Bihar: A New State of Mind

I have been meaning to stay a lot more connected to my hometown. Despite intentions though, physical visits have been few and far between. Thus, it was a direct call to action when the W alerted me to my expected housebound status for the next few weeks. I planned a trip in a jiffy, managing to cover Patna, Muzaffarpur, and our ancestral village — all in the space of one weekend.

Hurried as it was, the trip's mood was ponderous, and overall much upbeat. In fact, I came away with my intent to travel Patna-wards markedly stronger. This reinforcement, admittedly, is partly on emotional counts. Yet, Bihar's near-unique socioeconomic theatre too contributes to my renewed resolve.

For the record, I have long believed my beloved native state (often including Jharkhand in the bargain) to be a microcosm of India at large. Indeed, its fertile Gangetic plains or mineral-rich badlands present, firsthand, a quintessential paradox: penury amidst plenty. Of late, in Bihar, like in India, nature's bounty has fought and lost a daily battle with the grime and toil of life in poverty. Equally (and perhaps inevitably), beyond the obvious despondency and squalor, a subterranean strife constantly tested the overt social détente, the undercurrents often erupting in murderous class wars.

Talk history, and the microcosm argument is actually an understatement. Bihar's leadership — in thought or worldly terms — is sans parallel. Yet, some years ago, an otherwise discerning (non-Bihari) friend had scoffed at my assertion that Patna (Patliputra) was the capital of 'India' longer than any city but Delhi. For Doubting Thomases such as he, try googling the following to get a sense of what I say: the Buddha, Mahavir, or Guru Gonind Singh; Balmiki, Vishwamitra, Aryabhatt, Panini, Gargi, Maitreyi, Vatsyayan, Banabhatt, or Chanakya; and certainly the Guptas, Mauryas, Ashoka, or Sher Shah (the list is by no means exhaustive.)

I believe too that there was more to my aforementioned friend's mirth. The unfortunate, but undeniable, truth was that Bihar had simply lost the plot over the years. Always in the news for the wrong reasons, it was tough to associate glory or excellence with the state. Appreciate too that through the 90s and this millennium's first few years, the Indian nation was burying its Nehruvian policy overhang in favour of globalisation and the free market. As sarkari sloth made way for private enterprise, the air was rich with the promise of prosperity, not hollow socialist shibboleths. In this period, the land of Nalanda and the Lichchhavi republic — which gave India its first coinage, trade arteries, and Arthashastra — was going the other way. As if under a sorcerer's spell, Bihar turned into a family's fiefdom, discovering new heights of lawlessness, negative growth rates, and wanton polarisation of an already fractious society.

At another level, with liberalisation, cable TV came to town. Likely looking for comic appeal, the media lapped up Shri Laloo Prasad and his country bumpkin caricature. Bihar's strongman readily obliged, with bytes or antics more befitting a Bollywood comic than otherwise. Arguably, this was deliberate: playing up his rustic roots for lowest common denominator appeal. Regardless, he made a virtue of the ludicrous. With a clear development-is-anathema stance (discordant with the rest of India) and longevity in power, this perpetuated a rather sorry image of Biharis: buffoons who wouldn't know (or didn't deserve) any better.

For most of this period, I was still deeply rooted in Bihar, yet spent significant time outside the state. At its worst, I felt my compatriots had given up hope; that the pithy but patently unfair caricature had grown larger than life. Bihar had gone from being a state to becoming a state of mind.

I hoped, too, that some day, regardless of the dispensation's colour, my home state's fortunes would rest with a believer in a progressive political agenda. Bihar would then feel the difference, reward the change, and break the defeatist psyche. On this trip, driving on a new rural road as an alternative route to my village, I felt my idea's time had come (much better than merely talking of Nitish Kumar and Elections 2010; equally hoping that having reaped benefits, the NDA regime will push for more in Round 2). Its zindagi mili hai dobara!

Cinema Cinema

I love movies. At the risk of jeopardising domestic bliss, I can add that I haven’t seen enough lately. Lest I be misunderstood — IPTV is a godsend — but in a weekend I'm perfectly capable of watching two to four, maybe more — a prospect at which the W isn't exactly chuffed. Again, it is not as if good cinema is my sole preserve in the household. The difference lies entirely in my preference for remote control-driven (some may aver it’s the couch) variety versus the more social cinematic experience in a theatre.

Interestingly, I grew up to almost no moviegoing, nor much interest in films. Through school, cinema was regulated like fresh air on a chilly winter night — kept out if possible, or heavily rationed at least. I reckon this was mostly in keeping with a general bias towards discipline in our upbringing (to which I owe a number of my latter-day milestones). Economics may have played a part too (thrift is good); concern over my grades most likely did. Thus, I averaged less than two films a year in the 'hall' (as we called them) in this period. These too were mostly thanks to a friend who consistently planned one as his birthday outing; and the rare parentally endorsed gems (Dweep Ka Rahasya was one such — I loved it).

Of course, I caught a few on TV (courtesy neighbours, till we acquired our own in '84) but this too was not without a twist. Given that staying out late was not an option, several of these films were incomplete, missing the 'climax'! I vividly remember the festive air in our middle-class community too, when Doordarshan decided to telecast movies on Thursday evenings, thus doubling frequency to a joyous twice weekly (the first such offering was Vachan, and I believe I have good reason to forget all about it, save the name). In short, the uninspired offerings and fragmented viewership did little to stoke my cinegoer buds — though an ill-understood Achanak and half-seen Ittefaq did plant seeds of love for the crime-mystery-thriller genre that I have been unable to shake off since.

Later, the VCR came to town. It brought with it a rudimentary element of choice. Grainy picture quality (not that DD was much different) was a small price to pay for the ability to watch what you wanted, when you wanted, and how you wanted. Naturally, video libraries, parlours etc mushroomed all over town. At home, the Pater made decisions of his own though (likely inspired by my not-always-inspiring scholastic record) and this contraption only entered the Jha household once the son had been packed off to college!

Most of my movie-on-video, thus, was with friends. I emerged much enlightened from these soirees (I can hear your wicked smile, reader!) not the least of which was exposure to cinema beyond mainstream Hindi (a Khamosh or Prahar amidst The Godfather and The Medusa Touch). Not entirely unrelated, this included QSQT, a milestone in the sense that I saw it and understood it (ah those vague, innocent, vicarious pleasures)!

Come college. My means stayed modest but the joys of freedom more than made up for it, strained only by early stirrings of a sense of responsibility. Films played a part in this general process of self-discovery as always — occasionally as input, but often as a companion in the journey. The plot stayed true at B-School too, save for a mild sharpening of the pen.

The intervening years have taught me how much I delight in having (almost one too) many balls in the air. As in life, so in movies — or literature and friendships — eclecticism reigns supreme. Yet, I can watch almost any film once, and a few many times, to this day. And hence, the sovereign power of the remote control.

Asleep at the Wheel

One of the most telling descriptions of the bureaucracy in the 1970s went thus: "if you can, don't move; if you must, move slowly; if pushed, move in circles; if cornered, appoint a committee!" One can say this most certainly of our economic policy. Despite years of evidence, governments in India hung on to an anachronistic Nehruvian model, mouthing hollow garibi-hatao type slogans, till being forced off our backs two decades ago. Few know this better than our venerable PM. As a key apparatchik in the erstwhile growth-sapping regime — something Congress propagandists wantonly gloss over — Dr Manmohan Singh wilfully fashioned policies that eventually had us staring down the barrel of a gun in 1991.

Should it, therefore, surprise us that, when the bottom falls off the Rupee, or GDP growth plummets to its lowest in almost a decade as it has today, the GOI is a deer caught in the headlights? Dr Singh would have us believe this is all thanks to the global economic slowdown or Eurozone woes (external locus of control; not leadership). Notably he calls out the RBI's tight-fisted monetary stance even though structural problems need a fiscal and not monetary response. Indeed, the central bank has little elbow room in the face of oil price risks or the current account gap (widest since 1980). I would argue, on the other hand, that the RBI is doing its damnedest to keep inflation in check.

In context, it is important to peel the onion (!) on our inflation problem. Food is a structural shortage story. Agricultural growth at 4-5% is simply inadequate to meet the demands of a burgeoning 1.2B population with real incomes rising 5%. Next, MNREGA pushes up rural wages (10% YOY in Jan 2010, accelerated to 14% now) to unprecedented levels as GOI continues to dole out money with low to no link to productive use. Then the government raises MSP adding further fuel to the fire. Consequent rise in rural wages soon translates to urban wage inflation — via construction and informal workers.

This cycle of food and wage inflation combining to increase input costs for goods has turned our inflation into a structural one. It can, of course, be tackled. The path lies through supply chain efficiency and productivity. These, however, need a strong policy response, not today's status-quoist bias that is happier with incremental versus exponential change. Likewise, the GOI cannot print its way out of the quagmire, continuing to push populist policies in the run up to elections in 2014. With fiscal deficit spiralling out of control, there is only so much the RBI can do. If he is half the economic genius he is touted to be, then Dr Manmohan Singh knows this. The real question is will he act — will he bell the cat?

The Real State of Real Estate

I plead guilty to being less than laudatory of the Real Estate sector in recent posts. This comes partly from experience — investments where I was promised the Moon have yielded negative to negligible returns. Again, I understand the caveat emptor argument (my ventures being ill-advised, risk-reward equation etc). It could be sour grapes too — nerves made me sit out the boom years and now I am priced out. Yet, it remains true that many of us are wary of the sector and its general functioning in our country.

Logically, things ought not to be in a bind. The dictum of being in money when investing in mitti has been ancient wisdom. Further, India's long-term housing shortage story had its takers a decade ago. Little wonder then that, as friendly interest rates and rising household incomes fed core demand, realty prices pushed north. Investors attracted by a visible short-term price upswing (perhaps more than long-run potential) and overseas liquidity added to the momentum. Landowners made fortunes selling ancestral holdings in New India’s cities (NCR, Hyderabad, Bangalore, Pune etc). 'Buy pre-launch sell pre-possession' became the go-to strategy while a few risk-averse or financially constrained folks like I fretted on the boundary!

This is where it began to go crazy. Developers overleveraged themselves using all avenues under the sun to raise money domestically (banks, IPOs) or across borders (ECB, FDI, PE). In short order (unlike most parts of the world), this borrowing stopped funding construction. Instead we had a mad frenzy to build ‘land banks' driven by continuous new project launches, and realty valuations feeding off every cycle. End-users were relegated to the sidelines; investor mood swung into the high speculation zone. Fly-by-night developers sprang up dime-a-dozen in urban India, more than a few clearly headed towards a debt trap.

Enter GFC 2008. Liquidity dried up and demand, speculative or otherwise, was hit. It was mayhem. Buyers, caught unaware, were the worst off; New India was abuzz with protests against project delays or defaults. The response from even the most well-known realty names was not much to write home; dharnas and court cases became the order of the day. The government could finally not look the other way, virtually leaning on banks to go easy on real estate loans to stop the bleeding from getting worse.

Today, we have come off the crisis edge. Property prices almost regained their peaks last year (although 2011 appears flat). The fundamental issues in the sector, however, have not been fixed for good. Like much else in our beloved country, there is more to it than meets the eye:

• core demand stays strong, a good chunk unmet. It ought to rise over time for population and prosperity reasons (the good);
• scope for corruption is unabated, ranging from Money Matters borrower scam variety to land acquisition, clearances etc (the bad);
• cash preponderance makes it a money-laundering magnet. Shahid Balwa types shall fester, with vested interests from the powerful neta-naukarshah-businessman nexus (the ugly).

Clearly, the only way out of this jalebi-like mess is reform. A solution benefits all — the roti-kapda-makaan seekers; tony-neighbourhood-upgrade aspirants; and wannabe investors like I. Hope is at a premium mid-week, but I set some aside for this. And may be rethink those pesky Noida Expressway SMSs again.

Keep It Simple, Son!

History repeats, or almost. The story starts many moons ago, in a conversation between two highly unequal individuals. The first of them was first in many respects. An idol for many, he had chosen to strike out on his own despite not-so-humble moorings. Starting from scratch thus, he had risen through the ranks by virtue of sheer grit and effort, never compromising his values in the face of hardship or temptation. He would achieve a lot more in the years to come, but even in the times we speak of, was widely quoted as an example of integrity, determination, and commitment to professional excellence.

The other party to the conversation was young — in fact, too young to have any worldly standing. Imbued with the precocious confidence of youth, he ventured an opinion on the quality of the elder's published output. Of course, he had no credentials whatsoever to comment on its technical or pedagogic merit. Neither did he have any justifiable claim to pontificate on its literary value. In fact, the little exposure he had to the Queen's was due to a love for the word, engendered and facilitated by this very conversation-partner!

Fortunately, the older man was characteristically large-hearted. He understood the recklessness of youth. Perhaps he gave some leeway to the innocence of the boy's intention too. As it turned out, he took the cheeky attempt to critique his body of work in his stride. Notably, the advice ran thus: the language ought to be simpler, the sentences shorter, and words commonplace. History has it that the elder smiled and the young boy came away feeling on top of the world, an emotion of exaggerated self-importance of the kind one experiences on making an unexpected contribution in a chain of events.

The years rolled by — the boy turned into a young man and more, though the elder remained first. One day, the historical conversation was relived. The not-so-young man asked for the elder's opinion on his limited oeuvre. The shoe, as they say, was on the other foot! Yet, with his usual humility, the older man read through the younger's outpourings, half-smiled, and nodded. Presented with what was clearly mild approval at best, the son took recourse to boyish petulance, and pressed for more pointed feedback. The father replied: "It is good, but you may consider making it an easier read, lest the message be lost in the medium". It was not a comeback — just the truth, resonating with what many others had said earlier — which in that one moment had turned the idea into an imperative!

Thank you and happy 16 June :)

Text-Me-Not

I would stop short of calling myself a gadget geek. I do, however, have a deep-rooted belief in Technology's game-changing abilities — at work and otherwise. This, coupled with a proclivity towards things new, often leads me to an early adopter posture toward techie products and concepts. One such acquaintance I made in the late 90s was text messaging. In fact, I evangelized its discreet convenience, referable memory, etc — compared to here-and-now voice calls to anyone who cared to listen (in context, it helped that it was free vs steeply priced airtime!), and remain an above-average user to this day.

I must add that I did not register in the first wave of DNC, even if sympathetic to the indignation on unwanted calls. My reasons were largely professional. At its root, the credo of open communication (read: taking calls from unknown numbers) was an occupational hazard. In reality, it was a goldmine of information - it helped me get bad news (the variety you want to know ASAP) promptly more than once, plus rudimentary competitive intelligence; not to forget insights best derived from listening to the occasional irate customer. All of this strengthened my resolve to stick it out amidst the onslaught of sundry telemarketers.

Unfortunately, it seems to be going from bad to worse. It is almost an incipient reality of modern life that text-messaged advertisements carpet-bomb your Inbox every day. Pesky calls too, after an initial decline, have reared their head again. The vanguard is clearly SMS though, and the biggest violator real estate firms and agents: I am subject to a dozen messages daily, in complete disregard of my tenuous pecuniary state! The bulk of these supposedly fantastic property deals are in assorted parts of Delhi NCR; but interspersed are offers from Jaipur's Tonk Road, plots in the Uttarakhand hills, down to faraway Mysore and back-of-beyond. It makes me wonder if only geographic bounds have been transcended or those of sanity too. Or perhaps it is my middle-class upbringing that limits me to imagine an investor class that takes realty, or similar sizeable, investment decisions based on an SMS exchange!

The uninvited texts wear other colours too. In fact, had it not been for the glaring segmentation error (maybe they score intention, not ability, as an explanation for ignoring my financial position) in real estate ads, or those ridiculous friendship helplines, I would have thought a grand design in peddling me travel packages, hairfall cure (ouch) or zero-effort fat-removal therapy (I even got one for a 10 yr US visa in 10 days for 10K from some random Churchgate agent last week). Frankly, if only less prolific, it would have been funny.

When viewed within a broader context, the apparent helplessness of the Indian consumer to overcome this mess only adds to the general scam-season discontent. True to form, an irresolute UPA-2 has shed hardly a tear for the revised-twice-yet-missed 31 Mar deadline. Strangely, their blundering ways have come to their rescue. With public attention on other more ignominious spectacles, they have actually been able slip by without saying almost anything.

Deadlines apart, given its declared intentions to snoop on all voice-data exchanges in the country (recall the BlackBerry tangle), the Government can hardly argue that policy formulation or erecting filter infrastructure are insurmountable asks. Likewise, allocating a special telemarketing code for landlines, or cracking down on rogue telecom companies that continue to sell bulk SMS deals should not be too tough to execute. Yet, the ongoing spectacle of DoT-TRAI ping-pong on the issue inspires little confidence in their appreciation for the task at hand or the seriousness of their commitment to it.

No one, of course, can fault the Government if it avers that implementing a foolproof DNC (or do-call) registry, including critical security pieces, is a complex exercise. I am just not sure why it should remain open-ended and a shifting goalpost (which sounds counter-intuitive in the context of technology). The nation needs a quantifiable plan. Or perhaps Mr Sibal needs to be text-blitzed to realise this...

Of Dreams and Skylines

Urban infrastructure in Delhi NCR is a question mark that lurks around corners, like a sly predator waiting to ambush you in an unguarded moment. Step into Gurgaon where I live, and it will be clear what I mean: global and gobar are concurrent realities that, despite the paradox, coexist peacefully in Millennium City. Its tall office towers with imposing green-glass facades, or glitzy spoilt-for-choice malls, may not be engineering marvels, but they veritably showcase New India's ambitious dreams. Soar high in their alluring promise and you are in for a rude awakening — the sickening grind of your car's underbelly being tested on sludge-filled, potholed dirt-tracks that masquerade as the city's roads. The contrast is telling — the government's criminal apathy in a revenue-rich district is obvious. Yet, it also betrays the resigned compromise its denizens have made with the contempt sarkari-tantra displays for its upkeep.

This dichotomous backdrop made a piece in HT Comments (Our Forbidden Cities, Francesco Giavazzi) on Monday especially interesting. Its moot point was that youth (bigger dreams, more energy to realise them) provide the power — and urban infrastructure the vehicle — for development. The logic virtually anoints cities as playgrounds for progress, with benefits that ultimately accrue to large populations. Giavazzi argued that such transformation, while difficult, is achievable, predictably citing Shanghai's example (I say ‘predictably’ without malice — a visit back in 2006 had convinced me that anyone struggling to grasp the meaning of ‘economies of scale’ merely had to spend a day in China's showpiece city). The part left almost unsaid in the article was how India does not really have much of a choice in the matter — at risk is the souring of our much-vaunted demographic dividend itself.

Going beyond Shanghai, the point is that better utilisation of scarce urban land can have significant economic and social benefits for our country at large. This is true in the sense of upgrading our Tier 2 and Tier 3 towns as well as replacing haphazard growth in larger cities with a more planned and sustainable one. On the first, consider how amenities — or even look and feel — in city #100 in the US compare with NYC (notwithstanding the scale) and see the gaping hole between even Delhi and Patna. I say this not simply enamoured of downtown skyscrapers in any American city of note, but of the economic realities that support such growth, and resulting quality of life for citizenry that results from it (including but not limited to impact on curtailing migration that seems to so upset the Sheila Dikshits and Raj Thackerays of the world, assuming they actually believe in their flawed diatribes).

Suggestions abound on the second aspect too, namely making the most of our larger cities. For instance, consider replacing Sarojini Nagar's ubiquitous sarkari structures with modern high-rise apartment complexes. An important point is that this model benefits not just the moneyed — its erstwhile civil servant occupants too would enjoy (at marginal cost) facilities they often bemoan 'overpaid MBA types' for accessing. Similarly, better intra-NCR connectivity can do more for Noida's realty prices than bombarding my highly-leveraged self with twenty unsolicited SMS offers a day (last I checked, the much-promised KMP Expressway was set to miss its fourth revised deadline). Nor is such lackadaisical execution a hallmark of the national capital alone — Mumbai's pride and joy, the Sea Link, is grossly over budget, behind schedule, and barely half complete.

No doubt there are other larger, more contentious issues. Land policy, the subject of a typically token recent demonstration by the ruling party's Gen Secy cum PM-in-waiting, is prime among them. The need to stamp out corruption in implementation has similarly hogged headlines. Yet, Gurgaon is living proof of the inadequacy of our urban planning policy — either non-existent or hopelessly delegated to private developers — to support the growth of infrastructure, let alone stimulate it; and an educated citizenry's failure to propel the government to action. I hope for our sake, and our children, that at least one of these changes soon.

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!