HOW RAMJI GOT THE BEARD

April 9, 2013

“Ten Thirty sharp,” the voice from the mobile phone had cautioned. “Not a minute late”.

I arrived at nine thirty at the gate of the Lion’s Den, then drove around the block and under the fly-over trying to find a parking space in the shade on the roadside. Eventually I found a place two kilometres away, ahead of a long line of SUVs and limousines.

When I got out, a five-feet-and-pot-bellied (as usual) policeman showed up, waving his two-feet reed-stick.

Chalo, chalo,” he said, waving me to get back into the car and drive away. I palmed him a twenty-rupee note.

Chalo,” he insisted, looking at the money with feigned disdain.

I pulled out a fifty-rupee note, without handing it to him. He grabbed and pocketed it in a flash.

“Only ten minutes,” he said.

“I have an interview in the Lion’s Den”.

“Then it’s all right”. He picked up a handful of mud and put it atop the bonnet. “That’s a sign. Now nobody would bother you”.

It was nine-fifty. I decided to walk the two kilometres back, cursing myself for not knowing that putting a handful of mud on the bonnet would have saved me the money for a litre – well, at least half a litre – of petrol. As it is, I was ruined; if I could still save the car, that half a litre would be worth its weight in gold.

I walked slowly, marking time, and arrived at the door of the Den at 10:28. There were benches on either side of the verandah, all occupied. Except a few inches of bare wood at the far end of a bench.

I rushed to the door. A short man in Dadoji Konddeo makeup, not forgetting the sword in its scabbard slung by his hip, stopped me.

“The queue, “ he said, pointing towards the far end.

“I have a meeting with Lion Sahib,” I said : “10-30 sharp,”

“I know you, Mr. Ashok Ghatiya, the producer,” he said, with the faint shade of a smile. “You know that gentleman at the head of the bench? He has a meeting at 9:30 sharp. “

The fiftyish handsome man at the head of the sitting queue looked up and smiled.

”Indian standard time,” he said.

“Is your Pakistan standard time any better?” asked the guard in Konddeo makeup. His mustache bristled with patriotism.

“It is worse. No need to get angry,” said Mr. fiftyish handsome with thinning hair and Caucasian face in light brown skin.

“My, my, the famous Mr. Irfan Khan of the Insaf-for-my-kin-na-insaf-for-Musharraff party,” I exclaimed, stretching my hand for a handshake.

“Do I know you?,” asked Mr. Irfan Khan, ignoring my extended hand.

“Of course, of course. You are not supposed to know Indian filmwalas, are you? Not when cameras are around. But, tell me, what brought a famous man with great potential at the Lion’s Den?”

“The great potential,” said Irfan Khan. “To win, I need the Hindu votes in Pakistan. Only the Lion Meherban can help me”.

“How can Lion Sahib help you with the Hindu votes in Pakistan? I have heard that they shoot the Hindus when they come out of the polling booth after voting.”

“False propaganda by Americans and Indians to defame my beloved Country managed for now by non-beloved people. It never happens that way. Of course, people of the losing party blame Hindus for their loss and rape their women. They never find the men after elections. Shooting, by the way, is reseved for Shia Muslims when the come out after prayers.”

“Good for Hindus”, I said. “But how can Lion ji of India help the Hindus of Pakistan? He is only the Emperor of Indian Hindu souls.”

“Simple. If the Lion picks up the phone, long-distance the Hyena in Dubai and asks for protection for Hindus in Pakistan – true, Hindus have no souls, only us Muslims, Christians and those Zionists have, but some of the Hindus have votes – and if they come to realize that their safety is assured through my good offices, they become my vote bank.”

“But aren’t the Lion and the Hyena enemies? How can..”

“You know nothing about politics, Ashok Ghatiya,” he said.

“So you know my name, why, you might even win a Crore-pati show with your general knowledge.” I said, walking back, determined to be patient.

I spied Afsose Swami, the man who lost 100 Kgs from his bottom and 16 Kgs from his torso and now looked merely obese. Actually, even before I spied him, he stood up to greet me.

“Lift kara de, Give me a lift,” he said, taking a beleaguered breath and extending a hand.

“I am here for a lift myself,” I said, taking his hand. It wouldn’t do to offend Swami, never mind the depleting lard and a surname that sounded like a Southie Pattar’s patented first name. A film might even run on the strength of a song from a Pakistani. That nomad woman – what was her name? – had proved it. Then there was another man with shrill voice who proved it even more.

“I know, I know, “ said Swami, who neither looked nor was a South Indian Pattar. “Your new film has bombed – was bombed, literally. I am sorry. I hope the Lion does something for you.”

“Then I might give you a lift,” I assured him.

As I sat on the last four-inch space of the waiting bench, a sweet and smooth fragrance engulfed me, a soft feeling of flesh tickled my hip. The plump and beautiful woman sitting next to me was Kiraya Tariq, the Pakistani actress, I instantly recognized, never mind she wore a nine-yard sari and a matching blouse that showed off her flat midriff like a miniature movie screen.

Midriff made an Indian actress sexy or otherwise, not to forget the cleavage. Flowing saris and bare-backed cholis gave the midriffs the job of titillating the front benchers whose passionate howls marked the success of a movie. As a producer, the very best among them, I could tell an actress just by looking at her midriff .

“Mr. Ghatiya, the producer!” she exclaimed, surprise and pleasure oozing from all the pores of her body that I could see. “You produce great movies!” she said.

That exclamation did not seem arouse interest in anybody in the sitting line ahead. Successful men do not show interest in Hindi movies, only see them in private. They go to theatres to see English movies, which they don’t understand, but wait for the next man to laugh so they could laugh too. These were men of great importance in the trades that they plied, not youngsters who swooned over those who swept the studio floors.

I had heard that as a rule lone women were not allowed to sit in the line outside the Den, and most women who came in were led to the kitchen by Mr. made-up Konddeo.

“Bharatiya Naris should behave and be treated like queens,” was a well-known quote from the Lion. “They rule over men’s hearts when they toil in the kitchen”.

“How did that made-up soldier from the graveyard allow you to sit here?”, I queried of Ms Tariq.

“I’m not alone. I’ve come with Afsose , you know,” she said , nudging Swami with an elbow. Swami, the Pakistani with a name that sounded like a Southie’s, was said to have lost 116 kilos by running from a crowd that pelted stones when he sang a remix of Chholi-ke-pichhe-kya-hai .

“Why are you wearing a nine-yarder? Aren’t you supposed to be in bikini?” I asked Kiraya.

“Only in films. You see, when the trailers of my movies are released, with me in the role of a housewife in bikini, some jobless lawyer or another is sure to file a suit to ban the film. He would say that it is an insult to Bharatiya Naris who don’t even own a bikini. We put out those promos a year ahead of the shooting to make sure that the jobless lawyer or another busybody gets to work right away.. By the time the judge decides to see the movie, we are ready. He watches it, drools, and permits the release. The caseless lawyer or the jobless busybody is happy seeing his name in print and mug on the TV for a whole year, and we are happy with the free publicity. Producer collects his cost in three days and profit till the next Thursday.” Being a producer, albeit a failed one, I realized the importance of Friday – when a movie was released and the next Thursday, whether successful or otherwise, it was buried. Even pirates buried their remaining DVDS of the new movie in the darkness of next Thursday before paying for a ticket to walk in to a multiplex with his mobile phone to shoot a video of the new movie straight off the screen.

I mulled over it. That must be how Bhim Chopstick, that fat financer sitting fourth in line, made all his money.Perhaps he has a couple of busybody lawyers on his payroll.

“Don’t tell anyone I told you this,” cautioned Malik. “Chopstick won’t chodo me for revealing the trade secret”.

Chodo had many meanings, depending on how one pronounced the do part. I let that pass.

“Tell me, don’t you get into trouble with your Pakistani countrymen for your bikini shows?”

“Never. In Pakistan, only women who complain of rape get stoned to death. She can’t get four male witnesses for the rape; the rapist won’t confess. So who is the only known person guilty of fornication? The woman. She gets stoned, and the spirit of Shariah is fulfilled. I wouldn’t cry rape even if you rape me,” she chuckled. Swami glowered.

Irfan Khan came out, smiling from ear to ear. He stopped and whispered to me:

“The Lion made the Hyena speak to me directly. You are now speaking to the future Prime Minister of Pakistan – with Hindu votes! One day, you’ll see, I will be Azam-e-Paki-Hind!”. He nodded to Kiraya and rushed out.

The guard with the graveyard makeup and sword walked up to me gingerly. “Come with me. Quietly. You got priority”

“I am not a chief minister or something,” I cautioned.

“The Lion once made a woman chief minister cook his lunch in the kitchen. But you’re coming with me straight to the Den. Lucky you. Let the business Murgas who are waiting keep waiting.”

I was afraid his hoarse whisper was audible among the waiting population oof tycoons on the bench, including the two foreigners in business suits who had just walked in.

As he led me to the door, there were murmurs of protest. Made-up man gave a cold stare, and the murmur subsided. Bhim Chopstick, the film financer, looked like he was filling up like a balloon. Suddenly he raised one buttock and broke wind. Kirya Tariq giggled like a little girl while the business tycoons held their breath and their dignity.

If I ever get a chance to produce another spiritual movie, I would give her the role of – who? – may be Draupadi, the innocent and chaste woman with five husbands. Nice name too, I tarried at the door, musing, “Chaste Woman With Five Husbands”.. Incredibly mystic and in English. Indian movies have to have English titles. Chaste woman, the name would be, if I get to make another movie, so help me Lion’s Den.

Made-up Konddeo opened the door quietly into a dimly lit but heavily festooned hall, and I walked on the plush carpet towards the frail skeletal shape reclining on an easy chair. But for his newly grown white beard and scant hair with patches of remaining black dye, you could see little of a face. The newspaper he owned, the Frontline, and wrote or dictated every column , described his eyes as fierce, fiery and penetrating. I barely saw anything beyond the sockets.

“Come, come,” he croaked, “You are privileged to shake my hand”.

His right hand held the hand of a young teenager, with thin limbs devoid of muscles. He stretched his left hand to me.

I took the bony fingers, cold and lifeless.

“I don’t get up to shake hands with anybody. My enemies – what do you say in Punjabi? Mother fuckers – say that it’s because if I get up, I will break in two. Hah, hah,hah. Do Lions break in two?”

The laughter sounded hollow, but I tittered for his sake.

“Moreover, people – even Michael Jackson – what a polite boy – didn’t expect to shake hands with me. He touched my feet. These Americans have great culture. But I don’t like Indian women wearing skirts and – what do you call it? – jeans”.

I bent down to touch his feet. What Michael Jackson could do, Ashok Ghatiya could do better.

“Sit down,” he said, pointing to a stool in front of him. “You are lucky. That’s the stool where Michael sat, not to mention Show-Rokh-Khan who keeps coming and apologizing, for God Knows what.”

“Dada, every visitor sits on that stool,” intercepted the thin youngster.

“See, see, always argumentative. My grandson Ramu Lion. Just like me. I call him Toad-phod Lioncub. How many hospitals have you burnt, Toad-phod?”

“Three.”

“And how many football courts have you dug up?”

“Four”.

“How many houses have you set on fire, and how many buses were broken?

“Grandpa, how can I count them all? “

“Just like me. Angry, argumentative , Toad-phod-skilled. Next-in-line Lion of the Pride . Twenty years from now- after I die, if I die.”

“But what about his father – your son?”

“Ah, let’s stop this talk about sons and nephews and daughters-in-law. Tell me your problem”.

I wasn’t ready yet to get in to my problem. More buttering up was needed. So I looked around and said: “I see that all the Shivlings have come back to their original places. Last time I came to pay respects with my wife and to offer our condolences, you had thrown out all of them.”

“Very observant, very observant like a producer-director – isn’t that what you are? – should be. Yes, When my wife fell sick, I had specifically told these lingam deities that she shouldn’t die. She should be made to go through the new happenings in my household and bear with it. You know, that useless son of mine ran away and the useful daughter-in-law stayed back and all- – but the Lingam-deity didn’t pay heed. The wifie died. So I threw out every semblance of a lingam except my own. Now that these things don’t matter either way, I have let the god and his lingams come back and take their places. Now tell me your problem. “

“You see, Lionji, this new movie of mine that has cost me everything I had – even the carpets and the fridge in the house –“

“Cut out the sentiments. Why did you name it Ravan ki Kahani? Are you a kaloo South Indian Ravan worshipper?”

“Pure Son of Punjab. Gora without makeup. And a great devotee of the Lion, ji. You see, all movies with Ra and won did roaring business in the box office. That name became a fetish in the trade. Rawan, Ra-one, Raw van, anything with Ra. Like K some years ago. My writer suggested that name. You know, Lionji, I am into spiritual movies. fierceVetals, toothy Draculas, horse-riding Jins, long-nosed and nosey witches, skull-faced Satans and white-saried singing ghosts come alive on the screen in my movies. Children can’t get sleep for days and their mothers teach them Hanuman-Chalisa which puts them to sleep. A million children learnt Forty Odes to Hanuman from their mothers solely because of my movies. Purely spiritual. Till this time, they were lapped up by all and sundry, housewives, jobless youth, goons, your own Pride of lions, murderers, even Pakistanis. Pakistanis are in love with my pirated videos. Since by principle they are against buying originals, and the originals are heavily taxed or banned in Pakistan – because the Mullahs have said it is against their Shar..shar..whatever law , I make the pirated versions of my own movies for them, which sell like Shalijani Gosht. There used to be a lot of money in it. Till now.” I sighed.

“Nobody had objected to any of that. Even my little Toad-phod likes your movies. Particularly those ones with skull faces and sexy women in white saris singing sweet Lata Mangeshkar songs and roaming in the dark. He led the Toado-phodo of your Ravan ki Khani because…..” his voice was beginning to strain and shudder – “you put a beard on Bhagwan Ram! Such insult to Hinduism, such humiliation to the purest of divine souls ever known to man! Such insult to me, the Emperor of Hindu souls! To put a beard on his handsome face! Moreover, the hero himself – no, not Ramji, but the hero of your movie – came to me a week ago. He complained that with all that hair all over his face, nobody would even recognize him as the actor who played Ram. How would the public worship him and touch his feet and give him awards if they don’t even know that he was the Ram in the movie? Didn’t you know that he was one of my boys in his heart of hearts? A beard, imagine!”

I noticed that he was stroking his own thin beard while saying it. Which made sense.

“My writer coaxed me to put that beard on Ramji‘s face”, I pleaded. Imitating the writer’s Bihari accented Hindi lisp, I continued: “ He said, Ram lived in the forest for fourteen years. He took Laxman and Sita with him, but not a barber. Do you expect a proud Kshatriaya-class prince to stoop so low as to shave himself? Even assuming Sita could shave him, since a woman can stoop to any depth to serve her husband, who is her God, she wasn’t with him most of those fourteen years. To imagine that Ram and Laxman shaved each other would be sacrilegious. Were the divine brothers hairless eunuchs? No. So Ram and Laxman had to have beards.”

The old man scratched his head. Thought came to him hard, but speech came easy.

“Do Puranas speak of a Ram with beard?”

“Do the epics describe the beards of Valmiki, Vasisht and Viswamitra?” I ventured, with trepidation.

The Lion kept scratching his head. A female voice in the shadow spoke up.

“But they were sages. Sages wore beards.”

“Narada was a sage. Why don’t they show him with a beard? Sai Babas have no beard.”

“Our gods do not grow beard. Not Brahma, not Vishnu, not Shiv.”

“Ram was an avtar of God, in human form on our beard-growing earth and not hairless Vaikunth. like Parashuram and, some say, Sri-Sri Ravi Shankar. They have beards”.

“Don’t argue with me,” croaked the Lion, trying to put some power into his voice. “Rama had no beard. Period. You remove the beard, and your movie will get an audience of millions of my Hindu subjects. It’s not my concern how many million Pakistanis watch the pirated videos of your bearded Ram.”

“How can I remove the beard of Ram from every frame? Please, please help me.”

“Don’t argue with me. Only Toad-phod is allowed that privilege.” His voice was getting faint.

The young man beamed with pride, but said nothing.

“I am ruined. I thought you’d save this old devotee, who touches your feet once again, but you abandon me. I have decided to forget the movie and become a coolie.”

“Join the Lion’s pride,” said young Toad-phod , addressing me for the first time. “All unemployed Hindus around here join the Pride. We don’t give them jobs, but we give them a danda each. We train them on toad-phod, whereby they get respect and money by way of donations to Shivlangam. If you’re good, you might even get a gun and live like the wealthy producer you used to be. Even some Muslims try to join us , but we don’t let them in. So they join the Hyena’s Cackle. The Hyena is very grateful to Grandpa for helping to swell the Cackle”.

I felt the time had come for playing my trump.

“Lionji, I have decided. I have nothing left but a mere one lakh in my last bank account. What would a coolie do with a hundred thousand? My wife has eloped with the writer who got me into this mess after wangling a big cheque from me. I leave this last cheque for a hundred thousand as donation for your party – sorry, Pride. Do what you will. I wish you a long life.”

The woman with the voice in the shade emerged from the shade and grabbed the cheque and returned to the shade.

I am not sure whether it was my wishing him long life or the one-lakh cheque that lit up a light-emitting diode that shone through the transparent skin of his scalp. He tried to sit up, pushing down hard on the arms of the chair, but gave up, probably for fear that he would break in two at the middle. Only his elbows creaked.

Perhaps the Lion sensed that the cheque would bounce if the movie didn’t run. He was not known for great thinking, but he was clever.

“I got it. You are right. There was no way Ram could have had a clean-shaven face through the fourteen – or was it thirteen- whatever – years of jungle sojourn. Ghatiya is right, Ram had a beard at least those fourteen or thirteen-whatever-years in the forest. “

“And Laxman..”

“Who cares about Laxman, that South Indian who thinks he can bat better than my boys?”

“Not that Laxman, but Ram’s brother Laxman,” intoned the female voice that had disappeared again into the shade with my dud bill.

“All right, let him also have his beard. Right NOW.”

He began to cough. His chest reverberated like the beating of a tribal drum.

Tod-phod turned towards his grandfather. “Shall I tell the Pride to stop beating up the ushers in multiplexes and burning down smaller theatres? That windshields of public buses and private cars should be spared? That the Pride should announce to the Hindus that Ram had a beard, his brother Laxman had a beard and that the Ghatiya movie must be seen by all – or else – and all that?”

“Yes, yes,” the Lion coughed and coughed.”You know, Ghatiya, cough, cough, we never burn down multiplexes. Only beat up ushers because those bloody Biharis can’t pay up for Linga-puja. Muslim ushers are worse, they won’t pay up even if they can. It doesn’t matter what’s the provocation, we target the right people and right things. Biharis, UP Bhaayyas. These days I spare the Kaloos because they have franchised my Pride down South. We don’t spare public buses, private cars, ambulances and hospitals. Burning Hospitals are great fun, my Toad-phod grandson tells me. You could watch lames, people with fractured legs, those on drips, dying oldies, – no, don’t look at me , I am not dying – trying to run, falling down, and running again.”

His thin shoulders shook as he chuckled in glee .

“Pregnant women deliver. Those who aren’t pregnant – well, my boys have a solution even for that.. Nobody should play with the Lion’s Pride and our sentiments. If they do, the usual ones will pay for it. Let Ram-Laxman keep the beard.”

I touched the Lion’s withering paws, saluted the Toad-phod who surely had a future in India, and walked out.

Kiraya and Afsose Swami were being marched in.

“Seeking blessings for a movie you are planning together?”

“No”, said the Pakistani with the South-Indian sounding name. “Seeking his blessing for our marriage together. Otherwise the pandal would be stoned and I would lose all the remaining hundred kilos”.

“Good for you,” I whispered. “Last time I had come here, I had come with my wife to seek blessing for our marriage together. Yesterday she ran away with the Bihari writer.”

“Good for you, too, ” said Swami with a wink. ”Many a fish in the water”

I didn’t pause to see Kiraya’s reaction.
—————————————————–

Note : This story is merely a product of my weak imagination.

FIFTY SHADES OF PREJUDICE

January 11, 2013

200 unarmed Indians

PART I : THE FIRST TWENTY FIVE SHADES

Two white policemen hold guns over a rabid chimpanzee, his blood squirting all over the street.

“They’ll have to find someone else to write the next stimulus bill,” reads the caption.

That is a cartoon that came in print on page 12, New York Post, owned by Ruport Murdoch, on 18th February, 2009. If you missed that cartoon on the newly inaugurated President of the United States of the time, you could view the same on many websites but in the Post, which withdrew the cartoon and apologized.

Those were the days when US economy was being dragged into a white hole. George Bush, the man who almost single-handedly led his country to the verge of that hole, was probably playing golf in his ranch and gloating about his courage to let Lehman Brothers, and the great American Dream of millions to own a home, get sucked in. Barack Obama, the new President, had just signed the first Stimulus Bill to save the business houses from going down the hole.

The dying Chimp was not drawn in mere outlines. He was painted black. His mouth was wide, thick and white, the way white cartoonists of old depicted “Negroes”. A few months earlier, when Obama was campaigning for President, many whites wore T-shirts depicting him a monkey.

Some in the media made muffled noises, tried to call up the cartoonist, Sean Delonas, notorious for his prejudices. A civil rights activist here, a black priest there, a couple of people from the media made polite and appropriate sounds.

Shortly after Obama won the election, an American e-mail friend wrote to me : “Now we have a monkey couple and its brood in the White house”. He sent me a photoshopped picture of Obama, evidently cut-and-pasted from an internet site.Obama

I replied : “Monkey couple? During the last two centuries, America had known three handsome couples in the White House : John F Kennedy with puckered eyes and a pretty brunette for a wife ; Clinton with an oval face, oral office reputation and a blonde wife who was not dumb but acted like one through the oral episode; Obama ten times better and younger looking than George Bush with a wife very pretty but for a crooked jaw”. My American friend broke off the correspondence.

Having built a rich (though in deep debt) nation over the carcasses of Red Indians (called Red, so you could to tell them apart from the Brown ones of South Asia) and the sweat and blood (and some carcasses) of black slaves, racism runs through the veins of the United States, much like casteism (which is worse?) streams through Indian artery. 2008 Presidential election showed that racism was somewhat overrun by male chauvinism. Obama won the primaries because he was opposed by a woman (“Iron my shirt!” screamed a couple of youngsters at Hillary’s New Hampshire campaign). Obama won the presidency because any man, even a black man, was preferable to the Republican candidate who wasn’t ready to repudiate the legacy left behind by George Bush. Also because Obama’s alternative to Democratic candidacy was a woman.

In the preceding years starting 1872, 36 women, all representing minor parties, had run for president and lost miserably. As for Republican and Democratic parties, none of the forty-odd aspirants through these years even won a nomination for President or Vice President, Hillary Clinton included. Sarah Palin, Governor of Alaska, who won nomination to be Republican candidate was put to much ridicule – all for being a female candidate for Vice President. John McCain, her male campaign partner for the Presidential post with his incessant capacity for verbal gaffes was subjected to less media ridicule. So mcuh for gender equality in the most Advanced nation in the world.

I get many Obama jokes, some relayed through Australia, a few directly from the US. When one of the direct ones was about Obama’s skin, I wrote back: “That joke is on me. If there are fifty shades of human skin and Obama is somewhere in the middle of it, I am five shades darker than him”. I haven’t heard from the funnyman since. Two down. The third from North Carolina seems to be more indulgent towards my comments and pointed asides.

A ‘joke’ that went viral on e-mail chains reads thus:

“A little boy said to his mother; ‘Mommy, how come I’m black and you’re white?’ ” . “His mother replied, ‘Don’t even go there Barack! From what I can remember about that party, you’re lucky you don’t bark!”

Don’t scoff, this is the text of an e-mail circulated by Montana’s US District Judge Richard Cebul from his courthouse chambers. That is western enlightenment for you. The judge probably has heard of the Radha-kyun-gori-mein-kyun kala (why is Radha fair while I am black) divine syndrome that our very own black-skinned Lord Krishna is believed to have suffered from.

That judicial humour also tells you what justice you could expect from some of American courts. To be fair, US Supreme Court had often – though not always – ruled in favour of emancipation and fair, if not equal, treatment of blacks. In 1923, it banned Indian (Hindu) immigration to the US on the ground that even if Indians could be of Caucasian origin and somewhat light skinned, they were not white enough to qualify.

I am not forgetting that Kamala Devi Harris ( African-American and Indian American rolled into one) is the Attorney General of California State and is in line to be a judge of the Supreme Court. US Supreme Court has never had a black Chief Justice while several states have, In the meanwhile a black (and low-caste, if you will) retired Chief Justice of India is being constantly hounded with allegations that have never been proved. Balakrishnan certainly was not the most accomplished CJI we have had; nor had made any thundering pronouncement through his long haul at the apex Court, but there was no suggestion of corruption when he was on the bench. I have read at least three blogs by people from Balakrishanan’s own State, Kerala, making fun of his humble origin, and of the colour of his skin. One fiercely asking for his blood is a former judge of the Supreme Court, Krishna Iyer, whose decision as a vacation judge gave Indira Gandhi the opportunity, whether intended by the judge or not, to declare emergency in the Country and thereby thwart democracy.

In 1992, Rodney King, a black American on parole, was killed by four police officers and the cold-blooded murder was videotaped by a person from the balcony of his house. Despite this evidence, the officers were acquitted. The riot that followed killed 53 people. (You’re right. India is not alone in killing those demanding justice). Finally two of the officers were imprisoned and two were acquitted. A month after Rodney King died, two other decorated officers killed another black man by cracking his skull. In court they produced false evidences that he was carrying drug. Post mortem reports were tampered with. Larry Nevers, one of those who were imprisoned for second degree murder came up with a book : Good Cop, Bad Verdict.

Nevers received rave reviews and support from his white readers. Bad verdict usually went against the coloured man.

Colour prejudices work both ways. O.J. Simpson, the black football star of the nineties, was accused of killing his white wife Nicole and her ‘friend’, and fleeing from the scene of murder in a Bronco SUV. When caught up by the police, he threatened to shoot himself with the words “gonna go with Nicole”. Prosecution thought they had an airtight case against him with DNA reports, with those near-confessional words, and other pieces of evidence. In the murder trial, a black-majority jury acquitted Simpson. In a civil trial of Simpson for “causing damages through wrongful death”, decided by a white-majority jury, Simpson lost the case and all his fortune. Both trials happened in open courts, widely televised. Everybody knew that it was the colour of the skin, not evidence nor known facts, that decided both cases.

If you think only the semiliterate – because I can’t find a better English Equivalent to Gawar – white members of police departments in America continue to be racist and contemptuous of the blacks, make another guess. During the primary campaigns for Democratic seat in 2008, Bill Clinton, the famous ex-president who is forever busy lecturing the world had said to Ted Kennedy : “A few years ago, this guy (Obama) would have been carrying our bags.”

To be fair to the brother of the man who ended segregation in schools and buses half a century ago, that remark by Bill Clinton made Kennedy change his mind about supporting Hillary Clinton. He went on to support Barack Obama. Among the voting public, a Kennedy voice counted.

To be fair, too, Mitt Romney did not allude to Obama’s skin colour in the 2012 campaign. This, despite the fact that Mormon religion that he practised and preached had its scripture saying that darker men are dark because they were cursed by God. On the other hand, Mormons – at least some of them – claim that their prophet Joseph Smith was assassinated because he preached freedom for blacks.

The economy of the United States since its inception depended on colour discrimination – a firm division between white (pale or pink, blonde or brunette. Albinos counted depending on their parenthood ) and black (dark grey, deep brown, brown, cream, red…..absolutely anything but a few pale-pink shades that fall in white category ). This, in spite of the lofty and original proclamation in the Declaration of Independence that’s often lauded as the best sentence ever written in English language:

“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”

If you have the impression that Abraham Lincoln was the first President to consider black slavery repulsive, you’re wrong. Most presidents of the United States of America (collectively and pompously known as the POTUS), at least the first few of them vehemently, most others condescendingly,, preached abolition but practised slavery. George Washington, the first POTUS, a story about whose truthfulness as a child is taught in many primary schools in India and who was averse to slavery to the extent that “I can only say, that there is not a man living who wishes more sincerely than I do, to see a plan adopted for the abolition of it (slavery).” Nonetheless, Washington owned more slaves (all black of the above description)than any other rancher in town. Washington was not averse to whipping them for incompetence or laziness. He did not want to “purchase another slave unless some circumstances compelled such a necessity”. History does not show how often those compelling circumstances showed up in his life. The second President, John Adams, held slavery in such abhorrence that he neither owned or purchased a slave although he lived in times “when such a practice was not disgraceful’. Even in the reign of a president with such strong dislike of slavery, the freed black men who migrated to free states could legally be re-captured by their original owners and put back in chains.

Slavery was not an issue, at any rate not the most significant issue, when the Southern states proclaimed secession and forced a war on the Union. The cause was something similar to East Pakistan seceding from West Pakistan – economic and social and regional discrimination and export restrictions. Not all confederates who volunteered to fight in the war were slave owners, not even farm owners. While many in Lincoln’s Government and outside (mostly Northerners) were staunchly for the abolition of slavery, Lincoln vacillated for what he believed to be practical reasons. To Horace Greeley, editor of New York Tribune he wrote during the war:

If I could save the Union without freeing any slave I would do it, and if I could save it by freeing all the slaves I would do it; and if I could save it by freeing some and leaving others alone I would also do that. What I do about slavery, and the colored race, I do because I believe it helps to save the Union; and what I forbear, I forbear because I do not believe it would help to save the Union“. In other words, if the Secessionists had agreed to stay in the Union on condition that they be allowed to keep their slaves, Lincoln would have readily agreed.

Lincoln initially announced abolition of slavery only in the Southern states – more for punishing the belligerant confederates than as a matter of lofty ideology. While in principle he might indeed have shared the disgust of the first few presidents about white man enslaving coloured man, he believed in the popular dictum that blacks were inferior and unintelligent. Lincoln had no intention to grant citizenship to all the freed slaves in the white man’s country. Some were exported to French Haiti; others to Liberia where freed black slaves had already established a colony, conveniently called “their own country”. Jefferson, the President who did not like slavery helped the French with arms, ammunition and money to the colonizers to quell the Slave Rebellion by blacks and mulattoes (mixed races). Haiti became free in 1804 after an eleven-year old struggle, summarily dismissed as rebellion. (So was the one and only battle for independence that Indians fought against the British). Haiti was the second nation, after the US itself, to shake off colonial yoke. Interestingly it was a white French man, Jacques Vincent Ogé , who led that black rebellion.

The 13th Amendment, proclaiming the emancipation of slaves, was not all States ratified it immediately. A Times of India Report of 20th February 2013 states:
“It turned out that after Congress voted for the 13th Amendment in January 1864, the measure went to the states for ratification. By December 1865, the amendment had received the three-fourths’ vote it needed when Georgia became the 27th state to ratify it. States that rejected the measure included Delaware, Kentucky, New Jersey and Ole Mississippi down south”.

However, a three-fourth majority in ratification was sufficient to pass the amendment. “New Jersey ratified the amendment in 1866, Delaware in 1901, Kentucky in 1976, and Mississippi finally rolled in by 1995″.

When the Union won the war, the black citizen won freedom to walk into penury amidst riches, humiliation in the midst of speeches of equality and freedom. Ku Klux Klan took birth around the same time; and assumed further vigour in the nineteen twenties. Confederate states enacted laws that segregated blacks in housing, schools, rail, buses, jobs and the military. They disenfranchised the blacks while even illiterate whites were allowed to vote . In the North, de facto segregation already existed. Blacks were not slaves, but not even a distant equal.

In early Nineteen hundreds – not that it has changed much since then – American attitude towards Indians (of South Asia) was shockingly similar to Bal and Raj Thackeray’s attitude towards South Indians, Muslims and Biharis in that chronological order. 1900 saw the formation of “Asian Exclusion League”, again shockingly reminiscent of Thackeray’s Shiva Sena. In 1907 Bellingham, Washington, lumber mill workers – mostly Sikhs – were attacked in their homes and work places and beaten up; many of them had to be hospitalized. Some of the victims were “corralled” in the City Hall; over four hundred of the Indians were jailed “for their own safety”. Not a single perpetrator of the crime was prosecuted.

12 years later in India, an unarmed crowd of 20,000 Sikhs, Hindus and Muslims who had assembled in the walled-up Jalianwala Bagh near the Sikh Temple in Amritsar were shot at in cold blood. India-born Acting brigadier General Dyer had ordered that shooting. When soldiers first fired shots in the air, he is said to have asked: “Do you think this is what I called you here for?” Shoot till the ground is carpeted with bodies, he commanded in poetic metaphor. Official British reports said that 379 were dead and over 1,000 injured. Factual accounts say that at least a thousand people died from the bullet wounds as well as stampede.

The day after the killing, Dyer warned the people of Amritsar: ‘You have committed a bad act in killing the English. The revenge will be taken upon you and upon your children“. Dyer was tried, and at least some members on the committee of Enquiry found that “(but) there was no rebellion which required to be crushed.” Nonetheless, Dyer received awards and commendations from parliament and the public. British populace, including those living off Indian soil, congratulated him. Many years later Rudyard Kipling, the man who wrote “Jungle Book” with Indian characters and Indian locale, expressed the wish that he were a soldier who commanded the killing of a thousand more Indian rebels. Kipling justified British occupation of India as White Man’s Burden.

You wouldn’t find many Sikhs in Bellingham today; there is a remarkable number of them in Oak Creek community near Milwaukee, over 2200 Kilometres away. In August 2012, 105 years after the Bellingham riots, a White Supremacist band drummer, Wade Michael Page simply walked into a Gurudwara, Sikh Temple, with automatic guns and loads of ammunition and shot down six worshippers including a priest and a policeman before being shot dead. His Myspace Page showed him wearing a White Power T-shirt and standing proudly in front of a Nazi Flag.

An year ealier in Norway, Anders Behring Breivik, 32-year old self-proclaimed Rightwing extremist, exploded a car bomb killing eight people and injuring hundreds in Oslo. Two hours later he walked into a summer camp at a resort island and shot dead at least 69 youngsters and wounded more than a hundred. Reason? He hated Muslims. Not many of those wounded or killed could have been Muslims, for even after the massive immigration of recent years, Muslim population in that country was less than 4%. Muslims, particularly women and children, rarely attended beachside indulgences.

Both these young white Christian extremists had made public their prejudices, hatred and intention to massacre long before they went into action. They were on facebook and hate sites, much like the Muslim clerics of Pakistan and Afghanistan. Terrorism works both ways; and ironically enough, all terrorists end up destroying their own kind most of the time.

I write on these two events because the cause for the riots and killing were mainly the result of colour and religious prejudices . 1984 Delhi (3000 Sikhs) , 1992-93 Bombay (1000 Muslims and an unknown number of Hindus) and 2002 Gujarat (2000 in all ; 2/3rd of it Muslims) can easily make Bellingham riots seem like classroom ragging. American cops of that time would then appear like winged angels viewed against our own Delhi, Bombay and Gujarat police. On the genocide of Sikhs after Indira Gandhi’s assassination, her son Rajiv Gandhi, Prime Minister in mourning and with a “I am young; I too have a dream” message to the world, commented: “When a big tree falls, the earth shakes“. Indira Gandhi was the big tree; loss of three thousand Sikh lives merely a minor earthquake. If intellectuals in the Country found that comparison revolting, they didn’t say it in so many words. Rajiv Gandhi and his party won the next election with a record majority.

In Muslim Countries, Sunnies kill Shias and destroy latter’s places of worship as if killing and carnage were a hobby. The so-called Arab Spring in Syria has something to do with President Basha-Al Assad being of the Alawi sect while the rebels are mostly, if not all, Sunnis. Abdus Salam, the only Nobel-prize winning scientist (not including medicine) from the Islamic world was hounded out of Pakistan for belonging to the Ahamdiya sect. Ahmadiyas, one of whom has published the best English translation and interpretation of Quran, are killed on a daily basis. Hasaras in Afghanistan, an off-shoot of the Shia Sect, are treated like the blacks were in nineteenth Centtury America and Dalits aire n twentieth century India without the privilege of reservation that the latter enjoys. Hosni Mubarak, a man of moderate religious views (he called for the ‘optimal’ interpretation of the Holy Quran for a healthy religious intercourse) has been replaced by Muslim Brotherhood who have begun to air extremist views and to enact Sharia laws.

Katherine Mayo came to India in 1926, a self-styled “volunteer unsubsidized, uncommitted, and unattached, (who)could observe of common things in daily human life”. She nonetheless watched India from British Government guest houses; and found much that was horrific. She was supposedly horrified by animal sacrifice (after gorging Turkey for Christmas and tender lamb for Easter?), child sex, child marriage, Sati, status of women, glaring social inequalities, poor health conditions of girls and women, filth and things much worse. Without denying any of her claims on these terrible social crimes, Gandhi called her 1927 book – Mother India – a drain inspector’s report.

Subsidized or not, uncommitted or otherwise, what filth she couldn’t dig out herself, she borrowed from the racially and religiously prejudiced missionaries of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Preposterous claims like parents taught their children to masturbate (and allegedly themselves masturbated little children) so that they could sleep well were quoted prominently in the book! Mayo attributed India’s alleged poor health, life expectancy and supposedly smaller physical stature to life-long masturbation. In terms of progressive cultural lifestyle and practices, Mayo classified Muslims, fair-skinned North Indians and darker-skinned Southerners in that descending order. Being a segregationist back home, her disgust at dark skin runs through between lines. After describing the drain that was supposed to be India (which to an extent it certainly was and continues to be after 85 years since), she wrote: . Then came the Briton, for whatever reason, establishing peace, order, and such measure of democracy as could survive in the soil.

Mayo wrote Mother India around the same time as Hitler wrote his Mein Kampf, where “Negroes”, “Orientals”, particularly Indians and Chinese were described with contempt. He wrote that even if one were dealing with genuine representatives (of India) that whole affair (of negotiating with such individuals) would be bound to turn out futile, if not positively harmful”.

In 1939 Subhash Chandra Bose tried to meet Hitler and was summarily rebuffed after nearly a year-long wait. Obviously Bose had not bothered to read Chapter 14, Part II of the by then notorious “Mein Kampf”.

In the 18th and 19th Centuries, the British, in its frenzy for colonizing the world and fighting other continental European countries in that effort, never practised slavery with that name within their own island-country. Britons – whose grandparents had not migrated to America nor were exiled to Australia nor were engaged in the business of capturing innocent Africans (even tribal Chiefs) and selling them to Americans – found it equally rewarding to pick up Indians – mostly brown Biharis and darker-skinned South Indians – as indentured labour and to send them to Mauritius, Madagascar and a lot many African, Caribbean and South East Asian Countries. If you wonder why the grenade-shaped and spiky bread fruits bear that name without having anything to do with bread, nor is a fruit, it is because they were abundant in the tropical places and were fed as staple food to the indentured Indian labour in place of the bread (Roti) they were used to eating back home. Cheap food for cheap labour. Indentured labour were not treated any better than slaves in British African colonies starved of African slaves after the latter tasted freedom. An online report states:

For nearly eighty years, between 1834 and until the abolition of indenturedship in 1917, the plantation economies in countries ranging from Sri Lanka in South Asia to Surinam (formerly Dutch Guiana) in South America have survived by the hard labor of these Indian laborers or “Coolies”.

If you think Hitler was openly and fiercely racist, you have not read what Winston Churchill, the paragon of British virtue, Nobel laureate (he won Nobel Prize for Literature for a multi-volume compendium of his verbose official letters), twice Prime Minister of British Empire, wrote to the Peel Commission in 1937. (Lord Peel’s was a Commission set out to propose changes to the British Mandate for Palestine following the outbreak of the 1936-1939 Arab revolt in Palestine. ):

“I do not agree that the dog in a manger has the final right to the manger even though he may have lain there for a very long time. I do not admit that right. I do not admit for instance, that a great wrong has been done to the Red Indians of America or the black people of Australia. I do not admit that a wrong has been done to these people by the fact that a stronger race, a higher-grade race, a more worldly wise race to put it that way, has come in and taken their place.

You could never come across racism more contemptous than Chruchill’s. It meant that Palestine, the cradle of civilization, did not belong to Palestinians. They were mere dogs in the manger with no residential rights. Churchill and a few others from the superior race would decide who would reside in the manger. Eventually, in 1948, they did decide on a life of danger, ignominy and helpless fury which continues till today while the world looks on). By the same logic, though Churchill did not spell it out probably for fear of American reaction, Indians were mere dogs in the Indian manger for thousands of years, but that gave them no right to own the manger that was India. The right to own belonged to the stronger race, a higher-grade race, a more worldly wise race to put it that way, who had come in and taken their place”. Unfortunately for him, Churchill lived to see dogs reclaiming the manger all over the world. In the meanwhile,the skewed population growth in the British Isles is beginning to make the white Briton a dog in the manger called British isles.

That turn of fortune, though, has not extended to Palestinians till date. Jews, forever preys of other races since Biblical times have suddenly turned predators in a land – Israel – that was captured for them by their former tormentors according to Churchill’s vision. God’s command to Jews – in Torah as well as Old Bible – is to kill by the edge of the sword men, women, children, infants and cattle when they conquer an enemy. The enemy, who admire the same “Book”, though poorly organized and weakened by internal squabbles, similarly aim to destroy the Jews – to kill by the edge of the sword (or burst of bombs and rockets, whichever) men, women, children, infants and cattle. Racial fear stalks the birthplace of three religions of the same God.

Hitler echoed Churchill’s views with characteristic Nazi arrogance. In Mein Kampf, again, he wrote :

I as a German would far rather see India under British domination than under any other nation”.

And Subhash Chandra Bose was naive enough to believe that he could enlist Nazi help to free India! That India needed to be under some white domination, neither Hitler nor Churchill ever doubted. Prime Minister Chamberlain must have read Mein Kampf and Hitler’s views on India’s freedom with much satisfaction. In 1938, he signed a peace treaty with Hitler, bartering away Czechoslavia thereby betraying the people of that nation. A few weeks later in January 1939, Chamberlain addressed the House of Commons and said that he shared “Hitler’s desire for mutual confidence and cooperation between our peoples”. Cooperation was for not interfering with each other in their attempt to keep existing colonies (for Britain) as well as newly acquired nations (for Nazi Germany) under subjugation. Most probably Chamberlain also secretly agreed not to interfere with Hitler’s attempt to annihilate the Jewish race. British began to acknowledge holocaust after Nazis lost the war. Contempt for Jews, so well-nurtured by Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice gave way to feigned love and concern. Nevertheless, I still find European Jews – at least two of my friends – rather embarrassed to admit their Jewish origin.

All right, Chamberlain and Churchill had his political compulsions; Hitler was raging for revenge against Germany’s abject defeat in the First World War. He had to have some scapegoat for the ignominy, and of course anti-semiticism was in the blood of all Europeans. HG Wells, the great science fiction writer and thinker had no such compulsions. Predicting a future Utopian Republic Wells wrote:

And how will the new republic treat the inferior races? How will it deal with the black? how will it deal with the yellow man? How will it tackle that alleged termite in the civilized woodwork, the Jew? Certainly not as races at all. It will aim to establish, and it will at last, though probably only after a second century has passed, establish a world state with a common language and a common rule. All over the world its roads, its standards, its laws, and its apparatus of control will run. It will, I have said, make the multiplication of those who fall behind a certain standard of social efficiency unpleasant and difficult… The Jew will probably lose much of his particularism, intermarry with Gentiles, and cease to be a physically distinct element in human affairs in a century or so. But much of his moral tradition will, I hope, never die. … And for the rest, those swarms of black, and brown, and dirty-white, and yellow people, who do not come into the new needs of efficiency? Well, the world is a world, not a charitable institution, and I take it they will have to go”.

Those words were not a part of his superb science fiction, but personal view on what the white race should do with the inferior races. The special concession for Jews owed to the lightness of their skin. Wells added : “The swarms of black and brown, and dirty white, and yellow people.. will have to go…It has become apparent that whole masses of human population are, as a whole, inferior in their claim upon the future …to give them equality is to sink to their level; to protect and cherish them is is to be swamped in their fecundity“. HG Wells did not live in the middle ages, but in the 20th Century; he was a contemporary of Adolf Hitler.

Wells, always a man of science, was only following the dictum of a ‘scientific’ theory – eugenics – that was strongly in vogue among the scientists and pseudo-scientists of the time. Wells was an intellectual convert from Christian faith in the Biblical version of Genesis to Darwin’s theory of Survival of the fittest. He theorized that Darwin’s idea of nature directing the course of action in culling the unfit for the benefit of the rest was not progressive enough. It had to be directed and accelerated by the elite, he said, and it wouldn’t do to be squeamish about it. Jews, he said, were an inferior, ugly, badly attired race; blacks (which obviously included all non-whites – as far as human colour of skin was concerned, there was only black and white, no greys) even worse. Among the gentiles, there were the feeble kind with “‘transmittable diseases, with mental disorders, with bodily deformations, the criminally insane, even the incurable alcoholic! All are to be put to death humanely—by first giving them opiates to spare them needless suffering!’ He summarized his view on eugenics “ as the first step toward the removal of “detrimental types and characteristics”.

The theory was so strong that nearly all non-Jewish scientists in Germany joined the Nazi Party while the Jews were done away with or , if they were lucky, managed to flee. During the war, the retarded and genetically sick in German hospitals were gassed to death to make way for wounded soldiers. Jim Crow laws that was in force (in different shapes and hues) in most states in the US prevented meeting of whites in any forum – whether at races, sports, transports, schools, housing colonies or anywhere else – on the theory that mixing with a person of even one-eighth Negro blood would contaminate the white race and gradually render it inferior. Eugenics was practiced in one form of another, resulting in massive human rights violations – including extreme racism and anti-poor approach across the United States, Continental Europe, Britain and the Soviet Union. One credit must be given to Hitler’s holocaust against the Jews and annihilation of the sick and feeble during the Second World War – when the horrors became public after the war, the word eugenics became so repugnant that most countries put a break to it. Except, as I understand, Ex-priest Joseph Stalin’s Soviet Union.

The theory of eugenics was supposed to be based on Darwinian biology and his theory of evolution. Darwin, a true scientist, simply interpreted the ways of nature, admitting that it is a slow, gradual process that continuously improved species. (Look at yourself in the mirror. You are almost certainly taller than your adorable dad, who is just as certainly half-inch taller than your role-model Grandpa. Evolution is doing double time these days). I have tried to comb through the complete works of Darwin online and found nothing wherein he suggests that one human race is inferior to another. A ‘quote’ that’s often cited as Darwin’s by many – mostly Christian proselytizers to discredit Darwin – did not come from Darwin. A blog by Duane Browning points out that the shamelessly false and abominable comment on African races came from a book entitled “The Clansman: An Historical Romance of the Ku Klux Klan” written in 1905 by Thomas F. Dixon Jr. Darwin knew that if there were black apes, there were also white monkeys; the latter were smaller in stature, and less skilled than the former.

I have not found any proof that the ruling British practised any kind of deliberate eugenics in India. Perhaps it had something to do with their considering the whole Indian race as inferior; there was no question of annihilating a whole sub-continent. (HG Wells would not have minded; there was enough opium in India for humane killing).

The European conquerors starting from the Dutch to the British, however, tried a hand at genetic engineering. Dutch, Portuguese, French and the British that came to India in that rough (but overlapped) order and occupied small and big provinces here and there in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries brought with them young but lonesome soldiers. They were encouraged to “marry” (many of them married in Church; a few perhaps invented the now popular live-in-relationship) ‘native’ women. By the time the British took over the entire subcontinent, the offspring of the inter-racial relationship came to be known as “Anglo-Indians” or Eurasians. The resident generals and colonels of the British army claimed that their native wives were from Indian nobility, even royalty, while the Sergeants and Privates made similar claims privately without much substance or credibility. Unlike some wellknown Indian politicians and a South Carolina Senator, however, they did not openly disown their children. They nurtured their new families imparting their language and way of life. (However, most Anglo Indians I know preferred to wash than to wipe).

Marriage between native males and European ladies was discouraged. Offspring of such reverse-engineered marriages were not even recognized as Anglo Indians. The term was also bracketed for Europeans born and brought up in India. (Thus Brigadier Dyer qualified as an Anglo Indian, but he called himself English). By 1850s, British (not to forget Irish, Scottish and Welsh) ladies discovered that travel to and from India had got faster and that ladies’ rooms were available in the trans-ocean steam ships. They came to India, then the land of opportunities, by the hordes. This white rush put an end to mixed-race marriages. Suddenly, Anglo-Indians were no longer equal to Europeans. A semi-official anti-miscegenation law set them apart from the pure whites.

By the turn of the twentieth Century, Anglo Indians were a race of their own – not that all of them had the same racial features or characteristics – and were rewarded by the British with middle-level jobs in the railways, customs and the military. Even today, people from the railways and Indian Air Force speak Anglo-Indian slangs. Anglos were a talented people – excelling in sports, music, education, journalism, poetry, flying, train and transport operations. In 1880, the minuscule population of Anglo Indians had 19% Government jobs, Even smaller number of Europeans 29%, jointly outnumbering Hindu Indians, who were 45% among the class. Muslims were a distant 7%.

When the time came to leave India, the British left most of the Anglos stranded. Not particularly interested in staying back in a culturally inhibited India, Anglos were uncomfortable. Many Anglo Indians were of Portugese, Irish and other European blood rather than of British blood. Many of them were Roman Catholics while the English belonged to the Protestant Anglican Church. Probably these factors contributed to the feeling of alienation from the British side. Many of the paler ones (not yet married to anyone darker), and had the foresight to procure a British citizenship in advance, managed to pass off for persons of British origin and fled with the rest. On the other hand many of European origin decided to stay back – some for the love of their adopted country, some out of curiosity and some on account of their job compulsions. My landlord in Kazipet, a true-blood Welshman (married to a fine Anglo-Indian lady beautiful even in her sixties) told me that he opted to stay back and took up Indian citizenship because he didn’t hope to get servants in Wales. Tom Altar, a prolific actor in Hindi films (mostly in the garb of a wily Englishman) must have been too young; Ruskin Bond, the writer, was too fond of Mussoorie to leave India. Children of Shashi Kapoor, an Indian actor and Jennifer, his devoted English wife, do not count as Anglo Indians. One of their sons could not succeed in the family trade of Hindi films because he was too white. Their daughters don’t seem to have even tried. Jennifer acted as an Anglo Indian woman in a highly acclaimed Hindi film about Anglo Indian life.

Smart, intelligent, talented and capable of surviving adversities, Anglo Indians turned out to be the perfect antithesis to the theory of eugenics. Nonetheless, there was the genetic prejudice from the British to let them freely enter England; cultural prejudice from the locals to let them stay back and freely live their own happy ways. Yet many rose to high positions in India and abroad – the present Indian Air Chief is an Anglo Indian; so is a vociferous and politically active British MP. The names that excelled in the fields of music, sports, journalism, education and military career are too numerous to recount. Numerous schools like Bishop Cotton (Bangalore), Jesus and Mary Convent , La Martiniere etc. at several places, Frank Anthony’s(Delhi) and Colleges like St. Stephens (Delhi) now proudly carry on the old Anglo-Indian traditions with Indian students from elite societies.

When their pet jobs in the railways and customs were lost to Indians in independent India, and the 19% job benefit in select trades was gone, many youngsters lost ambition and became school drop-outs and were compelled to take up subordinate positions. Not pleased with the paradigm shift, most Anglos have managed to migrate to Canada, Australia, South Africa and even England (which the old Anglo ladies whimsically called ‘home’) during the succeeding decades.

Several decades ago, Trevor S-, an exceptionally handsome and nearly white Anglo Indian friend of mine was heard to muse: “Better to be a mule than an ass”. I pointed out that mules were fathered by asses and mothered by horses. “Exactly”, said Trevor, bitterness palpable in his voice. He had ended up in the driver trade in the Air Force. Last heard, Trevor lived in Sydney, happy in a well-paid job operating earth movers and cranes. Though at home with Western ways of life, Anglo-Indians still stick together in their new homelands and reminisce over their lives in India. Perhaps memories of old prejudices linger, but there is also the lost love for Indian curries and obedient servants (‘bearahs’ and ‘Ayahs’). It might take another couple of generations before the Anglo Indian race disappears into the mainstream of their host countries. Although Anglo Indians in India have become an endangered community, Indian Parliament reserves a nominated seat for them as a constitutional right.

One Anglo Indian I recently met was a waiter in a middle-level restaurant near Bangalore. A fine, dark-skinned gentleman in crisp white shirt and tie who spoke excellent English, he turned out to be the remnant of a once-affluent family that had migrated to Australia. I am presuming that he couldn’t get through the migration interview with his dark skin. He was initially too embarrassed to tell me his name: Clarke Gable. This was one Clarke Gable whom life didn’t seem to have treated well.

The first incident of government-supported experiment in eugenics in India was imposed and supervised by Sanjay Gandhi, the second son of Prime Minister Indira Gandhi in 1970s. Whole bus loads of poor people – farmers, labourers, unemployed, bachelors and childless, old and even teenagers – were forcibly taken to “Family Planning Centres” and vasectomized/tubectomized without consent or consultation. The notoriety of the dastardly acts put a halt to any genuine attempts at population control in India. The second, and certainly far more cruel, attempt at culling of humans – not strictly eugenics, but worse – was attempted a few years later by members of the ruling party with the knowledge and tacit approval of Sanjay’s elder brother, Rajiv Gandhi. Nothing, absolutely nothing in history, can match the human massacre that took place between Hindus and Muslims when India won its ‘nonviolent’ independence. 24 years later, Muslims of West Pakistan massacred a million or more (figures bandied about range up to 3 million) Muslims of East Pakistan, which later resurrected from the ashes as Bangladesh. Army from West Pakistan took meticulous care to decimate the intellectuals, scientists and writers of the East. United States under Richard Nixon and Henry Kissinger sent a fleet to support Pakistan, certainly aware of the carnage, but practical wisdom (fear of Russian intervention) left the sixth fleet stranded in Bay of Bengal.

Way back in 1942, Kwame nKrumah, then a student in Pennsylvania, a few years later the Founder, President and Prime Minister of Independent Ghana – and a founder-member of the OAU – walked into an American restaurant requesting a glass of water. The white waiter – or possibly the owner – showed him a spittoon.

In late nineteen- fifties through sixties, Sammy Davis Jr. , the man billed as the greatest entertainer ever, could not share the same dressing room as his band and backstage team. At Sammy Davis shows, Davis sat outside or by the swimming pool smoking during intermissions, while his white assistants changed and celebrated inside the makeup room. Sammy’s “Rat Pack” shows with Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin and other celebrities of the time ran to packed houses, but Sands Hotel on the Las Vegas Strip refused him a room till Sinatra threatened to cancel the show. In the US as well as in India, entertainment people are a little more tolerant of other races and religions than the rest. People like Mel Gibson who tended to shoot his mouth against races (black in the first breath, and as if to compensate Jews in the second) and then offer extended apologies are rare in film circles.

The title of Davis’ autobiography, yes I can, was borrowed by Barack Obama for his 2008 election campaign by rephrasing it as “Yes We can”. Having forgotten Sammy Davis already, and not particularly in the habit of reading black biographies any way, the white supremacists of the time did not comprehend the significance of those three words which won Obama black and female votes.

John F Kennedy was no segregationist by any account – it was he who ended segregation (at least proposed the statutes) in housing, bus rides, voting and schools with the Civil Rights Acts which were later signed into law by Lyndon Johnson, his Vice President and successor. Yet President Kennedy did not dare invite the greatest showman of the time – very same Sammy Davis who had worked hard for Kennedy on the 1960 campaign trail – to his 1961 Inauguration ball. The President-Elect was afraid of the political repercussions on the presence of an interracial couple – albeit more famous than most of those invited – at the party. Davis could have been accommodated despite being black; but his marrying a white woman, May Britt, would have made his the presence not just unwelcome to many of the invitees, but also illegal as per US anti-miscegenation laws of the time.

Although the Supreme Court subsequently overturned anti-miscegenation laws for all the states in 1967, Alabama took thirty three years to repeal its own miscegenation law. Law or no law, in 2009, Judge Keith Bardwell of Louisiana refused to issue marriage license to a black man wanting to marry a white woman. Jim Crow was still stirring in his grave. The learned Judge was ““concerned for the children who might be born of the relationship and that, in his experience, most interracial marriages don’t last.” The learned judge was ignorant in statistics; at least fifty percent of white-to-white marriages also ended in divorce. Obama, a product of an inter-racial marriage (which admittedly did not last) was the POTUS when the judge expressed that concern. Local judges ignoring Supreme Court decisions with contempt is not a phenomenon patented in South Asia.

White women marrying black men is no longer unusual in the US today, but a white man marrying a black woman is extremely rare. Well-to-do blacks, celebrities and sports stars often seem to prefer white women. Asians in the US, interestingly, neither marry nor date a black ‘African-American’ woman though they might try and -often stealthily – go out with a willing white woman. Indian Mama might grudgingly (and with some secret pride) accept a white daughter-in-law coming home with her foreign-returned son, but a black woman in her place would be unthinkable. Neena Gupta, a gifted Bollywood actress who had a daughter from a short relationship with cricket star Viv Richard of West Indies decided to bring up her baby all by herself. She didn’t find many admirers for her brave defiance of Indian social restrictions. Her film roles became fewer despite her superb histrionics and boldness in front of the camera. It took her thirteen years after the birth of her baby to find a partner and nineteen years to marry him after the latter’s divorce.

We all know of Rosa Parks, the brave black lady who refused to vacate a seat for a white man in a “Coloured only” section of a bus. Rosa was not the first one to do that. It was Claudette Colvin , a 15-year old school girl. She refused to change seats in favour of a white woman. “”That’s my constitutional right, you know,” she screamed while resisting forcible removal. Claudette was arrested , handcuffed and later convicted for violating the Jim Crow Laws of the time. She fought all the way to the Supreme Court . It was her fight that led to the amendment of segregation laws. However, you will not find Claudette mentioned in the annals of black history. Reason? She was unmarried and pregnant at the time. Even blacks had Victorian morals.

Rosa Parks, a black seamstress married to a black barber similarly refused to make place for a white man in the black section of a bus 9 months after Claudette Calvin showed the way. Imagine, a seamstress, exhausted after a day’s work, refusing to vacate a coloured section seat for a man – not an old man, but a white man. Just like Claudette, Rosa was jailed for the offence and sentenced. The black leaders thought it OK to take up her cause because she was married; she had only violated Jim Crow laws but not the Victorian morals and the African virginity code. The incident led to riots and strikes. Rosa died a 90-year-old heroine in 2005; she is immortalized in our feeble memory by a movie named after her. I dug out the name of young Claudette from some forgotten annals of black American history. A benign US Congress named Rosa “the First Lady of Freedom Movement”. The First Lady of Free White House came more than half a century later without making much of the sacrifices that Claudette and Rosa went through.

By the way, judging from her photos, Rosa would have passed off for a “fair-complexioned, homely girl of good character” in any Indian matrimonial ad, the word ‘homely’ assuming its ridiculous Indian meaning.

Marin Luther King was a precocious student and a pious preacher; later Nobel Peace Prize winner. Of Democrats and Republicans, the two major parties in the US, he had this to say :

Actually, the Negro has been betrayed by both the Republican and the Democratic Party. The Democrats have betrayed him by capitulating to the whims and caprices of the Southern Dixiecrats. The Republicans have betrayed him by capitulating to the blatant hypocrisy of reactionary right wing northern Republicans. And this coalition of southern Dixiecrats and right wing reactionary northern Republicans defeats every bill and every move towards liberal legislation in the area of civil rights.[33]

By Dixiecrats, the Civil rights leader meant rightists from the Democratic party in the Southern states who were against Civil rights for blacks. King introduced the concept of nonviolent resistance to American soil after a trip to India. On his visit to Memphis for a demonstration, King said:

What would happen to me from some of our sick white brothers? Well, I don’t know what will happen now. We’ve got some difficult days ahead.

The difficult day lay straight ahead. The ‘sick white brothers’ shot him through the jaws. That was the violent end of a non-violent black man who had a dream that ” my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character. I have a dream today!”[II

In 1960 A jubilant Cassius Clay returned to his country with the boxing gold medal from Rome Olympics, but the restaurant that he tried to go in to had boards saying : No Niggers. Denied dinner there and shamed, Ali is said to have thrown his medal in the Ohio river in disgust. Some say that he was beaten up by white goons on a bridge over Ohio river after which he flung the medal he always wore till then. Soon thereafter the Christian Cassius Marcellus Clay re-emerged as a Muslim Muhammad Ali. Asked why he refused to be drafted in to the military to fight in Vietnam, Ali replied : “No Vietcong ever called me Nigger”.

If Martin Luther King of the “inferior” black race was precocious, white Lieutenant William Calley was one who passed out of school with C’s D’s and F’s. Commissioned in the army and sent to Vietnam, he shot 109 Vietnamese civilians of My Lai village in cold blood. His defence for spraying bullets on unarmed men women and children was this :

“”I was ordered to go in there and destroy the enemy. That was my job that day. That was the mission I was given. I did not sit down and think in terms of men, women and children. They were all classified as the same, and that’s the classification that we dealt with over there, just as the enemy. I felt then and I still do that I acted as I was directed, and I carried out the order that I was given and I do not feel wrong in doing so.”

Captain Madina . who was said to have ordered Calley denied ordering the mass murder, said he had ordered the killing only of Vietcong – the Communist Vietnamese army. Calley was sentenced to life imprisonment. Most Americans were outraged; Jimmy Carter, then the Governor of Georgia, ordered that the national flag be flown at half mast for a week in the state in honour of the convicted murderer. Many other governors followed suit. Finally, Life imprisonment commuted to 20 years in prison, Calley served 3 1/2 years in his quarters. Captain Madina, whom Calley accused of ordering the killing, went scot free.

Admiration for Calley for the massacre he committed was nothing new in American history. Annihilating the native American race (called Red Indians who were no more red than the Chinese and Japanese are yellow) was a game rather than a fight for survival by the immigrants. Stalking and killing an ‘Indian’ was as much a sport for the visiting white man as it was for the British visitor shooting tigers in India. Tribal chiefs, much like the royalty in India, facilitated such murders in return for personal favours or for the mere recognition of their status. When Katherine Mayo who was yet to act horrified by the atrocities of Brahmins against the lower castes in India was a ripe 23 in age, on December 28, 1890, 300 men, women and children of the Lakota tribe sought asylum at Pine Ridge reservation in South Dakota. They were allowed to set up camp at the Wounded Knee Creek and were disarmed. The US Government troops then opened fire and killed 290 men, women and children natives (all unarmed barring a deaf and mute man who didn’t hear the order to disarm). Thirty soldiers died – not from native attack, but from ‘friendly fire’ (a notorious American expression that was resurrected when Afghan civilians were killed in ground or air attacks by the US army ) through the melee. The Government awarded bravery medals to 20 soldiers for their ‘bravery’. Pine Ridge Reservation exists today, steeped in poverty and alcoholism, much like the aborigine reservations of Australia. Slightly over a century and a decade later, the same US Government was to threaten the Iraqi Government of Saddam Hussein into disarmament and then finish off an entire army and civilians including women and children through sustained aerial bombing and thus forever erase any semblance of peace in that Country, if not in the whole of Middle East. Saddam killed Kurds; in return George destroyed the cradle of civilization.

To us Indians, this reaction to Calley’s fake conviction would have a deja vu effect. You would remember how, after the Sikh Massacre of 1984, fiercely the parliamentary constituencies of Sajjan Kumar, Jagdish Tytler and HKL Bhagat defended them; prevented arrests by mob resistance and repeatedly elected them. Like Germans stood behind Hitler till he lost the war, India voted en masse for the managers of the carnage in the next election. Business tycoons might praise Narendra Modi’s record of development (not to forget giving them free or cheap land), but Gujarat repeatedly elects him, and a thin majority among Hindus in other states might rally behind him, for his well-demonstrated bigotry.

After becoming a singer of fame, Nat King Cole bought a house in a posh white neighbourhood. Kuk Klux Klan placed a burning cross in his front lawn. A member of the property owners’ association warned the black man that they did not want an ‘undesirable man’ in the neighbourhood. “Neither do I,” retorted Cole. “If you find one, tell me. I will be the first to complain”.

Speaking of Nat King Cole, I must put in this anecdote out of turn. When I was still a teenager, I had not seen a photo of Nat King Cole, but was all admiration for his music and velvet-smooth voice. Attending a jam session in Bangalore with an Anglo-Indian friend, I was coerced to sing a song. After much protest, I sang Autumn Leaves. I am sure that my notes were off-key, my voice jarred.

“You might not sing like Nat King Cole, but you certainly look like one,” said an elderly lady of pale skin, who laid claim to Irish birth. I was elated, assuming that was meant to be a compliment. I did not understand why there was so much giggle and guffaws at that comment all around the room. Not until I saw a Cole movie and discovered that the fun lay in both of us being black.

Americans could do no wrong. In 1988, US Navy shot down an Iranian passenger airline Flight 655, killing all 290 civilians aboard. Mistaken identity proved to be a lame excuse. It has never been proved that the crime was inadvertent. Yet George Bush Sr; then President of the US, refused to apologize. He said :

I’ll never apologize for the United States of America. Ever. I don’t care what the facts are.”

His son, George W. Bush Junior, dismissed the killing of thousands of women and children in air attacks by manned flights as well as drones as mere “collateral damage”.

No American citizen can be arraigned at the International Criminal Court for genocide or any other crime. United States has refused to ratify the ICC Statute; so has, incidentally, India. Narendra Modi will not have to face International Criminal Court even if a conscientious Western country grants him a visa.

Old Britishers, slave traders and then indentured labour contractors, were far cleverer than the white diminishing population you find today in England. They – barring men like Churchill – rarely wore their colour prejudices out in the open. In any case, not as much as the Indian themselves did with their darker-skinned brethren. Indians were often treated as dog-poo by the British while in India, but treated more courteously in England where the nobler (and usually lighter) ones went to study. On the other hand, Indians derived much pleasure (except when it was expedient to pretend otherwise) from describing how their countrymen were humiliated by the white men. A Khushwant Singh short story tells us how a high-ranking Indian civil servant, pompous and derisive of other Indians in general and of his own ill-educated and obese wife in particular, was thrown out of a first class train compartment by low-ranking British soldiers. The moral was that snooty Indians got their just desserts from the white Britishers, however low ranking. The story was written to humour Indian readership, always weary of insolent government clerks or babus. A running joke in Indian Air Force billets, a decade after independence, was how a British Warrant Officer from the ranks made a fool of an Indian senior officer when the latter complained to the white man about white lower ranks not saluting him. I confess that I had often in the past repeated that racist ‘joke’ to the amusement of other Indian listeners.

An idiotic joke that has gone viral on the e-mail networks goes like this:

A white man asked Mahatma Gandhi why all white men were of one colour while Indians came in many different colours. The great man replied, horses come in many colours while donkeys are all of one colour.

Gandhiji knew many white men to realize that whites – ranging from Scandinavians to Italians and Marilyn Monroe to Elizabeth Taylor were not of the same shade any more than the brownies from Kashmir to Kanyakumari were. Having read English poetry (among many things) while in England, he would have known that a “fair maiden” meant a beautiful girl; implying there were not-so-fair maiden in Europe who were not beautiful. (A logic shared by a Punjabi student of my digital electronics classes in the eighties. “How can a Madrassi woman be beautiful?,” he asked me: “They are all so dark”. The term Madrassi encompassed all South Indians; that I was a dark Madrassi myself made no difference to him). I estimate that there are thirty shades of brown (including the so-called yellow and black) and that there are at least twenty shades of white between Albinos and the Mediterranean Jews (not to forget the ‘Honorary white’ Japanese). A week in Mauritius sun, German women could be mistaken for ladies from Andhra but for their lighter hair.

Gangs of men, like those in a labour camp, or a group of dacoits, or junior clerks in government offices release their feeling of inferiority by inventing jokes about their leaders or superiors. That’s how Sardar (headman) jokes came into being. For the same reason Sikhs, by giving themselves the title of Sardarji (headman with even more respect) became the butt of many such jokes. Most Indian jokes about the white man were invented out of this gene-embedded inferiority complex developed over three centuries. .

In any case Gandhiji was never so crude as to give an openly derogatory and senseless answer. His true retorts like “European civilization? Not a bad idea” or “Was I ashamed of my scanty clothes while meeting the king? No, the king wore enough clothes for both of us,” bore his class.

We have all heard how Gandhiji was thrown out of a South African train and how that led to his fight against the South African whites and later against the British. Gandhiji found much wrong in the white’s treatment of Indians in that country; I have not heard a single quotation of his regarding their even more abject treatment of the blacks. Educated Indians, most of them descendents of imported bonded labour, were as contemptuous of the natives as the whites were. I understand that the Blacks are yet to forgive people of Indian origin for this. However, Neither Martin Luther King nor Nelson Mandela bore a grudge against Gandhi when they said words to the effect that Gandhian principles mentored their ideology of nonviolent struggle. King, a Christian priest, succumbed to that principle at the prime of his youth; Mandela survived to forgive his tormentors.

Some twenty years ago, my son and I went into a fancy Tamil restaurant, he holding hands with his (current) German girlfriend. Many eyes followed him, evidently with a tinge of envy. The girl did not miss the meaning of those looks.

“Your people in India still admire white people,” she commented as we sat down at a table. She was merely stating a fact that she plainly observed.

“Not exactly,” said my son. “If the Africans, instead of the British, had colonized the world, you would be admiring black men and wearing boot polish for face cream”.

That was a possibility that had not occurred to me till I heard this speck of wisdom from my young heart-string. Indeed, the white colonization of most of the rest of the world gave them a superior air; that made their colour superior, their talk, their posture, their manner of eating and bottom-wiping ways superior. Black dogs, black horses, black cars and black slate roofs are much admired, but not black men. Black meant slavery, subordination, inferiority . Nowhere in Mahabharat or Ramayan does Ram or Krishna (or dark-skinned Draupadi, for that matter) ask themselves why they are black. Not even in Gita-Govind times of the 12th century Krishna asked himself that question. All gopis were infatuated with his looks. Radha-kyun-gori-mein-kyun-kala intrigue is a twentieth century product after three hundred years of white rule in India. In Europe, even in mid-sixteenth century, Othello the black Moore was considered gentleman enough to be a general in the army and suitable enough to be loved by the white and beautiful Desdemona. The attitude changed when slave trade began. Within the next century, that change took a drastic twist which has failed to straighten ever since.

As late as 2012, an European woman working in an Indian IT company in Bangalore wrote in a tabloid:

“I get some special privileges because I am white. I can’t help it”.

She wasn’t boasting. Even after six decades, the abjectness is far too evident to a casual white traveller. Indian tourists might be the biggest spenders while in Malaysia, but a Malay, Chinese or Indian shopkeeper in Kuala lumpur would rush to please the white man who just walked in while contemptuously making the brown man wait and twiddle his toes. Small and medium businesses in China employ white men in insignifcant but well-paid jobs just for the pride of it. Prominent Babas and Gurus in India promenade a couple of white faces among groups of their devotees. Hindu and Muslim preachers love to quote western authors to substantiate the bonafides of their scriptures.

A taxi driver in Kuala lumpur street told us that he travelled throughout India and found Indians very dirty.

“Only in Kerala they are clean,” he remarked, “because Keralaites are all Muslims”. Prejudice is blind and ignorant; it also runs in fifty shades.

You might think that Apartheid has been wiped off the face of the earth when South Africa won its freedom. It hasn’t, in India. A hundred and fity years ago, a scheduled caste (also known as untouchable, acchuth) had to warn his presence on a public road by tapping the ground with a stick. In some villages of Rajasthan today, low-caste women need to take off their slippers and carry them in hand while passing upper caste houses. Poor, low-caste women get raped, beaten and/or paraded naked by upper castes in villages. Come to think of it, most of us in India are untouchable these days – we are asked by police to stay far away from a public road when a modern day Brahmin – known as VIP – passes in a cavalcade of foreign cars..

Negro is a taboo word in the United States now. Not in India. A North Indian character in a modern Indian novel says South Indians are Negroes. South Indians have no compunction making fun of an African student or bus traveler, loudly exchanging notes that there is a Negro travelling with them. Black students in Chandigarh hate the treatment they get; so do those studying in Madras. If you can’t tell the African boy from the local one by colour, there’s always the textured hair to give a clue.

There are many variations of castes (also known as colour, Varna), in this Hindu-majority Country including the ones ordained by such scriptures as Manusmriti (Memorising Manu) and Bhagavat Gita (God’s song) and ratified and justified by Mahatma Gandhi himself. Manu ordained different categories of names to be given to newly born Brahmins, Kshatrias (warrior class) and Vysyas (trader class). To Shudras – the menials – he commands, give a name that’s despicable. Manu also describes the school uniforms to be worn by the first three castes. Shudra’s don’t find mention; they are not supposed to be educated. Manusmriti has lost its relevance in the law books, but not in human minds.

We also have Christian and Islamic scriptures on how to treat slaves and servants – those whom “your right hand possesses”. In neither of these Holy Books raping a servant or slave is a sin. Historically it was Arabs, not Europeans, who began slave-trading in black Africans. When Turkish-Mongol-Arab conquests of India began, Hindu men who lost the battle were beheaded and their women were made slaves. The luckier ones became concubines. Others jumped into funeral pyre of their husbands and became divine-ranked Satis, thereby establishing a ‘holy’ tradition. Any tradition that did away with females was considered holy – infanticide, starvation, kerosene burning (which came later). Christians conducted inquisitions, witch-burning (on pointed stakes) and guillotining. Bride burning among Christians is not uncommon in modern India.

In the last Century and the one before, the untouchables (as humiliating as ‘Nigger’), Harijans (like ‘Negroes’. The word, coined by Mahatma Gandhi, literally means God’s People) or Dalits (modern equivalent of Af-Ams, preferred by most whom the description fits) or, officially, Scheduled castes (because their caste names appear in a schedule of an amendment to Constitution) got fed up of their humiliations and joined Islam or Christianity. While Islam used force and threats, Christian missionaries offered monetary incentives, education and, of course a passage to heaven. Once converted, the poor untouchables found that their condition was no better than before. They continued to be low-caste Christians, rarely invited to weddings let alone have their children marry the higher-caste ones. Those who joined Buddhism under the organizational guidance of a disgusted Bhimrao Ambedkar (disgusted, presumably with Gandhiji’s justification of the four-caste system) found nothing different happening to them, except that their right to reservation was not taken away. By that, however, ‘Bowdha’ (meaning Buddhist) became a derisive word among caste Hindus.

To the converts to other religions, the consolation that their faith in local gods and goddesses as well as ancestors were lost. The promise of a distant paradise was no immediate relief. Worse, Christian-Muslim converts lost the benefits of reservation (in education and jobs) that became a constitutional right of Hindu low-castes. Quite a few reverted to their old faith. Many who did not convert retained parts of the old faith as well as new but with no social benefts. That’s how the parents of Justice KG Balakrishnan became Hindus again. Now both Hindu and Christian bigots ridicule his ancestry. KR Narayanan, another brilliant low-caste Hindu and a career diplomat rose to be the President of India. Not many Keralites managed to attain the lofty positions that these two attained, but you wouldn’t find many Keralites exhibiting pride in their achievements. Long-dead caste leaders are celebrated with enthusiasm. Even Sri Narayana Guru, the man who said “Do not ask, tell or think caste” is remembered merely as a saint of his somewhat lower caste. As in the rest of the Country, caste and religion decide the voting pattern in Kerala, famous for its high literacy rate.

Mata (Mother) Amritanandamayi, a pleasant-faced darkish woman born into a lower caste has somehow managed to be an exception. She conducts temple rituals that were reserved for Brahmins since Vedic times, embraces her devotees of all castes that run into millions, and is worshipped as a demigoddess by many. Mayawati, twice the Chief Minister of Uttar Pradesh,the largest Indian State, aspires to be the Prime Minister of the Country after the next elections. A crude and incredibly self-centred woman who has done little but rhetoric to uplift her people, her low caste is her trump card.

Among Goan Christians I was surprised to find Brahmin Catholics and non-Brahmin Catholics. Both bore Portugese-sounding names, but the similarity ended there. As you’d expect, Brahmin Catholics are fairer, the non-Brahmins darker. An inter-marriage was unthinkable. I am writing of a situation that I found among Christian Goans forty-odd years ago. I doubt it has changed.

Islam has perhaps a hundred different sects; Sunnies consider Shias inferior and even heathen; the latter return the compliment. The social and religious status of some other sects like Ahamadiyas and Hazaras is worse than that of the lowest Pariah Hindus. The Pariah word, although common in English language with an entry in the dictionaries, is considered so loathsome that it once got a loud-mouthed politician from Tamil Nadu into serious trouble. Quite a few Shia intellectuals in India joined the BJP, a Hindu-extremist party and have become their spokesmen and office bearers presumably in the belief that Hindu extremism is less dangerous than Sunni extremism. They have a point. In Pakistan, founded by a Shia Muslim (though nobody there would admit that fact any longer in Pakistan), Shias are killed, their mosques bombed during prayer hours and houses burnt as a routine. At the time of this writing, a Hazara community has been carpet-bombed from the ground; at least fifty are counted dead as of now.

Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World envisions a global Society with five castes, surprisingly similar to Manu’s and Bagavat Gita’s four castes. Huxley’s Brahmin caste, known as Alpha, has tall, handsome, highly intelligent men while the lowest caste is Epsilon – short-statured, stupid, and, of course, dark and ugly. Like bees in a hive, and like Indians from ancient times, the whole human society would be genetically engineered. That would be some five hundred-odd years from now. If that reads like a horror story, take heart. Huxley’s futuristic vision was meant to be an ironic anti-thesis to the writings of white supremacists like HG Wells.

Séance, Miracles and the Other Dimension

October 3, 2012

We were late because we drove around the block three times before we found the school. Once in the school, we took time to find the classroom where the meeting was being held. We would have missed it if the soft peel of laughter of a woman hadn’t come floating through the silent air.

I will have to tell this true episode by not taking many real names nor mentioning the place. Those involved did not want me to write about them, about the Séance meeting, or about the place where it was being held.

“We want to avoid unnecessary controversies and allegations,” the lady, whom I shall call Sadhna, had forewarned me. Those were the days when newspapers used to publish my write-ups. So they had to be careful.

“Those who need us, come by themselves. Nearly everyone  who attend the meeting had lost someone he or she loved dearly. We share their love for the departed. We help them realize that death is not the end. We show them how to love without attachment, to let go of those who are gone, not to keep them held back with their grief.  We are not in it for money or name”, she had explained.

That was a decade-and-a half ago. I doubt whether Old Mr. and Mrs. Dresswala (not, again, their real names) who figure most in this blog are still around. I do hope they are, and in good health.  With the passage of these fifteen years, I hope my writing this down in a blog wouldn’t amount to betrayal.

At the door, a smiling Sadhna greeted us. “I wasn’t sure you’d be coming,” she said.

There were benches positioned in a wide circle along the walls. About twenty men and women – I guessed there were more women than men – were seated, all informally but well dressed, engaged in some sort of philosophical discussion. You could tell from their peach-and cream skin and towering noses that most of them were Parsis. When Sadhna found us place to sit, the pretty young woman seated next to me was describing how an old friend of hers – not father, she said, no, not boyfriend, but a person she cared so much for – had died by drowning.  When she finished, there was that stoic silence that always follows the mention of death and the grief.

Sadhna introduced my daughter as a friend of Nan Umrigar (real name, hoping that the famous lady wouldn’t take offence), who was evidently very popular among the crowd. Someone whispered that Nan had come to the meeting a few weeks before.

A few days ago, each of us – my wife, daughter and myself – had read Umrigar’s poignant and yet amazing book titled Sounds of Silence, describing the riding accident of her son, Karl, his death, and how she made contact with him through automatic writing. Even a cynic would admit that Umrigar had written the truth as she experienced it. My daughter’s personal contact with her had brought much solace to the family despite a cynical tinge in my readiness to believe that one could communicate with the dead, however close to one’s heart.

People sitting near the door shuffled to make way for an old couple who just walked in. Quite obviously, this Parsi couple was held in high esteem by those present. The old man, probably in late eighties with a hunch and pale, heavily wrinkled,  almost transparent frame was led to the centre of the circle, where a chair was already in place. His head and hands shook with Parkinson’s. He didn’t seem to notice the crowd around him, did not acknowledge the silent and respectful greetings.

Sadhna took my hand and made me rise. “It is a practice that the newcomers greet Mr. Dresswala and pay him respects. This Séance meeting was started by him nearly fifty years ago,” she whispered.

She made me stand beside the old man, who didn’t even look up, but continued whispering to himself. The words, which were audible this close, made no sense.

“This is Mr. Menon,” Sadhna whispered in his ears. “He……”

Before she finished the sentence, the old man stood up, turned around to face me and took my hand. “I know you, you are Anil Menon’s father”, he said softly, looking over my shoulder. As if seeing someone there.

“He is fine, don’t worry, he is quite OK”, he said, gesturing assurance.

Then, just as abruptly, he turned away, plunked into the chair and resumed his senile gibberish.

Somewhat stunned, I went back to my seat. Did any of us tell Sadhna my son’s name? Did she brief the senile old man about us earlier? Were they playing some sort of  drama? And why? Sadhna had said they took no money from anyone for the meeting. Every three months they paid the school two hundred rupees as rent for their weekly meetings in this class room. When the payment time came they passed a bag around, collected whatever you gave, and re-distributed the money that exceeded those two hundred rupees. The Dresswalas, old as they were and certainly not rich, came by bus to the meeting. If someone gave them a lift for the return journey, they accepted it gratefully.

Soon it was time for a regulation ten-minute  break.  “Don’t take longer than ten minutes,” Sadhna admonished, pointing in the direction of the washroom. “When the next meeting starts, windows and door would be closed and lights switched off.”

It was only four O’ clock, it couldn’t be that dark even if the lights were off, I thought.

When we returned to the room, an inner circle of five or six people were seated around old Dresswala  who was still gazing at the floor and whispering to himself. Some of the old timers moved around to switch off the lights and to close the  door and windows tight.  My eyes accustomed to the sunny veranda outside found the room pitch dark.

An inexplicably sweet  music, just a faint  hum, drifted in like a breeze. My daughter and wife later agreed with me that the ethereal music gave us all goose pimples. It wasn’t eerie, yet sweetly different than anything I had heard before. My daughter later insisted that the voice that gave out the hum wasn’t human, but heavenly. Perhaps she was right, I grudgingly admitted. Even today, fifteen years later, I wonder about the source of that low musical hum.

Long chants of Oms followed; I noticed that the slim foreigner sitting a few seats to my left chanted Om with her breath held the longest; the woman to my right intoned the single-syllable word with passion.  I wondered how the Parsis, Zoroastrians by faith, adapted themselves to the Hindu chant of OM.

There was this light breeze blowing below my bench, and I imagined that something like a skirt’s hem, or perhaps the light touch of a foot, was brushing against  my right ankle. For a moment, I thought that this lovely lady to my right was trying to play footsie with old me. I suppose men never cease to fantasize.

My eyes were by now accustomed to the darkness of the room. Mrs. Dresswala’s head  began to swing as if possessed; her hands clenched together, her head swinging from left to right. She wasn’t fanning the air with  loosened tresses the way supposedly possessed women do in fake exorcist rituals, yet her movements were that of one in a trance. Sadhna had told us that an 18th-Centrury Spanish nun, Mother Catherine, would possess  her in trance; that Mrs. Dresswala, never too comfortable with English nor with high philosophy would speak in Spanish-accented English of things that she would normally wouldn’t even know.

“If you are lucky, Mother Catherine would speak to you. There would be people in the meeting who have been hoping to hear from the Mother for six months or more. It depends on your luck,” she had told me.

Mrs. Dresswala, who never seemed to notice me till then among the twenty-odd people who were seated, nor threw a glance at me through the meeting when the room was washed in bright sunlight, now walked in the darkness with  sure gait straight towards me.  I couldn’t see the lady to my right nor my daughter to my left – they were mere shadows, but the fair, almost white face and hands of the old Mrs. Dresswala  shone through the veil of darkness. Her face was the same as when I first saw her, but the personality had changed. I got a feeling that many invisible persons were behind her, silently following her. Power of suggestion, I assured myself.

“I know you,” Mrs. Dresswala – now Mother Catherine – said, her finger pointing at me. “I know that you were gifted with the knowledge of the future. You knew that  your son had to go. You knew everything. You expected it to happen. Now he is standing behind you. So tall, so handsome. Why are you worried?  He is fine and happy”.  Then, as quickly as she came towards me, she turned left and moved ahead  to speak to a woman sitting a few seats away.

Indeed, I had told Sadhna that though my son was young, six feet-three-inches tall, healthy and vibrant like a fiddle, I always feared for his life even more than for the safety of my then tom-boyish girl.

Fifteen days before he actually went, while driving him home from the airport , I had spontaneously told him: “For the first four years of your life, I carried you on my shoulders. On my last day, I want you to be around to carry me on your shoulders.”

He had answered: “Who knows, dad?”

Fifteen days later, at 5.30 in the morning, I sat up on my bed. My left eye twitched furiously.  I remembered my grandmother quoting from Adhyatma Ramayanam : A woman’s right eye and a man’s left eye twitch when calamity is about to strike. I brushed aside the thought and took a walk to calm myself. The previous evening, I found a young  girl who worked in my office crying. A boy from her neighbourhood, whom she knew well, and was studying in the United States, had met with a road accident six months earlier. He died after being in coma for all  six months.

“Death is not the end,” I had consoled her. “And the one who dies has no reason to grieve. It’s tragic only for those who stay back. Would it have been better if he continued to live as a vegetable in a foreign hospital? You could pray for him, not grieve over him.” It was strange, but those words of mine kept repeating itself in my mind as I walked through the breaking dawn.

When I returned home, my wife was awake. “Kumkum called, “she said.

“I’ll call her back later,” I said. Then a thought gripped me: Kumkum is not the kind who would wake up early in the morning to make a telephone call. I picked up the phone, nervous for no reason.

Anil had met with an accident early in the morning on his way to Madras. His driver had probably gone to sleep, and they hit a stationary truck. They are in hospital.

That was around 6:30.

At 11:30, they pulled the plug.

That senile old man certainly wasn’t putting on an act. Why would he want to impress a stranger with a fake act of senility? Why would Mrs. Dresswala go to great lengths to investigate my inexplicable anticipation of my son’s departure, of his height and good looks and how, indeed, did she know that I was the person in the crowd that Sadhna might have – indeed if she had – mentioned to her?

Next Saturday, Mrs. Dresswala, as Mother Catherine, walked up to me again and tapped my shoulder.

“It is your  poor wife  who is grieving more than you. Console her. That’s your duty.”

That surprised me. I had believed that my wife had gained her composure sooner than I. But, then, she was capable of remaining stoic under grave stress.

We attended the meetings for a few more weeks, when Mother Catherine and her crowd of benign spirits consoled new comers or, after many weeks of long wait, spoke to others who were  not so lucky as ourselves. The novelty and the magic had begun to wear off for me.

One day a couple of teenage girls in jeans came, apparently trying to find solace. A friend of theirs had died in an accident.

Even before she went into trance, Mrs. Dresswala confronted them with an air of  sarcasm that I couldn’t believe she was capable of : “Why have you come? You should be going on date  or to some dancing club. This is no place for you.”

Though taken aback, I was prepared to think that was the natural reaction of an old conservative woman. When she became Mother Catherine in trance, and still asked the poor embarrassed girls the same question, in the same sarcastic tone, I was deeply disappointed.

When Mrs. Dresswala eventually gave up going into trance due to ill health, a seemingly snooty gentleman took over from her. His ‘trance’ appeared to be put-on. His words, though not addressed to us, carried no conviction. We discontinued our visits.

A few weeks later, I met Sadhna at a business meeting. Her enthusiasm had worn off, she said, after the Dresswalas ceased to attend; that she was no longer attending the meeting herself.

Mother Catherine continues to be an enigma in my mind. The refined, helpful and consoling nature of those who attended the meetings; the high level of their thought processes expressed so well in cultured English or Hindi,  the amazing experiences that they recounted during the pre-séance half hour period , their power of reasoning and yet willingness to accept the presence of spirits in their midst during the séance session – the wonderment lingers.

“How many coincidences would it take to make you realize that nothing that happens is a coincidence?”, a middle-aged American lady, who voluntarily worked as a sort of sergeant major ensuring silence and proper protocol at the Samadhi of Meher Baba once asked me.

She had a point. The Séance episode was not the only inexplicable experience I have had.

Divine People and their theories

September 20, 2012

Prafullachandra Natwarlal Bhagwati, former Chief Justice of India, is no ordinary man, not even an ordinary judge. He played yeoman  role in legitimizing public interest litigation, and was among the first to promote judicial activism. In his own words, he  is the foremost legal luminary in the entire Commonwealth. If Sathya Sai Baba could be the Supreme Godhead, his ardent disciple could at least be a legal luminary par excellence.

That luminosity, according to Bhagwati himself, was not self-derived, nor acquired through intense study of each case he judged by merit             , nor by analyzing the lawyer’s arguments and the evidences produced by both parties, not also by scrutinizing the  orders and reasoning by the lower courts. He has publicly stated: “As a professional, each time I would sit down to write a judgment at 5’O’ clock in the morning, I was only writing what god dictated. Bhagwan held my hand as I put pen on paper. Everything that I have achieved in respect of the law, and people say I have achieved a lot, is owing to the guidance and inspiration of Sathya Sai Baba. There is no doubt on that score.”  (Emphasis mine).

Bhagwati ceased to be a devotee of  Lord Krishna after his devotion switched to S.S. Baba. Among the many significant  judgments pronounced by Justice Bhagwati at the Supreme Court, and all the while the said Baba had been guiding his hand while writing, was one to the effect that during the emergency forced on the Country by Indira Gandhi, citizen’s right to life lay suspended.  Even his god knew that he couldn’t (hence Bhagwati couldn’t) play with Indira Gandhi’s sentiments.

You wouldn’t find the name of justice HR Khanna, who refused to toe the line of this shameful  judgment,  among the worthies blessed by SS Baba. One must admit that even if  the cause of justice was thwarted, the Baba gave Bhagvati a good turn while guiding his hand to write that notorious judgment.  While writing the judgment, Khanna told his sister that he had blown his chances of becoming the CJI. Indira Gandhi ensured that Bhagwati superceded Khanna.  A conspiracy between god and the prime minister that worked through the period of emergency. That conspiracy, nevertheless,  could not block Khanna’s courage from being lauded by the legal fraternity and print media across the civilised word.

Thirty five years later, and five months after his god died, Bhagwati apologised for his mistake of signing that judgment. “If it was open to me to come to a fresh decision in that case, I would agree with what Justice (H R  Khanna) did. I am sorry (for the judgment),” Bhagwati told The Indian Express. (Emphasis mine). Forty two or so years after serving his god, this judicial luminary realized that his  god guided his hands wrong.

Among the many eminent men who are still wrangling over the billions worth Sathya Sai Baba Trust is ninety-plus Justice Bhagwati, still hoping that the  members of the Trust could possibly not deny him his due of chairing the Trust with all its enormous tax-free wealth.

As for the god who had boasted that what he willed happened, he died at the age of 86 despite his widely publicized ‘Will’  that he would die at 96.   His divine knowledge of patent laws was awesome. In September 1976 He told RK Karanjia of Blitz (the fiery weekly of the seventies) in a long interview: ” It would be cheating the company or breaching the patent if it were a case of transfer of the watch (Omega or HMT) from one place to the other. But I do not transfer; I totally create. Whatever I will, instantly materializes.”  Can you beat that?  You breach the patent law if you  move a patented product from one place to another – as you would have to do if you were wearing a watch – but it’s perfectly legal if you make one, Omega or HMT,  logo, name, style  and all, on your own!  It is with this knowledge of the law that the god held Bhagwati’s hands and made him write his orders and judgments.

This infinitely knowledgeable god also gives, in the same interview,  the example of negative current and positive current  in electricity.  He said, regarding his power of healing, ” It is like the positive and negative currents of electricity. My capacity to heal can be compared to the positive current. Your devotion to Me is like the negative current. Once the two come together, the devotion provides what is called the miracle of healing.”  Obviously, he was not talking of the conventional and electronic currents which, actually, are only names to the same flow of electrons. Perhaps the Bhagwan was talking about alternating currents such as what we get in our homes.  In this case, the ‘positive’ and ‘negative’ currents never come together, they appear one after another. If the two currents come together in time, there will be zero current! , As one staunch devotee of this fuzzy-haired  god told me, “All knowledge flows from baba”. Evidently, the knowledge of electricity didn’t; nor did the knowledge of patent laws.

If you think Justice Bhagwati and the many IAS officers, lawyers , business tycoons and judges (and, of course, the white people with their reputation-multiplying effect on Indian mind) who trailed the saffron robe of Mr. Baba are self-deluding mavericks, you are forgetting Inspector General of Police, Mr. DK Panda, who wore salwar-Kameez, nose  ring, anklets and vermilion to his august office, claiming to be  the modern  incarnate of Radha, the supposed mistress of Lord Krishna. It didn’t matter to him nor to the Radhe-Radhe  chanting pundits in ‘Dwarka’ near Agra that Maha Bhagwatam, which contains Krishna’s biography hardly mentions a love partner to Krishna by  that name.  Nor does  Mahabharatam, which describes his adventures  and stealthy, deceitful ways mention this Radha, whose name came into prominence only with Jaydev’s  delightfully erotic Gita Govindam. It is not known what happened to the cross-dressed Radha after the UP  government sent him for medical examination and ultimately made him doff his police uniform. Last heard, he was dancing like a eunuch, singing in a voice no different than a eunuch’s, but with far less talent. I mean no insult to self-respecting trans-genders by this comment. Fortunately, Panda is one godman/godwoman who found no pious followers.

Zakir Naik is a trained doctor.  It is not known how many crores were spent by the tax payer for his medical education. Having completed (and reportedly passed) his MBBS course, he went on to specializing in scriptures of nearly all religions – indexing their chapters and verses, learning  by rote their line numbers. With Arabian money, he promoted a channel named Peace TV.  In one of his addresses to an admiring audience, Naik , as always nattily dressed in western clothes,  rapid-fired 17 Surah- and -verse numbers of Quran to prove that Allah had mentioned the  phenomenon of water- cycle  1400 years ago and 800 years before Bernard Palicy proposed the concept in his study of hydrology.  Naik went on, as if water cycle  were the most important scientific discovery ever, that  Allah had mentioned it in umpteen verses apart from the  17 ones he quoted. As Naik was receiving long and resounding applause, I laboriously  jotted down the  Surah and verse  numbers he rattled out,  and later piously studied them in three versions of  English translation of Quran. None mentioned water cycle, only of a one-way traffic whereby  Allah’s miracle sent down the rains from the sky. The  gist of nearly all verses could be summed up quoting one : “ Seest thou not that God sends down rain from the sky, and leads it through springs in the earth? ” One of the verses he quoted says, if the translation is correct, that “wind impregnates the clouds with water”. How could anything impregnate a foetus? Clouds are nothing but a mass of condensed water.  A bright translator explains in the bracket that ‘impregnation’ in this context means pushing.

In another lecture, Naik claimed that the continuous expansion of the universe, which was noticed by scientists only recently, has been mentioned in the Quran. Naik quoted Surah 51, Verses 47 and 48.  I could not find the word expansion or anything meaning that trend of the universe  in any of the translations. I had tried three English translations of the Holy book, and the closest (if at all) word to expansion I could find was this:

051.047   With power and skill did We construct the Firmament: for it is We Who create the vastness of pace.

051.048 And We have spread out the (spacious) earth: How excellently We do spread out!

Quran says in couple of places elsewhere that the earth is fashioned like a carpet. Who would have thought that spreading out a carpet would also expand it? Incidentally, Holy Quran’s universe consists of seven firmaments, while modern scientists estimate that there are a billion galaxies out there and each of them hold billions of firmaments, meaning worlds.

Two of the several proofs of Miracles of Allah mentioned in Quran  is that the sky  (or heaven, take your pick) stands above the earth without the support of a single pillar and that ships sail in the sea. I haven’t yet heard Zakir Naik expanding on those miracles. A parable in the Holy Book describes how a young man looking for a hidden treasure found the sun setting in a spring of murky water. Naik has an explanation :It appeared to him that the sun appeared in the mruky water. The young man of the parable, however, found people where the sun set; not merely where it appeared to set and also where the sun rose again. I am referring to Holy Quran,  18.86 to 90.

To be fair, Naik wears his secular credentials on his sleeves. He said, and repeated  many times in one of his lectures that he loved non-Muslims more than he loved Allah. Naik, in his eagerness to prove other faiths wrong (and, in this particular context, to ridicule the legend of Ganpati’s origin), forgot Allah’s stern warning : “If you love your kith and kin (or wealth, or anything else for that matter), wait till I give my decision”. I am only condensing the gist of   what is stated in Holy Quran 9.24. It would appear that, With that public admission of his love for non-Muslims more than that for his God, Naik has sealed his eternal fate.

Naik had  found the name of Allah and that of Prophet Muhammad in Hindu scriptures. He rattles away the numbers of vedic verses and Biblical lines just as fast as he does the Quranic verses. With that speed of recitation,  you would never find it easy to verify his claims. Naik dressed up – holy wand, saffron clothes, shaven head, cloth bundle and all - an anonymous man as  “Shankaracharya”  aka Devanand Saraswati   to praise Islam on one of the Peace TV shows, In another episode, a person who claimed to be Roshan Lal Arya, allegedly the President of Arya Samaj, challenged any ‘Mai-ka-lal” (son-of-a-mother, an expletive in Hindi) to speak  ill of Islam or muslims or to prove that Muslims are not patriotic.  I must say that, having worked with several Muslim airmen in two wars, and watched an Air Marshal observing Rosa and still flying combat planes for India, I would throw that challenge myself, without invoking mai-ke-lal- like obscene phrases.

The real Roshan Lal Arya of the Arya Samaj  denied ever having appeared on the Peace TV.  Nevertheless,  you can still find a Peace TV clip  on the alleged Roshan Lal’s macho performance  on Youtube. You can also see the  “Shankaracharya”  waxing eloquent on peaceful and glorious Islam in another Youtube clip, extracted from Naik’s Peace TV. That such enthusiastic claims have made him persona-non-grata to much of the Islamic Ulma has not waned his high spirits.

My friend Aziz might not rank with the eminent men I mention in this blog, but he is an educated, well-bred and ambitious young man. He sincerely believes that Newton, Edison, Einstein and scientists like them secretly carried a copy of the Holy Quran in their pockets, and that’s  how they were able to make those great discoveries, invent superb machines and propound scientific laws. If that were the case, I asked Aziz, why do not the students and teachers of Madrasas, who study the holy book with more intensity and concentration than these non-believers come out with more and superior scientific theories and inventions? Why is it that the Abdus Salam of Pakistan is the only Nobel Prize winner for science (I am not counting  medicine) and that he is not even accepted as a Muslim in his nown country that he loved? Aziz  has read my blogs on Sunita Williams and Neil Armstrong, and of their denial, but he confidently maintains that they had secretly converted to Islam.  The Friday preacher in the local mosque couldn’t be wrong.  Aziz believes that Muslim scientists are denied their due credits because the Christians on the Nobel panel are  jealous.

I have not heard Naik or Aziz  mentioning Muhammad Ibn Musa nor of his all-important mathematical work, Hisab al-jabr w’al-muqabala. Naik could have engaged Sri Sri Ravi Shankar in a debate (muqabla) whether Aryabhatta’s Zero or Ibn Musa’s algebra (al-jabr) made the greatest contribution to mathematics, and without which no mathematical or  scientific deductions could have been possible.

In a blog about eminent men, you can’t miss out Sri Sri Ravi Shankar, the diviner of Art of Living. I’d always recommend the ancient breathing techniques that he reportedly borrowed from his estranged guru, Maharshi Mahesh Yogi, and patented it for himself. The name, Art of Living, was pirated from the title of a book on Vipaassna meditation taught by Padma Bhushan S.N. Goenka. Chinmayananda, in his translation of Gita, written long before Ravishankar came on the scene, defined Karma as “Art of Living and Action”.

It transpires that Sri Sri Ravishankar had once written in a book that the Black stone of Kaba, the holy stone that Muslims circambulate  during Hajj, is the very Shiva Lingam itself. To a Muslim mind, nothing could be a graver sacrilege. Yet, Sri Sri agreed to a debate with – who else? – Zakir Naik. Apparently, the fomer tricked him into participating in the debate. Naik started out denouncing Ravi Shankar’s preposterous claim, and spoke of almost nothing other than the non-existent relation between the divine tool and the holy stone. Sri Sri knew that playing with the religious sentiments of a crowd that Naik had collected could be dangerous.(Hopefully the crowd didn’t know what lingam meant). Ravishankar said he had made a mistake in that book, so he had never ordered a reprint of it, he was sorry he wrote it. He barely extricated himself from the debate with a crude  admixture of apologies, denials and weak reasoning.

Once out of the mob, and back  in his own circle of admirers, the angry, sad and embarrassed face recovered its natural  radiance and  sparkle in the  eyes. “It’s better to admit fault to an idiot”, he explained. The advocate of peace called Naik severak names – stupid, idiot – for his (Ravishankar’s) admirers to pick and choose. Like a student coming out of his principal’s office boasting  that he had  called the principal names to his face, Ravi Shankar told his admirers that he had said things he hadn’t said. “Arguing with an idiot  would make me a greater idiot,” he clarified. The Hindu applause for Ravi Shankar was no less gleeful than the Muslim applause  for Naik.

I attended a weekly course on Art of Living run by a young disciple of  Sri Sri Ravi Shankar. The disciple said he was an alumnus of IIT Bombay. Why did he take up this work rather than some engineering job for which he had been  trained? Because, explained the slim and handsome young devotee, he believed Ravi Shankar was God. “I am merely serving my God”, he said. Reason enough.

I have an internet friend, Akshay Malhotra,  who studiously (so I should presume) reads my blogs on  religious matters and comments on them. He refutes my claim that all religions picture God in the shape of man, bogged down with his jealousies, vengeance and need for praise, and with man’s bodily functions. That is not so in Sanatana Dharma, Akshay  tells me. He draws my attention to a site named Agniveer.com.

The site claims that among its proponents are IIT graduates  just like the devotee of Bhagwan Ravishankar I mentioned earlier. I am a great admirer of IIT graduates, even though their reputation has been somewhat on the decline of late.

Agniveer.com  matches  Zakir Naik’s Peace TV in making  fantastic claims. Let me take just one example to save space and to spare the several other claims of science in the Vedas. This one says that Electro magnetism is vividly explained in Rig Veda, Verse 119.10. This verse whose meaning is reasonably straightforward if you could comprehend Sanskrit verses and their style of phrasing words to fit the metre,  goes like this:

Yuvam Pedavii puruvaremashwina Sprudham Shwetam Terutaram Duvasythah

Sharairbhidyum prutunasu Dushtare Chakrutyamindremiv charshaneesaham

Agniveer.com explains the meaning like this: Ashvina:  Bipolar forces (Ashwin are considered a duo which exist together) Yuvam: You both Pedave: That causes rapid movementSpridham: for military and noble purpose. Pritanaasu: destroying armies Chakrityam: that causes continuous movement Shwetam: with utmost speed. Puravaram: for multiple means of attaining success. Dushtaram: Which cannot be escaped. Charshaneesaham: which is robust Sharyaih:which can be stopped and started again and again. Abhidyum:charged with electricity Indramiv: Powerful and fast Tarutaram: made of metal wire and to communicate Duvyasthah: develop

The conclusion is that this stanza indicates bipolar magnetism, how electricity is produced and conveyed through metal wires powerfully and fast  and can be switched on and off at will. That, as per the site, was about  the gist of the interpretation of this Vedic verse.

Translation of the same Vedic stanza, published by Ralph T.H. Griffith with reference to the commentary by a fourteenth century Sanskrit Scholar Sayana, and recommended by Sri Aurobindo Kapali Sastry Institute of Vedic Culture, Bangalore for those who want an English translation of the Veda, goes thus:

“A horse did ye provide for Pedu, excellent, white, O ye Asvins, conqueror of combatants, Invincible in war by arrows, seeking heaven worthy of fame, like Indra, vanquisher of men

Aswins are the twin horse-mounted gods, who are worshipped (far more often  than Vishnu is mentioned) in the Vedas, and make a cameo appearance  in Mahabharatham  where they have a double- date with Pandu’s second wife   Madri.  Thereby the twins beget Nakula and Sahadeva, the youngest step-brothers among Pandavas.  Aswins are duo (twins), but by no means two-poled electro magnets by any stretch of imagination.

Agniveer.com finds scientific theories in other Vedic mantras as well. With the kind of interpretations and false translations given to the verses, you might find a Higgs Boson or theory of Relativity in a nursery rhyme. You might put in a couple of high-flung differential equations to wow the reader and make him feel that there is some relationship between the equation and the mantras.

It is interesting to note, while passing,  that all the five illegitimate sons of Kunti and Madri were fathered by gods who find mention in the four Vedas. Neither Krishna nor Rama does.

Let me end with a caveat. Agniveer.com has much edifying and  interesting content, comments and views. So does Peace TV.

Postscript : If a reader gets the feeling that this blog is inspired by Christian preachers and evangelists, I invite him/her to read an earlier blog, “Asianet, Babu Paul and the Church”.

——————-

References
http://articles.timesofindia.indiatimes.com/2011-05-01/all-that-matters/29493144_1_sathya-sai-sai-baba-chief-justice

http://www.saibabaofindia.com/blitz1.html
http://www.rediff.com/news/2005/nov/17radha.htm http://www.theforumsite.com/forum/topic/Miracles-in-Quran-Winds-impregnate-clouds-in-the-holy-Quran-/431527 Holy Quran, 51.47 and 48., Translation by Abdullah Yusuf Ali
http://www.jannah.org/qurantrans/


www.youtube.com/watch?v=2TiqxNhRGzk


http://groups.yahoo.com/group/aryasamajonline/message/10925

http://www.sanskritweb.net/rigveda/rv01-113.pdf
.

Vishu Menon’s WordPress blog, “Famous Astronauts and Good Faith”

Why my Religion is None

August 6, 2012

“Religion?” was the next question on the hospital admission form. I had come in for an angioplasty on the advice of my good friend and physician, Dr. Georoge Ommen. My family hadn’t been told, for I did not want to alarm them.

I wrote : None.

The hospital clerk, who was watching me filling out the form with all the interest that a hospital clerk could possibly muster, looked alarmed. She stretched her bangled hand and stopped my bare one right  at the end of the word, not allowing me to proceed writing something even more preposterous in the next blank.

“You have to write the name of your religion,” she said.

“But I have none,” I persisted.

None was a religion she hadn’t heard of. Rather alarmed, she called the admission supervisor.

The suited-and-booted young supervisor lent his ears to the girl, who whispered to him. It was evident that the guy enjoyed the proximity of the whispering lips to his ears despite the alarming situation. Who ever heard of a patient with none for his religion?.

“Sir,” he turned to me. “There are reasons why we ask for the religion of a patient being admitted for an invasive procedure. Particularly when you are not accompanied by a close relative”

“I know”, I said. “You would want to know what to do with my body if I kick the bucket. Whether to bury or to burn”.

Now the girl was truly and surely shocked. The man wore an embarrassed smile.

“”I am not putting it that way,” he said.

A prime need for  religion is the fear of loss, failure, catastrophe. Death is a concoction made of all that. Whether to bury or burn  the dead is important because, if one’s religion consoles the dying that soon he or she would be resurrected to be forgiven by God simply because a man called Jesus had paid for his sins even before he had committed them, there is the other that says that  the dying body is a mere garment to be discarded, that one would  get back one’s life in some other form, hopefully a better, handsomer and richer form provided the right praises had been showered on God and his Wife before dying. If you are facing death, you need a religion. Here I was, facing the very thing, and yet being frivolous.

I knew I simply had to have those painfully thumping blocks in my heart opened out, but I wasn’t prepared to let the girl and the supervisor know that even a patient with none for religion is not in a hurry to die. So I wrote out a note for them to keep:

1. I am aware that although the doctors and the medical staff involved  would do their best, there is a possibility that I might die during the procedure. They shall not be held responsible if such an event happens.

2. If I become serious or die, I want so-and-so and so-and-so to be informed by telephone numbers such-and-such.

3. If I die, my organs may be donated to any poor and needy patient; if there is nothing that can be usefully recovered, I shall have no objection to the body being donated for educational purposes.

3. The remains of the body will be cremated in an electrical or gas-fired crematorium. Please don’t cut a tree or a piece of sandalwood. I might have broken a twig or cut a flower, but have done no major damage to trees while living. Don’t change that my one good habit.

4. Nobody – not even my wife –  will be allowed to read to me or my body a religious book while I am lying in the process of dying or awaiting the funeral. If a book has to be read to my corpse, one may read a Dostoevsky, Oscar Wilde or Changampuzha Krishna Pillai.

5. Never let a priest of any religion or caste near my body. Gita, Bible or Quran are absolutely forbidden, Please,  I have read them all while alive. KNOW ALL MEN HERE PRESENT THAT I HAVE NO RELIGION.

6. Do not allow anyone to noise-pollute the air around my body by chants of any kind. I include Gayatri in the forbidden list.  If my loved ones want to shed a few tears, let them make it short, even if poignant. Thank you for being good to me while I was around and possibly  irritating .

7. Please add no animal products to my body to speed up my travel to heaven or hell. I include milk and cow dung or cow urine  in the banned list.

By the time I finished writing, a small crowd had gathered around the table. Some chuckled, others looked less amused. A sensible  intern brought a form, meant for eye donation to another hospital, for me to sign. I obliged him.

My dentist friend who stood in for my family until I allowed him to inform them later told me sarcastically : “You could have written ‘Atheist’  instead of a senseless ‘None’ “.

“No,” I said, “atheism is a religion like any other. Both depend on faith or belief rather than evidence. What is the difference between “Jesus is my God the Lord” , or “Allah will burn you in fire, pour boiling water into your parched throat and make you drink festered pus” and “I believe there is no God?”.

That said, my angioplasty ended in disaster.The surgeon concluded that I was among the statistical five percent whose stenting procedure tended to fail. My wife decided that those five percent must be the ones who had no religion.

A couple of months later, I was admitted to a heart institute.  A deft and deservingly reputed  surgeon re-wired my arterial grid, educating me in the process that even men have mammary arteries and that I could usefully employ my left hand after donating  a major part of its artery to my heart.

At admission in that hospital, I had again written that my religion was None. When I recovered, the kindly anaesthetist congratulated me on what he called my ‘will’.

It has been many years since. I still carry a copy of it in my wallet.

Of two authors – one condemned for life.

February 5, 2012

In Salman Rushdie’s writings, time warps. Hindi, English and French words collide and become new idioms. Sentences run into a huge paragraph that runs into pages. Cultures clash. Grammar develops a death wish. His fiction works on your mind like an abstract art – beautiful, but devoid of discernible form. No other writer could produce a literary video with metaphors like “A helicopter hovers over the nightclub urinating light in long golden streams”.
Whether an abstract art is great or not depends on the artist. A sketch of a cupboard penciled by Picasso could bring in millions to the auctioner.  A layman can appreciate Hussain’s film hoardings depicting the beauty of old heroines, but one needs to know him and to have read about him to appreciate his frescos on hotel walls or his rectangle-muzzled horses. To a child or an uninitiated farmer, Mona Lisa is merely the painting of a fat, plain-faced woman. You only see the mystic smile when told about it. Rushdie’s stories are a non-homogenous mixture of several stories; his subjects and predicates would turn my sixth-grade English teacher in her grave. Nonetheless I, like millions of readers across the world, find Rushdie’s abstract, euphemistically termed “magical realism” absorbing and enjoyable.
I love Rushdie’s writings much as I love to read Dostoevsky, Vaikom Muhammad Basheer, Paulo Coelho and Arundhati Roy, though they don’t all belong to the same class or genre. I skip meals and incur my wife’s wrath while reading Rushdie. Sometimes I had to read a paragraph many times to dig what the author really meant, and sometimes I got the impression that he had put in that portion merely to titillate and confuse the reader. It’s somewhat like the hero and heroine in an Indian movie bursting into songs and strange bodily contortions while making love in (usually foreign) public parks or beaches and suddenly a horde of white-shrouded or colourfully dressed women appear behind them from nowhere and mimic the gymnastics. Characters flit in and flit out, dancers change clothes in a blink. Hero and Heroine mouth songs in a voice that is not theirs; a hundred-piece orchestra accompanies the music without being there. It’s all illogical, magical, hilarious, surreal, almost a sordid cacophony. And it’s too long, like a Rushdie novel. Yet you can sit through many of those intellectually deformed movies without an intermission, and feel disappointed when it’s over. That’s the same feeling you get when you put down a Midnight’s children, The Moor’s Last Sigh or, even more significantly, the Satanic Verses. The expression ‘Magic Realism’ for a literary work was probably invented to fit Rushdie’s writings. His characters are caricatures of living (or historical) personalities – Bal Thackeray, Bhutto, Zia-Ul-Huq, Nehru, Gandhi, Amitab Bacchan – Prophets, prostitutes and goddesses. Rarely, at least not yet, Bush, Blair or Elizabeth. I suppose Rushdie knows which side his slices are buttered.
I suspect that those who awarded the Booker Prize to Rushdie in 1981 did not understand half the oriental vocabulary in Midnight’s children nor appreciate the circumstances, hatred and the multifilament cultural thread that makes up India – Kashmir -  Bombay – described so vividly in the book. Nirad Choudhary and Vidyadhar Naipaul might be acclaimed writers, but their fame in the West owes itself to their deprecatory description of the cultures that nurtured them. A detractor might even say that they are brown versions of Katherine Mayo. Sasthi Brata’s “My God Died Young” about the cultural pit that was Bengal was described by a reader as a feeble attempt to get a visa to England, and probably it was. His description of how a widowed aunt blew his little member in his childhood while he went off to sleep every night, no doubt, tickled Indian as well as European pedophilic taste buds. Brata got the visa, but having reached England, he found little else to write about. Slumdog Millionaire was a cleverly titled movie (who would have noticed it if it was titled Q&A – the original name of the book?); and it was the slums and slum children (and the oh-so-subtly depicted blinding of a slum child) won the movie international acclaim; India whose talent lies in imitation swallowed the insult with gleeful pride. Salman Rushdie is an author of that kind of business acumen. The title of his most talked-about novel, Satanic Verses, was sure to grab attention; it threw a gauntlet at the believer even before the polythene packing was torn open.
There is little doubt that Rushdie’s fame and name grew exponentially through the nineties propelled by the Khomeni’s Fatwah calling for his murder. While his books sold, his potential killers died in futile efforts to bomb him and became martyrs themselves. I must admit that the way Rushdie interspersed his mainline story with a parody of Islamic beliefs by way of dreams (and by way of no reason) was in bad taste. What did he intend to achieve, wreak some sort of blasé vengeance on the faith of his people, or to tell the truth as he saw it? HG Wells, in his ‘A Short History of the World’  had written critically of Islam’s Prophet. Muslims c0nveniently ignore those comments; they often quote other parts of the same book to demonstrate how Wells had praised Islam and the Prophet. Perhaps the believers interpret their Prophet’s actions and lifestyles (of his later years) to the advantage of their faith. Rushdie has a different view , which is fine. But to put those views in between pages of a Harry Potter-like (and hence equally ingenious and absorbing) book was designed to offend. Rushdie exercised his freedom of speech to heap insults on the faith (not to criticize the faithful nor to debate the historic facts in Islamic claims). Iran’s Supreme Leader, a Shia, suddenly appeared to assume the leadership of the whole Islamic world (including Sunnis, who hate Shias) by issuing a fatwa for murder. Rushdie was protected by the Christian West; Khomeini had the satisfaction of seeing him being hounded like a rat till he (Khomeini) died.
Many writers, apart from Wells, in the past have written adversely about the seventh century Arabian history without inviting such violent, even if disproportional, animosity. Rushdie went about it in circuitous fiction, ensuring that the book did not fail to grab attention. He named it with the most sensitive portion of their scripture to Mullahs as well as to common faith-sensitive Muslims – the two verses that supposedly came into their Holy Book by satanic intrusion. As far as the free thinkers and religious neutrals as well as the adversaries of Islam were concerned, the literary merits of the book were ostensibly significant and the fictional insult was a side dish. One relished it or was infuriated depending on one’s degree of religious fanaticism.

Pakistani author Muhammad Hanif attending the Jaipur Literary Festival 2012 said:

The whole issue has been blown out of proportion. If you don’t like a certain book, don’t read it, don’t keep it in your house, why to get so agitated about it,”

I do not know of any Indian Muslim – communist, liberal, secular or whatever – who had the courage to make a similar comment even if that line of argument did not cut ice with the Mullahs and the majority that followed their Friday sermons. It doesn’t matter whether the author is Muslim, Hindu or Christian, if what he wrote contained some unpalatable truth, there would be a riot in most parts of the world. Julien Assange is learning that this truth applies to the “free” Western world as well. I keep praying for the safety of  Muhammad Hanif – whether he be now in Pakistan or India.
Did Rushdie truly believe in the freedom of speech when it came to heaping unsubstantiated ridicule on a historical person revered by billions? His belief in freedom of expression did not extend to his own detractors. Rushdie’s erstwhile bodyguard, Ryan Evans, wrote a book portraying Rushdie as “mean, nasty, tight-fisted, arrogant and extremely unpleasant” person. Rushdie sued the author and his publisher, pleading that “’this kind of absurd behaviour never occurred”.  Rushdie got a facile victory – not for the demeaning allegations contained in the book, but for “nine counts of false accounting”. Evans was ordered to pay £6,280.85 in fines and costs. As regards the allegations against Rushdie’s character, the court said : “It is not our intention to comment on Ron Evans’ recollection and interpretation of specific events.” Evidently, the judge believed that freedom of expression worked both ways.
Think of Lajja, a poignant and graphic description of what happened in Bangladesh immediately after the destruction of Babri Masjid by Hindu hooligans, swayed by  BJP’s Advani (as per the author) and VHP. The book I read was an English translation; many pages read like a statistician’s official report – but much of the book, by the very graphic nature of the narration, touches every string in your heart. You cannot identify yourself with Rushdie’s characters – they are too magical and distant. You can, with the four members of the Dutta family. Although Lajja‘s English translation is competent and reads smoothly enough, one might possibly miss the fine nuances in the original Bengali. Taslima Nasreen’s characters , whether or not the particular family described in the book was fictitious, its fate, its life at the time and its psyche strike you as not too far from truth. Some of the scenes are so poignant that they could make you cry even if you might want to skip a few tedious newspaper-like reports that run through several pages.
In 1993, I visited Bangladesh several times to sell television circuit boards to their fledgling electronic industry. The tension was palpable. Lajja had just got banned, but most educated people – Hindus as well as Muslims – seemed to have read it. A Hindu technician told me that what was written was a milder version of what had actually occurred. A Muslim businessman assured me that Lajja was an exaggeration, but he was ashamed of whatever had happened. He asked me if I was shocked. I said no, what they had done in a few weeks, Hindu fanatics with the connivance of the ruling party in India had done to our own Sikhs within a couple of days. Most men, I said, are victims of their own religion. They avenge that victimization by taking it out on people of other religions. Nearly all the businessmen I met were unsympathetic towards Nasreen; as for the fatwa, they said “she asked for it”.
Taslima had not spared the Hindus of India and their bigoted leaders. Advani was mentioned at many places listing the inciters of Hindu fanaticism in India; VHP and BJP are portrayed as the fiends behind killing of Muslims . Evidently, the author relied on the  news and rumours spreading in Bangladesh at that time.
It is not easy to understand why Bangladesh wanted Lajja banned and their most famous author of the time assassinated. Unlike Rushdie, she had not spoken ill of her religion. Not at that point of time -  even if her  feminist views expressed in earlier books could have antagonized the fundamentalists. Somebody could have denied the kind of happenings that was described in Lajja. They could have challenged her to produce proofs for her general statements in the book. They didn’t; they knew there was nothing in the book to challenge; that all that it contained was the shameful truth. Today virtually all her books stand banned in her country; but the fatwa and the ban made her an international celebrity in exile. Whether she made a lot of money out of  her books, I am not sure.

In India, Just a couple of weeks after the BJP-Shiva Sena combine won the state elections, Bal Thackeray, who styled himself the “Hindu Hruday Samrat  (after declaring that he did not believe in God, that he threw out all the Ganesha idols when his wife died) called for the extermination of Muslims. This was one fatwa that worked; a thousand Muslims in Mumbai were massacred in the 1992 riots. Bal Thackeray was one person who enjoyed complete freedom of speech. Pramod Navalkar, an author himself and a Thackeray minion, issued threats against the publishers of Lajja in India.

Even more hard to understand is the banning of the book and expulsion of the refuge-seeking author by the communist government of West Bengal. The hero of the book is a Hindu-born  atheist-communist  of Bangladesh. His communist friends (mostly Muslims) are portrayed as secular youngsters, ready to help his beleaguered family although, out of sheer fear, they became somewhat indifferent towards the end of the story. “None of them (Bangladeshi intellectuals) , despite their progressive and secular inclinations have openly spoken out against the ‘fatwa’ and the ban against my books.” moaned Nasreen. The same applied to the young intellectual friends of Suranjan Dutta. “Why, he had heard leftists abuse Hindus as bastards,” says the book.

Lajja by itself  had nothing against the religion of Islam, only against the Pakistanis who mutilated Sudhamoy Dutta’s genitals destroying (and his faithfully wife’s) conjugal life, yet held on to his fierce  patriotism for Bangladesh nonetheless; and against those who attacked and burnt Hindu homes and killed many of the Hindus, raped and killed Sudhamoy’s daughter Maya (who loved a Muslim boy ) and disillusioned Suranjan (who loved a Muslim girl ) to the point of destroying himself. Nor did the author  spare the Hindu extremists of India. It is true that Nasreen might have antagonized some fundamentalist Muslims and Hindu Pundits by her writings about the suppression of women in Muslim (and Hindu) societies, but her open apostasy into radical atheistic secularism and attack on Islam happened after the fatwa for her murder. Unlike Rushdie, it was the fundamentalist Muslims themselves who drove Nasreen to  write her later publications, some of which viciously criticized the religion.

Her somewhat self-contradictory statement speaks for itself: “It is not my intention to write anything against Islam, but to tell the truth. It is not just Muslim fundamentalists, but also the true Islam that is against democracy, freedom of expression, human rights and women’s rights. We need to combat Islam in order to create a society in which women will obtain equality and justice. That may include moderate Muslims, but Islam itself is not moderate.“  The reason for her progressive alienation  is evident enough. Debonair of India, in its Oct-Nov 1993 issue wrote : “Nobody, even if he boasts of being secular or a rationalist, comes forward openly in support of this ostracized author. Even political parties like the Awami League or Bangladesh Communist Party prefer to keep a safe distance from this firebrand.”  The Bangladesh Medical Association, which ought to entertain no religious fanaticism, banned her – a trained gynecologist -  from practicing in Bangladesh. So much so for the constitution of the country that “Pledged that the high ideals of nationalism, democracy, socialism and secularity will be protected”.

Why does India deny Taslima Nasreen citizenship, and frown on– virtually ban – her books? Why did the Communist government of West Bengal sent her out of the state which she longed to make her home?  Why couldn’t the other Bengali firebrand Mamata Banerjee reinstate her?  Is it because they were afraid the publication and circulation of the book (which was bound to be circulated in any case) would have caused religious riots? Why should Indian Muslims riot over a book narrating the cruelty heaped on the Hindus of Bangladesh while the book also takes note of Hindu aggression on Indian Muslims?

Why wasn’t Saamna, Bal Thackeray’s mouth piece that inflamed Bombay for several days, goading his followers to murder Muslims, not banned? Why weren’t the leaders of riots – both Muslim and Hindu – arrested and prevented from letting the violence get out of control? Why weren’t the policemen who openly sided and abetted the marauders dismissed and punished? Why weren’t the actual wreckers of Babri Masjid domes, who could be easily identified from the video grabs, identified and punished? Why are the leaders who goaded mobs to burn, kill and loot innocent Sikhs still laughing in their sleeves?

What is the crime of Taslima Nasreen, the author whose books would be read by but a few thousand intellectuals and juicy-bit-seekers as compared to that of Narendra Modi, whose audience runs into millions and who has become the most lauded chief minister of a large state and Lal Krishna Advani, who thinks he has a legitimate claim to the Prime Ministership of this secular Country? Why wasn’t the proclamation of a Karnataka minister that those who do not want to study Gita in schools can get out of the country and another minister from Madhya Pradesh who wants to make Surya Namaskar compulsory in all schools banned? Why weren’t the perpetrators of such inflammatory sentiments  and  make a joke of our secular constitution driven out of this Country? Couldn’t their public speeches have caused riots? Why do Hindu ministers insist that everybody sing sing Vande Mataram which was originally composed in praise of goddess Durga, who is no goddess to other religions? Why do Maharashtrian police stations display Ganapati picture in the stations ostensibly positioned to protect Muslim colonies?

Salman Rushdie’s fictional insults and Taslima Nasreen’s fictionalized truths cannot be compared for their contents. Salman Rushdie was one of those maverick authors with a flair for warped but stylish English who  won the Booker prize. He is more famous even in this Country though other Booker Prize winners of India are rarely spoken about and certainly not missed at the last Literary Festival (nor noticed even if they were present) – Arundhati Roy, Kiran Desai or Arvind Adiga. One reason : The fatwa by Ayatollah Khomeini for his murder rendered his books juicy for gossips that easily pass off for intellectual debates. If Arundhati Roy is better known than Adiga, it is because of her court cases rather than for  her one-and-only beautiful  novel and her substantial skills at oratory.

After gaining  unrivaled name and fame, Rushdie apologized from the fortresses of British security to dilute the effect of the fatwa .  Taslima Nasreen stood by what she wrote and never stooped to apologize. Instead, she sharpened her resolve bringing out even more home truths about her own life and experiences as a girl born to Muslim family and as an author who dared to question. She continues to be an exile – derided, abused and in danger for life in her own country as well as this, her adopted country. Jaipur Literary Festival missed Salman Rushdie who refused to come unless the government assured him safety, but forgot the writer who steadfastly lives in India despite the daily scare.

Even feminists of India have no time to spare for this beleaguered author. That is literary secularism for you.

Postscript : On 2nd February, the day I thought I had finished this blog, Taslima Nasreen’s seventh volume of autobiography, Nirbasan (Homeless?) was launched in Dhaka’s Bangla Academy campus. The next day, a similar attempt at releasing the book in Kolkata was cancelled under fanatical duress. That is the freedom of expression in secular, democratic India. Give me a break.

CHRISTOPHER HITCHENS

January 8, 2012

Christopher Hitchens died last month. He should have lived longer. Being nearly a decade older, I feel sad. I will miss his wit and wisdom when surfing the net for intellectual refreshment.

In his autobiography Hitchens had written : “I personally want to ‘do’ death in the active and not the passive, and to be there to look it in the eye and be doing something when it comes for me.” In his last days when cancer took over his entire torso, he wrote about his pain, fighting hospital boredom and waiting for the next analgesic jab. That was his last essay, written perhaps a week before his death.  Hitchens listed his pet hates and loves : “. “In the hate column: dictatorship, religion, stupidity, demagogy, censorship, bullying and intimidation. In the love column: literature, irony, humor, the individual and the defense of free expression.” He lived by those hates and loves.

He debated many – theologians in particular – about religion, specially Christian religion and the Bible; Judaism and the Torah; Islam and the Quran. His arguments were never truly rebutted, even by Alister McGrath, a theologian – scientist . McGrath had no answer to Hitchen’s questions – why, for instance, a merciful God should insist that little children’s genitalia be mutilated soon after birth? Instead, McGrath harangued how he was an atheist until Jesus showed him the light. (That argument was not too different from what the last street-side preacher told me: He was a Hindu until he read the Bible. I countered that I was planning to be a Christian but changed my mind after I read the Bible. He assured me that I would go to eternal Hell.

The controversial and outspoken Rabbi Shimuley Boteach (author of “Kosher Sex: A Recipe for Passion and Intimacy” – imagine such a book coming from the pen of an Orthodox Jewish Rabbi – and a ‘friend and adviser of Michael Jackson (again, imagine!) who defended Jackson against accusations of pedophilia, called Hitchens a secular fundamentalist fanatic who displayed colossal close-mindedness. Nonetheless, Hitchens won the debate  hands down.

Christopher Hitchens was equally contentious against Islam, Quran and the conduct of Islam in the contemporary world.  A debate with soft-spoken Tariq Ramadan with modern and moderate Islamic views was ferociously incisive. Ramadan, a  a professor of Islamic Studies in the Faculty of Oriental Studies in Oxford University and a prolific writer with a million readership on his website gave in easily enough, pointing out that all Muslims do not hold out extremist views and that those in the Western countries are changing and adapting themselves to democracy and cultural tolerance.  I wonder how our own Zakir Naik  with his enormous capacity to read into Quran what is not written there would have fared against Hitchens.

Hitchens said that Torah, Bible and the Quran were works of fiction. He qualified Islam as a plagiarized version of the other two. His success as a polemicist in debates lay in his confidence, knowledge of scriptures, wit and the unassailable strength of his arguments. Hitchens was not averse to using expletives to emphasize a point. Those who argued with him resorted to questions that might have seemed conclusive to themselves, but foolish to others : How would you know what is good if there were no God? Hitchens had his own convincing reply, but I would have simply quoted Genesis 2.16-17 where God positively tried to prevent man from knowing what was good and what was evil ¨For every tree of the garden you may freely eat; but the tree of knowledge of good and evil you shall not eat, for in the day that you eat of it you shall surely die”. Hitchens ferociously attacked Mother Teresa’ s idea of charity; he pointed out Mahatma Gandhi did nothing to help the South African natives and slept in the nude beside women, supposedly to check if he could control his erection.

Occasionally his political views confused his followers – from Trotskyism to supporting the attack on Iraq – and alienated quite a few. Nonetheless, he insisted till the end that he was a leftist. His indictment of Henry Kissinger was meant to read like a legal document, but seemed more like a literary piece that ultimately led to a script for a documentary on Kissinger’s misdeeds.

I have tried to watch every debate and interview of Christopher Hitchens on the ‘Net; I have read many of his essays and nearly all his quotations. I plan to order a copy of his memoir, “Hitch-22” although much of its contents is already well known. I will also buy the mischievously titled “Mother Teresa – the Missionary Position” and give it the shelf-space along side Naveen Chawla’s eulogy of the Mother.  I won’t need to buy “God is not Great” because I know the arguments; I would have titled it differently. “God is a Terrorist”, may be, alluding to the God of any and all religions.

Christopher’s younger brother, Peter Hitchens, was a religious man who fought and frequently debated with the former. After toying with atheism (as any Christian preacher would claim) he returned to his faith largely out of, as per his own admission, fear. A painting of the  Last judgment by the celebrated (for his paintings for Church galleries) Flemish Artist, Rogier van der Weyden, drove Peter Hitchens right back to his faith. The painting depicted sinners – non-believers – being led, naked, to hell pits. I am reproducing a copy of this painting from Peter Hitchen’s own article; no plagiarism is intended.

 

You can’t blame Peter Hitchens. It’s fear that destroys reason and begets superstition, the mainstream branch of which is religion.

I wonder if Peter (who claims to have reconciled with Christopher after their debate three years ago, but continues to cherish his Christian faith) truly believes that his elder brother has been made to doff his clothes and shunted out mercilessly  to one of Satan’s pits. Or if he agrees with some other pious men who said that the cancer that finally did him in was God’s revenge for blasphemy.

Digging in my small garden in the mild wintry sun, and still thinking of Hitchens this afternoon, I paused: “What did Christopher Hitchens achieve? Lot of money, I am sure. His ready wit and soft, yet forceful voice could not have come for free. He got to attend the best parties in England and the United States, imbibed lots of alcohol and smoked expensive cigarettes till cancer of the esophagus struck. He got to meet with famous personalities; wrote and spoke to put down Reagan, Kissinger Clinton, Bush and Tony Blair among others. He managed to raise anger with his book on Mother Teresa although no one in India cared to ask for banning his books for his views on Gandhi. (Most saber-rattling Indians hadn’t possibly heard of Christopher Hitchens, nor really remember Mahatma Gandhi except at election times). Come to think of it, what effect did writers like Charvaka, Buddha, Epicurus, Laplace, Thomas Paine, George Orwell (true name Eric Blair, Bihar-born, if you didn’t know),  Bertrand Russel, Bernard Shaw, CV Raman, Abraham Kovoor, Hafid Bouazza or Salman Rushdie have on Christian fanatics, Muslim jihadis or Hindu revivalists? None that I can think of. In a world where the business of superstition rules and operates like corporate houses, atheists and secularists fail as a tribe. Hitchens said only a godless, secular constitution like United States’ can succeed. His Jewish antagonist pointed out that much of America and none of its presidents are godless and rarely secular. Shimuley Boteach pointed out that the Presidents of the United States swore by God and not all Americans were secular.  The Rabbi was right on that point. How can those who are explicitly partisan towards Israel and deny – or fail to use their enormous political clout to ensure - Palestinians their basic rights can be called secular?.

Hitchens scoffed at Pascal’s wager . Pascal was a genius who lived in the 17th century. He was a mathematician, physicist and inventor – you might have studied while in school his law on Hydraulics or read about the first calculator, syringe and his many other inventions. ‘Pascal’s wager, however deserves no honorable mention, really. It is not the  kind of wager you’d engage in Formula 1 or a fixed cricket match. It’s the same as the innate wisdom (or the lack of it)  which persuades many people go to church, temple or mosque. Simply put, it goes thus : There is no proof that there is a God who would answer your prayers, and there is no proof that there is no God. You wager that there is God, and that he would answer your prayers. If that be true, you gain by having your prayer answered and going to heaven. If there is no God, you lose nothing any way. So put your money on God in the hope that you might stand to win, but cannot lose even if you wagered wrong. Pascal was specific that his wager applied only to the Christian God. Ancient pagans have died out for being pagan, he said; Muslims and Hindus (the latter, who believe in multiple gods are pagans any way) do not count. Pascal’s wager is proof that even the best of scientific minds can be contaminated by religious superstition and bigotry. Hitchens argued that evolution, which culminated in man (which he believed to be an imperfect, though somewhat cleverer, mutation of  the primates needed no intervention from a third party called God.

Hichens supported – initially with much gusto – Iraq war. It would be foolish to assume that had Hitchens not supported Bush’s unprovoked attack on Iraq, that country would have been spared or that at least the attack would have been delayed. Yet there is no doubt that the US government were delighted by the intellectual support that came from Christopher Hitchens. Even his customary logic went astray when Hitchens tried to justify the war.  He argued that Saddam was a terrible despot who killed his citizens, the UN sanction against Iraq had brought the country to the verge of extinction; so war was a good alternative. Hitchens was supposed to be a man of peace (which atheist isn’t? I am not counting communists, because communism is a religion by all counts.) – his support for an unprovoked and cowardly war on Iraq rankles.

Hitchens had once said : “ George W. Bush is lucky to be governor of Texas. He is unusually incurious, abnormally unintelligent, amazingly inarticulate, fantastically uncultured, extraordinarily uneducated, and apparently quite proud of all these things”. Yet George Bush must have been immensely pleased by Hitchen’s support for his international crime of waging war against a sovereign country for no reason; for the death of many more innocents than the victims of Saddam Husain’s despotic rule.

Hitchens once submitted himself to Dick Cheyney’s “I-have-no-regrets” water-boarding technique to find out what effect it has on one. He found it more frightening than painful as compared to some other forms of torture practised in Guantanamo Bay. Our own rationalist Sanal Edamaruku submitted was bolder; he himself to a ‘Tantrik killing” by “India’s most popular Tantrik” Pundit Surinder Sharma.  The whole religious farce was on a Hindi television channel, India TV, that ran for hours on end. Sharma chanted “powerful” tantric mantras for hours on end, but Sanal, the son of  Joseph Edamaruku who wrote a book titled “Neither Krishna nor Jesus ever lived”, refused to be intimidated and stood laughing till the ‘Pundit’ gave up with inane excuses.  Did that shaming experience persuade the Pundit give up Tantra  and to  go back to some productive work ? I doubt it. Religion is the best business there is and priests, preachers Pundits and Babas know it. A couple of days before I wrote this blog, two men cut a seven-year old girl’s throat and sprinkled her blood in their fields hoping to get better crops. The men have been caught, not the Tantrik who prescribed the gruesome deed to the gullible farmers.  Jihadis  all over the world are practising the very essence of Gita – fratricide is no sin as long as you believe that killing is your duty. Allah, the most merciful, will be pleased. The Pope continues to reign over an empire while his priests have had fun sodomizing the pious young and getting away with it.  In the painting  given above you won’t find priests going with their sodomy-tools bared nude to the Satan’s Hell-pit – their Father, Jesus Christ, has already paid for their sins.

Many writers and ordinary readers, even his staunch opponents, paid glowing tributes to Hitchens when he died. But the one that stood out was from an anonymous writer : “Good riddance of bad rubbish”. The writer, I am sure, must have been a priest or a faithful reader of the Bible. Chapters and chapters of senseless, violently racist, hateful and murderous words of the Holy Bible can have that effect on any crude mind.

I suppose Christopher Hitchens couldn’t have cared less. “When I’m dead, I won’t be there to worry about it”, he had once said. His only regret would have been that he couldn’t read the morning newspaper.  That shouldn’t matter, for Hitchens is in deep, peaceful sleep where, as Socrates said long ago, “eternity is one night”.

 

Two Ministers, One On Discount

August 18, 2011

Two Ministers, One On Discount

Anna Hazare, the giant-killer who resurrected a dry and destitute village, who heralded the Right to Information Act in Maharashtra and got it extended to the Centre,  the humble soldier who led the nation’s war against corruption like a general, is today engaged in a dispute with the Government of India. Not over corruption.  But over his right to fast unto death or at least for 21 days.

The government is a tough bargainer. We will give you permission to fast for five days or keep you in jail. OK, ten days. All right, 15 days.  With the crowd swelling outside
Tihar jail and government offices in other places, the Government is worried that the BBC might spread a canard that India is going the Libya and Syria way.

The sphinx blinked. A compromise is reached. Anna will be allowed to go hungry for 15 days. What if the 74 year-old body gave in on the 14th day? Well, we’ll wait and see.

Kiran Bedi is happy. So are  the well-meaning legal luminaries, the swamis, millions of followers. The General is out of jail. He is free to  lie down at a place of his choice and fight hunger.  Since corruption leads to hunger across the Country, that would truly be a symbolic fight.

My memories go back by thirty years when I was a struggling entrepreneur.
I met two high-ranking ministers of two different states for two different purposes at two different times. I wonder if Anna’s fasting for fifteen days at that time would have made any difference to either of them.

I will name the cabinet minister who didn’t want anything for herself for going out of her way to help me, but the other cabinet minister shall remain anonymous. Let the dead lie in peace.

I met Mrs. Shakuntala Bhagwaria in September 1984. I carried a letter of introduction from Mr. HKL Bhagat, who deigned to help me at the recommendation of Air Marshall Kapoor (then the boss of Congress office in Delhi), whom I met through one Mr. Dave, who was introduced to me by Mr. Rathi, a lecturer in the local college in Gurgaon and a part-time politician and social worker. In this long chain of extended assistance, none of them expected anything from me.  Instead, they offered me tea or coffee with biscuits.

The Air Marshall warned me in typical Air Force style : “If you don’t employ a good number of ex-servicemen in your factory I’ll make your life miserable”. That was spoken  in good spirit. I went to Chandigarh, determined to abide by the Air Marshall’s command as soon as my factory got going.

Almost a minute after I sent in my card, I was ushered in to an office that was the size of a banquet hall. Mrs. Shakuntala Bhagwaria, the Minister of Industries for  Haryana State sat behind a huge table. At least twenty villagers – as I guessed from their
dhotis and turbans – sat on chairs arrayed along the wall. She stopped the Haryanavi
pow-wow  with them when I walked in.

The pleasant, if  somewhat plump lady in her early forties had her legs folded up on the chair. I noticed no air of  arrogance.  That was so different from what I had
expected from a previous experience, which I shall recount later. Good things first.

She motioned me to sit down. Beside me sat the MD of the state Industrial Corporation whom she introduced as ‘my MD’. Even before I opened my mouth, the Minister explained the purpose of my visit to the officer

“Bhagat Saa’b  has told me everything. What date have your planned for the event?” She asked me. Her Hindi had that rustic accent.

I told her that we had planned the inauguration of our attempt at an electronic factory in a government-allotted plot in Udyog Vihar, Gurgaon on 3rd November. If that wasn’t convenient for her, I could change the date.

“Any date can be made convenient. Bas, you need to do just one thing. Didn’t my secretary tell you?”

My heart missed a beat. Is this going to be another experience like the one before?

“No, he hadn’t told me anything”, I said. “I came directly to you”.

Theek hai. You will need to give away blankets and transistor radios to two hundred poor war widows when I come for inauguration. You will find many war widows  in the villages near Gurgaon and Faridabad. I know you can’t afford much. But something  good  has to be done before you start a venture. You are electronic,  200 radios shouldn’t be a problem for you”.

But 200 blankets were.   Even radios would add to my heavy load of expenses, but I could manage.

Could I put her name and photograph in my invitation cards and on advertisements?

Bilkul, bilkul. Nahin toh aapko mera  aaney ka kya faida?”  Certainly,  otherwise what purpose would my coming serve you?

I wasn’t sure of the protocol. So I asked,  “Now that you’d be  inaugurating the function,  am I supposed to invite the CM”?

She threw her head back and chuckled. Then she looked around at her audience along the wall. The villagers chuckled as if sharing a secret. A subtle smile appeared on MD’s face.

“You are ex-service, I don’t think you can afford that,” she told me in confidential tone. I understood and nodded in gratitude.

In the event,  the inauguration did not take place. Three days before the widely advertised date, Indira Gandhi was shot dead by her trusted guards. Udyog Vihar, on the Delhi-Gurgaon border, stood burning all those three  days.  On the evening of 2nd November  Mrs. Bhagwaria’s secretary cancelled her booking in the local VIP guest house. Several days later I got a regret note on Government letterhead. The Minister hoped I had suffered no loss.

Thus the only occasion when I wasn’t  asked to pay a bribe from a high government
office turned out to be an unlucky one for me. My huge advertisement bill went
waste. Part of the factory I  built up with sweat and blood was destroyed. The radios I had collected on credit from many small manufacturers and the blankets  I bought for cash in Chandni Chowk were looted at the border.  I remained in debt for many years.

Nonetheless, I cherish the memory of meeting a rustic, simple, woman in power who asked for nothing for herself.  She even gave me a subtle warning  to stay off  those who would be different.

Before writing this blog, I looked up Shakuntala Bhagwaria on the Internet. She is now  an independent MLA from a reserved constituency.  She is no longer in
Congress, nor in BJP.

Naturally.

I had met another cabinet minister of another state on a previous occasion.  When this story is told, you might even guess the state.  I am hoping you might not guess the name of the august minister . Let the dead bury their sins.

It happened when I migrated from making tape recorder-radios (then known as two-in-ones) to black-and-white televisions. It became difficult to compete with the giant Indian brands  of the time. So I began to make wired printed circuit boards for the giants. Many of them asked that the circuit boards be machine-soldered. To buy a wave-soldering machine, I needed to be assured of a larger market. With a Government order for my product, I could wangle a bank loan.

Those were the days when many state governments were trying to establish their own electronic corporations along the lines of Keltron, a grand success at that point of time. I wrote to many state governments, claiming that with my circuit boards, they could do better than Keltron. All that they had to do was to connect my board to a picture tube and place the assembly inside a cabinet.

To my great delight, I got a letter, followed by a phone call, that I arrange a demonstration of my product for the MD of the electronic corporation of a particular Northern state. I was warned that I must not fail; the minister might want to witness the demo.

I flew to the capital of the state next morning with the kit and a technician who had never flown before. He puked through the propeller-powered  flight and was of little use by the time we landed.

I sent in my card, and was shown in to the MD’s office almost immediately.

I assembled the kit by myself, set up a portable antenna, and switched on the set.  Even to my surprise, the picture came on without a flicker. The MD was impressed. He went  to the minister’s office to report.

The minister didn’t come to watch the television. He had more important things in mind. I was called in..

With my hopes flying high like migratory birds, I walked in to the well-appointed room. There were trophies in teak cupboards;  huge portraits of Mahatma Gandhi , Indira Gandhi  and the Chief Minister of the State adorned  the wall.

I wasn’t  asked to sit down, so I stood respectfully. What would be the price of the kit, the minister asked.

I told him  the price. I added that I knew that the market was competitive, that I wanted his electronic corporation to be a great success, so I could offer a ten per cent
discount.

“Discount-viscount kutch nahin. What’s in it for us?,” the minister insisted.

I couldn’t imagine that what he meant was what he meant.

“All right, sir, twenty per cent,” I said

“And you will bill it all at twenty per cent discount?”

“Of course, sir. Excise paid. You only need to give me the  interstate Sales Tax form.”

The minister turned to the MD. “Bewqoof hai. Kyun laykey aya?”  This is an idiot. Why did you bring him to me?

While being marched out, I knew why I was called an idiot.

That state’s electronic corporation never really took off. Perhaps all my competitors were also idiots. Nonetheless,  the minister prospered.

What’s more, the man remained a cabinet minister and a leader of his party through many turmoils  till the day he died.

Nothing has changed.

SHAMMI KAPOOR – A TRIBUTE

August 14, 2011

Shammi Kapoor died this morning. If a soul survives the body, he will smile all the way to wherever he would go. If there is no such thing as a soul, his Yahoo… call will linger in our world for a long, long time to come.

I had a personal agenda in wanting to meet Shammi Kapoor in March, 2000. The enthusiasm of Asha, my daughter, made up for my trepidation while we approached the watchman’s table outside his ground floor flat in Malabar Hill.

“Saab ghar mein Nai hein,” said the guard. He agreed to take a copy of my new book, Desktop For Everyone, and send it into his house.

Three days later we called on him again. Who is it who wanted to see him, asked a voice over the Intercom. Asha, said my daughter.

“Asha Pareikh?” “No, Asha Menon”.

Pause. “Is it about that book?”

“Yes.”

My heart sank. There wasn’t much enthusiasm in that voice.

“Send them in.”

He greeted us at the door and shook hands. He wasn’t the Shammi Kapoor I knew in my youth. His hair was no longer the shiny black coiffeur-art that it once was. The portly gentleman in front was nonetheless as handsome as any 69-year old could hope to be.

“You are lucky to have a daughter like her,” he said, tapping Asha’s shoulder.

Indeed, I was. But how did he know?

“I spoke to her over the phone. Very persuasive.”

Our visit was for selfish reasons. If I could even mention his name associated with the publication of my new book, I could expect much mileage. On the other hand, Shammi Kapoor had no reason to meet me. He was just a kindly man who took the trouble to read my book through – this was what he said – the major part of a whole night.

“But why me?,” he said. “You should have met ……… He’s the computer expert,” he gave the name of an author of computer books I didn’t much care for.

“You did much to popularize internet and digital computing in India,” I said.

“Moreover, you were my hero through my twenties. Your acting and dancing gave us solace to us young soldiers serving in Kashmir and Ladak.”

I feared I had I overshot the runway there. So I added, “You invented that style of robot-dancing. Michael Jackson came much later. “

While I spoke of films, he showed us around his computer room. He had the latest Apple computer of the time and a printer and a router.  He showed us the website he had designed for the Kapoor family. He told us how he came to buy his first computer in London just to get rid of transit boredom and fell in love with computing.

I brought up the subject of Baburao Patel and how he once wrote, in reference to Kapoor family, that the Pathans can never learn to act.

“Baburao is a funny man,” he said, smiling without venom. “He chose to make some money by taking our name, that is all.”

He didn’t promise to come to the launching of my book.

“Let me see, I will try. You must also call someone else who is well-known. Your book deserves it”, he said.

To me, that meant a polite no. I invited the director of Aptech to launch the book.

On 24th April 2000, while Mr. Sharma, the director, was announcing the launch of the book, some in the audience stood up, others murmured. Shammi Kapoor, the famous actor, was walking down the aisle towards the stage.

That did much more than making my day. He climbed up the dais with some difficulty on account of his weight, and spoke highly about my work.

“I wish Menonji had written this book eleven years ago when I was struggling to get the hang of computers,” he said. I could have choked.

He stayed back for the cocktail and dinner. He refused the scotch that was offered and asked for a soft drink. He was being considerate to an aspiring author, for I knew that the Kapoors of that generation were fond of  Black Label.

I wrote a short piece in Free Press Journal, mentioning his generosity, his handsome looks despite the age and receding hairline, his Rudraksh Mala with the image of his Guru in its locket and his not being too proud of his earlier style of acting. I sent a copy of it to him. He never mentioned it in his later mails – I wasn’t sure if it was because he was used to people writing about him to see themselves in print, or because he didn’t like the contents. I hope it was the former.

We exchanged many e-mails since that glorious (for me) night. I requested him not to call me Menonji, but just Vishu, or if that sounded too familiar, Menon.

“All right,” he mailed back. “I’ll call you Menon Sa’ab.” He stuck to the ‘Sa’ab part through all our later correspondence.

He never failed to answer a mail. He even mentioned some of his own disappointments while consoling me about my departed son.

Our correspondence trailed off due to my laziness, not his negligence. He replied my get-well message even when he was laid up in a Pune hospital.

To me, Shammi Kapoor was a real hero – not just a filmi hero. Long live his name and fame.

 

RICH COUNTRY, POOR COUNTRY- WHO’S GONNA SINK?

August 3, 2011

Everybody please stand up and clap. The world can rejoice and go back to its old ways. The United States economic crisis has been solved.

The Country that owes the world 14.39 trillion dollars (that is 14,390 billion dollars)  has  now decided that it could borrow another 2.41 trillion (2,410 billion) dollars and spend them by 2013. Its credit rating of AAA will remain intact; tax cuts introduced by George Bush and meant to be rescinded in 2010 can go on regardless.  Out of the 14.39 Trillion debt (till August 1), over 11 Tn were incurred during the post-cold war era; George Bush’s war on terror (read war on two men) spent 6 Tn of other peoples’ money.

In the meanwhile, America’s  debt burden has already crossed the Annual Gross Domestic Product of the Country by some 10 to 15%.  Americans, seemingly charitable and helpful (particularly to dictators and terrorist havens), were actually having a great time at the expense  of money borrowed from poorer nations at a poor rate of interest. (‘AAA’ rating). The problem is – even low rates of interests become huge rates, effectively cumulative interest rates, when you start borrowing to pay interest.

President Obama is a passive onlooker  while the Republican-dominated and pro-tax-cut US Congress voted for this ‘solution’.  Like him, his Democratic party has no option but to swim with the current. The other option is not being able to pay Government bills and salaries, or having to pay much higher rate of interest  (‘D’ rating) on the present debt which (the interest)  stands at more than a third of a trillion as it is. The additional debt will go to pay the interest , and by 2015, when Obama’s second term (if it Happens – and if the much harried dreamer even chooses to run for the next term), the cumulative effect of this interest-to-pay-interest policy will  bite off the chunk of America’s annual budget – more than defence spending, health insurance (Obama’s pet project and the rich man’s demon) and pension and education (the other pet project).

Where would all this debt-money  come from?

  • treasury bills and bonds. Some collected domestically, the rest from China, Japan, South Korea and so on. (If India has any share in it,  it is insignificant. But we are catching up – India has pledged 2 Bn dollars – trifle more than what has been pledged to our poorer neighbours like Bangladesh and Afghanistan – to finance European bailout).
  • Banks in Belgium, Switzerland etc which won’t disclose their sources. In other words, money deposited by, among others,  our own unscrupulous politicians, mafia and hawala operators.

If you in India have any hope that those black dollars can be brought back home, forget about it. Ramdev did right giving up his fast-unto-death threat.

The United States has been a heavy borrower since the world war. In 1980, the debt figure stood at about 800 Billion dollars,  about 50% of the GDP. Till the year 2000, debt grew in the same proportion with GDP – in other words, the growth in national product  was a constant  function of the loan taken by the Government.
Then came the most profligate President of the United States – George W. Bush
Jr.  Even before 9/11, the GDP growth fell from 3.8% to a negative 0. 6%; unem-ployment steadily grew. Bush, like a prodigal prince, seems to have thought that the treasury was his ancestral property. Tax cut for the rich was his pet scheme which was pushed forward with great urgency. If you watch the chart  published by the Bureau of Economic Analysis and the Bureau of Labour Statistics, you would see that the tragedy of 9/11 came as a windfall for George Bush. This Court-assigned President of the United states won a second term in  a genuine election while he plunged the country into expensive and tragic wars.  Debt ceiling was revised progressively year after year, the debt chart rose like the tower of Burj Khalifa right from Bush’s Presidency as never before. Look at the chart:

Rise in US Debt Ceiling

Taken from a BBC News item - August 02, 2011

Cost of Iraq war  exceeded 3 trillion; the cost of it in Afghanistan is probably not  much less when all the body bags have gone home.  Compensation for the Loss of thousands of troops in both theatres, cost of care and rehabilitation of those
thousands who came home injured physically and mentally and the overhead and logistic costs have not probably been computed. The cost of lives and property lost by native Afghans and Iraqis, of course, do not count.  These wars would only encourage the terrorists to prepare to strike again; what has prevented them so far is an increase in vigilance and homeland security. In other words, those five or six  trillion spent was not for improving security of US citizens, but for wreaking revenge on two men – Osama Bin Laden and Saddam Hussein. The latter was not even an international terrorist; he simply terrorized the Kurds and his close neighbours.

The cost of war has hardly abated. Obama has not been able to come out of it. Not even his writing and oratory skills and ability to dream big can help the United States dismount the tiger. In other words, by 2013, when every US citizen, young and old, employed or unemployed, will owe over 50,000 dollars to the world,  there will be another need for mapping a sharp rise in the debt ceiling. As it is, the interest paid out per year is more than 350 Billion; by 2013, it could exceed half a Trillion.

Republicans want huge cost cuts to ease the debt burden. What they target is Obama’s pet project of health insurance for all (repeal the Act?) and Government spending  which means sacking of employees. Big business would also want stimulus packages which they can distribute as bonus among top management.  What they do not want is a repeal of tax cuts for the rich.

Does it really matter? Everyone knows that the United States will never get out of the debt trap. There is little difference between drowning in ten feet deep water or ten thousand feet deep. There is one difference in the case of a country like United States , though – the deeper it  sinks, it would carry more countries with it.

Compare China’s performance with that of the US. Its GDP is to the tune of 5.9 trillion (growing 10% annually), slightly more than a third of United States’. Its external debt stands at a trifle 406 billion – one-fortieth of US debt. A Chinese citizen would owe 303 dollars of debt, while at about 3 trillion investments abroad, the same world (which means the United States, mostly) would owe him or her 2,000 dollars.

India, once notorious for her begging-bowl image is behind China, but fares far better than the US and the “rich and developed” European Countries which might sink with the US sooner or later. First world stands first in debt. An Indian owes less than US$ 200 external debt which rests at a mere 237 Billion as against a GDP of 1.54 trillion. Her average annual GDP growth rate is at or around 8% while that of the US is 1 to 1.5%. Despite its huge population , (3.4 times that of the US) and smaller land area and weaker industrial infrastructure, India’s unemployment rate is nearly the same as that of the US.  My figures are approximate, but they give you the general picture.

While I got down to brush up this blog before putting it up on site, my Australian friend Llew Fernandez sent me these startling statements:

  • China has 19% of the world’s population, but
    consumes… 53% of the world’s cement… 48% of the world’s iron ore… 47% of the world’s coal… and the majority of just about every major commodity.In 2010, China produced 11 times more steel than the United States.
  • New World Record: China made and sold 18 million vehicles in 2010
  • There are more pigs in China than in the next 43 pork producing nations combined. (Who said Pigs aren’t  economic units? Ask the guy who brings home the bacon).
  • China currently has the world’s fastest train and the world’s largest high-speed rail network.
  • China is currently the number one producer in the world of wind and solar power.
  • China currently controls more than 90% of the total global supply of rare earth elements.
  • In the past 15 years, China has moved from 14th place to 2nd place in the world in published scientific research articles.
  • China now possesses the fastest supercomputer on the entire globe.
  • At the end of March 2011, China accumulated US$3.04 trillion in foreign currency reserves – the largest stockpile on the entire globe.
  • While they manufacture 80% of the world’s solar panels,

They install less than 5%. And,

a new coal fired power station every week and in 1 year turn on more  new coal powered electricity than Australia’s total output

  • China is developing the most ingenious aircraft carrier till date – it is an airport straddling two ships, catamaran style.

I do not know the source of Llew’s  data; but they do look reasonably reliable. More importantly, despite its huge military clout, China has not initiated an attack any country since the cultural revolution. Most of its huge success s rests on that fact alone.

Don’t forget the side show. European countries are bursting their balloons. Greece , Ireland, Portugal, Spain, Italy. EU – meaning Germany and France, mostly – and some non-European Countries might chip in to bail them out while their citizens would resist any effect on the Khushi time they have had.  It won’t be easy to bail out rich man Sylio Berlusconi’s Italy. When The party is over. do you think the ‘rich’ European Union will disintegrate simply under the weight of deficit financing?

Take a look at the alarming state of affairs – Foreign debt vs foreign exchange reserves of the ‘First World’  nations:

(For enlarged details, click the map)

 Red shows countries that have negative results; United States is at the bottom of the pit with -13.85 Tn. Even Australia is not far behind the other “First World” nations.)

If you ask me, India should learn where to nurture acquaintance and whom to make friends with. As of now, we have got it all wrong. Mr. Foreign Secretary, please make a visit to Peking and don’t forget to wear your best smile.


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