A group of Italian tourists barged into a Delhi restaurant when the kitchen had closed for lunch. They pleaded on bended knees with the manager till they got him to persuade the chief cook to please do something for the desperate visitors. He could give them a pizza as, of course, that’s all he had at this time, the chef said apologetically. I’ve rarely seen an emotional mix of bewilderment and joy as I did that afternoon. The Indian restaurant had pizza but believed it had no food. Put it to cultural chasm.
A flip side to the equation was recounted by Begum Akhtar, a former courtesan who became a celebrated exponent of the ghazal and thumri. In her story, the famished visitor had to engage in a contest of wits with the host for something to eat. She spent an entire night regaling the notorious Nizam of Hyderabad, who was already miffed with her for apparently spending more quality time in the rival court of Rampur.
According to the story, the Nizam would not give her respite from singing in his court till, into the wee hours, he grudgingly permitted a short break. Her voice was cracking; perhaps she needed to moisten her throat, he told Akhtaribai as she was called. What could he do for her, the Nizam added perversely.
The Begum came up with a plan she thought would humiliate the Nizam. “With your permission, my liege, can I request some anannas ka murabba?” the singer wondered, masking her acid gambit with a coy smile. Pineapple slices in syrup were a delicacy of royal courts, but it was an awkward time for that. There was silence in the court. The Nizam summoned his PM.
Soon eight bearers carrying two palanquin-sized jars entered the court. The heavy jars were tied to a thick bamboo stick for the bearers to lift the anannas the Begum thought her host could never produce. It is easy to turn a soireé into a punishment. When President Obama looked at the rain-filled sky to catch a glimpse of an otherwise impressive air show at Monday’s Republic Day parade in New Delhi, I wondered if he was thrilled or disappointed. Would it have crossed his mind that the Russian Sukhoi-30s were highlighted in the two-hour programme sheet as a reward for his anti-Putin remarks the previous day.
I would disagree with Indian analysts who say an American correspondent asked Mr Obama a question on Ukraine, with PM Modi standing by, to invite an anti-Russian comment. American journalists are mostly insular about the world, and India gets a fair share of their aloofness. Remember how Narasimha Rao stood pouting silently (his comfort zone though) by Bill Clinton’s side in Washington, listening to one question after the other about the coming US invasion of Granada? No one cared about India’s economic reforms or the demolition of the Babri Masjid.
In fact, sometimes it must be a blessing for India’s spin doctors that American journalists are happily insular. For when they get curious they can be damaging.
Take Annie Gowen’s story on Prime Minister Modi’s abandoned wife in the Washington Post. I mean apart from NavBharat Times, virtually every other Indian newspaper or TV channel seems to be sworn to the unspoken law of omertà on the subject of Mr Modi’s wife. Only NavBharat Times in Lucknow and the Washington Post correspondent in New Delhi found in it a valid sidebar to the presidential visit, not the least because the narrative of Jashodaben Modi contrasted starkly with the parade’s theme this year of “nari shakti”.
“She’s waiting for him, as she has been all her life,” Gowen wrote. “But when PM Modi dined with Barack and Michelle Obama at a glittering banquet Sunday night, his wife wasn’t by his side.” In the absence of Jashodaben, vice-president Hamid Ansari’s wife, Salma, was seen giving Michelle a long briefing. This brings me to the pizza moment in the annual Indian parade. You can’t impress anyone, much less the leader of the mightiest military power on earth with weapons you have either bought from him or from his rivals by stealing money from your country’s hospitals and schools. The most joyous moment for many like me is not to see a French mirage or a British Jaguar or a Russian Sukhoi zipping past aimlessly trying hard not to break the sound barrier.
What enthralls my friends no end is exactly why anyone goes to the circus, to see human feats of great finesse and magical talent. Every year this day motorcyclists from paramilitary units perform heart-stopping feats. I saw Michelle and Barack Obama gasp, the only time they looked genuinely riveted. Alas the great institution of the circus, particularly those from Thalassery in Kerala, is dying in India.
The cultural show reflected in the floats showcased the Modi government’s fixation with religious identity. Barring a tuneful devotion to the deity of Pandharpur in Maharashtra, which had strains of the late Bhimsen Joshi’s bhavgeet, the cultural window suggested a regressive Talibanised worldview of revivalism. They even buttoned up Wajid Ali Shah’s angarkha, robbing the anti-colonial mascot of Oudh and peerless Kathak guru of his trademark portrait with an exposed left breast.
The writer is Dawn’s correspondent in Delhi
By arrangement with Dawn
