Cincinnati Journal

New Beginnings, Old Friendship

The drive from Chicago to Cincinnati, Ohio, takes about five hours. Estelle and I did the round trip every fortnight when we founded, edited and designed a community newspaper called India Tribune in 1977. Thirty-two years later, I navigated the Dan Ryan Expressway to the Chicago Skyway to get to Interstate 65, the highway that cuts a southeasterly direction through Indiana into southwestern Ohio. The last time I’d driven the route was in 1987, just before we returned to India, when we drove to the East Coast and stopped at the various places we’d lived including Cincinnati.

Twenty-two years later, I still found my way into the city and crossed the bridge over the Ohio River into Kentucky. I was headed to Maysville, a pretty little town on the bank of the mighty river. My friend Yuri always says to me, “When was the last time you did something for the first time?” Well this was a first. As I pulled into the steep driveway that took me down to Elisabeth’s place, I hummed an old Tin Pan Alley song made famous by Duke Ellington: I’m Just a Lucky So-and-So.

Let me explain: I’ve made it a point to look up old friends all over the world. In the process, I’ve found all of my good friends, going back all the way to the 1950s and re-established connections. There’s nothing quite as satisfying as new bonds in old friendships. Elisabeth was our dearest friend when we lived in Cincinnati in the mid-1970s. She had an elegance that could launch a thousand ships. We were smitten by her. For me personally, she was a turning point in my world view. She came from an old wealth Cincinnati family. As such, she was the object of Liberal derision in a discussion at which I was present. The majority seemed to feel Elisabeth’s views were inconsequential because she was of the Establishment. This was at the height of the liberal-conservative polarization in America. Woolly-headed leftist though I was in those days, I found myself springing to her defense.

In many ways that was my turning point. I realized that for all the free love and drugs, the Woodstock generation was not about to change the world as promised. It was then that I began to change from a Liberal to a liberal. The lower-case liberals were more inclusive; the capital-letter ones were every bit as prejudiced as the rednecks that were the targets of their ire

With the Ellington song playing on my lips and these thoughts buzzing in my head, I got out of my car into a fond and long embrace with Elisabeth. When we disengaged, she introduced me to her husband Orloff, a delightful man with varied interests. Their home is a piece of heaven, not just because of the sweeping vistas of the river but for the warmth and comfort it exudes. We sat on the porch drinking scotch and catching up. By the time, we finished dinner all of Kentucky was fast asleep; on our part we squeezed every minute for every second talking and it wasn’t just about the old days.

Among the many things we talked about, there was one distressing note. Elisabeth said that after 1995 through the turn of the century, Cincinnati became a race-troubled city. Apparently, in the period, many young black men were killed by policemen or died in police custody. Things boiled over in 2001, when a white police officer shot and killed a 19-year old black man. In April 2001, the city was paralyzed as riots broke out in the downtown and surrounding areas. The violence continued for five days.

“That’s when we decided to move out of the city,” Elisabeth said. It must have been wrenching. Her family ties to the city are well known and highly respected. In many ways, despite the piece of heaven she now lives in, Elisabeth’s story had the undertones of displacement. And I thought to myself that the uprooting of such a distinguished family from a city of grace and manners was something to regret and lament.

In the end, these turned out to be desultory thoughts. Three decades later, Elisabeth is still as pretty as a picture and as gracious and elegant as when I first met her. It is easy to love her as we did in the 1970s. For myself, I am glad to catch up with her again. The best new beginnings are of old friendship.


Copyright Rajiv Desai 2009

New York City Journal

A Weekend in Manhattan

After a long and difficult flight from Delhi, my weariness melted away as I walked out of the immigration and customs clearance area at JFK. She was standing there, all of 24, a Lower East Side sophisticate and simply gorgeous. She rushed out from under the barrier and hugged me. “Hi Daddy,” she said. Then she took charge. Taxis, hotel check-in, local cell phone and what have you. I’m a very lucky father because both my daughters look after me with the same persnickety concern that I had when I took care of them.

The older one booked my passage to New York, worrying about my aisle seat and my meal preference, which for some reason has been put down in every airline as a “Hindu” special. I had to convince the stewardess that I’d prefer steak and a glass of Merlot. Believe me: the food was really good though the seats were not very comfortable.

The younger daughter took over after I reached JFK. As she shepherded me through the airport, I could see she had changed in the year since I had been with her in New York. Sure, she had been in India in the interim; they always say it is better to see lions in their own habitat. And in her precinct that is the aspirational model for every cool person in the world, she shines and is carelessly sophisticated.

When I was much younger and first came to New York in the company of my friend David Swanson, a native, the city was a dream. He lived in the Village and effortlessly took me to the best, off-the-beaten track restaurants and bars. I loved every minute of the experience in the 1970s. Three decades later, I’m cruising the “hoods” in the Lower East Side with my younger daughter and discovering even cooler places. All fathers should be so lucky.

All these years, I’ve looked after every need of my daughters. Today I count myself fortunate that they take care of me. I can manage on my own of course but there’s a special joy in having competent and caring daughters look after you. I’ve always believed that sophistication came very easily to me. But at brunch last Sunday at a trendy little bistro on the Lower East Side, I ordered a draught beer with my Eggs Benedict where my younger one ordered a Mimosa, champagne and orange juice, with her apple pancake.

The afternoon I arrived, when she broke through the barrier and hugged me, we drove to my hotel. The room was not ready and I was jet-lagged. “Father,” she says to me, “I’ve got the perfect cure.” We checked my bag with the concierge and rode a cab to “The Frying Pan,” a beer and burger place on a barge on the Hudson River on the West Side. There we indulged a couple of beers and what to me was one of the better burgers I’ve had, period.

Later that evening, we checked out the cafes and bars near Union Square, close to where she lived when she enrolled at NYU six years ago. She had made a reservation at a 19th street restaurant called “crafts” but we still had to wait until a table became available. So much for the recession! The restaurant was abuzz; Manhattan at its weekend best. The ambience was great and food to match.

More important, it was a glimpse into my daughter’s world. At age 24, she lives in the trendy Lower East Side and works in edgy SoHo. Her job is also a very 21st century enterprise having to do with the production of interactive multimedia content. The very fact that she landed a satisfying job in the midst of a raging recession seems to have buoyed her confidence. Where half a million people lose their jobs each month, she switched jobs. Deservedly, she is very proud of her new position and excitedly displays her fancy new business card.

As always, the visit proved too short. We spent virtually every minute of my stay together. As I got in the cab to head for the airport, I looked back at her receding figure, waving at me. I heard a song go out of my heart. Amazingly, it wasn’t Ellington or Billie Holiday or Louis Armstrong. The lines that reverberated in my head were from a song in the film, "The Sound of Music:"

Somewhere in my youth or childhood,
I must have done something good…

Daughters are a blessing to begin with but to love them and have them love you back is a fulfillment of the highest order.

Copyright Rajiv Desai 2009

From The Times of India, May 21, 2009

TOP ARTICLE The Decency Option
Election Result Is Key Step in India’s Political Evolution

21 May 2009, 0010 hrs IST, RAJIV DESAI

On Sunday, television viewers witnessed the denouement of the media's noisy and often distorted coverage of the elections to the 15th Lok Sabha.

Just an hour or so after counting began, it became clear the Congress was on its way to a renewed and enhanced mandate. Some saw this coming; indeed, it was there for all to see. The election had taken place under the most extraordinary circumstances: an acute global financial crisis and the aftermath of terror attacks in Mumbai late last year. It was fairly obvious that voters would plump for stability by providing a decisive verdict as they had in 1977 and 1984.

Like the one in 2009, those two elections were held at a time India felt its future was at stake. In 1977, voters decisively rejected Indira Gandhi after she suspended the Constitution, jailed political opponents and muzzled the press during her two-year Emergency. Seven years later, after she fell victim to the bullets of her Sikh bodyguards, the electorate gave her son Rajiv the biggest-ever mandate. These two extraordinary outcomes were useful in predicting the result of the most recent parliamentary election.

One of the most stirring moments in the post-result euphoria was when Prime Minister Manmohan Singh told reporters assembled at 10 Janpath, Sonia Gandhi's residence, "I urge all the political parties to forget their past disputes...We should stand one as a nation." The comment is important because it represents the return of civility in pairs. Unlike the triumphal note the BJP, the Left and various regional formations customarily sound on their various victories, Singh's sober tone signalled his intention to steer a conciliatory course in his next term. Under the new dispensation, public discourse would move beyond matters of probity to decency in public life. This is a major step in the evolution of the political system.

Sadly though, various self-important Congress factotums hit the high registers of arrogance in their dealings with former allies like Lalu Prasad and Mulayam Singh Yadav and with current supporters like the DMK.

This acrimonious beginning raises troubling questions about the future. The vindictive elements need to be reined in swiftly. Unchecked, their arrogance could undermine the new credibility the Grand Old Party has won. If the Congress is to implement what P Chidambaram called its "crisp" manifesto, it will need broad support from the non-Left, non-BJP members of Parliament.

So what's on tap? Take monetary policy. With the resurgence of investor confidence, the Reserve Bank is likely to cut interest rates to facilitate the flow of credit into the domestic economy. In the event, it must also provide incentives to banks to lend to businesses, especially cash-starved small and medium enterprises.

Concerning fiscal policy, huge investments are needed in surface and mass transport, civil aviation, sanitation, water supply, power generation and what have you. One obvious way to raise funds is to sell public sector assets. The railways, ports trusts and various other agencies own vast tracts of prized real estate that could fetch princely sums. The telecom department is widely known to have the biggest network of auto repair shops in India. The tourism ministry's crumbling hotels are obvious targets of divestment as are government-run airlines.

Hobbled by the Left and its fellow travellers in the Congress and its allies, the government hedged its bets on attracting foreign investment. Complex bureaucratic hurdles made FDI dwindle in sector after sector. In retail, insurance, pensions, civil aviation, you name it, opening up remained at best an unfulfilled promise. Ominously, the commerce ministry's Kamal Nath breezily told a television channel, "We already have a liberalised (FDI) regime." He followed that up with a clear no on retail sector reform.

On higher education, despite the National Knowledge Commission's recommendations, policy remained confused and corrupt, dominated by a venal bureaucracy (the All India Council on Technical Education comes to mind) and obtuse politicians. The sluggish human resources development ministry, by its acts of omission and commission, spawned the paradox of growing unemployment despite a huge demand for qualified personnel.

With trade, India adopted the spoiler's role at World Trade Organisation conferences, playing the victim of rapacious developed countries. The rhetoric employed was from another era, when India played a prominent role in the Group of 77, the commercial foil of the Non-aligned Movement. Without the Left calling the shots, its acolytes in the Congress-led ruling coalition will find themselves adrift. It is likely that India will pursue a more reasonable line.

On foreign policy, the strategic alliance with the US, embodied in the nuclear deal, achieved a long-standing objective: to overturn the discriminatory non-proliferation regime. In the neighbourhood, South Block welcomed US pressure on Pakistan seeking to curb its military's anti-India fixation and focus attention on domestic problems caused by a resurgent Taliban. In Sri Lanka, India supported Colombo's final assault on the LTTE ridding the region of a major terrorist force. In Bangladesh and Nepal, the approach has been somewhat mixed, lacking strategic focus.

Despite the show of hubris by vindictive apparatchiks in the Congress and nagging doubts about its leftist bloc, the overall message is that the election results are a game changer.

copyright rajiv desai 2009

Cutting Through the Election Noise

Confusion Has Made its Masterpiece

A burgeoning middle class, a slowing economy, a creeping intolerance, a terrorist challenge, and a growing voice in the world: these are the challenges and the opportunities that face the country as it prepares for the next general election. Yet the issues being raised in the campaign are largely about caste and religion; the debate is about yesterday, not even today.

The BJP is floundering over Varun Gandhi’s intemperate outburst against Muslims, afraid to alienate its communal “base” and worried about losing the new middle class support it has gained in the past decade. It went ballistic over the shoe-throwing incident at a Congress press conference and sought to revive, after 25 years, anger over the anti-Sikh riots that followed the assassination Prime Minister Indira Gandhi in 1984.

Perhaps the worst case of the BJP’s growing irrelevance is Gujarat chief minister Narendra Modi, who, in a recent campaign speech, pejoratively called the Congress Party a 125-year-old woman. Modi is not just the fascist shame of Gujarat; he is obviously prejudiced towards women and old people. We know that like Shakespeare’s pathetic Macbeth, he harbors ambitions of being Prime Minister.

Given his intemperate ways, Modi is a poor player like bloody Macbeth, who “struts and frets his hour upon the stage …full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.” Meanwhile, Gujarat, like Macbeth’s Scotland, “sinks beneath (his) yoke. It weeps. It bleeds and each new day a gash is added to her wounds.”

Commissars of the Left and bosses of various regional factions are pushing aggressively for a “Third Front” government that excludes both the Congress and the BJP. Chieftains of the various caste formations in the Hindi heartland are busy posturing over the prospect that their “Fourth Front” could emerge as a key power broker in the event of a hung Parliament. Neither front has a coherent strategy except to fish in troubled waters.

As always, the Congress maintains a stoic silence amid the din of its rivals; its game plan is to emerge as the single largest party and then gain adherents from the various fronts. Amazingly, it has never been forced to defend its record of governance in the past five years. Its economic policies have included questionable populist giveaways and timid monetary policies. Its foreign policy has been reactive and tactical in the face of challenges from all around the neighborhood including Pakistan, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka and Nepal.

More than at any other time, there seems to be a complete disconnect between politics and the new reality. The nearly 20 million new voters of 1991 vintage have grown up in an India where possibilities are endless. More important, they believe that tomorrow has to be better than today. This is in stark contrast to the generation of “Midnight’s Children.” We were wracked by uncertainty so we voted with our feet and pushed off overseas, ostensibly to study but truly to make our fortune.

Today’s children want to go to America like we did. The difference is they want to gain skills and expertise and come back home to lucrative jobs. Their worldview is different. Never mind if they are rural poor, urban slum dwellers or middle class youth. They have no patience; they want it all and they want it now. The political class simply doesn’t understand this driving force largely because it runs on a feudal ethic.

Also in evidence is a curiously cynical lethargy: not a single party has outlined a plan to deal with the rapidly growing middle class and the concomitant demands for good governance. Mindsets of yesteryear preclude the recognition of the middle class. The focus is exclusively on the poor, one segment of the population that is declining in number. This particular quirk is the single most powerful sign that the political class is out of touch with the rapidly changing demography.

Consequently, voters must decide without the benefit of an informed debate on the issues. This election is the first one in which men and women born in 1991 will cast their votes. This is a brand new generation that has grown up in an era of liberalization and globalization. Seen against the rise of a 300-million-strong middle class, it is clear that a consumer economy is taking root.

What’s worse, the media simply don’t get it. Thus we are told that Mayawati is a candidate for the top office. This is simply incredible. With the 30 or 40 odd seats she may garner, mostly in Uttar Pradesh, it is difficult to imagine such an outcome. Yes, V P Singh, Chandra Shekhar, H D Deve Gowda and I K Gujral did make it. All of them were supported on the outside by the Congress or the BJP. They ran rump governments that lasted few months.

It ain’t gonna happen with Mayawati, who wins sympathy as a Dalit woman but is nevertheless accused of milking her supporters to build statues of herself. Shamelessly, she has built herself a Xanadu-like palace called BSP House on Delhi’s pricey Sardar Patel Marg. Just because you happen to be a Dalit woman doesn’t mean you cannot be questioned on ethical considerations. It’s all very well to say that everyone’s corrupt in the political domain. But why should the same scrutiny not apply to her?

Whatever the pundits say, it is clear that neither Advani nor Mayawati, never mind the other pretenders, is about to become the next Prime Minister.

A Version of This Column Appeared in The Times of India, April 14, 2009

copyright rajiv desai 2009

Creeping Fascism

As the Political Class Fiddles...

After the 2002 state-supported pogroms against Muslims in Gujarat, India has been remarkably free from large-scale civil violence. Instead, we have seen the eruption of small but equally insidious incidents. Attacks on tribal Christian communities in Orissa; violence against ethnic groups in Maharashtra; Maoist terror in Central India; insurgencies in Kashmir and the Northeast; and now, organized assaults on urban youth in Karnataka.

The rise of these local fascist groups is a growing phenomenon. Their protest is not political: against secularism, which is the BJP/RSS agenda; or against class like the Communists. Their beef is against modernization, a sweeping phenomenon that embraces lifestyle, art and entertainment. The core of their dogma is feudal: a revolt against practices such as intermingling of sexes, “Western” ways of dressing and entertainment, freedom of expression and non-hierarchical behavior.

These thuggish bands don’t stand for anything but are defined by what they are against. Even then, there is no consistency and their targets are wholly arbitrary. The only thing they concede to modernity is the media; they always take care to inform the media before they strike innocents. In fact, their members are ridiculous and pathetic, easily contained by a police force backed by political will. They are a bunch of maladjusted, violent individuals, nevertheless dangerous in a mob.

Not too long ago, we were in Goa, where we attended the first showing of the film Slumdog Millionaire at the Inox multiplex in Panjim’s awesome Maquinez Palace Plaza. We got there early only to find a television crew hanging about. We thought the TV guys were there to get a reaction from viewers. Soon, a bunch of sorry-looking men showed up and unfurled a banner protesting that the film showed the Hindu mythological god Rama in a bad light. They said they were the Hindu Janjagran Manch, a formation intended to galvanize the Hindu majority against foreign influences.

Many of us argued with the demonstrators, asking why they were protesting especially when they could not have seen the film. This was the first show; unless they had seen a pirated DVD, in which case they had violated the laws of intellectual property rights. I talked to their leader, who seemed supremely unaware that India was governed by laws. He said the film was an insult to Rama and must be banned. I told him there was no such provision in the Constitution and he looked at me quizzically. Clearly, he did not know that our country is governed by the Constitution. I explained to him that Republic Day celebrated the charter. He walked away with an incredulous look in his face, as though I was from Mars or some other planet.

In the event, we walked into the cinema hall to see the film. It was a slap -in-the-face experience. There was a film that dealt with urban slum dwellers made in 1963 by the leftist ideologue K A Abbas. Shehar aur Sapna was a naïve treatise that combined elements of Marxism and romantic anti-industrial zeal. It flopped at the box office but won the government’s National Film Award in 1964, largely because it suited the prevalent socialist ideology. It was a depressing, nihilist film that I saw as a teenager because like all kids growing up then, I was vaguely leftist.

Unlike Abbas’s film, Danny Boyle’s Slumdog Millionaire is uplifting. Interviews with slum kids who saw the movie reveal they relate to it because it gives them hope that they can escape the filth and poverty of the slums. The Abbas film, on the other hand, was an indictment of the system. His anger was directed against industrial development and the displacement and anomie that accompany it. Sadly, even today, such attitudes are prevalent among large sections of the privilegentsia. At a time of rapid urbanization and explosive growth of the middle class, the old battles of caste and class identity have largely been bypassed to be replaced by issues of governance.

The Boyle film challenges the hopeless and bleak vision of urban poverty and rural feudalism painted by books written by Rohinton Mistry (A Fine Balance) and Arvind Adiga (White Tiger). It is also a love story and that sweetens the film’s relentless portrayal of slum life in today’s India, especially for Muslims. The moral is simple: you can escape poverty by the sheer dint of individual effort. It’s an important message to deliver, especially to politicians who build vote banks of poverty. Even the political system has been unable to deliver the basic minimum including primary education and public health care.

Coming back to the showing of Slumdog Millionaire in Goa, we were shocked to learn as we came out of the cinema hall that the peaceful protesters of the Hindu Janjagran Manch were displaced by the hoodlums of the Shiv Sena, who destroyed posters and threatened to break the glass frontage of the Inox box office. In the event, the police came and took them away and no serious damage was done.

It is a worrying situation because the mainstream political system is still fighting the old battles of religion, caste and class. Instead of standing resolutely against the rise of these fascist groups, mainstream politicians have been equivocal in their response. Thus, Rajasthan chief minister Ashok Gehlot felt compelled to condemn the rise of “pub culture,” as did various other politicians. They are blind to the incipient rise of local fascist groups that target not Muslims or Dalits but those who represent the emergent culture of achievement and optimism.

copyright rajiv desai 2009

A version of this article will be published in the forthcoming issue of Education World.

Goa Journal, January 2009

Savoring the Drift

It’s been nearly two months since we were in this haven of mental comfort. Daytime temperatures are in the 30s Celsius (80s Fahrenheit); at night the mercury drops into the teens Celsius (60s Fahrenheit); the weather is perfect. In the interim, we’ve been part of a hectic social life in Delhi, confronting a grim business scenario and watching the politicians and bureaucrats respond ineptly to the Bombay terror attacks and to the global economic crisis.

Even worse, the major opposition party has betrayed its nationalist platform, choosing to berate rather support the government in its handling of the Bombay crisis; it doesn’t know enough to challenge the government’s response to the economic meltdown. Under the circumstances, even though the government came under fire for its inept response in Bombay, the opposition party was shown up to be an opportunist, seeking to milk any and all situations in the hope of narrow political gain.

Leaving all that behind, we are here with our long-loved friends: talking about books and films, architecture and agriculture, business and finance; now sitting in a beach shack, next swimming in the sea, or having dinner at home, listening to music that stirs the soul under a sky embroidered with a zillion stars. One afternoon, we exhilarated in the film, Slumdog Millionaire, an uplifting and entertaining account of the experiences of minorities in a rapidly changing India. Before that, we sat in picturesque café near Panjim’s Miramar Beach, anticipating the richly awarded film.

The four-year old multiplex, which screened the film, is the best I have seen: a slick glass and chrome building in a shady plaza across from the Mandovi River promenade in downtown Panjim; surrounded by gems of Portuguese colonial architecture including the Maquinez Palace. What struck me as we arrived at the plaza was the presence of a television crew. “Might they be doing a feature on the excellent architecture and the blend of the modern and traditional aspect of Goa?” I wondered. Moments later a bunch of dyspeptic-looking middle-aged and young men, ignorance writ large on their faces, arrived at the spot and unfurled protest banners identifying themselves as members of a Hindu revivalist group.

Not just me but a whole bunch of others including foreigners asked them what they were protesting. Their spokesman, not looking at me, addressed the white man: “The movie is an insult to our god Rama.” How? Clearly, they had not seen the film; after all, it was just the second commercial screening that day; the Hindi version debuted at 1.30 pm; we had tickets for the first show in English at 4 pm. Anyway, the Hindu revivalists had been told to protest so dutifully, they showed up. “Even if the film offends you and you have the right to protest,” I asked their leader, “do you know the Indian Constitution guarantees the freedom of expression?” He’d never heard of the Constitution. So I gave up on him and walked into the theater.

The film has been nominated for 10 Oscars and that is awesome. It is wrong to crow that this is the first Indian movie to be so hugely recognized. It is not Indian, only its theme is. It is an absorbing film that should at the very least win the Best Editing award. While we were in the auditorium, the lackadaisical Hindu group had been supplanted by more militant Shiv Sena storm troopers, who set about destroying posters and threatening violence unless the screening was stopped. Mercifully, the police showed up to drag them away and all went well that ended well.

Such fringe, Taliban-style attacks are erupting all over the place, most recently in Mangalore where Hindu fundamentalist thugs assaulted men and women enjoying music and dancing at a pub. Such people are encouraged in states where the government is perceived as weak or as a promoter of Hindu fundamentalism. That such lumpen groups feel free to disrupt, destroy and terrorize innocent citizens is further evidence of the utter failure of governance. When governments all across the country acquiesced in the renaming of major cities and urban landmarks under pressure from such groups, we shouldn’t be surprised if such events occur and multiply.

So much for our dose of grim reality! After that experience at the movies, we spent a laidback evening with friends talking about vegetable dyes and fabrics and plants and trees, with a great meal thrown in. By the time we bade farewell to our friends, we had virtually forgotten about the incident. Many thoughtful commentators in Goa and elsewhere have lamented the rise of gated communities that separate the new India from its old timeless regime of poverty and numbing tradition. That’s true; more worrisome is the huge mindset gap. There is much to criticize about the divides of class, caste and religion. We should wake up to the biggest rift of all: the awareness chasm, which divides illiberal and liberal opinion.

Even so, Goa claimed us with its sensuous charms. We spent the next day languorously, sitting on armchairs, reading books and watching television, especially an episode of the BBC’s wondrous series on Mathematics. Somehow in Goa, since the senses are sated, we look to stimulate the mind. Dinner was at a shack on the beach, talking about Obama and the amazing ability of the American political system to throw up leaders with a forward vision and a plan to change things.

And so the days pass in Goa: the mind is rejuvenated and the body sheds accumulated stresses. You sleep soundly and wake up refreshed, looking forward to a breakfast of poi, the wonderful pita-style bread that’s delivered fresh each morning, and fresh fruit like figs. You can almost feel the toxins draining out of the system and the mind refreshed. Every now and then, you spend an afternoon on the beach, communing with the sun and sand, bathing in the gentle swells of the sea. The food is fresh; your taste buds are more alive and you can drift off on a sun bed while reading a pulp novel.

Soon it will be time to return to the storm-tossed world of urban India. But you feel better-equipped to handle it, especially knowing that soon you can come again and be part of the timelessness of this haven.

copyright rajiv desai 2009

Capital City Journal, January 17 2009

The Dalai Lama Lecture

At the annual Madhavarao Scindia Memorial Lecture today, the featured speaker was the Dalai Lama, who was to speak on "Non Violence: A Strategic Tool." The monk dissociated himself from the "strategic tool" aspect of the speech and went on to deliver a series of unscripted bromides. His rambling address would have gone down well in Santa Monica, California or in Hollywood, where he has acolytes like Richard Gere.

But on a cloudy afternoon, in Teen Murti House in Delhi's Diplomatic Enclave, before an audience that included India's power elite, the Dalai Lama's speech was applauded in the sycophantic manner that is common in such audiences. He has an infectious laugh, a personable interpreter he uses to great effect and plays his audience like a finely-tuned stringed instrument. Summed up, his message was as follows:

• Non violence would be unnecessary if there was no violence.
• Dialogue is the key to avoiding violence.
• Violence can be avoided if you can instill compassion in the hearts of people.
• Given the religious diversity of India, only secular values can help avoid violence.
• India is a net exporter of non violence.
• It needs to push non violence at home.

Like Jim Morrison of The Doors, the monk said love is the answer. It's a wonder the audience that applauded several times did not break out spontaneously into the signature Beatles tune, "All You Need is Love."

A very dear friend of mine, who is a highly-regarded technocrat, put his arm around me after the event and asked me if I, like him, thought the afternoon was a waste of time.

In the event, there is no hope for a free Tibet; the Dalai Lama is a creation of the Indian establishment and a darling of angst-ridden celebrities all over the world. The Chinese have nothing to fear.

copyright rajiv desai 2009

Bombay Terror Attacks Media Coverage

Newswatch Survey Finds It "Theatrical"

Shortly after it dawned on all and sundry that what was initially thought of as only a gang war, was in fact a concerted attack by terrorists on the night of November 26, 2008, all eyes of the nation, and the world, were trained on Mumbai. The coverage of the attacks was to become a watershed in India's television history. But hardly had the first night wore on, signs of criticism of the coverage began surfacing. Over Facebook status messages, through SMSs, and subsequently through blogs and other outlets. Even as National Security Guard (NSG) commandos fought a pitched battle with the terrorists, and television cameras and journalists kept viewers updated all through, coverage itself became news. For all the wrong reasons, one might argue.

Going by the outrage expressed by critics through newspaper columns and blogs, among others, Newswatch decided to carry out a survey on what people thought of the reportage issue. The survey was conducted primarily over a web-based interface from December 3-6. The response was overwhelming. In all, 9,906 responses were selected for the analysis.

Some highlights of the survey results:

97 per cent said the high point was round-the-clock, extensive, coverage
74 per cent felt that the reportage-presentation was theatrical
73 per cent thought TV channels are goading the Indian government to go to war with Pakistan
Arup Ghosh and Shireen of NewsX were thought to be the most cool/best anchors/reporters
Barkha Dutt of NDTV was thought to be the most theatrical/worst anchors/reporters
More than half said Shobhaa Dé was one celebrity who did not deserve to be on TV
In most segments, DD News was seen to be the least sensational.

ABOUT THE REPORT
Extensive, theatrical: What people thought of the Mumbai terror attacks coverage on TV Edited and published by Subir Ghosh for Newswatch. © Newswatch 2008. Note: Even though efforts have been made to provide accurate information in this report, the publisher would appreciate if readers call his attention to errors by emailing newswatchindia@gmail.com. Suggestions for future study subjects can be sent to the same email address.


REPORT SPECIFICATIONS
Pages: 16
Format: PDF
Color: All-color
Price: Free
Size: 449 KB
[For download link, please scroll down.]

There are, nevertheless, limitations with this survey. Firstly, there was no sample identification or selection (see page 3 for the methodology). Secondly, since this was an online survey the results would also mean the opinion gathered was that of India's Internet users only, and not that of the people as a whole. The survey results, unfortunately, leave out rural India from its ambit. In that sense, this survey is as elitist as the coverage of the attacks was made out to be by most detractors.

This survey is based on people's perception of the television coverage—it is not a content analysis project, technically.

In all, 16 questions dealt with perceived negative aspects of the coverage of the Mumbai terror attacks by news and business channels. In all, 21 English and Hindi channels were shortlisted for assessment. Non-English/Hindi channels had to be left out for logistical reasons. Respondents were asked to rate each of these 21 channels on a scale of 1 to 5, in an increasing order of perceived negativity. These ratings were subsequently used to arrive at a weighted mean on a scale of 100. No demographic details were collected from the respondents. In other words, it is not possible, for instance, to say if 57 per cent men in the age group of 22-29 in North India believed that Sahara Samay was theatrical in its reportage/presentation.

This survey is also not about ranking channels. For example, the Table 1 results on page 2 do not mean that all respondents thought that Zee News was the most speculative in its reportage. It means that of those who watched Zee News, 86 per cent thought that the channel's coverage was speculative.

This report also carries excerpts from relevant critical articles that appeared in newspapers, opinions of some of the survey respondents, and the response of Barkha Dutt (Group Editor- English News, NDTV) to the criticism of the coverage.

To download the report, copy and paste the following link on to your browser's address line:

http://www.newswatch.in/research/2727

Let's Take India Back

Enough of the Moffusil Madness

Sabina was a dear friend. She lived a large and full life until she died in the terrorist attack at the Taj in Bombay. She may have survived if the authorities had responded promptly. But Indian politicians and bureaucracy are a dysfunctional stew of mediocrity and incompetence. She never had a chance. It took the commandos of the elite National Security Group ten hours to get to Bombay and the state police forces that can’t even deal with the thugs of the various fascist senas were completely unequal to the task. The three top officials of the state’s anti terrorist squad were gunned down in a single attack. We were left with the sorry spectacle of pot-bellied cops armed with World War Two vintage 303 rifles trying to deal with terrorists equipped with modern weapons.

Then there’s my friend Lawrence Ferrao, a Jesuit priest, who heads the Xavier Institute of Communications, located on a campus that houses our alma mater, St Xavier’s High School and St Xavier’s College. He wrote an account, “An Eyewitness to Terror,” in which he described seeing two terrorists run past the campus to a nearby hospital and their killing spree. “Within our college stone walls, surrounded by hours of bloody violence, someone surely was watching over us. That same someone is now prodding us to work harder…to bring about change; to make a difference in our beloved India,” he wrote. For sure it wasn’t the Maharashtra govern-ment and its corrupt and inept police forces!

I also heard from Schubert Vaz, a pianist who played in the lobby of the Oberoi. He was saved and he believes it is a miracle. “Bombay suffers from two kinds of terrorists: the terrorists who come from outside the country and our political terrorists within the country. Our problems started with the Rath Yatra (conducted by Lal Krishna Advani) and the destruction of Babri Masjid. We are Indians; it does not matter whether we are Hindus, Christians, Muslims or Sikhs,” he wrote. He was cowering inside the hotel’s computer backup room while Gujarat chief minister, Narendra Modi, was outside, swaggering in front of television cameras, trying to score cheap political point at a time of national distress.

Meanwhile the thugs of the various senas, who terrorize the city with sporadic violence, were nowhere to be seen. They are back now, intimidating lawyers who seek to represent the sole captured terrorist. As such, they are militating against the finest traditions of our constitutional de-democracy. They are a reminder of the soft state with its weak-kneed politicians and venal bureaucrats, who run our seriously flawed system of gov-governance.

Even after three weeks, the political class is still unmindful of the distress of citizens. The Congress Party dithered over the replacement of the ineffectual Vilas Deshmukh and is now tying itself up in knots on how to deal with the “senior” leader from Maharashtra, A R Antulay, who suggested that the state’s top anti-terror official may have been killed by Hindu nationalists. For its part, the BJP fumbled on support of the bill creating the National Intelligence Agency until the redoubtable Arun Jaitley got into the act. The incorrigible Left shot itself in the foot again when its suave ideologue Sitaram Yechury foolishly said the Bombay events were a re-sult of the Indo-US nuclear deal

Meanwhile, unfocused citizen anger can easily be diverted. Indeed this is beginning to happen as the media and the privilegentsia are now pushing for a military conflict with Pakistan. That way questions about governance and calls for reform of the system are averted. Indeed, public anger needs to have a focus. To start with, let us ask that our heritage be liberated from the moffusil clutches of government. Politicians, bureaucrats and the media buy into populism while ignoring substantive issues of pol-icy. They have been quick to propose and accept, for example, the change of place names. Starting with Bombay, they have changed other names including: Victoria Terminus, Flora Fountain, Crawford Market, Queen’s Road and a hundred others. This supposedly is their notion of national-ism: tilting at colonial windmills.

Bombay has a history that predates the Shiv Sena, the BJP and even the Congress. When they changed the name of the city, its main railway sta-tion, its airport, its major roads and its many public institutions: the roads still remain pathetic; the airport is still a mess and the railway stations still chaotic. It’s time to challenge the chauvinists, who have terrorized Bombay.

Bombay’s slide started with the rise of moffusil populists in the 1950s. The Samayukta Maharashtra Samiti, precursor of the Shiv Sena, forced the division of the erstwhile Bombay state into Maharashtra and Gujarat. That‘s when the rule of thugs took over the city.

The terror attacks won’t change any political equations. No party cares about human lives. Don’t expect any serious efforts to reform governance. They would rather have a confrontation the failed state of Pakistan than change things internally. The only way to hit them, Congress, BJP, or Shiv Sena, is to strike at the roots of their populism. Let’s demand that the city be called Bombay again and the railway station and airports re-vert to their old, authentic names. It’s a seemingly small but symbolic first step that will upset their diversionary applecart that seems headed straight into a fourth war with Pakistan.


copyright rajiv desai december 2008

Don't Shoot the Pianist

Fifty-year old Schubert Vaz, pianist at the Oberoi-Trident, Bombay narrates his nightmarish night of November 26 when terrorists seized the hotel.

I was playing the piano as usual as I have for 27 years at the sea-facing lobby of the Oberoi, when I heard gun shots. As soon as I realized that gunmen had entered the lobby and shooting people, I ran into the Opium Den bar. They had already killed two bell boys. Other bodies were on the floor but the terrorists were going into restaurants and firing.

Along with some Oberoi staffers and guests, we next ran into the computer room. We felt that was also not safe. We next headed for the back-up systems room which had batteries and so on. I could continually hear gunshots. I called up my brother in law over the cell phone and spoke softly to tell him that terrorists had taken over the Oberoi, but not to tell my wife. If I was delayed, I asked him to tell her that a guest had invited me to play in his house after my duty hours at the Oberoi. If I did not come home by morning, it meant I was in serious trouble.

We were hiding in the back-up systems room when one of the terrorists entered. He started firing from his machine gun. He shot a 20-year old Oberoi management trainee Jasmine, She died. He killed some guests at point blank range. I thought my time had come to die. I could see the image of my family flash before my eyes. At that time I prayed, "Lord, save me."

The terrorist stopped firing. We were very lucky as for some reason he did not spray the room with bullets as he could have done with a machine gun. He just fired single shots. I could not see him, but could see the muzzle of the gun from where I was hiding.

If he had sprayed bullets all of us in the room would have died. The terrorist did not say a word while he was killing people. He was not angrily shouting, but appeared calm and methodical as he was shooting at us. That made him scarier.

The terrorist left the room. I asked others in the room, including some foreign guests, to put their mobile phones in silent mode. We waited, after about 30 minutes; we began to think of how to leave the hotel. We decided to leave for the Regal Room, and there we found our senior managers who were wonderfully helpful. They asked us to keep calm, and told us security forces will rescue us. We were then taken in groups out of Oberoi, to the nearby INOX theater where we waited until morning. At about 5.30 am, I took a local train to my home in the suburbs.

I have been through the Bombay bomb blasts also in 1993. Bombay suffers from two kind of terrorists: the terrorists who come from outside the country, and our political terrorists within the country who take advantage of our tragedies. Our politicians have destroyed the country with their divisive politics. Our divisive problems started with the Rath Yatra (conducted by Lal Krishna Advani) and destruction of Babri Masjid. We don't need any political yatras. We have the Jazz Yatra, and that is good enough!

We are Indians; it does not matter whether we are Hindus, Christians, Muslims or Sikhs. I know I am alive now only because the terrorist did not spray bullets as he could have done. Yesterday, I attended the funeral of an Oberoi colleague John even though I did not personally know him. I know it could have easily been my funeral. Bombay is not afraid. I am determined to get back to work at the Oberoi that is my second home for the past 27 years, to playing the piano that is my second wife.

The first song that I will play is Anne's Song by John Denver. It was the favorite of the 20-year old Oberoi management girl Jasmine, who died in front of my eyes. She was such a sweet, wonderful human being and killed for no reason by madmen

Can a Barack Obama rise in India?

Regrettably the answer is in the negative.

Indian politics is feudal, driven by divisive agendas of caste, ethnicity and religion. It is also nepotistic, fueled by ties of kinship. The political class has no ideology, except knee-jerk responses evoked by flawed and leftover notions of socialism, secularism and nonalignment. The system that has grown out of the cloud of an opaque democracy is chaotic and plutocratic. It exploits the twin sores of poverty and disparity. Politicians tend to be kleptomaniacs, who seek rent for providing governance by exception. Their supporters are primarily favour seekers; in this ethical morass, conformity and sycophancy are valued over innovation and competence.

The amorphous world of Indian politics is currently in focus because state elections are at hand. Driving around my assembly district, I see newly-established offices of the Congress, the BJP and the BSP. Just one look into them and it becomes evident that they serve as a hangout for unemployed, uneducated youth, who sit around hoping for a handout of few rupees to get them through the day. In sharp contrast, American campaign offices are a productive buzz of volunteers and party staffers, churning out voter lists, poll data and demographic profiles. Someone is in charge and the field office is responsible for getting the vote out in favor of the party candidate.

Thus, Barack Obama came out of nowhere, a young mixed-race person from a broken home, the son of an immigrant Kenyan father and a peripatetic white mother from Kansas. He has lived in Hawaii, Indonesia and Midwest USA; attended the finest universities on the East Coast and graduated with high honours in political science and law. He taught at the University of Chicago Law School and then spurned an academic career to become a community organiser in the city’s impoverished and mostly black South Side. Over the years, he rose through the ranks of city and state politics to be elected a US senator in 2004.

In 2007, he announced his candidacy for the presidency of the United States and launched a superb campaign focused on the message of change. He used information technology to build a network of support groups all over the country and to raise funds, in small denominations; in the event, he accumulated the largest ever campaign treasury in the history of American presidential elections. He exudes coolness, compassion and an intellectual brilliance that won him not just votes but the deep admiration of youth, Latinos, women and blacks. Indeed Obama fired the imagination of the whole world. As such, when he is inaugurated in January 2009, he will be America’s first global president.

The stark difference between the grass-roots operations and the political aspirations of the world’s two largest democracies speaks of the difference in governance. In the US, governance tends to be positive and enlightened. Roads are well maintained; there is round-the-clock power and water (that you can drink straight from the tap). There are excellent government schools and well-stocked community libraries. Local governments operate and maintain parks and recreation services. They also provide a variety of social services for the aged and the handicapped as also efficient mass transport.

In India, there is little or no governance. Except for Lutyens Delhi, home of the power elite, most of India is rubble-strewn, unkempt and unfinished; pocked with inadequate roads, erratic power and water supply and virtually no law enforcement, let alone education or health care. The random manner in which civic authorities operate shows how kleptocracy works. Roads are patched rather than re-done; of a 10 km road approved for funding, just half gets built and the rest remains ragged and jagged. A multiplicity of bus stops is set up in some places and none at all in others. Central verges start to collapse immediately after they are finished.

Outsourced as it is to an increasingly rusty ‘steel frame’ bureaucracy, governance has very little to do with the delivery of public goods and services. Instead, it has become a muscular exercise to plunder money from the public treasury and to keep the citizenry at bay. Even a third-rate politician like Mayawati travels in an envelope of ‘Black Cat’ security cover, directed less at personal safety than at making a statement of power to her impoverished dalit supporters. In her warped understanding of politics, Mayawati seeks to impress her base with such over-the-top displays. “Look at me,” she seems to say, “I’m as powerful as upper-caste rulers, and I can do things for you.”

Meanwhile, swarms of corrupt and venal bureaucrats at all levels of government excavate age-old laws and regulations with a view to extorting money from citizens. Not too long ago, some of them visited my office and informed the manager that on the basis of something done by a long-dead former owner, the building was in violation some code and therefore illegal. We haven’t heard from them since but they may well have “opened a file,” giving them the option to harass us whenever they choose. Maybe they need to fund a wedding in the family; or send a son to an overseas university or whatever. Nobody in the political world can rein in democratic India’s marauding bureaucrats. That’s because no politician even thinks of governance. It’s all about power and pelf, unmindful of the citizenry.

No, a Barack Obama cannot rise in India. A Nero, a Hitler, a Stalin, a Mao…maybe.

an edited version of this column appeared in education world, december 2008

The Failure of the Political Class

The political class is like the public sector, which seeks to run a modern enterprise in a bureaucratic fashion that died abruptly with the Soviet Union. Likewise, politicians and bureaucrats and their cohorts in the academy try to operate a modern nation-state with command and control techniques more suited to the colonial era.

This contradiction was outlined in stark relief by the terrorist strikes in Bombay. Not even the most modern nation-state could have anticipated the strikes; however, the key is the response. Right or wrong, governments in the United States and Western Europe responded swiftly. Certainly in the US there has been not even a minor incident of terror since 9/11. Now compare that to the dithering, uncoordinated response of the Indian authorities. A cogent approach might, at the very least, have contained the number of casualties.

It took nearly ten hours for commandos to show up. Plus the police proved once again unable to do the simplest job of sanitizing the area. Instead, you had crowds of curious onlookers and the inevitable television crews and reporters. What’s more, television reporters, in their eagerness for “Breaking News,” were oblivious of the impact that their coverage could have, especially in keeping the terrorists informed about the commandos’ tactics.

Plus various spokesmen fed the media with information about police plans, government strategy and commando tactics in a random manner. It was clear that no one was in charge: not the union home minister, not the state chief minister, not the state home minister, not the NSG chief, not the police commissioner, not the state and central information ministries…it was a comprehensive failure of governance.

The question arises: could politicians and bureaucrats done any better? Of course, they could have. So why didn’t they? Why did it take the state chief minister so long to grasp the true nature of the attacks? Why did his deputy, who also serves as home minister, downplay the magnitude of the problem? Why did the center take so long to wake up: what was the national security adviser doing? What was the home minister doing? A National Disaster Management Authority office was established recently. Was this not a disaster included in its terms of reference?

Nevertheless, let’s not play the blame game; instead let us analyze why things went so terribly awry. My 27 years of intimate acquaintance with the political process leads to the following answers to questions raised above:

1. The position of a politician in any party is vicarious. Except for the supreme leader, no one is secure. This puts a premium on sycophancy that cascades through the ranks and explains why politicians wear rings, undergo elaborate religious rituals and are deeply superstitious. Their survival is not on the basis of performance or leadership; if he or she should in some way displease the leadership, it’s curtains. Neither chief minister Vilas Deshmukh nor any of the Patils (central and state home ministers) was capable of getting anything done except ceremonial posturing that in their minds would please their overlords. In such a culture, politics becomes process rather than goal oriented. Meaningless gestures and flatulent rhetoric are all you get. Hence Deshmukh’s “terror tourism” trip to the Taj with Bollywood celebrities or Gujarat chief minister Narendra Modi’s gift of money to the family of a slain security officer. Compare that to 9/11, when the New York City mayor Rudy Giuliani took charge and directed the response.

2. National priorities are much lower in the politician’s hierarchy of values. Every situation he faces is judged on the basis of whether it strengthens or weakens his position. In addition to sycophancy, the political culture celebrates opportunism. This explains why the chief minister of a neighboring state rushed to Bombay and the Oberoi, where he swaggered before the assembled media, charging the government with failure and calling for new laws and what have you. If ever Modi was stripped of his recent image building sheen, this was it. He was shown up for what he is: a small-time opportunist with an agenda that is clearly too large for him. Meanwhile opposition leader L K Advani, with his refusal to support the government, wrote his obituary as a possible prime minister. Contrast that to solidarity shown by American and European politicians in the face of similar terror attacks.

3. Innovation and ideology are an intrinsic part of modern political cultures. Barack Obama steamrollered his way to the presidency of the United States with a high-tech campaign and a message of change. In India, Mayawati is feted for her ability to rabble rouse among the impoverished and oppressed Dalit castes, wearing diamond rings and disclosing mind-boggling assets. The BJP, with its pursuit of a communal ant-Muslim agenda, offers no real message other than hate and deceit. The failure of the party to emerge as a center right alternative is unforgivable and speaks to a lack of vision. On the other hand, the Congress is hopelessly paralyzed by various competing factions including a socialist left that seeks to return to the days of Indira Gandhi; feudal groups based on caste and religious affiliation; and a ruling progressive section that is held in the check by the various factions. The result is reform by stealth, a hesitant foreign policy and mindless populism.

Sapped by such a cancerous culture, the political class was simply incapable of responding to the terrorist assault on Bombay.

an edited version of this column appeared in the times of india, december 4, 2008

Eyewitness to Terror

BATTLE GROUND : St Xavier’s College approx 9.40 p.m. onwards

"There's been some firing at V.T. station," he said. It didn’t sound too serious. But within minutes, the scenario changed - and how! TV channels blared the news of a possible gangland gun battle at Leopold's Cafe, in Colaba. By 10.15 pm, frenzied reporters on all channels screamed, "we have a terrorist attack…shooting at the CST station reported….and they have entered the Taj Hotel in Colaba."

Suddenly, unexpectedly, all hell broke loose around St. Xavier's College. Machine guns fired (sounds very different from the ' rat-a-tat ' that we hear in movies) and grenades blasted around us. We listened in hushed, frightened silence to the deadly news that the 'atankvadis’ – terrorists- were in the neighboring Cama Hospital premises. Some of us huddled in the recreation room before the TV; some, standing on the long third floor terrace, watched disbelievingly at rifle-toting commandos enacting battle-like scenes before our eyes; and, some slept!

Standing in the corridor facing the Azad Maidan, Paul Vaz was visibly shaken. He saw a man shot in cold blood, just in front of our college driveway on Mahapalika Marg. Proof, that the ‘terrorists’ had scrambled past our main gates!

Peering over the railing of the terrace facing St. Xavier's School, Joe Velinkar and Arun watched in disbelief. Just a few feet from the College side-gate (the one facing Rang Bhavan), two men were crouched behind a white car with a spinning red light atop it. Then, with guns firing in the air, they "coolly," according to Velinkar, walked past the Rang Bhavan, and entered the G.T.Hospital complex.

Sometime between these two happenings, in this same area, brave policemen met their deaths in front of the Corporation Bank, which is situated at the extreme end of the college building. Bullets whizzed - dented the door of the bank and the red, steel electric sub-station. This is the spot where ACP Ashok Kamte (an alumnus of St. Xavier's College), Hemant Karkare, the ATS Chief (his daughter had completed her studies last year at Xavier’s) and Vijay Salaskar met their end.

Presumably, the young terrorists escaped in these officers’ Qualis van - the same Qualis that fired indiscriminately, killing two youth living in houses behind our college. And then later, on bystanders at the Metro junction a few meters away. But, within our college stone walls, surrounded by hours of bloody violence, someone surely was watching over us and our hostelites. That same someone is now prodding us to work harder - in and through our Institutions - to bring about change; to make a difference - in our beloved India.

If you prayed for us…THANK you

Lawrence Ferrao SJ

Fr Lawrie, principal of Bombay's prestigious Xavier Institute of Communications, was the celebrant at our daughter Pia's wedding in Goa, November 24, 2008. He sent me this eyewitness account.

Opportunities in Meltdown Crisis

It is the yearning of most middle class Indians to send their sons and daughters to go to Harvard Business School. That’s not surprising, given the Indian obsession for job-oriented training rather than a liberal arts education. When your children get into elite business schools, you feel you’ve fulfilled your dharma. After that, they get lucrative jobs in Goldman Sachs, Morgan Stanley, Lehman Brothers and what have you. There they work with men and women from around the world whose Arjun-like focus is to make piles of money: an apartment on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, a spectacular beach house in the Hamptons, a skiing holiday in the Alps, a summer place in the south of France, a villa in Tuscany, an apartment in Paris or a great hotel in London.

Well, just as American assumptions about finance have been upturned by the dismal reality of economics, your idea of dharma is about to take a beating. The chickens have come home to roost. Twenty-eight years after the fall of the Berlin Wall and the unlamented demise of Soviet communism, we are witnessing a massive assault on the skewed capitalism unleashed by global finance. When a bunch of ambitious yuppies is given the run of the markets, you should expect immature behavior. A thousand points up, a few thousand points down: the masters of the universe thought they were invincible.

We’ve seen this in India in the first four decades of Independence. Young people with means and connections attended elite schools like Oxford and Cambridge and returned to high positions from where they pushed the intellectual ideas of the day. The result was Fabian socialism that created and favored the elite. The Leftish intellectuals who ran the country advanced distorted notions about egalitarian growth from positions of privilege. They pushed weird ideas: a ‘commanding heights’ public sector; restrictions on private enterprise; outright nationalization of ‘core’ sectors deemed vital to the country; ‘development’ banking, subsidy populism.

The entire edifice came crashing down in 1991 when the government went bankrupt. Slowly and painfully, a new structure arose in its place: a tentative reform regime frequently held hostage to mindless moffusil politics practiced by con men and goons, bigots and activists who fill party offices. One thing is obvious; the old elite have had to make way for ambitious interlopers, whether in politics or business. Their next generation largely opted out of public service and made their homes largely in the global financial community: in New York, London, Hong Kong and Singapore.

This is where the story becomes intriguing: at the intersection of the next generations of the Indian elite and the world of global finance. Once a secure and lucrative place, it is now the center of the meltdown. If the recovery is long in coming, these young men and women will most likely head home. As they pour in looking for elite perches, they will encounter the crass interlopers who now occupy such positions. It could make for an interesting political turn. In alliance with modern-minded politicians found in the Congress and in some regional parties, they could power a new equation in the country’s politics.

The global financial bust could actually re-invigorate politics. The moffusil mafia that now holds the Indian state to ransom could face a challenge. Chances of overcoming the current anarchy could improve dramatically. As things stand today, civil society (not the jholewallahs but the real thing: a middle class with civic values) is under assault. All manner of low life, including criminals, assembles under a ‘leader’ and wreaks chaos and mayhem in cities, towns and villages, without let or hindrance. You have Hindu bigots killing tribal Christians in Orissa and Karnataka; street hoods enforcing a chauvinist agenda in Bombay; Mamata Banerjee forcing the Tata Nano venture from Bengal; a regional party playing to its ethnic base by seeking to influence Indian policy in Sri Lanka; the Left playing ideological games to strap a government they were in alliance with; a BJP that is desperate for power and will go to absurd lengths as it did with displaying wads of cash during the vote of confidence in Parliament; a Congress that cannot shake off its nostalgia for Indira Gandhi and therefore remains unconvinced about economic reforms.

These distressful events are taking place at a time when the economy is notching up record growth. The minuscule middle class has grown to a critical mass and can irreversibly transform the country into a stable, modern democracy. Sadly, no political party speaks for this emergent group. Virtually all political parties are preoccupied with caste, religion and populism. It is a measure of the narrow worldview of the political leadership that no one has been able to grasp the significance of this demographic event. The closest any leader came to recognizing the growing middle class is Prime Minister Manmohan Singh. This much was clear from his relentless advocacy of the Indo-US civilian nuclear agreement. He fought the odds and emerged triumphant and the middle class applauded. Can he persuade his reluctant party to solicit the support of this vital new constituency?

Meanwhile, at ground zero in the global financial markets, Gordon Brown and Nicolas Sarkozy have demonstrated their leadership by pursuing an intelligent response to the crisis. The much maligned British premier, in particular, has won plaudits in his own country and around the world. In the US, a fading George W Bush failed to rally his own party around a flawed bailout package put forward by his lightweight Treasury secretary, Henry Paulson.

Interesting possibilities lie ahead. For instance, the crisis has steered the debate in the presidential campaign to focus on crisis management capabilities of the candidates. As such, this has favored the unflappable and analytical Barack Obama, with his cool temperament and level head, over the more mercurial John McCain. In the next few weeks, US voters will have the chance to send a powerful signal by selecting their President. A President Obama has a better chance of restoring sanity in fearful and avaricious global financial system.

an edited version of this column appeared in education world, november 2008

Corporate Social Responsibility?

The Nano Goes to Modi’s Gujarat

The decision by the Tata group to re-locate the Nano plant in Sanand is of concern to liberal Gujaratis. The logic of business is to be competitive and profitable; as such, Tata’s move makes sense. The company was right to choose the business-friendly state and get down to the task of making the revolutionary Nano car, which promises to put India on the global map of the auto industry.

Nevertheless, it just does not sit comfortably with liberal sensibilities in the communally-polarized state. What’s more, the triumphal note that Gujarat chief minister Narendra Modi sounded at the media event to announce the pact appeared to be a new form of propaganda. He followed it up with a series of television interviews, resplendent in new sartorial style. In these interviews, Modi positioned himself as a spokesman for the new India.

Modi is a politician and, some might even argue, a cynical one. It doesn’t take rocket science to see through his new effort to buy respectability. Like Lady Macbeth, he is seeking desperately to wash the communal bloodstains off hands in order win national acceptability. He is positioning himself to emerge as a national leader in the BJP once L K Advani is gone.

We can explain away Modi’s posturing as the way of an ambitious and ruthless politician. What is more difficult to accept is Tata’s decision-making process. The Nano is Tata’s prestige project. It is plausible that the decision was made on the rebound after the embarrassment and the financial costs of the shenanigans at Singur in Bengal. Given the formidable reputation of Tata, did no one consider the possibility that the decision could sully that standing?

Tata has sizable commitments to corporate responsibility programs. They stem from the conviction of senior management that their methods of conducting business should be ethical; as such, they must take into account the interests of society. These laudable programs have won prestigious awards and wide recognition. The Nano project is also driven by the same larger vision: to provide affordable personal transport to the emergent middle class.

While some companies like The Body Shop and others are recognized for their socially conscious practices, others are disparaged and their efforts often dismissed as hollow public relations ploys to whitewash the ethical questions raised by their operations. For example, the tobacco and oil industries simply have been unable to deal with the core ethical questions.

For all the years that such companies have fretted about corporate social responsibility, their notion is largely a putative expense to divert attention from real and serious ethical issues surrounding their business. Milton Friedman made sense when he famously argued in an article written 38 years ago that “the social responsibility of business is to increase its profits.”

Friedman’s piece stirred a major controversy at the time. Not just his idea of corporate responsibility but all his work on monetary theory was dismissed as a handmaiden of powerful multinationals. It was the time of Woodstock and Viet Nam; big business in the West was viewed with glaring hostility in the media, in the academy and in the liberal mainstream. In India, given the socialist mindsets in politics and the bureaucracy of the time, business was seen a milk cow: favors and cash in exchange for licenses and permits.

With the dawn of the Reagan-Thatcher era, governments ceded space to the private sector. That was when views about corporate social responsibility began to change. If the private sector has unfettered access to markets, land, labor and capital, many scholars and analysts argued, companies must consider the larger social entity in their decision making.

In a recent example, a major infrastructure firm with far-flung projects served by casual labor included AIDS awareness and disaster management as part of its social responsibility initiative. It serves both the larger community and the company interests. Companies need to seek out areas where their operations intersect with the larger good.

Seen in that light, the Tata decision to re-locate the Nano plant in Gujarat raises many questions. Modi is like a chameleon in his relentless pursuit of power. Starting out as a fiery Muslim basher, he went on to pose as the champion of Gujarati pride; now he pushes himself as a business friendly leader. How does Tata reconcile its pact with Modi whose seven years as chief minister have been marked by overt targeting of minority groups? How can a company that has been honored by the US India Business Council sign on with a controversial politician who has been and continues to be denied a visa to the United States.

Modi’s culpability in the communal mayhem that followed the Godhra incident was clearly established; his effort to gain absolution by setting up the kangaroo Nanavati commission was clumsy. It’s in the past; he has turned a new leaf: the cheerleaders say. But who can forget that Modi built his political career by fanning the flames of religious bigotry with references to the conquest of India by the Mughals in medieval times and more recently, the Partition of British India into India and Pakistan

In the end, there is a growing belief that Tata’s move, though legitimate, helped Modi in his whitewash campaign to emerge as a national leader. As a result, this highly respected company’s commitment to social responsibility appears somewhat weaker.

an edited version of this piece appeared in the times of india, october 21, 2008

Goa Unplugged

After All, It IS India

So here we are in Ucassaim, Goa again. The monsoon is at an end and now there’s bright sunshine; warm humid days, cool starry nights. And I think to myself what a wonderful world. There are high-pitched songbirds in the morning; an irritating rooster with five-o’clock-alarm regularity; peacocks romantically a-braying at the prospect of snakes. The bread guy, the egg man and every other vendor has this little rooty-tooty horn that starts blowing from five in the morning to midday.

Our little village is, as such, a bucolic place. After three days of rain and a day of sunny blue skies, you can sit in the verandah and still hear the water dripping from the trees at night. You get up from your armchair and look up at the million trillion stars in the sky to see if it’s clouded over again and it’s raining. And you realize with some impeccable insight that dripping water is the main event in Goa during the monsoon. Even after two days of sunny skies, despite the star-filled, moonlit nights, the drip-drop of the water from the trees never ceases. It is soothing, almost mesmerizing.

The wonder of this place is that is a feast of vision and sound but also of heavenly aromas of food: the overwhelming smell of feni, the pungent odor of Goa vinegar and the lustful noseful of seafood. Apart from the hedonistic cornucopia that is the very essence of the place, there are other, more mundane aspects: good roads, polite drivers, great bars, good restaurants. It is fun to wander through the towns, villages and beaches during the day and eat a simple dinner at home or find a buzzing place to dine in.

This time, however, the pleasures of Goa were tinged with a black penumbra. It turns out our bucolic little village is full of greedy and envious neighbors. We’ve tried to reach out to them but their world is so different. The amount of money we spend going back and forth from Goa in a year surpasses their annual earnings. If we were white foreigners, nobody would hassle us; if we were rich, we would have people to contain them. Being neither, we face the hostility of neighbors, who are nice to talk to; it is clear they have a hidden agenda. And they operate stealthily through the Panchayat.

In our case, they cannot complain in terms of religion or caste: my wife is a Goan Catholic; I am a Hindu Brahmin. Between Pereira (my wife’s maiden name) and Desai (also a Goan name), we easily blend in, especially because we live the local life. The problems our neighbors are causing us are petty but stressful. One neighbor is a policeman; he had a wicket gate leading into our garden from his yard and enjoyed a free run of our property. We sealed off the gate. Now he is extracting revenge. He has filed a complaint in the panchayat against the boundary wall we are seeking to repair. He even brought in his loutish fellow cops to threaten us. Another neighbor started an ambitious project to build an additional floor but ran out of money; a third has cattle in his living quarters and the family is always at war, using loud voices and sometimes even physical combat.

All these years, we’ve ignored them, valuing the physical allure of the village. We’ve weaved that attraction into a pastoral experience. I was hoping to write poetry like William Blake,; instead I am constrained to write a Marxist tract. Now that we are sprucing up the property for our daughter’s wedding in the next few months, we’ve had people coming out of the woodwork, objecting to walls; this, that and the other. All complaints go to the Panchayat; there are inspections, without any reference to the alleged transgressor.

In the past few weeks, we’ve had all manner of harassment from neighbors. They are of a completely negative frame of mind. One neighbor complained that we had encroached into his property; another complained, and he lives across the street, that the wall would block the breeze in his house. A third simply said we could not do it unless we built ten feet into our property, giving him the land for free.

We come to Goa to get away from it all. We stay at out second home, mind our own business and reach out to the locals. There is, however, such a simmering pot of envy that you can neither touch nor swallow for fear of burns. We have decided to fight it. Never mind religion or caste, the hostility has to do with socioeconomic differences. Though nowhere rich by global or even the new Indian standards, we nevertheless pay our caretaker more than the per capita income of the village…we probably spend more than that on dinner, when we go out.

That is the truth. But I see no reason why they would gang up on us, except because they believe they can wring a few thousand rupees out of us. Apart from the fact that I would not even part with a penny, I am shocked that these people have such a skewed view of the world: the idea you can gang up to extract money from your better-off neighbor.

As my daughter says, “Man, Dad, they picked the wrong guy.” And indeed they did. My wife is from Goa and I am Goan by choice. We have the resources to tie the Panchayat up in litigation for the next 10 years. Our taxes are 122 rupees a year because that’s really what residents can afford. I have no qualms in using my financial clout to fight harassment. On the other hand, despite the pathetic real estate taxes, the village is clean; everyone manages to dispose off their garbage and there are no smelly bins of the type you find in Delhi’s villages. We know because even in the capital we live surrounded by a village that is immensely wealthier and depressingly dirtier.

So there we have it. We live in this bucolic village; we spend more money in a day than the local residents do in a month. But we could become victims of the egregious envy of our neighbors, who are simply hoping to make a buck by slowing our renovation. I told members of the Panchayat, who came to visit us, that we will support the local orphanage (imagine: in this little impoverished community, there is one). But we have no time for envious and greedy neighbors. And we will move heaven and earth to insulate ourselves from the petty machinations of the neighbors. It is class warfare, plain and simple.

The Acrid Stench of Death

Grief Eases, the Smell Lingers

On September 21, my mother would have turned 86. She died five months ago. But lest anyone thinks this another obituary, I want to make it perfectly clear that it is not. Rather I want to talk about the phenomenon of death and how it hits you in the face, even while you are busy making a life.

To begin with, there’s no escaping it. We are all on some supernatural death row from the minute we are born. Certainly, we give our lives meaning. We do amazing things: we build nations, machines, welfare systems, philanthropic organizations; we do astounding research in medicine, physics, chemistry; we sing songs, play guitar and make it snappy; we write symphonies and operas, novels, poetry, even columns like this one. It is our only shot at immortality. Buried, burned or otherwise disposed off, our mortal coil is just that: mortal. Remember the root of the word is Latin for death.

It’s not my intent to be a Woody Allen and obsess about death. We don’t need that because the fear of death is programmed into our DNA. We eat healthy, we work out; we give up cigarettes, booze and the libertine lifestyle. All in the hope we get a few years more on this planet. That desire drives people who live in sylvan estates or in deplorable slums; the investment banker who lives on 95 and Fifth in Manhattan as well the tribal in basic Africa; the person on a luxury yacht in the Mediterranean as well the illegal immigrant stowing away on a cargo ship.

Nobody told me that death is the only certainty in life for all the years I spent in respectable educational institutions. In school, there was an unstated belief in God that the Jesuits pushed; university life was girded by the Calvinist ethic of hard work, burning the midnight oil. After that, the job was the Holy Grail. You must find one, keep one and rise in the ranks. Better homes, nicer cars, club memberships, business class travel and various other diversions take your mind off from the inevitability of death.

So we build the tangled web of ambition and relationships. It diverts our minds, stuck as we are on this wonderful death row that we call life. I have a sunny disposition like Louis Armstrong, who in 1967 sang What a Wonderful World, a song that was written for him by the legendary jazz impresario Bob Thiele. Its opening lyrics went like this:

I see trees of green, red roses too
See them bloom for me and you
And I think to myself what a wonderful world
I see skies of blue, and clouds of white
The bright blessed day, the dark sacred night
And I think to myself what a wonderful world

We enjoy this world: springtime in Chicago, autumn in New England, a night in Manhattan, a drive on Pacific Coast Highway from San Francisco to Los Angeles, (corny though it sounds) an evening in Paris, a drive through the English and French countryside, a Beatles number, an Ellington tune or some good old Hindi songs by Rafi, Kishore, Mukesh or Geeta Dutt; even more mundane experiences like a drink at the retro bar in the air force station in Ayanagar on the Delhi-Gurgaon border, dinner with friends in Bandra, a singsong at our house, a great movie, a good concert, an absorbing play, a stirring opera. And for many of us, the satisfaction of work and the concomitant rewards, both spiritual and material.

My personal preference remains Goa in the Monsoon. There are trees of green and flowers too. But the skies are grey; the clouds are black and ominous; the night is indeed sacred and dark with sheets of rain and gale force winds. Contemplating the violence of nature, I am reminded that we are mortals and we can be swept away by the sinister forces of nature.

These experiences define our lives. Otherwise there is a void, a few lonely years in a death watch cell. We seek love and solace. When we get that, we are immortal; others want more and they are Shakespeare, Blake, DaVinci, Einstein, Gaugin, Van Gogh, Mozart, Beethoven, Edison, Burke, Jefferson, Voltaire, Freud, Marx, Gates or any of the IT pioneers. People like them advance civilization. The rest of us just enjoy the fruits of their genius.

In the end, there is no greater comfort and joy than sharing a daily dinner table, a weekend lunch in the garden or Christmas with the family. These experiences run for a good 50 years or so in an individual’s life until the children, both us and ours, grow up and move away, sometimes physically but always emotionally. We enjoy it while we can and then contemplate the sunset years. Some of us are lucky to have friends to brighten up our evenings and weekends; and work to keep us busy through the day.

Into this cocoon of happiness that we build and protect, sometimes the reality of life creeps in. This happened when my mother died and left my father with us, Alzheimer’s and all. The grief has eased but I cannot get rid of the stench of death in my house. It is an acrid smell that no amount of Lysol, scented candles and room sprays can get rid off. It hangs in there, dismal and irreversible: a sinister prospect of death. My father, who shared his birthday with my mother, turned 89 on September 21. In his dementia, I can hear the ticking of the mortal clock.