Jyoti Basu's great service to India

There was a time when Bengal mattered. The Bengalis were the brains of India. The 'bhadralok' were the most successful and creative comprador class produced by European Colonialism.

The Bengali 'gentleman' truly deserved that name- Siddharta Shankar Ray, a bitter foe of Jyoti Basu, nevertheless helped him evade arrest because Basu, too, was a gentleman.

Ramdas Menon has written an excellent, higly critical, obituary on Basu here. Menon's ire is prompted by love of Bengal rather than partisan politics. He is careful to point out that Basu's Bengal was free of regionalism/communalism. Menon was able to complete his Engineering course there- without being made to feel an outsider or having to fear the violence of lumpen 'son-of-the soil' gangster/politicians.

Basu chose to subscribe to revolutionary Communist ideology at a time when it was still fairly intellectually respectable- just as believing in Neo-con 'regime change' for Iraq- on the basis of Kanan Makiya's evidence- was okay a few years ago.

Maoism isn't inherently more nutty than Gandhism, or Jihadism, or whatever shite it was that Ram Manohar Lohia and J.P Narayan and so on were peddling.
I don't recall whether Dr. Dutta Samant had any ideology at all. That didn't stop him destroying the Mumbai textile industry. But, even earlier, the Ahmedabad textile industry was in the doldrums- though there were no Maoists in Gujerat.
Economists point the finger at Mrs. Gandhi for India's stagnation in the 70's. However, Morarji Bhai's ban on gold imports, in the previous decade, was a comparable piece of idiocy- India decided to subsidize the smugglers of the Gulf and the criminalization of its own polity- indeed India became the easiest place to double your money. An aristocratic British criminal, Guppy by name, was astonished at how easy and lucrative Gold smuggling into India remained. Incidentally, he was roped into this business by a posh friend whose father was a High Court Judge in Bengal.
If Basu had a corrupt son, so too did Mrs. G and Morarji and.... but let's not get started down that road!

Yes, Basu's goons were violent and corrupt, but kidnapping did not become a Heavy Industry in West Bengal in the same way that it did in Bihar under Lalloo- who, lest we forget, was being feted by Harvard Business School just a few years back.

Was this because, in Bengal under Basu, the old elites kept their monopoly of high office in a manner unprecedented elsewhere in India? Did Mao become the camouflage of a new ManuSmriti? If so, it was a vehicle to class power which destroyed its own basis because an increasing proportion of the bhadralok's best and brightest had to leave their homeland to find work.

Menon mentions the murder of some Ananda Margi sadhus by Basu's goons. However, my memory is that Mrs. G was paranoid about the Margis back in the mid 70's. Nothing Basu did could match what Mrs. G sanctioned during the Emergency. R.A.W published a scurrilous book depicting the Margis as degenerate C.I.A agents adept in Black Arts or something of the sort. Oddly, Ravi Batra- who subscribed to Margi philosophy- was a favourite Economist for some people close to Mrs. G later on. My point is that there were plenty of people in New Delhi who were quite as batshit crazy as Bengal's Commie nutjobs.

Basu's own culpability is limited as he himself was probably not responsible for some of the decisions Menon mentions in his article- including the ones which assured his Party of a monopoly of power for more than three decades.
My feeling is that
1) Unlike Lohia (agrezi boli equals angrezi goli!) or Mulayam Singh Yadav (Angrezi hatao!) Basu did not hate the English language as such. He couldn't stop State Schools from banning English- he was already an old man whose prestige derived from being the last surviving Communist 'navratna'.
At least, he kept up his visits to England and occasional Scotch and so forth.
2) Like his former mentor, Rajni Palme Dutt, Basu was basically friendly to the Nehru/Gandhi dynasty. While Punjab, Kashmir and Assam became nightmares for the Center- West Bengal did not create headaches. They did not try to export their ideology to Bangladesh or seek to embarrass India w.r.t America or the Islamic world. On the contrary, Gentleman Basu was content to carry Bengal with him on a tide of senile decrepitude wholly unthreatening to the rest of the world.
3) Had Basu become P.M.- instead of Gowda- it is possible that a useful purpose- not his ambition merely- would have been served for his party. Urm... sorry, I can't see how this would have done India any good BUT

4) Basu was lazy, stupid, vulgar (he read P.G. Woodhouse) and and immensely tolerant of wrongdoing by his underlings. This is the mark of a true gentleman. He succeeded, virtually single-handed, in destroying the sense of superiority of the Bengali intelligentsia and ensuring that Calcutta would remain a fetid backwater. This was a great service not merely to India but to the entire Civilized world.

Ultimately Marxism, as an ideology, stands above personalities and rejects the 'Great Man' theory of History. Basu, coz he was so utterly and irresistibly shite proved that Marx was right. Fucking Bhadralok Barristocrats can only fuck things up- coz they are shite in their class origins- no matter which brand of Marxism they espouse.

Bose's legacy

I found a poignant vignette on the career of the great Subhas Chandra Bose here-
"Let me add a footnote to this story on Subhas Bose. Soon after the independence of India and Pakistan in 1947, Rehman and Kayani (Brigadier Raja Habibur Rehman was Bose's chief of staff, and an eye-witness of his death, and Colonel M.Z.Kayani, whom Bose had reportedly selected as INA chief in case of his death) were mobilised by the Pakistani authorities to lead tribal militias and other irregular forces from Pakistan to go into Kashmir at the time of the Maharaja Hari Singh’s unilateral accession to India. The Pakistani forces suffered military setbacks and India occupied most of Kashmir. Rehman and Kayani were then given senior civilian positions in the Government under contract. Interestingly, their INA colleague Major Shahnawaj Khan had joined the Indian Army and fought on the Indian side in Kashmir, later rising to the rank of a Brigadier. That was the beginning of the Kashmir conflict, which unfortunately continues till today and threatens war between India and Pakistan from time to time."

(Writer and Columinst Mr. Azizul Jalil writes from Maryland.)

Ghalib in Canada

What does it mean to say- this is Ghalib’s verse? He devised it, perhaps revised it, and did or did not include it in his published divan?
Nothing. It means nothing to say that. Why? The sentence is well formed, indeed, is wholly poetic but- ‘sher-e-khub ma'ni nah daarad’- a good poem has no meaning- none!- no, not once Ghalib’s name is invoked.
In contrast, to say- thus did ‘Ustad Ghalib’ develop our present theme- and then proceed to quote Momin (as happens here at 06.44)- is poetic, nay!, theopoetic, for that diplomatically elided ‘Momin’ qualifies, rewards and makes rewarding, ‘Ustad Ghalib’ more even than the setting- viz a Hindu temple in Canada, over-run by fractious children, to which, no doubt, for some salutary, papoose chastening, purpose, have been invited Qawwali singers from Pakistan.
To say of a bunch of words that they represent a poem by so and so is also to say that, in some sense, they are holographic of the poet’s entire oeuvre.
Ghalib, famously, is said to have wished to trade his entire Divan for one couplet of Momin’s- viz.
With me, you then appear
When no other is near.
That his wish was granted in an infidel’s idol-house, and that too by indirection- it is Momin’s ‘ Twixt you & I- what passed, do you remember or not?’ that Farid Ayaz Qawwal attributes to Ghalib- is, of course, a too-consummate-to-appear-artless touch and so, quite correctly, the Canadian little Krishnas, from-their-Saturday-morning-Cartoon-combats-too-Kansa-cruelly-kept-away, howl outrage in the background.

This is Krishna's tragedy- a nice, naughty, little person whose job is to conquer impossible demons and be the innocent consort of impassable Saints- yet trapped, by who won't outgrow him, into friendship, into philosophy, into music, into poetry- he has no choice but to accept the role of pharmakos and, by his theophany- that condign self-praise which, he tells Arjuna, is also a sinless self-slaughter- himself himself do away so only Duty remain.
Love is ontic, Faith deontic- as Ghalib said (where?)
No arrow swift outshoots this quiver
Faith is the gift of an Indian giver.

Religion and Democracy- what Mahatma Gandhi actually said.

It is not often that I find occasion to quote Mahatma Gandhi approvingly in this blog.

This is what he said to Romain Rolland-
"Since Religion is like one's own Mother, the only two possible things Democratic Politics can say about it are almost equally offensive- viz-
(1) 'Your Mom's a ho and her ass soooo fat'
(2) 'Far from being a prostitute, our Mother is a beautiful, well educated and cultured virgin, my continued pimping for whom confers such inestimable benefits on the commonweal that like just elect me already .'
"Personally, I prefer (1) coz a Mom can be a ho with a big fat ass without ceasing to be a good Mom- which is the only thing that matters, unless your name is Oedipus.
"The problem is, if you vote for people who call your Mom a ho- it emboldens them to make you their bitch."

The question we must ask ourselves is must this always be the case? Might not the defect lie in indigenous democracy as opposed to that imported or imposed under the rubric of 'when America fucks you in the ass, Democracy is the reach-around'?
Only time will tell.
Monsieur Rolland informs me that he is available to speak to Primary School Students in the West London area till the end of the week.
I trust the Local Education Authority will lose no time in snapping up so distinguished a public speaker.

Ghalib's 'Husn ghamze ki kashakash

ḥusn ġhamze kī kashākash se chhuṭā mere baʿd
bāre ārām se haiñ ahl-e jafā mere baʿd
manṣab-e sheftagī ke koʾī qābil nah rahā
huʾī maʿzūlī-e andāz-o-adā mere baʿd
shamʿa bujhtī hai to us meñ se dhuvāñ uṭhtā hai
shuʿlah-e ʿishq siyah-posh huʾā mere baʿd
ḳhūñ hai dil ḳhāk meñ aḥvāl-e butāñ par yaʿnī
un ke nāḳhun huʾe muḥtāj-e ḥinā mere baʿd
dar-ḳhvur-e ʿarẓ nahīñ jauhar-e bedād ko jā
nigah-e nāz hai surme se ḳhafā mere baʿd
hai junūñ ahl-e junūñ ke liye āġhosh-e vidāʿ
chāk hotā hai garebāñ se judā mere baʿd
kaun hotā hai ḥarīf-e mai-e mard-afgan-e ʿishq
hai mukarrar lab-e sāqī meñ ṣalā mere baʿd
ġham se martā hūñ kih itnā nahīñ dunyā meñ koʾī
kih kare taʿziyat-e mihr-o-vafā mere baʿd
āʾe hai bekasī-e ʿishq pah ronā ġhālib
kis ke ghar jāʾegā sailāb-e balā mere baʿd

Our Eyes' duel, Beauty won & haply, for I’m dead
Happy Herrenvolk, Belsen, now homestead

& demobbed, its propaganda, can go populate Uganda
Now Madness has no War Minister in my stead

When a candle dies- such hues of rue as then arise
Dyes passion’s fire that, while I lived, was red.

Could someone go tell Hali, these idols are all Kali!
White nailed for, my heart, they white bled.

She spits at her mascara, it has undone its wearer
Now on Cruelty’s koh-i-noor, to death, I have fed

Madness, to the Mad, is what my parting embrace said-
‘Will you tear yet your collar? I tore off my head!’

Passion’s Wine still flows though its paladins have all fled
My pall’s the Saqi’s call, so fuck off all youse to bed!

For Faith, faithless is to what Light, as Love, wed
Men of straw bear its tazia of lead

Whence came, Ghalib, the teary floods that you shed?
& to whose door will they go, now you're dead?

Bhajan Sing!

The Seth had ingratiated himself with the Yuv Raja, by settling his brothel bills, when the latter was a student in Calcutta. Later, after his Uncle, the Maharaja, unexpectedly died and the young reprobate came to the throne, the Seth moved to our State.
Within a decade he had ruined all the merchants of the district, the Scottish Engineer alone- who held the Water & Power contract- being immune to his machinations.
But, the day Mountbatten became Viceroy, the Scotsman called the Seth to him and told him to name his best price. Otherwise, he would sell out to a Marwari concern, Bombay side.
The Sethji scuttled hither and thither, conslulting Congressmen and Courtesans, Astrologers and Black Magicians, but neither slander nor intrigue nor bribed witnesses nor venal agitators could prevail against the Scotsman and his Bombay side, Marwari, connection.
For the first time in his life, the Seth had to pay a fair price for the assets the Scotsman was leaving behind.
On parting from the Seth, the Scotsman looked troubled. There was one thing on his conscience. It was Bhajan Singh- his driver and mechanic. He had planned to take Bhajan Singh with him, to East Africa, where he was relocating.
But without Bhajan Singh's skills, not the car merely but much of the Electrical and Water Pump machinery would soon be useless.
In any case, Bhajan Singh had put down roots in the State. He would go with the Scotsman, whose salt he had eaten, but what he really wanted was to remain behind in his accustomed place and occupation.
The Seth agreed to keep on Bhajan Singh as his driver.
However, within a few short days, the following interchange occurred between them-
Seth- (from the back seat) 'Bhajan Singh, Bhajan Singh- Bhajan sing!
Bhajan Singh- (driving the car) Jo hukum! Woh jo hum mein tum mein qaraar tha..."
Seth- That is Ghazal not Bhajan. If your name was Ghazal Singh then it is all right for you to sing Ghazal. However since name is Bhajan Singh kindly sing Bhajan only.
Bhajan Singh- Sorry, Sethji, I only know Ghazal.

The Seth dismissed him and hired a good Bhajan Singer. Unfortunately he was a bad driver and got involved in a traffic accident in which the Seth was badly injured. Worse, his patron, the Maharaja, was killed. Suddenly, the Seth found himself bankrupt and awaiting trial in prison.
Meanwhile the true culprit- viz. Bhajan Singh- had slyly fucked off to East Africa where, with the Scotsman's help he became a millionaire.

In upholidng our indigenous Gandhian-Socialist tradition of fighting Fuedalistic- -neo-Comprador-Capitalism-with-Tecnnocratic-face, of which no more saintly luminary existed than our late Chief Minister, we should never forget or forgive the perfidious treachery of Bhajan Singh which almost brought that great soul to ruin.

This is true meaning of Democracy. Mind it!

Whale cum

I was inspired to write this poem after a visit to a learned Lacanian Sufi/Buddhist ascetic, whose doormat, rather than spelling out 'Welcome' bore the impress of the ejaculate of the largest of marine animals thus pithily prompting the seeker-after-truth to question the whole of Sassurean linguistics- not the axiom of categoricity merely.

Morality is blind Samson’s pillar

& Immortality the Mind’s caterpillar

Of Barzakh’s butterfly dream

& Bardot’s Thodol scream

Which is another way to say

Isthmus ’twixt my salt tears & such wine sweet as she appears

Might not this Iyer write Sufi shite today?

Or must Pico fucking monopolize Gay?