Jamal Mecklai: Goan masala for the Budget

MARKET MANIAC

Just back from a few wonderful days in Goa, and, you know, it keeps getting better and better. The air was clean and cool, the water was clean and cool, the scene was""well, there were a bunch of Russians""but, it was really clean and cool, and the feni""well, there's not much you can say about that, except that the difference between feni and more distilled alcohol, like whiskey or rum, is that if you drink a lot of whisky (or rum or vodka or whatever), you get drunk, BUT if you drink a lot of feni, you get drunk AND YOU SEE GOD.

So, as I was saying, I was in Goa, with my wife and family, communing with nature, chit chatting with God and one evening at a lovely restaurant, where we sat under a canopy of bougainvillea blossoms, I noticed this very unusual couple. He looked about my age, but quite debonair, in a white mundu if you will; and she, well, she was in a red sarong and if I were to describe her, I'd quickly run out of the 800 or 900 words I'm allotted here. Suffice it to say, she was beautiful and intense, and our friend was clearly trying to sell her on something.

We were sitting at a nearby table and so could catch snippets of the conversation. And his suit didn't seem to be going very well.

He said, "Well, but don't you see how wonderfully it's been going these past couple of years? I mean, just look around you?"

"Nouveau riche," she sniffed, turning scornfully to a large, loud table of Russian tourists nearby. "And, in any case," as she reached for her glass of wine, "what does a place like this have to do with the simple people of this country?"

"But, that's just it, my dear. Those people, the one's making that Godawful noise""well, they're Russians""you should know ..."

"I do," she said, draining her glass.

"So, for one, tourism is booming. We're still a long way from the bank, but, it's beginning ..."

"You see what I mean""you're always bringing banks into it. But, even if tourism is doing well, how does it help the poor man in the streets of Kolkata?"

He signalled to the waiter. "Why don't we try some of the local feni? It's supposed to be very good."

"It better be," she sniffed, softening a bit. The wrap fell off her shoulders. He gallantly retrieved it and draped it ever so slowly back about her.

I was beginning to feel a little bit of a voyeur, but, just as I was turning back (to my own feni), he said, "But, don't you see that we""and I mean the real we in the Congress""we share your concerns. Really. We believe that it is our primary job to uplift the poorest of the poor."

"C'mon," she snorted. "You expect me to believe that. All you guys do is talk about incentives for business, all you show concern for is the market. And you expect me to believe that the few times you deign to talk about the poor ... bhrrrr." She took a large swallow of her feni. "Look at this place," she said, pointing. "Don't get me wrong. It's lovely and this feni stuff is even lovelier. But seriously Picky, you're just another rich boy pretending to care."

"But, don't you see ..." He took a swallow. "I feel all I'm saying is 'don't you see'." He signalled the waiter for more feni. The band had gotten louder, playing some Goan masala.

Picky took a large sip""more a gulp really. "What I mean is OK, I am a rich boy from a privileged background and I have studied economics and I am interested in business. But," and here he was really getting worked up, his mundu in a twist, so to speak, "I do feel for the country""and the country isn't just the Ambanis and the Subash Chandras and the Mittals. The country is this nice boy who's pouring us the feni, his mother""somewhere in Assam, to judge by him""it's everybody, it's all of us."

He was really getting going now. He was half out of his chair and almost spilled the waiter's tray as it brought their next round of drinks.

"Calm down," she said, sweetly, smiling behind her suddenly brighter lipstick. "We're not here to get political."

"But, it is. It is. Everything is political. We must do the right thing." He was almost shouting. Even the Russians turned around.

"And the right thing," he continued, "is to increase the size of the pie!" He virtually screamed this out and the young waiter came running across with the dessert menu. "Do you know the real difference between 8 per cent and 10 per cent growth? Do you? Do you? Tell me."

She was getting a bit embarrassed, trying to calm him down. "Listen, Picky, I didn't mean to question your integrity."

"But, tell me, sweetie, tell me," he was suddenly calmer, back to his charming self, quite the trial lawyer. "Tell me the difference between 8 per cent and 10 per cent growth."

She shrugged, pleased that the scene was calming down, "2 per cent."

"Aha," he said, triumphantly. "The difference is that at 10 per cent growth, you double the standard of living in one generation, which means that almost everyone in India""this young man serving us, for instance""would be able to see his daughter (or son) live a dramatically better life. At 8 per cent or lower growth, it would take more than a lifetime."

He stood up, his triumph complete. She looked a bit embarrassed.

He reached across the table and slowly drew her pink stole off her shoulders. Rising unsteadily, his mundu swaying, he looked every bit the Goan dervish. "Shall we dance?" he said.