Superstar India

by Shobhaa De

  So if I can't tell a simple pujari by looking at him, how can I possibly identify a hardcore Naxalite/Maoist? This was my dilemma in Kathmandu a few years ago (in fact, just a week before the bloody palace massacre decimated Nepal's royal family). Drawing-room conversation in those ancient salons revolved around the Maoist-on-the-doorstep, and how nobody could be trusted, least of all ‘faithful’ family retainers! Seven days later, the Crown Prince himself had gone berserk and slaughtered most of his family. An event surely more frightening than blood-thirsty Maoists infesting the region.

  Ditto for the terrorist in our midst. The educated doctor/engineer/writer/banker/ chemist/chartered accountant—take your pick. Can you tell he/she has murder and mayhem as their main agenda? Why, even the world's sharpest intelligence agencies are easily fooled (think of the Glasgow bombers). Even they go by appearance. There could be a terrorist at my dinner table, and frankly, even I might feed the person some more mishti doi, in all ignorance. Careless Whispers used to be one of my favourite George Michael songs. It dealt with adulterous love affairs and deceit. Today, when I listen to the words and sway foolishly to the music, my mind stays on the ‘careless’ part—who can afford to be careless any more? And is there anything like too careful?

  Violent? Indians? Not me. Not us. But the fact remains we have never been anything other than volatile. Turning the other cheek was not seen as the best option. Read the Mahabharat, filled as it is with hatred, trickery, betrayal and duplicity. What are we talking about? By creating rakshasas (demons) outside of ourselves, we check our inherent hot-headnesses and play docile. We try very hard to stick to Gandhian principles even as we control the urge to slap the next idiot who annoys us. It's a wonder we aren't at each other's throats more often. There is a Naxalite/Maoist that lurks in all of us. We are all closet revolutionaries, even if the causes vary wildly. Indians have an opinion on any and every subject. No encouragement is required to air it. Even though I have occasionally snapped, ‘Actually I haven't asked you….do you mind?’ ‘If you ask me…’ is a frequently heard phrase. And I love it. How bland life would be if all of us were to maintain neutrality, not take sides nor argue furiously??

  Recently, at the airport in Vienna, after a long trans-Atlantic flight from New York, our bags went missing. My husband went off to report the matter and was gone for an hour or more. Ridiculous! When I went in search of him, I met with a strange sight. There was Mr Dé talking agitatedly to a very cool woman behind an impressive desk. She had driven my husband nuts by assuming a very European, very politically correct, annoyingly legalistic stance on the issue. For us, it was an emotional moment. For the Austrian clerk, it was a statistic. A technicality. One more number to address, before turning those ice-blue eyes to the next distressed passenger whose baggage was somewhere else, maybe gone forever. This impassive approach drives Indians crazy. Had the woman reacted in a less robotic manner, my husband's mood would have been more forgiving. I thought he was going to pick up her fat purse and hurl it at her. ‘Bloody Indians,’ I could read her thoughts. ‘They're all the same… terrorists!’ Perhaps a small grain of truth in that?

  Sometimes, while watching TV footage of our parliamentarians slugging it out, I feel more amused than annoyed. There they are, these men and women, whom the people of India have elected to represent us, to safeguard our interests to craft policies that serve us. And what are they up to? Oh… the usual—flinging chairs, microphones, files, books and abuses at each other, exchanging fisticuffs attempting to uproot benches and tear each other's clothes off. Basic behaviour, sans artifice. Raw and true to themselves, even as TV cameras roll and the entire nation watches. There is no self-consciousness at that point. Just spontaneous bad behaviour. Restraint? Maturity? Come on… we are Indians. We let it all hang out. Which is why we are healthier, stronger. No repressions. No suppressions. You feel like it—you do it! How refreshing is that!

  Come on… we are Indians. We let it all hang out. Which is why we are healthier, stronger

  If we didn't have this safety valve, perhaps we too would suffer from some of the sicknesses that plague Western societies—or worse—we'd revolt en masse, take to the streets, allow a dictator to emerge from our midst, start a revolution. Instead, we curse and spit, but rarely organize ourselves into a disciplined movement. Given our differences, it's a wonder we haven't experienced a coup d' etat, that more states haven't broken away demanding independence. The reason we hang in there is because we know in our heart of hearts that this is the best option at present. Whenever the situation becomes unbearable, we can punch the next person and get it out of our system. Settle the score on the spot and get on with it. This is how the story has been so far. Will it change? It might…

  Mumbai was shocked when a sixteen-year-old student was brutally murdered by his own friends who'd demanded a Rs 2-crore ransom from the boy's father. ‘This sort of crime is new to our society’, declaimed everybody. And facile explanations soon followed. ‘Youngsters today are directionless… they're behaving like American teenagers, killing for money… killing for the thrill of killing…’ It's true there has been a spate of ‘sick’ crimes during the past five years. Crimes that are described as ‘Western’, since we associate them with societies that are dysfunctional and which make us feel superior. ‘These things didn't happen in India,’ senior citizens state ruefully. ‘Imagine killing a teenager… imagine killing little children… all these new crimes involving sex… we are picking up bad habits from the West. Our children are getting corrupted, watching American films and TV serials…

  Yup. We need alibis and scapegoats. Because we don't want to believe that our wonderful society has, in fact, changed. Perhaps, forever. And today's desi teenagers are no different from teenagers in Tokyo/ Los Angeles. They kill. They maim. They attack. It could be for a pair of the latest trainers, an iPod. A cell phone. And yes, there are sickos in our society too. Men like the Delhi child-molester and his manservant, who lured prostitutes and kids to his master's mansion, sexually abused and later murdered them. A nullah filled with skulls and bones of victims the police failed to find?

  It has happened in the past. The big difference between then and now? The intervention of the ‘nosey media’ in search of the scoop. Without enthusiastic amubulance-chasers, perhaps killings and crimes of this kind (perpetrated by middle-class, educated psychopaths) would have remained buried in obscure police records. After all, those kids of disenfranchised slum-dwellers aren't ‘worth’ the trouble and expense involved in tracing their killers. They're dispensable. Just numbers. Their parents reproduce and breed like animals, anyway. What's a missing kid or two in such a situation? Heartlessness and indifference over years ensured that these stories did not see the light of day. It was only the TRP wars raging between competing news channels that highlighted the horrors of such situations. Even in this grim scenario we conveniently sought a way out by passing the buck onto the ‘Americanization’ of our society.

  Actually, the script is about money. And the arrogance it has always bred in our feudalistic society. A rich man's crime was treated in a significantly different manner from the same crime committed by someone poor. Money was the ultimate insulation. To an extent, money still is. Cops treat rich people differently. Mainly because cops know that if they don't, the same accused will use money-clout to fix the case, get out and then fix the cop! There are two sets of laws operating across the board, whether we admit it or not. The rich and powerful can and do get away with murder, after a few token attempts by the officials to show that they are treating the biggies impartially. Barring a few exceptions, law enforcement officers are overawed by wealth. The same way the toiling masses used to be in the days when maharajahs ruled over their princely states and mercilessly exploited the peasants.

  One still sees displays of cringe-making obsequiousness in the presence of the mighty. In fact, the mighty themselves don't quite realize how absurd they sound when they talk resignedly about the rise and rise of the Dalits
, and how the future of India is in the hands of the SCs/STs, whose numbers seem to be growing and growing. ‘Soon they'll walk into our homes and kick us out…’ an acquaintance phoned to complain, adding, ‘We can't do anything, or even say a word when they hook up loudspeakers in our areas and create such a din.’ Another suggests helpfully, ‘Why not complain to the police? It's just not fair…’ A shrewder voice joins the debate to point out, ‘It's their time now… they've been kept under our shoes for centuries. Be thankful they aren't walking into your living room and killing you… tolerate those loudspeakers. It could be worse…

  *

  Our skins are too thin. No. Our skins are too thick. Both statements are true. We react. That's it. Most times we over-react. At others, when we really need to yell, scream and shout, we turn into passive pussycats. National issues leave us cold. For example, the response to the nuclear issue in August 2007 was pretty tepid on the whole. The average Indian may have been baffled and assumed it was too technical an area to get into—leave it to the leaders, he told himself. The leaders, taking advantage of the apathy, went into over-drive in Parliament (‘Government likely to fall. Left threatening to withdraw support…’), while TV anchors hyperventilated on news programmes. The rest of India didn't bother. I mean… here was a really, really major issue demanding a national debate, given the seriousness of the long-term implications. But we chose to be indifferent.

  Around the same time, Kapil Dev, the legendary cricketer, announced he'd go on a ‘hunger strike’ if expelled from the Cricket Board of India. The whole country took sides. Everyone had an opinion. Should he go? Should he stay? Had he done the right thing by challenging the Board and setting up a parallel body? Was his decision ‘good for cricket’? Nobody asked whether Manmohan Singh's decision on the nuke deal was ‘good for India’. Strange. We would have been sending ourselves down the tube to better serve American interests, but we maintained an uncharacteristic sangfroid. So much for our reputation for being passionate! Passionate about a colonial game like cricket? You bet! Hyde Report? Wat dat?

  Talking to Ali, my Yemeni chauffeur in Singapore, I was surprised and delighted to converse with someone as well-informed and concerned about India and the entire region. Pointing to Singapore's flag displayed prominently by residents of the island-state, he laughed derisively. ‘The government instructs: “Show pride. Display flag”.’ And we do it. Like sheep. Life is becoming more and more expensive. We are told to grow more trees. Keep Singapore green and clean. But our salaries remain the same and expenses keep going up… what a life! And we can't protest!’ See… I said to myself. Every human being in the world wants the right to protest. Take that away, and you might get a well-fed moron, but a passive, frustrated individual chewing futilely at the bit. Ali was philosophical, ‘I am a long way from home… I was born here.’ Interesting that ‘home’ remained in distant Yemen, a place he'd never visited and wasn't likely to. Singapore was where he'd schooled, grown up, married, and produced three sons. And yet, his dreams were dominated by his grandfather's version of ‘home’

  As we sped towards the airport, along a broad motorway lined by perfectly tended trees (identical in height), Ali asked me whether I knew Ben Kingsley. Strange question. I told him I didn't, but why did he want to know? ‘I loved him as Gandhi… though he should have starved and lost more weight for the role, especially for the scenes where he's on a hunger-strike! Gandhi was a great man. India is lucky to have had a Gandhi. When I'm depressed, I watch the film again and again… just to learn how to become a better human being. You are so fortunate being Indian. Being free…’ My heart did a somersault. How bizarre this conversation sounded… everything was strange. The setting, the context, the man behind the wheel.

  I'd just come out of an important seminar designed to assess sixty years of Indian Independence. Most of the speakers had sounded optimistic and upbeat. The crowd had consisted of local Indians in search of Bollywood stars, and a motley crowd of Singaporean businessmen in search of investors. Nobody looked all that proud or especially delighted to be Indian at such a historic moment. I was surprised at the lack of enthusiasm and thought to myself, had this been America, every American present would have walked around waving the Stars and Stripes, chest out and body language saying it all. We spoke about India being a superpower, and yet nobody was behaving like a super-Indian. There was still an air of apology… even astonishment. As if we couldn't believe our own luck. And there was my driver from Yemen. I imagine how disillusioned he would have felt had he discovered young Indians who'd never heard of Gandhi, or weren't quite sure whether or not he was Sonia's father-in-law!

  *

  A couple of months before that trip to Singapore, I'd undertaken my virgin trip to China. It had been a ten-year-old dream to go there, especially to Shanghai, Mumbai's long-lost cousin (according to fans of Art Deco architecture). I was jealous even before our plane touched down. Shanghai looked impressive from the sky, once our aircraft penetrated the thick haze of pollution that hangs over China. My heart sank as I surveyed the airport and conceded it was far superior to Mumbai's international terminal. Spotlessly clean. No stench. But aah… no porters, either! At least we scored in one crucial area. By the time we located our local minder, our arms had nearly come out of their sockets with the weight of our suitcases and we were ready for a hot meal, besides a shower plus a comfy bed. All that was a couple of hours away, as our minder, an elderly lady with a shuffling, slow gait, screamed into a battered mobile phone, unable to locate the driver. Her English was dodgy and our patience was rapidly running out. My jealousy levels were gradually coming down. ‘Just like India,’ I gleefully told my husband, who didn't find the comment particularly apt or reassuring. It got better after this point, even if the weather had turned gloomy and it had started to rain. ‘Please don't say “Just like India” again,’ my husband warned. But I was far too busy taking notes and comparing.

  Hmmm… better roads, that's for sure. Shabby tenements lining the route. Peeling paint. Clothes hanging out to dry. Dismal exteriors. So-o-o-o reassuring. OK. OK. The flyovers were amazing, unending and looped snakily like the ones in the plastic board games I once played, involving toy cars racing around complicated tracks. As we neared our hotel, my depression had set in good and proper. The guide's incessant chatter and propagandist spiel was getting on my nerves. I wildly launched into my own counter-propaganda, sounding stupid to my own ears. She was parroting statistics and reeling off Chinese achievements because she was paid to do so. And me? I whispered to my husband not to give her too generous a tip. She had succeeded in bringing out the chauvinist in me.

  Later the same night, hopping into a cab to go find ‘M’ on the Bund—the chic-est address in town—I was pleased to note that all our communication was via sign language. Nobody spoke a word of English or even tried to. Advantage India! My devilish glee was short-lived, as I discovered soon enough that the Chinese were managing just fine without a working knowledge of the world language! Touts and pimps along the pedestrian strip in front of the garish Holiday Inn didn't hesitate for a micro-second before accosting my husband and offering him ‘young boys, young girls… drugs… currency… fake watches… everything cheap-cheap…’ Buzzed and booming, the city looked like a luridly made-up transvestite soliciting custom. Unsure of which gender to peddle wares to, but ready to do business, regardless. But at least Shanghai wasn't spooky, like St Petersburg. If anything, it made me feel entirely at home. Mumbai's sleaze seemed tame in comparison to Shanghai's full-on hard-sell. Everything and everyone seemed to be on sale here, as we jostled our way past aggressive hawkers and teenagers offering themselves, along with fake Gucci bags and Rolex watches. The side streets were filthy, with open gutters and mounds of uncleared garbage. The tops of glitzy new skyscrapers were invisible. At first I thought it was mist rolling in and obscuring the higher floors. But no—it was actually a thick, gritty cloud of smog. The same smog international environmentalists are despairing over and China r
efuses to own up to.

  Shanghai's famous night life lived up to its reputation. The legendary and ever-exuberant Michelle, who runs ‘M’ on the Bund with so much flair and panache, escorted us to the terrace of her pricey restaurant to experience the magic of the Bund at night. It was a spectacular sight all right. But, I consoled myself, so is Mumbai's Marine Drive and the famous Queen's Necklace, when it shimmers in all its glory after sunset. The crowd at ‘M’ was largely made up of expatriates, with a few well-heeled locals, knocking back beer at the island bar, while house music encouraged the more energetic guests to dance to its catchy beat. We could've been anywhere in the world—even New York. The Australian-born Michelle, who runs an equally chic place in Hong Kong, looked around her sprawling establishment and agreed. Sensibly, she'd retained most of the colonial details when she leased the place. The building ‘M’ was housed in resembled similar buildings from that era in Kolkata and Mumbai. The furniture, fans, slatted windows and high ceilings reminded me of countless such structures back in India. I asked Michelle why she hadn't thought of opening an ‘M’ in Mumbai. She smiled mysteriously. Ab Mumbai door nahi! That's all we need to complete the circle—an Australian entrepreneur opening a European-style restaurant, based on a successful Chinese model, right here in Mumbai!

  *

  Would Chairman Mao have approved? I posed for a souvenir pic under his enormous portrait in what is billed as the world's largest square. I wondered aloud what those menacing-looking Chinese guards outside his mausoleum would do if I suddenly broke through the cordon and ran, like kids do, with arms outstretched (to show I meant no harm and was unarmed). ‘Don't even think of it,’ our young, pretty and clever guide in Beijing told me, her voice rising a decibel or two at the prospect. I assured her I was joking. She looked visibly relieved as she confessed how sensitive her position was. ‘I'm trying to become an official guide at the Beijing Olympics. My interviews start next week. If you do something like that, my future is finished… I'll be blamed for not controlling you!’ Oh, my God! Crazy or what? She was close to tears, with rivulets of sweat running down her face. Maybe she shouldn't have worn that plastic cap? But it wasn't the heat that was bothering her—it was my relentless questioning. After several evasive answers, and sensing my growing frustration, she finally admitted she had gone to a cop station the previous night and given a written undertaking that she wouldn't talk about anything related to politics, past or present, in particular anything to do with Tiananmen Square. She all but pleaded with me not to ask any more questions.