I read therefore I am!

A couple of months ago, it was 1953 and I was sitting in Stalin's dacha in Kuntsevo. Bulganin, Khrushchev and Beria were there too. There was palpable tension in the room. Something was wrong. It seemed to me that these men knew that they needed to act but were holding themselves back, fearful of the wrath they would incur if they acted. Suddenly, Beria went inside Stalin's bedroom and returned in a couple of minutes. His face was drained of all emotions, yet he seemed ecstatic. He boasted, 'I took him out'. Khrushchev and Bulganin almost fell on the floor. Stalin, the Iron man, the victor of WWII, the father of the Soviet people, their murderer was no more.

A few weeks ago, it was 1812, and I was in again in Moscow, accompanying Napoleon and his Grande Armée as they laid siege to Moscow. The poorly armed, demoralized Russian army was no match for the invincible French forces. They simply fled at the sight of the French. I could see the pride in Napoleon's eyes as he prepared to enter the city and add Russia to his spate of conquests. But no delegation came forth to offer him the surrender of the city. The initial euphoria turned to anxiety and eventually shock and disgust as Napoleon realized that the Russians had robbed him of a significant ceremonial victory by refusing to hand over the keys of Moscow to him. I could see Napoleon's eyes burning with anger and an esprit de revanche as he had been denied what was rightfully his.

Last week, it was 1977 and I was with Indira Gandhi as she sat in her residence cum office, waiting for the election verdict that the masses would give. Outwardly, she appeared confident, but her face was haggard. There were dark circles under her eyes. It was almost as if she knew that all was not well. And then the results started trickling in. Her Congress party seemed to be doing badly in the North, but at least she was leading in her Rai Bareli constituency. A couple of hours later, her lead had narrowed down. By 4 in the evening, it was clear, Prime Minister Indira Gandhi was all set to lose in her own constituency. Mrs. Gandhi was shell shocked. Neither Sanjay, nor Rajiv nor their wives had anything to say. Rahul and Priyanka sat close to their Grandmother, oblivious to the goings-on in the household. I could see that Indira Gandhi had aged suddenly during the day. She seemed frail, vulnerable and despondent, A far cry from the Durga-incarnate who had defeated the Pakistanis and created Bangladesh.

And then, just yesterday, I was in Istanbul, with author Orhan Pamuk as he showed me his childhood homes in Nisantasi and Cihangir, overlooking the Bosphorous. He spoke of the Ottoman yalis, the streets in which Turkish Muslims, Greeks, Albanians, Armenians, Kurds and Firangis would roam freely, of Steamships (and later Soviet tankers) that would move up and down the strait, of Sultans and their harems, of Westerners who brought their culture, of Turks who wanted to ape the Western culture, of the First World War and the dismemberment of the Ottoman empire, of Mustafa Kemal Atatürk and his Westernizing reforms and of the rich, proud Istanbul of yore with its hüzün and the impoverished, confused Istanbul of today. Orhan Pamuk spoke in tones that made me see Istanbul less of a city and more of a person witnessing history being made.

Well, that, is the magic that books bring. They make you forget who you are, where you are and what you were doing. They take away all sorrows, all worries and transport you magically into places, lives of peoples, times and settings. You lose yourself in the pages of these books and live through the lives of others as you flip its pages. 

Well, the one emotion that I have always felt, when I am browsing through the books in a Crosswords or Landmark, or even on flipkart… "So many books, So little time!"

History Beckons!

Arvind Kejriwal is the man of the moment. He has successfully rallied the masses against the corrupt, self-serving rule of our politicians and has demanded reinstatement of the ideals of liberty, equality and justice, ideals on which this great democracy was founded. The middle class sees him as their saviour. Youngsters see him as their ideal. Many feel that finally someone has raised cudgels against the venal establishment that leads this nation. We are simply wowed by his commitment to his ideals, his recently formed "Aam Aadmi Party" and its impeccably worded constitution. 

I, for one, choose to be a bit cynical. Mr. Kejriwal's statements have been less than democratic on many occasions and I seriously doubt his commitment to democracy. He seems to forget that India, for all her inherent strength, is deeply divided on multiple counts. A 'one size fits all' kind of a approach is unlikely to work in our country. While Mr. Kejriwal's tirade against corruption may have won him support throughout the nation, it is highly unlikely that any policy decisions of his would gain widespread support unless he chooses to pursue the democratic path. What is needed is an emphasis on returning to the democratic ideals of discussion, deliberation and respect for the opposition. Over the past 60 years, we have succeeded in putting strong democratic systems in place, the need of the hour is to strengthen and sustain them. What India needs today is continuous evolution, not a revolution!

Maximilen de Robespierre was a nondescript character who came to the fore at the time of the French revolution in 1789. A skilled orator and an avowed revolutionary, he galvanized the masses, sickened as they were by the misrule of the King Louis XVI into creating a revolutionary France, governed by ideals of "Liberty, Equality and Fraternity". After having dispatched the King to the depths of hell, he turned his attention to the counter-revolutionaries in their midst. A reign of terror was instituted and thousands  of men and women alike were guillotined on flimsy charges. Idealism turned to a thirst for blood. All opposition became counter-revolutionary. The Guillotines in France worked overtime. The revolutionaries were now devouring the masses who had supported them in the first place. Any sign of dissent would land you on the guillotine. How did the madness end, you ask? The revolution ultimately consumed its own. Robespierre was guillotined by his own former supporters for having compromised the ideals of the republic. And the republic, where did it go? It would go down the drain as France, once again would became an empire, under Napoleon in a few years' time.

Mr. Kejriwal is no Robespierre. At least not today. But Robespierre was no Robespierre as we know him today when he first appeared on the political scene. India does not need a revolution today. It seeks stability, continuity and continuous and incremental change. It needs democracy to survive, It needs acceptance of problems and joint efforts for devising solutions. That is the only way forward.

One of Robespierre's quotes that resonates through history: "Citoyens, vouliez-vous une révolution sans révolution?" (Citizens, Did you want a revolution, without revolution?)

The heart of Africa

Dark clouds are gathering once again over the Congo river. The river is once again in spate, unleashing its waters violently across the land that had taken its name. Its once quiet, picturesque, meandering waters are now drowning homes, villages and towns, wrecking havoc like never before.

In a way, the Congo river mirrors the history of the country that has chosen to name itself after the river that brought sustenance to much of the country. Every now and then, marauding armies of rebels surface and challenge the puny government forces and civil war breaks out, bringing destruction and devastation similar to the fury, the river will soon unleash.

They say the Congo was plagued from its inception. An artificial Belgian created colony that overlooked tribal boundaries, its fate in the initial years was emblematic of the misfortune wrecked by naked colonial aggression. Congo was established as a personal fiefdom of the Belgian king who used all the might of his colonial enterprise of rob Congo of its rubber and its mineral resources. Congolese men and women  were maimed for life for failing to meet the colonial rubber quota. The Congo river drank the limbs that were thrown in its bosom, forced to swallow them as bitter poison.

Independence should have led to joy and national unification, but the century of Belgian rule had further exacerbated deep fissures within this artificial entity. Cold war struggles added their own complexities to what as already a boiling pot. Provinces, encouraged by the Europeans, fought for secession. The immensely popular but ideologically dogmatic Patrice Lumumba, the country's first Prime Minister was kidnapped and subsequently assassinated. They say, his remarks to the Belgian King, during the country's independence ceremony, "Nous ne sommes plus vos singes (We are no longer your monkeys)", earned him the ire of the Belgians, who were still in control of the nascent Congolese army. The Soviet attempt to create a Soviet satellite in the heart of Africa fizzled out with Lumumba's death. This paved he way for US proxy-intervention and the rise of the kleptocracy of Mobutu Sese Seko. Lip service was paid to the ideas of Lumumba but Congo was no more. In its place came Sese Seko's Zaire, corrupt and dictatorial. The river lost its identity too, it became the Zaire river and reflected the avarice and the greed of the nation as it devoured thousands in floods which it unleashed at its pleasure. 

And then the civil wars returned. Hutus fought Tutsis in neighboring Rwanda. Kabila fought Mobutu in Zaire as rebel movements sprouted everywhere. A tiny glimmer of light emerged as a government established its authority and resurrected the Congo. However, the joy was short-lived. Wars broke out in the north, the south, the East and the West. Flawed elections fueled public discontent. Rebels gained courage to declare war on the government. They resorted to violence, rape, arson and loot. Children were kidnapped, Women disappeared. The artificial calm that had existed for years was shattered again. Neighbours financed rebels as Congolese fought Congolese. River Congo wept bitterly seeing the death, the destruction and the devastation wrecked by her own children on their own land.

They say the Congo will continue to flood and devour victims till peace returns to its namesake nation. The international community cannot afford to look at the Congo conflict as an experimentation in nation hood. Democracy and the rule of law have to prevail in Congo. The international community must commit itself to that. Congo has been ravaged enough, for its minerals, for its rubber. Now is the time for Congo to join the community of nations as a truly independent nation, standing on its own two feet. The failure of Congo will be a costly affair, there is no doubt that If Congo goes, it will take most of Africa, with its borders cutting across tribal homelands and language groups,  down with it. 

Philosophical ramblings!

So, Who am I? Am I just a character, put on this planet by a mysterious force (lets call it God), to play my part in the script written down by him. Or am I a thinking being who can decide for himself, who is susceptible to influences and who can influence outcomes? Or, is it that I am the ruler of my destiny, the determiner of all outcomes and the ruler of my fate.

Which brings us to the nebulous concept of fate. Is there anything like fate? Eastern thought imparts an automatic feeling of there being mysterious forces beyond the control of a man. However, more often than not, when things go right, they are attributable to a man's wisdom, his attitude, his drive, but the moment things do not work out, it is fate at play. Western thought lays emphasis on the being. Communists for instance see fate as something that the upper classes threw in the face of the poorer sections of the society to keep them in abject poverty. It is the man, in western thought, who can bring about results by his own determination.

Which now brings us to the abstraction of determination. Why is it that a man might show determination to do one thing, while lacking any willingness to do another. Or, why is it that we exert ourselves to do something at one point of time, while showing no inclination for the same thing some other time. If you attribute this to 'mood', then why is it that our mood fluctuates so wildly. Why is it that we are so prone to external influences. Why is it that the mind, sometimes, behaves as though it were independent of the body, while at times, it behaves as though it were a prisoner of the same body? Determination appears to be a function of many factors, most of which lie beyond one's control. Ultimately, do we decide our own actions or not, or is there something more sinister at play, something that we have already called fate.

Is there fate? If so, who scripts this fate? Is there God? If there is, what/where/how/who is he? 

Or, once again, am I just a character put on this planet, playing out my part. Doubting others, when the script asks me to, doubting myself, when the script so commands. Pausing at the right moments and rushing at the right parts… All as per the script!