Forget the Bear Hug and the Eulogies, Here’s What Makes Me Adore a PM on Tour

MORE than two-decades-plus-a-little-over-6-years ago, as I sat down in the entrance examination hall that would pick 21 candidates who would, for the ensuing two years, learn the ins and outs of journalism, I had no idea as to whether I would get myself enrolled for the same. For, journalism was nothing more than The Hindu, Sportstar, Frontline and the Illustrated Weekly of India to me till then. These four publications were more than the world to me, who hailed from one of the remotest, godforsaken corners of Tamil Nadu.

Having born in the cusp of Tamil Nadu and Kerala, known otherwise as Kanya Kumari district, I inherited a mother tongue that was alien to the Tamil brethren who went to school with me. Malayalam was the spoken tongue at home, while the nuns-run convent school I went to, made sure I spoke, dreamt, and imagined things, only in English. The convent school, manned by the women in Christianity’s divine robes, taught me how important English was, and will be, in the days to come. And, thus these four publications were ushered into my home, soon after I outgrew Uncle Pai’s Amar Chitra Katha series of awesomeness.

Years later, as I sat down to write the entrance test that was to be my gateway to a journalism career, these publications and the nuns who guided me with their Anglo-disciplinarian agenda, came handy.

Writing in English, till then, was attempted only in the form of answering questions at the school, pre-degree and graduation levels.  And, suddenly when a journalism question paper arrived to taunt, it was akin to a rookie tail-ender bat facing Michael Holding in an all-important Test match. With no clue on what the answers would be for every question that was thrown at me, I took my stance to a ball bowled to me round the wicket by an University that had already earned its name for its never-legible googlies.

And then, there was this question prompting me to profile Rajiv Gandhi, the young Prime Minister of India. Rajiv Gandhi had, over the past few years, nestled in my soul’s sanctum for his dynamism and vision for an India poised to be launched into the millennium.  As luck would have it, one of the tasks that looked up at me from the University stamped question paper was to profile Rajiv Gandhi. The man, who I had heard talk to India from the ancient Philips valve-radio many a times, stood tall and clear in front of me as I attempted the question.  And, then words flowed, first in trickles, and then as a torrent, filling the white sheets with the story of a man who was “young, and had a dream too”.

Borrowing heavily from stories that had earlier mesmerised me on the pages of The Hindu, Illustrated Weekly and the Sportstar, I went about analysing Rajiv as a young Indian looking to the future through the eyepiece of technology, his vision of a new India and his mellowed but committed voice that made even the global fora stand up and applaud.

A video doing the rounds on social media of late, suddenly takes me back to the Rajiv era, for once.  I know I’m risking myself on a space where I could be called a Congress fellow-traveller, when I’m not. I do not know if there is a fiercer critic of Rajiv’s son and wife than me at this moment. I detest the hordes of spineless gentlemen and women in Khadi who pay obeisance to mommy and sonny, day in and day out, even as they know that the undeserving lot play kings and king makers in a democracy known for its secular credentials. I rue their stance of squandering away the best opportunity to play the bravest, India-minded Opposition when it really mattered. That, however, is a story waiting to be narrated later.

Coming back to my current topic, let me tell you, the Modi wave that is made to lash global shores, and the make-believe efforts that the so-called bhakts undertake to portray their leader as the first ever man to charm America and the rest of the world, appear to me as efforts so futile even as they continue to tell the world that this man with the now famous 56-inch-chest and the screaming voice is a unique phenomenon. However, for, me, and I guess for the men and women of my generation, there used to be this gentleman-politician man who charmed the world by just being there and putting words into real action. The manner in which he has handled the foreign media, the elected representatives from all over the world and the various international fora is worth emulating, and he has done things realistically and in a gentlemanly fashion all the time, every time. 

As I write this, the video that prompted this piece plays for the umpteenth time on my laptop. This, yours truly believes, is a reminder of the times India used to be held in high esteem for reasons so genuine. Another video that came up added to the respect this man commanded. If you are charmed by the much-published and publicised bear hug, the Indian-American crowds singing eulogies for no reason, and the bhakts that crawl when they aren’t even supposed to kneel, it is time for a serious rethink. If these two videos launch you into rethink mode, Jai Ho!  For, I’m charmed for the millionth time. Click play, to watch for yourself.