Among Nehru’s allies were the home minister, G. B. Pant, and his fellow-in-effigy Morarji Desai. The intention of the protesters, said Desai, was to ‘overturn Government practically and to take possession of the City by force. It was also their purpose in overawing the non-Maharashtrian elements in the City into submission and into agreeing that Bombay City should go to Maharashtra.’
This interpretation was vigorously contested by N. V. Gadgil. He believed the administration had overreacted. Gadgil wrote to both Nehru and Pant of how the firing and lathi-charges by the police had been ‘on a scale which will make even the ex-British officials in England blush’. Back in 1919 the British had termed a peaceful meeting in Amritsar’s Jallianawala Bagh a ‘rebellion against the government’, to justify the slaughter by General Dyer. In the same way, Morarji Desai had now exaggerated the protests in Bombay to ‘justify police atrocities’. When ‘the choice was between Morarji and Maharashtra’, wrote Gadgil bitterly, Delhi had chosen Morarji on the grounds that ‘one who shoots is a good administrator’. But the costs to the party were huge. For ‘in Bombay indiscriminate firing by the police and other atrocities have resulted in complete alienation of Maharashtrian people from the Congress and the Government of India’.41
Meanwhile, the resentment smouldered on. The slogan on (almost) every Maharashtrian’s lips was ‘Lathi goli khayenge, phir bhi Bambai layenge’ (We will face sticks and bullets, but get our Bombay in the end).42 On 26 January, Republic Day, black flags were flown in several working-class districts of Bombay. When Jawaharlal Nehru planned a visit to the city in February, the Samyukta Maharashtra people organized a petition signed by 100,000 children, to be presented to the prime minister with the slogan ‘Chacha Nehru, Mumbai dya’ (Uncle Nehru, hand over Bombay). Nehru came, but amid tight security; he did not meet the press, let alone the children.43
In June 1956 the annual session of the Congress was to be held in Bombay. Nehru was met with black flags at the airport and all along the route. The atmosphere outside the meeting hall was tense. On the second day of the Congress a crowd threw stones at the members. Several were hurt, prompting a volley of tear-gas shells by the police.
Nehru’s problems were compounded by the now open disaffection among the Maharashtrian section of the Congress Party. The Union’s finance minister C. D. Deshmukh, MP for the coastal district of Kulaba, resigned in protest against the city not being allotted to Maharashtra. Other resignations followed.
Through the summer of 1956 both sides waited anxiously for the centre’s decision on Bombay. While the Cabinet had accepted the other recommendations of the SRC, it was rumoured that both Nehru and the home minister, Pant, were inclined to make Bombay city a separate union territory. In the prevailing climate this was deemed unfeasible. On 1 November the new states based on language came into being. Joining them was a bilingual state of Bombay. The only concession to the protesters was the replacement of Morarji Desai as chief minister by the 41-year-old Maratha Y. B. Chavan.44
VII
The creation of linguistic states was, among other things, a victory of the popular will. Jawaharlal Nehru did not want it, but Potti Sriramulu did. Sriramulu’s fast lasted fifty-eight days, during the first fifty-five of which the prime minister ignored it completely. In this time, according to one journalist, he criss-crossed India, delivering 132 speeches on all topics other than language.45 But once Nehru conceded Andhra, and set up the States Reorganization Commission, it was inevitable that the country as a whole would be reorganized on the basis of language.
The movements for linguistic states revealed an extraordinary depth of popular feeling. For Kannadigas and for Andhras, for Oriyas as for Maharashtrians, language proved a more powerful marker of identity than caste or religion. This was manifest in their struggles, and in their behaviour when the struggle was won.
One sign of this was official patronage of the arts. Thus great effort, and cash, went into funding books, plays and films written or performed in the official language of the state. Much rubbish was funded as a result, but also much work of worth. In particular, the regional literatures have flourished since linguistic reorganization.
Another manifestation was architecture. To build a new capital, or at least a new legislative assembly, became a sine qua non of the new states. In Orissa, for example, two architects were commissioned to design and plan a wide range of government buildings. These, the architects were told, had to ‘represent Orissan culture and workmanship’. The final product made abundant use of indigenous motifs: columns, arches, and sculpted images of gods. The architecture of new Bhubaneshwar, writes its historian, ‘is an architecture which has risen from the native soil, sacred and pure’.46
A more spectacular exhibition of provincial pride was the new assembly-cum-secretariat of the state of Mysore. This was built opposite the Bangalore High Court, a fine columned building in red which remains perhaps the city’s prettiest structure. However, the Mysore chief minister, Kengal Hanumanthaiya, saw the High Court as a colonial excrescence. He first sought permission to demolish it; when this was denied, he resolved that the new Vidhan Souda would dwarf and tame it. It had to convey an ‘idea of power and dignity, the style being Indian, particularly of Mysore and not purely Western’.
The end product drew eclectically from the architecture of the great kingdoms of the Carnatic plateau. Hanumanthaiya gave very specific instructions to the builders, asking them to copy pillars from a particular room in the Mysore palace, doors from a particular old temple he named. The building as it came up was, as it were, a mighty mishmash. Yet it has served its central purpose, which was to stand, ‘measure for measure, in triumph over the colonial Attara Kacheri [High Court]’, thus to ‘successfully function as a distilled essence of Kannada pride’.47
When it began, the movement for linguistic states generated deep apprehensions among the nationalist elite. They feared it would lead to the Balkanization of India, to the creation of many more Pakistans. ‘Any attempt at redrawing the map of India on the linguistic basis’, wrote the Times of India in early February 1952, ‘would only give the long awaited opportunity to the reactionary forces to come into the open and assert themselves. That will lay an axe at the very root of India’s integrity.’48
In retrospect, however, linguistic reorganization seems rather to have consolidated the unity of India. True, the artefacts that have resulted, such as Bangalore’s Vidhan Souda, are not to everybody’s taste. And there have been some serious conflicts between states on the sharing of river waters. However, on the whole the creation of linguistic states has acted as a largely constructive channel for provincial pride. It has proved quite feasible to be peaceably Kannadiga – or Tamil, or Oriya – as well as contentedly Indian.
An early illustration of this was the assembly elections in Andhra in 1955. Three years earlier, the Congress had done disastrously in the region. They were suspect on account of their prevarication on the question of statehood. By contrast, the communists had successfully ridden the bandwagon on vishal (greater) Andhra. But in 1955, with Andhra Pradesh firmly established, the Congress won in a landslide. Their main rivals, the communists, were comprehensively routed. Now, wrote one relieved commentator, ‘Andhra Desa will no longer be suspect as the potential Yenan of India’.49
The Andhras would not secede from India, but they did redefine what it means to be Indian. Or at least one Andhra did. Potti Sriramulu is a forgotten man today. This is a pity, for he had a more than minor impact on the history, as well as geography, of his country. For his fast and its aftermath were to spark off a wholesale redrawing of the map of India according to linguistic lines. If Jawaharlal Nehru was the Maker of Modern India, then perhaps Potti Sriramulu should be named its Mercator.
10
The Conquest of Nature
[The Indian people] have to choose whether they will be educated or remain ignorant; whether they will come into closer contact with the outer world and become responsive to its influences, or rem
ain secluded and indifferent; whether they will be organized or disunited, bold or timid, enterprising or passive; an industrial or an agricultural nation, rich or poor; strong and respected or weak and dominated by forward nations. Action, not sentiment, will be the determining factor.
M. VISVESWARAYA, engineer, 1920
The Indian commitment to the semantics of socialism is at least as deep as ours to the semantics of free enterprise . . . Even the most intransigent Indian capitalist may observe on occasion that he is really a socialist at heart.
J. K. GALBRAITH, economist, 1958
I
Mahatma Gandhi liked to say that ‘India lives in her villages’. At Independence, this was overwhelmingly a country of cultivators and labourers. Nearly three-quarters of the workforce was in agriculture, a sector which also contributed close to 60 per cent of India’s gross domestic product. There was a small but growing industrial sector, which accounted for about 12 per cent of the workforce, and 25 per cent of GDP.
The peasant was the backbone of the Indian nation, and of the Indian economy. There existed enormous variations in agricultural practices across the subcontinent. There was, for instance, a broad division between the wheat regions of the north and west, where women generally did not participate in cultivation, and the rice regions of the south and east, where women’s work was critical to the raising of seedlings. Large parts of peninsular India grew neither rice nor wheat: here, the chief cereals were an array of drought-resistant millets. Besides grain, peasants grew a wide range of fruit crops, as well as market-oriented produce such as cotton and sugar cane.
These variations notwithstanding, everywhere in India agriculture was largely empirical, based on knowledge and traditions passed down over the generations, rather than on ideas from books. Everywhere it was chiefly based on local inputs. The water, the fuel, the fodder, the fertilizer; these were all gathered in the vicinity of the village. The land was tilled with a plough pulled by a pair of bullocks. The homes were built of wood and thatch fetched by hand from the nearby forests.
Everywhere, those who worked on the land lived cheek-by-jowl with those who didn’t. The agriculturists who made up perhaps two-thirds of the rural population depended crucially on the service and artisanal castes: on blacksmiths, barbers, scavengers and the like. In many parts there were vibrant communities of weavers. In some parts there were large populations of nomadic pastoralists.
On the social side, too, there were similarities in the way in which life was lived across the subcontinent. Levels of literacy were very low. Caste feelings were very strong, with villages divided into half a dozen or more endogamous jatis. And religious sentiments ran deep.
Rural India was pervaded by an air of timelessness. Peasants, shepherds, carpenters, weavers, all lived and worked as their forefathers had done. As a survey of the 1940s put it, ‘there is the same plainness of life, the same wrestling with uncertainties of climate (except in favoured areas), the same love of simple games, sport and songs, the same neighbourly helpfulness, and the same financial indebtedness’.1
To the Indian nationalist, however, continuity was merely a euphemism for stagnation. Agricultural productivity was low; hence also levels of nutrition and health. About the only thing that was rising was population growth. From the late nineteenth century, as medical services expanded, the death rate rapidly fell. Consequently, since the birth rate remained constant, there was a steady rise in population. Between 1881 and 1941 the population of British India rose from 257 to 389 million. But (or hence) the per capita availability of food grains declined from an already low level of 200 kilograms per person per year to a mere 150.
Almost from the time the Congress was founded in 1885, Indian nationalists had charged the British with exploitation of the peasantry. They resolved that when power came to them, agrarian reform would be at the top of their agenda. Three programmes seemed critical. The first was the abolition of land revenue. The second was the massive expansion of irrigation, both to augment productivity and reduce dependence on the monsoon. The third was the reform of the system of land tenure. Particularly in north and east India, the British had encouraged a system of absentee landlordism. In many other districts too, those who tilled the land usually did not own it.
While tenants did not have security of tenure, agricultural labourers had no land to till in the first place. Inequalities in the agrarian economy could be very sharp indeed. The forms of exploitation were manifold and highly innovative. Thus, apart from land tax, zamindars (landowners) in the United Provinces levied an array of additional cesses on their peasants such as motorana (to pay for the zamindar’s new car) and hathiana (to pay for his elephants).2 The landlord was prone to treat his animals and his vehicles far better than he did his labourers. Two weeks before Independence a progressive weekly from Madras ran a story about distress in rural Malabar. This profiled a large landlord who owned seven elephants, for which he needed some 25,000 kilograms of paddy. His own tenants, meanwhile, were given three days’ ration for the whole week.3
The socialist elements in the Indian National Congress pushed the organization to commit itself to thoroughgoing land reform, as in the abolition of large holdings, the promotion of the security of tenants and the redistribution of surplus land. They also advocated an expansion in the provision of credit to overcome the widespread problem of rural indebtedness.4
But, as the nationalists also recognized, agrarian reform had to be accompanied by a spurt in industrial growth. The nation needed more factories to absorb the surplus of underemployed labourers in the countryside. It also needed factories to prove to itself that it was modern. To enter the comity of nations, India had to be educated, united, outward looking and, above all, industrialized.
In colonial times there had existed a sharp divide between factories owned by British firms and those owned by Indians. Jute, for instance, was largely in the hands of the foreigner; cotton textiles in the hands of the native. The Raj was frequently (and for the most part, justly) accused of deliberately discouraging Indian enterprise, and of distorting the tariff and trade structure to favour British firms. While some Indian capitalists were studiously apolitical, others had been vigorous supporters of the Congress. They naturally hoped that when freedom came, the biases would be reversed, placing foreign capitalists at a disadvantage.5
If India had to be industrialized, which model should it follow? To the leaders of the national movement, ‘imperialism’ and ‘capitalism’ were both dirty words. As John Kenneth Galbraith pointed out, ‘until recent times a good deal of capitalist enterprise in India was an extension of the arm of the imperial power – indeed, in part its confessed raison d’être. As a result, free enterprise in Asia bears the added stigmata of colonialism, and this is a formidable burden.’6
What, then, were the alternatives? Some nationalists wrote admiringly of the Soviet Union, and of ‘the extraordinary use they have made of modern scientific knowledge in solving their problems of poverty and want’, thus passing in a mere two decades ‘from a community of half-starved peasants to well-fed and well-clad industrial workers’. This had been accomplished by ‘eliminating the profit motive from her industries which belong to and are being developed in the interest of the nation’; by feats of engineering that had made rivers into ‘mighty sources of electric power’; and by a system of planning by disinterested experts which had increased production nine-fold and where ‘unemployment and anarchy of production are unknown’.7
Another much admired model was Japan. Visiting that country during the First World War, the prominent Congress politician Lala Lajpat Rai marvelled at the transformation it had undergone, moving from (agrarian) primitivism to (industrial) civilization in a mere fifty years. Japan, he found, had built its factories and banks by schooling its workers and keeping out foreign competition. The role of the state was crucial – thus ‘Japan owes its present and industrial prosperity to the foresight, sagacity and patriotism of her Government’. Once as backw
ard as India, Japan had ‘grown into a teacher of the Orient and a supplier of all the necessaries and luxuries of life which the latter used to get from the Occident’.8
II
In 1938 the Congress set up a National Planning Committee (NPC), charged with prescribing a policy for economic development in a soon-to-be-free India. Chaired by Jawaharlal Nehru, the committee had some thirty members in all – these divided almost equally between the worlds of science, industry and politics. Sub-committees were allotted specific subjects: such as agriculture, industry, power and fuel, finance, social services and even ‘women’s role in planned economy’. The NPC outlined ‘national self-sufficiency’ and the doubling of living standards in ten years as the main goals. Planning itself was defined as ‘the technical co-ordination, by disinterested experts, of consumption, production, investment, trade, and income distribution, in accordance with social objectives set by bodies representative of the nation’.9
From Japan and Russia the NPC took the lesson that countries that industrialized late had to depend crucially on state intervention. This applied with even more force to India, whose economy had been distorted by two centuries of colonial rule. As one NPC report put it, planned development upheld the principle of ‘service before profit’. There were large areas of the economy where the private sector could not be trusted, where the aims of planning could be realized only ‘if the matter is handled as a collective Public Enterprise’.10
Notably, the private sector concurred. In 1944 a group of leading industrialists issued what they called A Plan of Economic Development for India (more commonly known as the Bombay Plan). This conceded that ‘the existing economic organization, based on private enterprise and ownership, has failed to bring about a satisfactory distribution of the national income’. Only the state could help ‘diminish inequalities of income’. But the state was necessary for augmenting production too. Energy, infrastructure and transport were sectors where the Indian capitalists themselves felt the need for a government monopoly. In the early stages of industrialization, they argued, it was necessary that ‘the State should exercise in the interests of the community a considerable measure of intervention and control’. Indeed, ‘an enlargement of the positive as well as preventative functions of the State is essential to any large-scale economic planning’.11
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