"Okay, let's sit down and discuss the matter," said one of the Big Six assembled at the small conference room of a plush five-star hotel. The sextet had spent the past five minutes consciously avoiding each other's eyes, no exchange of pleasantries, no conversations. Now as the call for the meeting came, the five looked at the speaker with expressions bordering on the disdainful, almost as if to say, "Now, why would you think you should be calling the meeting to order?"
Two young members of the waiting staff came in with a plateful of gateaux. To break the tension in the air, all of them reached across and took a piece each. "Hmmm. Nice," smiled one. "Savour the freshness," said a second in clipped tones. The others munched on blissfully as one poured out tea for the rest.
"Okay, here is what I have to say about the topic of our discussion," began the most earnest-looking of the lot. "I think it is such a shame for Indian politics to become dynastic like this. Husbands wanting tickets for their wives, fathers for their sons, mothers for their daughters. Empowerment of family, that is what I call it." The eyes that stared at him did not look too convinced.
Chimed in another in a gravelly voice: "How can politics be dynastic? How can fathers and mothers presume their children have the genetic right to take over parties? See in reaching where I have, I did not have the help of my father or my mother or my uncle. I had a mentor. Family politics brings relatives too easily into the power structure, and that is disgusting." There was a murmur of agreement around the table. This was one of the rare occasions when the six were of one accord on anything.
The waiting staff walked in with piping hot croissants and small dishes of golden butter and marmalade. The group fell silent. They reached out for the soft,flaky pastry. "Wow, tasty, wonderful, feels like a winter breeze on a summer's day outside Parliament House," said one, who spoke like and looked like a novelist.
"Politics is service to the people," a baritone voice rang out after a few minutes of munching. "A leader is chosen by the people because of what he or she does for them, not because he or she happened to be born in a certain family. And look at what it does… to ensure their children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren have a luxury lifestyle, dynastic politics gives a fillip to corruption. If I don't have sons and daughters, would I siphon away development funds?" Everyone around were experienced enough to know this was a rhetorical question and required no one to provide an answer.
"Even if I had children, I would not pass on the presidentship of the party to them," continued one. The others leaned forward and looked at one another because they seemed not to comprehend the language in which the worthy was speaking. "Even a nephew would have to earn his place in the hierarchy," she brazened on, and this time the group deciphered the vernacular English and nodded their assent.
Then another participant carefully smoothed his starched kurta and began in a sibilant monotone, "A political party is an association of like-minded thinkers. It must nurture leadership and create people who will serve the people. Okay, you may have inherited a party, but you should not pass it on to your own. No son, no daughter as political inheritor," he said to the immense agreement of another stalwart.
The waiting staff walked in with a bowl of luscious, puce grapes. All eyes turned towards the bowl. Hands reached for the fruit and the six of them popped them into their mouth. Then almost in unison, Narendra Modi, Rahul Gandhi, J Jayalalithaa, Mayawati, Mamata Banerjee and Naveen Patnaik all screwed up their faces and cried out, "Sour grapes!"
Free Run is a fortnightly look at alternate realities joel.rai@bsmail.in
