 "<b>Lunch with BS:</b> Kanhaiya Kumar")
Kanhaiya Kumar, the former JNU Students Union president, who found himself pitchforked into national limelight after his arrest earlier this year, is not an easy man to meet, especially if you are a journalist.
Kumar hasn’t had a great run with the media. So when our lunch appointment is rescheduled from 1 pm to 1.30 pm and when he does not arrive at the designated spot till 2 pm, I start to wonder if I am paying for the sins of my fellow journalists.
The original venue was the legendary Ganga Dhaba. But eventually I meet him at his hostel — Brahmaputra (old). He does not apologise for the delay but offers a reason — he was at his publisher’s office. Juggernaut is publishing his book — From Bihar to Tihar — and had provided me an advance copy of the English translation of the Hindi original.
I ask him if he would like to go to Ganga Dhaba but I am told it does not serve food at the time. Kumar does not want to go out of JNU to eat because he does not want to trouble the personal security officer (PSO) assigned to shadow him wherever he goes. I cannot help asking if the PSO is to protect him from the outside world or the other way around. That makes him laugh and he instructs his close comrade (I would say buddy but the setting is more appropriate for a comrade), a young fellow who has been sent by Kumar’s family from his village to assist him at all times, to have some food as he gives another “interview”. Then he turns to me like a pro: “Do you want just audio or video as well?”
I must say I am quite amused. And before I can explain, he directs me to the visitors’ room and waits for me to ask the first question. He seems so primed for a hardcore political interview that I feel guilty for being the agent of anti-climax. I say I just want to chat over food and that I don’t have a fixed set of questions.
He looks at me puzzled and then nods his head as if he is wondering what kind of interaction this will be. Then he reconciles and says, “Okay, let’s go out and have parathas.” But first he goes to the hostel mess, which is serving food, and gets two things — a bowl of cabbage and potato sabzi and a bowl of plain curd with a spoonful of sugar on it.
We walk out into the open and order in the small shop outside the hostel — another dhaba, I presume, but nowhere near as legendary. He asks me what he should order for me. I say I will go with his choice. So he orders a gobhi paratha for me and then three onion parathas for himself. I am quite hungry and ask for a sattu paratha as well.
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It is a lovely day and unlike the rest of Delhi, the JNU campus is heaven for your lungs. We sit on a bench under a tree and he starts talking as if he is still reconciling himself to the fact that I am not here to ask him about democracy and sedition and freedom of speech.
“That’s all they ever ask. And I keep telling them, Indian democracy koi halwa nahi hai, ki koi bhi aaya aur chammach utha ke kha gaya (it is not easy to subvert Indian democracy — doing so is not as easy as having dessert).” He says he told the BBC’s South Asia chief as much two days ago.
Then he says something that makes me immediately think about his age. He says: “We have covered a long journey and we are still at it. What is happening today is just like a speed breaker on that road.”
I am more interested in understanding his economics, but he looks so earnest in what he says that I decide not to change the topic. So what is our strength? “Actually, our weakness is our strength. Unity in diversity — of caste, ethnicity and culture. The diversity implies that there is no other way for India but democracy. Even those who are not democratic unhe bhi democratic hone ka natak karna padta hai (have to pretend to be democratic).” He does not specify who he is speaking about and I am curious to see where this is going.
“Caste will not let Hindus unite,” he carries on. So I ask him, if he is saying that a great ill of Hinduism is actually saving us. He pounces on this question like a tiger: “Not saving us. It is preventing them from taking over.”
Ah, there we are — the parathas are served. It is well past 2.30 pm and by now he has slurped away the sweet curd although I notice that he has done it in such a manner that his last gulp would have the bulk of the sugar. The kid in me, who loves sweets, agrees. In contrast, he hasn’t eaten much of the cabbage preparation — a fairly understandable decision if you have ever eaten hostel food.
Without realising we suspend the chat and focus on the parathas. There isn’t much to write about the food, quite literally. But it is a sumptuous meal. The parathas are piping hot with a generous amount of filling. Moreover, we have the key ingredient to make any meal tasty — we both are very hungry. The only disturbing element is that the stray dogs (unless dogs are also associated with hostels in JNU) occasionally arrive at a disagreement about the exact spot to rest around last night’s bonfire.
Otherwise, the JNU campus fills you with much happiness — you can hear so many birds chirping. Eventually, the law of diminishing marginal utility of each morsel starts to take effect and I resume the dialogue. “Why didn’t you order sattu paratha? I thought Biharis loved it.” He says, “I love sattu but I don’t eat sattu outside (presumably outside Bihar)… there is just too much adulteration. Once you have had something in its best form you cannot accept it in an inferior form,” he says.
Illustration: Binay Sinha
As he carries on speaking, I wonder how ghastly a scenario it would be if sattu is replaced by freedom. If you are used to a certain quality of freedom, would you ever be fine with an inferior quality of it?
By the time I recollect my thoughts, he is back to talking about how India has so many identities that anyone playing politics that polarises on identity will run out of steam eventually.
He mentions the Una episode and the growing Muslim-Dalit alliance across the country.
Actually, I am less curious about his politics. So a little abruptly I ask him about his economics. What is wrong with the economic system in the country? And he gives the most startling answer. “Thoda detail mein bolen ya ek line mein (should I speak in detail or give a one-line answer)?”
The answer makes me smile and pause for a moment. Having been a producer of TV news in the past, I feel guilty how it trains the subjects into crunching everything in a single sentence to satisfy the 30-second sound bite barrier.
I say, please elaborate, but he chooses to start with that single line. “You see, productive capitalism is surrendering to financial capitalism….”
I realise this lunch is just getting started. I yell to the dhabawallah: “Bhaiya, ek paneer paratha. Aur thoda karara kar dena (One paneer paratha. And make it a little crisp)....”