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This is an archive article published on January 16, 1999

Honest path to corruption

My son was just beginning to discover that no university course was right for him. The bourgeois medical and engineering faculties had sn...

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My son was just beginning to discover that no university course was right for him. The bourgeois medical and engineering faculties had snubbed him by refusing to even accept his application. And not even the colleges with scam-level capitation fees, non-existent facilities and reputations worse than the chairmen of plantation companies would stoop to consider him.

This was, of course, because of my son’s marks. Or lack of them. He had told me before the exam that he was aiming at the minimum passing marks in each subject. He got one mark extra in English, two in chemistry and three in mathematics. He was incensed. He wanted to go in for revaluation. But he hastily dropped the idea when knowledgeable people in the field told him that revaluation could increase his marks up to cent per cent. Or more. Even if he had not attempted all the questions.

My son had flatly rejected the idea of education by degrees in science, arts and commerce disciplines. Or indisciplines. His explanation was: It is meant for thatspecial category — the jobless.

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Having learnt more from him while bringing him up over 17 years than in all my 45 years, I was far from perturbed. I knew he would zero in on something good, meaning practically effective, pretty fast. His triumphant expression on returning home at 6 pm instead of his usual 11 pm one day gave him away. “Son,” I said, “You have stumbled upon the course of your life?”

“It’s new, it’s creative, it’s bold, it’s different,” he sang. He cavorted around the hall with karate hops, flayed the air with chops, blocks and kicks, and filled it with wild screams. “It’s innovative. It makes you wise. It stalks success for you,” he crooned as he glided along the floor.

I wasn’t too sure about the combination of wisdom and success. But I said: “Oh dear, don’t you tease my adrenaline glands. Shoot, right away.”

“The name of the game is Gymnastics in Principles,” he announced dramatically, taking a bow. I was stumped. “And what can that be,” I wondered aloud.

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“Briefly,the basic concept is this. The set of facts is identical. And so is the analytical line. But you can draw two diametrically opposite conclusions with equal felicity. To suit your station, the opportunity, the situation,” he explained. “I get it,” I said, without, of course, having understood even a byte.

So my son began to expound on the finer intricacies. “Let me give you some examples. The guilty, even if guilty, is not guilty until the Supreme Court rules so. So our best legal acumen and the maze called the Constitution should be exploited to confuse the learned judges. Corruption, all will concede, is bad. But it is the only fuel that can make the state machinery move. So it should be a legalised perk, like the D.A. An election won is anelection fair and an electorate wise. An election lost is rigged and the electorate misguided. Unity in diversity. So you gotta to live by other people’s whims. And money. Integrity in personal life is great. In business, trade and public life, it means doom.

“Theanalysis will have the strength of reason, the balance of a perspective and the leap of imagination. And the statement will have the supple lissomeness of a symphony, the spectacularly thrilling zing of a double-somersault and the finality of a graceful landing,” he concluded on the triumphant note of a gymnastics commentator.

“And where does that leave you,” I asked. “Right in the middle of economy. The corporate world. Globalisation. Indigenisation of MNCs, media, public relations, diplomacy, arts, literature, TV, cinema…”

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“Not in politics,” I asked. “No,” replied my son. “It’s already bursting a the seams with self-taught past-masters in this art. Most of our faculty members are coming from there,” said my son.

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