The Great Indian Novel

by Shashi Tharoor

  ‘Perhaps, but the Indian version is older,’ the Mahaguru replied. ‘And it goes together with another Indian proverb: always respect your elders.’

  When this was published, Pandu was being interviewed by Time. ‘A young modernist poet of Lucknow expressed the attitudes and aspirations of his generation in a recent couplet, which I shall translate for you,’ he informed the journalist. ‘It goes roughly like this:

  “I do not reject you; rather,

  I measure the years I have grown;

  I worship your grey hairs, Father,

  But - I must comb my own.”’

  Fallen pawns littered the edges of the board.

  ‘The Indian literary tradition places little value on satirical verse,’ Sarahbehn spoke for Gangaji on one of his days of silence. ‘So too, the Indian political tradition is one of utmost seriousness and respect for established institutions - provided these institutions are popularly supported and seen as reflective of the people’s will.’

  Check.

  ‘The best reflection of the people’s will,’ declared Pandu in a speech to his supporters, ‘is the figure at the bottom of the voting tally in a democratic election.’

  A daring manoeuvre, Ganapathi. But one which left a flank exposed.

  ‘History teaches us,’ the Mahaguru told a prayer meeting, ‘that it is always dangerous to mistake the enthusiasm of a select few for the support of the broad mass.’

  That was when the castle fell. The letters began arriving at Pandu’s home and at Kaurava Party headquarters - letters from party workers and leaders across the country, bearing addresses even Pandu could not recognize. The letters deplored the party’s drift from the path of truth and moderation always espoused by Gangaji. Many of them found their way to the newspapers, colonialist and nationalist alike.

  ‘I’ve been President barely three months,’ mused a bewildered Pandu. ‘What drift are these people going on about?’

  Two letters in the same vein appeared in Gangaji’s own paper, without accompanying editorial comment.

  ‘Those who welcome the new directions of the movement,’ Pandu declared defiantly to a Kaurava crowd meeting on a famous beachfront, who were more used to slogans than swimming, ‘should let their voice be heard amidst the orchestrated clamour of the die-hards. Do you all not give me your loyal support?’

  ‘N-o-o-o-o,’ rose the crescendo from the sands.

  Shaken, Pandu wrote to his former mentor. ‘There appears to be a systematic campaign within the party to undermine me and question my leadership of the party. Such elements seem to derive solace from your silence on the matter, which could even be construed as tantamount to tolerance of anti- party activities. I shall be grateful if you would kindly lend your voice in support of my attempts to move the Kaurava party forward. A statement from you dissociating yourself from some of the excesses of those who claim to be your followers would be greatly welcome.’ He sealed the letter and marked it ‘confidential’. This time there was no copy for the press.

  But now it was the Mahaguru who published the correspondence. ‘It is not for me to advise faithful servants of the Kaurava cause against acting according to the dictates of their consciences,’ Gangaji stated piously in his printed reply. ‘Leaders should never lose sight of the concerns of their followers.’

  Pandu’s ranks were decimated. He attempted one last gambit at a meeting of the Kaurava Working Committee.

  ‘In view of the variety of attacks on my position and principles within and outside the party of late,’ he announced, ‘I should like, as party President, to seek a vote of confidence from this committee.’ He looked directly at me for a response, staking everything.

  I could sense the unease of the others around the table. I felt like Caesar pushing a knife into Brutus. ‘Don’t do it, my son,’ I said, my voice hoarse. ‘Do not ask this of us.’

  The look of pain that crossed his pale face still haunts me. Not to receive a vote of confidence was as bad as receiving a vote of no-confidence.

  The game was over: Pandu had toppled his own crowned head. He resigned.

  49

  Gangaji did not make much of his victory. There were no self-congratulatory declarations, no statements to the press. His objective attained, the Mahaguru saw to it that the Untouchable defeated by Pandu was appointed Acting President by the Committee. The following year, this worthy was elected to the post in his own right - unopposed. Today, you have to turn to history books to find his name.

  You seem disturbed, my dear Ganapathi. Anxiety creases your brow and narrows your eyes. Never mind, I know what is troubling you. The idea of saintly Gangaji, paragon of Truth, ruthlessly squeezing an insubordinate ward out of power sits ill with you. How could the Mahaguru, you ask yourself, the Great Teacher, a man of vaulting vision and pristine principle, conduct himself like a Tammany Hall politician? You are disappointed.

  You should not be, my son. No great man ever achieved greatness by sincerity of purpose alone. If Gangaji believed in Truth, it was his Truth he believed in; and by extension the actions he undertook were founded on the same belief. Pandu, for whatever reason, represented a challenge to his unremitting quest for this Truth. ‘Trust me, my son,’ Ganga had said to him at the start of the Mango March, but Pandu had not followed; and once the agitation was called off, trust had died between the two princes of Hastinapur. The Mahaguru had chosen Dhritarashtra as his heir, and who was to gainsay his choice? Pandu could have accepted it and continued to serve the cause, following the Mahaguru and his own blind brother. He chose the path of dissent instead: the way (as the Mahaguru saw it) of untruth.

  The righteous reaction was to eliminate the dissenter. Not by having him hit on the head in the dark by hired thugs, nor by cheating at the elections; Gangaji would never countenance such means to attain his ends. But dharma enjoins firmness in defence of righteousness, Ganapathi. (There is nothing particularly new, or even cynical, about that. Our own traditions prescribe such action - not just in the Machiavellian handbook for royal survivors, the Arthashastra, but in our epic political treatise the Shantiparvan of my namesake Vyasa.) The moral pressure (and mind you, the Mahaguru never thought of it as anything else) - the moral pressure he placed on Pandu to bring about my pale son’s capitulation was merely the political equivalent of the flattened tyres of Raja Salva early in our story. No violence done, no blood spilled - but oh, Ganapathi, what hurt and humiliation, what sadness and suffering can be caused in the defence of Truth!

  I cannot bear to think much longer of my pale pained son, Ganapathi. I do not wish to prolong his stumbling saga through the various stages of this narrative. Let us pay the price of chronological inexactitude to follow the rest of his story now, so that I may relinquish this heavy burden of historical memory, strained by the additional weights of paternity and helplessness. Come, Ganapathi: we shall leave the others frozen in their places in time as we unravel Pandu’s destiny in the only form that suits its bathos.

  50

  To tell the tale of Pandu

  Will not detain us long;

  His slogan was a ‘can do!’

  And on his lips a song.

  Oh, pour some draughts of red wine

  Into history’s bloody jars;

  Learn there’s just a thin line

  ‘Twixt tragedy and farce.

  When Pandu, hale and hearty

  Was declared too sick to lead

  He upped and quit the party

  To protest the dirty deed.

  ‘Goodbye to all my dear friends –

  I say this with a lump –

  Your means justify another’s ends;

  I was pushed, I did not jump.

  ‘Your cause and mine are noble:

  To make our people free.

  But one fact is simply global:

  One can’t do this easily.

  ‘To speak, and write, and walk and fast

  Will never break our shackles;

  But those who still live in t
he past

  Well, they just raise my hackles.

  ‘We’ve been good too long, we never fail

  To play by Britain’s rules;

  When we break the law, we go to jail

  And bow our heads like fools.

  ‘The time has come, I say tonight

  To cast aside our veil;

  To stand like men, to arm, to fight –

  To think of blood, not bail.

  Tonight non-violent Pandu dies!

  No more shall I be weak;

  From now I toil and exercise

  To be strong as Indian teak.

  ‘Away with Tolstoy, Ruskin, Buddha:

  Their ideas just make little men littler.

  No more “truth-force”, only yuddha –

  It’s time to learn from that chap Hitler.’

  So saying, our angry hero

  Became the country’s first Fascist;

  Admiring Roma’s latest Nero

  He practised how to clench his fist.

  Our Aryan brothers, full of go-go

  Have revitalized the German nation.

  As India’s SS, I announce the OO —

  Short for Onward Organization.

  ‘Onward, my friends! our cause must march,

  In discipline we must never slacken.

  Our military shorts we must always starch,

  For Britain’s foes will need our backing.’

  Then Poland fell, and the Nazi Panzer

  Overrode Chamberlain’s ‘Peace with honour’

  ‘Let’s join Hitler’s extravaganza –

  Britain will soon have our jackboots on her!’

  So saying, Pandu bought a ticket

  (First-class, appearances must be kept)

  To Berlin; ‘The rest of you can stick it –

  Pandu acts while the Kauravas slept!’

  51

  But when our hero began his trip

  (He’d got as far as the aerodrome)

  The Brits, who’d briefly lost their grip

  Declared war on Berlin, and on Rome.

  Standing at the excess-baggage counter

  (He’d packed too much for the winter season)

  Pandu’s plans began to flounder

  When he was arrested – for intending treason.

  Handcuffed, the OO’s home-grown Führer

  Was carted off to the central jail;

  For him there’d be no judge or juror –

  The Raj didn’t want him out on bail.

  And there a lesser man might languish,

  Rotting away behind prison bars;

  His mind and spirit prey to anguish

  As he mourns his lot, and curses his stars.

  But our Pandu was made of sterner stuff!

  He was never one to stand and gape.

  Now that the Brits were playing rough

  He resolved to make his own escape.

  Each day he plotted his great jailbreak:

  – Shall I saw? or dig? or provoke battle?

  Can I get a knife in a chocolate cake?

  Or pretend to faint, and flee the hospital?

  His plans might well have been doomed to failure

  Had the fates not played into his hands;

  For a man assigned to be his jailor

  Turned out to be one of the OO’s fans.

  ‘Honoured to meet you, Panduji, sir,’

  He whispered when they were first alone.

  ‘As I shake your hand, I must aver

  I think of you as our Saint Joan.

  ‘We men in khaki have had to fret and fume

  At the namby-pambiness of the Kaurava Party.

  Bharatmata would surely be led to its doom

  Were it not for the OO and its Chakravarti.’

  (The OO, Ganapathi – here I must explain –

  Took its terminology from the Indian dharti:

  Its men-scouts were sainiks, its HQ Ujjain,

  And its Supreme Leader a Chakravarti.)

  ‘I’m glad to hear that,’ Pandu replied,

  ‘We need men of spirit in jobs like yours.

  But while I’m locked up, strong men have died

  For the nation’s illnesses need the OO’s cures.’

  He fixed his captor with an unblinking stare.

  ‘It’s time for you to serve the cause.

  I can’t stay here when they need me there –

  You must help me get out, to fight our wars.’

  The jailor shuffled from foot to foot,

  Looking determined and chagrined in turn.

  ‘From the top of my cap to the toe of my boot,

  I’ve always merited the wages I earn.

  ‘Now you want me to be untrue to my salt.

  That’s a difficult decision to make.

  You know how I’ll be condemned for my fault

  And the spiral my career will take.

  ‘I admire you, Chakravarti – this is no homily –

  I wish I could help you to flee;

  But I must think of my job, my wife and family

  And I must do my painful duty.’

  ‘Yes, you must do your duty,’ said Pandu quickly,

  ‘But where does your duty lie?

  When the nation, oppressed, was never so sickly

  Can a true man just stand and sigh?’

  He could see his words had won him a pause

  In the train of the jailor’s thought;

  The uniformed patriot guarding the laws

  Was torn ‘tween the must and the ought.

  ‘And then, of course, there’s something, son,

  Which you might well have overlooked;

  When freedom comes, and the OO’s won

  The rewards won’t be overbooked.

  ‘At that time, then, where’d you rather stand?

  Among the heroes of Bharatiya Swaraj?

  Or will you be counted with the shameful band

  Who betrayed the foes of the Raj?’

  ‘Forgive me, Chakravarti,’ the jailor wept,

  ‘For having hesitated at all.

  I don’t have the keys, but I know where they’re kept,

  And I can get you over the wall.’

  Though the alarm bells were rung, and every port watched,

  By eagle-eyed British police,

  Pandu evaded them all – this flight wasn’t botched

  For they couldn’t spot the wolf through the fleece.

  Yes, it was Pandu’s disguise that got him past

  The checkpost – as Begum Jahan,

  The fat, burqa-ed wife (ah, I see you’re aghast)

  Of a fiercely possessive Pathan.

  You may disapprove of our hero’s disguise

  – How could a leader dress like a fool? –

  But there’s no denying it evaded the eyes

  Of policemen right up to Kabul.

  From neutral Afghanistan, dressed well again

  In battledress from the bazaar

  Chakravarti booked himself on to a plane

  To Berlin (cabling Adolf to send him a car).

  There was a slight hitch, I’ve got to admit

  For our brilliant swadeshi Caesar,

  Busy ensuring his fatigues would fit,

  Had forgotten he needed a visa.

  Oh, the terrible ways of bureaucracy!

  The airline wouldn’t take him on board –

  The avatar of Indian autocracy

  Explained, shouted, ranted, implored;

  But ‘Sorry, sir, that’s a strict regulation,’

  Said the manager (not sorry at all),

  ‘Try the embassy of the German nation –

  And would you mind not blocking the hall?’

  Defeated, at last, with one more plane missed,

  Pandu went off to apply,

  ‘Mr Consul-General – I must insist

  I can’t wait for Berlin’s reply.

  ‘Do you know who I am? Herr Hitler’s best friend

 
In the Indian sub-continent;

  From Kanyakumari to London’s West End

  I’m known for my Fascistic bent.’

  (All this, Ganapathi, if truth be told

  Was cunning deceit by my son;

  He was really no Nazi, my decent cuckold,

  But a patriot in search of a gun.

  Oh, he’d flirted, it’s true, with Fascist ideas,

  But those didn’t count in the end;

  As he’d said to his wives, ‘It’s simply, my dears,

  That my enemy’s enemy’s my friend.’)

  ‘Sehr gut, mein Herr,’ the Consul said,

  ‘In that case I’ll give you your visa.

  Good luck – and when you see the nation’s head

  Don’t forget to salute the old geezer.’

  52

  He remembered; first day, Pandu snapped a salute,

  Palm out, in the Nazi style,

  It caught the Führer right in the snoot,

  And made him see stars for a while.

  ‘Heil – ouch! Oh, hell,’ Chakravarti said,

  As the Führer winced in pain,

  ‘I’m sorry – I wish I were dead –’

  ‘You will be, if this happens again.’

  An inauspicious start! – but that’s how it was

  For our fighter in exile throughout;

  His valiant efforts to work for the cause

  Were hamstrung within and without.

  ‘Radio broadcasts – that’s what you can do,’

  Said the Germans, when he asked for tanks;

  So instead of invading, our disappointed Pandu

  Made speeches to the other ranks.

  Every Sunday and Thursday, on Deutsche Welle,

  Chakravarti broadcast to the East;

  But his stirring exhortations to march on Delhi

  Came through like the yelps of a beast.

  ‘What’s this?’ men would say, twiddling knobs on their sets,

  As an awful squawk assaulted their ears,

  And whine followed squeal like the screech of ten jets,

  All braking while changing their gears.

  ‘Can’t make out a word!’ – ‘Is it a new song?’

  ‘An announcement from Washington DC?’

  ‘No, I think it’s a girl, and she’s speaking Bong! –

  Let’s get back to good old BBC.’

  So Pandu’s prating received a low rating –