Notes On the Great Indian Circus

by Khushwant Singh

  Three questions need to be answered. The first is about diplomatic propriety. Why did the Canadian prime minister release his personal communication to the press? Have diplomatic channels between the two countries broken down? Second, what have the Canadian authorities done so far to apprehend the two men named as possible culprits? The Canadian police boast of always getting their man; they have not yet got a clue about these two rascals. And now that Rajiv has in fact put his house in order, what are the Canadian authorities doing to prevent Chauhan and like-minded people from continuing their violent crusade against the Sikh community and India?

  Sunday, 7 September 1985

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  Kumbha

  Although Hindu religious ritual enjoins worship of elements like Light and Fire, in actual practice it is Water that has achieved pre-eminent sanctity. Teerth is in fact a river bank and its location a teerth sthaan (place of pilgrimage). We are not quite sure when or why some rivers like the Ganga or the Godavari came to be regarded holier than others, but the ritual of ‘holy dip’ was pretty well established by the Puranic era. The practice of immersing pots (kumbhas) filled with grain in river water and sowing seeds thus sanctified, had been known amongst Adivasis as a fertility rite. The Puranas gave this rite its mythical explanation in Amrita Manthan when gods and demons jointly churned the waters of the ocean. A pot of amrita thus extracted was stolen by the demons. As they fled with the gods in hot pursuit, drops of the stolen amrita fell at Hardwar, Allahabad, Ujjain and Nasik. The demons must have taken a very zig-zag path to avoid capture.

  Gautam the Buddha mentions gatherings of Hindu pilgrims on the banks of the Ganga at certain times of the year. The Chinese traveller Hieuen Tsang (4th century AD) also records Emperor Harsha giving alms to pilgrims who came to bathe in the Ganga. But it was not till Sanskara institutionalized ritual bathing as a part of his crusade to revive Hinduism that the three, six and twelve-year cycles of Kumbha Melas were firmly established. The most auspicious Kumbha came once every 12 years when the sun entered Aries simultaneously with Jupiter entering the Aquarius.

  D.K. Roy and Indira Devi in their book Kumbha: India’s Ageless Festival (1958) gave an unflattering account of what happened at these festivals. Crowds assembled in their millions. There were factional fights resulting in heavy toll of life. Less known of the many ghastly tragedies was a pitched battle fought between Gosains and Bairagis at Hardwar in 1760 AD in which 18,000 men were killed. In another fracas at the same place, in 1975, Sikh pilgrims slew 500 Gosains. Hundreds were drowned or trampled to death in stampedes; thousands fell to epidemics; women were abducted and raped, children kidnapped. Processions of Naga sadhus smeared with ash were occasion for frenzied displays of sexuality by barren women who rightly regarded the worship of a live phallus more reproductive than its emblem. Nevertheless, Kumbha Melas survive because a dip in the Ganga at the auspicious hour cleanses sins accumulated by 88 generations of predecessors.

  Sunday, 19 April 1986

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  Golden Temple

  This year is the 400th anniversary of the foundation of the Golden Temple. Whether or not the event will be celebrated in Amritsar in the manner it should be is doubtful. With the wranglings going on in the administrative body, the SGPC, and the atmosphere of fear that still pervades after ‘Blue Star’ and ‘Black Thunder’, it is most unlikely that there will be anything spectacular. It is more than likely that Akali leaders who do not believe in doing anything constructive but are for ever fabricating grievances, will again accuse the administration of despoiling the temple and cancel all celebrations to mark their protest.

  The Temple has had a turbulent history. Ever since its foundation stone was laid by the Muslim divine Hazrat Mian Meer, Mahants have mulcted it of money; it has been desecrated by invaders like Ahmed Shah Abdali and misused by goons like Massa Ranghar. Even after it was rebuilt in marble and gold leaf by Maharajah Ranjit Singh, hereditary priests exploited it as their family property. It was in the Golden Temple that General Dyer, the perpetrator of the Jallianwala Bagh massacre was presented a robe of honour (siropa) by the Sarbarah (manager) Sir Aroor Singh. Its desecration by Jarnail Singh Bhindranwale, who converted parts of it into a fortress, and the blasting of the Akal Takht by the Indian Army on the death anniversary of its founder Guru Arjun, was yet another tragic episode in its history.

  The Hindustan Times, 15 April 1989

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  Anniversary Seminars

  As a nation we have infinite capacity to put up with boredom. This year we celebrate the anniversaries (of birth or death, I am not sure) of Dr Radhakrishnan, Maulana Azad and Pandit Nehru. So we have serials on them on the radio & TV. Every paper, every magazine feels it is missing out on something if it does not carry supplements on them. Every university must arrange seminars and learned discourses on the achievements of these great sons of India. We never learn anything new; we hear the same kind of blah blah day in and day out. The best cure for insomnia is to attend a seminar on Pandit Nehru—it is far more effective than a couple of pills of Calmpose.

  Apparently, spouting banalities is in our genes. Our ancestors had their Pandit Samagams—scholars conferences. But to break the tedium of scholarly pompous orations they also had a jester in the person of Vidushaka, a stock character in Sanskrit dramas. In one of the plays, he interrupts a seminar with the following speech:

  ‘When I heard there was going to be a conference of scholars, I rushed right over. What is a conference after all but an excuse to eat and drink and gossip: and those are the three things I like to do the most.’

  The Hindustan Times, 8 July 1989

  Dihi Kalighata to Kolkata

  In a few days from now, August 24, Calcutta will celebrate its 300th birthday. Everyone in Calcutta is talking about it; a few people are doing something about it. Two of them, Manjushri Khaitan and Suhel Seth, the actor and adman head of Workshop, invited me over to discuss what they had in mind in the way of celebrating the occasion. Neither of them is a Bengali: she is Marwari; he, a Punjabi. Both communities owe a great deal to Calcutta. They are eager to repay some of the debt they owe to the city which has been so good to them and affirm their feeling of identity as domiciled Bengalis.

  I arrive in Calcutta by the late evening flight. By the time I am shown my room in the guest house, it is almost midnight. I have a corner room on the eighth floor of a high-rise apartment building. A rain-sodden cool breeze sweeps across the room; no need of air conditioners or fans. It is God’s own cooling system. And as quiet as quiet can be. I can hardly believe I am in the world’s noisiest and most congested city. I doze off.

  In Calcutta, the dawn comes early with the screaming of koels and the cawing of crows. The koel’s morning call is a staccato one-syllable repetition Kuee, kuee, kuee—to stake its territorial claim. By then, cars and buses begin to slosh their way along flooded roads honking morning walkers to get out of their way. Suddenly I hear a tinkling of bells and human voices shouting in chorus something like bol bol. Is it a funeral procession shouting Hari Bol? I cannot resist watching funerals—more so one in Calcutta where they carry their dead with their faces exposed. I leap out of bed and look down from my window. It is not a funeral but a line of men bearing bamboo poles across their shoulders with little pots tied at either end—and lots of little bells. I listen carefully and catch their slogans: Bum Bum Bholey, paar lagaayega! Tarak Baba, paar lagaayega! One party disappears down the road, another comes along. They go on through the day till late into the night—I learn that right through the month of Sawan (July-August) people take a vow to carry water from the Ganga at Sheorapaly ghat near the temple of goddess Kali to Lord Shiva’s temple away at Tarakeshwar to bathe the Shivalinga. The pots must never touch the ground. Along the 26-kilometre road are platforms where the bamboo poles can be placed well above the earth. The more devout and the more stout of limb do this pilgrimage non-stop. Bholey Baba, Lord Shiva of Tarakeshwar, grants them their wishes. Although I have been to Calcutt
a over a 100 times, I had not known this. Calcutta has always something new to reveal.

  We get down to the business of the celebrations. Manjushri Khaitan is an attractive, tall, slender and soft-spoken young lady dressed in Punjabi salwar-kameez. The project is her baby. Suhel Seth spells out what they have in mind. They will produce a set of two volumes of lavish cofee-tablers which could become collectors’ items for Calcutta lovers. One is to consist of drawings by the inimitable R. K. Laxman. The other will be a compilation of all that has been said or written about Calcutta since Job Charnock landed at Sutanati on August 24, 1690. He acquired the land on which Calcutta was to rise, for the princely sum of Rs 1,300. It will be garnished with drawings by famous English and Indian artists from Daniell and Emily Eden to the present times. A team of young researchers is already at work looking through material available at the National Library, the Asiatic Society and the Victoria Memorial. I have been hired to edit this collection. Pramod Kapoor of Rolli Books will produce the two volumes.

  In the afternoon we were with Ashim Das Gupta, head librarian of the National Library. He has his own project for the 300th birthday party. He has got Thankappan Nair who has had a life-long involvement with the city, to compile a catalogue of some 2,000 books written in different languages on Calcutta. Then there is Shiva Prasad Samaddar who is the very storehouse of information—what he doesn’t know about Calcutta is not worth knowing. He is to produce an anthology of poems written on Calcutta.

  Calcutta detractors always outnumbered Calcutta lovers. All Bengalis are Calcutta lovers; few non-Bengalis have anything kind to say about it. Among non-Bengalis who loved it was Asadullah Khan Ghalib. He was well aware of the habit of outsiders of running it down:

  Alas, you too whisper slander against Calcutta,

  Do you know my friend it pierces my heart! Apparently, at the time, Calcutta brewed its own wines, as Ghalib writes, ‘the tasty wine of the city touches the spring of hope. And luscious women convey a world of meaning in their eyes,’ Ghalib confessed, ‘I have to say at the end, I love Calcutta’.

  The Hindustan Times, 19 August 1989

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  Janmashtami

  I celebrated last Janmashtami in a Muslim home listening to Muslim ballad singers singing Mira Bai’s bhajans in Rajasthani—in Marwari dialect. Since it also happened to be Navroz as well as the birthday of my friend, Ram Niwas Mirdha, there was also the conventional cake with candles and a half-hearted mumbling of ‘Happy Birthday To You’. It was an odd assortment of communities and a conviviality mingling old traditions with the modern anglicized Indian—you-do-what-you-like, I-do-what-I-like. Some of the guests were fasting till baby Krishna had safely crossed the Yamuna at midnight, while others were digging into chocolate cake and washing it down with champagne.

  It was my first meeting with members of the Langar community who inhabit the desert wastes of Barmer district of Rajasthan. Half of them are on the Indian side; the other half in Pakistan. All are Muslims. But whether Indian or Pakistani, they continue singing praises of Lord Krishna and Hindu Rajput warriors as did their ancestors. Rahmat and his eight-year-old son Mohammad Rafiq are from village Barhnva. Both wear Rajasthani-style angarkhas and massive coloured paggars (turbans). The father plays the Sindhi-Sarangi which he made himself; his son keeps time with kharkas, the Indian version of the Spanish castanets. They have been living in Delhi for the last 15 years and have sung at India Festivals in London and New York. No matter where they are and no matter whether they plough their fields, work in factories or in government offices, they spend some part of the day singing their folk songs. It is only in recent years that the Department of Tourism of Rajasthan and Doordarshan have exposed them to Indian and foreign audiences.

  It is this sort of tradition that a country like ours being torn up by vicious religious fundamentalist frenzy, should keep alive.

  The Hindustan Times, 16 September 1989

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  Random Thoughts on Independence Day

  On the 43rd anniversary of our independence I happened to be in the Shivaliks. Pine afforested green hills, intermittent but heavy rains during the three preceding days and nights, mists veiling and unveiling panoramic views of the snow-clad Himalayas on the one side and monsoon-soaked plains of the Punjab on the other. There was rarely a time when I could see things clearly. That pretty well reflects my thinking on Independence Day. This year I made no attempt to draw up a balance sheet of achievements or failures but concentrated on what I believe are some of the major errors we made.

  Were we right in conceding voting rights to our entire adult population? I am beginning to have serious doubts. Should people who contribute absolutely nothing to the national kitty in the way of material produce, revenue, water rates or taxes have the same right to elect men and women who decide how their money will be spent? Would it not have been better if we had restricted franchise to those who had passed their school-leaving examinations and required candidates to be at least degree holders? I believe that if we had done so, we would have curbed politicians perpetuating slums which provide them vote banks and the quality of members of our legislatures would have been better than it is.

  Are we doing the right thing in perpetuating reservation in jobs and promotions on the basis of caste? Must the sins of our forefathers be meted on future generations? By all means extend privileges to them giving them free education in schools and colleges; provide them with jobs such as peons, clerks, policemen and soldiers and up to levels where no special expertise is called for. Thereafter, only merit should count. Otherwise, our pace of progress will slacken and we will remain among the most backward nations of the world.

  Another mistake we made was to draw the boundaries of our states along linguistic lines. Whatever little advantages it might have yielded in the way of administration, it has been more than offset by the eruption of linguistic and regional chauvinism.

  And the biggest blunder we made was not making family planning compulsory through an enactment of Parliament. This could have been done when we had a powerful prime minister in Pandit Nehru and the Parliament consisted of more far-sighted and responsible members than we have today.

  I have no illusions about my ideas being acceptable to Indians of my age. I pin my hopes on the younger generation. I trust it will ponder over them and find them acceptable.

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  Thoughts on Children’s Day

  At every intersection of roads, there are three kinds of nuisances all car-borne people have to face: women beggars with children (their own or borrowed for beggary, no one knows), urchins who start wiping windscreens of cars, and boys who thrust evening papers in one’s face. As soon as I spot traffic lights turning against me, I start putting up the glass of my windows to avoid having anything to do with these nuisances. I know they are poor; I know they have no other means of earning a livelihood and yet I have had to steel my heart against giving them anything: encouraging beggars is perpetuating beggary.

  It is the same on the rare occasions I have to take somebody to the INA market. Before I can find parking space, hordes of boys and girls with empty baskets surround the car and fight each other to be employed as coolies. Most of them are between 9 and 13 years of age. The boys usually muscle out the girls: rarely does any coolie-hirer push away the boys and give a girl the chance to earn a rupee or two. The children of our poor country are amongst the most deprived of the world; and of them, girls, much worse off than boys. Many more girls than boys die before they are ten because their parents are not concerned with their health or nutrition.

  I am not sure there is much we can do about the wretched state of affairs. UNICEF will observe (one can hardly use the word ‘celebrate’) a Children’s Day; there will be a world summit for children organized by the United Nations on September 29 and 30 this year. There will be lots of bhaashans by world leaders. Having heard him speak, I have little doubt that our delegate, Atal Bihari Vajpayee, will out-bhaashan the best of foreign orators. Will i
t benefit the little boys and girls begging at crossroads or fighting for patrons at the INA market? Of course not. I am quite clear in my mind; the only way to improve the lot of our children is by not having too many. In Atal Bihari, the eternal bachelor, we have chosen the right man to represent us; it would have been ironic if we were to send Laloo Prasad Yadav, chief minister of Bihar, who has just had his ninth child. Has the fellow no conscience? No concern for the future of his country?

  The Hindustan Times, 25 August 1990

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  Not the House of God

  The fraying of tempers over the Babri Masjid-Ram Janmabhoomi dispute confirms my view that places of worship have long ceased to be havens of quietude where people can pray in silence, contemplate on God, meditate or ponder over what is right and what is wrong. They have become sources of income for priests, caretakers, hymn singers and beggars. They were the monopoly of men who donned saffron garbs of religion; they are now being worse exploited by khadi-wearing politicians. As far as I am concerned, there are no moral issues involved in Ayodhya. What are quoted as historical facts by either side are a tangle of unprovable myths. No one knows for sure the year of Sri Rama’s birth; there are many other temples around Ayodhya claiming to be his place of birth as there are dozens of shrines described as Sita ji ki rasoi. These temples and shrines provide sustenance to pandas. There is, however, evidence that a temple stood on the site on which the Babri Masjid was built. Babar was a Sunni; the Babri Masjid is a Shia mosque. For over half a century, no one came to offer namaaz, and its only occupant was an aged caretaker. When and how the first Hindu idol came to be enshrined there is not clear. The matter has been litigated over many decades. Surely the best things any government could do is to refer the matter to the highest court of the land! And even more surely it is the bounden duty of every citizen to accept the verdict of the court whether or not it is in his favour! When both parties to the dispute announce openly that they will not abide by the court’s decision, what else could the government have done than to take over the site under its control and debar anyone from meddling with either the mosque or the Hindu shrines.