What stands out in his writings is his “passionate involvement with India” — an expression he used in his column on another global Indian, Nobel Laureate Amartya Sen. This volume, though with a rather awkward title, is no exception as its subtitle, “Reflections on India in the Twenty-First Century” shows. It is, in fact, a companion volume to From Midnight to the Millennium and is concerned with India’s ongoing transformation. The 70 pieces brought together call for a discerning understanding of India’s past, provide clues to its prevailing paradoxes, and affirm optimism on its global role in the new century. The “elephant” in the title refers to India’s old economy, the “tiger” to the new economy and the “cellphone” signifies the importance of communications in the new context.

Through the perspectives that Tharoor offers, the book enables us to reflect more meaningfully about the land and the people that we think we are familiar with. If from the nearly 400 pages I were to pick up just one sentence that conveys both the substance of the book and the style of the author, it would be : “I grew up in an India and my sense of nationhood lay in a simple insight: the singular thing about India was that you could only speak of it in the plural.” Elsewhere he says: “The idea of India is that of a land emerging from an ancient civilization, united by a shared history, sustained by a pluralist democracy, but containing a world of differences.” I consider the piece on “The Invention of India” from which these quotes are taken as the central piece of the volume and wish that all Indians concerned about the country and the nation will read it. One more picturesque passage from it: “If America is a melting pot, to me India is a thali, a selection of sumptuous dishes in different bowls. Each tastes different, and does not necessarily mix with the next, but they belong together on the same plate, and they complement each other in making the meal a satisfying repast.”

I like the analogy, but I am a little uncomfortable with it too. What if the rice insists that since it occupies most of the thali it is the real stuff and everything else in small kattoris is just peripheral and significant only to the extent that they become subsidiary to the rice? I am not blaming Tharoor. But if the idea of India can be represented by a thali, the problem of India is that the rice insists on priority and privilege simply on the basis of size — more than 80 per cent! I am not exaggerating. Most of the other pieces in this section on “Two Ideas of Indianness” in the collection, “Hinduism and Hindutva: Creed and Credo”, “The Politics of Identity”, “Of Secularism and Conversions” at least deal with the problem of majoritarianism of the rice in the thali. Indeed, that is the other idea of Indianness that Tharoor does not want to see accepted.

If the book speaks about India, through the pieces one learns a lot about Shashi the man too. He traces his roots to Kerala, although even as a child and as a student he was mostly outside Kerala. He is proud of Kerala’s rich and diverse culture and its sense of tolerance, and visits the state frequently with a sense of nostalgia and an admiration for its transformation. He comes from a proud, but not a very well to do tharavad. Indeed, his father’s eldest brother was the first from the family to leave the native village and migrate to Bombay where he took refuge in the Ramakrishna Mission that provided him one free meal a day and space to sleep on the floor in return for cleaning the premises. Later he became a stenographer in the largest advertising agency in British India that took him subsequently to London. On his return, he became the founder publisher of the Indian edition of the Reader’s Digest and a prominent figure in the Advertising Club of Bombay. Shashi’s father, Chandran Tharoor followed his brother into Bombay and into advertising. Shashi, thus had a good start in life, went to school in Bombay and from there to St.Stephen’s College in Delhi where he was elected chairman of the student union. Later he took a Ph.D. in international politics.

Among Indians who helped to make “My India” Tharoor lists national leaders such as Gandhiji and Nehru, Patel and Azad, Ambedkar and Krishna Menon, Indira Gandhi and K.R.Narayanan; also Ramanujam and Amartya Sen, M.F.Hussain and Sunil Gavaskar, and coveys interesting, but little known anecdotes about many of them. Tharoor does not like the change of names of India’s major cities, particularly of (old) Madras into “the petty specificity” of “Chennai”. His admiration of sari and his hope that more modern dresses for women will not drive it out, gets him into trouble with feminist liberators. He is amused by superstitious beliefs such as adding an alphabet to one’s name will ensure success in life, but feels that prayers and programming will both flourish side by side in this country of paradoxes. Personally he is a “God fearing Hindu” proud of the fact that Hinduism is the only major religion in the world that does not claim to be the only true religion.

That, of course, is a fact. But isn’t it also the way Hinduism makes its claim to uniqueness as other religions do? Tharoor overlooks this fact. To me it appears that he is guilty of a fallacy of interpretation also. He makes the philosophical point that since Hinduism is a religion without fundamentals, there is, in fact there cannot be, such a thing as Hindu fundamentalism — an argument that one hears from many schools of Hindu chauvinists as well. The fallacy of this argument, whether it comes from a universalist Hindu like Tharoor who abhors Hindutva, or a bigoted Hindu like Togadia is that it interprets fundamentalism in a literal philosophical sense. This has the implication, intended or otherwise, that “fundamentalism” arises only from the adherents of religions that, unlike Hinduism, claim to have “fundamentals”. Further, it rules out the possibility that adherents of Hinduism can also be guilty of fundamentalist actions such as terrorism that are societal, not philosophical in nature. Tharoor’s failure to appreciate this distinction leads him to lament, after “Hindu zealots” (not Hindu fundamentalists, because there is no such thing!) destroyed the Babri Masjid in 1992: “This couldn’t have happened.” It couldn’t have happened because philosophically it is an impossibility; but it did happen because sociologically it is very much a possibility. And the dispute is settled by history!

Printer friendly page  
Send this article to Friends by E-Mail