The Great Indian Novel

by Shashi Tharoor

  Ashwathaman, the inheritor of his father’s political mantle and equally, it seemed, of his distrust for power, grew a beard and joined a small splinter socialist grouping that was remarkable only for the energy with which it maintained its irrelevance. His decision to respond to Priya Duryodhani’s appeal and join the Kaurava Party put his rough, attractive face and sad eyes on the front pages of the newspapers. With his childhood poverty, his impeccable political pedigree and the idealism of his recent career on the socialist fringe (which distinguished him from the rampant opportunism of the office-seekers flocking round the Kaurava Party central office in New Delhi), Ashwathaman’s credentials could not have been better. Duryodhani welcomed him to the party and, while being careful not to find him a seat in government, nominated him to the Kaurava Working Committee.

  There Drona’s son became a one-man ginger group, loudly advocating a more socialist direction to party policy. The more the party elders explained why his proposals could not immediately be adopted, the more Ashwathaman insisted upon them, the Prime Minister encouraging him with her silence, and sometimes with her support.

  ‘Why should we continue to give privy purses to our ex-maharajas?’ he asked. ‘Why should the likes of Vyabhichar Singh be subsidized to the tune of crores of rupees in taxes pressed from the sweat on the brow of the toiling peasant?’

  ‘The toiling peasant, Ashwathaman,’ Yudhishtir pointed out drily, ‘doesn’t pay any taxes.’ They had agitated together, all those years ago, for the abolition of agricultural taxation, and Shishu Pal had finally granted it in the last budget before his death.

  ‘But he could benefit from those taxes being spent on him, instead of being paid to these filthy rich oppressors of the people in exchange for their indolence.’

  ‘It was actually in exchange for their accessions, Ashwathaman.’

  ‘That was twenty years ago! They have been compensated more than enough. I say we should not pay them another paisa. As from now.’

  ‘Who is to decide when we have given them more than enough? They gave up their kingdoms to join a republican India. Their privy purses don’t even make up for the revenue they lost by doing so.’

  ‘Spoken like a true prince, Yudhishtir.’

  Yudhishtir’s eyes flashed. ‘I don’t need to remind you, Ashwathaman, that since Hastinapur was annexed by the British before Independence, my family receives no privy purse.’

  ‘I wasn’t suggesting that you did. But it’s clear where your sympathies lie.’

  ‘It’s not a question of sympathies!’ Yudhishtir banged the table with a trembling fist. ‘It’s a question of promises. We made a solemn promise as a nation to the princes who joined us that we would pay them an agreed compensation, in perpetuity, for their sacrifice. It’s in our Constitution - a document, Ashwathaman, that I would urge you to read some day.’

  ‘How dare you suggest I don’t know the Constitution!’ Now it was Ashwathaman’s eyes that blazed. ‘The difference between us, Yudhishtir, is that you quote the letter of the Constitution while I cite its spirit. What about the Directive Principles of the Constitution, eh? What about equality and social justice for all?’

  ‘What about the credibility of a solemn national undertaking? Is it right to help the poor by breaking your promises to the rich?’

  ‘Breaking promises? This is not a moral exercise, Yudhishtir. The Kaurava Party is supposed to improve the lot of the common man, not strive for a collective place in Heaven.’

  ‘I think Ashwathaman is right.’ Priya Duryodhani intervened at last. ‘I am in favour of adding this clause to the party programme. We should introduce legislation to this effect at the next session of Parliament.’

  The majority of the Working Committee went along with her. They took their stances with one ear to the ground, and they interpreted the rumblings correctly: it was better in the popular eye to be associated with a broken promise than with the defence of privilege. Ashwathaman’s resolution was passed overwhelmingly.

  So what could Yudhishtir do? He resigned from the Working Committee as well.

  *

  And Draupadi Mokrasi, bolstered with vitamins and tonics, returned a little unsteadily to her household chores . . .

  103

  Matters came to a head over an issue which today, all these years later, seems almost too banal to have provoked such an earthquake. It was the issue of bank nationalization.

  Do I hear you snort, Ganapathi? And well you might. Today we all realize what some of us realized even then, that nationalization only means transferring functioning and successful institutions from the hands of competent capitalists to those of bumbling bureaucrats. The. prevalence of nationalization in the face of widespread evidence of its shortcomings, inefficiencies and failures only affirms the characteristic Indian credo that public losses are preferable to private profits. But in those days our Ashwathamans did not speak of profit or loss: they spoke of service. Nationalized banks, they argued, would serve public purposes that private banks would not. Nationalized banks would go out into the rural areas and give loans to poor peasants, while private banks would ask for security they couldn’t provide. (If anyone suggested that that was why private banks were safer to deposit your hard- earned savings in, he was only being selfish, of course.) Today we know that the good nationalized banks are just as wary of unsecured loans as anyone else, but they have to function in an environment where success is judged by how many debt write-offs you can proudly attribute to the promotion of social uplift. (Again, should anyone suggest that if the bad loans had really served their social purpose they would have been paid back by the uplifted borrowers, he would be considered churlish. Especially by those bank managers into whose capacious pockets some of the irretrievable funds have been siphoned.)

  But, yet again, I digress, Ganapathi. Bank nationalization was elevated by Ashwathaman and Duryodhani and others of their ilk alongside motherhood and dal-bhaat as an unquestionable national good. Before the rest of us knew it, Ashwathaman had introduced a private member’s bill on the floor of Parliament. Duryodhani - failing this time to carry a majority of the Working Committee with her - gave it her personal support and called for a free vote in the House. In the absence of a party whip (it had been impossible to agree on one) and with the support of the leftist Opposition parties, woolly-headed socialists and clear-thinking Communists alike, the Bank Nationalization bill was passed.

  As the party and the nation erupted in debate on the issue, all eyes turned to the President of the country, the gentle Muslim academic who now occupied the palace where Lord Drewpad’s investiture had taken place. His role was now that of the monarch his predecessors in residence had represented: as the country’s constitutional head, his signature would make the bill an Act. What would he do? The media, politicians, friends, fellow academics and Priya Duryodhani all gave him their advice. All - especially the Prime Minister - did so in the strongest possible terms.

  Beset by conflict and controversy, heated by the fieriness of his interlocutors’ convictions and sizzled in the unaccustomed glare of publicity, poor Dr Mehrban Imandar did - as usual - the only decent and dignified thing possible. He died.

  *

  And Draupadi Mokrasi felt her head swim as one spell of dizziness succeeded another . . .

  104

  The presidential election that immediately followed now became crucial for India’s political future. The Kaurava Working Committee quickly met to choose the party’s candidate for the post. Since the President was elected by the members of the national Parliament and the state Legislative Assemblies - an electoral college in which the Kaurava Party still enjoyed, despite its recent setbacks, a safe majority - the choice of the Kaurava candidate should normally have settled the matter. But it was clear that would no longer necessarily be the case.

  For one thing, the Kaurava Old Guard - they had even begun calling themselves that, so used were they to the term of abuse - were determined to use this opportunity to regroup.
In Priya Duryodhani they had a Frankenstein’s monster who was suddenly growing out of control. If they could impose a President on her who would not stand too much of her nonsense - who would, for instance, refuse to sign her Bank Nationalization bill - they could rein her in a bit. If, on the other hand, she succeeded in getting herself a sympathetic Kaurava candidate, the Old Guard could bid farewell to their last chance of control, and reconcile themselves to the complete loss of the authority that was already slipping away from their loosening grasp.

  That Working Committee meeting was the stormiest I have ever attended, and believe me, I have attended a few. Priya Duryodhani put forward the name of one of her ministers - a son of God with a long record of serving the interests of the downtrodden, especially if they were related to him. The Old Guard balked and proposed me instead. Duryodhani lost.

  My adoption as the official Kaurava candidate for President gave me my last chance to play a direct role in the nation’s history. For about twenty-four hours I thought I would be able to end my career as a symbol of national reconciliation and Kaurava unity. Duryodhani appeared to have accepted my nomination with good grace.

  Then, on the last day that nominations were to be filed, a young man, a member of our own party barely past the minimum age limit for the presidency, filed his papers as an Independent candidate. There were normally at least a dozen such Independent candidacies, ranging from the local butcher to the surviving flag-bearer of the Society for the Restoration (as it was now renamed) of the Imperial Connection, candidacies which gave journalists amusing copy to submit before a predictable ballot. I idly scanned the list for a laugh and stopped short at the last name.

  It was not the name of just another irrelevant Independent. It was the name of Ekalavya.

  And his candidacy had been proposed by the incumbent Kaurava Prime Minister.

  *

  And Draupadi Mokrasi, blinking her eyes, did not know why she felt faint. . .

  105

  Duryodhani’s strategy began smoothly, almost predictably, to unfold. When the horrified party elders asked her to explain her sponsorship of a candidate who was intending to oppose the official party nominee, she said it was only an act of personal loyalty to an old friend. It did not necessarily mean that she would vote for him. In fact she was hoping, she said, to come to an understanding with the official Kaurava candidate about his perception of his role.

  Oh? asked the Old Guard. What sort of understanding?

  A general sort of understanding, she replied vaguely. About the ceremonial nature of his functions. About his commitment to upholding the will of the people, as expressed through Parliament.

  You mean, I asked, you want him to agree in advance to sign every bill you submit to him?

  Not really, she said. Not exactly. Well, yes.

  You can’t seriously expect me to give you this kind of undertaking, I said.

  I do, she replied. What a pity.

  The next day the papers carried two simultaneous announcements: the Kaurava Party had issued an official notice to Shri Ekalavya asking him to show cause why he should not be expelled for breach of party discipline, and the Prime Minister had stated that the time had come in India, too, for the torch to be passed to a new generation.

  Ekalavya, cocky as ever, replied to the ‘show-cause notice’ with a letter he released simultaneously to the press. ‘When the Kaurava Party, at this hour of national crisis, confronted with the responsibility of naming a helmsman to stand at the bridge of the ship of state to assist its captain, our dynamic young Prime Minister, to steer it through the muddy waters of communalism, capitalism and casteism, takes refuge behind the nomination of its oldest member for this arduous task, one wonders toward which century the party intends the ship to be steered,’ he read aloud, to appreciative laughter from the whisky-plied hacks at the press conference. Mind you, what I’m quoting is only part of one sentence of his letter, and the other sentences were even longer, but I think you can get the drift of his ship of state from that specimen.

  That warning shot across our bows indicated very clearly what their ammunition was made of. The reference to the three c’s that constituted the pet aversions of the Ashwathaman left, the attack on my age and presumed conservatism, the interpretation of the role of the President as one who was supposed to ‘assist’ the Prime Minister, all pointed very clearly to the nature of their electoral message. The point was, how many in the Kaurava Party would listen?

  The Working Committee of the Kaurava Party expelled Ekalavya from its primary membership and called upon all its members to desist from lending support to any other than the party’s official candidate for the presidency.

  The Prime Minister then called for a ‘conscience vote’ in the presidential election. The issues at stake, she declared, were far too serious to be brushed under the carpet of party discipline.

  The Working Committee took strong exception to her statement and asked her to explain herself.

  The Prime Minister said it was not exactly unconstitutional to uphold the sanctity of the secret ballot.

  The Working Committee met for six hours and was unable to come up with an agreed statement in response.

  The Prime Minister urged all ‘modern and progressive forces’ in politics to vote for Shri Ekalavya for President. The Communist and socialist parties endorsed her call, and pledged their votes to him.

  The Kaurava Party asked Priya Duryodhani to show cause why she should not be expelled for breach of party discipline.

  Priya Duryodhani did not reply.

  The Kaurava Party repeated its question, and gave her forty-eight hours in which to reply.

  Priya Duryodhani ignored them.

  At the end of the forty-eight-hour deadline, the Working Committee met to discuss her reply, found there was none to discuss, and scheduled a meeting for the following week to discuss the issues arising from the lack of a reply.

  The day before this meeting was to take place, the presidential election was held. It resulted in a narrow victory - half a percentage point - for Shri Ekalavya, who thus became the youngest President in independent India’s brief history, and the first one not to have been the official nominee of the Kaurava Party.

  The next day, the Working Committee of the Kaurava Party, meeting with several empty chairs, voted to expel Prime Minister Priya Duryodhani from the primary membership of the party.

  An hour later, a group of people calling themselves the ‘real Working Committee of the Kaurava Party’, meeting at Priya Duryodhani’s house and under her chairmanship, voted to expel all those who had attended the first meeting from the primary membership of the ‘real’ Kaurava Party - all, that is, except the three or four who had changed their minds in time and gone from the first meeting to the second.

  And thus, over the essentially trivial issue of the election of a national figurehead, the political equivalent of the dragon on the bowsprit of a Viking ship, and ostensibly provoked by the even more trivial question of whether the fattest bankers in the country should draw government salaries or private ones, the great Kaurava Party, the world’s oldest anti-colonial political organization, sixteen years away from its centenary, split.

  The majority called themselves the Kaurava (R), the R standing for Real, or Ruling, or Rewarded by Priya Duryodhani, depending on your degree of cynicism. The rest of us, at first a not insubstantial rump, were dubbed the Kaurava (O), the O standing for Official, or Old Guard, or Obsolete, depending on the same thing. For the first time, the Prime Minister of the country represented a party which did not have an overall majority in Parliament. But the short-sighted ideologues of the Opposition Left supported her in the House, thinking this would give them some influence over her. It did - in her rhetoric: the very rhetoric which would then enable her to capture their seats at the next general election.

  The poor idiots. It was, I declared with feeling, the first time I had seen goats opting for an early Bakr-Id. When they were no longer useful to Priya D
uryodhani, there would be no one to hear their bleats as they were led off to the electoral slaughterhouse.

  What more is there to say, Ganapathi, about this phase of my eclipse into irrelevance? Let us draw a discreet veil over the gradual but steady haemorrhage from the Kaurava (O) to the Kaurava (R), the self-serving prime- ministerial attacks on big business and ‘monopoly capital’, the increasing unproductive frustration of the Old Guard, the brilliant manoeuvre of calling a snap general election that caught all of us at our unready worst, the even more brilliant campaign slogan ‘Remove Poverty’ (as if she hadn’t had the power to do anything about poverty so far) to which we were stupid enough to retort ‘Remove Duryodhani’ (as if we cared less about poverty than power). At the end of it all, Priya Duryodhani stood alone amongst the ruins of her old party, having smashed to pieces all the pillars and foundations that had supported her in the past. Alone, but surrounded by the recumbent forms of newly elected supplicants prostrating themselves amidst the rubble, the ciphers whose empty heads collectively gave Duryodhani a bigger parliamentary majority than even Dhritarashtra had ever enjoyed.

  How had she done it? We were all too much in a state of shock to answer the question coherently, but there was no lack of random theorizing. It was her father’s magic, some said; but then to anyone who knew the family it was obvious she took not after Dhritarashtra, but after the undeservingly unknown Gandhari the Grim. It was the privy-purse question and bank nationalization, others suggested; but then how many of the country’s electorate understood what was involved in these issues, or cared? No, Ganapathi, I think it was innocence. Not hers, for what little she had been born with had dried with the sweat on Gandhari’s satin blindfold, but ours, India’s innocence. She had tapped the deep lode of it that still ran through our people, the innocence which had led 320 million voters to cast their ballots for a slogan (‘Remove Poverty’) devoid of sincerity, merely because for the first time a Prime Minister had bothered to imply that their votes served a purpose and, even better, that they could actually make a difference to the fulfilment of that purpose. ‘Remove Poverty’ indeed! Priya Duryodhani could as well have declaimed ‘Invade Mars’ for all the difference it made to her real intentions; but she did not, and in ‘Remove Poverty’ she found the two words that innocent India took to its heart and into its polling-booths.