Immortal Storyteller

I did not know much of this story until February this year. In fact it came to light with its hero's sad demise in the month. For a lot of my contemporaries this arrived not a moment too soon — it merely added to folklore, much like the eternal creations this protagonist had put to paper: a story that must be told. But I get ahead of myself — let us start with an anecdote.

The year was 1967. A 37-year-old gentleman, visiting Delhi with his wife, chanced upon a quiz show on Doordarshan — then the solitary channel on air, beamed to all of seven cities — while at a bookstore. As fate would have it, he watched the participants (from St Stephen’s College) come up woefully short on a question regarding the name of Lord Ram's mother. Dismayed at this pitiful awareness of Indian culture, he was even more abashed to see the students effortlessly answer a subsequent query on Greek mythology. Stung by the irony, Anant Pai resolved, Chanakya-like, that he would do something to fix this gap — and Amar Chitra Katha was born. The rest, as they say, is history.

It is not as if ACK was Uncle Pai's first foray into children's minds. An earlier attempt at kiddie fare, over a decade before that fateful Delhi evening, titled Manav, had sadly failed. In fact, the intervening period saw him at The Times of India group. There he had played a key role in bringing to life the similarly iconic Indrajal comics (more on them some other day). Again, even after that serendipitous quiz show moment and before ACK's ultimate resounding success, many publishers of the age had cold-shouldered his venture. India Book House finally gave the concept a home, kicking off a partnership that gave young India its most-read (100 million, and counting) comic book series. A telling facet of Pai's personality could be found a few years later too, when he was on the verge of another wildly popular series. Finding himself stuck in multiple futile launch meetings to decide its name, with corporate yuppies and their numerous interruptions to attend ostensibly critical phone calls, he decided to name the mag itself 'Tinkle'!

Apart from its hyperbole and undeniable commercial success, Uncle Pai's life remains memorable for the indelible influence his creations had on succeeding generations of young India. Yet, it is also the story of a legacy borne out of deep personal conviction. Whether it was retelling our rich mythological heritage and history at ACK, Krishna through JP, or dishing out infotainment in Tinkle, Kaalia the crow, Kapish the monkey, Shikari Shambu, or Suppandi — Uncle Pai's signature was all-pervasive. Back at Bennett Coleman too he had argued for the culturally neutral — and amenable to a quasi-Indian setting — Phantom and Bahadur. At ACK, after ten issues depicting Cinderella and Red-Riding-Hood style fairytales, Pai personally penned Krishna, downplaying divine miracle in favour of pure raconteur value.

As it turned out, after an indifferent start, the ACK framework took hold, ultimately spawning a pantheon of comic-book writing in India. I can think of few folks in generations either side of mine who were untouched by his creations. They were tucked-in, happy bedside reads, hastily finished in school buses as the stop drew near, or hungrily devoured post lunch before one rushed out for a spot of evening games; and an introduction to the barter system as we traded and re-traded the comics. Yet, without exception, we discovered a highlight of pre-teen existence. If ignorance of history condemns us to repeat it, or missing legends past restricts us from finding that odd hero or heroine in our present, Uncle Pai found us a fix, for good.

Oblivious to his worldly achievements and continuing to be driven by lofty ideals ("Bharat ke bachche agar sapne dekhein to Bharat ke sapne dekhein"), Uncle Pai soldiered on for over four decades. His death in February, aged 81, came barely days after being felicitated for lifetime achievement by Comic Con India, the nation's inaugural comic-book convention. I dare say that given his contribution, the award needed him more than he deserved it. He was working on Glimpses of Glory for the last few years, to capture forty game-changing moments from our history. His characteristic humility would have stopped him, but he might well have included his own. Om Shanti, sir.

Mercury Rising

The PA crackles out loud: "...the outside temperature is 33 degrees" in a typically disjointed flight attendant's voice. It sounds ominous for the Cinderella hour, but Delhi May heat is rarely for the faint-hearted. Nonetheless, it offers me little succour — an uncommonly rude landing has woken me up rather unceremoniously, arms flailing, a few moments prior. Perhaps it's one of those pilots selected for nepotistic reasons (I have followed that story with more than passing interest, including to check if my preferred airline finds a dishonourable mention. None yet, but tonight's rough touchdown suggests that may merely have been good PR). Welcome to India's corruption capital.

These thoughts run through my half-awake mind as the aircraft taxis interminably to the dock. I wonder if I should switch on the phone (I ought to be contrite but no other rule tempts me thus with any regularity). Perhaps I don't need to do this surreptitiously but my guilt has not lessened despite sharing it with a planeload of passengers, flight after flight. A mental shrug later, I decide to wait. (It helps that the late hour rules out folks waiting with bated breath to hear of my progress through the space-time curve.)

At long last the aircraft reaches the gate. This is the cue for two-thirds of its passengers (it's a full flight) to rush into the aisle, much like our parliamentarians troop to the Well in Zero Hour. Everyone seems ready to risk life and limb (never their own) to pull their carry-ons out of the overhead bins. A few moments of heave-ho, and they are ready for the charge, undeterred by the knowledge of a wait before the aircraft doors open (the continued analogy with similarly puerile calisthenics by our Hon'ble MPs is striking). I want to get up and stretch but settle for making the most of the exit row legroom. It does little to uplift my mood.

Minutes later I am part of the Indian file — a laptop bag, my solitary piece of luggage, slung over my shoulder — negotiating my way out of the aluminium tube. I try my best to reciprocate the (forced) enthusiasm in the cabin crew's goodbyes, and manage a smile I hope is bright enough. My perennially-in-meeting-mode phone whirs to life with sundry messages enticing me to assorted properties in Noida, and one that reassures me I am not alone in the world. It cheers me up a little and there is almost a bounce in my step as I climb aboard the travelator. One of the last flights of the day means that, but for my co-passengers, there are no milling many, sporting bored scowls and assorted attire that mildly hint at their ports of embarkation.

Passing many empty arrival gates, not for the first time do I wonder why we dock at the farthest end. Perhaps it is FIFO but that sounds too simple and logical for any self-respecting sarkari decision-maker. In any case, even at the end of a long day, the physical exertion of a walk through the terminal's brightly lit but desolate confines easily outscores its mad-dash alternative (unless you crave the excitement of a wildly careening bus ride — lurching over the asphalt in the darkness while you desperately try to retain a modicum of balance, the beast chasing down intermittent islands of light in the daunting expanse of a large airport).

Used to long strides, my progress on the walkway is typically brisk, though in fits and starts as I encounter slower-moving traffic. My stock response to such interruptions is to wait and take advantage of the travelator's section breaks, and occasionally to edge in sideways. Today I stick to the patience-pays credo, perhaps due to a renewed wave of grogginess as random sounds of our progress through the terminal prey on my mind. The muffled pitter-patter and bolder clickety-clacks of miscellaneous footwear distinctly lose to the grating noise of assorted stroller-bags being dragged over the metal. It is an uneven crescendo that threatens to jar the senses, much like an orchestra spinning out of control. This pipe music adds a laconic twist to the sight of a specimen in stilettos, positioned plumb in front of the ladies' room, but thinking the corridor a better place to powder the nose than the privacy inside. Perhaps this one seeks comfort in the crowd. Whatever.

Down the escalator and past the palm-mudras arrayed in greeting, I near the exit. Expectedly I spot some of the prominent members of the shove-all-aisle-rush genus of the flying species head towards the conveyor belt to await their registered luggage. Without such baggage (pun intended) I continue straight and hit the Meru counter a minute later. Surprisingly there are no cabs at the ready (I see smallish queues at the other radio taxi providers too) and I wait my turn, OCD-heavy as I count off the six folks ahead of me. Tonight cabs hunt in pairs, like fast bowlers, and my ride arrives soon enough. I jump in with a few minutes to go before midnight, but am sure I have not had the last of the portended 33 degrees...

Who's Afraid of Welfare Wolf

I have been off the air for a while. Assorted reasons drove my idle state — I can safely say that paucity of time and not a lack of noteworthy content would rank high among them. Our national mood has, in fact, stretched the arc of the pendulum in this hiatus. A cricket World Cup victory transported India to a euphoric seventh heaven even as a sustained corruption soap opera on national news tested the other extremity.

Amidst this topsy-turvy madness, a widely anticipated Union Budget went by without unduly troubling history. Two months on, I found it uncommonly difficult to recall its details last Tuesday (finding much relief in the fact that my conversation partner, usually a highly aware sample of our species, struggled similarly). The catalyst for our discussion was a BS blog that argued for a tax-stimulated Welfare State in India. To my mind, the post was most instructive — both the merit in its core logic (an established part of neoclassical economics) and the vitriolic reactions (including some regrettably personal ones) it drew.

It is not difficult to understand the clamour for lower taxes. Individuals always want to maximise take-home from gross income (economics = limited-means-unlimited-needs etc). India's historical stress on thrift imparts to this global truth an additional fervour. This intensity is likely rooted in political subjugation and consequent economic travails of the last few centuries. It may run even deeper — the relentless onslaught on our land by variously hued invaders rendering a psyche eschewing 'worldly' pursuit in favour of a productivity focus. In any case, our sociocultural abhorrence of resource waste is singular (consider a humble beverage PET bottle's multi-stage journey in an average Hindustani household to gauge our resource consciousness). Parting with hard-earned income to an ill-performing State is, thus, a tough sell.

On the other hand, if the governance deficit — GOI's 'trust factor' must be at all-time low currently, explaining the cynicism that greeted the post — were to be bridged, then taxes would likely not be branded undesirable waste. Therefore, the idea of taxes-for-welfare merits exploration beyond academic interest. Europe's State-run healthcare framework i(as different from the private sector US model), for instance, would be worthy of deeper analysis and potential emulation.

Two other reactions to the post need unpeeling. First, it is an overly simplistic position to tom-tom tiny city-state successes against the practical realities of India's size and complexity. Next, we put at risk the lessons of GFC 2008 if we continue to pretend that free markets and private initiative are a panacea to all the world's problems. The anti-government intervention refrain in the comments, therefore, was mostly an outcome of the corruption-inflation-misrule that the current Raisina Hill dispensation has come to symbolise.

It behoves us to ask whether the resources to pay for welfare can be mobilized without tax rate hikes. An obvious opportunity is coverage — going by filed returns, an abysmal 3% of Indians pay taxes (vs the US's 45%, say). This has been a tough nut to crack historically. Technology (particularly UID and bolt-ons), however, may provide a way out in the not-so-distant future. Stronger sponsorship must be built for these efforts, including better articulation of benefits and timelines. Saddling the taxpaying salaried minority with more levies ought to be the last resort in this sense (you could say that my stance is partially inspired by a month-end routine of agonizing over the payslip!).

In summary, the post provoked some interesting (even if open-ended) chains of thought. At the very least, its advocacy of a Welfare State underscored a key policy shibboleth — inclusive growth. The question is whether those at the helm think economics beyond competitive populism (commitments in the ongoing state elections, for instance); and how they win back that precious commodity called public confidence — the key to driving larger participation in nation-building. Woh subah kabhi to aayegi...

Judgement Call

Amid the controversy regarding Shri Justice KG Balakrishnan and his family's recently acquired munificence, I heard a few judicial fraternity old-timers urge him to go the extra mile in clearing the air. 'Caesar's wife should be above suspicion' was the dictum they asked to be upheld; exhorting the immediate past occupant of the exalted chair of India's Chief Justice. Messrs Iyer, Verma and Nariman, luminaries all, should know better — given their long, distinguished career records serving the law and jurisprudence. Oft-quoted as the tenet is, I appreciate and endorse it as a touchstone of propriety in high places. Yet, I found the suggestion hopelessly naive and frankly puerile.

First, the allegations: the litany of charges against Shri Balakrishnan is significant as it is shameful. Coincident with his tenure as CJI, the fortunes of multiple members of his family (son-in-law, brother, nephew, and so on) are reported to have skyrocketed. The asset accumulation is rumoured to be in tens of crores — houses, farms, jewellery shops, hotels, and other business interests — presumably by peddling favour in judicial verdicts and administrative decisions. He also stands accused of playing godfather at large, shielding A Raja, the 2G-scam kingpin and Middle India’s reigning bête noire, from prosecution for attempting to influence a Madras HC judge in a corruption case against one of his cohorts. It’s complicated; or is it?

Next, consider the nation’s mood. Our collective consciousness is beset with an unending saga of corruption. We may not end up as a Tunisia or Egypt, but despair over this disgraceful dance of adharma is palpable. In this widespread morass, our higher judiciary’s stellar activist tilt has been the aam aadmi’s last refuge for over two decades. Having presided over this venerated arm of our government (for one of its longest recent tenures), much better could have been expected from Mr Balakrishnan. Instead, one is presented with the ungainly sight of his portly form scurrying away with an inane smile, TV journos in pursuit. It is not quite the picture of one with ‘nothing to hide’. It is also farthest from what is desired, in our current national context or the dignity of his former office.

Unfortunately, there’s more. Yesterday Mr Balakrishnan said no to sharing information on his or his family’s assets. This is piquant. At a time when his supposedly illicit gains weren’t yet the talk of the town, he had led the higher judiciary’s resistance to publicly declaring its assets. I had been surprised — the wise men in black robes had uncannily called right India's public mood on every issue since the late 80s. Yet, under his leadership they inexplicably refused to play ball, when they could have easily continued at the vanguard of probity. Given the monolithic, opaque nature of its functioning, it is difficult to surmise to what extent the erstwhile captain moulded the team’s stance. They were, in any case, made to yield, but not before an unseemly fraternal spat; thereby ceding the high moral ground in a manner unprecedented in recent memory. The ex-CJI’s latest denial to an RTI query casts a distinctly macabre slant to those developments.

Noteworthy too is the purported reason for the nay-saying stance: the information sought was not of public value! If talk of malfeasant millions flying thick and fast, the erstwhile CJI-ship, or incumbency as NHRC head doesn't qualify as community interest, it stretches one’s imagination to think what truly does. His may be a nuanced legal view, a disdain for the spirit of the law, or simply a case of PR hara-kiri; but if unchanged, the aforementioned eminent jurists’ conscience call has no hope. Unless, Your Honour...

PS: No surprises in the redoubtable Law Minister’s hasty endorsement under an equally specious argument (no questioning folks in sensitive positions, or words to that effect). The wily Karnataka politician had readily absolved Shri Balakrishnan in the Raja tangle too. Lesson then: swear by the forwarding letter, ignore the attached actual. And now: (apropos the Rajas, Kalmadis, and Chavans) no uncomfortable enquiries please, we’re Indian. Let’s just send them flowers!

Today: 10-to-11

This Saturday, HT City carried a feature depicting eleven game-changing Hindi movies from the last decade. I am not sure if these movies — or at least all of them — were pathbreaking in the fashion described, but they nevertheless offer a fair representation of popular cinema between 2001 and 2010. It would also be in order to mention their marked commercial success, remarkable in the sense that box-office recognition is a clear shibboleth of mainstream moviemaking. But let us talk about the movies first.

Two on the list hailed from 2001. Ashutosh Gowarikar's Lagaan was a period drama that combined standard-issue patriotism, chart-busting music, and India's cricket-obsession to hold the audience hostage until a literal last-ball six symbolising victory of good over evil. It also spawned an early strain of MBA-speak (email forwards were in vogue then), touting it as a case study for teamwork and sundry management principles. Farhan Akhtar's Dil Chahta Hai was a coming-of-age story, set against a youthful, affluent urban setting long before our "demographic dividend" became policy boilerplate — though the economic prosperity subtext was already flashing neon. I know enough folks that identified with DCH’s college-and-after situations, or with one of the protagonists: the brooding Sid, perpetually-lovelorn Sameer, and merry-go-lucky Akash (for those of you that remember, I also know a Subodh!) in a fashion unprecedented for Hindi cinema.

Moving on, 2003 claimed two entries as well. Koi... Mil Gaya was a ritual Hindi movie saga of underdog triumph most notable for starring Jaadu, a pint-sized desi ET that brought director-producer Rakesh Roshan king-size success. Its gentle treatment of a developmentally challenged character was a modest baby-step, and the overt sci-fi setting a pioneering attempt in a cinema mostly known for its formulaic approach. Likewise, under Raju Hirani's baton, Munnabhai MBBS trod a new path, concocting a winning dynamic of two dons: one a do-gooder bhai, other a stickler university professor. A commentary on med-school exam system, lady love's hard-to-get-with-a-difference act, Bombaiyya lingo and avuncular humour in the otherwise morbid hospital setting — it was a class act.

Cut to 2006 and Rang De Basanti redefined cinema's societal impact. High on patriotism, the Rakeysh Mehra-helmed film was a brilliant expression of youth angst, starkly contrasting contemporary political rot with inspiring idealism from our Freedom Struggle. Much beyond storytelling, RDB’s veritable clarion call against corruption, or mobilisation of the collective aggrieved, remains no less pertinent today. Youth and the Great Indian Middle voted with their wallets and feet, the latter a glimmer of hope for causes lost in the sticky mire of vested interests in our country.

2007 secured no less than three spots. Imtiaz Ali's Jab We Met was an uncomplicated, lighthearted romantic affair — very accurately described by HT as 'a breath of fresh air' — with the spunky Geet driving the only heroine-dominant plot on the list. Shimit Amin made Chak De! India the same year, another nationalism-meets-athletic achievement drama that, at the very least, succeeded in getting our national sport back in public consciousness. Aamir Khan's fairytale directorial debut in Taare Zameen Par was a landmark too — challenging educational system stereotypes in our notoriously conformist society. Against the backdrop of our impending demographic dividend, its advocacy of innovative career choices and empathetic portrayal of special-needs children was outstanding.

From 2009, HT's choice of Hirani's 3 Idiots was a shoo-in. Well-deserved questioning of learning-by-rote and over-hyped, narrow definition of scholastic achievement was at the film’s core, tempered by a subtle Roarkian undercurrent championing excellence, blended with a humourous take on college hostel life. Unsurprisingly, the movie captured the imagination of far broader demographics than just the youth anchoring its frame.

The only movie from the list I have not seen (unintended; to be corrected shortly) is Shankar's Enthiran (Robot) from 2010. It is also the only feature — and it is telling that I can aver thus with complete confidence, without having actually seen the film! — incomplete without a panegyric to its hero, the inimitable Rajinikanth and his flair for shattering box-office records.

I shall pause here. Dabangg, is presumably too recent to need me to jog those grey cells. Save for a much-hyped item number, I found it passable fare at best — not in the league of the others listed (no elitist rant, just that Salman rarely steps out of the banal). Equally, lest I be accused of lead actors overly influencing my rating, I present Aamir Khan, a bigger presence in this pastiche than any other, yet one who taught me the lesson of not judging a book by its cover. But that’s a story for a later day...

Microcredit Miscarriage

Following a rather spirited discussion last week on the economics and politics of interest rate ceilings — albeit in a Malegam Committee context — I was directed to a recent NYT piece by Prof Muhammad Yunus (Sacrificing Microcredit for Megaprofits). In it, Yunus, Grameen Bank founder and Nobel laureate, lamented recent trends in microfinance, calling special attention to developments in India to highlight the sector’s missteps.

The Prof's premise is summarized thus: the model evolved in the 1970s in poverty-stricken Bangladesh as an alternative to the usurious stranglehold of moneylenders. Over the years, its success spawned emulators beyond its birthplace. However, the past decade’s structural shift in many parts of the world from non-profit to commercial lenders — he notably cited SKS Microfinance and its famous IPO — has resulted in "a new breed of loan sharks", striking at the sector's very raison d’être.

As arguments go, there is some merit in what Yunus postulates. One doesn't need to be a Mother India buff to be familiar with the shenanigans of the Friendly Neighbourhood Lala – he was the ogre of choice till Hindi Cinema discovered the hate potential of the political class. Replace him with a faceless corporation and supposed implications are shareholder avarice, dubious sources of funds, and rising operating expenses. All told, this image doesn’t sit well with poverty alleviation shibboleths.

Equally, the issue of lender profitability — the ostensible driver for the 'mission drift' — is hardly resolved. An impersonal intermediary like a corporation may not intuitivels understand the borrower’s financial lifecycle. Such compromised credit decisioning inherently increases risk of default. Worse, the absence of community relationships impairs the ability to manage delinquency, further skewing the risk equation. The cascading impact on interest rates creates a vicious cycle, potentially leading to lender collapse.

It is a grim picture. At the very least, this model shift requires all stakeholders to tread with extreme care, given its impact on the wider ecosystem. Certainly the last we need is sundry politicians fishing in troubled waters, à la AP. Yunus recommends an interest rate cap alongside a dedicated microcredit regulatory authority to oversee administration, accredit specialized microfinance institutions, and enforce] transparency in lending and collection practices. These sound sensible, in my view, but one major caveat: overzealous governments do not overreach, as is their wont, or misuse increased oversight to dole out favours to a chosen few.

Beyond these conditions lies the not-entirely-theoretical question of whether the intermediary must necessarily operate as a non-profit. Here lies the rub — the Indian experience has been most unfortunate. Simple, straightforward products (or agencies) have gotten twisted into something completely antithetical, hopelessly losing their purpose in a web of intrigue and shortcuts. Consider, for instance, the Money Matters fiasco where housing loans were subverted into a tool for highly leveraged speculation; or how the entire insurance industry got sidetracked into ridiculously-priced ULIPs instead of addressing the core opportunity in inadequate cover for the average Indian etc.

At the heart of these BFSI snafus is the buyer-seller information asymmetry — so designed less by accident and more by intent to keep the buyer in the dark. Microcredit has merely followed this trend. January, however, is too early to give in to cynicism wholly. Indeed, hope shines bright through the mutual fund example — an industry forced to pivot to retail equity investment instead of short-term corporate paper or load-driven easy pickings. Needed, it seems, are a few regulatory nudges. Keep the chin up, folks.

Carry On 2011

It is never easy to connect the dots in various socio-political and economic trends in the world around us; least of all as it limps back post after the massive upheavals a couple of seasons ago. On balance, at the dawn of 2011, the mood in India is sombre — the scars from a rash of high-profile scams last year have barely begun to heal. At the same time, we are much better off globally than where we ended 2009 (and most certainly 2008) — the world economy appears to have allayed double-dip recession concerns, with recovery on track even if not fully out of the woods.

What would this year be like? I can stick my neck out to venture that it may be more difficult than the one gone by, with initial momentum from a rebound mostly dissipated. Global deleveraging remains a long haul — as we speak, we have merely shifted private debt onto public balance sheets. Recovery, too, is multi-speed, with stars in Emerging Markets but concerns in parts of the West. In the QE2 context, this implies that fiscal stimulus will stay a while, notably in the US and EU. Equally (though this may not impinge on the Indian story much), the highly correlated rates of change in economic growth trends (even if actual values vary) demonstrate the intertwined nature of modern markets. Given the massive relative size of the First World economies, this means national fortunes remain inextricably tied together.

There are other concerns too. The most critical is commodities — oil should already be giving sleepless nights to all energy-deficit governments. It is the tip of the iceberg — most essential items, notably foodstuffs, have high-strung demand-supply equations that can poop the 2011 party. Equally worrisome are rising inflation and asset bubbles threatening to derail the Emerging Markets narrative. Last but not least, the EU has to manage a mismatched fiscal belt-tightening (austerity measures in Greece and others that actually need monetary elbow room; and the absence of any in Germany, France — economies that can afford tighter policy!) and the Euro’s Draupadi-like nature. Obviously — an outside chance, nevertheless — a sovereign debt default will set the cat among the pigeons.

Not unlike 2010, the key remains a coherent, calibrated, and effective policy response. This is also my biggest concern. In a multi-speed recovery world, domestic political pressures can easily upset the current global consensus. Such a breakdown is not unimaginable. It could manifest as First World protectionism born of persistent structural unemployment, or as rampant Chinese assertiveness. In fact, how the world manages an unavoidable rebalancing of global power would be this decade’s most significant megatrend, apart from the transnational commodity supply crisis and the ogre of terrorism or localised discontent.

No doubt we will watch much of these trends unfurl this year and going forward. In my first post in 2011, however, I sign off on a happy note — a tribute to Mankind's achievement on two fundamental metrics — average income and life expectancy, over the last two centuries. Go watch!