck. That the producers roped in Amitabh Bachchan as host is another story—an act of genius. KBC is dead today. But when it was on air, believe me, we could have been nuked during its telecast, and not cared! Paisewalley log are still a little suspect, but hostility levels are considerably reduced, now that IIT graduates are in the bag at pay packages exceeding a crore. Unthinkable! But I know, too, of young fashion models barely out of their teens who earn close to that within a couple of years of hitting the circuit.
