Bharat Versus India

One in every six people on our planet is an Indian, and the nation they inhabit is conducting the world’s largest most important experiment – Democracy. Can a deeply religious society of more than one billion with a large Hindu majority sustain a secular government under which people of all faiths are treated equally? If it can work in a developing country as populous and diverse as India, it can work anywhere.

In just sixty years, the power of ordinary Indians to determine who governs them has revolutionised a once demoralised colony of Britain, breaking down feudalism and caste discrimination, and making enormous strides in reducing poverty and illiteracy, famine and disease. In 1947, the average Indian had a life expectancy of thirty – two years, and only one in five people could read or write; today’s Indian lives twice as long on average, is better off than ever, and two out of every three people are literate. India’s information technology boom has buried its image as a timeless, caste-ridden place teeming with paupers, snake charmers and maharajas (replaced by McMaharaja – Indian Big Mac). The world is doing yoga, wearing pashmina and reading Indian authors, not to mention enjoying spicy Indian cuisine and being entertained by the pulsating output of the Bollywood cinema.

Yet at the very moment of India’s emergence as a force in the world, the secular democracy that made this possible has come under threat from within. As everywhere in the post-Cold War world, politicians have sought to garner votes by appealing to old caste and religious prejudices, exploiting the large pockets of poverty and ignorance that inevitably exist in a developing country. While India’s experience is unique, it should cause us to reflect on the consequences in any society when religion is exploited by vested interest, including politicians and the media. But it also demonstrates how a republic, wisely constituted on the basis of law and equal rights for all citizens regardless of race, region, faith, education, language or poverty, is the best guarantee against appeals of extremism.

India is a work in progress, a painting on a shifting canvas. In Hindi, the word used for yesterday, cul, is the same word used to describe tomorrow. As India changes, it will continue to draw strength from its traditions. Its ancient wisdom and modern ambitions can walk hand in hand towards what I am sure will be a brighter future.

The India I was born into – we didn’t have telephone lines, we got tap water for fiver hours a day. Calling overseas required a trek to the local post and telegraph office and hours of fruitless dialling. Television and radio channels were state-controlled, the only competition coming from a widely distributed news program on video cassette that was delivered door-to-door each week like some clandestine newsletter. In times of national crisis, Indians tuned to foreign shot-wave radio news broadcasts. Forty years after they’d kicked out the British, the BBC was still their most trusted source of broadcast news (They might fail to recognise Tony Blair, but former BBC correspondent – Mark Tully is still a celebrity). Only the newspapers retained the defiant spirit of the Freedom Struggle corrupted today by corporate ownership and unbridled commercialism.

Allez au revoir!

Returning to Australia from what seemed like a long while living in Europe/Sub-continent; I instantly catapulted myself from scabby tenement tenant into the novel and elevated position of “landlord”. I moved into a heritage listed wool store apartment tucked away in a secluded trendy North Brisbane cul de sac and immediately started interviewing for appropriate lodgers. I thought flatmates would add extra spice and fun to a boy’s social life.

Names were tossed my way by word of mouth and, as a result, I have since seen countless tenants move into my minimalist unit and then out again to finer pastures. Some are waved goodbye with relief, followed by a terrible sense of foreboding as large electricity bills plop onto my worn doormat months after they have gone. Then there comes the harsh realization – often far too late – that their forwarding address scrawled on a tiny scrap of paper simply reads “London U.K.”.

Most people I send on their merry way with a nod, a smile and a vague hint of nostalgia. Last week, however, it felt quite a wrench to say adieu to my friends in Brisbane. So as I heartily hug my friends, before I step out of this country, I once again feel like a handy facilitator on the conveyer belt of life. On a sunny day that feels fine and quite useful, but on a rainy one it niggles. As a restless soul, it plays to my yearning to find a home too, and move onto finer places. But instead I only wave from the car-window.

I am sad to go. I had really liked all my friends here, and as fellow students/work colleagues/drinking buddies/soccer team players/acquaintances, we often rattled around the city at similar unorthodox times. This had led to many deep philosophical discussions on life, love and the universe.

As self-confessed optimists and morning whistlers, my friends skipped down the streets to shed some sunlight on issues that I, as a self-confessed cynic, often found difficult to stomach. Mates have led me to corners previously unexplored and dusted off ideas thick with dirt. In fact they invested in me, like a father does a child. They saw me as a new and difficult challenge to win over into their brave new world.

Thank you, - all the people I met in my six years in Brisbane. Somewhere, I lost all my innocence. Became a horrible person, forgot my roots, broke an angel’s heart, changed beyond recognition that even the mirror fails to recognise me. But, from the bottom of my heart – I thank everyone. Merci d'avoir donné du sens à ma vie.