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3 Aug: Bengaluru Meet-Up

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I’m happy to announce that we’ve finally been able to organize a book tour event in Bengaluru.

Date: Sunday 3 Aug.

Time: 11:00 am onwards

Venue: B M Sri Kala Bhavana, N.R.Colony (map).

Agenda: Diversity, the idea of India, and coffee!

Please confirm your attendance by clicking here. I’d love to meet you — Kiran.

On distance, caste, and language

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Distance is a fundamental and natural regulator of social relations, for men and women all over the world tend to interact with people who are close-by. This is for two commonsensical reasons: first, distance requires the additional hassle of transport and communication, which may or may not be available or affordable; second, proximity creates the feeling of kindred which is both necessary for, and is facilitated by, social interactions.

Language is a fundamental and natural tool for and outcome of social interactions, and distance, therefore, has a fundamental impact on it: the speakers of any given language tend to cluster geographically, and it is possible to draw very accurate geographical boundaries between any two linguistic peoples and earmark well-defined linguistic areas. To put it in another way, people who live together and who are isolated from other people either geographically or otherwise, develop their own language. For all practical purposes, language is equivalent to distance in regulating social interactions. Marriage is a fundamental and natural social institution, and distance has a fundamental impact on it, too: marriages also tend to form geographical clusters, as men and women tend to choose their spouses from nearby. But most marriages happen within the same linguistic area, because communication and cooperation, which are facilitated by a common language, are essential ingredients of successful marriages.

Therefore, matrimonial and linguistic clusters have significant overlaps worldwide. Even with the coming of modern means of transport and electronic communication, the importance of distance as a regulator of social relations has not reduced by any significant degree. Fast cars, ships, airplanes, mobile telephony and the internet have had negligible impact on the geographical clustering of languages and marriages. On the contrary, the existing geographical clustering of languages and marriages has had a significant impact on the patterns of social relations that have emerged on these new technological platforms.

In the Indian subcontinent, caste is an additional regulator of social relations. But it is neither a fundamental nor a natural regulator in the sense that distance and language are; it is an artificial one which has come to be due to the mishandling of racial diversity. Caste, however, impacts both marriage and language. That caste impacts marital relations—even appears to be its fundamental purpose—is a well known fact. But it is perhaps less known that caste also impacts language, creating different caste-based dialects and usage patterns within the same language.

Despite these impacts, caste as a regulator of social relations is weaker than distance, and one must concede that it is therefore not as fundamental a regulator as distance. The artificial regulations imposed by the caste-system on marriage and language fail to supersede the fundamental regulations imposed on them by distance: we find the people of almost all castes finding their spouses within tens of kilometers and living within well-defined linguistic areas. That is, it is very rare to find people crossing the barrier of distance to marry within the caste. Therefore, by and large, both languages and marriages are primarily distance-limited, and only secondarily caste-limited. I say ‘by and large’ because languages like English and marriages of the higher castes such as the brahmanas tend to go beyond geographical limits, but these are trivial exceptions from a percentage occurrence perspective.

Caste as a regulator of social relations is weaker than language, too, and therefore less fundamental than it. Different castes, because of their geographical co-location, have no choice but to communicate with each other, albeit while maintaining the social restrictions imposed by the caste-system. This communication cannot happen without a common language, even though there may be dialect and usage differences due to the isolation between castes. Essentially, therefore, castes are contained within well-defined linguistic areas. Once again, it is only the numerically trivial upper castes that provide an exception to this rule.

(Excerpted from The Pyramid of Corruption)

Perry Anderson’s ‘Indian Ideology’ – a review

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‘Who is Perry Anderson?’ I asked my good friend who told me about a book written by the man. He replied that the author is a famous historian and that this particular book is a ‘good critique of the popular idea of India’. Since the book in question was titled Indian Ideology, I decided to take a look. A quick online search led me to the three essays that make up Anderson’s book. Such is their power that I found it impossible to put them down. For two days, without a break, I got drenched in completely new insights into the minds of the so-called makers of modern India.

I think it wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that I haven’t read anything as stormy, revealing, concise and loaded with information about India as these three essays. Every line is a Axe – as Kafka would’ve put it – for the frozen sea within the Indian mind, an expression I don’t usually approve of in a nation so diverse.

His brutal criticism of highly respected Indian leaders, complete with who was in whose bed, is overconfident at times but never without irony. For those who don’t expect the icons of Indian nationalism to be perfect diamonds to begin with, or understand that perfect diamonds don’t necessarily lead to immaculate politics, Anderson’s revelations are reconfirming details. For the multitudes who do, however, they’re fatal blows that turn the diamonds to dust. That is, if they can manage to rise above Indian indoctrination which includes, first of all, the teaching that they should stay away from foreigners’ accounts of Mera Bharat Mahaan. But Anderson’s insights are not not limited to these individuals; they extend to the overall system in which they operated. He must be read. Very, very, carefully.


Should M.K.Gandhi the individual be blamed for the creation of a separate Muslim state because of his Hindu revivalist agenda? It is one thing to point the finger at him for what happened but quite another to understand why it happened and whether anyone needs to be blamed at all. It isn’t as if someone other than Gandhi could have made a better choice than to let the Muslims fight under a separate banner. The Muslims had to organize and unite against the Raj, and the quickest and the most effective way of doing so was under their own banner. Ditto for the Hindus. Before blaming Gandhi for this, one must recognize that the corrupting influence of the British forced Indians to politically organize themselves as quickly as possible, under whichever banners seemed expedient at the time. Surely, one cannot blame him or the Congress for decentralizing the ‘legitimacy in the struggle for independence’ at least inasmuch as religion was concerned, especially given that the Muslim regions were large contiguous pieces of land in both the west and the east.

It is all nice to argue from the comfort of a university nearly a century afterwards that India deserved leaders who, and a freedom movement which, discarded religion while organizing against the British. But it’s not a requirement for freedom struggles. Again, it’s one thing to sit and analyze India’s freedom struggle from a different continent and another to face the heat of colonial oppression and do whatever it takes to build up opposition. Are there examples in the world of hundreds of millions organizing themselves for any reason, let alone that of achieving freedom from a colonial power, without employing religion? For those who have learnt to criticize religion every time and everywhere, it may appear incorrect for people to use it to organize, but incorrect it does not become for that reason. Indeed, why call partition ‘the calamity of… division’ unless one is obliged to follow the motto ‘what Empire has joined, let no man put asunder’? The idea of India as one political unit being ‘a European not a local invention,’ as Anderson acknowledges, why shed a tear at the inability of the Congress to keep the entire Empire under one postcolonial unit?

The manner in which the partition was achieved, however, deserves Anderson’s criticism well. The ‘political cupidity’ and the ‘territorial greed’ of the Congress are certainly not virtues, and partition could have been achieved, perhaps, in a more thought out manner, with cross-border migrations spread over a longer period of time and the mass violence avoided with utmost care. The ‘deep culture of the subcontinent’ cannot, indeed, be said to have foreordained the manner of the partition. But that foreordaining was done by the Indian imprint of the deep culture of cupidity, greed, and violence of the British and passed on to the Congress in a country that had confined itself largely to spirituality on the one hand and the relative nonviolence of the caste-system on the other.


Anderson’s analysis of the caste-system and its effect on the freedom struggle and independent India is excellent but incomplete. In a couple of superb paragraphs, he argues that the caste-system is the reason why India’s poor outvote the rich even though they receive little more than confetti in return. While the rich have a greater capacity for collective action due to their smaller numbers, greater resources and intelligence, says Anderson with Gandhi’s Congress in mind, the poor are ‘organizationally outflanked’ by them not only due to their greater number, dispersed population, and poverty both economic and cultural, but more importantly due to the caste-system. Anderson goes on to declare, quite boldly, that caste is the ‘ultimate secret of Indian democracy’ and also the reason for Congress supremacy during the freedom struggle and after. This is because, he reasons, the caste-system has forever fixed in hierarchical position and divided from one another every disadvantaged group and legitimated every misery in this life as a penalty for moral transgression in a previous incarnation. This analysis is perfect inasmuch as the context is limited, as he rightly limits it, to the boundaries of any given linguistic community. It is in crossing the boundaries that it falters.

India is not ‘divided into some thirty major linguistic groups’ (italics added). It is defined by them. To think of India’s poor – he’s not talking about the rich here – as divided by language is to imagine them to be originally undivided by it. Who said this is true? Even when Karl Marx called out to the (poor) workers of the world to unite, it must have been clear to him that they aren’t united in the first place. Nor did they, can they, or need they, unite so as to erase all linguistic diversity in order to counterbalance the rich who do. This applies to the limited context of India, too, and it is a mistake to believe that collective action by the poor of India must necessarily happen at the all-India level crossing all linguistic borders. Everything which unites the poor must be factored in, not discarded, if at all the poor have to unite. If this means a plurality of unions of the poor, one per major language, it is realistic; not a global or India-wide solidarity of ‘the proletariat’. Here again does Anderson’s analysis fall prey to ‘what Empire has joined, let no man put asunder.’

Anderson’s analysis falls short in another place where he confronts language. While he correctly lauds the Indian nation for creating linguistic states, he fails to extend his understanding of Hindu society to linguistics. The languages of India aren’t equally poor. As I point out in my book, The Pyramid of Corruption, they aren’t independent of the stratification we see in Hindu society, viz., the caste-system. They, too, are arranged in the form of a Pyramid with the language of the Gods, Sanskrit, at the apex, and every other below it at a distance proportional to its poverty of Sanskrit influence. This Pyramid lends stability to the Indian nation in no small degree today because, just like castes languages, too, are fixed in hierarchical position and made to curse themselves for not being pure enough. This self-deprecation ensures stability via Aryan domination, not merely ‘the luck of the cultural draw’ because of which Hindi, with ‘some 40 per cent of the population, had just the right weight to act as a ballast in the political system, without risk of too provocatively lording over it.’ In fact, the ballast is not the Hindi that Anderson imagines but Sanskritized Khariboli, a.k.a. Standard Hindi, of which the speakers are far fewer. Also, just as the plural poor are ‘organizationally outflanked’ by the singular rich, the plural linguistic communities of India are, too: by the most Sanskritized within each community, invariably litterateurs and members of the upper castes, the culturally ‘rich’ who easily combine and maintain the stability of the Pyramid.


Linguistic reorganization of states appears as ‘a real achievement’ to Perry Anderson, and rightly so. However, a true votary for federalism in India wouldn’t be persuaded to describe India as ‘a creative flexible federation, in which state governments… enjoy a considerable degree of autonomy’. Sure, Anderson adds the qualifier ‘as long as they did not offer opportunities for intervention by internal disputes or cross too boldly the political will of the centre,’ but that doesn’t do justice to the imbalance of powers between the centre and the states. The political will of the centre includes the will to keep the states without any real autonomy, as evident from the state, central, and concurrent ‘lists’ which separate powers. Anything that can be called a real power continues to remain with the centre and the states are really no more than glorified municipalities. In Pyramid rule, this illusory separation of powers suffices to keep the political class loyal to the system.

One must never forget that India’s central government is essentially an Aryan government with non-Aryan add-ons. The centralization of power in New Delhi is not merely numerical; it is markedly cultural. It would be incorrect, therefore, to compare federalism in India and the US. Not that Anderson explicitly does this, but Western writers cannot, in general, be expected to get a hang of how diverse India really is; they don’t have the first hand experience. Marxist writers in particular have a tendency to support strong governments. Indians need to be extra careful about this tendency because the most important question in India is not who should be stronger, government or business. It is who should be in either government or business: we or they. As things stand, for most of India, it’s they who are in power in New Delhi, not we. And the stronger you make them, the less democratic India becomes. Anderson does not get into these important issues.

He does not have anything to say, for e.g., about national population control schemes which, in effect, threaten to depopulate South India and continue the age-old southward migration of the Aryans. This gets so easily mixed up in the popular rhetoric of development and Indianness that diversity takes a dive; Anderson does not bring this up. Or, take Anderson’s criticism of India’s electoral system. Anderson makes a big deal of the First Past The Post system, but the real problem – the one that touches upon linguistic diversity – is rep-by-pop (representation by population). This system of representation basically ensures that linguistic communities with lower populations are less represented in the Government of India than those with higher ones. This is not a problem in a country such as the US which is a graveyard of languages, or a country such as Germany or France, where there aren’t really any significant linguistic communities that are different from the mainstream. But it is a huge problem in India. It is essentially the institutionalization of Aryan domination over non-Aryans: with 74% seats in Parliament reserved for the Aryans, the non-Aryans are simply afterthoughts who might as well not send any representatives there. The ones they do send essentially bring Aryan rule closer to the non-Aryans.

Last but not least, Hindi Imposition would have done well to form a part of Anderson’s essays. One of the features of Pyramid rule, this is the open and legal call for the speakers of every language other than Hindi to submit to second-class citizen status in India, and it hasn’t reduced after the linguistic reorganization of states. In fact, the states now don’t need to be purely created on the basis of language. The recent bifurcation of Andhra Pradesh is a case in point: the centre now finds it much easier to continue Pyramid rule, complete with Hindi imposition, with the Telugus fighting with each other over ‘confetti’ thrown at them by New Delhi — all together with the claim that India is becoming increasingly federal.


Overall, I’d give four out of five stars to Indian Ideology. It’s a true masterpiece. One word of caution, perhaps, is that Indian readers must carefully ensure that Anderson’s wit and eloquence don’t unfairly influence their reading. We’re no strangers to such influence; one shloka in Sanskrit routinely does to us what Anderson’s English prose might.

Links to Perry Anderson’s essays: [1], [2], [3]

Why corruption?

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By the time I completed writing The Pyramid of Corruption, the Jan Lokpal protests led by Anna Hazare had nearly come to a halt and the UPA government had begun to take the matter seriously. There were claims that the protesters had ‘won’. The so-called Aam Aadmi Party, whose stated objective is to eliminate corruption in India, had not yet been formed.

Fast-forwarding to today, Anna Hazare is out of the game and the public hysteria over the Lokpal Bill is gone; and a subset of the protesters have formed the Aam Aadmi Party. The latest news is that this party has already managed to get into its own alleged corruption scandal. One can hear arguments that this new ‘party with a difference’ is no different, after all.

Of course it’s too early to say whether or not the corruption charges on AAP are genuine. Even if they are, since there are much bigger and dirtier fish in the game, the new tiny fish in the pond is certainly one of the cleaner ones. Since AAP has carved out a niche for itself by opposing the corruption in parties such as the Congress and the BJP, it may be reasonable to expect, perhaps, that it will fare better, if not a lot better, at what is known as being clean.

But the problem with this whole approach to ‘cleanliness’ in politics is it recognizes only what can be described as operational corruption. This is the corruption in the functioning of existing systems of politics and economics, not in their definition or construction. Put differently, this approach assumes that the nation by itself is infinitely incorruptible; that everything that has transpired in the process of its establishment is free from corruption, even divine; and that the only thing wrong with the nation is the character of the people running it today.

But this is far from true. As I show in the book, the very foundation of the Indian nation is steeped in corruption which fits the popular definition of the term, ‘abuse of public power for private gain’. This can be called the nation’s primitive corruption, to distinguish it from operational corruption.

The Aam Aadmi Party, whose motto is to ‘clean up the system’, cannot be said to have an all-India ideology or philosophy of its own. All it proposes to do is bring execution excellence to, or remove the painful friction from the working of, the Indian nation. AAP’s declared focus, therefore, is not on where India should be going but how to take it there effectively and efficiently!

India’s primitive corruption has ‘contributions’ from people from the very first pages of India’s history, the British, as well as the original Indian National Congress which, of course, played a crucial role in the independence movement. This primitive corruption is not even recognized by AAP or other parties, or in fact, anybody currently seeking to ‘clean up’ India.

Cleaning up, as understood today, can at best result in the creation of one hundred percent clean Congresses, BJPs and public offices of all descriptions. Contrary to popular belief, this would be a disaster because, then, there would be no impediments thwarting the career of the primitive corruption embedded in the foundation of the nation – one that threatens to consume hundreds of millions of people, all amidst the vulgar songs of patriotism.

Colonialism and the Question of Medium of Instruction

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In 2009, I had written a review of Prof. James Tooley‘s book The Beautiful Tree on my English blog, Karnatique. My basic critique of the book was, and is, that Tooley is so focused on looking at education as a market, and private as God, that he fails to see that his favorite low-cost private schools openly defy the principle that mother-tongue based education is the best scientific choice for children. Let me make a few comments on the topic here, since an interaction with the author on Twitter earlier this week has provided me new insights that I think are worth sharing.

Tooley thinks the market is making an independent decision in choosing English as the medium of instruction in India. But he seems not to see that it is basically an effect of colonization – a word I haven’t seen him use. World over, the low-cost private schools he visits are run in the language of the colonial power, current or past. He hardly advertises this fact but makes a big deal of the privateness of the said schools. Because he sees no coercion in the ‘market transaction’ of admitting children to these schools, he claims, everything is in order. But many things are not in order, and the open neglect of the mother-tongue is foremost among them.

When I began the Twitter discussion on language with him, Tooley asked me whether I tweet in my mother tongue. I told him I do, and also the other things I do related to Kannada. But what I want to dissect here is the nature of Tooley’s argument. He seems to want to prove, if possible, that I myself don’t respect my mother tongue, and claim that, therefore, I had better give up this line of argument. It’s not disrespect for my own language, if it exists, that he is interested in criticizing, but a possible hypocrisy or inconsistency in my argument.

Indians have not yet come out of their colonial experience. In fact, places like Bengaluru are facing their second colonization, this time from what calls itself as India. Due to the reckless fetish of including diverse peoples under one administration, the British could not give patronage to education in Indian languages. T.B. Macaulay has stated this very clearly in his arguments for English as the medium of instruction in the education system he helped erect. The independent Indian nation, which continued that colonial fetish, also treats Indian languages as necessary evils, not more, and this is most visible in large cities like Bengaluru. Now, if Indians use English and dump their mother tongues, it does not illustrate a free choice made in the Utopia of pure liberty but the effect of these historical assaults on liberty.

I must admit that I am fortunate not to appear hypocritical in this whole argument. My family, especially my wife, has stood by me in my decision to continue my non-paying Kannada work and in my decision to get my son admitted to a Kannada medium school by choice. Unfortunately, I see that every educated Indian cannot claim to be this fortunate. But that does not take away the merit of the argument that mother-tongue education is best for children. Circumstances force them to send their children to English medium schools; it would be folly to think pure liberty is at play here, as Tooley seems to think. It is a case of pure coercion, with the subtle detail that the coercion has occurred in the past.

Tooley is not worried about any of this. His view is rather myopic, unfortunately, and the basic line of his argument is that the choice of language of instruction is an inexplicable market phenomenon that we had better respect. His first response to my question regarding the medium of instruction betrays the feeling that any inconsistency between the walk and the talk of the questioner, with regard to language use, can be used to defeat him in the argument. But even such an inconsistency, where present, is itself a result of colonization. Colonization makes the colonized individual a mess of inconsistencies and contradictions. It is a similar inconsistency that led Mahatma Gandhi to hate the Indian Railways on the one hand but use it to travel all over India on the other. I write in English, and Indians want to send their children to English medium schools, because history coerces us to do so. Those whom I have to call away from English are today immersed in it, and I have no option but to use a thorn to remove this thorn.

In short, by neglecting the medium of instruction and dedicating his book to the privateness of the low-cost schools, Tooley proves to be not so much of an educationist in the first place. His arguments are ethics-free and education-theory agnostic, and threaten to make the world forget, even celebrate, the gory history of colonialism and its adverse impact on education. His are arguments that legitimize the neglect of the world’s linguistic diversity and thereby the true education and liberty of the people of the world, all in the name of a strange thing that has come to be known as liberty in some Western scholarly circles.

But the Indian who is truly concerned about the future of his children, as of India in general, has no option but to recognize the importance of mother-tongue education. He might not be able to send his own children to mother-tongue schools for various reasons today, but that neither diminishes the truth nor relieves him of his duty to tell his children why they are being sent to English medium schools. They’re not being sent because of an inexplicable and sacred market phenomenon, but because of our colonial history.

If children are told this truth, a day will dawn on which we can claim to have fully reversed the effect of that history, a day on which Tooley’s favorite low-cost private schools will fall head over heels to offer education in the mother-tongue (not that he particularly cares). Indian children will not take too long to recognize that the phase of English-medium craze we’re going through is a temporary one which they can stop in their own lifetime, even if they have themselves had to undergo English education.

Only, most of us will have to stop hiding the truth from them or think we’d be hypocritical to use English at work and send children to English medium schools but advocate for mother-tongue education. This is not hypocrisy but one of the many contradictions introduced by colonialism. I see no reason for Indians to feel guilty for using English at work or sending our children to English medium schools. But at the same time, we must not downplay the importance of the mother tongue in education. The apparent contradiction is put in place by our colonial past, not by us. At no cost must we let our thought side with untruth, however much we may be forced to act against our will. It will take time and effort, but the truth will ultimately triumph.

Decoding ‘Unity in Diversity’

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We have heard the mantra too many times in India to have missed it: unity in diversity. The moment it is repeated, the listener and repeater alike are psychologically overpowered by the thought that their duty is done; understanding and implementing it are optional, if not unnecessary.

But what does it really mean? What kind of unity and diversity are meant by it? These are important questions we must answer. The mantra must be decoded.

Really, the word diversity is easy to decode. All sorts of human diversity are included in the word: language, culture, religion, etc., etc. Literally everything one can think of.

The problem lies in the word unity.

Clearly, it cannot mean unity of language, culture, religion, etc., because that would not be unity but uniformity or the destruction of diversity, i.e., cultural invasion. Unfortunately, however, this is the popular understanding of the word; even the one used by the Government of India in projects such as the spread of Hindi, and by pan-India businesses which would like all of India to celebrate Diwali though it means bankruptcy in several languages.

What else can unity mean? I think very few would object to giving it the meaning political unity. That is, except the secessionists who are very few in number if not extinct today, everyone would agree that the word is meant to convey that India is one nation, not many.

But what does that mean? Does it mean every Indian has or ought to have the same political or economic ambition? Surely not. Does it mean India has no internal conflicts? Surely not. Can it mean Indians present a single voice in the comity of nations, that Indians are united in their stand on global matters? Unfortunately, even this cannot be the meaning because diversity implies diversity of voice, of stand, on all matters, including global ones.

The word unity can mean one and only one thing: that we try to achieve uniformity in internal and external politics and economics to the best of our abilities, making inevitable mistakes on the way, and making up for them as and when possible. To minimize the mistakes all-India projects, both political and economic, have to be, first of all, very few in number. Nearly all the projects must be undertaken at the state level and lower, leaving only defense and external affairs to the centre.

Today, the Govt of India as well as pan-India businesses are not only obese to the point of disease, but are also growing further in size and strength. Cleaning up after them is being termed unpatriotic, and it is only helpful, to those who are advantaged by them, that you and I only repeat the mantra without understanding any of this.

But obesity will kill us all.

Did the founding fathers create a perfect democracy?

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If you’ve read Ramachandra Guha’s India after Gandhi, you’ve probably also read the author’s epilogue in it. Although it is titled ‘Why India Survives’, what Guha writes there is why he thinks the Indian nation survives, not India the country. In reality, the question ‘Why India Survives’ is as unnecessary as the question ‘Why Clay Survives’. There is no special enquiry required because survive India does as long as parts of its landmass do not plunge into the ocean and settle at its floor, or something. The proper question is ‘Why the Indian Nation Survives’, i.e., ‘Why the Clay Sculpture Survives’.

Relying on what he calls the ‘primitive techniques of the narrative historian’[i], Guha suggests that the reason why the Indian nation survives (why India survives, as he puts it) is that the ‘forces that divide India’ viz., caste, language, religion and class and gender are nullified by the great power of democracy and something ‘which can only be described as an Indian spirit’[ii]. Yes, a magical, surreal and inexplicable spirit of a kind—to use Gandhi’s words—‘unknown in other parts of the world’. Crediting the founding fathers with planting a ‘sapling of democracy’, Guha writes:

It is in the nature of democracies, perhaps, that while visionaries are sometimes necessary to make them, once made they can be managed by mediocrities. In India, the sapling was planted by the nation’s founders, who lived long enough (and worked hard enough) to nurture it into adulthood. Those who came afterwards could disturb and degrade the tree of democracy but, try as they might, could not uproot or destroy it.[iii]

Thus, whatever problems one sees in India today, due to which, presumably, Guha himself says that India is a ‘phipty-phipty’ (or fifty-percent) democracy today[iv], are the handiwork of ‘those who came afterwards’. Perhaps unintentionally, Guha makes it seem as if the nation’s founders themselves (the British were the original founders of the Indian nation, but I mean the Indians who founded the independent Indian nation here) have nothing to do with those problems; they apparently had the special ability to turn off one hundred percent the negative influences of ages of societal corruption in India’s history, and possessed the uncanny ability to create a democratic nation with one hundred percent perfection and effectiveness. Democracy, a concept of public affairs ‘brought into being on an Athenian hillside some 2,500 years ago’[v], was Indianized by the founders with no errors whatsoever, and a perfect sapling was planted. While the founders were apparently infinitely above ‘mediocrities’, it’s only ‘those who came afterwards’ who disturbed and degraded the tree of democracy.

This view of the creation of the Indian nation betrays the fact that rational evaluation of the process leading to the founding of nations often stops the moment the figures of the leaders are cast in bronze and garlanded. This also betrays the seemingly uncontrollable urge to think of nations as divine and infinitely incorruptible in spite of all moral evidence to the contrary. Perhaps there is something about history which makes it appear divine, even to historians. They often make us feel that the problems of the present are entirely of recent origin, the past being golden. But is it not obvious that the past was the present one day, and therefore, that it could not have been without its ‘mediocrities’?

Unless we throw away all the societal corruption that our forefathers had perpetrated in India’s long history of ‘socialized tyranny’ (to use Rabindranath Tagore’s description of the caste-system)[vi] into the surreal mist of blind nationalism; unless we believe in angels with mysterious powers who materialize out of nowhere and create ideal democracies irrespective of the social history of the people; or both; an important truth emerges as we carefully read India’s history. Upon rational scrutiny, one realizes that while the founders of the post-independence Indian nation were certainly visionaries who did their best to relieve Indians from the oppression of the British, they made mistakes in the process. They did not emerge out of thin air or remain all their lives completely uninfluenced by those who had come before them. They too were ‘those who came afterwards’. The feeling that most historians spread, that there could have been nothing amiss in the ‘sapling of democracy’ planted by the founders of the Indian nation is, therefore, to be discarded.

The very fact that an oversized and overly-strong central government was created, by usurping the powers of the people and the hundreds of princes and depositing them in New Delhi, is sufficient proof that a perfect democracy was not put in place by the founders. Guha narrates many of the happenings of this period in a detailed chapter titled ‘Apples in the Basket’, but fails to admit that the basket was actually taken away from the people and presented for consumption in New Delhi. Fruits of the people which were grown for the people and which were being enjoyed by the people of India were all basketed and taken away from the people, but Guha does not feel the need to point this out. No, this was the unique Indian method of creating a democracy!

Even today the tendency in India is to centralize anything and everything possible by taking away powers from the people and the states. Indian democracy rests on the principle of absolute power which must sit thousands of kilometers away from the citizen. Political and economic power are not in the hands of the people but concentrated in the hands of those who have assumed lordship over them, just like in the days of the British. Guha describes this as the functioning of a vibrant and well-behaved democracy with all its twists and turns—a reason ‘Why India Survives’.

Or take the example of India’s currency notes. Anybody who has seen one might have easily overlooked the fact that the denomination is printed in fifteen different Indian languages other than Hindi and the language of the original founders of the Indian nation, viz., English. Those fifteen languages have to be literally located on the notes using a magnifying lens. When one ultimately finds them, one realizes that they are not meant for being read by humans. The small font-size used for those languages betrays the ‘importance’ allocated them in the Indian nation during its foundation. Even a dead language – Sanskrit – is given the same place and font-size on the Indian currency note as the living languages, and this speaks volumes of the importance that the Indian nation attaches to the living languages of India (other than Hindi) and their hundreds of millions of living speakers. However, on this topic, Guha happily declares that

The note’s denomination – 5, 10, 50, 100, etc. – is printed in words in Hindi and English (the two official languages), but also, in smaller type, in all the other languages of the Union. In this manner, as many as seventeen different scripts are represented. With each language, and each script, comes a distinct culture and regional ethos, here nesting more or less comfortably with the idea of India as a whole.[vii]

Guha fails to attach even the slightest importance to the fact that the ‘other languages’ are basically neglected by giving them only a ‘smaller type’. This is no trivial fact, but one that illustrates the undemocratic nature of the Indian nation where the languages of India are not treated equally, and where Hindi and English are given larger-than-life statuses. This is the silent rejection of that very idea of democracy on whose basis Guha claims that the Indian nation survives, but he calls this as the nesting of each language, script, culture and regional ethos ‘more or less comfortably with the idea of India as a whole’.

Guha’s failure to recognize such silent rejections of the principle of democracy in the Indian nation, while mechanically listing the raw historical data, is discomforting. Although not in degree, it can be compared in kind to the failure of the Harvard historian Samuel Eliot Morison to appoint more than one sentence, ‘buried halfway into the telling of a grand romance’, to recount the genocide initiated by Columbus in America. Howard Zinn, author of A People’s History of the United States, describes this method of telling history in the following revealing words:

One can lie outright about the past. Or one can omit facts which might lead to unacceptable conclusions. Morison does neither. He refuses to lie about Columbus. He does not omit the story of mass murder; indeed he describes it with the harshest word one can use: genocide. But he does something else – he mentions the truth quickly and goes on to other things more important to him. Outright lying or quiet omission takes the risk of discovery which, when made, might arouse the reader to rebel against the writer. To state the facts, however, and then to bury them in a mass of other information is to say to the reader with a certain infectious calm: yes, mass murder took place, but it’s not that important – it should weigh very little in our final judgments; it should affect little what we do in the world.[viii]

Like most historians of Indian origin, Guha makes the reader believe that a near-ideal democracy was put in place by the founders of the post-independence Indian nation. The story to tell is one of the difficulties they faced in doing what they did, not one of the faults in the system they built – that would be unpatriotic! I would not go to the extent of saying that Guha lies about the past or deliberately omits facts, because one has to know the truth to do either. Guha, like most educated Indians, seems not to have looked at India’s past from a viewpoint which can reveal the truth of the silent rejection of democratic ideals in it. He, too, ‘mentions the truth quickly’ and gets on with other matters, including trivia. But unlike Morison’s use of the word ‘genocide’, Guha does not suggest, even in passing, that something undesirable took place during the founding of the Indian nation. He goes on to make the reader believe with an ‘infectious calm’ that whatever it is, it is ‘not that important—it should weigh very little on our final judgments; it should affect little what we do in the world.’

I concur with Howard Zinn that, like every other historian, Guha indulges in what is inevitable for a historian: selection and emphasis. My own reading of India’s history, which I present in The Pyramid of Corruption, is not free from them. ‘In that inevitable taking of sides which comes from selection and emphasis in history,’ as Zinn wrote, my reading is admittedly biased. I have chosen to rewrite the history of the Indian nation (which is nothing more than an ‘organisation of politics and commerce’[ix]) from the viewpoint of its victims, not beneficiaries. From the latter viewpoint, the only thing wrong with the Indian nation seems to be the operational corruption of mediocre followers: a bribing bureaucrat here, a money-laundering minister there, and the like. It is only from the former viewpoint that the corruption in the very foundation of the Indian nation, i.e., India’s primitive corruption, becomes visible.

I don’t have an answer to the question why the Indian nation survives. What I do know is that India’s primitive corruption is killing it at its own slow pace. Will we understand exactly what this corruption is and take necessary measures to remove it? This, as far as I can see, is the most important question in front of Indians.


[i] Ramachandra Guha, India after Gandhi: The History of the World’s Largest Democracy, Picador India, 2008, p. xxi.

[ii] Ibid., p. xvii.

[iii] Ibid., pp. 756-757.

[iv] Ibid., p. 749. ‘Phipty phipty’ is the Hindi pronunciation of the English ‘fifty-fifty’, as acknowledged by Guha. The aspirated consonant ‘ph’ is pronounced by the speakers of Indo-Aryan languages of the north including Hindi, but not necessarily by speakers of languages belonging to other language families of India. Aspirated consonants are not pronounced by the speakers of the Dravidian languages of the south, although only Tamil script has eliminated them in writing. In south India, therefore, one hears either hear ‘pipty-pipty’ or ‘fifty-fifty’ without the aspirated first consonant.

[v] Ibid., p. 750, citing Sunil Khilnani.

[vi] Rabindranath Tagore (1941) Crisis in Civilisation, in Mohit K. Ray, ed., The English Writings of Rabindranath Tagore (2007) Vol. 7, New Delhi: Atlantic Publishers, pp. 980-986.

[vii] Ibid., p. 752. Incidentally, Guha is wrong about ‘seventeen different scripts’. The Devanagari script is used for five languages: Hindi, Konkani, Marathi, Nepali, and Sanskrit. The Bengali script is used for Bengali and Assamese. This makes the number of scripts thirteen, not seventeen. If one admits that the Kashmiri script is derived from the Urdu script, the number becomes twelve.

[viii] Howard Zinn, A People’s History of the United States: 1492 – Present, p. 8.

[ix] Rabindranath Tagore (1915) Nationalism in the West, in Mohit K. Ray, ed., The English Writings of Rabindranath Tagore (2007), Vol. 4., New Delhi: Atlantic Publishers, pp. 441-465.