India

Water Wars

This is a review of the book Water Wars: Privatisation, Pollution and Profit by Vandana Shiva.

Water Wars is a great book for people interested in management of water; the kind of people who binge read newspaper editorials on public policy. It isn’t a hugely educative read, though, since almost everyone (newspaper nut or otherwise) is aware of the water crisis looming ahead, and that solutions to it are way more complex than we’d care to admit.

Just as well, the book is a worthy read because it is spirited (you can almost hear Shiva crying her voice hoarse about the ills of privatisation of water). Also, literature on conserving and saving our environment is necessary, so any literature at all is welcome.

Shiva is an advocate for community led maintenance of water. Her arguments are premised on the idea that communities are democratic and non-discriminating between sections of society. But is that the reality of communities across the country? Caste, class and religion based conflict, related to water, at the village level, are not uncommon in India. It was Ambedkar that said that villages can be the cesspools of narrow-mindedness – are they, then, equipped to solve water crisis equitably? It’s a pity that this point was not critically examined by Shiva.

She also believes that community management can be a replacement to govt efforts. Very well. But every successful case study on community led water management quoted came with the support of the State. For example, Swadhyaya, Pani Panchayat. So reading her ideas about replacing the state in service provision is a little bit of a hypocritic pill to take.

Predictably, the book signs a huge no to privatisation of water services, be it extraction, distribution or recycling. The reasons being that it leads to pollution, inequitable distribution.

Speaking of pollution, a much needed chapter is devoted to the effect of Climate Change on the dialectic on water scarcity. The bad news (not so much news anymore) is that there is no good news at all. Shiva believes that the solution to climate change induced water and food scarcity, and disasters, lies in enforcing action through international instruments like the Paris Agreement (she mentions Kyoto, actually; the book was released many years ago). But there is no way to enforce these agreements, truly. Finally, in a last breathe effort, she says, we need climate justice. That means a paradigm change in lifestyles of people, and a goodbye to the American lifestyle of consumption. But that’s pretty much impossible.

At this point in the review, I think it’s appropriate to point to some of the great despondence that the writer probably experienced while writing the book. These are the not-very-compelling parts of the book: Many pages are spent in saying that private companies (ranging from Coca Cola to Monsanto) are trying to claim all water services, with the help of the IMF and the World Bank. They’re not do-gooders – they’re trojan horses, apparently. So beware! Also, Public Private Partnerships are very dangerous – it’s all about making public good unavailable and making a profit out of it with public money! These statements are not based on facts or figures, rather, they’re based on strong opinions. I did say the book was spirited.

The book ends with a chapter on how rivers are seen as sacred by most civilisations. It was an appeal to the spirituality of the reader, I think, to conserve our water resources. To me, it was interesting for the narration of all the mythological stories related to rivers and other water bodies.

Solutions?

Shiva’s main emphasis is on local solutions to water problems, and she squarely blames states, countries and international organisations, and especially private interests, for the water crisis.

In Water Wars, fierce arguments to save the planet’s water resources by not doing certain things (like privatisation and monetisation of water) are put forward.

But there are no sweeping solutions that are on offer. While the case studies are quoted as a blueprint to solve issues related to water pollution and scarcity, it is also a fact that these stories are not scalable. Abstract ideas of justice and equity are provided as the panacea for water management. Mostly, the author exhorts countries to look within at solutions offered by communities and at traditional methods as ways forward.

If only that worked all the time.

While compelling, the book does not fully quench the thirst for solutions to water problems and water wars.

3/5.

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Public Institutions in India: a cross-sectional view

Public institutions are the instruments through which modern states carry out their tasks of governance and development. Indian public institutions require close scrutiny, given that the Indian State is a paradox of, among other things, governance stability and political chaos, to both, good and bad effect. Public institutions in India especially merit much ink and thought for an administrator because of the implications that it holds for her, while she is a player in the game and creator of the same.

The study of public institutions has been carried out in two tangents – in drawing causations between institutions and certain outcomes that they produce, directly or indirectly. Public Institutions in India, on the other hand, is a study of public institutions themselves; on what affects the performance of different institutions rather than how the institutions affect broader aspects of the country’s life. The editors, Devesh Kapur and Pratap Bhanu Mehta, contend rightly, that a better grasp of how our public institutions function is imperative in order to appreciate India’s political economy.

Public institutions may be defined as a set of rules and norms that determine roles and which create and foster expectations from each other. When reading this book, though, it is important for a reader to remember the other definitions that enhance our understanding of institutions, ranging from the Marxist to the structuralist (the one ascribed to in this book). Ultimately, it is also to be borne in mind that institutions are but creations of people, and are liable to be preserved, or changed by them, with everyday and epic revolutions to that effect; and in this bottomline, lies the fact that the study of institutions is essential for administrators. To the end that it serves administrators, Public Institutions discusses the design, performance and adaptability of the key institutions of governance in India.

Public Institutions regards a wide range of institutions, from the Parliament, to the Reserve Bank of India, and to the Election Commission of India. The cross-sectional view of these institutions, though, is a tad bit dated today, given the many mutations that the institutions have gone through.

Nevertheless, the book will be enjoyable for the intellectually inclined. That said, it doesn’t conform to the recent trend of books being mediums of storytelling, even if non-fiction (Sapiens, for instance). If the book weren’t in the form of compendium of essays and it had a common thread pulling the reader along, it may have been a different sort of read, but would not necessarily have taken much out of the work. But then again, it may not have been easy to do it, given the vast difference in writing styles of the different writers and the assortment of topics.

As a reader primed to note biases in texts, some biases of the analysts, that even the best statisticians and researchers face, such as confirmation, hindsight, overconfidence bias, were sometimes too stark to skim over. For instance, the Pratap Bhanu Mehta essay concludes that the courts in India have predominantly intervened for the realisation of the duty of the State, as given by the Directive Principles of State Policy, as opposed to preserving and guaranteeing civil liberties. The examples stated to show the courts’ preference to intervene in the former and not latter have been selectively listed, in a classic case of confirmation bias. Mehta’s analysis does not pass the test for bias, given cases that contradict his view, like AK Gopalan versus State of Madras and B Muthamma versus Union of India. That said, the essay on the Judiciary is informative for the uninitiated and delves deep into the malaises and strengths of the institution.

The best part about these essays is that they deliver on their promise – they look at various institutions in depth, their interactions, as they aid or subvert each other, and their future prospects. An example would be the analysis of democratic durability and economic performance of the Indian political economy by Devesh Kapur. He states that despite the political instability that India has seen, she has remained a relatively very stable economy. He suggests, with numbers and graphs (indeed!), that it is perhaps the out of phase life cycle of institutions and political cycles that has reduced the covariance risk and has given more systemic stability to the State.

The writers also suggest ways forward for the institutions that they have analysed, some of which stand out for being forward looking and optimistic. In the essay on the police in India where the multiple linkages to the institution and its effects on society are analysed, it is also suggested that the institution needs to look within and at the society, with research at the core of policing.

The volume following this one is on Rethinking Public Institutions, in which the same institutions are analysed again, after over a decade, by other researchers. This time, with a reinvigorated zeal to suggest reform, with little and great revolutions within.

The purpose of the book, Public Institutions in India, is to appreciate efficiencies, comment on absurdities and highlight lacunae through a cross-sectional view of Indian public institutions. This, it does exceptionally well. The book is a must read for those interested in public policy and administration; preferably over a cup of piping hot tea or warm coffee. It is inevitable that this body of intellectually stimulating work will be discussed and debated in the halls of Indian public policy and administration, for it is one of a kind, and a good one at that.

4.5/5.

The Ministry of Utmost Happiness

The Ministry of Utmost Happiness is written by Arundhati Roy, who is famous for being the winner of the Man Booker Prize Award for her previous work of fiction, The God of Small Things (and is famous still for eliciting vile hatred among the gatekeepers of Indian Nationalism and Patriotism).

Anything to do with Roy becomes political, as might be the case with this review. Even though I’ve tried to be apolitical, how can I seem to objectively review this book? Roy is, after all, a woman who stokes the deepest fears in people who admire her, detest her, or, who try to be indifferent to her. I’m aware of the political speak that the review of this book can seem to exude, just as the book itself did. After all, as Roy says, the personal is political, and vice versa.

Before the book was released, commentators commented on the political undertones of the novel. I was intrigued. When I purchased the book, I mulled over the meaning of the poem on the book jacket for a long time.

"How to tell a shattered story? By slowly becoming everybody.
No. By slowly becoming everything."

What does the poem mean? Are people shattered in the course of their lives? Are the shattered people reduced to things? Are the people reduced to things after being shattered? Will knowing the stories of shattered people’s lives leave me shattered too? Can’t I tell a shattered story without being affected? Should I be stoic and unreasonably tree-like in my attempt to tell the shattered story of the dehumanised shattered people? I didn’t know, and I still don’t know. Such angst is a hallmark of Roy’s works, especially now, when she’s weaving metaphors through every sentence.

The Ministry of Utmost Happiness, I figure, is the place that the (shattered?) people of the periphery congregate to; and if it had to be a physical location, it would be the shrine of Hazrat Sarmad, an ascetic Sufi saint who was executed by the Mughal King, Aurangzeb, for the crime of blasphemy, being naked, and mostly for being a nuisance. The enigma of the saint shines through in all the protagonists – eccentric people from the fringes who live their ludicrous lives with aplomb.

One of our protagonists, Aftab or Anjum, a transgender person, or a Hijra, as she likes to be called, was introduced to the Sufi saint by her grief-ridden mother (for having given birth to a Hijra). After many years, during which time Anjum discovers her sexuality, moves out of her house, into Khwabgah (a place where Hijras stayed, and which literally translates to “a house of dreams”), attains fame, etc., she finds her daughter at the Shrine. Anjum’s life changes as tragedy strikes soon afterward, and she goes off to live in a grave yard.

Saddam Hussein, a security guard who rides a pony, is another such eccentric character. He, too, ends up living with Anjum in Jannat, the palace in the grave yard.

Another main protagonist, Tilotamma, is an architect who is possibly modeled after Roy herself. In her life, everything is a metaphor. As a young graduate student in Delhi, she falls in love with a passionate and handsome man, who goes on to become a Kashmiri militant fighting for Azaadi, and who calls her Babajaan. She is also romanced by a idealistic hardcore investigative journalist who is soon absorbed into the State’s news mill. She loves him for a brief period, but then falls out of love gradually. She’s also the love of a man who joins the Intelligence Bureau; a true patriot who thinks they can never really be together, for reasons ranging from her being “rootless” while he belonged to an “upper caste”, him being married to a woman of his parents’ choice, to her being as aloof as she is, etc. And towards the end of the book, or somewhere in the middle (it’s hard to say when), she also adopts an abandoned child born to a raped Maoist militant. Tilo’s story, or multitude of stories, was my hook.

Endearing characters apart, the book traces some of the most seminal moments in Indian history, like the partition, the emergency, the 1984 sikh riots, Godra 2002, Kashmir 2010 and 2016, Maoist movements in Andhra Pradesh, the India Against Corruption movement 2010, to name a few. But these events are scattered across the book like bread crumbs, in a jumbled up time-line, which only a keen reader can keep track of.

When the reader turns the last page, though, she wonders why this is no more than a work of fiction. Is it not an argument made through fiction? Argument or not, the very obvious references to the Indian leadership and polity can make the book more of a political memorandum than a piece of literature.

In an interview, Roy was asked why she resorted to fiction when the reality, or Duniya, is so starkly fantastic and mildly dystopian. She said, “To me, there is nothing higher than fiction. Nothing. It is fundamentally who I am. I am a teller of stories. For me, that’s the only way I can make sense of the world, with all the dance that it involves”. That declaration pretty much sums up this book: an attempt to make sense of the world – of the dance of the world – by threading together the shattered tales of a shattered people.

In The Ministry of Utmost Happiness, happiness is redefined and is free of the crutches of social norms and facts. It’s written with a luxuriant flow of words and with the ragged edge of a penmanship that seeks to speak directly to the reader. If you read the book as a work of contemporary fiction, it may be a 4/5 experience. If not, I can’t say.

The art of translation

Translations have the ability to ruin or enrich a piece of literature. In this review, I look at two books that were translated to English. Chemmeen, written in Malayalam by T. S. Pillai, was translated by Anita Nair, and One Part Woman, written in Tamil by Perumal Murugan, was translated by Aniruddhan Vasudevan.

The problems of translation are many, and I don’t pretend to know all of them. But, even to a novice, many of those problems become evident when it’s a translation of a nuanced story. Likewise, the beauty of a good translation is evident when a reader is moved by the literature, an artwork by itself, despite the translation. To be able to accomplish the latter requires responsible and dedicated translation, which, I’m afraid, is rare to find.

One Part Woman was written in Tamil under the title Maathorubagan. The book kicked up a storm when it was published. A section of the society demanded that it be banned. But fortunately, in an unfortunately flawed judgment, the courts allowed the book to be published.

The book, One Part Woman, is about a couple, Kali and Ponna, who are deeply in love with each other. The tenderness in their relationship is touchingly written; allowing me to forget that this is a translation! Their attempts at conceiving a child go in vain, and they are hounded by the social sanction of being childless. But then there comes relief – a chariot festival, where consensual sex between any man and woman, married or unmarried, is allowed; all for the benefit of the barren women. According to this tradition, the acts committed on the occasion of the festival are sacred and fully sanctioned by God. But will it push Kali and Ponna’s relationship too far if she participates in it?

The tale is harrowing because of how human it is. It examines, with nuance and lyricism, the ways in which society manipulates our choices, emotions, relationships. By the end of the thin book, I was exhausted and moved. The story is exceptional, goosebumps-worthy. It made me wonder how exquisite the Tamil version would be. But thankfully, the translation is excellent in that simple English is used to tell the tale without any jarring pitstops.

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The Tamil book, Maathorubagan

And then there is Chemmeen, an epic story, and a regrettable translation. Chemmeen is more famous as one of the best Malayalam movies, than it is as a Malayalam book. The story is gold! However, the intricately woven themes and the strong characters have to be rescued by the reader against the tide of the grammatical errors that steal the treasure – the story. The flat tone used, with a mechanical translation, was highly off putting.

“It was bone-chillingly damp. Then one morning the sun rose in a clear sky. The boats were launched. There was a good catch. The boats came back to shore and brisk trade happened.”

“A few days later a huge quarrel erupted on the shore. All the fisherwomen who sold their fish in the east ganged up against Karuthamma and abused her.”

Lines that may have sounded poetic in Malayalam lay diminished in this translation.

Apart from my grievance about the translation, the story is beautiful. It’s a classic. It examines the lives of a community of fisherfolk in Kerala, their interpersonal relationships based on status, class and religion. It is essentially a love story, though. All the characters are built expertly, except Pareekutty, who remains slightly mysterious and romantic till the end. The protagonists of the love story, Karuthamma, Pareekutty and Palani, are honorable, loving, flawed, passionate people. Even though Karuthamma loves Pareekutty, she marries Palani. She does so because, among other myriad reasons, Pareekutty is not from her religion, because her father asks her to do so, because that’s her duty to the community, as a fisherwoman. As you can see, from this very short snippet of the story, multiple themes are intertwined in the story. And the story itself has many twists and turns. What happens to Palani, Karuthamma and Pareekutty? Do Palani and Karuthamma live as a happily married couple? Or do Karuthamma and Pareekutty get together? The richness of the story merits every high praise. But, as for the translation, the lesser said the better.

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A still from the 1965 Malayalam movie, Chemmeen


Chemmeen and One Part Woman share some similar themes, but Chemmeen, I’d say, is more layered and complex, and is a better drama; a classic! One Part Woman, though, has won me over with its simple, yet nuanced, story.

TS Pillai’s Chemmeen deserves a 4.5/5 for being such an epic story, but I’d rate it at 3/5 due to (despite) the disappointing translation by Anita Nair. Don’t read it if you cannot stand a beautiful story being lost due to the ineptitude of the literature.

Perumal Murugan’s One Part Woman fully deserves a 4/5, for its story and the translation that does it justice. Read it if you enjoy heartwarming lyrical love stories.

A Machiavellian holocaust

This is a review of An Era of Darkness, by Shashi Tharoor. The book was written as an extension of Tharoor’s speech at Oxford Union, where the role of the British in the colonies was debated.

Tharoor does not hold the distinction of being a staunch nationalist, but is rather admired for his rational thought and an exhibition of vast knowledge about his country, India. His previous books which have gained plaudits from historians include Pax Indica, India Shastra, among others.

An Era of Darkness begins by effectively demonstrating the agenda behind the construction of Indian history of the pre-colonial times by James Mill and others. While writers like Mill claimed that the Indian rulers before the British were brutish, Tharoor makes the case against the British for claiming to be the altruistic moral force that she wants to be seen as. He also refutes the ideas that pre-British times were the ‘Dark Ages’ of India. The “White man’s burden” (India), Tharoor writes, could have lived and thrived were it not for the British, who extinguish just about everything going well for India when they set up their very first factory (a storage unit) here.

Colonial apologists are often caught praising the British for the wondrous contributions that they made, without which India may not be the giant that she is today. Tharoor argues that neither was the stated intention of the British to rule well, nor was it anything but exploitation of the land, resources and people. Besides, even if the intentions were as charitable as they are made out to be, nothing can justify the cruel truths of British colonialism.

The book describes, among other facets of the colonial rule, the looting of resources and treasures, killing off of indigent industries, racism, policies of divide and rule that rankle our present with communal conflicts, misgovernance for economic interests of the British, the gag on the press, the dysfunctional administration that killed millions in famines. He also examines the apparent advantages of the Raj. He scoffs at suggestions that the Raj has been ‘good’. The utility or aesthetics of the railways, English education, tea, cricket, etc., he says, are a result not of British intention, but despite their intentions.

The bulk of his arguments against the colonial rule is solid. Where he falters, if at all, is in his somewhat repeated resort to a hypothetical rule of the land by Indian rulers. Even in doing so, though, he’s maintained a scholarly rigor in comparing India with other states, and in sticking with hard facts for the most part. Also, the chapter on reparations and return of stolen antiquities is an exercise that might well be futile, although well intended. Despite the fervour with which Tharoor and other writers speak of it, the fact is that the cost of colonialism is impossible to determine, and the antiquities will not be returned any time soon (because, in the words of UK’s former Prime Minister, “If you say yes to one, you suddenly find the British museum would be empty.”).

Tharoor’s wit and lyrical writing makes this a very entertaining read. And a necessary one, when you realise how far reaching the effects of the colonial rule are. That the British don’t even acknowledge their horrible deeds done in their colonies, through their education system, or through official channels (as Germany does, for instance), is saddening; and if you go by Tharoor, it’s also expected of them, since, after all, their forefathers were comfortable with seeming to be a moral force rather than actually being one, when they ruled over India.

4/5

That the loot, pillage and killings of such magnitude has been brushed under the carpet, and that the British are instead lauded for being the harbingers of modernity and democracy in the colonies they occupied, makes for a holocaust that only Machiavelli could have outdone.

Fortunately, the bluff on the British rule has been called.

Will the Adivasi dance?

‘Adivasi’ is how most tribes in India identify themselves, at least as far as names go. Adivasis or Tribes have long confused the Indian State and her non-tribal people. Indeed, the diversity among tribal groups is astounding. While the Nagas tribes were notorious for head hunting, and the Andaman Sentinel tribes are brutally protectionist about their territory, the Nagas are also a political compact of people who aspire to political autonomy from/within the state, and the Dhongria Khond people are one of the most notable nature conservationists.

The non-tribal people (non scheduled tribes (ST), that is) can attribute their knowledge about tribes mostly to films that depict a colonial viewpoint of tribal people, as brutish, terrible, and uncivilized. On the other hand, the State knows just how powerless these groups are, and in far too many cases, exploits them due to it. For instance, in P Sainath’s book, we saw a tribe was asked to move out of their land and were subsequently ‘rehabilitated’ four or five times in a single generation; for such is the authority that the state commands with eminent domain (right to acquire private land for public use).

In the spectrum of perspectives that one may have on tribal groups in India, there are two that have been made into books recently – one, in the form of short stories, speaking of the lives of some tribal people, and the other, a book on the history of a violent struggle waged by many tribes against the State. This is a review of The Adivasi Will Not Dance and Hello, Bastar.

Hansda Sowvendra Shekhar was awarded the Sahitya Akademi Yuva Puraskar, 2015, for his book, The Adivasi Will Not Dance, a collection of stories set in the mineral-rich Jharkhand. The book includes stories about a young man who migrates to Gujarat only to find that eating meat is subject to heavy social sanction, a young girl who is moving to West Bengal in search of work who has to sleep with a policeman at the price of two soggy bread pakoras, a Troupe-Master who is beaten up because he refuses to dance for the President of India, a prostitute who falls in love etc.

These stories are written with a sardonic tone of a man who seems to have seen it all; the raw human desire, the vulgar display of power, the chill of fear, the gnawing hunger for wealth, love, power, status. His stories are not meant to entertain as much as they are meant to help you introspect, such as when you read of a young woman being thrown into prostitution as a way of life, you wonder why there is no alternative for her. But his stories are also slightly over-dramatic in their style. It might just be my personal preference talking, when I say that too many of the women in the stories exclaim and over-react altogether too often,  making the narrative seem like it’s meant for a play rather than a poignant story book. The best part about this book, however, is the diversity of issues Hansda brings out, ranging from religion, tradition to persecution, patriarchy, and what not. They mostly feel like a collation of stories out of a newspaper, and hence must be read that way, with some piping hot chai or coffee in the garden. 2/5

Hello, Bastar, written by Rahul Pandita, on the other hand is a whole different ball game, while still being on the subject of tribes; but this time, it’s the tribes of Bastar, in Chattisgarh. The book steers away from the topic of tribes and traces the history and life of one of India’s biggest security threats. The essays (or stories?) in the book describe the beginning and acceleration of the “Maoist” movement, the crackdown on the movement in Andhra Pradesh, the infamous Salwa Judum, the capture of the (in)famous leaders of the movement etc. More importantly, while doing so, the book also allows us to pore over the motivations and simple ambitions of the armed men and women.

Rahul Pandita travels and lives with the “Maoists”, and provides us this chilling tale of their lives. The offhanded tone and the apparent normalcy of the movement makes the essays all the more disturbing. The repression of the state and the ideology of the Maoists is described in the book to give us a perspective other than that obtained in the mainstream media, and that’s reason enough to read it, in my opinion. What the media doesn’t always tell us, but which Pandita covers eloquently, is that the movement is a mixture of ideology, repression and revenge, unattended peoples, lacunae of the state, and army-fatigue clad Naxals who fill that void. While one might hear people say that there should be no sympathy for such “Naxal movements”, I don’t think not listening to them will solve this security threat either. Understanding what troubles them, their motivation, and their wishes, is an important part of our democracy. To that end, this book serves one well. 3.5/5

The Adivasi Will Not Dance may seem like a cute book on the lives of faraway people, and Hello, Bastar, may seem like a war-memoir. The beauty of both the books is that they have a subtext that is intensely human and pleading with us for attention. The exploitation and treatment of Adivasis, as if they’re meant to be in zoos, must give way for a decent and “good life” for them as well. An emerging economy like India cannot afford to continue to watch her Adivasi children die of malnutrition related ailments (death by starvation, some call it) or wither due to lack of education; and she cannot shell and persecute her people in the name of internal security, without incurring heavy damage to her democratic psyche. We, as a people who choose our politicians, have a moral duty to understand the Adivasi’s dreams, persuade the state to guarantee her the right to life with dignity, negotiate with her if she’s upset, and not wait long enough that she takes to army-fatigues and gunfire.

Between the epic and the everyday

The book, Theatres of Democracy, by Shiv Visvanathan, edited by Chandan Gowda, is an anthology of the best articles written by the giant among sociologists in India today. Shiv Visvanathan is a much sought after writer for Dailies and Magazines, commenting on sparrows, protest marches and what not. His penmanship is well known, what with his observations of the mundane and stellar evoking reaction from intellectuals, politicians, common citizens alike.

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The genius of the essays lay not in the essays themselves, but in the wholesome tapestry they make, of the world, and India in particular. Most of his essays mock at our realities, subtly, definitely, but without sting. For instance –

A stray dog running across the Republic Day parade seemed more symbolic of freedom than all the panoply of tanks and soldiers. (The Red For Ritual)

But, as a sociologist, he does not refrain from speaking the truth without dressing it up either. For instance –

Jayalalitha is the most Hobbesian figure in Indian politics, the sovereign as empress, the politician as a cult figure… As the cult of Jayalalitha engulfs Tamil Nadu, she exudes a power, contemptuous of citizenship. She reveals the way in which democracy as a cult becomes… dangerous. (The Cult of Jayalalitha)

..Political theory in India has lost its moorings and become utterly flat-footed vis-a-vis globalization… The real challenge before us is to invent a new lifeworld for politics to understand riots, disasters, droughts, waste, genocide and hospitality. (The Failure of Political Theory)

The essays are political, but unburdened by any need to be partisan. They border on the prophetic, but are bound by the limits set by the intellectual, researcher, and teacher.

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The range of subjects that the 91 essays touch is vast; individuals, political parties, public policy, our constitution, the federal system, dissent, nationalism, science, sports, media, are some of the stars that dot the galaxy of his essays, which provide one with an additional ray of light to capture the beauty and madness of contemporary times with.

But, the brilliance and wit are sometimes too short and too strong when he talks about the past, leaving the reader to fall back on false nostalgia, such as when he describes the Middle Class, currently abundantly corruptible. Surely he’s being overly romantic? Also, some of the essays did not look the reader in the eye, when they abandoned reasoned argument by subsiding instead under the weight of emotion (like when discussing Modi, who he has not forgotten or forgiven for whatever transpired in Gujarat, and whose ‘cult’ he finds inimical to democracy). Where did the academic go?

In a post-truth society, his academic and friendly voice is a salve to understand and analyze the dialectics of the world we live in. I had said in the beginning of the review that it’s not the essays themselves that make the book powerful, it is in the way they are bound together; for us to ultimately piece together the fact that we live in a mindless and ritualistic world that blossoms with life nevertheless.

Read it recklessly, as it may please you, leafing through the essays that you fancy. Or read it methodically, page to page, with a pencil to underline what fascinates and engages you. To a person who enjoys analyzing contemporary times with nuance, this book is a gift from a commentator par excellence.

3/5

Bhagat Singh, the atheist

This is a comment on the essay, Why I am an Atheist, originally written by Bhagat Singh in Gurmukhi. It was translated to Urdu/Persian script by Maqsood Sadiq, and from Urdu to English by Hasan. It can be read at marxists.org.

Bhagat Singh, a revolutionary socialist* in British India, was the man that Bose said was the symbol of the new awakening among the youth. He was a luminaire extraordinaire in the freedom struggle, and he was all of 24 years old when he gave his life to his muse, liberty.

In his book/essay, Why I am an Atheist, he argues that he’s not an atheist because he’s vain or proud, because he thinks he’s superior or equivalent to God, no. “I need no opiate to meet my end. I am a realistic man. I want to overpower this tendency in me with the help of Reason.” He believed and wrote, thus, that a mere belief in God must be tempered with reason or suffer criticism. Furthermore, he argues, as a Marxian, that religion is the opium of the masses, hope of the hopeless. He sees religion as a curse to the freedom struggle. He calls scriptures fairy tales and expresses irritation that they are considered sacred and factual. He concludes by saying that religion is a creation of the powerful, to continue to control and exploit a section of the society, for generations.

He was often told that as a proud and vain man, he will submit himself before the Almighty when his time comes to a close. Yet, in defiance of the naysayers and to once and for all argue against them, he wrote the essay while he was in jail, awaiting the noose (having been convicted and punished to death for the assassination of a British officer), for his country, with conviction that his life was well lived and with fervent desire to leave behind as much of the spirit of the struggle as he could.

He pours his anger and annoyance into the essay, bemused and simultaneously mad at the inexplicable acceptance and resignation of the Indian people in the face of exploitation, from other Indians and from the British. The urgency of his tone is palpable as he exhorts his countrymen to rise and claim what is rightfully theirs.

I tell you that the British rule is not there because God willed it but for the reason that we lack the will and courage to oppose it. Not that they are keeping us under subjugation with the consent of God, but it is with the force of guns and rifles, bombs and bullets, police and militia, and above all because of our apathy that they are successfully committing the most deplorable sin, that is, the exploitation of one nation by another. Where is God? What is He doing? Is He getting a diseased pleasure out of it? A Nero! A Genghis Khan! Down with Him!

The essay is relevant today and will remain so forever. Criticise, question, analyse, he said. (Today, if you don’t agree quickly enough, you’re slaughtered by self styled ‘nationalists’.)

You go against popular feelings; you criticise a hero, a great man who is generally believed to be above criticism. What happens? No one will answer your arguments in a rational way; rather you will be considered vainglorious. Its reason is mental insipidity. Merciless criticism and independent thinking are the two necessary traits of revolutionary thinking. As Mahatmaji is great, he is above criticism; as he has risen above, all that he says in the field of politics, religion, Ethics is right. You agree or not, it is binding upon you to take it as truth. This is not constructive thinking. We do not take a leap forward; we go many steps back.

This is a read that may be best enjoyed by the unprejudiced mind, one that is curious about the thoughts of the men that created the ground for debate and discourse in our polity. Try not to look for a confrontation with his arguments, and try not to profusely agree with him, and you might come away with something worthwhile. Reason.

Tehelka: fearless journalism

This is a review of The Best of Tehelka, which is a compilation of some of the best works by Tehelka, between June 2000 and December 2001.

Tehelka was one of India’s best known investigative journals in 2000. Their most famous scoops were the match-fixing scandal in 2000 and the Operation West End. The match-fixing scandal revealed, from the horse’s mouth, how cricket matches were fixed. Operation west end exposed the corruption in defence procurement in India (which continues to this day).

I was too young and ignorant to know the impact of these scandals while they were being exposed. But today, I get them. In India, we’ve surpassed the size and filth of the scandals then, with the creative decadence of politicians and capitalists today. Nevertheless, the template for corruption and power play has remained more or less the same.

The scandals usually involved high profile people like cricketers, including those who are adored greatly even today (and who’d rather not be reminded of the scandal(s)), politicians, some of whom continue to wield considerable power even to this day, proving that Indian electorate has a short memory span, or is wanting in ethics. The scandals also ended with the sordid suppression of the whistle-blower.

Tehelka withstood the ire of the underbelly of Indian power as they battled slander for a whole year. They courted arrest. Needless to mention, David gave in against Goliath. They soon closed shop. But, after two years, Indian civil society rose up to the occasion, and decided to revive the magazine. Today, it survives, and continues to battle many court cases as highly influential politicians and parties would prefer it closed. Power fears fearlessness.

The book that I’m reviewing is a set of essays, poems, articles that were published on Tehelka. The most famous among them are the very articles that brought the scams out to the public.The essays, interviews and poems in the book are funny (‘I don’t know anyone who has met God’ by Khushwant Singh), shocking (False Notes, Charu Soni), controversial (The Elusive ‘Holy Cow’, DN Jha), and chilling (The Lagaan Team, Shoma Choudhury).

The style is different in each piece, and most are refreshing. Although I enjoyed most of the articles, they took some work – a little bit of wikipedia-research to understand context and figure out the ugliness or stupidity of the times, and the corresponding climaxes.

What I appreciated most about this compilation is the diversity. The compilation is also chaotic, which I thought was in keeping with the creativity of the magazine. What I didn’t like much was my own inability to fully understand some of these works. I’d have really appreciated if they had put in a sentence or two as post-script for the noobs like myself.

The most famous contributions by Tehelka left me feeling bad for us. For, I don’t know of a magazine today that is capable of such fearless journalism as Tehelka was. Tehelka’s sting operations set off a large set of ethical questions in the early 2000s. Unfortunately, that didn’t help infuse virtue into our polity or journalism.

I would recommend the book if you have been a news-junkie. I would recommend it if you like real life horror stories. I would also recommend it if you like bold satire.

This is not for the light hearted. It is for the seasoned scandal-weary Indian news-reader.

3/5

The Indian Economy, in the 90s

This is a review of books by former Governor of the Reserve Bank of India, Bimal Jalan, India’s Economic Policy: Preparing for the Twenty-First Century and The Indian Economy: Problems and Prospects.

These books offer a great ring side view of the working of the Indian economy. They are, however, dated. To be fair, these are old books, published in the 90s. Nevertheless, they are still relevant to some extent.

For instance, in Problems and Prospects, Bimal Jalan speaks of corruption and how to deal with it, by differentiating the supply and demand for the same, supply being the side of the transaction where people are willing to bribe, and demand being the side where people want, demand, bribes. He puts forth a model to stop both sides of this transaction. His suggestions have, hearteningly, been implemented under the Prevention of Corruption Act, where the bribe taker is heavily penalized (although this has been pushed a tad bit too far by penalizing even lack of action which may result in indirect benefit to unrelated persons causing a loss to the exchequer; it penalizes complicity in corruption, which many believe is doing more harm than good, by making bureaucrats slow and averse to doing risky things, thus compounding the problems of red tapism). He also says that the whistle-blowers should be protected and incentivized for their courage. This seems to be a logical way of thinking about corruption.

Some observations by Jalan made me laugh, mirthlessly. Like, “Indian democracy is schizophrenic” by which he means that although we romanticize democracy (freedom liberty equality!), we’re deeply suspicious of how it works (everyone’s corrupt!). Hence our civil society is weak, parliamentary representatives are not motivated to work for the people and seek to gratify self-interests. General will is all but thrown out the window. But this is changing, as we have seen with “people’s movements” and a burgeoning civil society that increasingly dictates policy. This is a great shift in our democracy that people haven’t taken much notice of!

In his book, India’s Economic Policy, he talks about the weight of Public Sector Enterprises and the losses they incur to the exchequer, and recommends that the state shake them off. This has been a popular demand in India, and the recent governments have taken cognizance of it as they have initiated strategic sales of many of the state concerns.

India’s Economic Policy reads like a journal of the Indian Economy in the 90s, as we were bubbling with hope and trepidation after the giant LPG reforms of 1991.

Some of the issues that are still very relevant, that I picked up, are

  • Making the party whip less powerful – and making the Indian democracy a true representation of people’s interests, as opposed to being a minion of party interests.
  • Separating policy making from policy implementation (ie., the politician and bureaucrat should have more sharper differentiation of functions, and the latter should be allowed to tailor policy to suit the needs of the grassroots)
  • Decentralize, because overcentralization of schemes and programmes has made them inefficient.

The good news is that most of these reforms are in the pipeline, have been implemented already, or have been tried and discarded. I would still recommend it to someone who’s trying to understand the Indian economy from its roots and shoots. I’d rate Indian Economy: Problems and Prospects higher than India’s Economic Policy: Preparing for the Twenty-First Century, for its relevance today and the future.

Indian Economy: Problems and Prospects – 3/5

India’s Economic Policy: Preparing for the Twenty-first Century – 2/5

Bimal Jalan’s books are like a reading of the history of the Indian Economy, and the story of her evolution. They’re good. Easy reading, if you’re conversant with basic economics and have a rough understanding of issues related to the Indian economy. But to understand the economy as it is today, policy, problems, I’d suggest (highly recommend) reading the Indian Economic Surveys. The Economic Survey is cooler – with references to Bob Dylan music, dry and witty sarcasm, it is a giant authoritative perspective of the economy today.