From My Notebooks In 1977: Predators in Patna

Just a reminder of the route

Still Saturday 19th, February

[Following an afternoon spent gliding above Patna among birds of prey, I’m invited by my pilot, Jha Prakash, to join a different class of predator.]

In the evening, Jha absorbs me into a party at his brother-in-law’s room at the DAK bungalow. A mild US couple also arrived previous night, and they too have been invited. I assume that virtually anything foreign, that isn’t positively disgusting, confers prestige on a social gathering.

[In the course of the evening I gradually became aware that I was in the presence of the most powerful politicians in the state of Bihar which, at the time, had a population of 100 million or more. Indira Ghandi’s Congress party was in power but was expected to lose in the upcoming election.]

The room is as shabby as usual – flaking pale blue plaster, il-assorted and ill-upholstered settee and armchairs. Ordinary beds. Here are first the MP for Bihar, then the Chairman of the Bihar Congress Party and member of the State Legislature whom I’ll call (X); then a man who has just been made Chairman of the Bihar Homeopathic Board (C); two police chiefs, the “SP” of Patna, and one with an equal but mysterious rank from Delhi. The host is leader of the Bihar Section of Congress Youth (Y) a self-made man credited by Jha with giving away most of what he earned as a contractor. Then there was an ASP, a PR man for Congress, and a newspaper management executive. The politicians were in ethnic dress (C and Y in dhoti).

C and the MP arrived by car in reverse order of importance, each one being greeted effusively and acclaimed as “our great leader.” The policemen simply materialised and then faded away in the same manner.

X was the dominant presence. A crafty grin played on his wide mouth. His eyes glittered shrewdly through slits beneath a broad overhanging brow. He exuded confidence and control even when drunk, sent his power vibrations out in a steady field to every corner of the room. Y’s approach was more mercurial and intense. Between duties as host he would spring suddenly into the foreground of the party, perching with great agility on the end of the bed in lotus position, and deliver a fierce oration as though addressing not a handful of people but a crowd of lakhs [Lakh = 100,000]. His sunken eyes blazed in these short bursts of fervour.

The MP likewise conformed perfectly to his role. He was a bit above it all, the raw politics, the grass roots. He was the Delhi statesman, able to view events with the detachment proper to a cultivated man. He essayed a short speech, in English, pretending to be an army general making a public announcement several weeks following the defeat of Mrs Ghandi at the polls. “ . . . . and so, in view of the chaos and dissension which have swept the country, since abandoning the orderly progress maintained under Mrs Ghandi’s government, we have no alternative but to suspend the constitution and declare martial law . . . .”

The assembled party burst into cries of “Never. It will never happen here. Mrs Ghandi will win, hands down, sweep the country, etc.” The general embarrassment was obvious. It was not a very witty speech and failed as satire. At this point there were several whispered conversations between police and politicians, and the party moved from politics to music. It seems the police were afraid the two US hitchhikers might be from the CIA (an idea which, to me, seemed laughable).

C, who was the object of the party, had been sitting alone in an armchair, taking no part and looking like a bundle of clothes waiting for the laundry. Now he was urged to sing. I was told he was a poet. A beatific expression flooded his features, and he came to life. To my surprise he sang beautifully and the words, though I couldn’t understand them, were offered with clarity, emphasis and meaning. I was convinced they were of real quality. It was impressive that this collection of political animals could respond so sincerely to his songs.

Later, X became completely maudlin. He grabbed me and pressed invitations on me to visit his residence, and the PRO and ASP literally dragged him away from me. Before the party ended I talked briefly to the Superintendent of Police, and gave my view that in comparison with the true dictatorships of Latin America, India was the freest of countries, and that I was pleased to be able to say so. I expected him to be pleased to hear this. Instead, he said, very seriously, “That is the trouble. There is too much freedom. We must have more control. We can achieve nothing like this.”

Perhaps his appearance, which reminded me of a Brazilian apparatchik, made his opinion seem more sinister. And I began to speculate on the existence of a stratum of opinion in the Indian bureaucracy which would like to see “a firm hand” on the people.

[If only I could have had my iPhone: there would have been some wonderful pictures – or on the other hand I might have landed in jail.]

Next week: Onward and inward.