The tourist season having begun, it was a matter of time before some American visitors I’d joined for a drink asked, “So, who is this Anna babe?” Sipping their JDs with Coke, they pronounced the name like Hannah with the H silent, so I had to point out that he – not she – was the dude who’d got the government in a lock-jam with an anti-corruption movement that was revolutionary in its sentiment, but had other intellectuals’ knickers in a twist for attempting to push what they claimed was an extra-constitutional ombudsman-like Bill that would lead to the destabilisation of the country. “And you,” Uncle Sam’s unofficial envoys were curious to know, “where do you stand with your choice?” “Me,” I procrastinated, pointing to their JDs, “I’d really rather have it on the rocks.”
It hadn’t been all that much better at home where I’d spent all of the week feeling – and being treated – like a minority citizen, and all because I’d refused to bind myself to the Anna Hazare juggernaut. “The man is fasting for you,” my wife had said in a shocked voice, passing around a platter of foie-gras crackers to a bunch of neighbours – all Hazare supporters who’d volunteered to campaign at the Ramlila grounds – “and you haven’t even raised a slogan in his support.” “Really disgusting,” agreed an acquaintance, before adding, “these corn puffs are really fabulous.”
“While Anna’s lost 10 kilos on his fast,” sighed one neighbour’s wife, “it’s unfair that you’re force-feeding us these delicious canapés that’ll make us put on weight.” “I’ll have you know I hardly ate anything,” said my wife sanctimoniously, referring to a whisky promotion we’d attended the previous evening; “because all Anna’s having is water, I only sipped a little whisky as a toast to him.” That the whisky was the rare Glenfiddich Snow Phoenix was something the teetotalling Gandhian responsible for banning alcohol in his role model village Ralegan Siddhi – even flogging those who liked their sundowner – would hardly have found amusing.
Not that a similar hypocrisy wasn’t shared by those who’d raised banners in support of Hazare. Sarla “lost” her phone in the melee at Ramlila, Padma’s husband’s wallet was picked, as was his buddy Sushant’s pocket. “There are hooligans out there,” a friend, another fence-sitter like me, had pointed out, something I, in true minority fashion, had resisted from mentioning. Coming back from that dinner, my wife and I had found the roads around India Gate jam-packed with what appeared like drunk mobsters hanging out of their cars and racing dangerously on motorcycles — and not a policeman in sight to challan them for their liberation from helmets and safety belts. The flags they were waving for “the country’s second freedom movement” appeared more their mistaken belief that an absence, rather than a strengthening, of laws would release them from either discipline or driving etiquette.
Already, the city-wallah’s ire was rising — you could ask them to picket and they would join you if they could, but block their roads and support for the movement could melt away like ice on a summer day. Sitting down for high-tea at Elma’s, a friend said I could no longer prevaricate. “One way or another, you have to decide,” she pontificated. “You’re right,” I said, looking at the scones with fruit jam and the chocolate croissants to which she’d helped herself and showing a rare courage, decided “I’ll have an open salmon sandwich with Philadelphia cheese and the tiramisu to follow.”