Being Indian Page 3
Two other Indian traits will also be highlighted in the course of this book. The first is the often amazing ability of Indians to retain hope. A person living in the most appalling slum in Mumbai will still nurture the hope that one day he will make it big, or at least bigger, and that his children will lead a better life. The trickle-down from the top to the bottom has certainly been inadequate, but it has probably been just enough to keep alive the intrinsic Indian propensity for not losing hope. The second is the resilience that comes from being continuously exposed to adversity. Even a middle class Indian struggles for such basics as electricity, clean water, transport and medical care. The very poor, of course, survive in the absence of all of these. This relentless grappling with adversity has bred by now an inventiveness and a will to survive that can only be described as remarkable.
Finally, a word about methodology. A portrait of a people cannot be drawn only through theoretical paradigms. Individuals are complex, and cultures far too deep, to submit to dry hypotheses without illuminating surmise by example, inference by anecdote, and deduction by personal experience. Economists can believe in universal constructs applicable to all societies. But those who study people in the context of their unique cultural habitats must rely on what has been called ‘thick description’10, which fleshes out the manner in which people actually react and respond, and behave and conduct themselves in everyday life. This book, therefore, is not intended to read like an academic discourse, nor does it pretend to be one. It will tell a story, recall an incident, describe an event and cite a fact from the everyday lives of Indians, in order to portray the Indian for what he or she is. Any failings in terms of ‘scholarly’ technique will, it is hoped, be compensated for by greater readability for the average reader.
Chapter Two
POWER
The Unexpected Triumph of Democracy
THE DEPARTURE ZONE of the Indira Gandhi International Airport in New Delhi is crowded with the usual gaggle of friends and relatives milling around the entrance gate, which for security reasons only passengers may cross. It is a hot and steamy monsoon morning in the first year of the new millennium. Suddenly a convoy of cars comes screeching to a halt. The lead car is a white Ambassador, with a blue light on its roof. A policeman in the front seat, machine gun slung around his shoulder, leaps to open the back door. A young police officer steps out. Uniformed minions, walkie-talkies in hand, spring to clear the way. The official guarding the entrance falls back with a deferential salaam. Gun-toting escorts guide the officer to the VIP lounge.
Security is strict for the rest of the passengers: X-ray machines, manual check of hand baggage, checked-in baggage identified by its owners before boarding the plane. A smartly dressed middle-aged lady walks out of the terminal to identify her baggage. She has her handbag with her which, according to the rules, should have been left inside. A security official calls out: ‘Madam, please leave your handbag inside.’ She pays no attention, not even looking back to acknowledge the request. He raises his voice. No response. He runs towards her. Just as he reaches her, she turns around, and says in a voice like a whiplash: ‘Don’t you know I am a Member of Parliament?’ The official crumples, retreating with mumbled apologies.
The junior police officer sipping tea in the VIP lounge genuinely believes that the manner of his entering the airport is legitimate, a visible perk of the power he wields. The MP is equally convinced that her status entitles her to be above the rules for ordinary mortals. Both are well-educated Indians, and could speak eloquently, if required, on the sacrosanct equality of all of India’s citizens.
In the Indian tradition the powerful are not expected to be reticent or modest in the projection of their power. In the eighteenth century Lord Wellesley told the East India Company in London that to rule the ‘natives’ it was essential to build palaces to awe them into submission. The Company was persuaded to accept his logic, and the massive Governor’s Residence came into being in Calcutta. More than fifty years after the British left, this imposing palace fulfils more or less its original purpose. The Governor of West Bengal lives in isolated splendour in a sprawling estate, maintained by 168 underlings.
The departure of the British effected a transfer of power. A transfer of the paraphernalia of power accompanied the transfer of power. This was not an uncommon occurrence. Colonized elites all over the world emulate the pomp and ceremony of their oppressors, once rid of them. But the Indian elite could have been different. The man who inspired their struggle for independence, and whom they chose to call the Father of the Nation, shunned the trappings of power. He did not live in government palaces. He travelled in the lowest class in trains. He celebrated his austerity, wearing little more than a loincloth. He wanted the massive Viceregal Palace in New Delhi to be converted into a hospital. He exhorted the members of the new Indian government to live, and rule, with humility. Undoubtedly, Gandhi’s example was very difficult to follow. Even those who believed in him could hardly be expected to be as austere, or as utopian, or as self-denying as he. But, considering the massive following he commanded, why were his values betrayed so easily and almost immediately?
As an independent nation India chose to be a democracy, and has remained one, almost without interruption. Jawaharlal Nehru, India’s first Prime Minister, genuinely believed in the egalitarian goals of a republic. The first President, Dr Rajendra Prasad, was a committed and prominent devotee of Gandhi. Yet, soon after the Union Jack went down and the Indian tricolour first fluttered proudly in the breeze in August 1947, Nehru moved into Flagstaff House, the palatial residence of the British Commander-in-Chief. The residence of the Viceroy, arguably the world’s largest palace, became the home of President Prasad.
Given their ideological beliefs, and the tutelage of Gandhi, it is not unlikely that the two leaders moved into their new homes with a slight twinge of guilt. But they were probably aware that the average Indian would have been disappointed, perplexed and even disapproving, if they had renounced the opportunity to project power. Power, in the Indian way of thinking, is a legitimate pursuit, and the powerful are entitled to display their success. Those who wield power are nothing if they cannot convey to others the visible symbols of their acquisition. Ideologies take root in the psyche of a people refracted through the prism of their own traditions and inherited ways of life. The twentieth century spawned the myth of universal constructs, applicable to all people, irrespective of cultural and historical differences. The clarion call of Rousseau in the eighteenth century for the creation of an equal society was assumed to be powerful enough to overwhelm the tonal variations of people everywhere. Certain ideals were taken as given, and certain institutions considered sacrosanct. Colonized societies were particularly vulnerable to swallowing the idealized prescriptions given to them ‘for their own good’ by their former rulers. But, as the last several decades have shown, the efficacy of the prescriptions have been greatly dependent on the intrinsic metabolism of the patient. Broad-spectrum antibiotics may work in the field of medicine, but they do not work in societies, especially those with traditions of resistance and immunity going back centuries.
The manner in which political theory congeals into practice is conditioned by individual variations in tradition and historical experience. This is evident even in those societies that have been democracies for the longest period of time. For instance, the pursuit of an egalitarian order led to the abolition of monarchy in France. It did not do so in Britain. Both are democracies, committed to equal opportunity, but Britain has preserved a royal family based on the accident of birth, and preserves many of the inherited privileges of a feudal elite. Again, democracy is a vibrant part of the American way of life, but its continuous practice for over 200 years has not yet enabled a woman to become President, or for anyone not a white Anglo-Saxon Protestant (with the exception of John F. Kennedy) to reach the highest rung of the political ladder. Nations respond to accepted goals in different ways, and the manner in which they do so provides clues to
the nature of their societies. Distortions occur when an idea is exalted as a universal goal, without an appropriate appreciation of the milieu in which it is to grow and mature.
The Indian response to the ideal of an equal society must, therefore, be seen in the specific and unique context of its own culture and tradition. If Jawaharlal Nehru and Rajendra Prasad were uncomfortable about deviating from the spartan austerity of Gandhi, they would be appalled today to see the effortless progression of what they began. In a provincial capital such as Lucknow in the northern state of Uttar Pradesh even a deputy director of a minor department flaunts an official car, with outlandish plaques in the front and at the back proclaiming his ‘exalted’ position in the bureaucratic hierarchy. The plaques are in bold red, the lettering in brass. This is not all. A red or blue light on the top and on the bonnet is a must. A siren to clear the way is not unusual. A minister’s importance is judged not only by the patronage he distributes but also by the size of his office and residence, the number of subordinates he controls, the quality of his car (white Ambassador, several antennae, red light, spotless white upholstery) and the number of security personnel detailed to protect him. A senior bureaucrat will be offended if the telephones on his desk are reduced in number, or the lettering announcing his designation not large enough. The minion, his superior, and the minister know that these accessories will determine their importance in the eyes of others.
Such behaviour is probably more in evidence within the bureaucracy and government, but the obsession with hierarchy, and the symbols that project it, is not a monopoly of officialdom. The caste system began several thousand years ago as a functional categorization, but over the years it degenerated to become one of the most inflexible and institutionalized tyrannies of any society. Today it is officially frowned upon, and democratic empowerment has, as we shall discuss later, loosened its asphyxiating stranglehold. But the mentality of a stratified society remains very much in evidence in everyday life. The structure of hierarchies may be changing, but ‘for an Indian, superior and subordinate relationships have the character of eternal verity and moral imperative—(and the) automatic reverence for superiors is a nearly universal psycho-social fact.’1 This acceptance of the hierarchy of power gives a particularly Indian colouring to the meaning and operation of modern concepts like democracy and equality.
To an Indian the projection of power and the recognition of status are intimately related. When a person’s entire worth is dependent on the position he occupies on a hierarchical scale, the assertion of status (and its recognition by others) becomes of crucial importance. In order to preserve status one has to be seen to be above those below, and below those above. There can be no ambivalence in these equations. Under the caste system transgression was impermissible. Old rigidities are blurring today, but the preoccupation with the notion of hierarchy very much persists, and in some respects has become even more frenetic. In the past, status was prescriptive, a consequence of one’s birth. Today it can be acquired by other means, including greater avenues of upward mobility. This has not made Indians more egalitarian in their outlook. On the contrary, the new uncertainties—and opportunities—have only heightened sensitivities about who stands where in the pecking order, and only accentuated the obsession with status and power. Even corruption is not necessarily about only material gain: ‘In a society like ours, where the equal moral worth of individuals is rarely affirmed, one of the ways in which people affirm their own worth is by being able to exercise discretionary power over others. Corruption is as much about the allure of power as it is about money, and the intensity of competitive frenzy for power in this society is largely due to the fact that without power, your moral worth will not be affirmed. Corruption is a form of exercising that power.’2
Societies reveal how they actually think and behave in the smallest things. Behavioural patterns are best discovered not in the considered stance before an observer, but in the insignificant reflex preceding or following it. The behaviour and body language of an Indian in the presence of someone hierarchically superior is usually most revealing. A civil servant, say a diplomat or a senior administrator, well educated and otherwise quite urbane, will consider it blasphemy to call his minister by his first name; he will not even address him as ‘Mr’; a minister will always be addressed as ‘sir’; sometimes a sentence will both begin and end with ‘sir’; if the minister is seen approaching, the underling will move to one side with alacrity; in conversation he will avoid direct eye contact; when the boss speaks he will keep his head deferentially bowed; he will rarely question or contradict him; he will always keep a certain physical distance, as if his ‘junior’ presence could be defiling; and if the boss cracks a joke he will laugh with exaggerated pleasure, as if it were the best joke he has ever heard.
The subordinate will expect comparable behaviour from his own subordinate. Some companies in the corporate sector, which encourage a more professional atmosphere, could witness a lesser display of deference. But even in the private sector such organizations are rare. ‘The principle of a hierarchical ordering of social dependencies extends beyond its home base in the extended family to every other institution in Indian life, from the jajmani system to corporate business, from the guru-chela relationship in religious education to department staffing in an Indian university, from village panchayat politics to the highest reaches of government bureaucracy.’3 The essential choreography, where the hierarchy of power acutely influences every move and step of an individual, is effectively universal in practice, and Indians have finely developed skills to locate a person’s exact standing on the ladder. When two Indians meet as strangers, the encounter is often a duel to ascertain the auqat of the other. Auqat is a difficult word to translate accurately into English. It means ‘status’, but not only. If a person has to be asked what his auqat is, the question is already an insult. People need to have some auqat, but they are not expected to exceed it. If they do, and fail, the resultant fall will elicit little sympathy. It will be seen as just punishment for ignoring the limitations of their auqat. The concern with auqat is pervasive. It is not uncommon to see this legend on trucks on the highway: ‘Apni auqat mat bhool!: Don’t forget where you belong!’
In earlier times a person’s caste was the surest way to determine auqat. This is still a factor, but not entirely. Today, other means have to be employed to home in on status. This is a task of the utmost priority. To meet someone without knowing the coordinates of his status is like entering a pool without knowing its depth. Everything—response, behaviour, body language, social niceties, form of address, receptivity—depends on an assessment of where the other person stands on the scale of power and influence. In some cases, such as those of very senior functionaries in government, or people in media or sports or business who are known nationally, hierarchical pre-eminence is transparent. But where it is not obvious, Indians have a knack of ferreting out details by asking a series of increasingly intrusive questions: What did (does) your father do? Where do you live? Where did you study? Who are you related to? Who do you know who is powerful? The questions are asked without any inhibition. They are understood by both parties as a necessary prelude to establish the right equation between themselves, so that the accepted lines of deference, distance and familiarity are not crossed. To the uninitiated, such questions may seem innocuous enough, but the answers they seek are pregnant with significance. What a person’s father does reveals important details of social background. Where a person stays is proof not only of affluence, or the lack of it, but much more. For instance, Vasant Vihar in New Delhi is an upmarket residential suburb. If you live there, it is reasonable to infer that you are relatively well off. But Vasant Vihar began as a housing cooperative society of senior government officers. The fact that you live there can then also indicate that your father was a senior government functionary. Similarly, spacious bungalows line the roads of Lutyens’s Delhi. Those who live in them do not own them, but their tenancy is sure proof of a st
ake in the hierarchy of power. The examples can be multiplied. Cities in India are shaded in conformity with an invisible index of power. The ramparts of premier educational institutions have been somewhat breached by the policy of reservations (an official policy of affirmative action) and the system of open entrance examinations. But graduation from elite schools and colleges still conveys as much a message of merit as of auqat. There are other variables in getting a fix on status. For instance, the accent and fluency with which a person speaks English is a sure indicator of social background, for only the ‘elite’ have such proficiency. The result is that even those who do not speak English well often choose to speak only in English. It is for this reason too that many successful and powerful politicians, who do not know English, denigrate the language in public while sending their children to English-medium schools.