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What is noteworthy about the cartoon
row is that neither Jawaharlal Nehru nor B.R. Ambedkar found
anything objectionable about it when it was published in 1949. Nor
did all the politicians in the intervening decades, among whom
were luminaries such as Vallabhbhai Patel, J.B. Kripalani, Ram
Manohar Lohia, Indira Gandhi, Morarji Desai, Jagjivan Ram, A.K.
Gopalan, Hiren Mukherjee and scores of others whose names are
likely to last in textbooks longer than of some of their
successors in the political field today.
It may be worthwhile, therefore, to mull over the differences in
response between an earlier generation of politicians and the
latest ones, especially when, by common consent, the calibre of
those who graced the hallowed chambers of Parliament House and of
public life in the past was of a higher order than of those who
came in their wake. There is little doubt that what places them on
a higher pedestal in the eyes of their countrymen is their
accomplishments in personal and political life.
Among the attributes which gave them a higher status was an
ability to take a critical look at themselves. Nothing showed this
exemplary trait more than Nehru's searing observations on himself
which surpassed anything which his critics might have said.
Writing anonymously in the Modern Review in 1937, the hero of the
independence movement said: "Caesarism is always at the door and
is it not possible that Jawaharlal himself might fancy himself as
a Caesar."
If the builder of modern India detected an unworthy trait in
himself, Ambedkar, the architect of the constitution, sounded a
warning about a dubious characteristic of the nation, "where 'bhakti'
or the path of devotion or hero worship plays a part in its
politics unequalled in its magnitude by the part it plays in the
politics of any other country. Bhakti in religion may be a road to
the salvation of the soul. But in politics, bhakti or hero worship
is a sure road to degradation and to eventual dictatorship".
Central to this attitude is an uncluttered vision and a
self-deprecatory sense of humour about one's personal self and the
country. It is this broad-minded outlook which must have made them
see Shankar's cartoon about Ambedkar being harried by Nehru in the
matter of framing the constitution as a droll, inoffensive
interpretation by a humourist. To them, raising a hue and cry over
a form of popular art common to all democracies would have been
like taking the "road to degradation".
But, there was another, deeper reason for their response - or the
lack of it - which underlined their culture and academic
temperament. It was the fact that they took it for granted that
their popular base was the entire nation, not segments of it which
had to be assiduously cultivated. Instead, they drew their
strength from the adulation of all sections of Indians,
irrespective of their caste or creed.
If the reactions of those who have replaced them in the political
field to Shankar's cartoon are so very different from Nehru's and
Ambedkar's, the explanation lies in the heavily truncated nature
of their perceived bases of support. None of today's politicians
can claim to represent the nation. Instead, they seem to see
themselves as representatives of particular religions or castes or
provinces or regions. What is more, since they are uncertain of
their hold on their targeted communities, they constantly need to
exploit issues which can enable them to retain their influence.
So, the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) has to harp on the temple on
which it has set its heart lest the Hindus slip out of its grasp,
the caste-based outfits like the Bahujan Samaj Party (BSP) of the
Dalits, the Samajwadi Party of the Yadavs and others have to use
real or imaginary slights on their castes to mobilise their
supporters and provincial groups like the Shiv Sena have to call
for the banning of a book seemingly offensive to Maratha icon to
retain their bases. But, interestingly, all these parties also
have to pander to the supposedly hurt sentiments of the other
communities in the hope of winning over some of them. Hence, the
outrage voiced across the board after a Dalit organisation
criticised the cartoon.
The pity is that Nehru's own party, the Congress, with its history
of non-partisan politics, has fallen prey to this cynical game to
pander to the Dalits just as it had banned Salman Rushdie's "The
Satanic Verses" to please the orthodox Muslims and offered muted
support to the ban on James W. Laine's biography of Shivaji to
keep the Marathis in good humour. Yet, there is nothing to suggest
that anyone other than the backward-looking sections in these
communities are impressed by such kowtowing to self-serving
propaganda which makes a mockery of democratic values,
intellectual acuity and freedom of the media.
Amulya Ganguli is a
political analyst. He can be reached at amulyaganguli@gmail.com
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