Women’s Reservation Bill: debasing India’s democracy.

Hiding behind the fairer sex, entrenched party leaders are solidifying their authority over backbenchers.

It was advertised as a historic day. On 8 March, the centenary of International Women’s Day, India’s governing coalition planned to present the country with a constitutional amendment reserving 33% of the seats for women in national and state legislatures. However, it was not to be. The failure of the amendment to pass was dubbed by the law minister a national day of shame, as a few unruly members of Parliament, particularly in the Rajya Sabha, created such a ruckus that the House had to be adjourned six times.

The Bill was adopted in the Rajya Sabha the next day, with the government promising to bring further amendments. But it has also exposed the widening gap within the governing allies, and it is likely to be a close race in the Lok Sabha.

Increasing women’s participation in politics sounds like a fine idea in principle. But its implementation would have grave consequences for the quality of India’s governance and political culture.

A comfortable majority in Parliament professes to support the Women’s Reservation Bill, with dominant parties on both sides of the political divide in favour. However, the truth is that many members are apprehensive about the consequences. And that opposition can’t be explained away as simply the vested interest of male politicians.

First of all, the justifications for the amendment don’t stand up to scrutiny. If there is indeed political and social support for greater participation of women in politics, nothing prevents political parties from choosing more female candidates. Nor would reservations somehow change the status of women in the country—some of the worst forms of discrimination against women continued to take place even after Indira Gandhi became prime minister in the 1960s. And finally, outstanding women leaders such as Jayalalithaa in Tamil Nadu and Mamata Banerjee in West Bengal have come up on their own through persistence and political acumen. In the name of empowering women, the Bill is very paternalistic, believing that women cannot make it in politics on their own.

More importantly, the Bill poses a threat to the nature of India’s representative democracy. While the reservation of a few seats for certain castes might be accepted as a temporary anomaly necessary to correct historic wrongs, a reservation for such a broad section of the population undermines India’s “first past the post” electoral system. The Bill moves India towards a proportional representation system dividing the population on sectional lines. This is a change from the basic design of the Constitution, and the debates in the Constituent Assembly, when the notion of separate electorates was considered and rejected.

In the current system, parliamentary constituencies comprise a wide range of people, forcing candidates to build a social and political coalition to have a reasonable chance of winning the election. It is this tendency to bridge the sectional divide among the population that has been the hallmark of Indian democracy, where diversity has only strengthened the political institutions.

If India is to tread the path towards ensuring representation according to the diversity of the population, by adopting a kind of proportional electoral system, then the social coalition will inevitably break down, leading to increased political instability. The demand for a sectional quota within the women’s quota would be a logical step in that direction. And the next step could be to demand political reservation for men as well along sectional lines. This would signal the end of the idea of India.

Accountability to voters will also be reduced. At one stroke, by rotating the constituencies reserved for women, an enormous political churning will be triggered. Legislators who have built up their own independent base of support within their constituencies will be forced out of office. Two-thirds of the sitting members of the legislature may have to surrender their seats under a rotational reservation for women. In effect, this will disempower the voter, and reduce the incentive for elected representatives to be seriously concerned with the issues affecting their constituencies.

Party leaders stand to benefit the most from a system where the voters are not in a position to assess the performance of their representative. The parties will have to constantly put forward new candidates, and these are chosen by the leaders—there is no inner party democracy in India. Hiding behind the fairer sex, entrenched party leaders are solidifying their authority over backbenchers.

This represents an extension of the anti-defection law passed by the Congress government of Rajiv Gandhi in 1986, when it had an unprecedented majority in Parliament. Under this law, a legislator is required to vote along party lines or face disqualification from Parliament. That spelt the end of meaningful parliamentary debate. Now Sonia Gandhi is attempting to push through a constitutional amendment that deals another body blow to representative democracy. At a time when the rest of the world is beginning to appreciate the Indian democratic miracle, it is ironic indeed that the country’s own political leadership is seeking to change its democratic character to further its own narrow interests.

उनके लिए

दो जवां दिलों का ग़म दूरियाँ समझती हैं

क्यों हुआ मई दीवाना बेड़ियाँ समझती हैं

कल तलक तो ये लगता था की ये दुनिया हमारी है

अब अपने ही घर में किसी दूसरे के घर के हम हैं|

कहते हैं, कि वो अफ़साना जिसे अंजाम तक लाना ना हो मुमकिन, उसे ख़ूबसूरत मोड़ देकर छोड़ना अच्छा है, पर वो रास्ते में कहाँ गुम हुई, मुझे इल्म तक ना हुआ, बस ये एक प्यारा सा एहसास बाकी है, की वो कभी तो मेरे साथ कदम से कदम मिलाकर चली थी, तकलीफ़ वहाँ नहीं थी, दोनों ही जानते थे कि मोहब्बत है और वे एक दूसरे को भूलने की कोशिश करें और ना इस बात का ग़म था कि दोनों दिल ही दिल में एक दूसरे को चाहें और इज़हार ना कर पाएँ, लेकिन दर्द था इस बात का की वो जानती थी कि उसके बग़ैर मेरी ज़िंदगी की कोई अहमियत नही, फिर भी मुझे छोड़कर चली गयी|

कोई ये कैसे बताए की वो तन्हा क्यों है

वो जो अपना था वही और किसी का क्यों है

यही दुनिया है तो ऐसी ये दुनिया क्यों है

यही होता है तो आख़िर यही होता क्यों है|

तुमसे मिलना, तुमसे बिछड़ना इन्ही लम्हों में मैने अपनी पूरी ज़िंदगी जी ली, मैं आज भी उन जगहों में जाकर तुम्हें महसूस करते हुए ये सोचता हूँ, कि ये सब तुम्ही से रोशन थे क्यों कि तुम्हारे जाने के बाद हरियाली के यहाँ कितने ही मौसम आए लेकिन ये कभी ना संवर सकी|

तुम्हारे बगैर और वो सब कुछ ठीक है

मगर यूँ ही

ये चलता-फिरता शहर अजनबी सा लगता है|

किस से कहें और क्या कहें, ये दर्द के जॅंगल भी तो मेरे ही बनाए हुए हैं, तुमसे अलग होकर जैसे मैं अपनी ज़िंदगी को समझाने की कोशिश करता, लेकिन यादों की हल्की सी पूर्वाई चलती और मैं देर तक उनके साथ उड़ता चला जाता, उन्ही लम्हों के जंगलों में, जहाँ मेरे ही दर्द की सिसकियाँ सुनाई देती हैं, और कभी इन वीरान जंगलों में खुशियों की घटा भी छाती तो बिना बरसे ही उड़कर चली जाती और मैं इस इंतज़ार में रहता कि तुम फिर वापस आओगी, मैं अक्सर उन राहों से गुज़रता हूँ जहाँ हम कभी साथ मिलकर चले थे, उन उजाड़ टीलों पर घंटो बैठना, जहाँ तुम्हारी महक आज भी बसी हुई है, मैं जनता हूँ की तुम नहीं हो, कहीं नहीं हो, फिर भी ये लगता है कि तुम आज भी यहीं कहीं हो| इन आवार्गियों में भटकना, इन तन्हाइयों के जंगलों को रात भर नापना हमेशा एक सुकून देता है कि इन्ही लम्हों में तुम बसी हो|

महक रही हैं फ़िज़ाएं एहसास से तुम्हारे

जैसे कोई ख़ुशबू हो तुम्हारे बारे में सोचते रहना

रात का धूंधलका गहराना शुरू हो गया था, वक़्त की ख़ामोशी भी अब टूटने को थी, लेकिन ये हवा अभी भी तुम्हारी तलाश में थी और शायद सदियों तक रहेगी, आज मैं अपने यादों की घाटियों में बहुत गहराई तक उतार गया था, क्यों की खुद मुझे अपनी ही गूँज वहाँ सुनाई दे रही थी, लेकिन यहाँ भी मैं अकेला कहाँ था, तुम भी तो मेरे साथ थी|

शायद यहीं कहीं..........

A club by another name

Sant Singh Chatwal is a hotelier, a rich man with many diverse interests. He was also the subject of a criminal investigation by the Central Bureau of Investigation (CBI) for defrauding Indian banks. Two CBI directors, as recent reports suggest, dropped these charges. No prizes for guessing how and why this was done. Chatwal has now been awarded the Padma Bhushan, India’s third highest civilian honour. It is common knowledge that often those who get these awards are less than meritorious. This causes heartburn. But there are other objections as well. If the quality of those given the prizes has fallen over time so has the quality of the selection process. A more basic question, however, is if a democratic state should issue such awards at all. Both questions are linked, as the Chatwal controversy shows. The bestowing of medals, ranks, titles and other ceremonial stuff by states is as old as history itself. In the modern age, however, this sits uneasily with the role of a government. Why? Any government today is expected to be an arbiter of rules and a keeper of civic order. Good governments keep markets regulated (but stay away from interfering in them), secure the property of citizens and, in general, ensure a level playing field among citizens. The giving away of awards, ones that confer prestige, makes governments a participant in this game. This worked well in the age of kings and queens when hierarchy between citizens was considered normal. Not anymore. When this occurs, dangerous things happen. It gives a government an enormous advantage in setting the “prestige agenda”, much like a beauty contest, but without the charm of the latter. It could, hypothetically, work well as long as the quality of the selection process is not compromised. This is wishful thinking. Any democratically elected government is manned by persons of ambition, not saints. Ministers and politicians alike want to give awards to further their agenda, and not national interest. From the controversy over selling of peerages by the Tony Blair government to our shoddy committee-based procedures for all kinds of awards, devaluation is common.  This has a negative effect. The government, instead of ensuring a level playing field, creates a club where some citizens and non-citizens muscle their way in. The process is reminiscent of patronage in a monarchy. In a democracy, it leads to jockeying. There is acute demoralization of citizens. This is the story of ourPadma awards.

The Republic of corruption!

We need a combination of credible systems and collective leadership to catalyse a virtuous cycle of change.

Most times I read a piece about corruption, I have what I suspect is a fairly common reaction—“Not another moralizing piece!” And so, a promise —this piece on corruption won’t preach.

We can safely declare that while we may not have achieved universal education in India, we have succeeded in universalizing corruption. Consider the list of corruption-infested activities:

Birth certificates, building licences, ration cards, medical supplies, primary school admissions, examination papers, police station postings, mining permits, master planning, defence contracts, court pronouncements, environmental clearances, NGO funding, corporate balance sheets, auditor statements, bank loan sanctions, burial grounds, petrol pump licences, natural gas concessions, power plants, water supply distribution, affordable housing allotments, parking violations, speeding violations, treating accident victims, telecom tariffs, manure for municipal parks, dairy cooperatives, microfinance, garbage contracts, highway contracts, auto-rickshaw meters, bus tickets, press coverage, beggars, hawker zones, NREGA payments, JNNURM contracts, missile systems, government school chalk contracts, army uniform supplies, temple priests, church conversions, mullah edicts, sales tax offices, small-scale industry licences, coffee boards, political parties, candidate tickets, governors’ offices, intelligence bureau, Border Security Force, train reservations, cricket boards, censor board, Olympic committee, forest preservation, backward class reservation, college admissions,panchayat presidents, municipal mayors, movie-making, temple hundis, heritage preservation, tiger protection, aircraft purchases, milk procurement, government fair price shops (ironically named), RTI offices, rape victim depositions, hit-and-run cases, FIR registration, disabilities Act implementation, foster homes, adoption agencies, fertilizer subsidies, land use conversions, Ganapati festivals, factory emissions, labour unions, employment exchanges, student hostels, passport offices, drivers’ licences, excise duties, tourist visas, pilgrimage spots, death certificates...

From birth to death, we are now immersed in corruption. Thought experiment—try and think of one public activity that is free, actually completely free, from corruption.

If there is a common thread that binds us together as Indians, it is corruption. One massive national endeavour in which each of us is an active agent—either as perpetrator or as victim or as beneficiary. The specific role we play changes—just as Vishnu takes different avatars, we assume different garbs depending on the situation: often victim, sometimes beneficiary, and not infrequently perpetrator.

It’s got so pervasive that there is an almost ubiquitous corruption-level guessing game going on in everyone’s minds, be it in government, in the private sector or NGOs: “I heard that so-and-so is corrupt, that is how they can afford all those new gadgets, and the fancy holidays they take.”

Gone are the days of “innocent until proven guilty”; today the mantra is “corrupt until proven honest”. Unfortunately, honesty is like scientific theory—it can never be proved, only disproved. And so, the honest folk who resist are fighting a constant uphill battle—pretty soon, the corrosive effect of corruption seeps in to erode almost everyone’s defence—built on a varying mix of ethics, fear and fading hope in a day of comeuppance.

We find ourselves so neck-deep in the swamp that we don’t even sense the stink any more. In fact, we have constructed twisted arguments to condone corruption, including the ingenious one which says that all the corruption-driven money eventually comes back into the economy, so it’s okay—that in fact it was India’s large grey market that helped cushion the impact of the global economic crisis in 2009.

When a phenomenon is so pervasive that it engulfs an entire society, we cannot get out of the mess by pretending that some are superior to others, or with lectures that lament a bygone ethical way of life—it only puts everyone off, especially the youth. And, for all its punchy impact, Rajkumar Hirani’s movie on Gandhigiri was never really going to work in real life. This is a problem where isolated individual action isn’t enough— we need something more, much bigger, a combination of credible systems and collective leadership—to catalyse a virtuous cycle of change.

Unfortunately, it’s not clear where the flywheel for this change will come from. Politics is a logical answer, just as it has been in other countries. But in India, large-scale politics is a Faustian bargain with integrity as barter.

For all the gloom, it’s also true that we have the capacity in our country to harness a collective energy, rise above our circumstances, and undertake massive transformation. We’ve done it before —what better reminder than 26 January? Maybe that was a unique event, and we can never have an encore. Or, perhaps, we could do it again. Happy 60th anniversary for the Republic. In hope.

ANOTHER 60TH BIRTHDAY PARTY

It was a birthday party with a difference. The “kid” has behaved better than its parents. The home work has not been easy. And even when completed in time, no candy had been handed out. Now that surely calls for a cake.

On Monday, the Election Commission of India (EC), an institution a day older than the Republic, turned 60. There was all-round praise. Politicians, who have often accused EC of bias, were all praise for it on Monday. Its success in keeping democracy in running order is unquestionable.

Two factors, institutional and human, have worked in its favor. To begin with, India’s founding fathers wisely entrusted the task of conducting elections to a non-partisan, apolitical body. Had that not been the case, political events in India would have taken a very different turn. Pakistan provides a contrasting example. The first election in that country, for the Punjab legislative assembly, witnessed blatant misuse of state machinery and administrative intervention on behalf of select candidates. That undermined the credibility of elections there from the start. In India, the rot began much later and never reached levels that could imperil democracy.

The second, equally vital, ingredient in this process has been human. From the time of Sukumar Sen, the first chief election commissioner (CEC), EC has been manned by persons of ability and integrity. There have been some slipups, no doubt, but these are aberrations that have never threatened the edifice.

What of the future? EC’s role and the environment it works is that of constitutional comfort, beyond the whims of capricious representatives it helps elect. With political coalitions being the flavor of the time, it is unlikely that this institutional order can be changed in a way that can harm democracy.

Governments are often tempted to appoint “their” men to man the commission. But constitutional guarantees ensure that CECs turn out to be nobody’s fools. That game will continue, but the results are also clear: It will be a person of very poor quality who will turn partisan when he or she adorns the office of CEC.

The challenges to democracy lie beyond the portals of the commission.

Why Hindus should weed out Gita’s message

Human experience tells us that those asked to work without expectation of reward normally do no work, or do shoddy work. The Gita believes otherwise

The message of the Bhagavad Gita is so electrifying that its narrator Sanjay reports that his hair is standing on end (roma-harsanam). But what exactly is that message? When he began reading Indianauthors, V.S. Naipaul noticed a strange thing. They only recorded inner experience, ignoring the world around them.

Inner world: Gandhi was unmoved by London’s buildings and people.

In 1888, on his first visit outside India, Gandhi landed in Southampton. In his autobiography he noted two things: It was Saturday, and he was the only person wearing white flannel (it was October). The scale of London, its foreignness, its buildings and architecture, its cleanliness, its people—all of that is taken for granted by Gandhi, a 19-year-old villager from Porbandar. He should have been stunned by the differences. But he notices nothing.

Indians, Naipaul observes, have “no feeling for the physical world”. He is right, but why do we look away from the physical world? To see what our culture says about this let us look at the Bhagavad Gita.

The Gita has three messages:

• We must work without expectation of reward

• The soul is immortal: The body and the outside world are unimportant— Chapter 2

• We must aspire not to a state of action (rajas) or inaction (tamas) but purity (sattva)—Chapters 14 and 18

The Gita’s definition of sattva—goodness (14:5), serenity (14:6), wisdom (14:17)—will puzzle someone who wants to follow Krishna’s advice and become sattvik.

On the other hand it is easy to be rajasik—driven to action (14:9), passionate (14:12), hungry for reward. Human experience tells us that those asked to work without expectation of reward normally do no work, or do shoddy work. The Gita believes otherwise.

We are familiar with the famous line that starts Karmani eva adhikaraste... (2:47), but it is actually a couplet. The second line cautions us not to be motivated in action, or attached to inaction. In another place we are told the wise man sees action in inaction and inaction in action (4:18). This ambiguity in the Gita—act but don’t act—has given spiritual gurus the space to do endless philosophizing. It is the favourite text of all from Vivekanand to Sri Sri Ravishankar, and Gita sessions dominate the daily engagements column of newspapers in our cities.

The Gita tells us to withdraw our senses like a tortoise its limbs (2:58), because all answers are within us.

So this looking inwards, this detachment that Naipaul observes, is actually prescribed by the Gita. Are all Hindu texts like this? No.

The Vedas are very different, aggressively materialist and extroverted. The Vedic chant is really a list of demands on the Gods, particularly Agni and Indra: Give me this, give me that. But the chanter’s hunger assumes action that needs divine support. In the vocabulary of the Gita, the Vedas are rajasik.

Naipaul then makes a second, more cruel, observation. Because Indians are oblivious to the world, we don’t participate. The behaviour of Indians “is parasitic. It depends on the continued activity of others, the trains running, the presses printing... It needs the world but surrenders the organisation of the world to others” (India: A Wounded Civilisation). When the Indian is at a great foreign airport, his thoughts are on how not to look foolish. He has no wonder about how the place works (A Bend in the River).

He is right again. All who observed India closely have noticed our peculiar shutting out.

Allama Iqbal went to Europe for his PhD and came back transformed in 1908. The great unifier till then, he began separating Muslim culture from Hindu on his return. In 1904, Iqbal wrote Tarana-e-Hindi, commonly called Saare jahan se achcha. In 1910, he wrote Tarana-e-Milli, which goes: Muslim hain hum, watan hai saara jahan hamara (The whole world is the Muslim’s nation). Iqbal didn’t suddenly decide to start hating Hindus: He worried that their culture would also take Muslims down with it.

Kipling, who knew Indians well, wrote about its danger in The Miracle of Puran Bhagat. It is the story of a powerful minister, a wise man, who renounces his position and family and becomes a sage. He tries to run away from the world but eventually finds himself only through action, not mindless renunciation.

Are we stuck with our culture forever? Not necessarily. The detached Gandhi of Southampton became a magnificent man of action, but only after exposure to Europeans. When he visited India in 1896, he was aghast by our apathy, because after eight years abroad he was able to observe it as an outsider. He saw the inexplicable attitude of the Indian, obsessing about ritual pollution to his body through caste, but oblivious to an environment he kept polluted beyond belief.

Modernity has brought no difference: We are one of the filthiest people on earth in 2009. But we can live beside filth quite comfortably because we are trained to ignore it. Our high tolerance to the anarchy of India comes from our religion.

Today the Mumbaikar recognizes the Parsi for his ability to engage with machines. We even pay him a premium for the car he cares for. But we cannot replicate his simple actions, which should come easily to us because every other culture behaves that way. We cannot, because the Gita’s message of disengagement is so effective. The unobservant do not invent, and that is true of Indians, a highly evolved people who have little or no invention to their name.

When he comes, if he comes, our Martin Luther must reform the culture by moving the Gita from Hinduism’s centre to its periphery, where it should be revered, not followed. Its sophisticated message of detachment is for yogis, not ordinary men. Something more mundane and work-oriented must replace the Gita, even if that message is less electrifying.

My barber’s wisdom

‘There are two kinds of poor people, those who have the capacity to improve their lives, and those who don’t’

Once every few weeks, I visit my barber Narayan for a haircut —that mandatory male ritual that accompanies us throughout our lives.

Narayan is a successful entrepreneur, running two shops in Bangalore, employing several people and offering an expanding range of tonsorial solutions.

The haircuts are always accompanied by clockwork-rhythm conversations—we begin as he swooshes his crisp white cloth around my shirt and ties it behind my neck, and end as he brings the framed mirror for me to approve the haircut.

Normally, the topic of our talks are interesting but somewhat generic —movies, politics and cricket. But our last trimming conversation touched on a personal chord—Narayan’s life journey. It was filled with pearls of wisdom—about hard work, running a successful business, and surprisingly, the government’s poverty programmes.

“Narayan”, I began as the starched cloth settled on my shirt, “how long have you been a barber?”

“Oh, 37 years now”, he smiled.

“And how did it start? Did you always have your own shop?”

“No sir, I came to Bangalore from my village at the age of 19, running away to earn a living. No education, no skills, nothing to save me except my determination. I found work as a cleaner in Ashoka Hotel (one of Bangalore’s old premium hotels). One of my jobs was to clean the barber shop floor. Soon, I realized that there was a lot of money to be made from tips as a barber, so I learnt after work. In a few years, I was working as a barber, and did that for several years before I had enough to start my own business.”

“How did you manage to save enough with a barber’s salary and tips?”

“I never said ‘no’ to any opportunity to earn more money. Some of the richer clients preferred to have haircuts at their homes. So I would get there by 6am, finish the haircut, get to the hotel by 8, then repeat the same thing in the evening.

“I scrimped and scrounged—for food, I would go to the Janata Hotel near Shivajinagar, and order one idli, but the sambar was unlimited, so I would keep asking for more sambar to fill my stomach.

“Every single day, I saved money. Within a few years, I had enough to start my own business. And now,” he waved his scissors around with a blend of humble pride, “I have two of these parlours in prime locations.”

“And you still do haircuts, despite being quite well off?”

“For some customers, yes. This is a relationship business. Would you come back if I asked someone else to cut your hair?” he smiled cannily at me in the mirror.

“What about vacations?” I asked. “Do you take time off?”

“In the past 40 years, I have taken two holidays, of four days each.”

“That’s it!” I exclaimed.

“Well, I also take a two-day break every year with my staff. We go to some nice hill station, such as Ooty. We sightsee, eat well, enjoy ourselves. And then, back to work the next morning.”

“What about your family? Are they OK with this lifestyle?”

“I have a daughter and a son. My son takes care of the other shop. Daughter was married five years back, big choultry. I spent Rs50 lakh on the wedding. Called everyone from the village, gave each woman a silk saree. It felt really good to see the pandal on the stage that day. I thought of my parents. My family is used to my discipline, it is what saved us.”

He was working on the back of my head now, more than halfway done.

“So Narayan, you are clearly a self-made man, got nothing from the government. What do you feel about anti-poverty programmes such as NREGA?”

“It’s a good thing, poor people will benefit”, he said very matter-of-factly.

“But, you didn’t get anything from government, and succeeded with your own effort. Isn’t that the message we need to send to the poor, that they need to take ownership over their own lives, rather than depend on government handouts?”

“Sir, there are two kinds of poor people, those who have the capacity to improve their lives, and those who don’t. For those who don’t, we cannot just leave them to their fate, they need help. And even among those with capacity, luck plays a big role in coming out of poverty. I was lucky. There are many who are not. This second group of people also need help.

“In any event, most people don’t want to have their hands turned up all their lives.”

He had brought the mirror. I checked my haircut and nodded, even as I caught my reflection in Narayan’s hands.