The History of Dreams and Disillusionment
If
one were to measure the Indian era from August 15, 1947 to August 15, 2001
purely through the cold arithmetic of numbers, it would seem difficult to claim
that our independence has been a failure. Agricultural production in this land
has increased fourfold, food grain even more. Industrial output has swelled
nearly fifteen times. In 1950–51, the average Indian earned barely eleven
hundred rupees a year; today that figure stands at three hundred and fifty
American dollars, that is, nearly fourteen to fifteen thousand rupees.
Statisticians further assure us that the average span of life has doubled.
Population has multiplied; alongside, the consciousness of rights within men,
literacy, awareness of health, and the modest comforts of living have all
expanded in parallel stride.
And yet, despite this emphatic endorsement by statistics, many have come to believe that our independence has faltered, even failed. One camp, believers in a market-driven economy, hold Nehru’s socialist but corruption-infested economy responsible. Another camp, committed to socialism, accuse the market economy. But the truth is—neither Nehru nor the Gandhi family ever fully adopted nor executed a genuine market economy. More discerning experts point instead to the nationalization drive: that by smothering markets and enthroning state ownership, economic disparity deepened, the poor gained little, and the promise of freedom turned into a hollow performance. Misguided policies ensured that the number of the poor remained largely unchanged from the days of Independence. Through government corruption and the throttling hand of license-raj, a handful of favored industrialists were fattened; true development was denied.
The socialist model imported from Russia by Nehru hollowed out the country gradually, like a termite gnawing at wood. The condition became such that the state treasury was drained simply to maintain the insolent machinery of governance. On top of that, the lethargy of employees and the militant unionism of an overfed bureaucracy ensured that ordinary people, least of all the poor, derived no benefit. Instead, what emerged was a corrupt, self-serving middle class—an ersatz babu culture, resplendent in entitlement yet devoid of responsibility.
And the statistics we flaunt today—those are, in truth, the fruit of the liberalization pioneered by India’s finest Prime Minister, P. V. Narasimha Rao. If one glances at the data from before his reforms, one can clearly discern how Nehru’s bureaucratic edifice, with its socialist pretensions, had already prepared the soil for corruption to bloom across all levels of society. Around economics clustered its siblings: false secularism, regressive educational policies, and cynical social engineering. That Nehru’s many blunders are responsible for today’s condition of India—this is no longer revelation. Any honest observer of politics knows: Nehruvian economics was built on two pillars—the politics of subsidy and the politics of hypocrisy.
The first—subsidy—is a virus. Yet for politicians, it is indispensable. They need not provide education, health, jobs, electricity, housing, or a secure future. All that is required: keep the poor perpetually poor, and feed them with doles. A promise of rice at two rupees before elections, or a thousand-rupee unemployment allowance. Those who know how to decipher reams of budget reports—deficit and revenue-neutral alike—know what subsidy really is.
And the second pillar—hypocrisy—is that perverse medicine which seeks not to cure the broken body but merely numb its pain. In a land like India, where power itself is treated as sacred, political adversaries sometimes agree—though rarely—only on one thing: how best to preserve their hold on power. Spiritual India witnessed Nehru import from Russia not only socialism but the invisible despotism that hid beneath it. That despotism, masked in idealism, became a family cult and an apparatus of nepotism.
From foreign policy to poverty alleviation, the nation’s policies became a chaos of “108 strategies”—each sage with his own prescription, none with a coherent vision. If one suggests educating the poor, immediately the quarrel begins: whose poor shall be educated first? Some say Muslims, some Hindus, others Dalits. Each party tailors its slogans to its own vote-bank, while the genuine national question languishes.
In Parliament too, the Opposition no longer advises the government with wisdom; instead, it busies itself with harassment and obstruction. The same farce plays out in the States. Public service has been reduced to a scramble for political patronage. Meanwhile, the government, running deficits of crores, tries desperately to soothe the middle class. Any attempt to cut the deficit provokes cries of outrage and fresh waves of vote-bank politics. The game continues endlessly: the ruling party is hounded by the opposition; when the roles reverse, the same tactics are repeated. Government and opposition seem like two warring tribes on opposite poles—“we” and “they.” Both proclaim they serve the nation, but in truth, Indian politics still treads Nehru’s path. Its real aim is not public welfare but family welfare. Like Nehru, today’s rulers mouth lofty ideals while staging gallery shows to dupe the public. And so the years march on. The poor return home on empty stomachs, nourished only by slogans; political families enrich themselves in crores.
The first to attempt a breach in this order was a man outside the dynastic mold: P. V. Narasimha Rao. He sought to wipe out deficits, and in doing so faced opposition from both Left and Right. Later, when the Third Front under the Left came to power, the same policy was attempted, and this time the Right and Centre rose in resistance. Finally, when the Right themselves came to power and walked Rao’s path, the Left and Centre again screamed betrayal. Thus the wheel turned: power-hungry parties circled endlessly, each condemning what yesterday they defended. Chakravyuha parivartante sukham duhkham—in the labyrinth of power, joy and sorrow merely exchange seats.
Think of privatization. For decades, every government sought to advance it, and every opposition force, regardless of ideology, opposed it with the same ferocity. Half a century after Independence, still no national consensus on the central issues of our life—while an army of unemployed youth swells, while health, education, and industry starve, while beyond the pampered middle class the vast poor remain unheard. Integrity in politics is absent. Instead, we are trapped in endless proxy wars: Ram versus Rahim, Dalit versus Brahmin, tycoon versus farmer.
The middle class, meanwhile, has been showered with comforts. Subsidized cooking gas, controlled prices, consumer goods, concessions for government employees. Yet 80 percent of India’s people toil in the unorganized sector, denied any such security. Farmers perish without fair prices; peasants walk barefoot across rivers for want of bridges, draw muddy water for want of pipes, relieve themselves in open fields for want of latrines. And in Kolkata, crores are spent to raise over-bridges upon over-bridges. How long shall the rulers flaunt per capita income to delude us? All know: the world’s average wealth, spread across billions, yields cosmic figures; but 80 percent of the world’s resources are caged in the hands of a mere ten percent. India mirrors this grotesque imbalance: middle-class pampering, poor-man’s exploitation. Nehru’s legacy.
Thus the poor grow poorer still. Their few rupees for rice and lentils are siphoned away into the bank balances of the middle class, who buy color TVs, refrigerators, computers, attend Hrithik Roshan nights and fashion shows. Each year the budget reduces duties on such luxuries, while cooking gas or bus fares rising provoke massive middle-class protests—ripe occasions for opposition parties to strike, while mouthing slogans of “Garibi Hatao, Desh Bachao.”
Fifty-four years after Independence, one wonders: our greatest “achievement” has been the rise of this powerful middle class, with political leaders vying like hounds to guard and flatter them. At no point has India ever adopted a transparent mechanism for fair distribution of wealth among social classes. And there is no certainty it ever will.
Yet since a market had to be created—one with “qualified buyers”—a process has unfolded whereby some are pressed into destitution so that others may be raised into the middle class. The dry faces hidden beneath statistics remain invisible to this free nation. We shall eventually corner them, declare them redundant, perhaps even pronounce them dead. In Tagore’s words, we are absorbed with the lamp’s light above, while caring not for the darkness below. That wretched multitude, neglected and despised, will one day rebel against this system. For they have never tasted true freedom. And there lies the terror of our future. Shall there be another war of independence in our land?
But we, the middle class, we care not. We are intoxicated by our self-fashioned statistics—in our fool’s paradise. In these numbers there is no count of deaths by hunger. These numbers give prominence only to our own daily discontents. We do not regard the bondage of the underclass as our shame. Thus our freedom remains—a selfish and loathsome thing.
And yet, despite this emphatic endorsement by statistics, many have come to believe that our independence has faltered, even failed. One camp, believers in a market-driven economy, hold Nehru’s socialist but corruption-infested economy responsible. Another camp, committed to socialism, accuse the market economy. But the truth is—neither Nehru nor the Gandhi family ever fully adopted nor executed a genuine market economy. More discerning experts point instead to the nationalization drive: that by smothering markets and enthroning state ownership, economic disparity deepened, the poor gained little, and the promise of freedom turned into a hollow performance. Misguided policies ensured that the number of the poor remained largely unchanged from the days of Independence. Through government corruption and the throttling hand of license-raj, a handful of favored industrialists were fattened; true development was denied.
The socialist model imported from Russia by Nehru hollowed out the country gradually, like a termite gnawing at wood. The condition became such that the state treasury was drained simply to maintain the insolent machinery of governance. On top of that, the lethargy of employees and the militant unionism of an overfed bureaucracy ensured that ordinary people, least of all the poor, derived no benefit. Instead, what emerged was a corrupt, self-serving middle class—an ersatz babu culture, resplendent in entitlement yet devoid of responsibility.
And the statistics we flaunt today—those are, in truth, the fruit of the liberalization pioneered by India’s finest Prime Minister, P. V. Narasimha Rao. If one glances at the data from before his reforms, one can clearly discern how Nehru’s bureaucratic edifice, with its socialist pretensions, had already prepared the soil for corruption to bloom across all levels of society. Around economics clustered its siblings: false secularism, regressive educational policies, and cynical social engineering. That Nehru’s many blunders are responsible for today’s condition of India—this is no longer revelation. Any honest observer of politics knows: Nehruvian economics was built on two pillars—the politics of subsidy and the politics of hypocrisy.
The first—subsidy—is a virus. Yet for politicians, it is indispensable. They need not provide education, health, jobs, electricity, housing, or a secure future. All that is required: keep the poor perpetually poor, and feed them with doles. A promise of rice at two rupees before elections, or a thousand-rupee unemployment allowance. Those who know how to decipher reams of budget reports—deficit and revenue-neutral alike—know what subsidy really is.
And the second pillar—hypocrisy—is that perverse medicine which seeks not to cure the broken body but merely numb its pain. In a land like India, where power itself is treated as sacred, political adversaries sometimes agree—though rarely—only on one thing: how best to preserve their hold on power. Spiritual India witnessed Nehru import from Russia not only socialism but the invisible despotism that hid beneath it. That despotism, masked in idealism, became a family cult and an apparatus of nepotism.
From foreign policy to poverty alleviation, the nation’s policies became a chaos of “108 strategies”—each sage with his own prescription, none with a coherent vision. If one suggests educating the poor, immediately the quarrel begins: whose poor shall be educated first? Some say Muslims, some Hindus, others Dalits. Each party tailors its slogans to its own vote-bank, while the genuine national question languishes.
In Parliament too, the Opposition no longer advises the government with wisdom; instead, it busies itself with harassment and obstruction. The same farce plays out in the States. Public service has been reduced to a scramble for political patronage. Meanwhile, the government, running deficits of crores, tries desperately to soothe the middle class. Any attempt to cut the deficit provokes cries of outrage and fresh waves of vote-bank politics. The game continues endlessly: the ruling party is hounded by the opposition; when the roles reverse, the same tactics are repeated. Government and opposition seem like two warring tribes on opposite poles—“we” and “they.” Both proclaim they serve the nation, but in truth, Indian politics still treads Nehru’s path. Its real aim is not public welfare but family welfare. Like Nehru, today’s rulers mouth lofty ideals while staging gallery shows to dupe the public. And so the years march on. The poor return home on empty stomachs, nourished only by slogans; political families enrich themselves in crores.
The first to attempt a breach in this order was a man outside the dynastic mold: P. V. Narasimha Rao. He sought to wipe out deficits, and in doing so faced opposition from both Left and Right. Later, when the Third Front under the Left came to power, the same policy was attempted, and this time the Right and Centre rose in resistance. Finally, when the Right themselves came to power and walked Rao’s path, the Left and Centre again screamed betrayal. Thus the wheel turned: power-hungry parties circled endlessly, each condemning what yesterday they defended. Chakravyuha parivartante sukham duhkham—in the labyrinth of power, joy and sorrow merely exchange seats.
Think of privatization. For decades, every government sought to advance it, and every opposition force, regardless of ideology, opposed it with the same ferocity. Half a century after Independence, still no national consensus on the central issues of our life—while an army of unemployed youth swells, while health, education, and industry starve, while beyond the pampered middle class the vast poor remain unheard. Integrity in politics is absent. Instead, we are trapped in endless proxy wars: Ram versus Rahim, Dalit versus Brahmin, tycoon versus farmer.
The middle class, meanwhile, has been showered with comforts. Subsidized cooking gas, controlled prices, consumer goods, concessions for government employees. Yet 80 percent of India’s people toil in the unorganized sector, denied any such security. Farmers perish without fair prices; peasants walk barefoot across rivers for want of bridges, draw muddy water for want of pipes, relieve themselves in open fields for want of latrines. And in Kolkata, crores are spent to raise over-bridges upon over-bridges. How long shall the rulers flaunt per capita income to delude us? All know: the world’s average wealth, spread across billions, yields cosmic figures; but 80 percent of the world’s resources are caged in the hands of a mere ten percent. India mirrors this grotesque imbalance: middle-class pampering, poor-man’s exploitation. Nehru’s legacy.
Thus the poor grow poorer still. Their few rupees for rice and lentils are siphoned away into the bank balances of the middle class, who buy color TVs, refrigerators, computers, attend Hrithik Roshan nights and fashion shows. Each year the budget reduces duties on such luxuries, while cooking gas or bus fares rising provoke massive middle-class protests—ripe occasions for opposition parties to strike, while mouthing slogans of “Garibi Hatao, Desh Bachao.”
Fifty-four years after Independence, one wonders: our greatest “achievement” has been the rise of this powerful middle class, with political leaders vying like hounds to guard and flatter them. At no point has India ever adopted a transparent mechanism for fair distribution of wealth among social classes. And there is no certainty it ever will.
Yet since a market had to be created—one with “qualified buyers”—a process has unfolded whereby some are pressed into destitution so that others may be raised into the middle class. The dry faces hidden beneath statistics remain invisible to this free nation. We shall eventually corner them, declare them redundant, perhaps even pronounce them dead. In Tagore’s words, we are absorbed with the lamp’s light above, while caring not for the darkness below. That wretched multitude, neglected and despised, will one day rebel against this system. For they have never tasted true freedom. And there lies the terror of our future. Shall there be another war of independence in our land?
But we, the middle class, we care not. We are intoxicated by our self-fashioned statistics—in our fool’s paradise. In these numbers there is no count of deaths by hunger. These numbers give prominence only to our own daily discontents. We do not regard the bondage of the underclass as our shame. Thus our freedom remains—a selfish and loathsome thing.
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