A THOUSAND SPLENDID SUNS
BY KHALED HOSSEINI
PUBLISHED BY BLOOMSBURY, 2007.
Pages 372
There is absolutely no question about it: Khaled Hosseini is a born storyteller. To keep the reader engaged from page to page with gentle, almost poetic prose, enchanting and engrossing him, this is Hosseini at his best. The master of style waves his magic wand, and sometimes elevates the ordinary to extraordinary heights, and at other times, reduces the extraordinary to pedestrian levels. Like an alchemist, he turns base characters into gold. Once Hosseini referred to himself as a hack; this is so far from the truth that one can only laugh and dismiss it as arising out of his sense of humility, not intelligence.
Having said that, the book is not in the class of his debut novel The Kite Runner. When a master storyteller’s first book sells over four million copies, it is possible that when he plans the plot of his second book, he will not want to stray from the tried and tested, and stick with the successful, familiar formula of his first book. A Thousand Splendid Suns uses the formula of The Kite Runner.
His successful formula: begin with the gentle innocence of childhood, bring to the fore two children of the same sex (two boys in The Kite Runner, two girls in A Thousand Splendid Suns) growing up differently albeit in the same inhospitable environment of Afghanistan, describe one as good looking, privileged and educated, show the other as plain or ugly; show the latter as illegitimate, impoverished and illiterate and make him/her the perpetual victim and martyr, play on the theme of “the good one suffers” to heighten the sense of pathos, contrast the two characters, throw in the darkest of villains, show absolute cruelty, then draw a gloomy background, the feudal society, wars and prejudices (gender bias or race bias), develop the story and move it to the point of the famous 9/11, let the martyr die so the other benefits, show Afghanistan as a region which knows more war than peace, more sorrow than joy, let the medieval or foreign factors play their role and make victims of the protagonists, and boil this concoction.
The result? Another bestseller.
Hosseini starts the story with a gentleness that is uniquely captivating, similar to Arundati Roy’s style in “A God of Small Things” and, like her, Hosseini too, appears to narrate a simple tale at first, but in subtle but deft movements he weaves complexities into the plot, working in an intricacy in the web that is, at first, enchanting, but later becomes convenient and artificial.
This is the Afghanistan of the Soviets and the Taliban, of patriarchy and poverty, and each factor takes turns to keep women in little better than animal existence. The two women. Mariam, the illegitimate daughter with an electra complex, is 15 when she is betrayed by her adored father and is forced into marrying Rasheed, a widower almost three times her age, who enjoys treating her with contempt and violence as she remains childless, after several miscarriages. After 18 years he marries a 14-year-old orphan Laila, whom he dupes into the marriage. The two women start off badly but go on to share a mother-daughter relationship, both disgusted with Rasheed but helpless to resist in a patriarchial world. The law sides with brutal husbands, and Hosseini draws out how despotism at home reduces lives of women to little more than that of chickens in a poultry farm. Despite the happy ending, we are warned in the Afterword by Hosseini that things are really bad for Afghans.
Hosseini is haunted by a sense of doom and gloom; unhappiness-unlimited courses through the book; Hosseini rushes impatiently past happy moments or, if he does portray them, he does so by ensuring he casts a terrible shadow over them, as when for example, Tariq and Laila meet after several years. He contrives to refuse his characters more than an iota of minimal happiness. Sadism, violence, deaths, bombs, anger, brutality, fear, tension, hatred, Hosseini dwells on them at length.
Hosseini appears to be at odds with happiness, which is a pity.
There is altogether too much horror continually happening in the lives of two child-women who suffer unrelieved terror for the major part of the book. There appears to be no safety, no haven anywhere, neither at home nor on the outside, and it is in this trap that Hosseini places his favourite mice in. Neither family nor strangers can be trusted; the family betrays first, then the society, followed finally by the nation.
For those with an insatiable and ready appetite for the gruesome, the unhappy, the tragic, the violent, and the sadistic, this is what the doctor prescribed. The villain knows no goodness, the heroines have no failings; the bad ones thrive, the good ones suffer.
Hosseini sells himself short and refuses to have grown up complex characters living in an adult world. Flat, unchanging characters become predictable and deny the book the depth it so deserves.
The plot is also weak in so many places. Questions remain unanswered in one’s mind: why did Mariam prefer to be humiliated, kicked, used, abused, and treated horrendously, and never contemplated or discussed suicide or running away? Why, when she was already so unhappy, after innumerable miscarriages, and after her husband brought another woman into the household, why didn’t she contemplate killing him, or both of them, or even all three of them? If she did not, why did Hosseini fail to draw this out as part of her profile? Then, later, after an honourable murder, why did she not run away with Laila, why did she suddenly believe that turning herself in was the right thing to do? So many questions remain unanswered that one feels Hosseini has done both himself and his readers a disservice. The best of books must pass the credibility test, and here, because the characters fail the credibility test, so does the book.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Saturday, May 03, 2008
THE KITE RUNNER BY KHALED HOSSEINI
BOOK REVIEW:
THE KITER RUNNER
KHALED HOSSEINI
BLOOMSBURY PUBLISHING
PRICE: RS 300
More because of 9/11 than because of his story, Khaled Hosseini’s “Kite Runner” has a significance in the world because it acquaints us with the Afghan thought, the Afghan way of life, their feuds and values. It is a moving account of two little children growing up in Kabul, one the servant and the other the master. Breast-fed by the same woman, the two grow up as mates but never friends because the difference in their status always gave the upper hand to Amir, at Hassan’s cost.
The portrait of Hassan, the servant’s son, is lovingly etched by Khaled Hosseini; Hassan is the poor boy Amir wished he was, because he has greatness of heart and spirit. While Hassan’s unfailing sacrifices for Amir go unreciprocated, Hassan remains unconcerned. He comes from abundance, not poverty and doesn’t mind his friend’s small-minded jealousy. The Afghan contempt for the Hazara tribe to which Hassan belonged, plays its part in keeping another wall between the two children, already divided by wealth. As Hosseini narrates in the words of Amir, “The curious thing was, I never thought of Hassan and me as friends either. Not in the usual sense, anyhow. Never mind that we taught each other to ride a bicycle with no hands, or to build a fully functional homemade camera out of a cardboard box. Never mind that we spent entire winters flying kites, running kites. Never mind that to me, the face of Afghanistan is that of a boy with a thin-boned frame, a shaved head, and low-set ears, a boy with a Chinese doll face perpetually lit by a harelipped smile. Never mind any of those things. Because history isn’t easy to overcome. Neither is religion. In the end, I was a Pashtun and he was a Hazara. I was Sunni and he was Shi’a and nothing was ewver going to change that. Nothing. “ And yet, despite that their basic humanity as children got the better of them as they played, “ But we were kids who had learned to crawl together, and no history, no ethnicity, society, or religion was going to change that either. I spent most of the first twelve years of my life playing with Hassan.”
The story is moving and the characters are well defined; Khaled Hosseini excels at complex and simple characters, whether they be Amir’s father, the wealthy and respected Baba or Rashid his friend, or even the simple and spiritually strong Hassan. But it is in drawing women that the book suffers and is incapable of anything beyond cardboard characters, suffocatingly two-dimensional. Hosseini appears to relegate women to the background which might underline the Afghan’s viewing of women as little more than house-holders meant to play second fiddle in a man’s world. It is because he is on unsure ground with women that the writer in Hosseini prefers Amir to leave from the USA for Kabul without his wife. He never offers to take her along and nor does she offer to accompany him, which rescues Hosseini from the task of dealing with the women angle; this weakens the book, taking away its much required depth.
Why did Amir not tell his father what happened to Hassan on the day he won the kite comptetion knowing fully well that Baba would have avenged any crime to either him or Hassan? Why did he not talk to Rashid? There are so many questions here that remain unanswered and become what Hassan warns Amir about, the Plot Hole. Why was his wife able to confide to him her running away with another Afghan, despite her knowledge that she was confessing to an Afghan, but he was unable to utter that he was a coward when a crime was being committed against Hassan?
The second half of the book in Afghanistan moves the book away from Hassan and Amir to Afghan politics and social problems and the book slackens. Amir’s inability to have a child appears to be “conveniently” resolved in Hindi film style, by the ever-obliging Jeeves, Hassan, who dies leaving his child an orphan. Too neat a device, it fails to convince. If Hosseini had steered away from such “plot holes”, and stayed away from showing the good and the bad political guys in Afghanistan, the book is a masterpiece in fiction. Hosseini is a story-teller par excellence, and one awaits his next book with impatience. A fine book that sensitizes us on how much we are all so alike despite being so different.
My ranking: 7/10
Friday, April 18, 2008
BOOK REVIEW
MY COUNTRY MY LIFE
BY L.K.ADVANI
Published by Rupa * Co, 2008
No of pages: 1022
Price: Rs 595
REVIEWED BY LATA JAGTIANI
After I had finished reading L.K.Advani’s autobiography, I was reminded of Tennyson’s Ulysses: Much have I seen and known; cities of men/And manners, climates, councils, governments,/Myself not least, but honoured of them all…”
Advani’s 1000-page journey of My Country My Life (MCML) begins with him as an awkward teenager in Sindh( then in India,) and ends with an accomplished 80-year old Indian Prime Minister-in-waiting. Like the ektaara that plays only one note, the one note that Advani plays repeatedly is his over-riding concern for the welfare of India. Denying any space to petty, selfish concerns, Advani demonstrates that his path of Hindutva, Indianness or Bhartiyata always translated for him along the lines of “sab jaati mahaan, sab jaati samman” (all castes are great, all castes are equal).
The media reports that copies of L.K.Advani’s autobiography will, in less than a month of its release cross the 100,000 mark, and iI am not surprised. At least until 1977, India was ruled by a government, which muzzled the Press. It was only in 1979, when the Janata Party took the reins that the real right to free expression found space.
This is why Advani uninterrupted or misinterpreted by the Press, needs to be heard, since voices from the other side offer us a holistic picture of what really happened. Actions of powerful persons need scrutiny, Indians should know their leaders through their deeds, not words. Mysteries surrounding their persona might not translate into votes, since access to the public is the mainstay of a politician’s life. Neither Sonia Gandhi nor Advani can afford to be mysteries. Thus, we might well ask, who is Advani? How does he think? What drives him to continue working even at 80? Is he really a communalist pretending to be a secular human being or is he indeed grossly misunderstood, while being a secular human being who is the favourite whipping-boy of the Left and the Congress? What drove him to undertake a Rath yatra to Ayodhya? Is it defensible? Is his respect for Abdul Kalam a pretense, another bit of vote-bank politics? Is his speech in Karachi lauding Jinnah’s words another charade? Is he anything more than a fake, a past master at devious simulation? Through MCML, the Indian public gets a ringside view of the man who would be the next Indian king. Thus, it is his critics and enemies more than his friends and Sangh loyalists for whom the book is essential reading. Getting answers straight from the horse’s mouth, detailed and non-evasive explanations at that, is something serious intellectuals demand, and they are all to be found here, and in ample measure.
Advani has followed in the footsteps of J.P.Kripalani whose 1000 paged autobiography My Times, also came from the mind of a politician (albeit a Congressman), a Sindhi Hindu refugee. However, because of and despite Nehru’s scant regard for both of them, their autobiographies are important since they shed light on high-level politicking. However, Kripalani penned his book after there was little chance of his being in the forefront of Indian politics, while Advani’s musings have seen print surprisingly when he has been selected as the BJP’s Prime Ministerial candidate for the 2009 national elections. Advani probably felt, when he commenced on the book that his own show was similarly over, only to find that, far from being put out to pasture, he was asked to take the lead. That things went full circle would, least of all, surprise Advani who remarks fortuitously, “I have (also) found that, sometimes, failure transforms itself into success, and what initially comes as a disappointment often ushers in long-term favourable results.”(Chapter 9, Phase 5, pg 694).
What are the drawbacks of the book? Despite some excellent photographs, like the before and after pictures of Vajpayee, Advani and Shekhawat, the book is needlessly lengthy. The book could have done without the 5 lengthy appendixes (pgs 902-942) as well as detailed speeches and detailed events scattered through the book; sometimes the main body of the book sagged under the weight of these asides which would have been better placed in small print, as footnotes. The central thread of the autobiography must be preserved, without distractions, to make the book a crisp and speedy manageable 700 odd pages.
Of course, the Ayodhya mosque, the Modi role in Gujarat, Shah Bano, the Karachi speech on Jinnah, his own recommendations on electoral reforms, etc, all these make for fascinating reading, but there are other smaller matters that make the book a delicious read.
The fly-leaf of the book which depicts the tastefully done Mohenjodaro statue in sepia tones, draws our attention to Advani’s birth in a region now no longer belonging to India. Then a full-page photograph of Bharat Mata follows, as if offering visual proof of Advani’s primary concern, his country, India or Bharat Mata. In fact, one wonders why the book has a missing verb in its title, would it not be more apt to name the book, “My Country IS my life”?
The Vajpayee foreword sets the tone for the book with the appropriate sentiment, “But those who have worked or interacted with him closely know him as a man who has never compromised on his core belief in nationalism, and yet has displayed flexibility in political responses whenever it was demanded by the situation. Above all, he has an open mind that always absorbs new ideas from diverse sources…”
That the two erstwhile Prime Minister and Deputy Prime Minister of India, shared a Ram-Laxman relationship would be to state the obvious; at several places in the volume, Advani walks us through situations when although the two were not in agreement, they concurred with Advani taking second lead, and bending to Vajpayee’s saner counsel. To dispel any controversy about their relationship, Advani dedicates a full 14-paged chapter to Vajpayee (Phase 5, chapter 16, pp 833-847). It is here that the iron man’s loving portrait of his leader is drawn, with, one suspects, a tear in the eye, since Vajpayee is no longer in active politics. Despite several vicissitudes, the two never lost their vision and focus, never allowing their egos to get the better of them. He says, “The relationship between Atalji and me was never competitive, much less combative. I do not imply that we never had any difference of opinion… however, what lent depth to our relationship were three factors. We both were strongly moored in the ideology, ideals and ethos of the Jana Sangh and the BJP, which commanded all its members to put Nation first, Party next, and Self last. We never allowed differences to undermine mutual trust and respect. But there was a third and very important factor: I always implicitly and unquestioningly accepted Atalji to be my senior and my leader…Atalji is the mukhiya of our family.”
If one needed evidence of Advani’s patriotism, one gets it in adequate measure right from the prologue where he confesses his own hurt and pain when India fails to meet basic standards: “My moment of greatest agony, each year, is when I see two reports: Transparency International’s annual report which ranks countries on the basis of corruption index, in which India is always ranked high; and the United Nations’ annual report on the Human Development Index which ranks India low amongst the most unsatisfactory performers…We have been unable to provide clean drinking water to hundreds of millions of our citizens; more than half of our population, both in urban as well as rural areas, is deprived of something as basic as a clean toilet; hunger still stalks the bodies of many of our brethren in rural and remote areas… what can be more shaming than to read that many infants in our tribal areas die of malnutrition?... the lost childhood of millions of our children who are forced to toil when they ought to be playing and studying, saddens my heart. The squalor of our urban slums and the desolate look of many of our villages convince me… that something has gone seriously wrong with our development process… the entire country is not growing at 9 percent, while a small section of urban India might be growing at 20 percent or even more, the majority of India is still stuck at low digits, it is even growing at all…”
The book begins with Phase one “Sindh and India, An unbreakable Bond 1927-1947” which is the shortest phase, a mere 50 pages in all. This portion deals with the beginning of his life in Sindhi and the “terrible calamity” of the Partition. For Indians at least, a little known fact is brought into sharp focus when he states, “But while Bengal and Punjab were divided and so provided a natural home to the uprooted Hindus from these two provinces, Sindh became a part of Pakistan in its entirety. There were districts in Sindhi contiguous to Rajasthan, like Tharparkar, which had a Hindu majority. A more assertive leadership could perhaps have succeeded in bringing these districts to India, in which case India’s western boundary could have stretched right upto the sacred Sindhu River. Sadly, this did not happen.”
One wonders how many Indian governments have spoken for the reclamation of Tharparkar (a Hindu dominated region) to Pakistan every time they have claimed Kashmir and talked of “self-determination” on grounds of religion. Today, Sindhi Hindus roam as nomads, wondering what will be the status of Sindhis once regionalism a la Raj Thackeray raises its ugly head. To no part of India do the Sindhi Hindus have a right, nowhere in India is Sindhi a compulsory language, with the result that Sindhi as both a language and culture is on the wane, threatening to perish in the next 25 years on this side of the border.
Also, Advani shares with us a tragic result of Gandhiji’s assassination:” On the last day of his life, January 30, 1948, Gandhiji received a Sindhi delegation, led by Dr. Chioithram. After listening to the tales of killing and looting of the refugees, he said, “If there can be war for Kashmir, there can also be war for the rights of Sindhi Hindus in Pakistan.” Malkani tells us in his book that his brother met the Mahatma only an hour before he was shot dead. “He had just been appointed by the Indian government as Additional Deputy High Commissioner in Karachi to organise orderly migration from Sindh. Gandhiji gave him his blessings and advice:” Take out everybody. See that you are the last to come out. And tell Khuhro I want to visit Sindh to re-establish peace. Let him consult Jinnah and inform me telegraphically.” When Malkani told him how the Hindus in Sindh had to wear a “Jinnah cap” and carry around an Urdu paper or Dawn to pass off as Muslims, for security reasons, he said he would mention it in his prayer meeting that evening. Alas, he died before he could visit Sindh- or expose the excesses there!” Thus Advani ends this narration with “From a civilizational perspective, neither can Sindh be separated from India nor can India forget Sindh?”
Because he lost his mother when he was only 13 years of age, one suspects he transferred his affection for his mother to the nation, and replaced the motherland in her stead. However, one misses any interesting vignettes between mother and son, and at best, his relationship with his mother remains unknown. However, his interactions with his father find space and it is through his father that he learnt that the original Sindhi script was not Arabic but Devnagiri, much to his own surprise. Dale Carnegie has had a profound influence on him, “Once you have made your point and your friend doesn’t agree, what’s the point in stretching the argument? It will only create a rift in your friendship because he will resent your triumph. If you cannot convince him, simply keep quiet. If your friend creates a doubt in your mind about your information, go back to the source and check it out for yourself. But don’t argue unnecessarily.” Another important limerick that Advani reminds himself of is, “A man convinced against his will, is of the same opinion still.” The power of silence of this sort and the other kind of silence, the mystical kind, came to him from the example of Shri Ramana Maharshi, from whom he learnt, “Ramana’s devotees felt elevated merely being in his holy presence.”
Later in the chapter he describes his meetings with Veer Savarkar in 1947 with his “magnetic presence” and then at the Ramakrishna Mission in Karachi Swami Ranganathananda “ one of the brightest spiritual lights that shone upon India” who came to play an important role much later in his life when he re-visited Pakistan for the second time and delivered his Jinnah speech.. He talks movingly about the impact of the Gita on his own life and then Jinnah’s own words on the Gita after hearing Swamiji’s lecture on it “ Swamiji, so far I had believed that I am a real Muslim. After listening to your speech, I understand that I am not. But with your blessings, I will try to become a real Muslim..”
Advani then goes on to remark that once Pakistan was created Jinnah was not in full control of it and in his last days, Dr Ajeet Jawed remarked, “He(Jinnah) was a sad and sick man, he cried in agony, “ I have committed the biggest blunder in creating Pakistan and would like to go to Delhi and tell Nehru to forget the follies of the past and become friends again.”
Chapter 4 in this first phase is an excellent analysis of who was really to blame for the Partition and whether it could have been avoided. He comments towards the end of the chapter, “I also feel that a nation is better served if its people and leaders acquire a better understanding of history and forge stronger unity and thereby, a greater ability to shape its destiny. ... We should know where we as a nation have come from, and where we ought to go. We should know, too, the fundamental basis of India’s unity so that we appreciate the basic absurdity of India’s Partition.
Advani migrated from Sindh on September 12, 1947 and found himself pretty soon in Rajasthan. Times were tough and Advani was equal to the task. At one point, he even walks a full 45 kms to reach Sikri in time for a function! The walk of ten hours was not the most grueling in this phase, he even describes his fear of the tapeworm, and how he would fearfully wonder, “What if I too get nerwa (tapeworm)?” Another rather eerie story involves his stay in Chittor district where water was in acute shortage and he was made to bathe in a waterhole or bawdi. His host told him, “Don’t worry, just jump and you’ll enjoy it. “ Advani adds, “I did so, flapping my hands and legs as much as I could in the water, and after a while came back to the top. As I glanced back at the well, I was shocked by what I saw. On the surface, there were literally hundreds of snakes, which must have been resting against the walls, but had obviously been disturbed by my swimming. As I rushed back, my bemused host said to me, “Nothing to be scared of. These are harmless water snakes!”
This chapter is followed by his views on Gandhiji’s “tragic assassination”, by a person who he condemns as having committed a “sinful act”. He takes great pains to inform the readers that not only did he himself have the highest respect for Gandhiji, so did Shri Guruji. To expose the lie, he shares with us the fact that the latter sent a telegram to all the units of the Sangh to observe a 13 day mourning at the “sad death of revered Mahatmaji”.However, the RSS was banned, its leaders were jailed, and Advani was also jailed for three months because the Congress yielded to the Left’s demand that the RSS be held in jail for the crime.
The ban was lifted in July 1949 since the RSS was cleared, no convictions were made.A.G.Kher is quoted as saying, “ Calling them fascists, abusing and insulting them, and again and again repeating old charges does not serve any purpose, nor is it a Gandhian method.” Unfortunately, Advani adds, “Nehru could never overcome his personal prejudice against the RSS. And after Sardar Patel passed away on December 15, 1950, there was no one left in the Congress Party to counterbalance Nehru’s negative views on various important issues.”
Phase 3 covers 20 years from 1957 to 1977 when Advani enters national politics. As a journalist with The Organiser, he received the princely sum of Rs 350 per month for his outpourings. He comments on how the Chinese aggression exposed “dangerous flaws in India’s foreign and defense policies. It also uncovered the extra-territorial loyalty of Indian communists who supported China both during the war and after India’s defeat.” He also remarks that “Nehru’s greatest failures were his flawed handling of the war with Pakistan in 1948 and the war with China in 1962. Had he remained firm and uncompromising when Pakistan made its first audacious attempt to capture Kashmir, the issue could have been settled once and for all, and India would have been spared the enormous pain and loss that it has suffered in subsequent decades. Had Nehru been less “starry-eyed” in his policy towards China, India could have evolved its relations with Beijing on a more realistic basis.”
Then he moves forward to 1965 when he marries Kamla and has two children. But his warm words for his wife show the iron man has a soft heart after all: “ With the passage of years and decades, I have been repeatedly surprised by her quietly courageous personality, her almost limitless capacity for hard work, her meticulous handling of family finances, and, above all, her boundless love and care for me and our children…Pratibha and I call Kamla Annapurna, since one of her greatest sources of happiness is to make guests happy with meals cooked by herself…”
An amazing section here is the one devoted to Eknath Ranade and his achievements. It makes the book a must-read, for one to know how tirelessly and patriotically, so many unknown people work towards the good of the country. To him goes the entire credit for the Vivekananda Rock Memorial at Kanyakumari and the story about how the funds were generated for this project make one proud of this fellow-Indian. Advani remarks, “How this grand monument, a tribute to one of the greatest saints of modern India, came to be built is a truly inspiring saga. I feel privileged and humbled that I could play a small role in this national effort.” This tribute is followed by a detailed account of his mentor, Pandit Deendayal Upadhyaya, a man of excellent qualities of leadership and vision.
There are moments in the book when Advani’s wisdom takes centre stage, and one of those times is in Chapter 6 in this phase where he reflects, “In my childhood in Karachi, the change of seasons was a source of limitless amazement for me. Often I used to wonder how the same ocean that retreated into its silent ebb in one part of the day would be roaring with wild waves in another. It was also a source of awe to me. As I grew up, I realised that ups and downs, victory and defeat, loss and renewal, are all a way of life in politics. One should be prepared to take everything in one’s stride. This taught me the virtue of equanimity. When difficulties mount or when tragedy strikes—and it can befall any time and in the most unimaginable of forms—I learnt that it helps not to give in to despair. For, as the wheel of change rotates, it can bring in its wake better days. The important thing is to develop patience, courage and self-belief, and continue doing one’s work. I have experienced in my own life how a situation of utter gloom inevitably comes to an end, and with time ushers in light and hope.” Well said indeed, and how true in his own life, when the Hawala scandal, the Ayodhya storming, the defeat in the last elections, and the speech on Jinnah in Karachi and its consequences.
An analysis of Indira Gandhi by him is scathing, “She consciously placed her own personal interests above those of the organisation. The process of undermining democratic consultation and decision making within the Congress had begun with Nehru himself. He often defied the party’s decisions…it was also Nehru who had planted the seeds of dynasticism in the party by consciously grooming his daughter as his successor… she triumphed in her battle against her adversaries, but, in the process, she wrote the epitaph of democracy inside the Congress Party. Thereafter, dissent within the party, which is the spirit of democracy, was not welcome. And the position and authority of the party’s supreme leader would not be challenged by anybody. Sycophancy and the cult of personality generally seen in dictatorial regimes, had infested the Congress organisation.”
Of great importance is Advani’s damning section which deals with the Shimla agreement and the lessons of the 1971 war. The respect and admiration that Advani feels for Jayaprakash Narayan It is the latter’s open-mindedness and honesty that are brought to the fore by Advani through various incidents. How he changed his opinion of the RSS once he had first-hand knowledge of the cadre-based party, is an interesting expose of how leaders think and what makes leaders admirable. From being wary of the Sangh, he finally stands tall to say, “If Jana Sangh is fascist, I am also a fascist!” and then he added, “the sun of fascism is rising somewhere else.”
The Emergency follows here and the dirty tricks of the Congress Party are laid bare. From one dictatorial act to another, Indira Gandhi stooped and stopped at nothing to retain power, corrupting both herself and the nation with her ambition and lust for power. Pages 194-226 make for fascinating reading and often sends a chill up one’s spine.
The book moves on to the current day, about power lost, regained and lost again, about the Ayodhya movement which follows after the Shah Bano verdict. Also the NDA’s “India shining” campaign and the Gujarat riots, amongst several other ups and downs in the nation’s life.
However, in the chapter titled, “Reminiscences and Reflections” he asks a serious question and offers the response to it as well:” Can we make povery history in India? Yes, we can. According to me the key to success in this endeavour is not so much well-designated policies and programmes, which are no doubt important, but good governance. True, we must have policies that promote entrepreneurship and people’s initiatives in a fairly regulated competitive environment; we must build good physical and social infrastructure…” he goes on to offer various areas where India can focus and get itself out of poverty once and for all. However, he adds, “we must not only achieve holistic development but also holistic security… I have come to the firm conclusion that the present and future challenges before India can be effectively met only by re-orienting our polity on the basis of three imperatives: Good governance, development and security…” But for this he adds, “For the BJP and the Congress to adopt a stance of consensus on critical national issues, it is essential for each to not look at the other as an “enemy”. As far as the BJP is concerned, we view the Congress as an adversary, and not as an “enemy”. Indeed the very concept of “enemy” in a democracy is unhealthy. Unfortunately, the Congress Party’s attitude to the BJP is far from healthy. The Congress leadership thinks the BJP is evil.” I earnestly appeal to Congress leaders to shun such an approach.”
To know and understand Advani, one must go through the best chapter in the book, which is Chapter 18, in the last phase, which tells us what drives Advani and what he is at heart, titled,“In Pursuit of Meaning and Happiness in Life” . He shares with us here his respect and admiration for Ratan Tata and Narayan Murthy, about his favourite books, about journalists he respects, about music and plays and movies( including Amitabh Bachchan who he remarks” his versatility and almost limitless talent have never ceased to amaze me.”, about spiritual seers and masters who have influenced him on a continuing basis, which include Mother Teresa and Maulana Wahiduddin Khan.
One may or may not agree with the BJP’s view of the direction that India should take in the future, but there are no two opinions, after reading the autobiography, that there are very few in Indian politics with the mettle and character of Advani. Perhaps this book will serve as an inspiration to many who are deeply for the nation but don’t know the high cost and also the high value of power.
MY COUNTRY MY LIFE
BY L.K.ADVANI
Published by Rupa * Co, 2008
No of pages: 1022
Price: Rs 595
REVIEWED BY LATA JAGTIANI
After I had finished reading L.K.Advani’s autobiography, I was reminded of Tennyson’s Ulysses: Much have I seen and known; cities of men/And manners, climates, councils, governments,/Myself not least, but honoured of them all…”
Advani’s 1000-page journey of My Country My Life (MCML) begins with him as an awkward teenager in Sindh( then in India,) and ends with an accomplished 80-year old Indian Prime Minister-in-waiting. Like the ektaara that plays only one note, the one note that Advani plays repeatedly is his over-riding concern for the welfare of India. Denying any space to petty, selfish concerns, Advani demonstrates that his path of Hindutva, Indianness or Bhartiyata always translated for him along the lines of “sab jaati mahaan, sab jaati samman” (all castes are great, all castes are equal).
The media reports that copies of L.K.Advani’s autobiography will, in less than a month of its release cross the 100,000 mark, and iI am not surprised. At least until 1977, India was ruled by a government, which muzzled the Press. It was only in 1979, when the Janata Party took the reins that the real right to free expression found space.
This is why Advani uninterrupted or misinterpreted by the Press, needs to be heard, since voices from the other side offer us a holistic picture of what really happened. Actions of powerful persons need scrutiny, Indians should know their leaders through their deeds, not words. Mysteries surrounding their persona might not translate into votes, since access to the public is the mainstay of a politician’s life. Neither Sonia Gandhi nor Advani can afford to be mysteries. Thus, we might well ask, who is Advani? How does he think? What drives him to continue working even at 80? Is he really a communalist pretending to be a secular human being or is he indeed grossly misunderstood, while being a secular human being who is the favourite whipping-boy of the Left and the Congress? What drove him to undertake a Rath yatra to Ayodhya? Is it defensible? Is his respect for Abdul Kalam a pretense, another bit of vote-bank politics? Is his speech in Karachi lauding Jinnah’s words another charade? Is he anything more than a fake, a past master at devious simulation? Through MCML, the Indian public gets a ringside view of the man who would be the next Indian king. Thus, it is his critics and enemies more than his friends and Sangh loyalists for whom the book is essential reading. Getting answers straight from the horse’s mouth, detailed and non-evasive explanations at that, is something serious intellectuals demand, and they are all to be found here, and in ample measure.
Advani has followed in the footsteps of J.P.Kripalani whose 1000 paged autobiography My Times, also came from the mind of a politician (albeit a Congressman), a Sindhi Hindu refugee. However, because of and despite Nehru’s scant regard for both of them, their autobiographies are important since they shed light on high-level politicking. However, Kripalani penned his book after there was little chance of his being in the forefront of Indian politics, while Advani’s musings have seen print surprisingly when he has been selected as the BJP’s Prime Ministerial candidate for the 2009 national elections. Advani probably felt, when he commenced on the book that his own show was similarly over, only to find that, far from being put out to pasture, he was asked to take the lead. That things went full circle would, least of all, surprise Advani who remarks fortuitously, “I have (also) found that, sometimes, failure transforms itself into success, and what initially comes as a disappointment often ushers in long-term favourable results.”(Chapter 9, Phase 5, pg 694).
What are the drawbacks of the book? Despite some excellent photographs, like the before and after pictures of Vajpayee, Advani and Shekhawat, the book is needlessly lengthy. The book could have done without the 5 lengthy appendixes (pgs 902-942) as well as detailed speeches and detailed events scattered through the book; sometimes the main body of the book sagged under the weight of these asides which would have been better placed in small print, as footnotes. The central thread of the autobiography must be preserved, without distractions, to make the book a crisp and speedy manageable 700 odd pages.
Of course, the Ayodhya mosque, the Modi role in Gujarat, Shah Bano, the Karachi speech on Jinnah, his own recommendations on electoral reforms, etc, all these make for fascinating reading, but there are other smaller matters that make the book a delicious read.
The fly-leaf of the book which depicts the tastefully done Mohenjodaro statue in sepia tones, draws our attention to Advani’s birth in a region now no longer belonging to India. Then a full-page photograph of Bharat Mata follows, as if offering visual proof of Advani’s primary concern, his country, India or Bharat Mata. In fact, one wonders why the book has a missing verb in its title, would it not be more apt to name the book, “My Country IS my life”?
The Vajpayee foreword sets the tone for the book with the appropriate sentiment, “But those who have worked or interacted with him closely know him as a man who has never compromised on his core belief in nationalism, and yet has displayed flexibility in political responses whenever it was demanded by the situation. Above all, he has an open mind that always absorbs new ideas from diverse sources…”
That the two erstwhile Prime Minister and Deputy Prime Minister of India, shared a Ram-Laxman relationship would be to state the obvious; at several places in the volume, Advani walks us through situations when although the two were not in agreement, they concurred with Advani taking second lead, and bending to Vajpayee’s saner counsel. To dispel any controversy about their relationship, Advani dedicates a full 14-paged chapter to Vajpayee (Phase 5, chapter 16, pp 833-847). It is here that the iron man’s loving portrait of his leader is drawn, with, one suspects, a tear in the eye, since Vajpayee is no longer in active politics. Despite several vicissitudes, the two never lost their vision and focus, never allowing their egos to get the better of them. He says, “The relationship between Atalji and me was never competitive, much less combative. I do not imply that we never had any difference of opinion… however, what lent depth to our relationship were three factors. We both were strongly moored in the ideology, ideals and ethos of the Jana Sangh and the BJP, which commanded all its members to put Nation first, Party next, and Self last. We never allowed differences to undermine mutual trust and respect. But there was a third and very important factor: I always implicitly and unquestioningly accepted Atalji to be my senior and my leader…Atalji is the mukhiya of our family.”
If one needed evidence of Advani’s patriotism, one gets it in adequate measure right from the prologue where he confesses his own hurt and pain when India fails to meet basic standards: “My moment of greatest agony, each year, is when I see two reports: Transparency International’s annual report which ranks countries on the basis of corruption index, in which India is always ranked high; and the United Nations’ annual report on the Human Development Index which ranks India low amongst the most unsatisfactory performers…We have been unable to provide clean drinking water to hundreds of millions of our citizens; more than half of our population, both in urban as well as rural areas, is deprived of something as basic as a clean toilet; hunger still stalks the bodies of many of our brethren in rural and remote areas… what can be more shaming than to read that many infants in our tribal areas die of malnutrition?... the lost childhood of millions of our children who are forced to toil when they ought to be playing and studying, saddens my heart. The squalor of our urban slums and the desolate look of many of our villages convince me… that something has gone seriously wrong with our development process… the entire country is not growing at 9 percent, while a small section of urban India might be growing at 20 percent or even more, the majority of India is still stuck at low digits, it is even growing at all…”
The book begins with Phase one “Sindh and India, An unbreakable Bond 1927-1947” which is the shortest phase, a mere 50 pages in all. This portion deals with the beginning of his life in Sindhi and the “terrible calamity” of the Partition. For Indians at least, a little known fact is brought into sharp focus when he states, “But while Bengal and Punjab were divided and so provided a natural home to the uprooted Hindus from these two provinces, Sindh became a part of Pakistan in its entirety. There were districts in Sindhi contiguous to Rajasthan, like Tharparkar, which had a Hindu majority. A more assertive leadership could perhaps have succeeded in bringing these districts to India, in which case India’s western boundary could have stretched right upto the sacred Sindhu River. Sadly, this did not happen.”
One wonders how many Indian governments have spoken for the reclamation of Tharparkar (a Hindu dominated region) to Pakistan every time they have claimed Kashmir and talked of “self-determination” on grounds of religion. Today, Sindhi Hindus roam as nomads, wondering what will be the status of Sindhis once regionalism a la Raj Thackeray raises its ugly head. To no part of India do the Sindhi Hindus have a right, nowhere in India is Sindhi a compulsory language, with the result that Sindhi as both a language and culture is on the wane, threatening to perish in the next 25 years on this side of the border.
Also, Advani shares with us a tragic result of Gandhiji’s assassination:” On the last day of his life, January 30, 1948, Gandhiji received a Sindhi delegation, led by Dr. Chioithram. After listening to the tales of killing and looting of the refugees, he said, “If there can be war for Kashmir, there can also be war for the rights of Sindhi Hindus in Pakistan.” Malkani tells us in his book that his brother met the Mahatma only an hour before he was shot dead. “He had just been appointed by the Indian government as Additional Deputy High Commissioner in Karachi to organise orderly migration from Sindh. Gandhiji gave him his blessings and advice:” Take out everybody. See that you are the last to come out. And tell Khuhro I want to visit Sindh to re-establish peace. Let him consult Jinnah and inform me telegraphically.” When Malkani told him how the Hindus in Sindh had to wear a “Jinnah cap” and carry around an Urdu paper or Dawn to pass off as Muslims, for security reasons, he said he would mention it in his prayer meeting that evening. Alas, he died before he could visit Sindh- or expose the excesses there!” Thus Advani ends this narration with “From a civilizational perspective, neither can Sindh be separated from India nor can India forget Sindh?”
Because he lost his mother when he was only 13 years of age, one suspects he transferred his affection for his mother to the nation, and replaced the motherland in her stead. However, one misses any interesting vignettes between mother and son, and at best, his relationship with his mother remains unknown. However, his interactions with his father find space and it is through his father that he learnt that the original Sindhi script was not Arabic but Devnagiri, much to his own surprise. Dale Carnegie has had a profound influence on him, “Once you have made your point and your friend doesn’t agree, what’s the point in stretching the argument? It will only create a rift in your friendship because he will resent your triumph. If you cannot convince him, simply keep quiet. If your friend creates a doubt in your mind about your information, go back to the source and check it out for yourself. But don’t argue unnecessarily.” Another important limerick that Advani reminds himself of is, “A man convinced against his will, is of the same opinion still.” The power of silence of this sort and the other kind of silence, the mystical kind, came to him from the example of Shri Ramana Maharshi, from whom he learnt, “Ramana’s devotees felt elevated merely being in his holy presence.”
Later in the chapter he describes his meetings with Veer Savarkar in 1947 with his “magnetic presence” and then at the Ramakrishna Mission in Karachi Swami Ranganathananda “ one of the brightest spiritual lights that shone upon India” who came to play an important role much later in his life when he re-visited Pakistan for the second time and delivered his Jinnah speech.. He talks movingly about the impact of the Gita on his own life and then Jinnah’s own words on the Gita after hearing Swamiji’s lecture on it “ Swamiji, so far I had believed that I am a real Muslim. After listening to your speech, I understand that I am not. But with your blessings, I will try to become a real Muslim..”
Advani then goes on to remark that once Pakistan was created Jinnah was not in full control of it and in his last days, Dr Ajeet Jawed remarked, “He(Jinnah) was a sad and sick man, he cried in agony, “ I have committed the biggest blunder in creating Pakistan and would like to go to Delhi and tell Nehru to forget the follies of the past and become friends again.”
Chapter 4 in this first phase is an excellent analysis of who was really to blame for the Partition and whether it could have been avoided. He comments towards the end of the chapter, “I also feel that a nation is better served if its people and leaders acquire a better understanding of history and forge stronger unity and thereby, a greater ability to shape its destiny. ... We should know where we as a nation have come from, and where we ought to go. We should know, too, the fundamental basis of India’s unity so that we appreciate the basic absurdity of India’s Partition.
Advani migrated from Sindh on September 12, 1947 and found himself pretty soon in Rajasthan. Times were tough and Advani was equal to the task. At one point, he even walks a full 45 kms to reach Sikri in time for a function! The walk of ten hours was not the most grueling in this phase, he even describes his fear of the tapeworm, and how he would fearfully wonder, “What if I too get nerwa (tapeworm)?” Another rather eerie story involves his stay in Chittor district where water was in acute shortage and he was made to bathe in a waterhole or bawdi. His host told him, “Don’t worry, just jump and you’ll enjoy it. “ Advani adds, “I did so, flapping my hands and legs as much as I could in the water, and after a while came back to the top. As I glanced back at the well, I was shocked by what I saw. On the surface, there were literally hundreds of snakes, which must have been resting against the walls, but had obviously been disturbed by my swimming. As I rushed back, my bemused host said to me, “Nothing to be scared of. These are harmless water snakes!”
This chapter is followed by his views on Gandhiji’s “tragic assassination”, by a person who he condemns as having committed a “sinful act”. He takes great pains to inform the readers that not only did he himself have the highest respect for Gandhiji, so did Shri Guruji. To expose the lie, he shares with us the fact that the latter sent a telegram to all the units of the Sangh to observe a 13 day mourning at the “sad death of revered Mahatmaji”.However, the RSS was banned, its leaders were jailed, and Advani was also jailed for three months because the Congress yielded to the Left’s demand that the RSS be held in jail for the crime.
The ban was lifted in July 1949 since the RSS was cleared, no convictions were made.A.G.Kher is quoted as saying, “ Calling them fascists, abusing and insulting them, and again and again repeating old charges does not serve any purpose, nor is it a Gandhian method.” Unfortunately, Advani adds, “Nehru could never overcome his personal prejudice against the RSS. And after Sardar Patel passed away on December 15, 1950, there was no one left in the Congress Party to counterbalance Nehru’s negative views on various important issues.”
Phase 3 covers 20 years from 1957 to 1977 when Advani enters national politics. As a journalist with The Organiser, he received the princely sum of Rs 350 per month for his outpourings. He comments on how the Chinese aggression exposed “dangerous flaws in India’s foreign and defense policies. It also uncovered the extra-territorial loyalty of Indian communists who supported China both during the war and after India’s defeat.” He also remarks that “Nehru’s greatest failures were his flawed handling of the war with Pakistan in 1948 and the war with China in 1962. Had he remained firm and uncompromising when Pakistan made its first audacious attempt to capture Kashmir, the issue could have been settled once and for all, and India would have been spared the enormous pain and loss that it has suffered in subsequent decades. Had Nehru been less “starry-eyed” in his policy towards China, India could have evolved its relations with Beijing on a more realistic basis.”
Then he moves forward to 1965 when he marries Kamla and has two children. But his warm words for his wife show the iron man has a soft heart after all: “ With the passage of years and decades, I have been repeatedly surprised by her quietly courageous personality, her almost limitless capacity for hard work, her meticulous handling of family finances, and, above all, her boundless love and care for me and our children…Pratibha and I call Kamla Annapurna, since one of her greatest sources of happiness is to make guests happy with meals cooked by herself…”
An amazing section here is the one devoted to Eknath Ranade and his achievements. It makes the book a must-read, for one to know how tirelessly and patriotically, so many unknown people work towards the good of the country. To him goes the entire credit for the Vivekananda Rock Memorial at Kanyakumari and the story about how the funds were generated for this project make one proud of this fellow-Indian. Advani remarks, “How this grand monument, a tribute to one of the greatest saints of modern India, came to be built is a truly inspiring saga. I feel privileged and humbled that I could play a small role in this national effort.” This tribute is followed by a detailed account of his mentor, Pandit Deendayal Upadhyaya, a man of excellent qualities of leadership and vision.
There are moments in the book when Advani’s wisdom takes centre stage, and one of those times is in Chapter 6 in this phase where he reflects, “In my childhood in Karachi, the change of seasons was a source of limitless amazement for me. Often I used to wonder how the same ocean that retreated into its silent ebb in one part of the day would be roaring with wild waves in another. It was also a source of awe to me. As I grew up, I realised that ups and downs, victory and defeat, loss and renewal, are all a way of life in politics. One should be prepared to take everything in one’s stride. This taught me the virtue of equanimity. When difficulties mount or when tragedy strikes—and it can befall any time and in the most unimaginable of forms—I learnt that it helps not to give in to despair. For, as the wheel of change rotates, it can bring in its wake better days. The important thing is to develop patience, courage and self-belief, and continue doing one’s work. I have experienced in my own life how a situation of utter gloom inevitably comes to an end, and with time ushers in light and hope.” Well said indeed, and how true in his own life, when the Hawala scandal, the Ayodhya storming, the defeat in the last elections, and the speech on Jinnah in Karachi and its consequences.
An analysis of Indira Gandhi by him is scathing, “She consciously placed her own personal interests above those of the organisation. The process of undermining democratic consultation and decision making within the Congress had begun with Nehru himself. He often defied the party’s decisions…it was also Nehru who had planted the seeds of dynasticism in the party by consciously grooming his daughter as his successor… she triumphed in her battle against her adversaries, but, in the process, she wrote the epitaph of democracy inside the Congress Party. Thereafter, dissent within the party, which is the spirit of democracy, was not welcome. And the position and authority of the party’s supreme leader would not be challenged by anybody. Sycophancy and the cult of personality generally seen in dictatorial regimes, had infested the Congress organisation.”
Of great importance is Advani’s damning section which deals with the Shimla agreement and the lessons of the 1971 war. The respect and admiration that Advani feels for Jayaprakash Narayan It is the latter’s open-mindedness and honesty that are brought to the fore by Advani through various incidents. How he changed his opinion of the RSS once he had first-hand knowledge of the cadre-based party, is an interesting expose of how leaders think and what makes leaders admirable. From being wary of the Sangh, he finally stands tall to say, “If Jana Sangh is fascist, I am also a fascist!” and then he added, “the sun of fascism is rising somewhere else.”
The Emergency follows here and the dirty tricks of the Congress Party are laid bare. From one dictatorial act to another, Indira Gandhi stooped and stopped at nothing to retain power, corrupting both herself and the nation with her ambition and lust for power. Pages 194-226 make for fascinating reading and often sends a chill up one’s spine.
The book moves on to the current day, about power lost, regained and lost again, about the Ayodhya movement which follows after the Shah Bano verdict. Also the NDA’s “India shining” campaign and the Gujarat riots, amongst several other ups and downs in the nation’s life.
However, in the chapter titled, “Reminiscences and Reflections” he asks a serious question and offers the response to it as well:” Can we make povery history in India? Yes, we can. According to me the key to success in this endeavour is not so much well-designated policies and programmes, which are no doubt important, but good governance. True, we must have policies that promote entrepreneurship and people’s initiatives in a fairly regulated competitive environment; we must build good physical and social infrastructure…” he goes on to offer various areas where India can focus and get itself out of poverty once and for all. However, he adds, “we must not only achieve holistic development but also holistic security… I have come to the firm conclusion that the present and future challenges before India can be effectively met only by re-orienting our polity on the basis of three imperatives: Good governance, development and security…” But for this he adds, “For the BJP and the Congress to adopt a stance of consensus on critical national issues, it is essential for each to not look at the other as an “enemy”. As far as the BJP is concerned, we view the Congress as an adversary, and not as an “enemy”. Indeed the very concept of “enemy” in a democracy is unhealthy. Unfortunately, the Congress Party’s attitude to the BJP is far from healthy. The Congress leadership thinks the BJP is evil.” I earnestly appeal to Congress leaders to shun such an approach.”
To know and understand Advani, one must go through the best chapter in the book, which is Chapter 18, in the last phase, which tells us what drives Advani and what he is at heart, titled,“In Pursuit of Meaning and Happiness in Life” . He shares with us here his respect and admiration for Ratan Tata and Narayan Murthy, about his favourite books, about journalists he respects, about music and plays and movies( including Amitabh Bachchan who he remarks” his versatility and almost limitless talent have never ceased to amaze me.”, about spiritual seers and masters who have influenced him on a continuing basis, which include Mother Teresa and Maulana Wahiduddin Khan.
One may or may not agree with the BJP’s view of the direction that India should take in the future, but there are no two opinions, after reading the autobiography, that there are very few in Indian politics with the mettle and character of Advani. Perhaps this book will serve as an inspiration to many who are deeply for the nation but don’t know the high cost and also the high value of power.
Saturday, March 01, 2008
“RANI” BY JAISHREE MISRA
PUBLISHER: PENGUIN, 2007
PRICE: RS 350.00
“Rani” the fictionalized biography of the Rani of Jhansi, is the brilliant handiwork of the London-based Jaishree Misra, whose grasp of both history and fiction is admirable. For a writer who hated history as a child, one is happily surprised to see the balanced weaving of fact with fiction in a subtly crafted yet unobtrusive manner by the passionately involved biographer Jaishree Misra. The queen warrior Manikarnica, later to be known as Lakshmibai, the Rani of Jhansi, was no ordinary teenager, as destiny’s child, she is shown to be a remarkably strong woman with human desires. The book can provide excellent source-material for a historical epic film on the queen’s life.
As a little girl Manikarnica suddenly finds herself the chosen bride of a much older widower, Raja Gangadhar of Jhansi, but spirited and adventurous that she is by nature, she gives her assent for the union, curious and delighted that she would soon be a queen. The marital bed of roses is only in her imagination as she goes from setback to setback, picking up the pieces that come her way. The book’s sensitive portrayal of the protagonist, makes the book absolutely un-put-down-able. Her childishness gives way to pragmatic wisdom; her intelligence and trust-worthiness makes her husband give her place by his side, and soon hand over the reins of the kingdom to her. From dealing for years with an unconsummated marriage to dealing with the death of her only three month old child, the Rani goes from sorrow to sorrow with pride, resolve and tears shed in private. When she has lemons she quickly makes a lemonade, that is the Rani; she spends little time in self-pity and turns her attention on things within her control and away from those out of her control, the winner in her will die but not whine.
The parallel account of the Englishman, Robert Ellis, runs through the book and one waits with bated breath for the two to come together; there is so much they can offer one another and yet two distinct cultures, colors and countries invisibly stand between them leaving their union unconsummated as well. Finally Robert catches a glimpse of the queen he has been talking to through purdah; it is only page 207 of the 411 page book, that Robert sees the beautiful queen for the first time, and ironically she is exposed to him on the day her husband is being cremated. One wishes that Ms Misra had spent more time on the fictionalized love-story given her lyrical and romantic streak; one also misses the wisdom and companionship the king and queen shared, which could have been added through their dialogue. The queen loves two men, one out of dutiful respect and another with her soul; however, being a strong woman, she resolutely deals with both of them with strength and goes through her adversities with courage. She turns her attention to power and statecraft becomes the de facto ruler of Jhansi. .
The book has an interesting map to present the geographical layout of the region from 1835; but while the queen’s childhood is in Varanasi, the town is conspicuous by its absence on the map; also, Ms Misra’s inability to deal with adverbs has slipped past Penguin editors and it was jarring to find “grovellingly”, “confusingly” “enquiringly” “frustratingly””pacifyingly” ‘frenziedly” etc all over the book. Since the excellent book will surely go into re-print, I hope Penguin drops these awkward expressions and also adds in the missing page no 239.
As an adept writer, Ms Jaishree Misra has, with intelligence and subtlety, depicted the clash between the humanist (to offer shelter to the families of the British who had wronged Jhansi ) at odds with the political leader, both warring in the queeen’s personality until she lets go of one. “She felt the need to sit down as waves of fatigue washed all over her. How many people should she fight in this wretched matter? People whom she loved and trusted…Angry confused thoughts coursed through her head… if it were indeed true that the welfare of the British lay at variance to those of her own people, then did she really have a choice at all? After a long pause, Lakshmibai whispered, her eyes dark against a pale face, “Very well then. It is not for me to go against the wishes of my people…feeling wretched to the pit of her stomach, Lakshmibai retraced her steps…”
It is said that life is a comedy for one who thinks and a tragedy for one who feels; Lakshmibai, the Rani of Jhansi, had time for neither; she faced life in a pragmatic, principled manner, leaving little room for laughter or tears. As a karmayogi par excellence, here is a woman of substance, a woman of destiny. She did India proud, as has Jaishree Misra, sitting in far off London, yet capturing the beat of an Indian woman’s heart better than many on our soil.
Take a bow, Ms Misra, somebody is clapping.
PUBLISHER: PENGUIN, 2007
PRICE: RS 350.00
“Rani” the fictionalized biography of the Rani of Jhansi, is the brilliant handiwork of the London-based Jaishree Misra, whose grasp of both history and fiction is admirable. For a writer who hated history as a child, one is happily surprised to see the balanced weaving of fact with fiction in a subtly crafted yet unobtrusive manner by the passionately involved biographer Jaishree Misra. The queen warrior Manikarnica, later to be known as Lakshmibai, the Rani of Jhansi, was no ordinary teenager, as destiny’s child, she is shown to be a remarkably strong woman with human desires. The book can provide excellent source-material for a historical epic film on the queen’s life.
As a little girl Manikarnica suddenly finds herself the chosen bride of a much older widower, Raja Gangadhar of Jhansi, but spirited and adventurous that she is by nature, she gives her assent for the union, curious and delighted that she would soon be a queen. The marital bed of roses is only in her imagination as she goes from setback to setback, picking up the pieces that come her way. The book’s sensitive portrayal of the protagonist, makes the book absolutely un-put-down-able. Her childishness gives way to pragmatic wisdom; her intelligence and trust-worthiness makes her husband give her place by his side, and soon hand over the reins of the kingdom to her. From dealing for years with an unconsummated marriage to dealing with the death of her only three month old child, the Rani goes from sorrow to sorrow with pride, resolve and tears shed in private. When she has lemons she quickly makes a lemonade, that is the Rani; she spends little time in self-pity and turns her attention on things within her control and away from those out of her control, the winner in her will die but not whine.
The parallel account of the Englishman, Robert Ellis, runs through the book and one waits with bated breath for the two to come together; there is so much they can offer one another and yet two distinct cultures, colors and countries invisibly stand between them leaving their union unconsummated as well. Finally Robert catches a glimpse of the queen he has been talking to through purdah; it is only page 207 of the 411 page book, that Robert sees the beautiful queen for the first time, and ironically she is exposed to him on the day her husband is being cremated. One wishes that Ms Misra had spent more time on the fictionalized love-story given her lyrical and romantic streak; one also misses the wisdom and companionship the king and queen shared, which could have been added through their dialogue. The queen loves two men, one out of dutiful respect and another with her soul; however, being a strong woman, she resolutely deals with both of them with strength and goes through her adversities with courage. She turns her attention to power and statecraft becomes the de facto ruler of Jhansi. .
The book has an interesting map to present the geographical layout of the region from 1835; but while the queen’s childhood is in Varanasi, the town is conspicuous by its absence on the map; also, Ms Misra’s inability to deal with adverbs has slipped past Penguin editors and it was jarring to find “grovellingly”, “confusingly” “enquiringly” “frustratingly””pacifyingly” ‘frenziedly” etc all over the book. Since the excellent book will surely go into re-print, I hope Penguin drops these awkward expressions and also adds in the missing page no 239.
As an adept writer, Ms Jaishree Misra has, with intelligence and subtlety, depicted the clash between the humanist (to offer shelter to the families of the British who had wronged Jhansi ) at odds with the political leader, both warring in the queeen’s personality until she lets go of one. “She felt the need to sit down as waves of fatigue washed all over her. How many people should she fight in this wretched matter? People whom she loved and trusted…Angry confused thoughts coursed through her head… if it were indeed true that the welfare of the British lay at variance to those of her own people, then did she really have a choice at all? After a long pause, Lakshmibai whispered, her eyes dark against a pale face, “Very well then. It is not for me to go against the wishes of my people…feeling wretched to the pit of her stomach, Lakshmibai retraced her steps…”
It is said that life is a comedy for one who thinks and a tragedy for one who feels; Lakshmibai, the Rani of Jhansi, had time for neither; she faced life in a pragmatic, principled manner, leaving little room for laughter or tears. As a karmayogi par excellence, here is a woman of substance, a woman of destiny. She did India proud, as has Jaishree Misra, sitting in far off London, yet capturing the beat of an Indian woman’s heart better than many on our soil.
Take a bow, Ms Misra, somebody is clapping.
WITHOUT FEAR—THE LIFE AND TRIAL OF BHAGAT SINGH
AUTHOR: KULDIP NAYAR
Price; Rs 395
PUBLISHED BY HARPER COLLINS INDIA, NEW DELHI
After reading Nayar’s “Without Fear” I was numbed; my mind kept re-playing the scene in which a patriotic 23 year’s last gesture before departing from this world was to kiss the hangman’s noose, readily accepting it around his neck only so that India might be free and more quitable. Looking at today’s 23 year olds around me, I see hedonists to the hilt, willing to kill for an out-of-reach lifestyle, obsessed with the latest 3G mobile, latest car, you name it. Advertisements consistently mock the simple way of life, stressing that simplicity is stupidity, girls grimacing if a young man still uses an old mobile, or doesn’t understand their silly innuendos, but hey, life gives you a second chance, so buy this new mobile, you tubelight, remember the “men are back!” Somebody who doesn’t belong to this yuppie set earns the smiling contempt of a super-star, “don’t be santoosht--thora aur wish karo”. Selfishness is in, wishing for the rest who struggle below the poverty line (Who ARE these villagers, man?) is just so uncool. A wish list for people still without education, roti kapda aur makan, electricity, two square meals a day, is that for real?
It was for these “benefits” for the poor that Bhagat Singh gave up his life 77 years ago, on March 23, 1931. His wish list would have been long and formidable, but selfish it was certainly not. It makes one weep to realise that even after 77 years we have not been able to honour Bhagat Singh’s wishes and bring about a more equitable society in India. Sadly, in many ways his sacrifice for India was in vain, if this is what free India is all about today.
Kuldip Nayar’s account of Bhagat Singh is a loving portrait of a young man fired by nationalistic fervour, by an idealism that brooked no hypocricy, that suffered no fools, that saw Gandhi’s pacifism as inept. He believed that a strong statement, acts of strength and not ahimsa, needed to be committed for the British to quicken their complete exit from India. The voracious reader in Bhagat Singh was fond of the words of Auguste Valliante, the French anarchist, “It takes a loud voice to make the deaf hear.” He wanted on the one hand, to awaken the youth of India and on the other, the British empire’s masquerade of being a “fair and just” administration, to be exposed to the world’s watching eyes.
Nayar’s brilliant depiction of the chain of events that led to the martyrdom of the three revolutionaries, Sukhdev, Rajguru and Bhagat Singh, makes the book an absolute must-read. Each of the 11 chapters has no heading but commences with an excellent well-chosen Urdu couplet that sums up the mind-set of the idealistic revolutionary that was Bhagat Singh: “Usey yeh fikr hai hardam naya tarz-e-jfa kya hai, hamen yeh shauq hai dekhen sitam ki intiha ky hai, ” Nayar’s penchant for couplets ends with the last one that decorates the epilogue, “Bhagat Singh ke khoon ka asar dekh lena Mitadege zaalim ka ghar dekh lena!”
Tracing the growth of a revolutionary, Nayar shows us how in 1919, the child brought up in a patriotic family, managed to slip through the heavy police security and visited the site on which 20,000 Indians were trapped and killed by the British. “Somehow managing to push through the sentries on guard, he had barged into the garden and collected a jar full of mud, wet with the blood of Indians. When he finally returned home, the twelve year old was asked by his younger sister,” Where were you all this time? Mother has been waiting to give you something to eat.” But Bhagat Singh was no thinking of food. Showing her the jar he said, “Look at this. This is the blood of our people killed by the British. Salute it. “ Then he put the jar in a niche and worshipped it with flowers.” By the time Lala Lajpat Rai was mercilessly beaten to death in 1928, Bhagat Singh was a prolific reader of serious non-fiction, and had shaped into an extraordinarily brilliant and well-informed young man. He resolved that Lajpat Rai’s death had to be avenged; his approach is contrasted with a mild statement from Gandhi who remarked, “What I would like the workers to draw from this incident is not to be depressed or taken aback by assault, but to treat it as part of the game.”
In fact, it is the apposition of the two ideologies, Bhagat and Gandhi’s, that really makes one wonder: what if the British had still been rich, would they have left merely on the basis of satyagrapha? Satyagraha can hardly work with the Osama Bin Ladens of this world and for India, British rule was even more devastating and illegitimate than the destruction of the twin towers on 9/11. Does Gandhigiri have answers for Osama? Sadly, no. Bhagat Singh could see as much and realised that the plight of Indians would remain the same if they allowed themselves to be subjected to the ineffectiveness of pacifism.
Mercenaries to the core, the British saw the bottom-line and what they say wasn’t appetizing. India was no longer the cash-cow they could bank on and the nuisance caused by Lajpat Rai, Tilak, Bhagat Singh, and their ilk, played a much larger role in their decision to leave India than has so far been credited to these great men.
It was the systematic attempts to undermine British administration that played their part to enhance Gandhi’s non-cooperation movement and give it that “fear factor” that any movement against violent and undemocratic forces always necessitates. Forceful statements are essential, so much even Arjuna was advised in the Gita. More than Gandhi who was guided by the Gita, it was the atheist Bhagat Singh who really followed Krishna’s words and let his life deliver His message.
The book traces the various brain-storming sessions the young men had before deciding to make their statement; it touches upon the mysterious connection between a married woman, Durga Devi, a fellow revolutionary, and himself, and their two days spent together; it depicts how Saunders instead of Scott was killed due to mistaken identity; how Motilal Nehru often funded them while they were in hiding.
However, the book lacks photographs which would have made the subject come alive. A table of contents at the beginning would have made the book complete. Apart from typos found at various places, the book also suffers when Nayar attempts to differentiate between a “terrorist” and a “revolutionary’ in the Preface. It is in the Annexures that the book really comes alive, Bhagat Singh’s treatises “The Philosophy of the Bomb” and “Why I am an Atheist” are exceptional inclusions that make Bhagat Singh spring alive from the pages of the book. Bhagat Singh’s intellectual honesty is rare, who else but Bhagat Singh could write,
“ I am going to sacrifice my life for a cause. What more consolation can there be? I know that it will be the end when the rope is tightened around my neck and the rafter moved from under my feet. To use more precise religious terminology,--it will be moment of utter annihilation. My soul will come to nothing. With no selfish motive or desire to be awarded here or hereafter, quite disinterestedly, have I devoted my life to the cause of independence, because I could not do otherwise.”
An absolute gem of a book about Bhagat Singh, a gem of a man.
BOOK REVIEW
by Lata Jagtiani
THE CLASH OF INTOLERANCES
BY RAHIM JAHANBEGLOO
PUBLISHED BY HAR-ANAND PUBLICATIONS PVT LTD.
PRICE: RS 295
Once, in the early 1980s, as a lecturer at an Indian school in Dubai, I saw, within our school premises, a five-foot statue of Mahatma Gandhi installed in the playground. A few days later, however, the statue disappeared. I re-discovered it tucked away in a corner, hiding furtively in darkness in the school-library, heavily draped with sheets. Gandhiji was in a hijab because a government directive prohibited statues. So, one could not even have one within the Indian school premises? I suggested to the Principal that we put across our point to the authorities and convince them to allow us our Indian way of life within the school precincts. The response from him was a loud guffaw and a shake of the head. It isn’t possible, he seemed to say, to reason with the unreasonable. We felt the same unease when we celebrated Divali in Dubai, behind drawn curtains and closed windows. Divali celebrations, forget crackers, could attract the wrath of the shurtas ( cops). It seemed no better than racism and we felt its sting. I felt the sting again as I gobbled a sandwich in the office toilet during the fasting month of Ramadan. Since Muslims must fast in Ramadan, it is illegal to eat in their presence since that would tempt them to break their fast; jail and some generous and hard lashes are punishments for the “crime.” This is the same Dubai of posh high-rise buildings and beaches, expensive imported cars and sprawling malls. While modernity surrounds you, the minds of the authorities are still confined in a hijab. The pay is good, and for some time, at least, expatriates put up with intolerances by reminding themselves that things are worse in Saudi Arabia.
Jahanbegloo’s book is a plea for both Islamic and non-Islamic practitioners to abjure intolerances and violence and instead, replace them with constructive dialogue with one other. He wants the hostility to be replaced by “hospitality” on both sides. His analysis is, no doubt, provoked by Samuel Huntington’s book, “The Clash of Civilizations;” he declares that the today’s global divide is caused not by different cultures and civilizations being at loggerheads, but rather because of the tendency not to tolerate differences. While it is Bernard Lewis and not Huntington who first coined the term in his seminal essay “The Roots of Muslim Rage” (1990), he has received less attention by the media. Lewis debunks the theory that it is the West that is responsible for the growth of extremism in Islamic Middle East and instead holds that the condition is self-inflicted, caused by its culture and religion. This weakness was a byproduct of “cultural arrogance." Lewis opines that the root problem in dealing with hard Islam lies elsewhere: “More than ever before it is Western capitalism and democracy that provide an authentic and attractive alternative to traditional ways of thought and life. Fundamentalist leaders are not mistaken in seeing the Western civilization the greatest challenge to the way of life that they wish to retain and restore for their people.” He adds, “Ultimately the struggle of the fundamentalists is against two enemies: secularism and modernism.”
Unwilling to address these issues at first, probably concerned with defusing the current climate of hostility that centres around Islam and radical and moderate Muslims all over the world, Jahanbegloo pleads for a rational attempt to listen to the “other” without resorting to violence. He says, in the Preface, “ International terrorism as much as war against terrorism strike at the universal values, including that of religious tolerance, on which the whole concept of human co-existence is founded.” One is hard pressed to understand how a well-meaning intellectual can put the two on a weighing scale and find them equally at fault. Is there, then, no lesser crime? Is there, then, no difference between the Pandavas and the Kauravas? Is Arjuna upholding the right and going to war, no different from Duryodana’s doing the same?
Towards the end of the book, he asserts, “ Violence begets violence. Peace is always denied to those who use violence. There is no such thing as a “good war” against “bad guys.”” While it might be fashionable to hold simplisitc beliefs such as these, these are dangerously complex times and heeding these words would be injurious to one’s health. Even our bodies, when invaded by a virus, label it as “bad” and attack it, thank God. Dinasaurs didn’t think so, sadly, and they aren’t, therefore, around to tell us their sad tales. Similarly, with a daughter held by a rapist, no parent is going to see his attempts to release the child as anything but “good”; it is certainly a “good war against a bad guy.” Extrapolated, if somebody invades my home/nation, my mind will not accept that I, too, am bad. No matter how you spin this, there is such a thing as virtue and there is something that is not. Even sages work towards destroying ignorance( bad) so that knowledge (good) can shine forth.
At another place, he declares, “ It is not right to respond to intolerance by being intolerant.” He is right in remarking that people begin by “decivilizing humanity” and “degrading” the other. It was certainly that same mindset which led the terrorists to blow up several busy, well-populated places in Mumbai in daylight hours not many years ago. So, how would one deal with an intolerant Dawood or Osama bin Laden who “decivilizes and degrades” others? The United Nations spoke in almost one voice when it came to dealing with the Taliban because of Osama in Afghanistan. Was the combined wisdom of the whole world missing the answer that Jahanbegloo now offers to a war-weary world? When all else fails, including dialogue, what answers does Jahanbegloo’s philosophy offer to the world? Unfortunately he refrains to provide us with adequate answers. What if the “other” believes, like Hitler, in violence as the quickest and only way of meeting his targets? Well-meaning and sweet that he surely is( if only there were more Jahanbegloos in the Muslim world) he is honestly unable to grapple with the task of dealing with the most pressing problem of the 21st century. He looks the other way and continues to ask honest questions which he forgets to answer. One would have wished a fitting answer to his own question, “What are the limits of tolerance and what should we do with the intolerant?” It would certainly have made his philosophy deeper and left the world with an answer out of the predicament. Intellectually, the study begins with proposing dialogue over violence, with hospitality over hostility, but attempts no progression of thought, and therefore remains a mere plea for dialogue, no more.
It is alluring to dwell in a luxury hotel amongst a roomful of philosophers to debate beliefs and issues; it is another matter to grapple with a man who speaks a different language with a hand-grenade in one hand and a holy book in another, ready to blow himself and the whole world up. One has no time for luxurious ruminations but for clear and decisive action. But while we, too, support Jahanbegloo in utilising dialogue when confronted with a dilemma, there are some situations that need an urgent and decisive response if humanity is not to perish. One discovers that he will not deal with the worst-case scenario, that he has no concrete answers for the increase in hardening stands, both for and against radical
A more objective approach to a pressing problem of crisis proportions was required but the author fought shy of it. Upholding Gandhi and being critical of the West in carefully diguised words may not be the way out. It is only in the end that five pages go in-depth into the task for Muslims, and it is here that the book throws up a few observations worthy of attention:
“It is not the “clash” of distance, but on the contrary the closeness which is at the origin of anxiety. Islam, especially that of the Middle East, by its closeness to and ties with Europe.. reveals most dramatically the fear of sameness. Islamism is the conflictual expression of this involuntary yet close encounter with modernity. In other words, contemporary Islamism is based on a double movement and tension: antagonistic posture with modernity and ideologization of religion… Islamic terrorism is meant to express a radical anti-modernity… Islamism has pushed Muslims to mourn their own modernity…. Muslims who argue for democracy and secularism seem to be yelled out of the arena on the charge that they are not “ Muslim enough.” Voices within the Muslim community, which insist that Islam should have nothing to do with hatred, terrorism and backward-looking, find themselves maginalized.” Perhaps, this is where the problem lies and carries within itself the seed of the solution to the dangerously growing global impasse.
by Lata Jagtiani
THE CLASH OF INTOLERANCES
BY RAHIM JAHANBEGLOO
PUBLISHED BY HAR-ANAND PUBLICATIONS PVT LTD.
PRICE: RS 295
Once, in the early 1980s, as a lecturer at an Indian school in Dubai, I saw, within our school premises, a five-foot statue of Mahatma Gandhi installed in the playground. A few days later, however, the statue disappeared. I re-discovered it tucked away in a corner, hiding furtively in darkness in the school-library, heavily draped with sheets. Gandhiji was in a hijab because a government directive prohibited statues. So, one could not even have one within the Indian school premises? I suggested to the Principal that we put across our point to the authorities and convince them to allow us our Indian way of life within the school precincts. The response from him was a loud guffaw and a shake of the head. It isn’t possible, he seemed to say, to reason with the unreasonable. We felt the same unease when we celebrated Divali in Dubai, behind drawn curtains and closed windows. Divali celebrations, forget crackers, could attract the wrath of the shurtas ( cops). It seemed no better than racism and we felt its sting. I felt the sting again as I gobbled a sandwich in the office toilet during the fasting month of Ramadan. Since Muslims must fast in Ramadan, it is illegal to eat in their presence since that would tempt them to break their fast; jail and some generous and hard lashes are punishments for the “crime.” This is the same Dubai of posh high-rise buildings and beaches, expensive imported cars and sprawling malls. While modernity surrounds you, the minds of the authorities are still confined in a hijab. The pay is good, and for some time, at least, expatriates put up with intolerances by reminding themselves that things are worse in Saudi Arabia.
Jahanbegloo’s book is a plea for both Islamic and non-Islamic practitioners to abjure intolerances and violence and instead, replace them with constructive dialogue with one other. He wants the hostility to be replaced by “hospitality” on both sides. His analysis is, no doubt, provoked by Samuel Huntington’s book, “The Clash of Civilizations;” he declares that the today’s global divide is caused not by different cultures and civilizations being at loggerheads, but rather because of the tendency not to tolerate differences. While it is Bernard Lewis and not Huntington who first coined the term in his seminal essay “The Roots of Muslim Rage” (1990), he has received less attention by the media. Lewis debunks the theory that it is the West that is responsible for the growth of extremism in Islamic Middle East and instead holds that the condition is self-inflicted, caused by its culture and religion. This weakness was a byproduct of “cultural arrogance." Lewis opines that the root problem in dealing with hard Islam lies elsewhere: “More than ever before it is Western capitalism and democracy that provide an authentic and attractive alternative to traditional ways of thought and life. Fundamentalist leaders are not mistaken in seeing the Western civilization the greatest challenge to the way of life that they wish to retain and restore for their people.” He adds, “Ultimately the struggle of the fundamentalists is against two enemies: secularism and modernism.”
Unwilling to address these issues at first, probably concerned with defusing the current climate of hostility that centres around Islam and radical and moderate Muslims all over the world, Jahanbegloo pleads for a rational attempt to listen to the “other” without resorting to violence. He says, in the Preface, “ International terrorism as much as war against terrorism strike at the universal values, including that of religious tolerance, on which the whole concept of human co-existence is founded.” One is hard pressed to understand how a well-meaning intellectual can put the two on a weighing scale and find them equally at fault. Is there, then, no lesser crime? Is there, then, no difference between the Pandavas and the Kauravas? Is Arjuna upholding the right and going to war, no different from Duryodana’s doing the same?
Towards the end of the book, he asserts, “ Violence begets violence. Peace is always denied to those who use violence. There is no such thing as a “good war” against “bad guys.”” While it might be fashionable to hold simplisitc beliefs such as these, these are dangerously complex times and heeding these words would be injurious to one’s health. Even our bodies, when invaded by a virus, label it as “bad” and attack it, thank God. Dinasaurs didn’t think so, sadly, and they aren’t, therefore, around to tell us their sad tales. Similarly, with a daughter held by a rapist, no parent is going to see his attempts to release the child as anything but “good”; it is certainly a “good war against a bad guy.” Extrapolated, if somebody invades my home/nation, my mind will not accept that I, too, am bad. No matter how you spin this, there is such a thing as virtue and there is something that is not. Even sages work towards destroying ignorance( bad) so that knowledge (good) can shine forth.
At another place, he declares, “ It is not right to respond to intolerance by being intolerant.” He is right in remarking that people begin by “decivilizing humanity” and “degrading” the other. It was certainly that same mindset which led the terrorists to blow up several busy, well-populated places in Mumbai in daylight hours not many years ago. So, how would one deal with an intolerant Dawood or Osama bin Laden who “decivilizes and degrades” others? The United Nations spoke in almost one voice when it came to dealing with the Taliban because of Osama in Afghanistan. Was the combined wisdom of the whole world missing the answer that Jahanbegloo now offers to a war-weary world? When all else fails, including dialogue, what answers does Jahanbegloo’s philosophy offer to the world? Unfortunately he refrains to provide us with adequate answers. What if the “other” believes, like Hitler, in violence as the quickest and only way of meeting his targets? Well-meaning and sweet that he surely is( if only there were more Jahanbegloos in the Muslim world) he is honestly unable to grapple with the task of dealing with the most pressing problem of the 21st century. He looks the other way and continues to ask honest questions which he forgets to answer. One would have wished a fitting answer to his own question, “What are the limits of tolerance and what should we do with the intolerant?” It would certainly have made his philosophy deeper and left the world with an answer out of the predicament. Intellectually, the study begins with proposing dialogue over violence, with hospitality over hostility, but attempts no progression of thought, and therefore remains a mere plea for dialogue, no more.
It is alluring to dwell in a luxury hotel amongst a roomful of philosophers to debate beliefs and issues; it is another matter to grapple with a man who speaks a different language with a hand-grenade in one hand and a holy book in another, ready to blow himself and the whole world up. One has no time for luxurious ruminations but for clear and decisive action. But while we, too, support Jahanbegloo in utilising dialogue when confronted with a dilemma, there are some situations that need an urgent and decisive response if humanity is not to perish. One discovers that he will not deal with the worst-case scenario, that he has no concrete answers for the increase in hardening stands, both for and against radical
A more objective approach to a pressing problem of crisis proportions was required but the author fought shy of it. Upholding Gandhi and being critical of the West in carefully diguised words may not be the way out. It is only in the end that five pages go in-depth into the task for Muslims, and it is here that the book throws up a few observations worthy of attention:
“It is not the “clash” of distance, but on the contrary the closeness which is at the origin of anxiety. Islam, especially that of the Middle East, by its closeness to and ties with Europe.. reveals most dramatically the fear of sameness. Islamism is the conflictual expression of this involuntary yet close encounter with modernity. In other words, contemporary Islamism is based on a double movement and tension: antagonistic posture with modernity and ideologization of religion… Islamic terrorism is meant to express a radical anti-modernity… Islamism has pushed Muslims to mourn their own modernity…. Muslims who argue for democracy and secularism seem to be yelled out of the arena on the charge that they are not “ Muslim enough.” Voices within the Muslim community, which insist that Islam should have nothing to do with hatred, terrorism and backward-looking, find themselves maginalized.” Perhaps, this is where the problem lies and carries within itself the seed of the solution to the dangerously growing global impasse.
BOOK REVIEW
“GOODBYE TO GANDHI”: TRAVELS IN THE NEW INDIA
BY BERNARD IMHASLY
PENGUIN VIKING
PRICE RS 425.00
Prior to their arrival into India, and accustomed to neat definitions for countries (such as chocolates, mountains, punctuality, secret bank accounts define Switzerland,) foreigners have the image of India as a land of snake-charmers, elephants, Rajahs, poverty, the Taj Mahal and Gandhi; however, as soon as they step out of the airport their jaws drop, as do their images. At once they are taken aback, often disgusted, surprised, delighted, awe-struck, happy and then perplexed. India is the unyielding, impetuous and enigmatic Diva who is larger than life, better understood through a song on life, “kaisi paheli hai tu kaisi paheli, zindagani..”
No 200-page book can contain this Diva without failing, and Switzerland’s Bernard Imhasly, accustomed to neat, easily definable little countries such as Switzerland and Germany, falters and stumbles. Every chronicler finds himself reduced to a Lilliputian when confronted by India, and Imhasly himself admits, “the mammoth Indian subcontinent that covers 3.3 Million square kilometers…far exceeds the limits of a book.... The cultural diversity, socioeconomic and religious fault lines, the sheer mass of humanity defy extrapolation…” He adds that it is because of this that he moves from India to Gandhi, stating that the book is “an account of travels in modern India, with Gandhi as my guide.” He measures current issues against Gandhi’s life and ideas, observes if India adopts his idealism or ignores it. The book attempts to see if India passes the litmus “Gandhi” test, by seeing today’s India through the prism of a Gandhi who was born in 1869, a full 139 years ago.
But the moot question is, can and should India be reduced to Gandhi? Indira Gandhi tried to narrow India down to “India is Indira, Indira is India” only to find herself thrown out once by a disgruntled Indian electorate, and then later, gunned down by none other than Indian guards. Also, would India be such a huge growing global power today if it had followed the Gandhian vision based on swadeshi? Of couse India would not be a nuclear power, and thus, the next question begs an answer, how far would Gandhi’s non-violence have taken India if Pakistan has the bomb and India didn’t, would there even be an India left?
In his essay, “Reflections On Gandhi”, George Orwell observed, “There is reason to think that Gandhi, who after all was born in 1869, did not understand the nature of totalitarianism and saw everything in terms of his own struggle against the British government. The important point here is not so much that the British treated him forbearingly as that he was always able to command publicity…he believed in "arousing the world," which is only possible if the world gets a chance to hear what you are doing.” Imhasly also observes, “Gandhi, had undoubtedly been one of the twentieth century’s media masters. He would astutely estimate the impact of his messages and use powerful symbols to convey them...” Orwell adds, “It is difficult to see how Gandhi's methods could be applied in a country where opponents of the regime disappear in the middle of the night and are never heard of again. Without a free press and the right of assembly, it is impossible not merely to appeal to outside opinion, but to bring a mass movement into being, or even to make your intentions known to your adversary.” Orwell points out that Gandhian methods were doomed to failure, when one is dealing with lunatics or with misguided fanatics of the Hitlerian kind. In that event, how would one deal with terrorists and suicide bombers?
Imhasly’s “Goodbye to Gandhi” is a loving yet bleak portrayal of an India that has mostly gone way off the Gandhian mark. Well written and painstakingly put together, the book covers the writer’s journey through some parts of India. One wonders why he mostly focuses on non-Congress ruled states, as if he dare not offend the ruling Congress sensibilities at the centre. He interviews Modi, Togadia and Sudharshan, but never interviews a single Congress leader, which is altogether surprising since Gandhi was a Congressman for long and it is not Modi or Sudarshan but the Congress that even today swears by Gandhi. Such sins of omission are telling, and they what they tell isn’t pretty.
Imhasly finds proof that Gandhi is more irrelevant than relevant; more honoured in the breach than in the observance; and that Gandhi is a “thorn” for his opponents and an inconvenience for his avowed followers who speak of Gandhi and have nothing to do with him really. The excellent style of writing and succinct descriptions makes Imhasly’s book easy reading. Apart from a few oversights, such as the absence of notes to explain foreign italicized terms, such as “weltanschauung” and “schadenfreude” etc, and the complete absence of a Bibliography and Index at the end, the book is interesting. The high point of the book is the chapter, “The Mothers of Manipur” where Imhasly reports on his heart-felt attempts at meeting with Irom Sharmila. The chapter is an absolute treasure as he chronicles one woman’s brave ongoing attempts at non-violent protest. On 2nd November 2000, Sharmila decided that she would protest against the killing of murdered innocents by going on a hunger-strike. She was arrested on Novemeber 11, 2000 and has been under custody force-fed to this day. Absolutely top-class reporting follows as the journalist in Imhasly refuses to give up so that he can meet with Sharmila and hand over a book to her while she is in custody, and despite everything, fails.
However, Imhasly takes the usual “secular’ route several times. Although 3000 people were killed after Rajiv Gandhi became the Prime Minister, it is not Rajiv Gandhi but the “Congress party goons” who are regarded as guilty despite Rajiv Gandhi’s famous “when a big tree falls” remark; however, when 2000 people were killed in Gujarat, Imhasly quite clearly levels his finger on Modi. No condemnation for the former, of course. Even-handedness not being his strength, he interviews a Modi but never a Sonia Gandhi or a Tytler or even a Sharad Pawar to know what happened in Delhi or Mumbai. Even when the hated BJP puts up and elects a Muslim as the President of India and the Congress opposes it, Imhasly prefers not to beat the Congress for it, but instead beats the BJP by hiding behind the “liberal critics” who “saw in the choice of a Muslim, a few months after the terrible riots in Gujarat, a fig leaf to conceal its anti-Muslim stance.” Talk about hatred!
The final question that Imhasly will need to address in all honesty, is the Orwellian question, “And is it not possible for one whole culture to be insane by the standards of another?” How can a Judeo-Christian culture or society fully comprehend the pure Islamic thought? How can a devout Saudi Arabian comprehend the agnosticism of the Dalai Lama? Thus, can Imhasly understand why Jinnah would not allow Gandhi to define him or Muslims and saw Muslims as a separate state? Jinnah spoke for the refusal of the Muslim psyche to fit into the Gandhi mould, and Pakistan, today regarded as the most dangerous nation in the world, was born; in some measure, there are several Dalits and Sangh parivarwallahs, who similarly protest the Gandhian straitjacket. Imhasly’s question is pertinent, “Yet until this day Gandhi is a red rag for most Dalits. What are the roots of this animus? Is it another instance of Gandhi’s failure, just as he had failed to bring together Hindus and Muslims?” It is when Imhasly offers history a la Romila Thapar (on Somnath) and insights from people who hate the Sangh parivar such as Mallika Sarabhai, and the Tehelka, it is then that Imhasly does the greatest disservice to his book because his political bias shows up and distorts his study of the country attempts to fathom. It is again disappointing that Imhasly’s scholarship is found so wanting as to disregard the work of fellow Europeans such as Elst and Gautier; pages from their Gautier’s study of India, “A Western Journalist on India” would have offered him the dimension he has denied both himself and his readers.
While Imhasly is right in concluding that India has mostly failed Gandhi, he needs to question the yardstick itself; why should the vast country yield to any human being, however great he might be? Even one of the greatest Indian mystics, Shree Ramana Maharshi, Gandhi’s contemporary, did not join hands with Gandhi, his path being that of a jnani, and not of a karmayogi. Gandhi could as little contain Ramana Maharshi as Ramana Maharshi could contain Gandhi, and they were just two of the many worlds that co-exist in diverse India.
India is the growing, dynamic, uncontainable, living force, free, to quote the song on life, with a little twist in the end, “thaama han, roka isko kisne, hai yeh to hai beheta paani, kaisi paheli hai yeh kaisi, Hindustani…”
“GOODBYE TO GANDHI”: TRAVELS IN THE NEW INDIA
BY BERNARD IMHASLY
PENGUIN VIKING
PRICE RS 425.00
Prior to their arrival into India, and accustomed to neat definitions for countries (such as chocolates, mountains, punctuality, secret bank accounts define Switzerland,) foreigners have the image of India as a land of snake-charmers, elephants, Rajahs, poverty, the Taj Mahal and Gandhi; however, as soon as they step out of the airport their jaws drop, as do their images. At once they are taken aback, often disgusted, surprised, delighted, awe-struck, happy and then perplexed. India is the unyielding, impetuous and enigmatic Diva who is larger than life, better understood through a song on life, “kaisi paheli hai tu kaisi paheli, zindagani..”
No 200-page book can contain this Diva without failing, and Switzerland’s Bernard Imhasly, accustomed to neat, easily definable little countries such as Switzerland and Germany, falters and stumbles. Every chronicler finds himself reduced to a Lilliputian when confronted by India, and Imhasly himself admits, “the mammoth Indian subcontinent that covers 3.3 Million square kilometers…far exceeds the limits of a book.... The cultural diversity, socioeconomic and religious fault lines, the sheer mass of humanity defy extrapolation…” He adds that it is because of this that he moves from India to Gandhi, stating that the book is “an account of travels in modern India, with Gandhi as my guide.” He measures current issues against Gandhi’s life and ideas, observes if India adopts his idealism or ignores it. The book attempts to see if India passes the litmus “Gandhi” test, by seeing today’s India through the prism of a Gandhi who was born in 1869, a full 139 years ago.
But the moot question is, can and should India be reduced to Gandhi? Indira Gandhi tried to narrow India down to “India is Indira, Indira is India” only to find herself thrown out once by a disgruntled Indian electorate, and then later, gunned down by none other than Indian guards. Also, would India be such a huge growing global power today if it had followed the Gandhian vision based on swadeshi? Of couse India would not be a nuclear power, and thus, the next question begs an answer, how far would Gandhi’s non-violence have taken India if Pakistan has the bomb and India didn’t, would there even be an India left?
In his essay, “Reflections On Gandhi”, George Orwell observed, “There is reason to think that Gandhi, who after all was born in 1869, did not understand the nature of totalitarianism and saw everything in terms of his own struggle against the British government. The important point here is not so much that the British treated him forbearingly as that he was always able to command publicity…he believed in "arousing the world," which is only possible if the world gets a chance to hear what you are doing.” Imhasly also observes, “Gandhi, had undoubtedly been one of the twentieth century’s media masters. He would astutely estimate the impact of his messages and use powerful symbols to convey them...” Orwell adds, “It is difficult to see how Gandhi's methods could be applied in a country where opponents of the regime disappear in the middle of the night and are never heard of again. Without a free press and the right of assembly, it is impossible not merely to appeal to outside opinion, but to bring a mass movement into being, or even to make your intentions known to your adversary.” Orwell points out that Gandhian methods were doomed to failure, when one is dealing with lunatics or with misguided fanatics of the Hitlerian kind. In that event, how would one deal with terrorists and suicide bombers?
Imhasly’s “Goodbye to Gandhi” is a loving yet bleak portrayal of an India that has mostly gone way off the Gandhian mark. Well written and painstakingly put together, the book covers the writer’s journey through some parts of India. One wonders why he mostly focuses on non-Congress ruled states, as if he dare not offend the ruling Congress sensibilities at the centre. He interviews Modi, Togadia and Sudharshan, but never interviews a single Congress leader, which is altogether surprising since Gandhi was a Congressman for long and it is not Modi or Sudarshan but the Congress that even today swears by Gandhi. Such sins of omission are telling, and they what they tell isn’t pretty.
Imhasly finds proof that Gandhi is more irrelevant than relevant; more honoured in the breach than in the observance; and that Gandhi is a “thorn” for his opponents and an inconvenience for his avowed followers who speak of Gandhi and have nothing to do with him really. The excellent style of writing and succinct descriptions makes Imhasly’s book easy reading. Apart from a few oversights, such as the absence of notes to explain foreign italicized terms, such as “weltanschauung” and “schadenfreude” etc, and the complete absence of a Bibliography and Index at the end, the book is interesting. The high point of the book is the chapter, “The Mothers of Manipur” where Imhasly reports on his heart-felt attempts at meeting with Irom Sharmila. The chapter is an absolute treasure as he chronicles one woman’s brave ongoing attempts at non-violent protest. On 2nd November 2000, Sharmila decided that she would protest against the killing of murdered innocents by going on a hunger-strike. She was arrested on Novemeber 11, 2000 and has been under custody force-fed to this day. Absolutely top-class reporting follows as the journalist in Imhasly refuses to give up so that he can meet with Sharmila and hand over a book to her while she is in custody, and despite everything, fails.
However, Imhasly takes the usual “secular’ route several times. Although 3000 people were killed after Rajiv Gandhi became the Prime Minister, it is not Rajiv Gandhi but the “Congress party goons” who are regarded as guilty despite Rajiv Gandhi’s famous “when a big tree falls” remark; however, when 2000 people were killed in Gujarat, Imhasly quite clearly levels his finger on Modi. No condemnation for the former, of course. Even-handedness not being his strength, he interviews a Modi but never a Sonia Gandhi or a Tytler or even a Sharad Pawar to know what happened in Delhi or Mumbai. Even when the hated BJP puts up and elects a Muslim as the President of India and the Congress opposes it, Imhasly prefers not to beat the Congress for it, but instead beats the BJP by hiding behind the “liberal critics” who “saw in the choice of a Muslim, a few months after the terrible riots in Gujarat, a fig leaf to conceal its anti-Muslim stance.” Talk about hatred!
The final question that Imhasly will need to address in all honesty, is the Orwellian question, “And is it not possible for one whole culture to be insane by the standards of another?” How can a Judeo-Christian culture or society fully comprehend the pure Islamic thought? How can a devout Saudi Arabian comprehend the agnosticism of the Dalai Lama? Thus, can Imhasly understand why Jinnah would not allow Gandhi to define him or Muslims and saw Muslims as a separate state? Jinnah spoke for the refusal of the Muslim psyche to fit into the Gandhi mould, and Pakistan, today regarded as the most dangerous nation in the world, was born; in some measure, there are several Dalits and Sangh parivarwallahs, who similarly protest the Gandhian straitjacket. Imhasly’s question is pertinent, “Yet until this day Gandhi is a red rag for most Dalits. What are the roots of this animus? Is it another instance of Gandhi’s failure, just as he had failed to bring together Hindus and Muslims?” It is when Imhasly offers history a la Romila Thapar (on Somnath) and insights from people who hate the Sangh parivar such as Mallika Sarabhai, and the Tehelka, it is then that Imhasly does the greatest disservice to his book because his political bias shows up and distorts his study of the country attempts to fathom. It is again disappointing that Imhasly’s scholarship is found so wanting as to disregard the work of fellow Europeans such as Elst and Gautier; pages from their Gautier’s study of India, “A Western Journalist on India” would have offered him the dimension he has denied both himself and his readers.
While Imhasly is right in concluding that India has mostly failed Gandhi, he needs to question the yardstick itself; why should the vast country yield to any human being, however great he might be? Even one of the greatest Indian mystics, Shree Ramana Maharshi, Gandhi’s contemporary, did not join hands with Gandhi, his path being that of a jnani, and not of a karmayogi. Gandhi could as little contain Ramana Maharshi as Ramana Maharshi could contain Gandhi, and they were just two of the many worlds that co-exist in diverse India.
India is the growing, dynamic, uncontainable, living force, free, to quote the song on life, with a little twist in the end, “thaama han, roka isko kisne, hai yeh to hai beheta paani, kaisi paheli hai yeh kaisi, Hindustani…”
BOOK REVIEW:
“IN THE SHADOW OF THE TAJ” BY ROYINA GREWAL
PUBLISHED BY PENGUIN
PRICE RS 295
After having read several books on the cities of the world, I was rather disappointed when I read Royina Grewal’s account of Agra. While her excessive love for the town is evidently showcased over several pages, what is lacking, however, is a sincere attempt at a coherent presentation of the data she has compiled. One goes back and forth in time repeatedly; why did Ms Grewal think it necessary to flashback, an style more suited to fiction than to non-fiction? Attempting to be in two different time zones, and that too, without panache, the book muddles on in contrived distraction. One is even more surprised to find the Penguin book poorly proof-read (even the initial “Acknowledgements” begins with spelling consistently as “consistantly”).
Grewal starts off with the announcement that all the Mughal emperors loved the outdoors, implying that this was unusual. Then the book lumbers under the writer’s clear pro-Muslim bias: Babur is regarded as a “great adventurer, a master strategist, an inspired leader of men, a general renowned for his bravery… he loved nature deeply… he had a distinguished ancestry..” If Mahmud Ghazni invaded India 17 times, Ms Grewal wishes to question the inconvenient fact and puts that historical fact into unattributed quotes, afraid, no doubt, of hurting Muslim sentiments. Why walk on eggshells on this fact? Grewal sees Agra through a romantic haze but she has makes no attempts to hide her disdain of other faiths of Indian origin. Her slyly critical account of her meeting with the head of the Radha Soami Satsangh reeks of unkindness and prejudice. While in one breath she writes, “ Sultan Ibrahim Lodi is credited with founding the city in 1504 and the year 2004 was sought to be celebrated as the 500th anniversary of Agra’s birth. This plan was scuttled in consideration to those who believe that Agra was an ancient Hindu settlement” a few pages ahead she goes ahead to state, “ The region is mentioned in the epic, “Mahabharata” as Agravan, the forest of Agra, or as some prefer, the forest ahead.” The struggle between the historian and the secularist in Grewal rages on through the book, making the book difficult to read as a book about a town. By questioning the Hindu claim and treating non-Hindu positions with kid gloves she turns the attention away from Agra and towards herself, which is a pity.
However, the book brings important facts to one’s attention, appalling as they often are. There are no flights to Agra despite the Tajmahal! Train timings are fixed in such a way that people don’t even need to stay over a night, resulting in losses to hotels. All this because “Agra has never had a godfather, we’ve never had a political patron” as Mr Dang observes in the book. The book ends with a poem that highlights how the local population of Agra see the Tajmahal:
“The Taj is Agra’s strength and its weakness
it is our pride, it is India’s pride
But because we consider the Taj to be everything
Anything else is scorned
Even the plight of the common man
Whenever there is any thought of advancement in Agra
It is the Taj, always the Taj, only the Taj,
The Taj is like a coffin in which the people of Agra are buried alive.”
One hopes that the shortage of potable water and other pressing problems that beset Agra will cease once a political bigwig reads the book. Ms Grewal’s observations about a town in disrepair could have been so much more effective had she been wearing the historian’s hat throughout the book.
“IN THE SHADOW OF THE TAJ” BY ROYINA GREWAL
PUBLISHED BY PENGUIN
PRICE RS 295
After having read several books on the cities of the world, I was rather disappointed when I read Royina Grewal’s account of Agra. While her excessive love for the town is evidently showcased over several pages, what is lacking, however, is a sincere attempt at a coherent presentation of the data she has compiled. One goes back and forth in time repeatedly; why did Ms Grewal think it necessary to flashback, an style more suited to fiction than to non-fiction? Attempting to be in two different time zones, and that too, without panache, the book muddles on in contrived distraction. One is even more surprised to find the Penguin book poorly proof-read (even the initial “Acknowledgements” begins with spelling consistently as “consistantly”).
Grewal starts off with the announcement that all the Mughal emperors loved the outdoors, implying that this was unusual. Then the book lumbers under the writer’s clear pro-Muslim bias: Babur is regarded as a “great adventurer, a master strategist, an inspired leader of men, a general renowned for his bravery… he loved nature deeply… he had a distinguished ancestry..” If Mahmud Ghazni invaded India 17 times, Ms Grewal wishes to question the inconvenient fact and puts that historical fact into unattributed quotes, afraid, no doubt, of hurting Muslim sentiments. Why walk on eggshells on this fact? Grewal sees Agra through a romantic haze but she has makes no attempts to hide her disdain of other faiths of Indian origin. Her slyly critical account of her meeting with the head of the Radha Soami Satsangh reeks of unkindness and prejudice. While in one breath she writes, “ Sultan Ibrahim Lodi is credited with founding the city in 1504 and the year 2004 was sought to be celebrated as the 500th anniversary of Agra’s birth. This plan was scuttled in consideration to those who believe that Agra was an ancient Hindu settlement” a few pages ahead she goes ahead to state, “ The region is mentioned in the epic, “Mahabharata” as Agravan, the forest of Agra, or as some prefer, the forest ahead.” The struggle between the historian and the secularist in Grewal rages on through the book, making the book difficult to read as a book about a town. By questioning the Hindu claim and treating non-Hindu positions with kid gloves she turns the attention away from Agra and towards herself, which is a pity.
However, the book brings important facts to one’s attention, appalling as they often are. There are no flights to Agra despite the Tajmahal! Train timings are fixed in such a way that people don’t even need to stay over a night, resulting in losses to hotels. All this because “Agra has never had a godfather, we’ve never had a political patron” as Mr Dang observes in the book. The book ends with a poem that highlights how the local population of Agra see the Tajmahal:
“The Taj is Agra’s strength and its weakness
it is our pride, it is India’s pride
But because we consider the Taj to be everything
Anything else is scorned
Even the plight of the common man
Whenever there is any thought of advancement in Agra
It is the Taj, always the Taj, only the Taj,
The Taj is like a coffin in which the people of Agra are buried alive.”
One hopes that the shortage of potable water and other pressing problems that beset Agra will cease once a political bigwig reads the book. Ms Grewal’s observations about a town in disrepair could have been so much more effective had she been wearing the historian’s hat throughout the book.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
“ GANDHI A SPIRITUAL JOURNEY”
WRITTEN BY M. V. KAMATH
PUBLISHER: INDUS SOURCE BOOKS
PRICE: RS 195.00
NO OF PAGES: 205
Type “Books on Gandhi” on an internet search engine and the response throws up no less than 1, 500, 000 sites! It’s anybody’s guess how many books there might be on offer at each site. Does the world need yet another book on a subject done to death? Surprising as this might sound, the answer is yes. This book might well occupy pride of place on my bookcase for a long time to come. While the book cover, the paper quality, the friendly font, the price and the presentation are all attractive, the selection of Gandhi’s own writings on the subject of spirituality is formidable and a treasure. Kamath’s simple style of expression demystifies the colossus that was Gandhi and brings him across as a flesh-and-blood human being attempting to go beyond the flesh and its desires.
M.V.Kamath’s study is in a tone that is neither obsequious nor harsh. He takes turns to deliver his blows with gentleness and his appreciation with restraint. His study is made all the more significant --as his contemporary, he saw history unfold right before his eyes. In fact, as a young newspaper reporter, Kamath was present in the courtroom to cover the trial of Nathuram Godse and heard both sides present their case.
Hitler and Gandhi were the two most important political powers in the twentieth century. Our fascination with them may be, in great part, because they represent two extreme positions in their approaches to life. The great scientist, Einstein, however, threw in his lot with Gandhi, and his words say it all: “Generations to come will scarcely believe that a man such as Gandhi could have walked upon this earth.” While one tried to eliminate Jews, the other tried to uplift the untouchables; while one divided people based on race, the other attempted to destroy all divisions and unite people by spiritualizing them. We are naturally curious to understand what went wrong with the one and what went right with the other.
This book explores and proves, through various excerpts and quotes, how Gandhi’s spirituality lay at the base of his every thought, word and deed. Kamath observes in the Preface that, “It is a validation of Gandhi’s philosophy that across the world social activists and leaders have chosen to follow his principle of militant non-violence. Martin Luther King Jr. was greatly influenced by Gandhi’s ideology of non-violent social protest. The Dalai Lama has acknowledged the inspiration he has received from Gandhi’s teachings. Nelson Mandela and Aung San Suu Kyi have fought oppressive regimes drawing upon Gandhi’s legacy.”
The author deals with the subject that prudes find embarrassing— Gandhi’s sexuality and he has neither tried to push it under the carpet nor tried to justify it by giving it an acceptable spin. Kamath cannot fathom why Gandhi needed to go to such extremes: “Can spiritualism be attained through a total separation of woman from man? Our gods have their consorts and even many of our saints and prophets were married or had women disciples. There is no reason why that should be considered a sin or an impediment to spiritualism. But Gandhi apparently had his qualms, which distract from his committed desire for spiritualism.” He further reveals Gandhi’s relationship with Saraladevi Chaudharani, a married woman whom he wanted as his “spiritual wife” and who paid the price of going with Gandhi. She admitted later in writing, “(I) had put in one pan all the joys and pleasures of this world, and in the other Bapu and his laws and committed the folly of choosing the latter.”
Gandhi’s spirituality left no room for untouchability; Kamath comments that he was “so strongly against untouchability that he said that if untouchability lives, Hinduism must die and that he would far rather that Hinduism died than that untouchability lived. He did not believe in caste. As he saw it, caste had nothing to do with religion…his understanding of God and untouchability sometimes went to unacceptable lengths. When there was a terrible earthquake in Bihar, Gandhi made a statement that even elicited a strong censure from Rabindranath Tagore. Gandhi said, “Visitations like droughts, floods, earthquakes, and the like, though they seem to have only physical origins, are, for me, somehow connected with man’s morals. Therefore, I instinctively felt that the earthquake was a visitation for the sin of untouchability.” Oftentimes, Gandhi is shown going into extremes. Undoubtedly, his passion for leading a righteous life took him further than was warranted.
Having said that, Gandhi, “was transparency personified.” While spirituality underpinned his every activity, he was rational first; “every ideology had to submit to the acid test of reason before being accepted.” How did Gandhi become spiritual, what were the influences in his life that shaped him and made him the colossus he later was to become? One learns that his early influences were Shravana as a devoted son, Harishchandra as the ideal truthful human being; Kamath reveals that, “every fresh reading of their stories moved him to tears.” Later Ruskin’s “Unto This Last” and Tolstoy all came to influence the mind of the already spiritually awakened lad. Then came the maid Rambha who instilled in young Mohan the faith in the “ramanama” or “Rama’s name” to ward off his fear of ghosts. Gandhi wrote, “The good seed sown in childhood was not sown in vain. I think it is due to the seed sown by that good woman Rambha that today Ramanama is an infallible remedy for me.”
As he grew up, he cultivated a distaste for conversion. He wrote, “Suppose a Christian came to me and said he was captivated by reading the Bhagavat and so wanted to declare himself a Hindu, I should say to him, “ No, what the Bhagavat offers, the Bible also offers. You have not made the attempt to find out. Make the attempt and be a good Christian.” … To him, religion meant, “adhering to values, not to a brand name.”
Kamath shares with us a story that brings out Gandhi’s spiritual depth right from the time he was in Johannesburg and plague had broken out in the Indian ghetto. Then, the sick and dying were taken to a quarantined building where a heroic English nurse was tending to them. “One evening, at the height of the epidemic, she saw a small figure standing at the door.”Get out, this is plague!” shouted the nurse. But the man standing there was Gandhi whom the nurse recognized as a leader of the Indian community. He was not about to leave. He told the nurse, “It’s alright; I’ve come to help you.” And he went straight to the sick. One man was literally covered with vermin and the nurse again shouted a warning. She told Gandhi, “Leave him.” But Gandhi would not. He merely told the nurse, “He is my brother.” And he stayed all night long until relief came.”
Selfless service became Gandhi’s credo so much so that “Everywhere he began to see two paths open to him; to live for himself alone or to live for others. He chose the second option.” Following selfless service came satyagraha, where “sat” stands for truth and “agraha” stands for firmness, which made the author observe, “The Buddha may have demanded eschewal of violence. So did Mahavira, but Gandhi took the principle to new and greater heights of excellence.” Gandhi’s non-violent, non-cooperation had its roots in his spiritual dimension and because that was where it was rooted, it succeeded politically and gained India its independence.
Kamath explores various aspects of Gandhi’s life from prayer, to silence, from brahmacharya to self-discipline; from what he felt about temples, animal sacrifice, to vegetarianism and even birth control. Not always was Gandhi in the right; but when he was right, which was often, he rose in stature.
One would have liked the English translation of the prayer, “Vaisnava jana to tene kahiye” printed on the back cover of the book followed by a note sharing with the non-Hindi reading public both in India and abroad, what the prayer signified for Gandhi and why it was important enough for it to get its prominence. One is grateful for Gandhi who says, “I know the limits of my strength. I am but a particle of dust. Even such a particle has a place in God’s creation, provided it submits to being trodden on. Everything is done by the Supreme Power. He may use me as He wills.”
A treasure of a book about an incredible man.
WRITTEN BY M. V. KAMATH
PUBLISHER: INDUS SOURCE BOOKS
PRICE: RS 195.00
NO OF PAGES: 205
Type “Books on Gandhi” on an internet search engine and the response throws up no less than 1, 500, 000 sites! It’s anybody’s guess how many books there might be on offer at each site. Does the world need yet another book on a subject done to death? Surprising as this might sound, the answer is yes. This book might well occupy pride of place on my bookcase for a long time to come. While the book cover, the paper quality, the friendly font, the price and the presentation are all attractive, the selection of Gandhi’s own writings on the subject of spirituality is formidable and a treasure. Kamath’s simple style of expression demystifies the colossus that was Gandhi and brings him across as a flesh-and-blood human being attempting to go beyond the flesh and its desires.
M.V.Kamath’s study is in a tone that is neither obsequious nor harsh. He takes turns to deliver his blows with gentleness and his appreciation with restraint. His study is made all the more significant --as his contemporary, he saw history unfold right before his eyes. In fact, as a young newspaper reporter, Kamath was present in the courtroom to cover the trial of Nathuram Godse and heard both sides present their case.
Hitler and Gandhi were the two most important political powers in the twentieth century. Our fascination with them may be, in great part, because they represent two extreme positions in their approaches to life. The great scientist, Einstein, however, threw in his lot with Gandhi, and his words say it all: “Generations to come will scarcely believe that a man such as Gandhi could have walked upon this earth.” While one tried to eliminate Jews, the other tried to uplift the untouchables; while one divided people based on race, the other attempted to destroy all divisions and unite people by spiritualizing them. We are naturally curious to understand what went wrong with the one and what went right with the other.
This book explores and proves, through various excerpts and quotes, how Gandhi’s spirituality lay at the base of his every thought, word and deed. Kamath observes in the Preface that, “It is a validation of Gandhi’s philosophy that across the world social activists and leaders have chosen to follow his principle of militant non-violence. Martin Luther King Jr. was greatly influenced by Gandhi’s ideology of non-violent social protest. The Dalai Lama has acknowledged the inspiration he has received from Gandhi’s teachings. Nelson Mandela and Aung San Suu Kyi have fought oppressive regimes drawing upon Gandhi’s legacy.”
The author deals with the subject that prudes find embarrassing— Gandhi’s sexuality and he has neither tried to push it under the carpet nor tried to justify it by giving it an acceptable spin. Kamath cannot fathom why Gandhi needed to go to such extremes: “Can spiritualism be attained through a total separation of woman from man? Our gods have their consorts and even many of our saints and prophets were married or had women disciples. There is no reason why that should be considered a sin or an impediment to spiritualism. But Gandhi apparently had his qualms, which distract from his committed desire for spiritualism.” He further reveals Gandhi’s relationship with Saraladevi Chaudharani, a married woman whom he wanted as his “spiritual wife” and who paid the price of going with Gandhi. She admitted later in writing, “(I) had put in one pan all the joys and pleasures of this world, and in the other Bapu and his laws and committed the folly of choosing the latter.”
Gandhi’s spirituality left no room for untouchability; Kamath comments that he was “so strongly against untouchability that he said that if untouchability lives, Hinduism must die and that he would far rather that Hinduism died than that untouchability lived. He did not believe in caste. As he saw it, caste had nothing to do with religion…his understanding of God and untouchability sometimes went to unacceptable lengths. When there was a terrible earthquake in Bihar, Gandhi made a statement that even elicited a strong censure from Rabindranath Tagore. Gandhi said, “Visitations like droughts, floods, earthquakes, and the like, though they seem to have only physical origins, are, for me, somehow connected with man’s morals. Therefore, I instinctively felt that the earthquake was a visitation for the sin of untouchability.” Oftentimes, Gandhi is shown going into extremes. Undoubtedly, his passion for leading a righteous life took him further than was warranted.
Having said that, Gandhi, “was transparency personified.” While spirituality underpinned his every activity, he was rational first; “every ideology had to submit to the acid test of reason before being accepted.” How did Gandhi become spiritual, what were the influences in his life that shaped him and made him the colossus he later was to become? One learns that his early influences were Shravana as a devoted son, Harishchandra as the ideal truthful human being; Kamath reveals that, “every fresh reading of their stories moved him to tears.” Later Ruskin’s “Unto This Last” and Tolstoy all came to influence the mind of the already spiritually awakened lad. Then came the maid Rambha who instilled in young Mohan the faith in the “ramanama” or “Rama’s name” to ward off his fear of ghosts. Gandhi wrote, “The good seed sown in childhood was not sown in vain. I think it is due to the seed sown by that good woman Rambha that today Ramanama is an infallible remedy for me.”
As he grew up, he cultivated a distaste for conversion. He wrote, “Suppose a Christian came to me and said he was captivated by reading the Bhagavat and so wanted to declare himself a Hindu, I should say to him, “ No, what the Bhagavat offers, the Bible also offers. You have not made the attempt to find out. Make the attempt and be a good Christian.” … To him, religion meant, “adhering to values, not to a brand name.”
Kamath shares with us a story that brings out Gandhi’s spiritual depth right from the time he was in Johannesburg and plague had broken out in the Indian ghetto. Then, the sick and dying were taken to a quarantined building where a heroic English nurse was tending to them. “One evening, at the height of the epidemic, she saw a small figure standing at the door.”Get out, this is plague!” shouted the nurse. But the man standing there was Gandhi whom the nurse recognized as a leader of the Indian community. He was not about to leave. He told the nurse, “It’s alright; I’ve come to help you.” And he went straight to the sick. One man was literally covered with vermin and the nurse again shouted a warning. She told Gandhi, “Leave him.” But Gandhi would not. He merely told the nurse, “He is my brother.” And he stayed all night long until relief came.”
Selfless service became Gandhi’s credo so much so that “Everywhere he began to see two paths open to him; to live for himself alone or to live for others. He chose the second option.” Following selfless service came satyagraha, where “sat” stands for truth and “agraha” stands for firmness, which made the author observe, “The Buddha may have demanded eschewal of violence. So did Mahavira, but Gandhi took the principle to new and greater heights of excellence.” Gandhi’s non-violent, non-cooperation had its roots in his spiritual dimension and because that was where it was rooted, it succeeded politically and gained India its independence.
Kamath explores various aspects of Gandhi’s life from prayer, to silence, from brahmacharya to self-discipline; from what he felt about temples, animal sacrifice, to vegetarianism and even birth control. Not always was Gandhi in the right; but when he was right, which was often, he rose in stature.
One would have liked the English translation of the prayer, “Vaisnava jana to tene kahiye” printed on the back cover of the book followed by a note sharing with the non-Hindi reading public both in India and abroad, what the prayer signified for Gandhi and why it was important enough for it to get its prominence. One is grateful for Gandhi who says, “I know the limits of my strength. I am but a particle of dust. Even such a particle has a place in God’s creation, provided it submits to being trodden on. Everything is done by the Supreme Power. He may use me as He wills.”
A treasure of a book about an incredible man.
TITLE: THE BURDEN OF REFUGE by RITA KOTHARI
PUBLISHERS: ORIENT LONGMAN
NO. OF PAGES: 206
PRICE: RS. 675
“The Burden of Refuge” written by Rita Kothari, an English lecturer at a college in Ahmedabad, is a study of great academic interest for those interested in the Sindhi Hindus of Gujarat. The slim hard-bound book has a sober cover. The main body of Kothari’s book is found in seven chapters, including the preface.
When the Sindhi Hindus arrived into parts of India, including Gujarat, they came away from Sindh, their homeland, because they were Hindus by faith, but it was sadly ironic that when they arrived into post-Partition India, Indians here saw that very Hinduness with suspicion. Because they were non-vegetarians and dressed often in salwar-kurtas and duppatas, they were often seen as “Muslim-like” rather than as a displaced community of Hindus, homeless and stateless because of their faith. Their simultaneous worship of Hindu Gods along with Sufi saints, and Sikh gurus, bewildered the simple Hindus of Gujarat and made them at the same time wary and contemptuous of them.
The immediate fallout of this was that the Sindhi Hindu found it expedient to wear his Hinduism on his sleeve, and discard Sufism and Sikhism, which had become part of his Hindu ethos while in Sindh. However, even after this, the sense of shame persisted with several of Kothari’s own Sindhi Hindu students at college filling out forms, putting down “Hindi” instead of Sindhi as their mother tongue. The Sindhi stereotype of being fat, unhygienic and illiterate lent a great deal to the unnecessary shame the forced evacuee Sindhis felt in their new homes in Indian states.
The book really takes off in the fourth chapter, “Leaving Sindh” where Rita Kothari interviews Sindhis from both sides of the divide. It is the account of Amar Jaleel, a columnist of “Dawn” the Karachi newspaper, that stands out. Kothari prefaces the interview with her own valid observation, “While listening to him in his house at Clifton in Karachi, I could not help feeling the futility of dividing nations and along with it, tearing people away from each other.” Jaleel’s frank anger is reflected in his words, “The Muslims cannot build a democratic nation, they live with water-tight compartments. They can’t co-exit with differences.” He later adds, “What had the Hindus not given to Sindh? Hospitals, reading rooms, libraries. I used to live in Shikarpur and it was like New York. There was not a thing you could not find in its Dhakka bazaar. How enterprising that community was, and see how all they left has gone to seed. We have not even been able to create anything, nor preserve what they left. The greatest loss of Pakistan was Sindh.” After many such observations, Jaleel asks in agony, “It is as if a part of me has been amputated.” Then Khalique Jonejo, a Pakistani, shares with us how some Sindhi Muslims see events: “We carry a burden of guilt—of having collaborated with the new powers to cause the migration. I don’t think that guilt can be washed away.” When Salam Dharejo criticizes Hindus for considering Muslims as untouchables, Jonejo’s response is pristine in its fairness: “The so-called hierarchies between the Hindus and Muslims were differences of class and demography rather than religion. The Hindu shopkeeper would give respect to the wadero (roughly, Muslim landlords) of a village, talk to him and lend him money. Yes, his rate of interest may have been high, but the relationship was not without human concern. The discrimination your grandfather experienced would be the same as any poor person visiting a rich one, regardless of religion.”
When G.M.Syed moved a Resolution in the Sindh Legislative Assembly to support the formation of Pakistan, which was later adopted, the Congress’s Dr Choithram Gidwani criticized G.M.Syed, “Syed Sahib may be laughing today but the time will come when Syed Sahib and I will weep together if Pakistan is formed.” Dr Gidwani was right, since later, G.M.Syed did a volte-face and said, “Pakistan must die if Sindh is to live.” In 1970, when G.M.Syed was visiting India, the writer, Kirat Babani, invited Baldev Gajra, a Congress freedom fighter, to meet him. There, Kothari reports, Gajra refused to shake hands with Syed. He told Syed, and I quote Kothari, “Your hands are covered with the blood of Hindu Sindhis.” Syed’s reply to this was, “If twenty-five years are enough for capital punishment, I have suffered for twenty-five years. Do I still not deserve forgiveness?” End of quote.
The question is both serious and important. Was Gajra wrong? What can the Sindhi Hindu do about his loss of land, loss of culture, loss of language, loss of identity, loss of respect, loss of dignity? Some would say that twenty-five years of verbal regrets cannot suffice for an entire community living in shame, scattered across the globe, on the verge of being erased from people’s memories. They might feel as Gajra did, that mere words from Mr Syed do nothing for a teenaged Sindhi Hindu in Mumbai who squirms when movies deride Sindhis and their way of life. Punit Padnani says in the book, “Media shows Sindhis in a very bad light. Why can’t they show a decent-looking Sindhi professional?” To my mind, when Gajra felt that Syed’s hands were soiled in “ the blood of Sindhi Hindus,” he spoke as a person who could see the never-ending downward spiral of the tragic permanent damage to Sindhi Hindu youngsters who try desperately to fit in everywhere, and are forced, thanks to the community’s ouster from Sindh, (often in a penniless condition,) to deny their own real cultural identities. Syed’s question was unfair; Gajra, not an RSS functionary but a staunch follower of Mahatma Gandhi, had virtually bared his chest to gun-wielding Pathans. When such a freedom fighter adopts a stern view of G.M.Syed’s role in the loss of homeland it is not to be taken lightly, since he was no fanatic or fundamentalist.
Kothari (a Sindhi married to a Gujarati) admits to her own sense of shame in the chapter entitled, “Stigma in
Gujarat” that, “As a Sindh growing up in Gujarat in the 1970s and 1980s, I had an acute feeling of being in the wrong community, one that did not value education, or respect women.” From the tone of the book, one has an uneasy feeling that, perhaps, the shame hasn’t entirely left her. Additionally, Kothari appears to have a similar discomfort with pure Hinduism, sans the Sufi and Nanak ingredients, seeing it as “narrow” when Hinduism is at least as deep in spiritual terms as the next religion, if not more, and therefore, as complete as Sufism and Sikhism are without Hinduism.
There are a few errors such as the celibate Sadhu T.L.Vaswani having a son called Hari Vaswani, in “Stigma in Gujarat” and the erroneous assertion that Naroda Patiya is a constituency dominated by Sindhi Hindus when, we are told by The Hindu (October 2, 2003) that both Naroda-Patiya and Naroda Gam, have majority Muslim populations. If Kothari had retained objectivity and been even-handed when dealing with both communities, the book would have gained much in credibility. All in all, chapters 4-6 make the book a serious work of history, a must for researchers attempting to put together the scattered pieces of the jigsaw of the Sindhi Hindus and the Partition of India.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
BOOK TITLE: IC814 HIJACKED! THE INSIDE STORY
AUTHOR: FLT ENGR ANIL K.JAGGIA
REPORTING BY SAURABH SHUKLA
PUBLISHER: LOTUS COLLECTION, ROLI BOOKS, INDIA
PRICE: Rs. 295
NO OF PAGES: 223
In less than three months from the date of the hijack of IC814, Jaggia and Shukla have published a day-by-day account of the unfortunate hijack. The narration is quick, racy and professional; the cover of the book and its layout is attractive and pleasing; the almost perfectly objective style of Anil Jaggia ( the flight engineer of IC814) and Saurabh Shukla( investigative journalist with the Indian Express) leaves no stone unturned. A book that is difficult to put down until one has turned the last page.
The book opens with a dedication to the honeymooner, Rupin Katyal, the only victim to have lost his life on the aircraft; this is followed by a page with two diagrams: one showing the aircraft layout of business and economuy classes, galley, toilets, etc, with special markings on the seats occupied by Rupin Katyal, his wife, and others such as the two hijackers in Business class; the second map is a close-up of the cockpit seating arrangement, with clear pointers as to where the flight engineer, the pilot, the co-pilot sat as well as where “Red Cap” sat during the hijack. These maps are followed on the next page by a chart that traces the journey of the flight from Kathmandu to Kandahar, plotting the flight movement with brief notations at every stop.
The Annexure in the back-section lists the thirty-six terrorists whose relaease had been demanded by the hijackers, their names, parentage,, origin, the separatist group to which they belonged, with their date of arrest, complete with relevant particulars of these terrorists. Next, is the passenger manifesto, with the full name-list of all passengers on board. Then there is a three-page day-by-day account of the hijack by passenger Rajesh Naithani. Additionally, for hungry information seekers, the two writers have also drawn lists of those in the Crisis Management Group(CMG) and those in the Central Committee(CC) who dealt with the crisis from the ground.
The narration itself is racy, objective, carefully analytical, and brief. The suspense is heightened by the manner in which the narration is divided: the camera alternates and shifts briskly between the onboard drama, as recounted by Flight Engineer Jaggia, and the political and administrative machinations in Delhi, Amritsar, Kandahar, Dubai, etc, as described by Saurabh Shukla. The narration focuses on the various factors that not only allowed the hijack but also caused Rupin Katyal’s death and also allowed the faux pas at Amritsar.
Jaggia’s name for the the head of the hijack mission is “Red Cap” the man the other hijackeres called,“Chief’. Jaggia found that Red Cap had “an accent similar to those of Pakistani taxi drivers in Sharjah”. He wore a red balaclava inside of which he was wearing photchromatic glasses in order to disguise his eyes. He entered the cabin just as flight purser, Anil Sharma, was leaving with the now empty cups of tea and coffee that the cockpit crew had just enjoyed.
“The intruder pushed him aside and forced his way into the cockpit, saying, “Koi hoshiyari nahin karega. Koi hilega nahin. Tayyara hamare kabaze main hain (Nobody move or try to act smart, we have seized the aircraft”). … A frisson of alarm ran down our spines. We were being hijacked.” Jaggia continues to describe the developments that folowed. Another hooded hijacker, Burger, entered the cockpit, saluted Red Cap and whispered to him. Red Cap ordered them to fly westward. Meanwhile, “Captain Sharan had quietly selected the relevant transponder frequency and passed on a coded message to Ground Control ” telling them that they had been hijacked.
While Jaggia shares with us the tension and frightening chain of events that followed on board the aircraft, Shukla now takes us to the airspace just above Lucknow. In what can only be termed ironic, he tells us that a VVIP Boeing aircraft was flying just four minutes ahead of the hijacked plane, and its occupant were none other than the Indian Prime Minister, A.B.Vajpayee and the Union Civil Aviation Minister, Sharad Yadav.
“Flight IC814 was in close vicinity of the Prime Minister’s aircraft. Yet the coutry’s most powerful person remained ignorant of the crisis. It was only after he would land at Palam Technical Area in Delhi that he would be informed of the hijacking. It is intriguing why the pilot of the Boeing chose to remain quiet and did not pass on the message of the hijacking to the PM’s entourage. He was certainly privvy to the information….Prime Minister Vajpayee was not informed of the hijack while he was airborne despite the availability of an Iridium phone in the aircraft. Surprisingly, the Joint Intelligence Committee comprising the Intelligence chiefs and National Security Adviser Brajesh Mishra failed to inform the Prime Minister.”
The book is full of such terribly disturbing but valid questions: considering the fact that in a crisis time plays a vital role, why indeed was the PM kept in the dark? Why did Mr Mishra not contact the PM on the phone, why did the pilot not share his knowledge of the hijack? Questions that trouble one even more because they lack acceptable answers.
Meanwhile the story reverts to the aircraft and Jaggia’s narration:
“ “Have you pressed the hijack button?” the hijacker asked urgently.
“What button?” asked Captain Sharan. “we don’t have any hijack button.”
“Why are you telling lies?” shouted the hijacker.
“We don’t have any such button,” Captain Sharan tried to reason with him, “this is an old aircraft.”
“You seem destined to die at my hands,” the hijacker said ominously….
“Captain saheb, fly the aircraft at leisure. We are in no hurry. This is the millennium flight. We shall go around the world and on millennium day, we shall give a gift to the government of India.” ”
Jaggia observed later that Red Cap seemed to know the aircraft well, “almost as if he had been in it before.” More proof of this is brought out:
“”Victor, Victor, Alpha.” The crackle burst through the speakers in the cockpit. It was the standard call from the pilot of a VVIP aircraft in the airspace around Lucknow. The hijacker appeared annoyed at this. An expression of disgust clouded his face. “Ha, Victor, Victor, Alpha,” he spat. I was puzzled at his anger. It was obvious that he was familiar with the call sign. It was an ominous warning—this man was a professional, and he meant business….Tension was now palpable in the cockpit. Not only was the hijacker armed- he seemed both determined and knowledgeable.”
The hijacker demanded that they be taken to Lahore, confident that they would be able to get landing permission at Lahore. Jaggia asked himself how, without having a nexus with Pakistan, they could be so sure of obtaining permission to land. As the fuel started running out, and the permission to land in Lahore remained elusive, they finally landed in Amritsar for re-fuelling.
At Amritsar, Shukla takes us back to the ground realities: Brajesh Mishra took charge and ordered that re-fuelling be delayed, because the Crisis Management Group (CMG) had said “We need about an hour and a half to mount a commando operation.” Delay tactics were then put into motion.
Meanwhile back with Jaggia, we learn that the hijackers have ordered that the aircraft keep moving all the time. This was followed by Burger getting impatient and coming up to Red Cap to ask him a couple of times, “Shall we start killing?” Red Cap replied, “Nahin, aap aisa nahin karen.” The desperation increased and Red Cap finally got panicky when he wanted the aircraft to be airborne, “You take the aircraft to the end of the runway and crash it for all I care. Do it. But just move from here.”
And the book takes us from hope to despair, from dismay to joy through page after page of crisp narration.
“IC814 Hijacked!” is a must read for all those wanting to know of the behind-the-scenes realities both on board and on the ground. The crew’s careful handling of a fanatical suicide squad is remarkable. The narrative style that focuses on facts and not adjectives is both engrossing and spine-chilling. The indecision, the slowness, the confusion, the anger, the islamic lectures and fanaticism, the absolutely untrained approach to the whole crisis is brought out well by Shukla. Mistakes follow mistakes until one does can only smite one’s brow; one feels, at the end of the book, as if the return of all the passengers save one, is not the result of skill and strategic negotiation, but is in fact really a miracle from above. The flat-footed response of the Indian CMG and the Cabinet Committee is frightening: it would not be rash for one to feel after reading this account, that if one flies in the Indian skies, one flies at one’s own risk, insha-allah.
A must-read and great value for money indeed. What the book misses is minor: Jaggia and Shukla have only left out the emotional element, there is little of the passenger’s reactions to the whole crisis, an interview with Rachna Katyal would have helped add another dimension to the book. But these are really small potatoes.
That Jaggia and Sharan resumed flying a fortnight after the hijack is admirable. While they do the airline proud, one hopes their example will make others follow suit. The CMG, security and political personnel etc all need to take the book seriously. India needs not miracles but expertise and efficiency in a crisis of this nature.
AUTHOR: FLT ENGR ANIL K.JAGGIA
REPORTING BY SAURABH SHUKLA
PUBLISHER: LOTUS COLLECTION, ROLI BOOKS, INDIA
PRICE: Rs. 295
NO OF PAGES: 223
In less than three months from the date of the hijack of IC814, Jaggia and Shukla have published a day-by-day account of the unfortunate hijack. The narration is quick, racy and professional; the cover of the book and its layout is attractive and pleasing; the almost perfectly objective style of Anil Jaggia ( the flight engineer of IC814) and Saurabh Shukla( investigative journalist with the Indian Express) leaves no stone unturned. A book that is difficult to put down until one has turned the last page.
The book opens with a dedication to the honeymooner, Rupin Katyal, the only victim to have lost his life on the aircraft; this is followed by a page with two diagrams: one showing the aircraft layout of business and economuy classes, galley, toilets, etc, with special markings on the seats occupied by Rupin Katyal, his wife, and others such as the two hijackers in Business class; the second map is a close-up of the cockpit seating arrangement, with clear pointers as to where the flight engineer, the pilot, the co-pilot sat as well as where “Red Cap” sat during the hijack. These maps are followed on the next page by a chart that traces the journey of the flight from Kathmandu to Kandahar, plotting the flight movement with brief notations at every stop.
The Annexure in the back-section lists the thirty-six terrorists whose relaease had been demanded by the hijackers, their names, parentage,, origin, the separatist group to which they belonged, with their date of arrest, complete with relevant particulars of these terrorists. Next, is the passenger manifesto, with the full name-list of all passengers on board. Then there is a three-page day-by-day account of the hijack by passenger Rajesh Naithani. Additionally, for hungry information seekers, the two writers have also drawn lists of those in the Crisis Management Group(CMG) and those in the Central Committee(CC) who dealt with the crisis from the ground.
The narration itself is racy, objective, carefully analytical, and brief. The suspense is heightened by the manner in which the narration is divided: the camera alternates and shifts briskly between the onboard drama, as recounted by Flight Engineer Jaggia, and the political and administrative machinations in Delhi, Amritsar, Kandahar, Dubai, etc, as described by Saurabh Shukla. The narration focuses on the various factors that not only allowed the hijack but also caused Rupin Katyal’s death and also allowed the faux pas at Amritsar.
Jaggia’s name for the the head of the hijack mission is “Red Cap” the man the other hijackeres called,“Chief’. Jaggia found that Red Cap had “an accent similar to those of Pakistani taxi drivers in Sharjah”. He wore a red balaclava inside of which he was wearing photchromatic glasses in order to disguise his eyes. He entered the cabin just as flight purser, Anil Sharma, was leaving with the now empty cups of tea and coffee that the cockpit crew had just enjoyed.
“The intruder pushed him aside and forced his way into the cockpit, saying, “Koi hoshiyari nahin karega. Koi hilega nahin. Tayyara hamare kabaze main hain (Nobody move or try to act smart, we have seized the aircraft”). … A frisson of alarm ran down our spines. We were being hijacked.” Jaggia continues to describe the developments that folowed. Another hooded hijacker, Burger, entered the cockpit, saluted Red Cap and whispered to him. Red Cap ordered them to fly westward. Meanwhile, “Captain Sharan had quietly selected the relevant transponder frequency and passed on a coded message to Ground Control ” telling them that they had been hijacked.
While Jaggia shares with us the tension and frightening chain of events that followed on board the aircraft, Shukla now takes us to the airspace just above Lucknow. In what can only be termed ironic, he tells us that a VVIP Boeing aircraft was flying just four minutes ahead of the hijacked plane, and its occupant were none other than the Indian Prime Minister, A.B.Vajpayee and the Union Civil Aviation Minister, Sharad Yadav.
“Flight IC814 was in close vicinity of the Prime Minister’s aircraft. Yet the coutry’s most powerful person remained ignorant of the crisis. It was only after he would land at Palam Technical Area in Delhi that he would be informed of the hijacking. It is intriguing why the pilot of the Boeing chose to remain quiet and did not pass on the message of the hijacking to the PM’s entourage. He was certainly privvy to the information….Prime Minister Vajpayee was not informed of the hijack while he was airborne despite the availability of an Iridium phone in the aircraft. Surprisingly, the Joint Intelligence Committee comprising the Intelligence chiefs and National Security Adviser Brajesh Mishra failed to inform the Prime Minister.”
The book is full of such terribly disturbing but valid questions: considering the fact that in a crisis time plays a vital role, why indeed was the PM kept in the dark? Why did Mr Mishra not contact the PM on the phone, why did the pilot not share his knowledge of the hijack? Questions that trouble one even more because they lack acceptable answers.
Meanwhile the story reverts to the aircraft and Jaggia’s narration:
“ “Have you pressed the hijack button?” the hijacker asked urgently.
“What button?” asked Captain Sharan. “we don’t have any hijack button.”
“Why are you telling lies?” shouted the hijacker.
“We don’t have any such button,” Captain Sharan tried to reason with him, “this is an old aircraft.”
“You seem destined to die at my hands,” the hijacker said ominously….
“Captain saheb, fly the aircraft at leisure. We are in no hurry. This is the millennium flight. We shall go around the world and on millennium day, we shall give a gift to the government of India.” ”
Jaggia observed later that Red Cap seemed to know the aircraft well, “almost as if he had been in it before.” More proof of this is brought out:
“”Victor, Victor, Alpha.” The crackle burst through the speakers in the cockpit. It was the standard call from the pilot of a VVIP aircraft in the airspace around Lucknow. The hijacker appeared annoyed at this. An expression of disgust clouded his face. “Ha, Victor, Victor, Alpha,” he spat. I was puzzled at his anger. It was obvious that he was familiar with the call sign. It was an ominous warning—this man was a professional, and he meant business….Tension was now palpable in the cockpit. Not only was the hijacker armed- he seemed both determined and knowledgeable.”
The hijacker demanded that they be taken to Lahore, confident that they would be able to get landing permission at Lahore. Jaggia asked himself how, without having a nexus with Pakistan, they could be so sure of obtaining permission to land. As the fuel started running out, and the permission to land in Lahore remained elusive, they finally landed in Amritsar for re-fuelling.
At Amritsar, Shukla takes us back to the ground realities: Brajesh Mishra took charge and ordered that re-fuelling be delayed, because the Crisis Management Group (CMG) had said “We need about an hour and a half to mount a commando operation.” Delay tactics were then put into motion.
Meanwhile back with Jaggia, we learn that the hijackers have ordered that the aircraft keep moving all the time. This was followed by Burger getting impatient and coming up to Red Cap to ask him a couple of times, “Shall we start killing?” Red Cap replied, “Nahin, aap aisa nahin karen.” The desperation increased and Red Cap finally got panicky when he wanted the aircraft to be airborne, “You take the aircraft to the end of the runway and crash it for all I care. Do it. But just move from here.”
And the book takes us from hope to despair, from dismay to joy through page after page of crisp narration.
“IC814 Hijacked!” is a must read for all those wanting to know of the behind-the-scenes realities both on board and on the ground. The crew’s careful handling of a fanatical suicide squad is remarkable. The narrative style that focuses on facts and not adjectives is both engrossing and spine-chilling. The indecision, the slowness, the confusion, the anger, the islamic lectures and fanaticism, the absolutely untrained approach to the whole crisis is brought out well by Shukla. Mistakes follow mistakes until one does can only smite one’s brow; one feels, at the end of the book, as if the return of all the passengers save one, is not the result of skill and strategic negotiation, but is in fact really a miracle from above. The flat-footed response of the Indian CMG and the Cabinet Committee is frightening: it would not be rash for one to feel after reading this account, that if one flies in the Indian skies, one flies at one’s own risk, insha-allah.
A must-read and great value for money indeed. What the book misses is minor: Jaggia and Shukla have only left out the emotional element, there is little of the passenger’s reactions to the whole crisis, an interview with Rachna Katyal would have helped add another dimension to the book. But these are really small potatoes.
That Jaggia and Sharan resumed flying a fortnight after the hijack is admirable. While they do the airline proud, one hopes their example will make others follow suit. The CMG, security and political personnel etc all need to take the book seriously. India needs not miracles but expertise and efficiency in a crisis of this nature.
Book Review
“A MARRIED WOMAN” BY MANJU KAPUR
PUBLISHED BY INDIAINK, PAGES 310
PRICE INR 295
Manju Kapur’s second novel is like having a four course meal in reverse. One begins reading a novel but realizes at the end that it was only a political tract masquerading as a novel.
The first three chapters are enticing and interesting, Ms Kapur’s sarcastic and ironic style breezes one through the first three chapters but from then on neither the style nor the content can rescue the book from hara-kiri.
Chapter 1, first the ice-cream: her laconic descriptions of the protagonist, Astha and her parents’ middle class values ring true and are humorous: her father’s adherence to an exercise regime and strictness about homework, her mother’s worries about her only child’s marriage and society, their united concerns about money ( very well brought out in a tiny vignette in a restaurant as they enjoy the tikkis less and calculating the profit the shopkeeper makes, more), her teenage crush on Bunty and the end of that, her heavy petting with Rohan in his Vauxhall and the end of that too and her broken heart.
Chapter 2: the chocolate sauce: Hemant the hero enters, they meet and get engaged; her obsession with him, his obsession with sex, their wealth, his increasing boredom, her increasing boredom, her father’s death after shifting, the arrival of a swami in her mother’s widowed life, the birth of her two children, the second one with fear and anxiety, prayers for a son, yes, it’s a boy, thank God.
Chapter 3 the sweet and sour vegetables, the main course: her husband doesn’t understand her, her attempts at writing poetry are unappreciated, her children don’t engross her, her mother doesn’t listen to her and leaves for Hrishikesh and then what’s worse, her mother’s long impersonal, religious sermon-letters from there. One hundred pages so far so good.
Chapter 4, suddenly it’s the garlic and onion soup: the novel falls into the quicksand of political activism and remains mired there. Surprise, it’s time for Babri Masjid! One smites one’s forehead, oh no, et tu brute, not this hackneyed politically correct one-sided view, please. Astha’s encounter with Aijaz, the nice Muslim (ergo, aren’t all Muslims nice?) who is such a cardboard figure that the writer cannot bring herself to ask him what he has to say about Hindu sentiments vis-a-vis the Ram temple but who miraculously manages to provoke her into research on the subject. Commissioned by a Muslim she does the inevitable, finds not a shred of evidence to redeem Hindus; she becomes agitated and spews fire. (Did she forget to dedicate the book to Romila Thapar? The political activist not in Astha but in Ms Kapur makes sure that Hemant( representing the saffron side) is given weak lines that are easily demolished by no other than an otherwise worldly-unwise Astha. Which leads one to ask the million dollar question: why is L.K.Advani being called, “the Leader” and not L.K.Advani when Rajiv Gandhi gets to keep his name? This squeamishness remains a mystery: was it Ms Kapur’s personal contempt for the arch villain or her reluctance to make the man famous through her path-breaking novel (sigh, better luck next time, Manju dear) or, worse, didn’t Astha, the character, remember that old man’s name? Attempting to win political arguments with such tricks might get one cocktail invites and a publisher but sadly don’t make for even second class fiction.
The rest of the book is the poisoned pill that follows the soup, Chapters 5 to 10. Now lesbianism is the red herring used to deflect attention from the real thing. If only like Jane Austen, Ms Kapur had stuck to the small world which they both know well and can write so well about, the book would have been first class. But Ms Austen, poor thing, probably had literary ambitions, not political ones. And so we trudge through more unashamed secularist propaganda before we can be done with the book. The writer /protagonist upholds pre-marital affairs, extra-marital affairs, minority rights, women’s rights, socialism, artistic self-expression, anti-Hinduism. Great. With such major concerns, is it any surprise that good-natured affection, small joys and love find no room in the book? Those who love Astha must leave her so she might find her artistic voice through politics and so they are all garbaged one by one: Bunty, Rohan, her father, Aijaz, Pipeelika. What remains behind is only a screaming placard,”Down with love, up with the Mosque, down with men, up with art as political expression”.
Ms Kapur fails to share with us Astha’s feelings at her father’s death; she fails to tell us the details about her first meeting with her future husband and their courtship, descriptions she is so good at, there are so many opportunities she could have grabbed to add dimension to her characters. The political activist stunts the writer in Ms Kapur; even the lengthy acknowledgements at the end of the book , which usually accompany non-fiction, provide proof of the writer’s agenda. Ms Kapur should not have fallen into the trap dreaded by green fiction writers: political activism. Her characters languish when they could have acquired depth, the book flounders and the characters remain hazy blurs. The novel is suffocated by its agenda and narcissism.
Ms Kapur hopes we will think it is a tragedy of a nice talented heroine in a suffocating world but we don’t because we are never allowed to forget the other story. Like the loathed “Leader” who the writer despises for using religion to achieve political gains, Ms Kapur, too, uses fiction as a vehicle to gain converts to her political ideology. While one is accustomed to politicians stopping at nothing, when a novelist does this, one can only watch the hara-kiri with surprise.
It is the saddest political tract I have read in a long time.
“A MARRIED WOMAN” BY MANJU KAPUR
PUBLISHED BY INDIAINK, PAGES 310
PRICE INR 295
Manju Kapur’s second novel is like having a four course meal in reverse. One begins reading a novel but realizes at the end that it was only a political tract masquerading as a novel.
The first three chapters are enticing and interesting, Ms Kapur’s sarcastic and ironic style breezes one through the first three chapters but from then on neither the style nor the content can rescue the book from hara-kiri.
Chapter 1, first the ice-cream: her laconic descriptions of the protagonist, Astha and her parents’ middle class values ring true and are humorous: her father’s adherence to an exercise regime and strictness about homework, her mother’s worries about her only child’s marriage and society, their united concerns about money ( very well brought out in a tiny vignette in a restaurant as they enjoy the tikkis less and calculating the profit the shopkeeper makes, more), her teenage crush on Bunty and the end of that, her heavy petting with Rohan in his Vauxhall and the end of that too and her broken heart.
Chapter 2: the chocolate sauce: Hemant the hero enters, they meet and get engaged; her obsession with him, his obsession with sex, their wealth, his increasing boredom, her increasing boredom, her father’s death after shifting, the arrival of a swami in her mother’s widowed life, the birth of her two children, the second one with fear and anxiety, prayers for a son, yes, it’s a boy, thank God.
Chapter 3 the sweet and sour vegetables, the main course: her husband doesn’t understand her, her attempts at writing poetry are unappreciated, her children don’t engross her, her mother doesn’t listen to her and leaves for Hrishikesh and then what’s worse, her mother’s long impersonal, religious sermon-letters from there. One hundred pages so far so good.
Chapter 4, suddenly it’s the garlic and onion soup: the novel falls into the quicksand of political activism and remains mired there. Surprise, it’s time for Babri Masjid! One smites one’s forehead, oh no, et tu brute, not this hackneyed politically correct one-sided view, please. Astha’s encounter with Aijaz, the nice Muslim (ergo, aren’t all Muslims nice?) who is such a cardboard figure that the writer cannot bring herself to ask him what he has to say about Hindu sentiments vis-a-vis the Ram temple but who miraculously manages to provoke her into research on the subject. Commissioned by a Muslim she does the inevitable, finds not a shred of evidence to redeem Hindus; she becomes agitated and spews fire. (Did she forget to dedicate the book to Romila Thapar? The political activist not in Astha but in Ms Kapur makes sure that Hemant( representing the saffron side) is given weak lines that are easily demolished by no other than an otherwise worldly-unwise Astha. Which leads one to ask the million dollar question: why is L.K.Advani being called, “the Leader” and not L.K.Advani when Rajiv Gandhi gets to keep his name? This squeamishness remains a mystery: was it Ms Kapur’s personal contempt for the arch villain or her reluctance to make the man famous through her path-breaking novel (sigh, better luck next time, Manju dear) or, worse, didn’t Astha, the character, remember that old man’s name? Attempting to win political arguments with such tricks might get one cocktail invites and a publisher but sadly don’t make for even second class fiction.
The rest of the book is the poisoned pill that follows the soup, Chapters 5 to 10. Now lesbianism is the red herring used to deflect attention from the real thing. If only like Jane Austen, Ms Kapur had stuck to the small world which they both know well and can write so well about, the book would have been first class. But Ms Austen, poor thing, probably had literary ambitions, not political ones. And so we trudge through more unashamed secularist propaganda before we can be done with the book. The writer /protagonist upholds pre-marital affairs, extra-marital affairs, minority rights, women’s rights, socialism, artistic self-expression, anti-Hinduism. Great. With such major concerns, is it any surprise that good-natured affection, small joys and love find no room in the book? Those who love Astha must leave her so she might find her artistic voice through politics and so they are all garbaged one by one: Bunty, Rohan, her father, Aijaz, Pipeelika. What remains behind is only a screaming placard,”Down with love, up with the Mosque, down with men, up with art as political expression”.
Ms Kapur fails to share with us Astha’s feelings at her father’s death; she fails to tell us the details about her first meeting with her future husband and their courtship, descriptions she is so good at, there are so many opportunities she could have grabbed to add dimension to her characters. The political activist stunts the writer in Ms Kapur; even the lengthy acknowledgements at the end of the book , which usually accompany non-fiction, provide proof of the writer’s agenda. Ms Kapur should not have fallen into the trap dreaded by green fiction writers: political activism. Her characters languish when they could have acquired depth, the book flounders and the characters remain hazy blurs. The novel is suffocated by its agenda and narcissism.
Ms Kapur hopes we will think it is a tragedy of a nice talented heroine in a suffocating world but we don’t because we are never allowed to forget the other story. Like the loathed “Leader” who the writer despises for using religion to achieve political gains, Ms Kapur, too, uses fiction as a vehicle to gain converts to her political ideology. While one is accustomed to politicians stopping at nothing, when a novelist does this, one can only watch the hara-kiri with surprise.
It is the saddest political tract I have read in a long time.
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