Either We Wait For Vaccine Or Open
And Face Wolf Outside?
Saeed Naqvi
In
this, the second month of lockdown, as I look out of the room I use as my
office, the deserted neighbourhood park has begun to look like our personal
lawn. Since this window has been my vantage point for well over a decade, I have
grown accustomed to the goings on in the park. The very first sentence in our
constitution describes “India, that is Bharat.” This neighbourhood is “Bharat”
even though the language at the Resident Welfare Association meetings is a kind
of homespun English.
The
“India, Bharat” enigma with which my late editor, George Varghese, grappled
with urgent sincerity, had begun to resolve itself in the 60s, soon after
Pandit Nehru’s death. The Statesman’s
first Indian editor, Pran Chopra revealed all the chips on the then elite’s
shoulder: he juxtaposed Nehru’s association with the world inhabited by the
likes of Yehudi Menuhin, with Shastri’s comfort level with calendar Gods.
In
my park the dilemma has been long resolved. A chintan sthal at one end is used
for pujas and aartis even on Independence and Republic days respectively. By popular
demand (let me add in parenthesis) my hand is always there on the rope which
unfurls the flag.
This
part of Bharat finds itself protected even pampered by the lockdown. It has
made itself even more exclusive by shutting the gates to the apartment blocks
and with a stronger gate at the entrance to the street.
Some
residents have found ways to salve their conscience by allowing the “sweeping-cleaning”
women to leave with guarantees of monthly envelopes to be delivered to them
outside the second gate. But who delivers the envelopes? This is unresolved.
In
a nearby colony where friends live the intractable issue has been the disposal
of garbage. Why can’t residents of individual apartments fill plastic bags with
waste accumulated over 24 hours? These can be taken to the garbage dump which
is only a few hundred yards away. Resistance to this proposition is widespread.
In fact, resistance is in inverse proportion to the income of respective
householders. RWAs work largely on consensus. How does one arrive at a
consensus in days of corona without holding a meeting?
An
enduring consensus has been reached. The colony will employ a “scavenger”. That
is the preferred job description: its Hindi variant is considered politically
incorrect. For an RWA so fastidious, settling on the job description alone is
not the end of the matter. The “scavenger”, after all, will come from outside,
possibly a “bastee” or a slum, by definition corona infested. When he rings the
bell to collect the garbage bag, he will without the shadow of a doubt, leave
corona on the switch. Moreover, he will have to open the gate to reach the “bell”
and in the process “pollute” the gate.
Ingenuity
comes in when obstacles are insurmountable. An inspired RWA member solved the
problem. The “scavenger” will be given a whistle of sufficient shrillness as to
be heard by individual residents. They will bring out the bag and hand it to
the “scavenger” without making physical contact.
That the name of the “scavenger” is
Ashraf which comes from “Sharief” which means a gentleman. He is clearly on the
downward spiral accurately grasped by a Sachar Commission. He may be of
interest to the Tableeghi Jamaat, the Muslim Religious Reform Group whose
headquarters or “Markaz” at Nizamuddin, have become famous as the epicenter of
coronavirus. Globally, the West will, on a given bad day, refer to the “Chinese”
virus. In Bharat, political masters may consider the creative coinage:
Mohammadan Mahamari Markaz. That may tend to be an exaggeration.
The
currency such an alliterative chant is to be given will depend on the shade of
saffron required at a given time. Our maestros of communal politics have learnt
a profound lesson: communalism pays dividends only when tied to nationalism. For
the game to be ramped up that high, the leadership will require Kashmir and
Balakot Plus. But for good strategy, the old Persian saying is apt:
“Har
sukhan mauqa-o-
Har
nukta muqam-e-darad”
(Every
word has its appointed moment;
Every
dot, its appointed place.)
Anything
else is not strategy; it is Trump in a China shop.
The
season of coronavirus, however, may not be conducive to high wire acts, which
require a stout safety net, which means a calm home front. But there remains
that imperative of keeping cadres on their toes so that they don’t turn
sluggish. Calmness, yes, but with sporadic Tableeghi bashing, beef lynching and
such like will continue by way of mood music. There is a built-in deterrence on
Love-jihad. Mutually assured infection, to distort a phrase from the Cold War,
has closed that window of opportunity.
So
far, Prime Minister Narendra Modi has been spectacularly blessed by the Gods. Citizens
protected by his dramatic lockdown are in his thrall for having being saved. Adults
do not appear on balconies with their kitchenware as percussion, interspersed
with the sounds of conch shells unless they are in awe or a spell has been cast
on them. But too much of anything, even abject devotion begins to pall. Kaifi Azmi
wrote:
Ram
kab ayenge maloom naheen
Kaash
Ravan hi koi aa jaata.
(How
long do I wait for Rama? Even a Ravana’s appearance will liven up the scene)
Those
locked-in are neither being afflicted by the virus, nor do they see vials of
vaccine floating on the horizon. It is bit like Becket’s Waiting For Godot: two
characters are waiting for Godot who never shows up. The play is a masterpiece
on life’s meaninglessness.
Metaphysics
aside, do we not sympathize with Modi who faces an acute dilemma? The Bharat which
is locked-in is with him. But is he all at sea with the much, much bigger Bharat
which, having been locked out, is beginning to look like a monstrously hungry
wolf on the other side of the outer gates?
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