The Emperors who love their new clothes

CWG: As I see(saw?) it

As the brickbats metamorphose into bouquets, Rising India heaves a collective sigh of relief. For weeks, its women and men got force fed with exactly the kind of ugly news that they had started believing was on its way to becoming a thing of the past. Every morning, television and newspapers nudged another bit of flimsy cover off organizers’ incompetence and rapacity, leaving a foul taste in our mouths, bringing us face-to-face with the truth regarding our sheer lack of moral fiber. How painful it was for clean, well-to-do and tech savvy India to know that the taxes it coughed up so that poor India looked a little less embarrassingly so, were being used to pay the car/petrol/foreign trip/house renovation bill of some remorseless babu, or whoever his favorite private vendor was! The ballooning Commonwealth bill made us groan in bitter agony. The final nail in the coffin was the unclean lavatories that greeted the visiting gora inspectors. Why in the name of buckling bridges, we asked, could we not flush the stinking mess before the world saw it? And why did the overzealous video journalists have to make sure that the incriminating evidence was preserved for posterity, rendering generations of smart, hygienically conscious urban Indians vulnerable to jokes that began with, “What do the Indian, the Pakistani, and the one-year old have in common”?

The embarrassment melted away like a wad of butter left under the post floods bright Delhi sun with the grand opening. The opening was not just any other opening. Heck, it was the mother of all openings. Those who caught the razzmatazz on air declared that it shone brighter than Beijing. Its awesomeness was hailed by the western media that withdrew its earlier criticism and showered praise on the quintessential Indian ability of putting together impressive shows without foolishly bothering to work on it for too long or too dedicatedly. It was an inauguration that looked so gorgeous it did exactly what Kalmadi’s overpriced legal doctor must have ordered: dazzle the country into collective blindness. The television screen had so far offered nausea, heartache, and reasons to stay out of the capital till the ignominious hilarity was over. The opening made many of us cancel that ticket to Simla/Singapore/Saharsa and reassert ourselves as the proud residents of the prettified Delhi.

The average Dehliite, particularly the facebooking variety, could not be prouder of the miraculous turn of events. The ones who managed the arbitrarily priced passes could not wait to ‘update’ the rest of the virtual world on the fact that they are indeed THERE AT THE JLN STADIUM WATCHING IT ALL FROM AS CLOSE AS ONE CAN GET TO WHERE ALL THE ACTION IS (You could almost hear them clap their hands and chirp, “Yaye me!” at the end). Those who sat at home made sure they splashed extra long shot images of fireworks at the stadium, close up shots of food stalls, and mid shots of sparkling clean CWG rooms and even more sparkling clean and now excrement free CWG toilets on their profile pages. Surely, they knew that the pictures were only one google search away from all internet users, let alone the ones on their ‘friend list’, and did not need to be ‘shared’ in the first place. The intention was entirely different, loud, and clear: to let the unpatriotic ones know that they had been wrong all along. True, the bid was won only because a handful of megalomaniacal Indian leaders promised more money to train the visiting athletes than other smarter bidders did. True, the Games came to India in a manner best described as clandestine, with no effort at forming a consensus, or even initiating a broad based discussion on it. True, equipments were hired at many times the price the most expensive of their kind are sold anywhere in the world. True, money was sucked in by a bottomless pit of rapaciousness and depravity that the unholy trinity of the Indian politician, the bureaucrat, and the opportunist private player form. But, at the end of it all, we got magic mehndi, magic tabla (both by kids who neither got nor desired a single tainted rupee), and a shiny, shiny opening ceremony—one blessed by the Prince and the Parker, or the kind of people we like to pretend to be indifferent to and even laugh at, but whose approval we seek anxiously, even if unconsciously.

Isn’t this high level of comfort with misappropriation of our own money something that warrants closer scrutiny? There is a simple test to find the answer. All one needs to do is imagine everything happening in a more personal context. Suppose a burglar comes to your house and tells you, "Look. Give me all your money. I will keep half of it with me. The rest I will spend on throwing a party. I will pay my relatives to be the caterers. Since I am as incompetent as my buffoon caterer relatives, I will take forever to arrange the party. Obviously, the tent decoration DJ wallahs will be arranged at the last minute, so they won’t have a choice but to charge an obscene amount. So, I will come back to you to demand more. We will keep paying more and more till we pay enough to pull the party. And, you will be happy at the end of it all because the guests will be very fussy and sophisticated and if impressed, will pat you on your back and say, “Good job, li’l fella!” Also, we will tell everybody that it was you (cough*moron*cough) who threw the party!”

With the already cleaner parts of Delhi scrubbed further clean, fixed and face-lifted, we can all get ready for the cultural evenings at Connaught Place, smoother traffic for some time and of course, the closing ceremony, the last among which we hope and pray will be glorious enough for future generations to weave poems around. The events (the sporting contests, the matches, the G-a-m-e-s in Commonwealth Games, remember?) will undoubtedly be badly organized; however, that will be okay because as a country that’s still developing poor hungry malnourished, it has created enough shine already. The government, overpaid and underworked as it may be, will have been criticized enough already, thanks to the masters of journalistic overkill, so we will have to cut it some slack. And of course, the success of the real heroes, the truly unsullied, hard working, devoted and highly un-Kalmadi-ish Nehwals, Bindras and Devvarmans will thoughtlessly be associated with the OC, and the memory of the humble and smiling Indian sportsperson at the podium will erase all traces of moral degeneration (governmental, private, individual and collective) that was flung into our unwilling faces for far too long. Nobody will pause to realize that the winners did not win because of the sarkari effort; they won in spite of it. And the culprits, the utterly shameless, who participated in the multi thousand crore scam will get away with a little jeering and booing and no serious punishment, because cases against them will drag till the day editorials will declare the scam too old and inconsequential compared to fresh and bigger ones.

The question that needs asking now is, will we always be okay with this elaborate structure of deceit, procrastination, ineptitude, opacity, high handedness and sheer greed that the smallest to the biggest players with power have created for themselves? Will we ever get rid of our complacency that tells us to ‘relax and adjust’ to the whims and manic fancies of the class of people that was supposed to serve the society and not gorge on it? Will we always be comfortable with the systematic exploitation of the youngest to the oldest among the poor, who are paid peanut shells to create pretty, shiny things for us to feed our enormously inflated egos and visual appetites with? Will our love for shiny always keep us indifferent towards the fate of the atrociously poor living in plastic tents, defecating in the open, drinking water unfit for dogs, and watching their salt and starch-fed kids mutate into stunted half women and men because well, they are just too many and hence, deserve animal existence?

The answer is a frightening yes. We could have boycotted the Games but we did not. We could have taken out marches against the desi plunderers but we did not. The protests ended at sending smart anagram-ish smses and letters to the editors, many of who realized they ought to anger their consumers only to the extent that they do not bid goodbye to the telly/paper subscription permanently. In fact, we ended up endorsing every single act of pilferage that the Old and the Shameless indulged in with brazen callousness. Teary eyed, we saw, celebrated and got choked with pride at the farce of a fantastic opening followed by eleven days of organizational goof ups that could not be hidden by bright fireworks.

One final (and admittedly rhetorical) question: Aren’t we all sick and tired of the insatiably corrupt who have made permanent the wide chasm between the rich and the rotting, something that could have been bridged to a reasonable extent? We are. But perhaps, we are sicker and more tired of the unpalatable truth that dims India’s shine a bit. It is precisely this London Tipton-like weakness for shiny that the cannibal-like powerful in India continue to exploit. Each time death, decay and destruction start grossing out the living and thriving among us, the modern day maharajas put up a show-the party that we pay for unwittingly and grow to enjoy, grudgingly at first, and enthusiastically towards the brainwashed end.

नक्सलवाद: एक गंभीर समस्या

प्रधान मंत्री द्वारा आंतरिक सुरक्षा के लिए सबसे गंभीर समस्या कहलाये जाने वाले नक्सलवाद के मुद्दे ने देश का ध्यान अपनी ओर बड़ी मजबूती से खींच लिया है. नक्सली हिंसा की खबरें और तसवीरें अख़बार के पन्नों व टी वी चैनलों पर अब लगभग हर दूसरे दिन हमें ये याद दिलाती हैं कि इस समस्या की ओर और लापरवाही बरतना भयानक तबाही का कारण बन सकती है. आंकडें बताते हैं कि पिछले पाँच वर्षों में दस हज़ार से अधिक असैनिक नागरिक नक्सली हिंसा की बली चढ़ गए हैं. पिछले तीन महीनों में ही केंद्रीय रिज़र्व पोलिस बल के सौ से अधिक जवान भी नक्सलियों के विरुद्ध भिडंत में शहीद हो चुके हैं. ज़ाहिर है, ये गंभीर समस्या एक ऐसे समाधान की प्रतीक्षा में है जो न केवल वर्तमान में जारी खून खराबे पर अंकुश लगा सके बल्की भविष्य में भी इस तरह की बर्बादी की सम्भावना को जड़ से उखाड़ दे.

लेकिन किसी भी मुश्किल का हल निकलने के लिए उसकी तह तक पहुंचना आवश्यक होता है. हिंसा अचानक ही बिना किसी वजह नहीं भड़कती. इतिहास साक्षी है कि घोर सामाजिक, आर्थिक और राजनैतिक असंतोष ही लोगों को हथियार उठाने पर मजबूर करती है. आज भारत का एक विशाल जनसमूह खुद को दुःख और निराशा के ऐसे जाल में फँसा पाता है जिससे देश की मुख्यधारा से जुड़े अपेक्षाकृत धनी लोगों का कोई सरोकार नहीं है. उदारीकरण के पिछले दो दशकों में पढ़े लिखे, शहरी युवक-युवतियों के लिए सैकड़ों नए आयाम खुलते नजार आये. लेकिन मानव संसाधन विकास के लिए ज़रूरी मूलभूत सुख साधन जैसे पेयजल, खाद्यान्न उपलब्धी, टीकाकरण, स्वास्थ्य सेवा, शिक्षा एवं व्यवसायिक प्रशिक्षण की अनुपस्थिति में देश के करोड़ों लोग भूख, गरीबी और निःशब्दता के शिकार होकर १९९१ से प्रारंभ हुई आर्थिक तेज़ी में भागीदारी से वंचित रह गए. यही नहीं, देश के अपेक्षाकृत मुट्ठी भर संपन्न लोगों की भौतिक सुख सुविधाओं की माँग की आपूर्ति के लिए नए नए उद्योग स्थापित किये जाने लगे. इस तरह के विकास को अंजाम देने के लिए ज़मीन, बिजली, पानी आदि की निरंकुश खपत की जाने लगी. कारखाने खड़े करने के लिए कई एकड़ जंगल व उपजाऊ ज़मीन साफ़ कर दिए गए, खनन कार्य वैध तथा उससे भी कई गुना अधिक अवैध रूप से किया जाने लगा, तथा ऊर्जा परियोजनाओं को रूप देने के लिए कई नदियों को बिना सोचे समझे खतरनाक रूप से बाँध दिया गया. इस पूरे घटनाक्रम में पर्यावरण के विनाश के साथ साथ विस्थापना की जटिल समस्या उत्पन्न हो गयी. किसान तथा जंगलों पर निर्भर लोगों को बिना उचित मुआवज़े, और कई बार पोलिस व किराये के गुंडों की मदद से, अपनी पुश्तैनी ज़मीन व आजीविका से हाथ धोने पर मजबूर कर दिया गया. सरकारी उदासीनता का शिकार होकर लाखों की तादाद में लाचारी महसूस करने वाले ये लोग तब पूरी तरह बेआवाज़ हो गए जब मीडिया फिल्म जगत, क्रिकेट तथा शहरी चकाचौंध को 'कवर' करने में एकनिष्टता से जुट गयी. ऐसे में इनमें से कुछ का प्रकट या अप्रकट रूप में हिंसा की ओर बढ़ना न्यायसंगत नहीं तो कम से कम स्वाभाविक ज़रूर प्रतीत होता है.

कोई भी जटिल समस्या विचारपूर्ण व बहुआयामी समाधान की माँग करती है. नक्सलवाद को ख़त्म करने के लिए प्रभावित लोगों के दिलों से निराशा के साए को प्रेम, सौहार्दता व ठोस तथा शर्तहीन मदद के प्रकाश से मिटाना होगा. सरकार की नक्सल प्रभावित जिलों की ओर ज़िम्मेदारी आर्थिक पुनर्निर्माण की योजनाओं की उद्घोषणा मात्र से पूरी नहीं हो सकती. इन योजनाओं को बिना किसी लापरवाही के तथा जवाबदेही व पारदर्शिता के साथ आकार और अंजाम देना अत्यावश्यक है. ये तभी संभव है जब नेताओं, दफ्तारशाहों और स्थानीय प्रशासन के बीच पनप रहे अनैतिक व नुक्सानदेह संसर्ग पर विराम लगा दिया जाता है. कई गैर सरकारी कंपनियों की बिना यथोचित क्षतिपूर्ति के तथा अवैध तरीके से खनिज, इमारती लकड़ी व उद्योग इकाई स्थापित करने की प्रवृति पर प्रतिबन्ध लगाने के लिए केंद्रीय कानूनों को सुधारने व दृढ़ता से लागू करने की आवश्यकता है.

जहाँ तक सी आर पी एफ के जवानों का सवाल है, हमें ये याद रखना होगा कि ये सचेतन, हाड़ मांस के बने इंसान हैं, न कि बटन दबाते ही चालू हो जाने वाले रोबोट जो अत्यल्प वेतन, हर तीसरे महीने तबादले तथा बदहाल चिकित्सीय सेवाओं की मार झेलते हुए भी अमानवीय परिस्थियों में बिना मानसिक या शारीरिक थकावट के निरंतर देश के प्रति अपनी ज़िम्मेदारी का निर्वाह कर सकते हैं. सरकार को इनकी ज़रूरतों की आपूर्ति बेहतर व नियमित तनख्वाह, पुख्ता स्वास्थ्य सेवाओं, जीवन बीमा, बच्चों की शिक्षा तथा तैनाती में स्थिरता के माध्यम से करने की ज़िम्मेदारी उठानी होगी. मूलतः एक 'कानून व प्रणाली' लागू करने वाली एजेंसी होने की वजह से इन लाठीधारी सिपाहियों को बीहड़ जंगलों में नक्सलियों द्वारा जारी गोरिल्ला युद्ध को समझने व जीतने के लायक प्रशिक्षण अधिकतर मिली ही नहीं. अतः वर्तमान में इनकी पीड़ाजनक व एकतरफा हार पर विराम लगाने के लिए इनके युद्ध कौशल को तत्काल ही सुधारने की, या एक ऐसे नए संयुक्त बल को स्थापित करने की ज़रुरत है जो नक्सली तत्वों में सैनिक भिडंत में जीत के प्रति संदेह उत्पन्न कर दे तथा उन्हें बातचीत व अन्य प्रजातान्त्रिक रास्तों से मतभेद का हल निकालने के लिए विवश कर दे.

विद्वान कहते हैं कि युद्ध में कोई विजयी नहीं होता. ये कहावत नक्सलवाद के साथ जारी संघर्ष के मामले में भी सटीक बैठती है. इस महाभारत में दोनों ओर एक ही मिट्टी से जन्मे लोग शामिल है. सच्ची भारतीय वह है जो हर देशवासी के सौभाग्य को अपना सौभाग्य माने और हर भारतीय आंसू को शोक का कारण समझे. अपने चारों ओर खड़ी स्वार्थ की दीवारों को तोड़कर समाज के हर व्यक्तिकी आवश्यकताओं व आकांक्षाओं को साथ लेकर चलने में ही चिरस्थायी एकता, प्रसन्नता और शांति संभव है.

In search of fun and some God

Recently, I attended a wedding in Deoghar, Jharkhand. The marriage was a splendid affair. I had the time of my life, dancing, chatting with the rather beleaguered jeejajee, and indulging in exactly the kind of silly behavior that always made me roll my eyes at the dimwittedness of giddy onscreen saalis.

The next morning, many of us felt it a duty to go to the nearby Baba Baidyanath temple. Coming all the way to the holy town and not visiting the sacred jyotirlingam didn't make much sense after all.

Suffused with early morning post- breakfast energy and enthusiasm, we decided to walk the distance between our hotel and the temple. The weather had turned pleasantly warm. Moreover, the unsaid agreement among us devoted pilgrims was that shunning the luxury of a car might help us earn 'brownie points' in our race to reach the closest to the Almighty.

The locality in which the temple is situated is quite like any other in the country. The streets become predictably narrower and the crowd denser as one gets closer to the temple grounds. Yet, once inside the mandir parisar, what first strikes any visitor is the sheer number of devotees thronging the place. Women, men and kids- all dressed in their brightest best- seem to converge in this single place of worship. Frenzied pandas sniff out uncertain visitors, materialize before them, and promise "trouble- free" entry into the main temple- the one that houses the Jyotirlingam itself. In return, he expects no less than a few hundreds, undoubtedly a meager price to be paid in order to be able to meet GOD Himself.

The main temple throws up a few surprises of its own. A solitary door acts as both the entrance and the exit. Crossing the threshold, you find yourself in a narrow, claustrophobic corridor, being pushed and pulled at the same time, wondering if this is how you feel just before you say your final goodbye. The corridor leads you into the small area in the middle of which the jyotirlingam is positioned. You look at other (visibly) more experienced devotees and do exactly what they do- fold your hand, throw the flowers and gangajal on the lingam, and then start thinking what will be there for lunch. That is exactly when your sweet, hired- help- of- a- panda hollers into your ears, "YOU NEED TO SIT AND PRAYYY!!" So you sit down and brayyy.

The battle to get out of the mandir is so tortuous and suffocating that you feel like Harry Potter trying to reach the surface of the sea, with the effect of gillyweed already starting to wear out. The faceless mass then literally carries you out and you step out of the intimidating shrine into the sun, breathe in gulps of air and promise yourself, "never again."

And just when you think the worse is over, you notice a beheaded goat at a distance- a bali, an offering to please God and keep Him good humored. The headless goat keeps flailing its limbs, twisting in pain, obviously believing it is still alive. And then you try to recall if it was Einstein who once said he could not conceive of a God who rewards and punishes his creatures.

In today's day and age, religion does not pervade our day- to- day lives, or dictates our actions in as decisive a way as it did, say, a century ago. Yet, many of us still find it impossible to wiggle our way out of the complex web of dated and logic- defying (washing stone structures with milk and honey? Ringing bells to wake God up from His slumber?) rites and rituals. We join hands and bow before idols. We tie the red thread on our wrists. We expect married women to wear sindoor, and widows, white. And we do all this unthinkingly.

So religious rituals still remain the opium of the masses. By masses, I do not mean Asimov's ignorant, gullible and yet- to- evolve multitudes "out there". Rather, it includes educated, scientifically aware, modern young men and women like you and me.
And it is only after we go on a holy pilgrimage ourselves that the true meaning of Marx's words hits us hard. Before any puja or holy trip, we forget that it is simply in the faces of men and women that we ought to see God. And no matter how excruciatingly uncomfortable the experience might be, we emerge out of these with a weird sense of… accomplishment and tell ourselves,

"Ha. Three dhaams down, one more to go!"