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  10 February 1996

  Tidal wave of intolerance

  Over the last ten or fifteen years, intolerance of other people’s views has been increasing. I have been a victim of this on more than one occasion. During Vasant Sathe’s regime as minister of information and broadcasting, I persuaded Doordarshan to let me produce a series of programmes entitled ‘The World of Nature’ with Sharad Dutt as the director. The series based on flowering bees, birds, insects, mammals and reptiles commonly seen in Delhi proved to be enormously successful. Then I ran foul of Prime Minister Indira Gandhi: she suspected I was in her daughter-in-law Maneka Gandhi’s camp. She told Sathe’s successor, N.K.P. Salve, that I was getting too much exposure on the electronic media. Salve, who made brave speeches in the Rajya Sabha on the freedom of expression, had me blacklisted.

  I could understand AIR or Doordarshan not inviting me to participate in political dialogues, but to prove his loyalty to the PM, Salve put a blanket ban on my appearing on AIR or Doordarshan. ‘The World of Nature’ which had nothing whatsoever to do with politics, disappeared from the screen. H.K.L. Bhagat, who succeeded Salve, retained the ban. This did not prevent him from telling the world how the Indian Constitution guaranteed citizens the right to speak their minds.

  In West Bengal, the minister of culture put a ban on Usha Uthup’s shows. Usha does not strip or sing obscene songs—largely Hindi film songs in a style uniquely her own. She is immensely popular with her audiences (I for one, enjoy her singing and traipsing around the floor). The same minister announced a ban on Samantha Fox dancing and singing in Calcutta. Who the hell does the minister think he is to deprive people from enjoying what they like? Is he minister, or commissar of culture? I am surprised Jyoti Basu did not rap him on the knuckles and tell him such things should not be done in a democracy.

  Bal Thackeray does not like Salman Rushdie’s The Moor’s Last Sigh because it lampoons him as a tin-pot dictator. He does not take Rushdie to court for libel but his lumpen followers threaten to vandalize bookstores which stock the book: goondaism is more effective than the law.

  Thackeray also does not want to let Pakistani cricketers play in Bombay. He is not bothered that others may want to see Indians play the Pakistanis. His storm troopers threaten to dig up the pitch: so no Indo-Pak cricket matches.

  Jayalalitha does not like Tamil magazines writing anything critical about her. Those that did, had their offices wrecked. All in the name of the freedom of the press.

  In Bangalore, a farmer’s union smashed up the Kentucky Fried Chicken outlet sanctioned by the government and cleared by the High Court. Their leader, Professor M.D. Nanjundaswami, proclaims he will never allow it to function. I don’t know what this man teaches but he could not be teaching respect for the law or maintaining democratic norms.

  Yet another personal experience: Some months ago I made the most innocuous remark about how I rated Gurudev Tagore as a novelist and writer of short stories. I had Bengali boys who had probably not read anything by Tagore baying for my blood. The Bengal Assembly passed a unanimous vote censuring me. So did the Rajya Sabha. There was not one West Bengal MLA or MP of the Rajya Sabha to protest that every citizen has a right to express his or her views on a writer. Surely everyone will agree with me that this is not a healthy trend in a country like ours which is still striving to become a model democratic state.

  Living longer: A healthy diet and pills

  In my younger days, while staying with American friends, I used to be amused to see the assortment of coloured pills laid out on their side plates and swallowed in turns with sips of orange juice, tea or coffee. Breakfast was, and is, more health-oriented than other meals. It started with fresh fruit juice or grapefruit followed by cornflakes or muesli to which dried prunes or figs were added. Toasts were of wholemeal bread. It was easy to see that the concern was to keep bowels moving regularly. What the pills were for I was not quite sure. Nor was I sure of what my hosts swallowed after dinner, because they did so in the privacy of their bedrooms. Probably sleeping pills were taken every night.

  I no longer find pill-taking as amusing as I used to, because I take at least half a dozen, of different colours, with my breakfast and dinner. With the onset of years, bodily functions become sluggish and need to be stimulated regularly. By middle age, a large number of men and women become somewhat diabetic, have uric acid, blood-pressure problems, and need more than roughage in their food to maintain regular bowel movements. Pills have indeed become important items on our daily menus. We cannot afford to scoff at them.

  Everyone has to make his or her choice of pills, depending on what their body needs. My morning begins with a glass of fresh orange juice squeezed the evening before and left in the fridge. That has vitamin C. I follow it up with a mug of Korean ginseng tea. I don’t know what ginseng has in it, but I know it does me a world of good. Then I take another two mugs—one of Indian tea with a teaspoonful of sugar and milk, and one mug of plain hot water. I take all these fluids in the morning to get my bowels moving. My pill-taking is with my light breakfast of one toast (wholemeal) and a mug of tea (the fifth of the morning). With the toast, are a capsule of Becosule, two pills of Trefoli, one for high blood pressure, one Zyloric (against uric acid) and a capsule of garlic oil. At about 11 a.m. I take a mug of hot water with Marmite. I take another garlic pill each with lunch and dinner. I don’t need any sleeping pills but do take an after-dinner digestive. After trying different brands of choorans and Hajmola, I have settled for a little-known ayurvedic preparation, Sooktyn. The combination of food and pills keeps me free of ailments and reasonably fit for my age. I don’t need any tonics but I keep a tinful of sucking vitamin C tablets which I put in my mouth whenever I feel under the weather.

  The healthiest of foods may still be short of vitamins and minerals. To make up for such shortages, it is advisable to supplement food with antioxidants such as vitamins A, C and E. They reduce the chances of strokes and heart ailments, prevent cataracts from developing in the eyes, even check loss of memory. Available in the market now without a doctor’s prescription are varieties of multivitamin tablets. It is best to consult your doctor before deciding what to take.

  People in their fifties or older should have a thorough medical check-up at least once a year. There are many ailments such as diabetes and high blood pressure which show no early symptoms but strike a person unawares. I had personal experience of this. Having played a vigorous game of tennis in the morning and cleared my desk of pending work, I went to Parliament feeling on top of the world. My friend Ghulam Rasool who sat across the aisle eyed me for a few moments, then got up, grabbed me by my arm and ordered me to follow him. Without telling me, he took me to the Parliament clinic and asked the lady doctor on duty to take my blood pressure. I kept protesting that I was fit as a fiddle and never had any blood pressure problems. The lady went ahead with her examination, and told me ‘Your blood pressure is dangerously high. You must see your doctor immediately.’ I did. He took a second reading and confirmed that my BP was indeed dangerously high. Ever since, I have been taking a BP tablet every day.

  I asked Gulam Rasool how he was able to read trouble on my face. He replied, ‘I have lost many members of my family who have had strokes without any prior warning. I can tell high BP by looking into a person’s eyes. I saw it in yours.’

  17 February 1996

  Two days in Jamshedpur

  The last time I was in Jamshedpur I spent a few hours at the TISCO guest house in Dimna. A large spread of water encircled by green hills, ancient trees, fresh air, no sounds except the calling of water fowl across the lake. I told Russi Mody who was then chairman of TISCO, that the place should be reserved for artists and writers. ‘You are welcome to stay here as long as you like and write whatever you have in mind,’ replied Russi. ‘We can fly you in from Delhi in our private plane and drop you back whenever you have had enough.’ I was never able to avail of his generous offer of hospitality.

  This time, Jamshed Irani w
as sultan of the TISCO kingdom. I approached his begum, Daisy. ‘You say your piece at the Rotarians meet and we’ll arrange for you to be driven to Dimna. You spend the night there and come back in time to catch your return flight to Calcutta.’ That is exactly what I did.

  First, the Rotarians meet. After the experience of Lucknow, I had determined never to accept Rotarians’ invitations. They are a nice, well-intentioned lot, but awful bores with no sense of punctuality. Jamshedpur was different. It seemed as if they had done up the steel city only for me. It was at its flowering best. Gardens were ablaze with flowers in full bloom: roses and chrysanthemums, the largest and the most fragrant I had seen or smelt for a long time. Bright red salvias and golden marigolds lined the borders. They must have the best gardeners in India. The meeting went along with clock-work precision. The invocation to Shri Ram was mellifluously rendered by Mandira Mukerjee, and the speeches were uniformly first rate. I heard C.R. Irani denounce corrupt ministers by name. I had decided to quote him, but after seeing that The Statesman (which he edits) had nothing to say of his speech, I too decided not to name the corrupt. He said he had documentary proof to support his contentions and the confidence that they would not dare to take him to court for defamation of character. He did not spare the prime minister: ‘You want to know when the elections will be held?’ he asked. And replied, ‘They will be postponed to the last day because each day in power means crores of rupees to these people including the prime minister.’ He went on to affirm that if Manmohan Singh stood for election from any urban constituency in India, he would win hands down because the people know him to be an honest man. But corrupt ministers (he named them a second time) would be rejected everywhere because no one trusted them now.

  Irani was followed by retired Chief Justice B.P. Beri of Rajasthan High Court—a virtuous virtuoso performance in shudh Hindi; oratory the likes of which Jamshedpur had not heard for a long time. The star performer of the afternoon sessipn was Padma Khastagir, the first woman to become a judge at the Calcutta High Court. Her speech was full of love and compassion and exhortation to revive family virtues. I was the last in the list of speakers. Whatever applause I received was due to the introduction made by the very comely Neelam Kumar whom I had never met but exchanged correspondence with.

  Back to the haven of peace, Dimna. I retired early to rise before dawn to take an early morning walk along the dam and watch migrating water fowl. The delusion of peace and quiet was rudely shattered by three loudspeakers blasting simultaneously. ‘Munda bigrra jaaey’ said one, ‘Ooperwala, very good, very good’ blared the second, ‘Roop suhana lagta hai’, sang the third. Buses from Calcutta and other cities began to offload passengers in hundreds. More noise came from transistors. We are indeed addicted to loud noise. I decided to return to Jamshedpur. The picnickers gave me a farewell-kick song. As they guzzled their bhelpuri, the loudspeaker blared: ‘Tujhey mirchee lagee to main kya karoon? Theyree naanee maree to main kya karoon?’

  24 February 1996

  Stray thoughts on hawala

  Once it used to be said about the Chinese, now it is being said about us: ‘There are only two kinds of Indians: those who take bribes and those who give them.’ Actually, there are a third and a fourth class of Indians as well. In the third category are those quite willing to accept bribes but are not considered worth bribing. And the fourth who are quite willing to give bribes but do not have the means to do so. I belong to the third of these four categories of Indians. Though quite willing to be bribed, nobody considers me worth bribing because I have nothing worthwhile to give them in return. A little praise in my column is worth no more than a bouquet of flowers and even less, a winsome smile. As the list of those who accepted money from the Jains gets longer and longer and my name does not appear on it, I feel more left out and despondent. In their scheme of values I am not worth a khota sikka (a base coin).

  There is an Italian saying that money has no colour. In India we have two kinds of currency, one distinctly different from the other: one is white and the other black. Of the two, it is the black which is more valuable; it need not be accounted for, no taxes need be paid on it, and you can get its equivalent in dollars, Deutschmarks, francs, pound sterling or yen without getting clearance from the Reserve Bank of India. Its greatest advantage is that if you want any favours done for you, it goes much further than its white counterpart. That is why in the transactions with politicians, the money the Jains gave were all in black and the recipients must have known very clearly what the Jains expected to get in return. They were not one bit concerned with which party came to power in the states or at the centre, so they were happy to offer bribes to Congressmen, BJP, Janata Dal or any others provided they got their business done. Akbar Allahabadi will forgive me for parodying his lines:

  Congress ko bhee salaam, Bhajpa ko

  bhee pranaam

  Siyaasat na chaahiye, mujhe dhanda

  chaahiye.

  2 March 1996

  Ministerial misconduct

  I have so many instances of government ministers misbehaving with women working under them or wanting some favours from them, that I could compile a sizeable collection of true short stories. Very very rarely do these women dare to lodge complaints to the police or inform the press: They know the police will do nothing and press publicity will tarnish their own names. All that the misbehaving minister has to do is to deny the charge and say it is politically motivated, and get away scot-free. The few ladies who came to tell me about their unpleasant experiences at the hands of ministers did not want me to write about it or name either them or the minister concerned. So what was I to do?

  In the latest episode narrated to me, the lady in question is quite willing to be named and divulge the name of the minister as well. I decided not to do so to avoid trouble for the papers that reproduce my column and for myself. So I will only narrate the incident to show how crude these Johnnies-come-lately can be when they occupy seats of authority.

  This lady, a dedicated special worker, is endowed with a youthful, shapely figure. All she wanted was to get a clearance of a modest sum of money for a project already sanctioned by the government. People working on the project were too timid to approach the minister—or perhaps unable to get an appointment. They asked the lady to see him on their behalf. Being well-known in the state, she was immediately given an appointment and shown into the minister’s private office. She told him what she wanted. She was assured the money earmarked would be forwarded at once. The minister then turned to more personal matters.

  ‘I am told that once upon a time you were an airhostess and a fashion model.’

  ‘I was sir,’ the lady replied, ‘That was many years ago.’

  ‘You still hab a bhery good pheegur,’ he complimented her.

  ‘Thank you sir,’ she replied.

  ‘Let me see your pheegur’, he commanded.

  The lady thought the minister wanted to see how tall she was. She stood up to let him see for himself. I am too tall for women of this region. But fashion models have to be tall.’

  He was not satisfied. ‘Not like this. Properly, without your sari,’ he ordered. This time the lady understood what he was after and walked out of the minister’s private office.

  The money sanctioned for the project was not forwarded.

  Magazine glut

  When anyone consults me about the prospects of launching a new magazine, I do my best to discourage them. ‘The market is glutted; you will have difficulty in getting adequate advertising support to keep it going; circulations of magazines of long standing are going down rapidly; cable television is stifling the print media. You will be pouring good money down the gutter,’ and so on. But people who have the itch for editorship—and money to spare—take the gamble. And lose.

  Last month there was a clutch of new magazines. First, a lavishly-produced India Today Plus, a quarterly at Rs 75 per copy. Aroon Poorie, editor-proprietor of India Today, is known to have the Midas touch. Every venture he t
akes on, he makes highly profitable. Nobody thought that a fortnightly magazine would make good in India. India Today proved them wrong; it has established itself as the top magazine of the country as a journal of reference. It may not be as exciting to read as Sunday or The Week, but you can’t do without it. Then, Poorie went into classical music cassettes, a public school, and an art gallery. All three ventures proved highly prestigious and successful. But I have my grave doubts about the future of his new quarterly. How many Indians will be interested in taking cruises on the Queen Elizabeth costing a few lakhs per holiday, or smoking Havana cigars at a minimum of Rs 500 a smoke? And picking India’s ten most beautiful women is stale stuff. However, Poorie has plenty of money to throw around.

  Outlook (Rs 10) is now a couple of months old. It is edited by Vinod Mehta who has earned an enviable reputation for boldness, innovation and writing lucid prose. What he lacks is stamina. His Outlook, though more readable than any other weekly today, may patent into the circulations of Sunday and The Week, but is hardly likely to make a dent in the circulation or prestige of India Today.

  Then there is Yellow Top (Rs 15). It calls itself a ‘cabzine’ (I don’t know what the word means), and claims to be ‘the only one of its kind.’ That, it certainly is not. It is the usual cocktail of politics, sports, films, food and small talk.

  I am more uneasy about The Scoria (Rs 20), a quarterly ‘for the connoisseur’ from Chandigarh. It is devoted to literature: poetry, short stories, essays and interviews. I am apprehensive of its future. My friend Bhupendra Hooja, retired IAS living in Jaipur, took on the Indian Book Chronicle some years ago. It has much the same kind of material—reviews, essays, poetry, etc.—as Scoria. I know Hooja continues to put his savings into his venture. And now he has launched into its Hindi version Parakh as well.