Talking of Independence

It was a summer's day. Scorched, stuffy with that pre-Independence flavour.My father, very much a Gandhi man, had been in the trenches. He h...

It was a summer’s day. Scorched, stuffy with that pre-Independence flavour.My father, very much a Gandhi man, had been in the trenches. He had taken to khadi, then to the country, then, dangerously, to non-violence. Of course, one day they had to beat him up. And I saw it. For thirty years, living in penury, not going to the public schools, not having the rich food, not having the paisa to take a rickshaw, not learning manners, not having the luxury of being non-violent, seeing only the rule of the brute; for thirty years I tried to run away from the memory.

And when the great dawn of 1947 arrived (it not only arrived, Anglophile Nehru had to tell us it had arrived), I had a destiny to fashion. Gandhiji had told me what it was. His life was a stirring example, which even at that tender age I was vaguely able to sense, of the pitfalls of turning the other cheek. It’s disturbing when a man does that. I had to get the police to fire at some non-violent demonstrators recently simply because theywere having a great time with their silent protest — pandering to the middle class bystander’s morality and getting his silent approval. Because that is how the ruled protest — silently. Our protest is the Lok Sabha.

My protest is my life, an unceasing demand for power. Power against the belly, the need to labour, the people and the morality that denies desire, and finally against those whom hunger or knowledge can prick to revolution. For anybody who is hungry or has his head too full of words and dreams plots his own destruction and even the State’s. He wants to liberate everybody, never realising the militancy inherent in freedom. This anarchist thinks: we will all sit down, elect a leader, give him the freedom to serve us and then live happily ever after. If people were so good we could jettison our armies.

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He does not know that the State is best run by those who can fight, scratch out the misdirected spirit of humanity from those who thwart our great nation — the rights groups, the internationalbodies (of the powerful, need it be said), the let’s-bachao-activists, our very own.

My father, sadly not a very original man, fell into believing the myth that love is power; that giving some itsy-bitsy rights leads to happiness; that men do not hate and thus there is something called brotherhood and sisterhood which is greater than the sum of our self-serving interests. Many think like him.

The anarchist goes for a picnic to the Wagah border. He sees two countries dressed alike, smiling alike, sees the change of guard and yes, even while thinking we do it better, looks at the separating line and wonders alike. Then he comes back, blissful with peace and would have the world blessed with peace as well!

Next, he makes his views known. He picks up his pen and lets loose an avalanche of words that climax boringly every time in one shout: They are crooks. But, does he do away with us?

He sits at home and waits for the elections.

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Not for him anger. He was born in homes which instruct children tosip water if emotions are high, to read text books, get employed and hold on to their salaries. How can the will to vanquish be nourished on such a meal? How can triumph be born? No wonder it is only a negligible number who get angry at us; others blame the system. Which is another reason why I had to get those demonstrators beaten. Spineless sober mice transform into lions when drunk. A show of power instills fear. Failing which you can buy off the temporarily courageous. Or put up the caste man, the religion-spouting fool who can be communal or secular, get to the Lok Sabha and rule. That’s when I get Independent. And I do it for my father in heaven. Vote for me.