Sheila Dikshit’s Heart

(Written c. 2013)

»Delhi Chief Minister Arvind Kejriwal called on his predecessor Sheila Dikshit before her departure for France for an aortic valve replacement. Kejriwal tweeted the news of his visit, but did not add that he stayed for barely five minutes. If his visit had been slightly longer, he could have picked up some helpful pointers from a veteran like Dikshit, who successfully ran the Delhi government for three terms without any major hitch even though the NDA was in power at the Centre for some of that period. The 80-year-old Dikshit courteously came down to see off the CM and was taken aback to find that Kejriwal was accompanied by a long convoy of cars, including several police vehicles. Kejriwal, who joined politics claiming to be a man of the people, could have taken a lesson from Dikshit who crisscrossed the city most unobtrusively. People in Nizamuddin East recall that Dikshit frequently visited the colony when she was in power, as her sister lives there, but few got to know since she travelled without any fanfare.«  Coomi Kapoor, The Indian Express, 2 September 2018.

I would normally not quote Coomi Kapoor, who is after all not much more than a political gossip columnist. And I do not know whether or not Kejriwal was accompanied by a long convoy of cars.

But I can confirm that on the two occasions that I met her, Sheila-ji was not at all officious as a CM, especially when it came to using transport and the trappings of office. In 2000, after my father had received the Indira Gandhi award for National Integration, we were crossing the road to get to our car parked in a patch behind Shastri Bhawan. A white Maruti Gypsy stopped next to us, and the lady in the passenger’s seat rolled down the window and addressed my wife: “Young lady, you look like someone I have met before. Can I drop you and your family home or somewhere where you want to go?” It was Sheila Dikshit, Chief Minister of Delhi, seated next to her driver. (Her son Sandeep and my wife had been fellow students over a decade earlier, and knew each other in the NGO sector).

The next time was when she came home to express her condolences to my mother when my father died (ten years ago, almost to the day). A white ambassador pulled up, and the CM got down from the front passenger seat (she always sat next to the driver; this time there was one policeman who sat in the back). No airs about her. My mother told her that seeing her smile would cheer her up more than anything else.

The horrific rape of Jyoti Singh (I wish people will stop using the moniker “Nirbhaya”, possibly coined by Times of India) happened at a time that Sheila Dikshit was in and out of hospital for a heart surgery. Sheila-ji was in no physical condition to address the apprehensions of the public. One of those who gained advantage of her incapacity was her successor as CM, who would exploit that moment to its fullest.

As someone who will also eventually need an aortic valve replacement, I hope the surgery goes well and I wish her a speedy recovery.

Where there’s a will

(Written about 2020)

Where there’s a will, there is the weight of something to be done usually. But there are wills that embody a life style.  

I recently found two old wills written by my father. The first, dated 16 December 1983, is typed up on that yellowish paper of peculiar dimensions that used to be found with notaries and in government offices. It was witnessed by two of his colleagues -- his devoted assistant P Sethumadhavan, and Raju Korah. The later one is handwritten and dated 17 June 1990. The provisions of the two testaments are substantially the same --- leaving his small savings and modest flat to my mother, and expressing gratitude to her and to his sons, friends and colleagues. Both conclude with a desire that there be no religious rituals post his death. 

The first Will (of 16 December 1983), written before he was 60, begins with a bland statement that he retired from government service on 30th April of that year, and while he was continuing to work in the same position, “it is an appropriate occasion to think of a time when I shall not be around”. He goes on to write: “I have travelled light and do not have many belongings. The act of writing a will therefore becomes an academic exercise. But it is good to make things easier for those who survive.” Well, one could quibble that he did have a large number of belongings, in the form of nearly ten thousand books, but these are not the kind of effects that get listed in a will. In any case he spent the last few years of his life in the “academic exercise” of selecting and handing off those books to people whom he thought were appropriate recipients for them, an act he likened in an article to a traditional father finding grooms for his daughters. He goes on to write: “My father did not leave any immovable property. I have failed to follow his example, and am trying to acquire a house by becoming a member of the CIS Officers’ Cooperative Group Housing Society...”, listing the modest amount he had paid up till then. The rest of his assets, around a few tens of thousand rupees in various bank accounts and savings schemes, and some objects, books and a couple of paintings given to him by friends, were bequeathed to my mother. Having no belief in ritual, he wanted a plain, unsentimental farewell -- for which he depended on his wife and sons, who he says “meant much to me”.

The second Will, dated 17 June 1990, begins with “Wills are left by those who have wealth. I did not make money and money did not make me. During the forty-four years of my working life, I acquired a small flat <details elided>, and a car, which I bought twenty years ago, and saved about Rs 1,75,000, which I have deposited in <bank account details elided>. All these I leave to my wife, Kamalamma, the person who means most to me in life, who has shared my outlook and has helped me to resist ambition.” He goes on to write: “With my physical problem of a blocked carotid artery, my sincere hope is that I shall not become so incapacitated as to be a burden on my wife. She knows I do not believe in rituals, and I do not want any religious rites when I am no more.”

This desire was not to be, for he suffered Parkinson’s disease for several years, with my mother bravely looking after him through his physical ordeals. But his Will was done -- there were no religious rites at his funeral, at which several friends and colleagues were present. With my mother’s firm veto, we were able to quash an attempt from one quarter at performing some rituals.

In the years after he wrote these testaments, there came up two new major “claimants” to his legacy -- his grandsons. While he gave them little by way of material possessions, what he left for them was far more precious: his unconditional love and his integrity.

Shouri (a son's memories)

(written 15.04.2024)

“Shouri”, “Showrie”, “Shourie” — that was the name he was called at home, and by those who knew him well. My infant tongue could only manage “Thouduli”; my children called him “Dui”, sometimes adding “tata”. That a man of such distinction and achievement would happily let everyone, of all ages, address him so casually speaks of his self-assurance and inner confidence. He rarely talked down to people, no matter what their standing, treating even young children as equals when conversing with them.  

Paradoxically, this man of letters had a reputation for reticence, choosing silence over empty talk — if he was a man of few words, the words were carefully chosen. But when he was with his close friends, especially those from his college days, his conversation could be sparkling with witticisms and anecdotes.

To this day I miss the twinkle in his eyes that would show when he was enjoying something — food, music, a movie, a joke, a work of art, or the company of his grandsons. I never heard him raise his voice. I recall one occasion, when he was being rudely badgered on the phone by a junior colleague, his voice became extremely soft as he even more calmly and gently put the person in his place.  

Very early in his life did he seem to give up having expectations of people, which I supposed saved him from the toxin of resentment. He instinctively avoided confrontation and argument While he was an excellent teacher, he did not try to change people, especially if they did not measure up to a task, but just didn’t engage too much with them. If he came across as aloof or indifferent to some, it was perhaps for this reason.  

He had two workplaces at home: One was the round dining table with no fixed seats, where he read the newspapers marking them with a blue pencil, and ate his simple meals — vegetable-rich pulusu- or chaaru-annam, perugu-annam, or chitranna, with vegetables on the side. He was no autocrat at the table, and for him eating together was a way of communing. The other was his study table, to which he went when he needed the solitude to craft speeches or write articles. He also had an amazing ability to multi-task: listening to classical music, playing Scrabble with Kamalamma, doing the Herald Tribune crossword, or reading through the latest book that had come out. Despite his punishing work schedule, he managed to read through, and often review, at least a handful of substantial books a month, fiction and nonfiction.  

What amazes me to this day is how he, who lived as busy and demanding a work life as can be imagined with a fair amount of travel, seemed to squeeze time out to not only write very regularly to his parents, siblings, and a vast circle of friends, but to spend quality time with us. On weekends or holidays, he would drive us (and any visiting relatives and guests) to different historical sites across Delhi and take us to music concerts and art exhibitions, dog shows, libraries, public gardens, as well as regularly visit close friends and relatives in different parts of Delhi. He had an intimate and natural knowledge of all his hometowns — Bengaluru, Mysuru and Delhi (and possibly Bombay as well -- I never went there with him)— and the buildings, the history, the soil, the flora and fauna — trees, flowers, birds. This knowledge was not the kind that came from study and research, but was somewhat innate (like that of his dear friend Shivarama Karanth). 

Shouri and Kamalamma were both steadfastly self-reliant — washing their own clothes, doing the dishes, cleaning the car, dusting the house with its countless books and artefacts, cooking. This was very unusual in bureaucratic Delhi, with its absurd hierarchies. Kamalamma, of course, complemented Shouri with her expansiveness — she was lively when he was quiet, she was passionate where he was equanimous. Housework and word games — and dancing the kolaata — was how they bonded. (When Kamalamma passed away, a dear family friend sent me a most eloquent 1-word condolence message: “Scrabble”). 

Shouri’s love for his family was not demonstrative at all. Rather than expansive hugs, except perhaps to the grandchildren, his affection was expressed in the little things he did for us, or how he recalled small events from our childhood. His love for his mother ran very deep, his eyes welling up on seeing her photo just days before he passed away. Towards his father he had a sense of duty and a protective instinct. And he loved his siblings — which they reciprocated with sheer adulation towards him. Not that he was not cognisant of the foibles of all of us in the family, but he seemed to accept us for who we were. 

Shouri lived a simple life, making few demands on the world and people around him, caring deeply for his environment, but without any overt show of this innate concern. And yet that very simplicity embodied an elegant minimalism, an aesthetic exercise of choice — for the functional form, abjuring meretricious — in his writing, his clothes, his food, his manner, his values.

Books read in 2026

The Strange Library (Haruki Murakami) -- more a work of graphic art than a story.  The story is of a young boy who disappears into (for what may be a few days) and eventually escapes from a municipal library.

Flesh (David Szalay)  -- this review intentionally left blank

The Lazy Burglar (George Simenon)

The Hunchback  (Saou Ichikawa) -- story of a severely disabled but rich woman living in an assisted living facility who dabbles in pornographic writing, posts on social media.  Her strange desires.  Told from different viewpoints of the who the narrator may be. 

Desire  (Haruki Murakami)  -- a collection of short stories, 

• The Second Bakery Attack (Jay Rubin) -- quirky
• On Seeing the 100% Perfect Girl One Beautiful April Morning (Jay Rubin) -- what may have happened
• Birthday Girl (Jay Rubin) -- What will be will be?
• Samsa in Love (Ted Goossen) -- imaginative
• A Folklore for My Generation: A Pre-History ofLate-Stage Capitalism (Philip Gabriel) -- poignant

Utensils

Plates

My parents’ stainless steel plates for every day (almost always South Indian) meals. 

The one on the left with the rim was my father’s. At the end of the meal he’d lift his plate and pour any fluid left over (rasam,sāmbār or the whey from yogurt) into his mouth. 

The one on the right, slightly deeper and rimless, was my mother’s. She’d run her right hand across the rim to scrape off any food sticking to it, and then scoop that residue up with her thumb into her smacking lips. 

I hated both “rituals with victuals” then. Now they are endearing memories of my parents. How time changes our perspectives. 

Glasses (or tumblers)

These are the two stainless steel glasses my brother and I grew up drinking milk or water out of. Every day.

The one on the right has a small dent in it. (Perhaps accidental, perhaps due to an outburst), By some unspoken convention in the family that glass was assigned to my brother. I once drank over-boiled milk from it, which tasted like
(brinjal/aubergine/eggplant) to me, so I henceforth would never drink from that glass. 

The one on the right has a little notch in its lip. This was mine. I swear I didn’t nibble into it to make up for some iron deficiency.

More tumblers

These were the ones my parents used. My father the marginally larger one, my mother the very slightly smaller one. To pour water, buttermilk, and other liquids, including hot fluids, into their waiting gullets.

Delhi Rape Stats (Written in 2014)

Following the December 16 2012 gang rape of a 23-year old woman (whom I will not call Nirbhaya or Damini, names concocted to protect her identity),  Delhi was branded in the media as the Rape Capital.  Politicians, including one in whose official residence a rape had taken place several years ago (let me clarify that he was not involved), were quick to latch onto this epithet.  That particular crime was horrific, and quite naturally caused outrage among our citizenry.  The media trotted out shocking figures of the number of rapes that occur every day/month/year in Delhi.  

In analysing crime statistics (as opposed to a particular crime), especially those such as rape  which raise emotions, what ultimately matters is not absolute numbers, since a large city is more likely to have more crimes committed than a smaller city. So it is sobering to take into account the numbers per 100,000 population.   To understand these in the Indian context, here is a link to an article that informs us about various urban centres in India, and what their rates of rape are:
http://www.thehindu.com/opinion/blogs/blog-datadelve/article5071357.ece

The December 16 2012 crime remains imprinted in our memory, and has served as a catalyst for reforms in crime against women, rape in particular. One positive outcome was the reformulation of the law, under the sage advice of the commission headed by the retired CJI Justice Verma.   Another positive outcome is that the reporting of rape and the registering of cases of rape since then has increased several-fold. Here is the situation for the year gone by:

http://www.indianexpress.com/news/in-97--rape-cases-accused-known-to-victim-police-data-reveals/1213573/0

It is a gut-wrenching read, and one which hold many lessons for us as citizens who wish our city to be safer and more secure, specially for women.  But one thing that seems to come out is that the December 16 rape incident is NOT the typical rape that happens in our city.   Which is not to say that we can ignore it -- it should always remind us of the horror of the "gang rape" (a base act of utter cowardice).

The truth is ugly.    Rape clearly is a crime of violence, the sexual nature of which is not primary.  It is often committed opportunistically, but always seems to involve an exercise of power.  And very often a betrayal of trust, very often of minors, and very often by a family member or a  friend or acquaintance.   Also very revealing is the socio-economic profile of the victims. (The Indian Express December 31 2013  article had an accompanying table in the print version, which showed that the victims were primarily lower middle class women, and upper middle class women formed a miniscule fraction.  We should also perhaps be sensitive to caste/minority demographics, which weren't given.   There was however a table  regarding the ages of the victims and perpetrators, but with the < and > signs mixed up).

What the figures in the article above also reveal is a shade of grey:  In nearly 40% of the reported cases, the victim was in a consensual relationship with the accused (and in about half of those, the victim made the complaint after eloping or being in a live-in relationship with the accused)  A friend who works extensively with gender issues and violence against women in a variety of contexts also remarked that in her experience, many young women believe that if a consensual relationship does not progress towards marriage (betrayal of trust) then it constitutes rape.

There is another issue that bothered me with the debates in the media when the Justice Verma Commission report came out regarding victims of rape, and whether the crime should be called sexual assault or rape. Some very passionate gender activists and lawyers whom I respect categorically that it should be defined as a gender-specific violent crime against women, and it should be called rape.  

I agree that it is gender-specific, but not in that of the victim, but of the perpetrator -- who seems invariably to be male. Spare a thought for the numerous victims of a violent act, which in all respects is exactly the same as the new definition of rape, but who happen to be male, especially hapless minors. 

(c) Sanjiva Prasad 2014 

Babur ki Aulad

 Babur ki Aulad

(An incomplete note from early 2011)

In mid-December 2010, I took an early Indian Airlines (Air India now) flight to Chennai to attend a conference. After tumbling out of the plane with the one backpack I was carrying, I boarded a rickety bus, the doors of which were hurriedly shut before more people boarded it.  Seated near me was the only other occupant, a serious-looking man, white hair but thick black brows over his glasses, wearing a blue suit.  A small briefcase lay at his feet .  A vaguely familiar face, but not someone whose identity I was absolutely certain about, especially when I was still groggy.  He sat there straightening his suit, setting his face for what seemed to be a hard day's work involving people who were not his type.  As we stepped off the bus a couple of minutes later, a single bush-shirted flunky greeted him with folded hands, and dextrously thrust an unremarkable bouquet of flowers into his hands and grabbed his bag from him.  The bouquet was quickly handed back to the flunky.  At this point, I ventured to ask the gentleman if he was Salman Khurshid.  Yes, he answered in a quiet voice (very graciously I must say, for a Cabinet Minister).  I introduced myself, saying that I had met him when I was much younger and he had for a brief period been a colleague of my father.  He spoke warmly of my father, saying he (my father) was someone he greatly respected and admired.  He asked if I worked in Chennai or in Delhi.  I told him I taught at the IIT in Delhi, and he wrote down my contact details.

A couple of months later, one of his aides mailed us an invitation to the staging of his play "Sons of Babur", starring Tom Alter as the last Mughal Bahadur Shah Zafar.  We went to see the play the other day.  The play is written with an imagination and a sensitivity to history and the human condition.  While the acting may not have been all stellar, Tom Alter plays the role with a flourish but without overwhelming us with histrionics, lending a sense of poignancy to the life and death of the last Mughal.