A matter of choice

By Swapan Dasgupta

One thing that unites both the proponents of foreign investment in multi-brand retailing and their disparate opponents is the conviction that foreign capital will introduce a spectacular degree of efficiency in a largely chaotic sector. It is recognized, and has been recognized since the NDA was first excited by the idea, that bulk buying and a streamlined distribution channel will help lessen the huge 'farm to fork' differential. That a transformation of retail into a part of the modern, organized sector will have a multiplier effect is also not seriously disputed.

But that's where the convergence ends. For the past week, Parliament has been disrupted, the Lokpal Bill and Anna Hazare put on hold and the government confronted with the most serious internal challenge since the Left withdrew support over the nuclear deal in 2008. Most MPs and a majority of chief ministers have chosen to mount a robust defence of inefficiency and opposed the likelihood of discounted grocery bills for three reasons.

First, even after 150 years of its liquidation, India hasn't got over its mental fear of the East India Company. In the language of socialism-which we still carefully preserve in the preamble to the Constitution-all foreign trade is suspect and calculated to puncture our national sovereignty and independence. Last week, a senior BJP leader who was feted as a great champion of economic reforms in his time as minister, was actually heard cautioning about the "strategic" consequences of foreign players in the retail sector. It was reminiscent of the time India was warned that WTO membership would involve a ban on chewing neem twigs.

Second, when it comes to shopping at home, we would rather buy from a Haldiram rather than a Heineman. It is a different matter that no trip to London is complete without the mandatory shopping at TESCO-a great British company which, some people deem, must never travel to India. It is a bit like Jawaharlal Nehru who preached austere self-sufficiency at home but let it be discreetly known that he wasn't averse to a decent bottle of Burgundy, preferably Grands Echezeaux, during his European tours. Nehru had good taste, as did Indira Gandhi, but they were clear about one thing: what was good enough for the first family wasn't appropriate for the rest of us. That was the essence of India's socialism.

Finally, each side has its own reasons to explain where they stand. The Prime Minister is anxious to refurbish his reformist credentials and, if possible, ensure that the outflow of money from India is reversed. The swadeshi types smell a great opportunity to embarrass the government and, maybe, even engineer its fall. They claim to be speaking for both the middlemen and the petty retailers-groups genuinely apprehensive of the impact of supermarkets on their livelihood. But in all this high economics, low politics and appeasement of special interest groups, one group is missing from the debate: the consumer.

In an erudite article in Economic Times, opposition leader Arun Jaitley made a curious observation: "Domestic retailers source domestically. International retailers operate on the principle of buying internationally at the cheapest cost." The assertion is dubious since the city corner shop today stocks everything for the price-conscious consumer. These include Italian spaghetti, Chinese light bulbs and South African peaches. But that is beside the point. What Jaitley is fearful is that the consumer's buying decision will be dictated by her budget rather than the 'Made in India' label.

The consumer may well be charged with being innately unpatriotic. But, is nationalism, by definition, high cost? What does it say about Indian manufactures if shoes made in Vietnam turn out to be cheaper and more durable than one made in Aligarh? Should the consumer be compelled to buy an inferior, expensive item on swadeshi principles, as used to happen in the past?

International competition can have two possible reactions. It can either generate lethargy or it can spur India to take those measures needed to make the economy truly competitive. The retail reforms could make India shake off its complacency. Or, the nation could wallow in the sense of entitlement that high-cost inefficiency brings. At least we now have a choice.

Sunday Times of India, December 4, 2011

Age of the socialist elite

Book Review

Of A Certain Age: Twenty Life Sketches by Gopalkrishna Gandhi (Penguin/Viking, 234 pages, Rs 499)

As a grandson of Mahatma Gandhi and C. Rajagopalachari, Gopal Gandhi could well have joined the ranks of those Indians who are famous for being famous. Pedigree, however, is the least of his accomplishments. A distinguished public servant, diplomat and man of letters, he brought to the various posts he held a great measure of old world charm, civility and erudition—commodities in woeful short supply in a country that measures achievement by the individual’s ability to be sharp-elbowed.

A professional life as interesting as Gandhi’s merits a detailed narration—and I hope he takes the hint and starts work on his memoirs. For the moment, however, he has been content with a short book of pen portraits of 20 individuals he got to know well, both socially and professionally. Given his way with words, it is a compelling and easy read—highly recommended for a lazy Sunday or a trans-continental flight.

The life sketches were initially written for newspapers and, consequently, suffer from an excess of brevity. Just when the subject starts to enthral, the word limit forces a premature conclusion leaving umpteen question marks in the mind of the reader. This is unfortunate because many of the fascinating lives encountered in the book are completely unknown to a generation that was born after the 1970s.

As a schoolboy in Calcutta, I grew up reading M.Krishnan’s fortnightly ‘Country Notebook’ in the pages of the Sunday Statesman. Subsequently, one of my earliest responsibilities as a journalist was to proof-read Krishnan before the galleys were sent to the press.  Yet, how many people not ‘of a certain age’ will be able to grasp the contribution of that unassuming nature lover in just 1,200 words or so? Without minimising the sheer pleasure this book has given me, Gandhi would have done well to flesh out his sketches for the benefit of an uninitiated generation.

Of course, there are two distinct ways to approach the book. It is possible to read the 20 potted assessments in isolation—a sort of great-men-I-have-known exercise the author charmingly describes as “that inchoate bonding which, like a slow log fire in a hill station, warms those who are of a certain age.”

More rewarding, however, is to take the cue from the author and view the life sketches as a backdrop of an age—what Gandhi calls the ‘Gandhi-Nehru age’. I disagree profoundly, but only on a chronological detail. Apart from Mahatma Gandhi, Harilal Gandhi, Abdul Ghaffar Khan and, to a lesser extent, Jayaprakash Narayan and Acharya J.B. Kriplani who straddled the ages, the other 15 defined another era: the Nehru-Gandhi age. Except that this Gandhi was Indira Gandhi.

Gandhi’s collection of truncated biographies is also a wonderful commentary on the conviviality that bound the politico-bureaucratic and cultural elite from Independence till the dawn of coalition politics in 1989. Of course, Nehru was the symbol of this association of shared assumptions but despite the rough edges of her confrontational style, even Indira chipped in with her contribution.

The most striking feature of this consensus was an almost blind worship of a seemingly progressive state and, by implication, progressive politics which separated the ‘enlightened’ from the cretin. What bound the refined bhadralok sensibilities of a Jyoti Basu and Hiren Mukherjee (both cardholding Communists) with the Fabianism of K.R. Narayanan and the public service Brahminism of R.Venkatraman and J.N. Dixit was the common reverence for an activist state. This faith in an enlightened despotism, legitimised through the ballot box, was based on noble intentions and a shared disdain of vulgarian capitalism, particularly of the Yankee variety. This is where aesthetes such as Pupul Jayakar and Kamaladevi Chattopadhyay stepped in with their devotion to indigenous crafts and handlooms. They ensured that India’s socialist elite weren’t infected by the grim and grey realism of Stalin’s Soviet Union.

But, at the same time, ‘progressive’ also meant being a committed friend of the Soviet Union which all these worthies were. It meant that when the Berlin Wall collapsed in 1989, a part of what they had lived for was lost. President Narayanan wasn’t being churlish when he gracefully questioned the unipolar world to a visiting President Clinton: he was echoing his own anguish.

What Gandhi’s book misses out is that this consensus produced its dissenters. The awkward elements weren’t packed off to a Gulag, but they were ruthlessly ostracised from an Establishment that drew its sustenance from the conviviality of the like-minded. Kriplani, for example, was barely tolerated by the ‘progressives’ and they barely protested when JP was dubbed a fascist.

The omission is striking because one of the most prominent heretics of that age happened to be Rajaji, his maternal grandfather. I would have loved to have read Gandhi’s take on the man who questioned the fundamentals of Nehruvian existence—and was vindicated by history.

I would have also loved to know why Gandhi’s roll of honour didn’t include anyone in business or involved in the generation of wealth. It might explain why this charming collection often reads like an elegy to an India that, hopefully, is history. 

Business Standard, October 21, 2011