Big Book of Malice Read online

  The most daring magazine venture of last month is Himal: South Asia from Kathmandu, owned and edited by the Dixits. It has spread its net wide over the whole of the subcontinent and beyond. It is somewhat like the Nepalese version of India Today, dealing with politics, economics, social problems, the arts, music and book reviews. The first issue does not carry the price but I would guess it would be around Rs 20. But even the inaugural number does not have enough ads to make it economically viable.

  The main problem that all these new magazines face is to develop distinct personalities of their own: they should have things that other magazines do not have. Not many people can afford more than an couple of magazines per month, and few will give up those they are used to reading, by replacing them with something new. However, I wish all of them the best of luck.

  16 March 1996

  Hai hai cricket!

  It is estimated that 600 million people around the world were glued to their TV sets for the month that the Wills World Cup tournament was being played. Every match lasted on an average of eight hours of the day and night. Multiply the two figures and you get the mind-boggling total of how many hours people reduced themselves to being couch potatoes for a month. The vast majority of viewers had never played the game nor intend to do so; for them it was a spectator sport. More disconcerting is the fact that most of them had little knowledge of the skills required for the game, but nevertheless treated winning as a matter of national prestige or something to lay bets on. Who am I to sermonize? I was one of the 600 million monkeys who watched all the matches. And I have never played cricket nor know the difference between silly mid-on or a long slip, between yorkers, googlies or off and on spins. There is something about this game which is as addictive as cocaine or hashish.

  Cricket used to be a gentleman’s game played by gentlemen and watched by genteel ladies in their Sunday-best saris. It is no longer so. Today, competitive cricket is played by professionals who sweat their guts out to make big money in the few years of their youth and then live on their earnings augmented by fees received as commentators on radio or TV, writing articles for sports columns of newspapers and magazines, or advertising fizzy drinks. Spectators have likewise ceased to be gentle folk (who watch the game comfortably seated on their sofas), but hoi polloi who troop in their thousands to sports stadia armed with whistles, bugles, firecrackers, soda water bottles and missiles to hurl at fielders who come within range. They have no sportsmanship. When one of their batsmen hits a sixer or their bowler gets a wicket, they explode with enthusiastic yells of triumph. When players of the opposing side do the same, they relapse into sullen silence as if naanee mar gaee (their mother’s mother had died).

  Our match against Pakistan which we won, and the one against Sri Lanka which we lost, showed how as a nation we have not grown to maturity and have lost the spirit of sportsmanship. While we were gloating over the breastbeating in Pakistan following its defeat, we did worse when we were humiliated by Sri Lanka. With Pakistan we have a hate-hate relationship; if it is maatam (mourning) in Pakistan, it has to be jashn (celebrations) in India. And vice versa. But we outdid the Pakistanis in poor sportsmanship and bad behaviour when the Sri Lankans pulverized our team. So it is not three cheers but two hais for Indian cricket.

  23 March 1996

  The Edwina-Nehru affair

  I was the press officer at the Indian High Commission when Panditji came to attend the first Commonwealth Prime Ministers’ Conference. For months before his visit, I had occupied a room on the first floor of India House; the copper plate beside the door bore the legend ‘Countess Mountbatten of Burma’. My high commisioner, Krishna Menon, who knew which side his bread was buttered, went out of his way to kowtow to people who mattered to Prime Minister Nehru. The Mountbattens were on top of this list. Menon hoped Lady Mountbatten would become a regular visitor to India House. I was under instructions to clear out of the room within five minutes’ notice leaving no trace of my having used it. Her Ladyship never entered the room reserved for her. His Lordship did once by force of circumstances: by mistake, he turned up half an hour early for a reception.

  I was one of the India House staff ordered to be present at Heathrow Airport when Prime Minister Nehru arrived. It was a cold winter night. We were lined up to be introduced to him. ‘What are you fellows doing here at this time of the night?’ he asked us. ‘Go home and get some sleep.’ He was pleased to see us, his minions, assembled to salaam him. At Krishna Menon’s insistence, I went to Panditji and asked, ‘Sir, will you be needing my service? I am your PRO. He snapped back, ‘What, at this hour? Go home!’

  The next morning, the front page of the Daily Herald carried a large picture showing a lady in her negligee opening the door to let in Prime Minister Nehru. The caption read: ‘Lady Mountbatten’s midnight visitor.’ It went on to add that Lord Mountbatten was not in London. The press photographer had taken the chance to get this scoop. After getting to know the way Krishna Menon’s mind worked, I would not put it beyond him to have tipped off the editor. When I came to India House, he told me that the prime minister was furious with me and I had better keep out of his way for a few days. So I did.

  A day before the prime minister was due to return home, he invited Edwina Mountbatten to dine with him at a Greek restaurant in Soho. When the two were seated at a corner table, a battery of press photographers arrived on the scene. Next morning, many London papers carried pictures taken in the cosy basement of the Greek cafe. This time there was no escape. I was summoned to Claridges Hotel. As I entered Panditji’s bedroom, he looked me up and down to ask me who I was. I had been with him all of the seven days. ‘Sir, I am your press officer,’ I replied. ‘You have strange notions of publicity,’ he said in a withering tone. At the time, it did not occur to him or to me that the only person who could have tipped off the press was Krishna Menon. Menon had a mind like a corkscrew.

  However, there seems to be no doubt that there existed some kind of emotional, and possibly, even physical attachment between the Lady and the prime minister. Examine the profiles of the two: You will be startled by the resemblance. There is usually a strong element of narcissism in the choise of one’s beloved. But Edwina was by no means the only woman in Panditji’s life even while this affair was on. Catherine Clement (author of Edwina and Nehru: A Novel), who started her research shortly before Rajiv Gandhi was assassinated, had to wade through more than 11,000 photographs and hundreds of letters to write her book. When asked what she thought of this relationship, she replied, ‘beautiful! It was simply beautiful!’

  Happy families

  Much has been written about what it takes to make a happy family. It is like casting pearls of wisdom before swine. I can count the number of happy families I know on half the fingers of one hand; unhappy families, by the score. Also, happy families tend to be self-centred, unwelcoming towards outsiders, and uniformly boring. On the other hand, however awkward it may be to visit an unhappy family, you will find a lot of individuality amongst its members (which is why they find it difficult to get on with each other) and they are usually more interesting.

  I can think of only one family which was held out as an example of an ideally integrated home. I stayed with them many times. I was always made to feel like an intruder and a poor relation. They spent their time praising each other and running down everyone else. The children, far from growing up into healthy, successful men and women, fell by the roadside as non-entities.

  The base of every family is its children. Neglect them, and you erode the very foundations on which the family edifice is built. You achieve the same negative result by mollycoddling them. The family tree is meant to shelter them from the rain and the scorching sun while they are juveniles. Once they are adults, the umbilical cord must be finally cut, they must be exposed to the harsh world, learn to make their own decisions, make their own mistakes and pay for them. But make sure that the nucleus of the family home remains intact so that they can return to it to lick their wound
s till they are ready to face the world again.

  No one can prescribe rules for a happy family. There must be some kind of bonding like being together at meals, going out together to the pictures or picnics, and if you are believers, worshipping together. I have found that in families which have books in their homes for different age groups, there is usually more interaction between its members, less contention and more harmony. A bookless home is no home. A bookless family is less likely to hang together than one in which members have other things than making money and scandals on their minds.

  We all know by experience that families whose members are at variance with each other are the most unhappy because it does not take much to change bonds of affection into bitter hatred. In such situations, it is best to break the family up and let everyone go his or her own way.

  20 April 1996

  Doing the dirty on women

  I was hoping that the eleventh Lok Sabha would have more women MPs than any of the previous ten. Seeing the number of women candidates put up by the major political parties contesting the poll, it is pretty certain that far from increasing their representation from thirty-three in the tenth Lok Sabha, it will come down to the lowest ever since Independence: of every 100 candidates fighting the elections, barely three are women, not all by any means likely to win. It is clear that the next Lok Sabha with over 540 members may have twenty less women in it. If this is not discrimination, I do not know what the word means.

  It can be assumed that half the population of our country is female. Going by numbers alone, nearly half of the members of the Lok Sabha should be women. That ideal representation is never likely to be achieved; it never has in any democratic legislative body. The reason is simple: politics and social work never have been, nor are ever likely to be high priority with women. Women have to bear most of the burdens of home-keeping, bearing and rearing children, which do not leave them many options besides taking on part-time jobs: politics is a whole-time preoccupation.

  Politics can be a very rough game; not many women can rough it out. Recall what Jayalalitha had to go through at M.G. Ramachandran’s funeral, Laxmi Parvati, on the demise of N.T. Rama Rao, or what Mamata Banerjee had to face in Calcutta. There are not many women who will be willing to subject themselves to indignities even if the stakes are a chief ministership or membership of Parliament. As a result, a large number of women prefer to make a back-door entry into the political arena as widows, mistresses, daughters or daughters-in-law. Lots of male politicians also owe their entry into political life by being related to leaders: kunbaprasthi (nepotism) applies to both male and female relatives, but we have become used to sons, nephews and sons-in-law inheriting mantles of their elders, but not widows, mistresses, and daughters doing so.

  Another handicap women suffer from is lack of lung power which is an essential requirement for mass leadership. Many women are good speakers but I can’t think of one whom I would describe as a spellbinding orator. They can produce a Sushma Swaraj, a Margaret Alva and a few Uma Bharatis, but not any of the calibre of Atal Behari Vajpayee, Subhas Ghising, Bal Thakeray or Ajit Singh. Women’s vocal chords are not designed to sway multitudes.

  Having analyzed reasons for the paucity of women in public life, let me adduce reasons for having more of them in Vidhan Sabhas and the two houses of Parliament. They are better behaved and less prone to corruption than men. They know more about problems relating to their own sex and children. And once given positions of responsibility, they are more conscientious in discharging them. I am always reminded by the witty remark made by Charlotte Whitton, first lady to be elected Mayor of Ottawa: ‘Whatever women do they must do twice as well as men to be thought half as good. Luckily, this is not difficult,’ she said.

  How do we ensure higher representation for women in our legislatures? Clearly not by appealing to leaders of different political parties to put up more women candidates for election.

  All of them have been approached, all agreed to do so, but when it came to allocating tickets, none of them did. I do not think that passing legislation to ensure a third of the seats in legislative bodies for women is a very bright idea: In principle I am opposed to any kind of reservation on the basis of caste, religion, or gender. The only legitimate way of ensuring justice from political parties is for women’s organizations and those who have been unfairly treated to serve an ultimatum to leaders of political parties, that unless they give women thirty-three per cent of the tickets, they will not get their votes.

  Law courts versus hospitals

  The two most depressing institutions one can visit in this country are hospitals and law courts: I feel less depressed visiting crematoriums and cemeteries. I have been fortunate in not having to go to a hospital as a patient—only to see friends and relatives undergoing treatment. In spite of pretty nurses whom one sees at times, I never want to change places with the patients. One can understand that since hospitals are full of sick people (and most big ones have morgues to keep corpses of those who die there), it would be silly to expect anything to be cheerful about them.

  Law courts are another matter. In recent months I have had the misfortune of having to go to the courts many times. In no case was it of my own choice; every time I was there to defend myself. I had to waste many hours, many days waiting for my case to be heard, only to be told that the hearing had to be adjourned to another day, frequently to a distant date. But I got a feel of the atmosphere that pervades. Here were people in reasonably good physical shape but full of grievances against their kin, neighbours, landlords, tenants and others they think had wronged them. You could detect the tension in their faces as if their lives depended on whether they won or lost their cases. You don’t see people smile or laugh in court except when a judge makes a witty remark (which they seldom do). Then there are lawyers rushing from one courtroom to the other as if their tails were on fire. I, for one, got the impression that law courts are not designed to dispense justice but to provide lawyers with a good livelihood. Most do pretty well for themselves: the toppers earning a comfortable Rs 1 lakh a day. Here too, there is a parallel with the medical profession: quite a few surgeons make as much as do the top lawyers. I am not very wrong in stating that a society in which lawyers and doctors flourish is a sick society—mentally sick to allow lawyers to live in clover; physically impaired, to allow doctors to thrive. So where would I prefer to be—in a court of law or a hospital? I can’t make up my mind. But I do know that if I have to go on appearing in law courts much longer, I will soon have to be admitted to hospital.

  Awakening

  In recent months I have become a regular viewer of the Zee TV programme ‘Jaagran’ (awakening). To start with, it has a lovely logo; the introductory song is equally apt:

  Utth jaag musaafir bhore bhaee

  Ab rayn kahan jo sovat hai

  Jo sovat hai so khovat hai

  Jo jagat hai so paawat hai

  (Wayfarer arise! The sun has risen

  The night has fled

  Why slumberest thou?

  Those who slumber are losers

  Those who are awake are gainers.)

  So far I have heard six savants hold forth on the need to better oneself: Murari Bapu, Asaram Bapu, Singal, Goenka, Vaswani and Satyananda. Of them, Singal and Vaswani declaim in English; the others, in difficult Hindi. Murari Bapu intersperses his sermons with bhajans and chanting; so does Asaram Bapu, but not as effectively. Besides, he has a very irritating habit of whistling, and far too often, ending his sentences with ‘Jai Ram ji ki bolna hoga.’ It is very similar to some raagis who are in the habit of exhorting their audiences to say ‘Bolo Satnam Sri Wahguru!’ These mannerisms diminish the solemnity of what they are saying. However, my intention is not to criticize what these good men have to say about how we should look to God or the truth within ourselves; overcome lust, anger, greed, attachment and pride; nor do I carp about their recounting mythological tales and miracles which defy reason and logic because I learn much of what is
popularly believed. What I would like to suggest in all humility to them is that seeing the enormous crowds that come to listen to their discourses, they should make their sermons more socially relevant to the needs of present-day society. None of them bother to do so. Why don’t they talk about all-pervading corruption and exhort their followers to socially boycott those they know to be corrupt? Why don’t they tell their admires that they must not have large families in a country that is already overcrowded? Why don’t they exhort their followers to plant trees and be kind to animals as a part of their religious duty? Religion which does not cater to the needs of the society is no religion; it is only a game of words.

  27 April 1996

  Beginning of a new era

  Before leaving for Germany and Austria I had expressed fears that by the time I returned home a fortnight later, India would have changed beyond recognition politically. I scanned all the English papers I could in Hamburg, Berlin, Vienna, Munich and Frankfurt, and saw my dire prophecy being fulfilled. Right-wing Hindu parties had done better than others; the Congress, worse than it has ever done before; the third force holding the balance of power. The last Indian news I heard on TV before leaving my Frankfurt hotel for the airport was that Jyoti Basu was among the front runners for the prime ministership of the country. Although I had not forecast this, I had, in an answer to a question put by a foreign correspondent, said that though I could not hazard any guesses about the man who would become prime minister, the man I would like to see replace PV Narasimha Rao was Jyoti Basu. I am still of the same view. I am back home in time for the horse-trading to begin. How long will any government which is at the mercy of its coalition partners, hope to last?