His Excellency
Wen Jiabao, The Premier's Office,
Beijing,
Capital of the Freedom-Loving Nation of China
From the Desk of:
"The White Tiger"
A Thinking Man
And an entrepreneur
Living in the world's centre of technology and outsour-cing Electronics City Phase 1 (just off Hosur Main Road), Bangalore, India.
Mr Premier,
Sir. Neither you nor I speak English, but there are some things that can be said only in English.
My ex-employer the late Mr Ashok's ex-wife, Pinky Madam, taught me one of these things; and at 11:32pm today, which was about ten minutes ago, when the lady on All India Radio announced, "Premier Jiabao is coming to Bangalore next week," I said that thing at once.
In fact, each time when great men like you visit our country I say it. Not that I have anything against great men. In my way, sir, I consider myself one of your kind. But whenever I see our prime minister and his distinguished sidekicks drive to the airport in black cars and get out and do namastes before you in front of a camera and tell you about how moral and saintly India is, I have to say that thing in English.
Now, you are visiting us this week, Your Excellency, aren't you? All India Radio is usually reliable in these matters.
That was a joke, sir.
Ha!
That's why I want to ask you directly if you really are coming to Bangalore. Because if you are, I have something important to tell you. See, the lady on the radio said, "Mr Jiabao is on a mission: he wants to know the truth about Bangalore."
My blood froze. If anyone knows the truth about Bangalore, it's me.
Next, the lady announcer said, "Mr Jiabao wants to meet some Indian entrepreneurs and hear the story of their success from their own lips."
She explained a little. Apparently, sir, you Chinese are far ahead of us in every respect, except that you don't have entrepreneurs. And our nation, though it has no drinking water, electricity, sewage system, public transportation, sense of hygiene, discipline, courtesy or punctuality, does have entrepreneurs. Thousands and thousands of them. Especially in the field of technology. And these entrepreneurs—we entrepreneurs—have set up all these outsourcing companies that virtually run America now.
That's when I had to say that thing in English, sir. Out loud.
That was at 11:37pm. Five minutes ago.
I don't just swear and curse. I'm a man of action and change. I decided right there and then to start dictating a letter to you.
To begin with, let me tell you of my great admiration for the ancient nation of China.
I read about your history in a book, Exciting Tales of the Exotic East, that I found on the pavement, back in the days when I was trying to get some enlightenment by going through the Sunday second-hand book market in Old Delhi. This book was mostly about pirates and gold in Hong Kong, but it did have some useful background information too: it said that you Chinese are great lovers of freedom and individual liberty. The British tried to make you their servants, but you never let them do it. I admire that, Mr Premier.
I was a servant once, you see.
Only three nations have never let themselves be ruled by foreigners: China, Afghanistan and Abyssinia. These are the only three nations I admire.
Out of respect for the love of liberty shown by the Chinese people, and also in the belief that the future of the world lies with the yellow man and the brown man now that our erstwhile master, the white-skinned man, has wasted himself through buggery, mobile phone usage and drug abuse, I offer to tell you, free of charge, the truth about Bangalore.
By telling you my life's story.
See, when you come to Bangalore, and stop at a traffic light, some boy will run up to your car and knock on your window, while holding up a bootlegged copy of an American business book, wrapped carefully in cellophane and with a title like:
TEN SECRETS OF BUSINESS SUCCESS
or
BECOME AN ENTREPRENEUR IN SEVEN EASY DAYS!
Don't waste your money on those American books. They're so yesterday.
I am tomorrow.
In terms of formal education, I may be somewhat lacking. I never finished school, to put it bluntly. Who cares! I haven't read many books, but I've read all the ones that count. I know by heart the works of the four greatest poets of all time—Rumi, Iqbal, Mirza Ghalib and a fourth fellow whose name I forget. I am a self-taught entrepreneur.
That's the best kind there is, trust me.
When you have heard the story of how I got to Bangalore and became one of its most successful (though probably least-known) businessmen, you will know everything there is to know about how entrepreneurship is born, nurtured and developed in this, the glorious twenty-first century of man.
The century, more specifically, of the yellow and the brown man.
You and me.
It is a little before midnight now, Mr Jiabao. A good time for me to talk.
I stay up the whole night, Your Excellency. And there's no one else in this 150-square-foot office of mine. Just me and a chandelier above me, although the chandelier has a personality of its own. It's a huge thing, full of small diamond-shaped glass pieces, just like the ones they used to show in the films of the 1970s. Though it's cool enough at night in Bangalore, I've put a midget fan—five cobwebby blades—right above the chandelier. See, when it turns, the small blades chop up the chandelier's light and fling it across the room. Just like the strobe light at the best discos in Bangalore.
This is the only 150-square-foot space in Bangalore with its own chandelier! But it's still a hole in the wall, and I sit here the whole night.
The entrepreneur's curse. He has to watch his business all the time.
Now I'm going to turn the midget fan on, so that the chandelier's light spins around the room.
I am relaxed, sir. As I hope you are.
Let us begin.
Before we do that, sir, the phrase in English that I learned from my ex-employer the late Mr Ashok's ex-wife Pinky Madam is:
What a fucking joke.
Now, I no longer watch Hindi films—on principle—but back in the days when I used to, just before the movie got started, either the number 786 would flash against the black screen—the Muslims think this is a magic number that represents their god—or else you would see the picture of a woman in a white sari with gold sovereigns dripping down to her feet, which is the goddess Lakshmi, of the Hindus.
It is an ancient, venerated custom of people in my country to start a story by praying to a Higher Power.
I guess, Your Excellency, that I too should start off by kissing some god's arse. Which god's arse, though? There are so many choices.
See, the Muslims have one god.
The Christians have three gods.
And we Hindus have 36,000,000 gods.
Making a grand total of 36,000,004 divine arses for me to choose from.
Now, there are some, and I don't just mean communists like you, but thinking men of all political parties, who think that not many of these gods actually exist. Some believe that none of them exist. There's just us and an ocean of darkness around us. I'm no philosopher or poet, how would I know the truth? It's true that all these gods seem to do awfully little work—much like our politicians—and yet keep winning re-election to their golden thrones in heaven, year after year. That's not to say that I don't respect them, Mr Premier! Don't you ever let that blasphemous idea into your yellow skull. My country is the kind where it pays to play it both ways: today the Indian entrepreneur has to be straight and crooked, mocking and believing, sly and sincere, all at the same time.
So: I'm closing my eyes, folding my hands in a reverent namaste, and praying to the gods to shine light on my dark story.
Bear with me, Mr Jiabao. This could take a while.
How quickly do you think you could kiss 36,000,004 arses?
Done. my eyes are open again.
11:52 pm—and it really is time to start. A statutory warning—as they say on cigarette packs—before we begin.
One day, as I was driving my ex-employers Mr Ashok and Pinky Madam in their Honda City car, Mr Ashok put a hand on my shoulder, and said, "Pull over to the side." Following this command, he leaned forward so close that I could smell his aftershave—it was a delicious, fruit-like smell that day—and said, politely as ever, "Balram, I have a few questions to ask you, all right?"
"Yes, sir," I said.
"Balram," Mr Ashok asked, "how many planets are there in the sky?"
I gave the answer as best as I could.
"Who was the first prime minister of India?"
And then: "Balram, what is the difference between a Hindu and a Muslim?"
And then: "What is the name of our continent?"
Mr Ashok leaned back and asked Pinky Madam, "Did you hear his answers?"
"Was he joking?" she asked, and my heart beat faster, as it did every time she said something.
"No. That's really what he thinks the correct answers are."
She giggled when she heard this: but his face, which I saw reflected in my rear-view mirror, was serious.
"The thing is, he probably has… what, two, three years of schooling in him? He can read and write, but he doesn't get what he's read. He's half-baked. The country is full of people like him, I'll tell you that. And we entrust our glorious parliamentary democracy"—he pointed at me—"to characters like these. That's the whole tragedy of this country."
He sighed.
"All right, Balram, start the car again."
That night, I was lying in bed, inside my mosquito net, thinking about his words. He was right, sir—I didn't like the way he had spoken about me, but he was right.
The Autobiography of a Half-Baked Indian. That's what I ought to call my life's story.
Me, and thousands of others in this country like me, are half-baked, because we were never allowed to complete our schooling. Open our skulls, look in with a penlight, and you'll find an odd museum of ideas: sentences of history or mathematics remembered from school textbooks (no boy remembers his schooling like one who was taken out of school, let me assure you), sentences about politics read in a newspaper while waiting for someone to come to an office, triangles and pyramids seen on the torn pages of the old geometry textbooks which every tea shop in this country uses to wrap its snacks in, bits of All India Radio news bulletins, things that drop into your mind, like lizards from the ceiling, in the half hour before falling asleep—all these ideas, half formed and half digested and half correct, mix up with other half-cooked ideas in your head, and I guess these half-formed ideas bugger one another, and make more half-formed ideas, and this is what you act on and live with.
The story of my upbringing is the story of how a half-baked fellow is produced.
But pay attention, Mr Premier! Fully formed fellows, after twelve years of school and three years of university, wear nice suits, join companies, and take orders from other men for the rest of their lives.
Entrepreneurs are made from half-baked clay.
Like all good Bangalore stories, mine begins far away from Bangalore. You see, I am in the Light now, but I was born and raised in Darkness.
I am talking of a place in India, at least a third of the country, a fertile place, full of rice fields and wheat fields and ponds in the middle of those fields choked with lotuses and water lilies, and water buffaloes wading through the ponds and chewing on the lotuses and lilies. Those who live in this place call it the Darkness. Please understand, Your Excellency, that India is two countries in one: an India of Light, and an India of Darkness. The ocean brings light to my country. Every place on the map of India near the ocean is well off. But the river brings darkness to India—the black river.
Which black river am I talking of—which river of Death, whose banks are full of rich, dark, sticky mud whose grip traps everything that is planted in it, suffocating and choking and stunting it?
Why, I am talking of Mother Ganga, daughter of the Vedas, river of illumination, protector of us all, breaker of the chain of birth and rebirth. Everywhere this river flows, that area is the Darkness.
One fact about India is that you can take almost anything you hear about the country from the prime minister and turn it upside down and then you will have the truth about that thing. Now, you have heard the Ganga called the river of emancipation, and hundreds of American tourists come each year to take photographs of naked sadhus at Haridwar or Benares, and our prime minister will no doubt describe it that way to you, and urge you to take a dip in it.
No!—Mr Jiabao, I urge you not to dip in the Ganga, unless you want your mouth full of faeces, straw, soggy parts of human bodies, buffalo carrion, and seven different kinds of industrial acids.
I know all about the Ganga, sir—when I was six or seven or eight years old (no one in my village knows his exact age), I went to the holiest spot on the banks of the Ganga—the city of Benares. I remember going down the steps of a downhill road in the holy city of Benares, at the rear of a funeral procession carrying my mother's body to the Ganga.
Kusum, my granny, was leading the procession. Sly old Kusum! She had this habit of rubbing her forearms when she felt happy, as if they were a piece of ginger she was grating to release grins from. Her teeth were all gone, but this only made her grin more cunning. She had grinned her way into control of the house; every son and daughter-in-law lived in fear of her.
My father and Kishan, my brother, stood behind her, to bear the front end of the cane bed which bore the corpse; my uncles, who are Munnu, Jayram, Divyram and Umesh, stood behind, holding up the other end. My mother's body had been wrapped from head to toe in a saffron silk cloth, which was covered in rose petals and jasmine garlands. I don't think she had ever had such a fine thing to wear in her life. (Her death was so grand that I knew, all at once, that her life must have been miserable. My family was guilty about something.) My aunts—Rabri, Shalini, Malini, Luttu, Jaydevi and Ruchi—kept turning around and clapping their hands for me to catch up to them. I remember swinging my hands and singing, "Shiva's name is the truth!"
We walked past temple after temple, praying to god after god, and then went in a single file between a red temple devoted to Hanuman and an open gymnasium where three bodybuilders heaved rusted weights over their heads. I smelled the river before I saw it: a stench of decaying flesh rising from my right. I sang louder: "… the only truth!"
Then there was a gigantic noise: firewood being split. A wooden platform had been built by the edge of the ghat, just above the water; logs were piled up on the platform, and men with axes were smashing the logs. Chunks of wood were being built into funeral pyres on the steps of the ghat that went down into the water; four bodies were burning on the ghat steps when we got there. We waited our turn.
In the distance, an island of white sand glistened in the sunlight, and boats full of people were heading to that island. I wondered if my mother's soul had flown there, to that shining place in the river.
I have mentioned that my mother's body was wrapped in a satin cloth. This cloth was now pulled over her face; and logs of wood, as many as we could pay for, were piled on top of the body. Then the priest set my mother on fire.
"She was a good, quiet girl the day she came to our home," Kusum said, as she put a hand on my face. "I was not the one who wanted any fighting."
I shook her hand off my face. I watched my mother.
As the fire ate away the satin, a pale foot jerked out, like a living thing; the toes, which were melting in the heat, began to curl up, offering resistance to what was being done to them. Kusum shoved the foot into the fire, but it would not burn. My heart began to race. My mother wasn't going to let them destroy her.
Underneath the platform with the piled-up fire logs, there was a giant oozing mound of black mud where the river washed into the shore. The mound was littered with ribbons of jasmine, rose petals, bits of satin, charred bones; a pale-skinned dog was sniffing through the petals and satin and charred bones.
I looked at the ooze, and I looked at my mother's flexed foot, and I understood.
This mud was holding her back: this big, swelling mound of black ooze. She was trying to fight the black mud; her toes were flexed and resisting; but the mud was sucking her in, sucking her in. It was so thick, and more of it was being created every moment as the river washed into the ghat. Soon she would become part of the black mound and the pale-skinned dog would start licking her.
And then I understood: this was the real god of Benares—this black mud of the Ganga into which everything died, and decomposed, and was reborn from, and died into again. The same would happen to me when I died and they brought me here. Nothing would get liberated here.
I stopped breathing.
This was the first time in my life I fainted.
I haven't been back to see the Ganga since then: I'm leaving that river for the American tourists!
