The Numbers Back AAP

Being a banker, I always go by numbers. And, whatever people might tell you, the numbers back Aam Admi Party.

The data on this is pretty clear. AAP says it will reduce electricity tariffs by 50% immediately after it is voted in to power. Along with that, it will give 700 litres of water free. That will mean a saving on both my electricity and water bills.

Now, I took out my electricity bills for the past 12 months and added them up. I have spent one lakh and three thousand rupees on electricity in the past one year. That means, if AAP comes to power, I will save about 51 thousand rupees per year.

Seven hundred litres of free water per day will mean a monthly saving of at least 600 rupees. Project that to the entire year and I save about seven thousand rupees on water.

If I add the two, I get a net saving of about 58 thousand rupees per year if we get an AAP government in Delhi. That’s not an amount to be scoffed at.

Of course, the gains from what I pay for water and electricity might just get offset by direct financial losses and the indirect opportunity cost of an honest corruption-free administration.

For instance, when my driver jumps a red light, we pay about 50 bucks. When he parks in a no-parking zone, we pay 150, instead of 600. It is, what we call in management, a win-win situation. Traffic cops gain, I gain. No one is harmed. An honest AAP government might upset this symbiotic relationship.

But these are minor financial losses. The bigger problem could be if AAP’s honesty makes it difficult to use ‘pull’. Unfortunately, I have grown accustomed to using pull. It makes my day begin. Its ups and downs are second nature to me now. Like breathing out, breathing in.

I use pull to get my air-conditioner fixed. I use pull to get a water tanker on those odd days when the water supply is affected in our neighbourhood. I use pull to get past the queues in the passport office. I am so addicted to pull, that I use it even in places where I don’t need to.

It saves time, it makes life easier. If AAP stops the wheel of pull from turning in the national capital, I will be seriously discomfited. The opportunity costs of standing in queues or waiting with others for everyday things is going to be quite huge. It might wipe out the 58 thousand rupees I will gain from saving on electricity and water bills.

But the latest stings on some AAP luminaries have left scope for hope. There could be nothing better than a government that will cut tariffs and also allow the machine of power to function uninterrupted. I am betting on AAP to do both, simultaneously.

As I said, the numbers back AAP.

  

Liberalisation and its Malcontents

Around 1985, my parents realised that they needed to buy a house. Till then, they had never saved, and my father made it a virtue of handing out cash to the needy. Now, as he was getting older, he had to beat the clock and earn some extra money.  His only capital was his brain and his ability to write. So, he began supplementing his sarkaari salary by writing for magazines and newspapers. He even wrote stories for a Doordarshan soap.

Soon, he was earning quite handsomely, and money started leaving patches of affluence on our middle-class socialist lifestyle. It left us feeling more entitled, and I suddenly found myself adopted by the elite group in school. I was still awkward and somewhat frayed at the edges. The rituals of everyday life through which the elite form their distinct practices did not come naturally to me. I had to observe, emulate and imitate. To retain my place, I had to acquire every element of coolth that would mark me as a member. My hair, my clothes, my speech – nothing could be left to chance or habit.

One day in the years of my metamorphosis, my mother took me to F.U’s – the coolest place to buy clothes in the mid-80s. I chose a pair of exaggerated baggy pants and a floral shirt. As I tried it on and came out of the fitting room, I could see the girls looking at me with interest. I was looking Duran Duranish, like the cool guys from the Frooti ad on TV. My mother, who had lived a life counting each paisa to ensure her children could be fed and educated was furtively evaluating the price tag.

“How much discount will you give?” she asked the smartly dressed snooty shop assistant.

The man-boy looked bewildered and answered with raised eyebrows, “No discount ma’am. One price. No haggling.” Then he turned and walked off.

I was deeply mortified. “Ma, please. This is not Janpath,” I hissed. I made up my mind that I will never take my mother to shop for clothes again.

“Ok, ok. Buy it” my mother said with a grin to hide her hurt. The world was changing very fast then, and my mother couldn’t keep pace. To ride the change, in the late-80s, you needed to have a clear command over spoken – not written – English. My mother was simply not good with languages.

I wore those baggy pants and the shirt to my first after-school evening party. Everyone invited was part of the school’s elite ‘in’ crowd. I was a new recruit, but, just as every new assimilation erases all traces of its difference, my history had been forgotten too. But, I still remembered that I had to assimilate. I had to perform the rituals of this party without revealing that they did not come to me as naturally as it did to everyone else in the room.

Around 8:00 PM, I panicked.

“I have to leave,” I said. “I forgot my keys and my parents will be waiting up for me.”

“Don’t go. It’s too early,” said a girl who I fancied fancied me.

But, I was adamant. I couldn’t face another minute of this terror of performing. I would be exposed for the charlatan that I was.

“I must go,” I said and stood up.

“What a wus,” said a boy who I never liked. By then, I had already walked out of the party.

I could see my bus approaching the bus stop as I walked out of the gate. I ran as fast as I could and made it just in time. The bus was empty, it was dark outside. I was relaxed now, but strangely anxious to get back home.

As I entered, my mother looked up from her book and exclaimed “what happened? Why are you back so soon?”

My father who was in the kitchen came out and peered at me over the top of the reading glasses he always wore when he was cooking. He raised one eyebrow and jerked his head upwards asking a silent, worried question.

“Oh, the party is over. I left with everyone else,” I said with a straight face.

“Good,” said my mother, turning to my father. “That’s why I like this school. It is holding on to some values. The children are different.”

I followed my dad into the kitchen and silently watched him cook. The familiar sounds of my dad stirring and scraping left me with a deep sense of security.

It has been more than 25 years since then. Over those years, I have managed to learn most of the rules of the game. The memory of my difference has gradually disappeared from my own mind. I am now more comfortably ensconced in the world of the elite, and my children were born into it.

One day, in the recent past, I went through photographs of some of those school parties that I never went to. I saw the youthful, comfortable faces of people I now know, but hardly knew then. They walked on the main street, while I took the side lane. At times, the side lane merged with the main street. At those moments, at those sites, the traffic of the entitled overtook me and dragged me on, shaping me in its own image.

I am just one among the hundreds of thousands who were changed and homogenised by the tide of liberalisation. Once in a while, photographs from the past draw us back to that origin, the point when our difference was obliterated.  

"Who is Sardar Patel?"

“Who is Sardar Patel?” the wife asked.

I looked at her with incredulity and glee. “You don’t know who Sardar Patel was?” My superior wife had finally come a cropper, and that too on something every child knows.

“Of course, I do, Idiot,” she said, with disdain. “What I am saying, is who the hell was he that the BJP and Congress are fighting over him?”

“He was a great leader and unified India,” I bleated.

“Anyone in his place would have got credit for that. He was the home minister, and that is what home ministers are supposed to do,” the wife said. “In fact, there were many occasions when he didn’t know what to do, and Nehru had to intervene.”

“And, mind you Patel did not like that,” she continued. “He wanted sole control over the Home Ministry and didn’t want the PM to have any say.”

“So, you think he had no special role in history?” I asked her, with a hint of sarcasm in my voice. The wife thinks that just because she studied Sociology she knows everything better than everyone else.

“I am sure he had. So do you,” she said, matching sarcasm for sarcasm. “What I mean is that the circumstances made him take certain decisions. Some decisions were good, some bad.”

“Some people say, if Patel had been India’s first prime minister, things would have been very different,” I said.

“Thank god, you didn’t say that every Indian still regrets that Sardar Patel didn’t become India’s first PM!” the wife said. “Patel was a man with a provincial mindset, who was no match to Nehru’s experience and learning. Nehru was as liberal as one could be in those days, Patel was essentially a conservative.”

“What’s wrong with being conservative?” I asked. “Why do you always use that word as if it were some sort of gaali? Patel was just a strong guy, not a namby-pamby, wishy-washy liberal like your Nehru.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against Sardar Patel,” the wife said, softening her tone slightly. “He was just like any other Congress leader of the national movement. He was part of the right-wing in the Congress and played a major role in undermining labour activists in the party. Patel was the darling of pro-capitalist elements like you.”

“Well, capitalism has stood the test of time. Nehru’s socialism has destroyed us,” I said. I was now on stronger ground. When it comes to discussing economics, I am second to none. I have an MBA from the US.

“Your idiocy astounds me,” said the wife. “Nehru’s socialism was limited to minor land reforms. What you call Nehruvian socialism was nothing but state capitalism – the state investing in roads, electricity, to make life easier for India’s industrialists. The only difference is that if Patel had been PM, even the land reforms would have been stalled.”

“Patel’s biggest difference with Nehru is on what secularism means. Patel was opposed to the Hindu Rashtra that your friends seem to want nowadays,” the wife said, “but at the same time, he was one of the staunchest supporters of partition. He protected muslims during the riots, but at the same time was opposed to giving Pakistan the compensation due to it." 

"He was close to the softline Hindu congressis like Rajendra Prasad and Purushottam Das Tandon, but opposed the call for a Hindu state. He rebulit the Somnath temple* to please hindu right-wing sentiments, yet believed that Kashmir should be handed over to Pakistan. He supported the ban on the RSS in 1948 and at the same time believed they were all patriots. Sardar Patel's internal inconsistencies make it so easy for him to be appropriated by both the Congress and the BJP”

“At the end of the day, Patel was simply not a patch on Nehru,” the wife said with a sense of finality. “He was simply not tall enough as a leader.”

“And, no amount of record-breaking tall statues can change that basic fact.”   

* The wife got this wrong. An erudite friend who read this blog has pointed out, Sardar Patel only ordered that the Somnath temple be rebuilt, but died before actual work could begin. Gandhi backed this project, but said the money should be raised by the people and not given by the government. Rajendra Prasad presided over the installation ceremony of the temple. Nehru, who believed that this was a sign of Hindu revivalism, was thoroughly livid. 

The Return of The Golden Age

My friend Rajat is feeling much more historically relevant nowadays. He is a Gupta, and he has just realised that when the Guptas ruled India, we were all very prosperous and happy.

“It was India’s golden age, dude,” Rajat told me the other day at work. “There was so much gold and stuff, you know? It was, like, flowing, man. During the Gupta Age, India was called the Golden Hind, dude.”

“Don’t be silly,” I said. “It’s not Golden Hind. It is Golden Hind. And that is something totally different. I don’t remember exactly. Some ship or something. Nothing to do with you Guptas.” (I had history subsi in college). But, Rajat ignored me completely. He wasn’t going to let facts interfere with his recently acquired sense of historical purpose.

“Do you know, in those days Indians roamed around in golden chariots? They had big golden thrones to sit on. We were so rich that even Alexander the Great came from Italy to try and conquer us.”

“Alexander wasn’t from Italy. He was Greek or Macedonian or something,” I said 

“Alexander came to the borders of the Ganga in Bihar and the Guptas killed him in battle,” Rajat said.

“That’s rubbish,” I said, “completely wrong. Where are you getting all this from?”

“India has such a great history, man,” Rajat continued. “We are just ignoring our tradition. If we pay attention to history no one can stop us from having another Golden Age, dude.”

“How? What do chariots and thrones have to do with what we are today?” I asked. It was a rhetorical question, because Rajat was going to ignore it.

“Trade, man, trade. That is in our blood – the Gupta blood. We need to become rulers of India again. You can also help in this, dude. Like Chanakya helped the Guptas. He was the first economist of the world, you know? He balanced the budget so well, that there was no fiscal deficit. Those are the little-little things that made India the Golden Hind.”  

“Are you saying that we should have a Gupta as prime minister?” I asked. “Will that solve all our problems?”

“No, no. I am not saying that,” Rajat said, smiling indulgently at me. “I am saying the Prime Minister can be anybody, but traders should decide economic policy. Gupta Age is not just about Guptas. It is about taking the most important virtue from the Gupta DNA and injecting it into everyone in the country.”

“Free enterprise, man,” said Rajat with historic pride. “We Guptas invented it. Trade, enterprise and private property. That will make India shine again. We need to implement this ruthlessly. Aur jo iske khilaaf honge, unhein chun-chun kar saaf karna hai.”

Salary for The Wife

“You know, I should be getting a regular salary,” said the wife last night.

“My money is yours, honey, heh heh. See? It rhymes,” I said grinning in an ingratiating manner. The wife hates being called honey.

She did her standard disdainful nose wrinkle and jaw tightening move and said, “I am serious. I need to be getting a regular salary.”

“You are the one who said you need to give up your job to look after the daughter (I won’t give her name. You should never put your child’s name on the internet). Let’s hire a good full-time nanny from one of those expat agencies and you can go back to work. Who is stopping you? I never asked you to sit at home”

“Sit? Sit? Do I SIT at home?” screamed the wife. “That’s the problem with you men. If someone is looking after the home and children, she is ‘sitting’ at home.”

“I am also not a home-maker. I hate that word. I am working 24 hours to ensure you can go and earn a living and rise in your career. Please understand, you do not earn a salary for yourself. You earn family wages.” The Sociologist was now peeking out from her Hyde.  

“If you had to pay for everything that you get for free because I work at home, you will end up spending thousands, if not lakhs. And, if you want something of the standard that I provide, it would be even more,” she said. Her tone was cold and analytical, which was not to be mistaken for a call to rational debate. This was going to be a monologue.

Still raining in Ranchi. 150 target for India, in 20 overs. Not impossible.

“What the government should do is simple. It should get a law passed that makes it mandatory for employers to deposit half the salary of a man, whose wife works at home, into her account. Directly. Are you listening?” she asked, raising her voice slightly but inserting enough steel in it for me to stop thinking about cricket.

The human brain is such a wonderful machine that even if you are not actively listening to something, you do end up hearing it. “Yes, I understand your point,” I said. “What I don’t understand is, how is it different from the joint account we have? Whatever salary comes into the account is equally yours to withdraw and spend.”

“No. That is not good enough. The hidden idea behind the joint account is that the money is actually yours, you have earned it, and you are just being kind and liberal by saying it is mine as well. That will just not do. Your stupid company should realise that half the money you earn is mine. It is because of me that you can work the late hours that you do and go on the long business trips, honey.”

That word is irritating, when spoken in that tone.

“Who likes to work late? I don’t. It is part of my job,” I said.

“No, my dear. It is not part of job. It is what allows you to rise, become more important and earn more. If you don’t do it, you won’t lose your job. You will just not have the career that you want,” the wife said. How unreasonable.

“No one recognises that house work is socially and economically productive work. Only Chavez did and his government gave salaries to poor women who worked at home.”

“Chavez was a dictator,” I countered.

“Well, in that case, that is what you need,” said the wife and walked off.

Meanwhile, in Ranchi, the match had been washed out.

You MBA Chaps Need a Dose of Political Science

The first Diwali party of the year, and guess who I find sitting right at the bar, nursing a single malt? Mr Powerful, in person, surveying the world with his supercilious gaze. (For more on Mr Powerful read The GreatestPolitician Ever).  I tried to beat the hasty, but he had already seen me.

“How are you young man?” he thundered. “Oh! Hello, Sir. Didn’t know you were here,” I said. “Of course, you did, young man. You just wanted to get away from the old bore, didn’t you?” he said fixing his beady eyes on me. “Ha, ha,” I chuckled nervously, “not at all, Sir, not at all.” I sat down next to the old codger, resigning myself to a night of conspiracy theories.

“So, how is your bank doing?” It was not meant to be a serious question, so I gave a satisfactorily meaningless answer. “We are doing pretty well, considering the economic mess the government has put us in.”

“Why? What has the government done differently from what it has been doing for the past 9 years?” he asked. It was a typical Mr Powerful question – any answer would be wrong. Therefore, I just smiled in lieu of an answer.

 “The problem with you young chaps is that you think the government was doing something great before 2009, and suddenly all of that has stopped. What do you people call it? Yes, Policy Paralysis!” The last two words carried all the weight of his contempt for – people like me, I guess.

“Let me tell you, what the truth is. While money was flowing in from the US till 2009, India was growing. It was entirely driven by credit and liquidity. On the one hand, companies were raising money from the stock markets and banks, like yours,” he said wagging a finger at me, “and on the other hand, you guys were giving easy credit to consumers to buy what was being produced.”

“The credit flow had created a wealth-effect – people actually believed they could borrow and spend more today because they were going to earn more tomorrow. Tell me, isn’t it true that you got massive raises and bonuses till 2009, and since then your salary hasn’t gone up that much?” I had, kind of spaced out, but this direct question brought me back to mother earth.

I had to admit, he was right. “Yes, that’s true. It is happening everywhere.” Like last time, Mr Powerful was using logic to draw me in.

“Nowadays, don’t you think twice before you spend?” I nodded. “See? That’s what happens when a credit bubble bursts. You get a poverty-effect. People spend and companies invest even less than what is warranted, because they are now pessimistic about the future.” Mr Powerful paused to ask for another single-malt.

“You see, till the credit-bubble lasted, the entire world of Indian business was earning money by the fistfuls. Old business, like the Tatas, Reliance, Birlas and the new upstarts, the real estate companies, the South Indian construction players, and the two Anils – Anil Ambani and Anil Agarwal. Old private banks became massive and new private banks were growing fast.”

“But, then came the collapse. If you remember, son, Manmohan and Chidambaram did a lot for industry in 2008. Tax rates were lowered, special exemptions were given, money was pumped in. And, don’t forget the pay commission arrears to government employees that kept demand stable for a couple of years.” I told him that I did remember. I mean, I have an MBA from a top American B-School. Who does he think he is talking to?

“As demand started to fall, the pie started shrinking. Now, India’s big business players – old and new – wanted bigger shares of the pie. This was the beginning of the big business battles that are being played out every day, hidden behind the so-called stories of policy paralysis.” And thus spake the conspiracy theorist.

 “You see, young man, India Incorporated has got split into various groups, operating on various axes. There are the Tatas and Mukesh Ambani, on one side, and they have two big banks with them – ICICI & HDFC. On the other side, there are the two Anils and, I supect, Kumarmangalam Birla and some smaller banks like Kotak. Depending on what battle for resources is being fought, other smaller players align themselves with these two large groups.” The man might have been talking fiction, but he did know how to spin a yarn.

“The truth is, that the government and the Congress party are also split along this divide,” he said, coming back to his favourite topic. “The Manmohan-Chidambaram duo, with their acolytes like Sibal and Anand Sharma, are on the side of the two Anils and Kumar Birla. Mukesh, Tatas and also DLF, to a certain extent, have been tied up with the Sonia Gandhi camp.”

“Try and recall how the Congress party has tried to block whatever Vedanta does and how the PMO has come to its rescue. Remember how fingers are being pointed at the PMO on both 2G where Anil Ambani gained and now the Coal Scam where CBI is trying to fix Kumar Birla. Recall how Reliance crony Murli Deora was pushed out of the oil ministry by the PM and almost immediately Jaipal came and began tightening the screws on Mukesh. Add them all up, and you will understand how this fight is taking place.” Complete hard-boiled conspiracy fiction. But, by now, I was completely hooked.

“You know, the big scams didn’t happen right now. They began in the first edition of the Manmohan Singh government, which you chaps think was fantastic. Take 2G, coal, anything. They are all old.” Well, he had me there. His logic was solid. “You see, no scam comes out unless someone spills the beans. The war at the top of India’s big business has resulted in these leaks. The media, too, is taking sides.”

“Even institutions like the CAG, need a weak or divided government to be able to expose it. Vinod (Rai? Ex-CAG?) got his strength from the internal divisions in the government.” Mr Powerful wasn’t doing a spot of name-dropping. He actually does know all these people on first name basis. Rahul Gandhi is Rahul, the PM is Manmohan: only Sonia Gandhi is Soniaji.  

“What you call policy paralysis is partly true. All senior bureaucrats are worried that they will become collateral damage in this fight. It’s a fight between two groups of businessmen being fought out as a battle between the Congress party and the government. Even when projects are cleared for one side, the other side gets them stalled.” Another pause, another single-malt.

“The big problem for the Gandhis is that Mukesh doesn’t trust them anymore. I think he is switching allegiance to Modi. Manmohan has nothing to lose, even if big business switches sides and backs Modi for PM. He doesn’t care if the Congress loses. He knows, even if the UPA wins, they won't make his PM again” he said with a wry smile. 

“You see, the problem is that this is pushing Rahul more and more to the left. He doesn’t trust India’s corporates and they don’t trust him."

“But, that is another story,” said Mr Powerful, leaning back on his chair and taking a long sip of his single-malt. His face had acquired that familiar vacant expression, which meant it was time for me to leave him alone.

“Very interesting,” I said as I stood up. He looked up sharply and said “you don’t believe me?”

“Well, there is a lot to digest,” I said. I wasn’t going to lie and say that I believed his fantastic stories. 

“Okay, whatever you want to believe. But, this is the real truth. Understand it. It will help you to become a better banker,” he said.

“You know what you MBA chaps need? You need a dose of political science,” he said looking at me with an amused expression on his face.

“Without that, you will always remain fools.”

  

The Bitter Fourth

The wife was at the breakfast table. I hesitated for a bit then said it. “You know, Rajat and Sunil will leave work early today. I can come back early too, if you want.” 

“Why?” the wife asked, as she buttered her multi-grain toast. (I have no idea what the advantage of multi-grain is if you are going to slather butter on it.) “Well, both Sonia and Rati are fasting for Karwa Chauth. So, the boys want to be back home early as soon as the moon rises.”

“Disgusting,” said the wife with an expression to back it. “Sonia, at least, is an educated woman. Why the hell doesn’t she ask Rajat to fast for her instead? I can’t believe that these women give in to these typical patriarchal rituals.” My wife studied sociology in college.

“Nothing wrong with tradition, yaar,” I said in a conciliatory tone, “and this one is about love. Nothing wrong.”

“Rubbish. I don’t know where you have got your silly ideas from. Karwa Chauth is a ritual that comes from the martial communities of north India, who had moved to settled agriculture. These people used to harvest grain around this time and store grain in large earthen pots called Karwas. Around this time, the men around Punjab and Rajasthan would leave for nomadic ventures. The fourth day or Chauth of the Kartik month was set aside for a day long ritual to pray for the well-being of the males of the tribe. That is the origin of Karwa Chauth.”

The wife was now on her sociologist’s pedestal now, from where she looked down upon us MBA types. “As patriarchy took root in village communities in the rest of North India the ritual of Karwa Chauth fed on local matriarchal rituals and assimilated them. For instance in UP, the Karwa Chauth rituals retain traces of old mother goddess cults, where the Karwa or pot stands for the womb.”

This was all going over my head. “I still haven’t understood what is so wrong about it? How does it matter how it began as long as today it is a romantic occasion?” I asked.

“Did you know about Karwa Chauth before Dilwaale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge?” the wife countered. “Yes, of course, I did. I have known it since the time of Hum Aapke Hain Kaun. Heh heh. ” The wife was not impressed with my joke. “That is exactly it. Karwa Chauth has been transformed into a romantic ritual by Bollywood. And, that too the Bollywood, where no one is poor, the only problems are those of emotions, where mothers and fathers and sons and daughters-in-law have specific roles to play in the larger interests of the parivaar.”

Bad mistake, to have brought this up. But, too late – the wife had been unleashed. “This Karwa Chauth that the wives of your colleagues (the wife forgot to mention most of her own friends) celebrate, is a product of Bollywood, advertising, and the market. What used to be a ritual for women in some parts of North India has been spread by the market to the entire country. It is like Valentine’s Day. 

"What is worse is that its romance reinforces all the traditional values of a patriarchal society. The good wife must fast for her husband’s well-being, and that is the best way to express her love. The husband, in turn, will give her gifts and protect her, because that is what good husbands must be – providers.”

“Oh! Come one! Many husbands fast as well nowadays. And, let me tell you, on Karwa Chauth day the husband feeds the wife the first morsel and gives her the first sip of water,” I said. I understand women’s liberation and all, but I don’t like traditions to be belittled.

“Rubbish!” said the wife, using her favourite word. “The husband feeds the wife on that day, only because it upholds the norm that the wife must feed the husband on all other days. It is an exception to the rule that the wife is responsible for the kitchen, while the husband has to provide what goes into it.”

I didn’t want to argue any further. “Ok yaar. Don’t get so bitter about it.”

“But, that’s exactly what it is,” the wife said. “It is Kadwa. It is the bitter fourth of the patriarchal month.”

Lo. Kallo Baat.