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Dive into sparkling waters, idle on sun-baked beaches or walk through history in ZanzibarZanzibar is a name most of us recognise — though may be hard pressed to pinpoint on a map — as it conjures up the sights and sounds of an African island on the old Spice Route. So when I got an opportunity to work and live there, I got my yellow fever shots and booked the first flight out. Zanzibar is off the coast of Tanzania in East Africa and is a fully autonomous country for all practical purposes. (But if you’re travelling there, you need to get a visa for Tanzania.) For those of us brought up on National Geographic, the very word Africa conjures up images of wild animals and grasslands. Not so with Zanzibar — it’s more a sandy-beaches-and-sparkling-sea sort of destination. For those who still want their safaris, it's a great destination to club with a wildlife holiday with Serengeti and Ngorongoro reserves barely an hour-long plane ride away. The two main islands of Zanzibar are Unguja and Pemba, but there are about 51 other surrounding small islets. Zanzibar has a very long and diverse cultural history — Assyrians, Egyptians, Phoenicians, Chinese, Persians, Omani Arabs, the Dutch and British have all settled here some point. And let’s not forget the Indians, who have lent their own flavour to the island. It’s a sparsely populated, largely Muslim state, but churches, Hindu temples and mosques all cluster together in that small space. People usually see Zanzibar by dividing it into ‘town’ and the ‘outskirts’. Stone Town, on the western coast of Unguja, is what they call ‘town’ and it is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Much to my delight, it’s also where I found myself living, surrounded by really old and stunningly beautiful buildings with minarets and labyrinths. Its narrow lanes took me right back to Chandni Chowk in Delhi, but minus the crowds and chaotic mental wiring. The name Stone Town comes from the use of coral stone as the main construction material; this gives the town a reddishwarm colour — and gives the visitor great pictures! Traditional buildings have a baraza, a long stone bench along the outside walls; these are used as elevated sidewalks or benches to sit down on. The most well-known feature of Zanzibari houses are the finely decorated wooden doors, sometimes with big brass studs in Indian tradition. You also see high-ceilinged houses painted pristine white, with dark wooden beams, making the whole effect very dramatic. Perhaps more than anywhere else in Zanzibar, the country’s past is reflected in almost every corner of Stone Town. A lot of the buildings date back to the 19th century, many of them not restored. In my first few days in, I took a walking tour and peered into houses where people like David Livingstone — the doctor, missionary and anti-slavery crusader — lived. Stone Town was a big hub of the slave trade and we could see the places which were holding houses for the slaves before they were sold or sent on further. Despite their grim history, people still live in them — not something that I would go for! What I did go for was a Tinga Tinga painting: Tanzanian art characterised by bright colours depicting mainly animals and birds. No woman shopper worth her salt would leave without visiting Kanga Street and buying a Kanga, a brightly patterned piece of cloth with a slightly obscure line of general advice woven in as part of the fabric. (You could, for example, find your kanga carrying the words ‘Wache Waseme’ or ‘Let Them Talk’). The kanga doubles as a sarong, baby carrier, or pretty much any other use you can put it to. (Here’s a tip, especially relevant when shopping in the alleys of Stone Town: tell people you’re a resident and not a tourist. Almost all prices are negotiable and you often do better as a ‘resident’. Also try and pay in Tanzanian shillings and not dollars.) By the end of the walk, I was pretty full of historical fact and my backpack was full of my shopping. But my stomach wanted sustenance of a different kind and I headed off to Lazuli, which rapidly became my favourite restaurant in Stone Town. Satiated on a meal of smoothies, bunny chows (a South African specialty) and an amazing lemon spaghetti with prawns, I was ready to head out again. If you’re staying a night in Stone Town, it is definitely worth visiting Tatu for an after-dinner drink. This pub is the lone (but great) place to party, and also has one of the best collections of whiskeys in the world — an observation confirmed by many samplers! Other Zanzibari street food kept reminding me of home and the Indian traveller who misses ghar ka khana would find little to complain about here. At various times I found myself munching on a sambusa (samosa), a chapatti (more like a parantha made of flour) and a kachori (which is more like an Indian pakoda). The kuku (chicken) curry and biryani also tasted like the Indian versions, except that you would be more likely to find beef in the biryani here. If you come in the month of Ramadan, you may find half the eating places shut in the daytime. However, some hotels operate during the days of fasting as well. Being on the old Spice Route, spice farms dot the islands of Zanzibar. One weekend saw me heading off on a Spice Tour, where I spent happy hours sniffing vanilla beans, picking pepper and rubbing cinnamon sticks. The tour ended with a local meal in the farm owner's house — delicious! The cloves, called karafu, from Pemba are pretty famous and it’s worth pocketing a few on your visit to the spice farms. Despite its many other attractions, ultimately Zanzibar is all about the sea. It’s beautiful coral reefs — Morogo Reef, Boribo Reef & Turtles Den, the reefs accessible from Nungwi and Matemwe — are especially good for diving. Paje, a village on the southeast coast, has the most beautiful beaches, with sand as fine as flour! But my personal favourite was Robinsons Place on Bweju, located on the east coast. This small eco-lodge is one of the few places for the budget traveller (Zanzibar is definitely a niche destination on most counts) has no electricity and serves home-cooked meals. (Try and book The Robinson House, a romantic tree house with a gorgeous view of the ocean.) There are many diving centres in Zanzibar, for those who want to plumb the depths. The closest I’ve come to diving is off a board into a pool, but I still had the poor-man’s option — snorkelling! So I set off for the submarine experience of a lifetime, as the reefs came to life and colourful schools of fish sailed around. The more intrepid divers can also come face-to-face with manta rays and magnificent whale sharks, if conditions are right. My perambulations around Zanzibar were rounded off by the Safari Blue, a guided tour that has been operating for more than 20 years. I headed out for a sensational day trip full of snorkelling, dolphin-spotting and a fantastic seafood buffet as I sailed around in a boat for the whole day. (I must confess to becoming a bit of a fan of the trip, especially since I’ve been thrice and seen dolphins all three times.) They also took us out to the middle of the ocean and stopped the boat at a little sandbank, where we ended the day lolling in the water, a barbecue there going in the background and glasses of drinks in our hands. So if living life pole pole (Kiswahili for ‘at a leisurely pace’) and beautiful tropical surroundings is your idea of a vacation, then Zanzibar should definitely figure in your travel plans.
Delightfully suprising at every turn, a trip to Bhutan is never short of an adventure If anyone had told me a few years ago that I would be driven around a beautiful country by a movie star who shared my penchant for hip-hop bhangra music, I’d have told them to go take a hike. But after taking a few hikes myself around the Happy Kingdom, I feel truly blessed for the unique experience — and not just by a couple of wooden phalluses at the Temple of the Divine Mad Monk Drukpa Kuenley. That’s Bhutan for you — unassumingly glamorous and breathtakingly surprising at every turn. The country offers almost no spur-of-the-moment backpacking options, and all trips must be planned in advance. It’s pretty good to be Indian as there is no visa requirement and the entry fee is the envy of other foreign travellers. Indians can also get permits to drive in via the Indian border town of Jaigaon, and if you’re a Bollywood buff most doors will open for you automatically anyway, exemplified by this excited query in chaste Hindi from a chubby boy, “Oh you’re from India! When do you suppose the new Salman movie will be out?” Bollywood movies double as Hindi tutorials and Salman Khan and Madhuri Dixit share the top spot, cutting across generations. Paperwork sorted, we chose to fly into Paro — the country’s only international airport. As our Druk Air plane approached the runway at Paro, my heart skipped a beat and not just because the left wing almost brushed past the lush mountains. The airport itself exemplifies the country’s breathtaking simplicity, being smack dab in the middle of the Paro Valley. As Tshering — our gho (traditional wraparound dress for males) clad driver drove us to our hotel, a faded Jim Morrison poster winked at me from behind one of the barred kirana stores amid all the touristy trinket joints. Bhutanese kirana stores, I later discovered, are a class apart. Run mostly by women, in a traditionally matriarchal society with what we would call ghar jamais, they double as mini-bars by default — selling everything from teddy bears to Barbie rip-offs, shiny slippers and groceries, with enough space to squeeze in four stools, a carrom board and a mini drinking table. Druk 11,000 is the poison of choice, topping our strongest Haywards by a good thousand volts. But sadly, for foodies like me, local Bhutan doesn’t offer much choice in cuisine, so it’s best to make your peace with the Datsi family. Ema Datsi (potatoes and cheese) and Kewa Datsi (fiery chillies in cheese) are the omnipresent accompaniments to any self-respecting Bhutanese meal, with Shamu Datsi (mushrooms and cheese) putting in a cameo. For the rest of the time you’ll probably be playing hide-and-seek with a variety of Indian and Chinese spin-offs, and some excellent beef if you’re lucky. Do try the local red rice with your cheesy meal and wash down the chillies with a bottle of Druk lager. The drive from Paro to Thimphu is a beautiful one, where you can catch a glimpse of the as-yet-unfinished giant Buddha statue perched atop a mountain. There’s nothing much to do in either city, but the outskirts of both Thimphu and Paro offer (literally) breathtakingly beautiful hiking trails for those seeking some green silence and gurgling streams. The lazy can head out to the BBS tower — the dating hotspot, we were told — that has some splendid views of Thimphu town, and pay an en-route visit to the national animal of Bhutan — the Takin, a strange, mutant-like cross between a goat and a cow. We did venture out to the locally-recommended Om Bar that bravely represents the city’s nightlife, if you can look past the dismally painted room and whitechalked entryway. Interestingly, the well-known bar came with a homely bartender in sweats and chappals, chewing on a chunk of dried yak cheese while mixing music from a desktop PC. September is the holiest month in the Bhutanese calendar, with unique Tsechu festivities in each town. It is an amazing burst of colour and religious fervour, when cars are cheaper, tailors are busy and the market is happy — much like an Indian October. Vishwakarma Puja is huge in Bhutan, with all vehicles from mopeds to tankers decked out in bunting and balloons. Anyone travelling to Bhutan must definitely make time to see Bhutan’s most feted landmark: Taktshang or the Tiger’s Nest monastery that almost seems to hang on a cloud. I set out bravely at the crack of dawn and my lack of fitness nearly killed a perfectly healthy Bhutanese pony as I sought my personal Mordor. But the first glimpse of the monastery majestically suspended about 10,000 feet above sea level left me misty-eyed at the sheer joy of being alive, though the steep steps up and down the mountain till the monastery brought on tears of another kind. That’s the thing: Bhutan will make you earn each pleasure. Be prepared to walk to almost any place worth visiting. Like Chimi Lakhang — the Temple of Bhutan’s most loved Divine Mad Monk, with his refreshing ideas on life and love, en route to Punakha and Gangtey. You’ll have to trek through mounds of mud, golden wheat fields and crude water channels, perhaps even dodge the arrows of local archery enthusiasts to get to this must-see monastery. With Drukpa Kuenley worshipped as a fertility god of sorts — not least because of his hedonistic and promiscuous lifestyle — phallic art adorns the boundary walls of every home in this village. You can see fertility symbols peeking from window frames, with phalluses doubling as door handles, soap dishes and towel pegs! It’s a much-feted sanctum of hope for childless couples. Don’t forget to pack some full-sleeved and collared shirts, if you’re visiting the dzongs. A cranky old guard refused to make any concession for the fact that we had travelled all the way from India, and climbed an obscene number of steps, denying us entry in our touristy t-shirts. Between Thimphu and Punakha lies the Dochu La pass, with its 108 chortens that were built in 2003 to honour those who laid down their lives while flushing out Indian insurgents from southern Bhutan. The mist envelopes these stupas like the souls of the departed. From there we drove to Punakha, which hosts the most beautiful Dzong (fort) on the banks of the Tsang Chu River — the recent venue for the fairytale royal wedding. From there we made our way to the famous Gangtey Gompa (monastery) and the Phobjikha Valley, the unmistakable Switzerland of Bhutan — with a night stop at the fabulous Punatsangchu Cottages at Wangdue on the banks of the hypnotic Tsang Chu River. We were too early for the famous black-necked cranes but do catch these migratory birds during October- February if you can. The Dewachen Hotel’s the place to stay at Gangtey — the budget cousin of Bhutan’s prettiest property, Paro’s luxurious Zhiwa Ling — with sweeping views of the Phobjikha valley and oldfashioned bukharis to keep you warm. In the end, Bhutan’s real treasure is its people, with their matchless charm and humility, as exemplified by our very own driver-cum-guide, Tshering. We noticed that he got a lot of waves and hoots from people everywhere we went, automatically chalking it up to the extreme friendliness of a country that has a Gross National Happiness Index. Only to switch to a local Bhutanese television station and discover that our companion with his immaculately polished dress shoes just happened to be a very popular movie and soap star, with a number of lead roles under his belt! So, not unlike the cherished screen appearances of a popular superstar, Bhutan definitely leaves you wanting more.
Renowned French urbanist-cum-architect Le Corbusier worked his magic and Chandigarh was born. It is easily among the best-planned cities in India and that is a well-known fact. What is perhaps largely unknown is that Le Corbusier also designed the Government Museum and Art Gallery in the heart of the city. One of the most striking features of the museum is its grand building itself. Overlooking the stunning Shivalik mountain range of the lower Himalayas, it has a sprawling, lush green campus. Inaugurated in 1968, the building is in fact a complex, with the art museum and gallery, the Natural History Museum and the City Museum. It houses a dazzling collection of art — from rare antiques to contemporary works. Many of its masterpieces were part of a collection in Lahore and came to India after Independence in 1947. The collection has since grown substantially. There is also an architecture museum here that documents the development of the city of Chandigarh — from inception to the present. The Natural History Museum is no less a delight, with its exhibits from the prehistoric Harappan times and those on the evolution of life and man and the hugely popular section on the dinosaurs of India. When you have stopped gasping over the façade and step inside, you discover the marvel of Corbusier’s creative mind. The cavernous, clutter-free interior is designed for space, harmony, expanse and quietude. Not just that, the sun filters in through the slats of thoughtfully louvered skylights that allow only the right amount and intensity of light. A system of top lighting also illuminates the entire length of the building.
The museum also showcases a vast collection of Indian textiles, metal and stone sculpture, decorative art, miniature paintings and contemporary art. Visitors are spotted seated hour after hour on comfortable chairs in the middle of the corridors, soaking in the beauty of the art. The entire range is here — from oil on canvas to water colours to drawings, monochrome and colour. The folk-inspired vigour in Jamini Roy’s paintings jostle for attention with the Western spirit of rebellion of Amrita Shergil's works. Settle down on one of the chairs and gaze at some century-old works of the Russian mystic-painter-philosopher-writer and friend of India, Nicholas Roerich. There is also a special section for two celebrated painters from Punjab, S. Sobha Singh and S.S.G. Thakar Singh. Another special section dedicated to the Nine Masters of India evokes sheer awe. Just look at the names here: Amrita Shergil, Jamini Roy, Nandalal Bose, Raja Ravi Varma, Sailoz Mookherjea, Rabindranath Tagore and Gaganendranath and Abanindranath Tagore (both nephews of Tagore) and Nicholas Roerich. The Russian master had made India his home and painted feverishly during his last days in the picturesque Kullu Valley. He painted the mighty Himalayas in their physical grandeur, treating his lofty subject with his striking style and sensitivity. When I stepped out of the museum drenched in the colours of the great masters, I couldn’t help but look at the resplendent Shivalik range anew. My vision was enriched by Roerich’s symbolism, Shergil’s commentary, Tagore’s honesty and Souza’s energy. If you are one of those people who love art and admire artists, you must visit the museum.
Trilogies seem to be making a mark in Indian fiction, and Amish Tripathi’s sequel to The Immortals of Meluha reportedly had 80,000 people pre-ordering the book. The Secret of the Nagas, the second book out of three, is finally in bookstores and selling like hot-cakes. The first book was a national bestseller and was considered an innovative departure from usual writings in the genre. It treated the character of Shiva more like a man of destiny with exceptional powers, than a God. To that extent, the second book carried the burden of expectation — it was no longer about what Amish could do, but whether he could do it better. So far, opinion seems to be divided on that score, with some reviews slamming it for being slower and more concerned with phraseology than the first. However, for the majority of Amish fans, it has not been a disappointment. The first book focused on Shiva as an immigrant to Meluha, who falls in love with Sati. It ended with his close friend, Brahaspati, being killed by a mysterious Naga assassin. Book two picks up where the story left off, portraying Shiva as a man who has come into his own as a leader, married to Sati and on a quest to avenge his friend’s death. New characters, such as Ganesh, Kartik, Kali and Parshuram, are also introduced. The Immortals of Meluha had a tight plot and crisp style of story-telling; it also ended at a definitive point in the narrative that left one anticipating the sequel. By contrast, The Secret of the Nagas sees a slight altering in the writer’s style, with the pace being more languid and more adjectivising in the language. It may perhaps be accused of failing to draw the reader into the action as completely as the first book. However, Amish’s strength lies in a well-structured movement of the story from incident to incident, a skill that is evident in this second book as well. There is no superfluity of characters, as each of those introduced has a significance and continuing role to play. Of course, there is the eternal fascination of the subject matter itself, and The Secret of the Nagas is definitely recommended for those who have even a passing interest in mythological fiction. There is no doubt that once involved in the life and times of Shiva (as depicted by Amish), the third and final book of the trilogy will be as eagerly awaited by readers.
Vinod Mehta is one of the most respected editors in India, known for his honest and outspoken style. It comes as no surprise to anyone, then, that his memoir Lucknow Boy, has both these qualities in abundance. It certainly makes for interesting reading, as in a career spanning more than four decades, he has edited Debonair, revived ailing newspapers and set up publications like the Sunday Observer and Outlook. He has also had some of India’s most respected journalists — like Tarun Tejpal, founder of Tehelka, and Manu Joseph, editor of Open — working under him in the past. So what can one expect from the memoirs of a man who travelled the world, met celebrities and often found himself in the middle of controversies? Carrying the burden of so much to talk about, the book nevertheless lives up to expectations. When dealing with his personal history, Mehta has not shirked from turning the mirror on himself, even when it shows an uncomfortable truth. One extract from the text says, “My daughter must be in her mid- 40s now, probably a mother, which makes me a grandfather. I have no idea where she lives, what she does, what she thinks of me. I have often tried to imagine her and in this reverie I have prayed that perhaps through some happy accident our paths might cross. It hasn’t happened yet.” The first part of the book is dedicated to his early years as an army brat — thus a ‘Lucknow Boy’ — and friends and family generally. These subjects are handled with affection and sensitivity, giving warmth to the book. From these regular beginnings and after a less than stellar academic performance, Vinod Mehta heads out to London. These were formative years for the young man as he devoured the English press, refined his perspective on international events — and of course, had the occasional fling. In 1970, he made his way across Europe and the Middle East (with a group of hippies headed for Goa) to return to India. Perhaps the most eagerly awaited parts of the book deal with the many vagaries of his professional life. Coming from a man who has been at the forefront of journalism in India, every incident holds intrinsic value for readers. The book also delivers a sense of being part of the inner circles and gives the reader a delicious sense of being a fly on the wall when major events were unfolding. People expect wit, scandal, gossip and insight — and they are not disappointed. Mehta recounts with zest how he was wooed and then sacked by various media houses as editorial freedom clashed with political pressures. There are gripping accounts of his encounters with personalities from the worlds of politics, business, films and the media. The names flowing through his pages include Shobhaa De, A.B. Vajpayee, V.S. Naipaul, Salman Rushdie and Sonia Gandhi. (Lest we forget, Mehta’s dog, Editor, also finds pride of place in the book.) There are behind-thescenes looks at the ever-fascinating scoops — from the alleged mole in Indira Gandhi’s cabinet, to the cricket match-fixing scandal, to the Niira Radia Tapes. This section of the book can perhaps be accused of giving us increasing glimpses into current affairs while being a bit reticent about the author’s own motivations and errors.
However, that is easily overlooked as his refreshing honesty, entertaining pen-pictures of known personalities and fearless look at how journalism works, more than compensate for any other lapses. Take this extract, for example, where he talks about first coming across the Radia tapes: “ Did we have the spunk to take on some of the most powerful individuals, corporate houses, lobbyists, politicians, journalists in the land? I would be lying if I said commercial interests did not concern me.” Of course, they did eventually run with the story. Lucknow Boy is a delightful read. Anyone, from an average Indian to aspiring journalist, will find it riveting. Vinod Mehta’s crisp prose gives the book a simplicity, while the insight and provocative opinions give it depth. It is, quite simply, an interesting story well told.
Some time in the early ‘90s a few women in a village in Bihar were working as bonded labourers under a zamindaar. Their crime: they had borrowed a petty amount of `500 from him 20 years ago. These widows would work all day and yet, somehow, the amount would never get paid up. Spinning the yarn day and night was not sufficient to buy them their independence. The story of these women reached the ears of Laila Tyabji, Founder and Chairman of Dastkar: A Society for Crafts and Craftspeople. Unfortunately, this is not a unique tale of Indian poverty. But something about this story stayed with Tyabji and bothered her deeply. The very same day at a “fancy diplomatic dinner”, when she narrated the story to a friend, Gita Mehta, the famous author and daughter of Biju Patnaik, a solution was born. Gita said that she would give the royalties from her new book for the freedom of these women. And that’s how the foundation of the Bihar Tussar Project, one of India’s most successful crafts projects, was laid. As Tyabji puts it, “Today, from Shabana Azmi to Sonia Gandhi, all call us to check whether the new stock has arrived.” Tussar silk sarees, mirror-work kurtas, chickan salwar kameezes, block print dupattas — these have become collectors’ items in Delhi. Such is their popularity that in the last bazaar, the craftsmen sold Tussar silk worth `27 lakh. But it has been a long journey to reach this point. In 1981 six women — Jaya Jaitley, Poonam Muttreja, Bunny Page, Gauri Choudhry, Prabeen Singh and Laila Tyabji — all hailing from different walks of life, came together to form a society that would work for the welfare of Indian craftspeople. Most of these women didn’t dream of being a part of the developmental sector some day. They were normal working women. What motivated them to get into the social sector, and especially mix crafts and developmental work? Laila Tyabji, who had grown up in a family of connoisseurs, spent her life around rich textiles, gorgeous artifacts and furniture. She thought that these beautiful objects, which she was surrounded by, dotted all the neighbourhood markets across cities. It was only when she started working as a freelance designer that she realised, not only were quality handicrafts rare and unique, but that ordinary citizens had forgotten about the craftsmen, who were living marginalised lives and going through untold suffering. Tyabji honestly admits that there was no single epiphanic moment that made the group of like-minded individuals decide to get involved with Indian crafts. But when the decision was taken, they didn’t waste time. They started Dastkar as a part-time voluntary organisation. Tyabji admits that even when they began, none of them thought that they would be able to sustain the NGO for such a long period. However, not only has Dastkar managed to survive, but it has also changed the lives of thousands of craftsmen. Dastkar follows a simple model: it’s an organisation which serves a platform. It travels to parts of the country, interacting with the communities of craftspeople, getting in touch with local NGOs and then training people there. It makes craftspeople aware of the government schemes and helps them avail of the benefits. Dastkar Nature Bazaar plays host to a variety of crafts from 19 Indian states and provides a platform to 200 groups and 32,000 craftspeople every year. These Bazaars have managed to breathe new life into the dying crafts culture completely unique to India. Other than reviving the crafts, Dastkar has given craftspeople a sense of purpose. Today, they travel nationally and internationally with great confidence. But this is not all — Dastakar realised early on that bringing traditional crafts to the mainstream also meant impacting the lives of the artistisans. The final goal is to make the artistisans, most of who live in rural India, independent and aware of the value of their own art, so that they can negotiate with “middle men” without being exploited in the process. The organisation also works especially with women trying to liberate them and make them realise the importance of issues such as education, nutrition and healthcare. Have they been able to achieve all this and more? Tyabji modestly says that the answer “depends upon the side of the bed I get up in the morning”. She tells us a story of Dhapu, her friend from Kutch, who committed suicide because she couldn’t arrange money for her daughter’s wedding. Indira — Dhapu’s daughter — then started working for Dastkar and within five years, was the most soughtafter bride in the village, as she was smart, independent and earned quite a packet. This story, she says, makes her feel that some may have taken their steps to independence. At the same time, Tyabji believes that with this liberation, an extra burden has been dumped upon the women. Now, along with their household chores, the women also work five hours extra to make enough money. While talking about their goals, Tyabji warns us of not labouring under misapprehensions. She says that while they want to empower existing craftsmen, they don’t wish to create more artistisans; despite a clear demand craftspeople live in distressed conditions. Creating more of their ilk for an already saturated market would make a bad situation, worse. This approach has invited Dastkar a lot of criticism. The women however shrug it off and move forward with a “begging bowl” for funds. For years a generous European company — Eco — funded their work. But Dastkar’s real money comes from within the circle. The craftsmen pay back by giving a significant share of the profit they make in the bazaar. And this money is then used to train new groups. On a final note, Tyabji tells us that if we fail to do our bit to save the crafts, we will be deeply sorry as we will lose our heritage. And when asked what our bit could be, she smiles and says “You could start by attending the bazaar next year”.
One of the recurring themes in the debates that have surrounded the Anna Hazare-led movement against corruption is the supremacy of the Parliament by virtue of its being the only genuine representative of the aspirations of the people of the country. This is a powerful argument, for in a country as large as India, the danger of letting individual groups assign to themselves the right to speak for the country is a particularly real one. The danger of conflating the issues facing a particular constituency with those of the nation at large, and using strongarm tactics to put these issues at the top of the national agenda can seriously distort the country’s priorities. In a nation where the ability to be heard is skewed so sharply towards the elite, it is easy for this to happen, and without genuine representativeness, the risks on this score can be very high. It is also true that the biggest success of democracy in India has been its representative character. In the post-Mandal world, this ability has grown very significantly, and elections today do genuinely throw up leaders that come from all strata of society, with the hitherto backward classes coming into their political own. The power of the traditional elites has been blunted, and movements like the anti-corruption crusade are in part a reaction of this loss of pre-eminence. The sense of being politically diminished, and electorally insignificant, has given an edge to the fulminations of the middle class, and has spilled over into the streets in a manner that is unprecedented. The middle class feels unrepresented, and thus is increasingly losing faith in the political system as a whole. The anti-corruption flag hides, not too successfully, a larger contempt for politics and politicians, and yearns for solutions that lie outside the fabric of the polity. It is worth asking if democracy in India is truly representative. The only yardstick for representativeness cannot be that people of all classes find themselves in power. It cannot only be about who gets elected and how representative they are of the entire population, but must necessarily be about how they represent their constituencies and what actions they take on behalf of their constituents. It is striking that during the entire anti-corruption movement, the protestors did not once turn to their representatives, nor did the legislators in question, MPs and MLAs from the larger cities, feel remotely obliged to speak for their constituents. It is as if both parties instinctively understood that their elected representatives had no role to play. The role of the legislators is to act the part, to don the trappings of power, to grace billboards that greet us on festivals, and to agitate for lal battis on their cars. The one-to-one correspondence between a local representative and his or her constituent does not exist in a meaningful sense. That is not to say that the legislators have no interest at all in the electorate, but the form in which it manifests itself most commonly is by acts of patronage. Elected representatives seek to build an electoral base, a bloc of some kind that can be persuaded to vote for them en masse in exchange for acts of subsidy or preference or in the name of identity. The other acts of representation involve selectively helping some constituents “get their wok done” — finding ways of working through and around the local bureaucracy, often greased by some reciprocal consideration. The idea of direct representation, of actually standing for a cause held dear by the constituents and working towards institutional action in support of it is much rarer to come across. In a larger sense, the indiscriminate use of party whips means that individual representatives have little room to express themselves legislatively, and this severely compromises their ability to pick up specific issues and stand up for them. The devaluation of the individual legislator, who is often treated as being part of a nameless herd, and needs constant shepherding, goading, instruction and protection, restricts his or her role quite dramatically, and compromises the ability to genuinely represent the voter. Over a period of time, the system has adjusted in a way that for most elected representatives, this is not really experienced as a problem at all and is accepted as a matter of fact. What has made the Anna Hazare movement so significant, despite all its shortcomings, is the fact that it focuses attention on concrete legislative action. It is seeking not a grant or subsidy, but a mechanism that provides an incentive for the system to work as intended. The current political system has become self-perpetuating and self-contained, and has become increasingly impenetrable to outside intervention. The existing pillars of democracy too have been co-opted to a significant degree, including the bureaucracy, media and even the elements of the lower judiciary. It is difficult to find impetus for change to come from within, since the system has evolved around a distorted intent — that of coming into and staying in power rather than providing governance. The successful separation of governance and electability has ensured that politicians do not need to perform acts of representation in order to get elected. The argument that Parliament, by virtue of its representative character is already playing the role that the Lok Pal Bill suggests it play, does not stand up to scrutiny, given the nature of the representation being provided so far. It was important for our democracy to have become more representative in character. It is now time for it to convert the idea of representativeness into a more active ideal, one in which the political system feels pressure to perform; a causal link between performance and electability needs to be etched out in stronger terms. Measures like the Lok Pal Bill are never going to be solutions by themselves; if the system does not change in a fundamental way, this mechanism too is likely to get co-opted. The onus is on the voters to send clearer messages. Only then can we hope for change that is sustainable. The views expressed in this column are of the author alone
My first day on this planet was chaotic; I was born on the fourth day of May in 1956, while my mother was still trying to finish a manuscript. She was a famous Bengali author, while my father was in the publishing business. Born into a ‘bookish’ family, I was surrounded by tomes. And I was a bookworm with a reputation of being a naughty child. The best way to keep me out of trouble was to give me a piece of paper and paint brushes or crayons. As a child, I dreamt of becoming a painter. That plan never materialised, but the love for art did leave an impact on me. In those days, a lot of great people would visit my family at our north Calcutta home. One of them was the legendary Mrinal Sen. That is how the two movies I acted in as a child artist — Punascha and Abasheshe — happened. I was young, and needless to add, very mischievous. Sometimes I would hide before a shot, forcing the crew to go on a hunt. That’s one of my clearest memories of those days. And, I remember the dank, dark studios with their looming cameras. My ‘career’ was abruptly brought to its end by my mother. Jokes aside, while shooting one day, I fell ill. My mother put her foot down to end all manner of shooting at home. With my rather short acting career behind me, I had to look for alternatives. Unfortunately, I was a good student. So, I chose all the wrong subjects — science and math — driven by grades, rather than interest. Later I took up engineering, though I felt no love for it. In my confused state, I thought of pursuing Masters in the subject. I applied to universities abroad, received some scholarships and took a flight to Florida, USA. My only thought at that time was, “I wish to travel the world on somebody else’s money.” Then the opportunity came up to study management. Again, I was not interested, nonetheless I grabbed it. I thought it was better to study the theories of social sciences than spend life with numbers. I have always moved in the direction that life has taken me — the only constant has been the love for literature and writing. Perhaps that is why I took up teaching, because it gave me time to write at leisure. My life has been serendipitous. My first book happened by chance. Being a Calcuttan, I have a fascination for the past and love looking back. Once, I was reading a book on the opium trade, a topic which had never caught my attention. The book mentioned my city as the world’s one time “drug capital”. I was taken aback. How could a ‘thoroughbred Calcuttan’ not know about this important period in my city’s history? Possessed, I read more and more. That is how The Opium Clerk took shape. Yet another encounter led to The Japanese Wife — the film. I was drinking tea with Aparna Sen, when I narrated a short story that had been lying on my desk for the 10 years. She liked it so much that immediately she offered to translate it into a film. So I was brought back to the magical world of cinema, and the experience was enthralling. Though I did not attend the whole shoot, I visited the sets once. And I have to admit that the time in between shots were a bit of a bore but once the camera started rolling everything came alive and the whole process became interesting, exciting and artistic. When I am writing I am not driven by themes. I derive inspiration from my surroundings. Years ago, while visiting China, I went to a museum of traditional Chinese medicines. That’s when the idea behind The Yellow Emperor’s Cure, my latest book, hit me. The Yellow Empreror’s Cure is about a Portuguese doctor in the 19th century whose father suffers from syphilis. Unable to cure his ailing father, he’s assuaged with guilt and decides to travel to China to learn the cure. There he falls in love with his teacher. The two find themselves trapped within the summer palace during the Boxer Rebellion. The novel has just been released in India. As much as I enjoy writing, I am not a man of numbers. I don’t believe in the external markers of success. If I write something good I wake up as a happy soul. If I feel something’s amiss, my mood is spoilt automatically. Statistics of sale are inconsequential for me.
I guess with the kind of influence my parents had on me I was destined to become a writer. But had writing not happened, I would have become a painter or an actor. These two are the most dominant aspects of my cultural personality. It is difficult to say what I might have done because by now I have learnt that most of the things that happen to you in life are by accident. And these accidents take you through various paths in life. But I always thought that I wanted to become an artist. This is how my mind works. It is very responsive to colours, shapes and patterns. That is the first thing I notice and I am most expressive while describing them.
March 2000: Unknown people come into a village located in Anantnag district, Kashmir. They round up the Sikh men and massacre 36 of them. Five days later, military forces state that five “foreign militants” responsible for the crime have been gunned down. After allegations of DNA cover-ups and a long-drawn out case, it is proved that this was a “false encounter”. In 2006, five Indian army personnel are found guilty. March 2010: Three civilians are killed in an encounter in Machil sector of Kupwara district along the Line of Control. Shown as an incident of terrorist infiltration, later inquiries by the army itself reveal the culpability of at least two officers along with a Special Police Officer in a case of innocents being killed. The Army conveys its readiness to act against the concerned personnel, however, the state government wishes to try them in a civil court. December 2010: Lt Gen Syed Ata Hasnain takes charge of 15 Corps in Srinagar and declares the year 2011 ‘Year of the Kashmiri Awam’. He holds public sunwais, organises sports tournaments and invites locals to iftaar parties. The atmosphere between the military and civilians warms up. October 2011: In the midst of talks between the Chief Minister of Jammu and Kashmir and the Centre on the partial removal of the Armed Forces (Special Powers) Act — or AFSPA — three successive grenade attacks injure Central Reserve Police Force (CRPF) personnel. They disrupt the valley after a long time of peace.
These are incidents picked at random from decades of military presence in civilian areas along the borders of India. This is also the atmosphere in which the AFSPA is being hotly contested and defended. From politicians to journalists and military forces to human rights organisations, everyone is part of the debate. In times when traditional warfare has been replaced by cross-border infiltration and terrorism, it is no easy matter to decide whether the presence of the army — and therefore, the Act under which it functions — is a draconian measure or a functional necessity. The AFSPA was passed in September 1958 for seven North Eastern states — Arunachal Pradesh, Mizoram, Assam, Manipur, Meghalaya, Nagaland and Tripura. It was later extended to Jammu and Kashmir in 1990. In essence, the Act provided army officers and other senior ranks special powers. The provisions in the Act are commensurate with many provisions of the Criminal Procedure Code (CrPC) provided to police personnel. However, the Act also states that no prosecution or other legal proceedings can be instituted except with the previous sanction of the Central Government, against any person for anything done in the exercise of the powers conferred by this Act. This clause has been the most vigorously attacked by civil rights groups and the most strenuously defended by the army. DW spoke to a government interlocutor and experts from the Centre for Land Warfare Studies (jointly) for their perspectives on the Issue of the month.
This is a phase in which the army has progressively withdrawn from many of the domestic duties in J&K. That is good news and it is a fact that militant attacks are at an all-time low compared to even five years ago. You could argue that the state is prepared to move into a peace-building phase. But when it comes to the partial removal of the AFSPA, there’s no doubt that the army is justified in having operational concerns. If the army has to pursue counter-insurgency, then it has to be understood that it is not limited to one area alone. In principle, I do believe that armies, by virtue of the nature of their profession in democratic countries, have the right to special protection. But they have to be seen to be completely fair in taking up cases of human rights abuses and other offences, which it has not proven itself to be thus far. The army has also perhaps been maligned to some extent, but it will still have to do better. At the high point of the armed conflict, it would be unrealistic to expect that there would not be all sorts of violations. But in the present case, while we know that infiltration has increased this year, you do not have much armed conflict. Therefore, it would be possible to make sure that there are absolutely no human rights violations. It is a fact that they have done between 80-100 courts martial, approximately, in J&K alone. That’s a very large number for any army and is something to be justifiably proud of. But it’s also true that there are famous cases of people who are at large. The army has been a little slow in trying two very famous ‘fake encounter’ cases — the one in Pathribal and the one in Machil. They are now stuck because the cases are in the civil courts and they are not being allowed to do the courts martial. In recent times, Gen Hasnain’s hearts and minds policy in the valley has won enormous support and the army is now focusing on developmental activities. Also, they do take action on complaints of human rights violations almost immediately. So this year you have hardly had any as far as the army is concerned. But you have still had two or three and the army needs to think about how to avoid even those. It’s true that other wings of the security forces are equally bad. Last year’s tragic deaths occurred at the hands of the police and initially the CRPF. Though for the CRPF it was 17, the J&K police was more than a hundred. But that was also because they were not trained to deal with this situation, they did not anticipate it and thus panicked. So yes, you would need to have a legal framework for the army to operate but it could be tighter and also, could be in the form of temporary agreements like special orders or some such instrument. The AFSPA was passed by Indian parliament so it is up to them to amend or repeal it. Now comes the other problem. My impression is that the people of J&K definitely want counter-insurgency operations to continue. In J&K, like Manipur, you don’t have the armed groups agreeing formally to end the armed conflict. And it does pose risks that if you cease or withdraw all operations, will you have a remobilisation of armed groups? It’s a complicated business but the AFSPA needs a separate review. The recommendations made by the Jeevan Reddy Commission need to be revisited. It would help a great deal if the army was allowed to do the court martial in the Machil, to give exemplary punishment and to be very transparent and time-bound. Gross cases could be taken up at the civil court level, but it would be tricky if made into a daily practice. A political settlement is the crux of the issue and the military questions are ancillary. My two colleagues and I believe a solution could be found if there were compromises from all sides. It’s not very clear to me that the political will is present for it within the state and in mainland India. Attention is divided among so many problems that it is difficult to reach a consensus. And then, there is the whole Pakistan question. After all, quite a large part of the state is under Pakistani administration and that has to be a part of it if you want a lasting solution. I still think it can all be done if you are ready to accept a working beginning. It comes right back to this — develop the political will to start from the common areas of consensus and push for it.
Brig Kanwal// All aid to civil authority rendered by the army is at the specific request of the state government. They send a request to the Ministry of Defence, which has to approve it. If it involves counter-insurgency operations, like in Kashmir and the North-East, then the area has to be declared disturbed and the AFSPA has to be invoked. In India, we have been in counter-insurgency operations for 50 years and we have not had a massacre like Mai Lai (during the Vietnam war). We don’t have prisons like Abu Ghraib or Guantanamo Bay, where the army can interrogate civilians and keep them under detention at will. Given the Indian army ethos, we don’t see it going terribly wrong. However, there are aberrations and when they occur, the violator is taken to task. He is court martialed and given the most severe punishment. And this justice is meted out in a week at most. The perception that the Act allows army men to do what they like is wrong. In fact, the Indian army is one that has suffered the maximum officer casualties. Troops are under very strict supervision, they have very high levels of training and are given all kinds of briefings. I think the AFSPA has got a bad name due to aberrations like Pathribal and Machil. And these trials are held up not because the army is not willing to try them. It’s because the civilian court is not willing to hand over the case. I don’t quite see, then, how the laws are permitting excessive use of force or why civilians should oppose them. The National Human Rights Commission has undertaken to investigate every single act that has been reported and out of over 1,100 such incidents which were investigated, 35 were found to be genuine, and 64 personnel had been court martialed. In Kashmir, one of the three government interlocutors told us that the people are, by and large, in favour of the deployment of the army. So it is more a political issue than a social one. Ten years ago the government, through a decision of the cabinet committee on security, approved the Central Reserve Police Force (CRPF) as the primary strike force for counter-insurgency operations. The CRPF has raised umpteen new battalions. What have they done with that? Why is there no accountability? They need to upgrade their standards of junior leadership, levels of training and the equipment they hold. There used to be a Frontier Administrative Service in the North-East. Why was it done away with when it was doing a good job? The primary role of the Indian army is defence of the land borders and that is what it wants to train and prepare for. If you call the army in for internal security then it should have the protection that the police forces have through the CrPC, and it must be given. Now if you want to do away with the AFSPA and incorporate those provisions within the Army Act of 1950, then it’s even better. But without protection, it cannot operate.
Lt Gen Katoch// When the constitution was made by the founding fathers, they did not visualise a situation in the country where the army would be required to operate against its own people. Now when the phenomenon of counter-insurgency came in and the army had to be deployed, there was no constitutional power given to the army to act. Every country requires a legal framework for the army to operate and in India this was given under the AFSPA. When it comes to those opposing the Act, I think someone like Irom Sharmila deserves great respect and we do not doubt her commitment or beliefs. The AFSPA has been removed from Imphal, but if people feel that things have since then got better, then it is an incorrect statement. In that particular situation, the police are in a position to control what is happening and in many ways it has become survival of the fittest. The Act has nothing to do with violations per se. In a million strong army, there will be some occasions where things go wrong. To the best of my knowledge, when the cases have come to the army, it has never been lax in taking action. There have been very few times when action was not taken. No other organisation has shown so much commitment. The bigger problem is that if people have been put behind bars, dismissed from service, etc., it doesn’t make it to the national news because the army does not publicise it. Perhaps the army could look into perception management and let people be informed. Compared to the most advanced armies in the world, our human rights record is a thousand times better. If people call this Act Draconian, I disagree with them. Even if you look at what happened at Pathribal, the army was accused of killing innocent civilians. But what actually took place on the ground? There were intelligence officers and police personnel who told the army post that there were militants in that particular area. You blame the army, but where are those police officers? And there is this sentiment that ‘this law protects army personnel so that they can just go in and shoot anyone and nothing will happen’. That is not true. The provision is only in case you are absolutely certain that you are going to be attacked; that people are coming with weapons; and that is the only time you can open fire. You do not find a situation where a cordon and search is taking place, someone is dragged out, shot dead and is still protected from that. This protection only exists where you take these actions on a bona fide duty. The army came because the local police failed, the armed police failed and perhaps the BSF or the CRPF also failed. The terrorists have complete control over the polity, economics and many aspects of society. That is when you call in the army. I am absolutely certain that civilians will be inconvenienced but weren’t they being inconvenienced by the terrorists? I think the time has come to reorganise the way this country is administered and policed. You need to change the Indian Administrative Service and the Indian Police Service in their culture and their method of recruitment. The system of having IPS officers in its present form must be done away with. The local state police forces should be recruited there, manned by their own cadre and should retire from there. That way they have continuity of their own area and the central police officers should be organised accordingly. With regard to the IAS, you need to put in professionals who know how to administer. It is a shame that Jammu and Kashmir, Northeast and 169 districts are affected by extremism. All of them have a District Commissioner, an IAS officer and a Superintendent of Police who are from the Administrative services. They have failed in their duties and we need to consider a new model of administration before the whole country gets engulfed.
In theory, the arrival of a new year and the opening days of January are meant to signal hope, optimism and renewal. Life and politics don’t always pan out that way. India begins 2012 with trepidation, as it has done several times in the recent past, but also with a new form of trepidation. The gloom of a December or of the final weeks of a year has often flowed into the next. This has happened at least three times in the past 12 years in India. The year 2002 arrived about a fortnight after the terror attack on Parliament, with a war already underway in Afghanistan and troop mobilisation and public anger suggesting the likelihood of an India-Pakistan conflict as well. There was less danger of a formal war in 2009, but the 26/11 attack about a month before the new year began had made India seem really small and vulnerable. And it patently had an impact on our public and political morale. In 2000, the hangover on January 1 was not so much a result of a post midnight jamboree as of the surrender in Kandahar the previous day and the release of three terror suspects in a ransom game that found India thoroughly trumped. All of the previous examples are related to security concerns. However, if the mood is sombre in the opening lap of 2012, it is not because of fears of terrorism — those are there in the mix, of course, but not quite on top of the mind — as much as due to the economy. In the second half of 2011, India’s economic indices began to sink rapidly. The stock markets, the rupee’s value, the export earnings and FDI inflows: all of these declined. Investment in new capacities not just stagnated but actually contracted in some sectors. Overall, there was pessimism and worry about the future of the India story. India faces perhaps its most severe economic challenge since the beginning of the liberalisation process in 1991. For an entire generation, this is unprecedented. Especially for those who came of age in the past decade and have taken a booming job market and at least eight per cent growth rates for granted, this is a big shock. No doubt, it will have an effect on politics. Indeed, the efficacy and energy with which the government responds to the economic situation may well be the touchstone that decides its survival. Given the policy paralysis and defeatism that gripped the UPA government in 2011, an observer cannot offer much hope. The likely prognosis, one increasingly popular in the corridors of power in Lutyens’ Delhi, is guided by the belief that the government has lost its nerve and that despite his best intentions Prime Minister Manmohan Singh has lost control of the economy. In this view, the end of 2012 will only take us closer to a midterm election, if not actually host one. It is a sobering thought that there is much that can go wrong with this government even now. The 2G scandal may not have claimed its final target in the Union cabinet. The pressure will expectedly mount on the prime minister in the coming months — how much did he know, when did he know, what did he do to stop his former telecom minister implementing a wrong-headed policy or, at best, introducing distortions in a chosen policy? That aside, should the Congress do poorly in the Uttar Pradesh elections in May 2012, it will be a setback for Rahul Gandhi, the party’s future face, and leave it contemplating question marks in the run-up to the 2014 Lok Sabha election. The election of the next president (July 2012) and vice-president (August) will then become an excruciating priority, given that the Congress and UPA may or may not have enough votes in the electoral college — which comprises national parliamentarians and state legislators, each of them with a weighted ballot, depending on the size of electorate — to easily send a trusted nominee to Rashtrapati Bhawan. If this scenario plays out, the government will have no breathing space for economic reform or almost any sort of clear-headed policy. It will be in fire-fighting mode till late summer and inevitably find itself bruised and bloodied. After that it could take only an accident to bring the edifice down and an early election could be upon us, maybe 12-18 months before the scheduled May 2014 date. Is there an alternative and a happier scenario for the UPA government? What if the bad news on the economy has peaked? In December the Reserve Bank halted the interest rate surge of the past 20 months.
By March or thereabouts, interest rates may begin to come down. This will reverse some of the negative mood in business, albeit gradually. A loose monetary policy in Europe — where central banks will essentially have to print notes to somehow kickstart economic activity — could see inflows into the Indian capital markets and make the Sensex look up. All of this may not mean much for the real economy in the short run, but could nevertheless boost sentiment. That aside if, as the prime minister insists, FDI in multi-brand retail and in civil aviation too perhaps will be pushed through early in 2012, then the newspaper headlines could seriously change. Finally, of course, much will depend on the Congress’ performance in the Uttar Pradesh polls, where it won 22 seats out of the 403 in 2007 — but the party projected to do better this year. The question is: how much better? If it goes up to, say, 35 to 40 seats or so then it isn’t much of an improvement. If it climbs to 70 odd, as some opinion polls are suggesting, then the party will have definite cause to celebrate. It could find itself forming a government in Lucknow — even if as part of an alliance — for the first time since 1990. A thumbs up for Rahul Gandhi in Uttar Pradesh, combined with the beginnings of a good news on the economy front, may have the Congress smelling its chances. It could conclude that the next Lok Sabha election is still salvageable. True, that would entail a massive reversal of trends and constitute a complete turnaround from things as they stood at the end of 2011. Even so the UPA government will win crucial time and the fears of a mid-term parliamentary poll will recede. So which of those two scenarios — the Congress tumbling further and further or the Congress looking to recover at least on some grounds under a new leader — will hold true? Making any prediction in January is absolutely hazardous. Yet by the middle of 2012 we should have a definitive answer. The views expressed in this column are of the author alone.