Deconstructing Shivraj Singh Chouhan-ll

In his 15-year long parliamentary career from 1991 to 2006, Shivraj made sure he is not identified with any fraction in the party. Having won from one of the safest BJP seats in India—Vidisha—he felt himself spared of the worries of nurturing the constituency.

Except for annual mass Kanyadan of marriageable girls in his constituency -- an abiding fixation with him even today as a government policy--, he hardly did any thing for the constituency all these years. Instead, he focused on winning over senior BJP leaders and climbing ladder.

The lady luck, of course, never deserted him. The ascendance continued. So also elevation in party hierarchy. He became BJYM national president then BJP all India secretary and then general secretary. He also unsuccessfully contested state BJP president election against Vikram Verma.

The 2003 assembly election offered Shivraj an opportunity to return to state politics. The situation was ripe for him to become CM. But he lacked charisma that Uma possessed in abundance. Shivraj bided for his time. His mentors in Delhi had foretold him to gear up to replace Uma as MP Chief Minister sooner or later as the landslide victory for BJP in the assembly poll was a foregone conclusion.

The decision to field him against Digvijay Singh in Raghogarh seat was part of the strategy for his future anointment. The idea was to see to it whether he lost or won against the chief minister in his feudatory, Shivraj would share limelight with Uma Bharti. He lost but that didn’t matter. His political stock continued to rise.

Shivraj was very close to becoming Chief Minister in 2004 when BJP leaders conspired to oust Uma from CM’s gaddi barely eight months after she led the party to historic victory. Of course, her abject ineptitude was also responsible for Uma’s inglorious exit.

Uma, however, was still powerful enough to scuttle Shivraj’s chance. By this time, she had smelt the party leaders’ conspiracy against her. She succeeded in getting Babulal Gaur as her replacement. That was her wisest, if inadvertent, decision for the party’s interest. Gaur’s 15-months rule as CM is arguably the best-administered period in entire BJP dispensation.

However, Gaur was only a stop-gap arrangement, a fact he was not probably aware but his bosses in Delhi knew from the day one.

Gaur braved stiff opposition within his cabinet to carry on governance with aplomb. Shivraj was made state BJP president to breath in the Gaur’s neck more closely. The BJP high command had no patience for Gaur’s zeal to transform MP. He was shown the door. In came Shivraj. His succession took place on November 26, 2007 in high-voltage political drama the State had ever witnessed.

Events moved in quick succession- Uma was suspended and then expelled from the BJP; her four supporter MLAs too suspended but never disqualified; her political stock began to diminish quickly; her supporters started returning to the BJP, and before too long, she made herself completely irrelevant in politics through sheer self-destructive political moves.

The more Uma revealed her political immaturity and arrogance couched in self-righteous indignation, the stronger Shivraj grew. Comparison between them was inevitable. So, the public viewed even the lack- luster Shivraj administration as a relief in the face of lurking danger of Uma toppling the government.

But that did not mean, the electorate was happy with the Government. It was just that people were restlessly waiting for the assembly poll to oust the BJP government. Even the Subhash Yadav’s amusing leadership of the State Congress and befuddling inaction did not daunt the people to cherish the hope. By election results were showing which way the wind was blowing.

But, once again, Shivraj’s stars came to his rescue. Suresh Pachouri replaced Yadav. Within nine months from February to November 2008, the Pachouri’s leadership turned the table on the Congress. Pachouri, who was expected to be Chouhan’s nemesis, proved the Chief Minister’s Man Friday.

Deconstructing Shivraj Singh Chouhan-I

A cold, almost reluctant, handshake with Chief Minister Shivraj Singh Chouhan in a marriage party last Saturday night reminded me of the long-thought idea to write a blog on him. The handshake was fortuitous. Shivraj was coming to shake several outstretched hands and I was too upfront in the crowd for him to ignore mine. His plastic smile was firmly in place. It reminded me the contrast with Digvijay Singh’s vivacious guffaws in such public functions.

I had been thinking to write on the Chief Minister well before the Lok Sabha election. For, I am always intrigued what is the ‘Shivraj –factor’ that was credited for the BJP’s return in the assembly election and which, six months later, miserably flopped in the parliamentary polls.

I still believe the credit for the BJP’s return in MP should largely, if not exclusively, go to the Congress under PCC chief Suresh Pachouri.

I strongly feel none of the much-touted achievements of the Shivraj government impressed the voter enough to make a hero of the Chief Minister.

But the dormancy of the Congress under Pachouri ensured that Shivraj emerged a first preference by default. Then, of course, memories of the Uma Bharti’s disastrous eight-months as CM also helped her successor. Like nature, politics abhors vacuum. If Pachouri is to be rejected, Shivraj has to be chosen. No other choice.

The Shivraj- factor was a BJP-created and media-sponsored myth. A large section of the media still seeks to perpetuate the myth even after the BJP debacle in Lok Sabha election in MP. His spin-doctors maintain Shivraj charisma holds though BJP’s might be waning.

Incidentally, this media had similarly caressed Digvijay’s inflated ego when he ruled the State. He too was projected bigger than the Congress. So, nothing unusual about it.

Much as I might try to be generous to the Chief Minister, I can’t recall one enduring, forget spectacular, achievement of his government. I would love to be enlightened by his supporters on this point.

Road, electricity, water, industrialization, law-and-order, social indices, education, health—all these sectors cried for qualitative improvement all these years. What they got in the bargain was a status-quoist system inherited from the Congress. The government is just going on, much the same way as the day follows the night and vice versa. The State is where it was five years ago, if not skidded backward.

I don’t intend to empirically analyse pluses and minuses of this government in these sectors. However, I would still maintain the government’s performance is dismal. I can give not more than 3 marks on the scale of 10 to this government.

Now the million-clichéd question: why, despite his self-evident administrative failure, Shivraj Singh is virtually unchallenged Chief Minister?

My simple hypothesis is that Shivraj owes his phenomenal rise to a great amount of luck he is born with. His stars have never dimmed. His ability to project himself a humble farmer’s son also helped him a great deal.

Let me try to analyse how

An above-average youth from Jait village in Sehore district arrives in Bhopal to study; he is from a lower middle class farmer family without any vaunting ambitions; the urban milieu of Bhopal gradually transforms this rural bumpkin; he discovers that his tongue runs faster than brain-- a gift of the gab imbued in peculiar rustic charm; he is soft-spoken and ready to bow before any one of consequence at the drop of a hat. He is religious-minded too. The combination was perfect for the boy to be drawn to the RSS.

It was early seventies of the last century. Gathering political storm coupled with youth angst convoluted the nation. The collective national unrest spawned a variety of romantic revolutionaries. Left ideology attracted some, socialists fascinated others and quite a few impressionable youths foresaw the glorious past of the Aryavart about to revisit the land soon, if they helped the cause. The last category of starry-eyed youths joined the ABVP. Shivraj belonged to this category. He was a sincere activist who actually believed in the RSS ideology.

By the time post-emergency student politics came into play in Bhopal, Shivraj was in college. He had had an advantage of having spent some days in the jail during emergency as one of the youngest MISA detenues. This (and other factors like the acute dearth of dynamic youths in the ABVP then) catapulted him in the ABVP politics. The oratory stood him in good stead. The characteristic genuflection before elders helped too. Soon, he was an ABVP leader of consequence but not the top one.

Luck began to favour Shivraj when he graduated from the ABVP to BJYM. The Ramjanambhoomi agitation was burgeoning. Advani’s rathyatra had agitated the nation like never before. Shivraj had become BJYM state president. He used his oratory skills to influence the cadres on one hand and played the ‘humble son’ histrionics to win over party leaders, on the other. The BJYM rally in 1989 under Shivraj in Bhopal is still remembered for its vast number.

Now let me recapitulate the subsequent events in short.

BJP comes to power in March 1990; SL Patwa elected CM; Shivraj too debuts in the assembly; CM’s indulgence for Shivraj becomes known to all who matter; Shivraj plays cool and safe, without letting the newly-acquired power to go to his head.

The defining moments in his political career comes when Atal Behari Vajpayee vacated his Vidisha seat. Shivraj fill the seat. Now he is in Central politics at a time when BJP’s stars are on the ascendance. Rest, as they say, is history. ( Part two later).

(Sorry, the blog has become a bit over-sized)

Performer versus Actor: Naya Theatre's future after Habib Tanvir

This is something you won't get to read in the print. We have paid, deservedly, glowing tributes to the doyen of Indian theatre Habib Tanvir. He was, as the cliché goes, an institution in himself. But this raises a pertinent question: doesn't an individual becoming an institution militate against the very spirit of democracy? Doesn't institutionalizing an individual at the expense of the institution ultimately lead to its extinction?

Now that the institution Habib Tanvir built 50 years ago with his late wife Moneeka (she died in May 2005) is orphaned, what will be its future? Can Naya Theatre survive the late couple? I am doubtful.

So long Habibji was alive, the Naya Theatre basked in his reflected glory. Even when, of late, the illness and old age severely restricted the thespian's movements, Naya Theatre's some of the plays remained alive. Only last month his arguably the most famous play “Charan Das Chor” was staged in Bharat Bhavan (Bhopal) to a huge audience.

Now what? Two possibilities. One, some urbanite theatre persons who have been associated with Habib Tanvir lead the group; two, the core team of folk artistes whose histrionics made the Naya Theatre a world famous group carry on the tradition on its own. Both the possibilities are fraught with the danger of Naya Theatre losing its sheen beyond recognition.

The third possibility is death of the institution. And that will be a tragic chapter in the Indian theatre history. I have not seen Habib Tanvir's group from very close quarters. But whatever little I got to see as a theatre-enthusiast, I have doubt that the first two possibilities will come true.

Now, I come to the fundamental question. Should folk artistes perforce remain mere performers lest their imbibing modern education should 'pollute' their innate traditional energy potential to emote on stage? Should they be just puppets in the hands of a genius puppeteer who knows only too well how to make them regale the audience?

The world knows about Habib Tanvir. But how many even in theatre world know about Govind Ram , Bhulua, Fida Bai, Mala or many more of the Naya Theatre's artistes. Habib Tanvir was decorated with a legion of awards but how many of his artistes have been even one-hundredth as privileged? Yes, they have traveled half of the world many times over. But did the globetrotting help them understand, much less imbibe, fine nuances of the modern contemporary theatre?

Two of Habib Tanvir's artistes Amar and Dwarka broke away from Naya Theatre to join the long wound- up Bharat Bhavan repertory in late eighties. They did exceptionally well in the repertory when they got 'their kind' of roles—such as Vladimir and Estragon in the Alakhnandan-directed play 'Gonda La Dekhant Han' (Waiting for Godot) in Chhattisgarhi. Dwarka essayed his lead role with great panache in the 'Caucasian Chalk Circle' ( Bertold Brecht) directed by German director Fritz Benetiwz.

But, outside the repertory their traditional acting potential hardly helped them survive in the big world of theatre. At times we get to see Dwarka in odd TV serials in small roles but I don't know where is Amar?

I used to often debate with friends, particularly with Alok Chaterjee, Naveen Choubey and Arun Pandey, the desirability of an actor transcending the barrier of an instinctive performer. We by and large agree that the actor must read a lot to acquire modern sensibilities to essay any kind of roles.
We have shining examples in Naseeruddin Shah, Pankaj Kapur and, of course, Om Puri. Lately, exceptionally gifted actor Irrfan Khan has also proved his mettle as an extraordinarily versatile actor. All these actors are very well read. Nasir's reading habit is famous. Their acting prowess is enlightened by understanding of complexities of human nature in the given situation. They are not just intuitive performers.

I have put forth my point. I wish more people join me in this debate.

Why men can’t weep?

Many of you may not have heard about August Steinberg. He was one of the most important playwrights of nineteenth century Europe.
His play ‘ The Father’- one of the 10 all time great plays in the world—has been a memorable experience for me. I essayed the role of the doctor- Dr Auster Mark—in the play directed by Alok Chaterjee. Alok, a very talented theatre person, got gold medal from the National School of Drama in 1988. He was the second actor to achieve the feat 19 years after Om Puri was awarded gold medal in the NSD.
First let me introduce in brief about the play. Then, I will equally briefly explain the objective behind mentioning it.
The play portrays the tragedy of a man and a woman struggling for possession of their 13-year-old daughter. The father, a cavalry captain, is intellectual, a freethinker, a man of ideas. His wife is narrow, selfish and unscrupulous in her methods when her antagonism is wakened.
While the father's love is concerned with the development of the child, that of the mother is interested mainly in possession of the child. Therefore, she fights the man with every means at her command, even to the point of instilling the poison of doubt into his mind by hints that he is not the father of the child.
Not only does she seek to drive her husband mad but also through skillful intrigue she leads every one, including the Doctor to believe that he is actually insane. Finally even the old nurse is induced to betray him: she slips the straitjacket over the Captain, adding the last touch to the treachery. Robbed of his faith, broken in spirit and subdued, the Captain dies.
In one of the last scenes, the devastated Captain succumbs to his wife Laura’s shenanigans and weeps inconsolably. The triumphant wife taints-“ You are weeping? What kind of man you are?”
Captain bursts out amid interminable sobs, “yes, I am weeping. Can’t the men weep? Don’t they feel pain like women when a needle in pierced through their skin? Don’t they agonise on being deprived of things so dear to them? The soliloquy is very long. It’s gist is that the manhood has nothing to do with weeping.
Now let me explain the motive behind mentioning the play. But first of all, let me clarify that the play has absolutely no bearing on my life or my family.
It is just one poser of the dying Captain that keeps haunting me—Why the men can’t weep?
As I am ageing, I feel the social milieu brings more and more pressure on me not to weep. It is a mid- life crisis and not very typical one. Most of the people of my age might be feeling that pressure. But perhaps they either don’t recognize it or, if recognize, don’t confront the question.
When I was young, I used to cry a lot. I strongly believe nothing is more effective prescription for catharsis than weeping. We –means me and quite a few friends like me-- would weep when listening Menhadi Hasan and Ghulam Ali, reading Pablo Neruda’ immortal poetic tribute to poet Lorka or Amarkant’s novel “Sukha Patta”, or reading Faiz Ahmed Faiz’s nazms on Palestine child or Bertold Brecht plays.
I even wept reading Semuel Beckett’s play, “ Waiting for Godot” which otherwise is seen as a (black) comedy evoking wry humour. Beneath the comedy, the absurdity of the mankind is terrifying – and tearjerker too.
And mind you, the tears were not a lachrymose manifestation of a maudlin. The tears were a natural tribute to the great men whose ghazals, poetry, plays and novels so very subliminally purged our hearts.
Most of those friends have outgrown the phase. They don’t weep any more. Many even sneeringly laugh when recall the tearful tributes of the ‘ Salad Days”.
I am perhaps caught in the time warp, as far the idea of weeping is concern.
The age and circumstances have combined to conspire against my longing for weeping. Most of my colleagues at work place are at least 10 years younger to me. They respect me but, obviously, can’t share the emotional outpouring my sublime thoughts might betray.
In the peer group, such ideas on literature, music or ideologies are seldom discussed. If at all discussed, we often end up showing cynicism for the “ system” with utter disdain. We have over the years become conditioned to talk, mostly, contemporary politics.
Oh, I have already typed out 750 words. So, I stop here. Much as I might want to write on this subject, I have to bear the readers’ time in mind. Don’t I keep saying that brevity is the soul of good writing?

Many of you may not have heard about August Steinberg. He was one of the most
important playwrights of nineteenth century Europe.

His play 'The Father'- one of the 10 all time great plays in the world, has
been a memorable experience for me. I essayed the role of the doctor- Dr
Auster Mark in the play directed by Alok Chaterjee.

Alok, a very talented theatre person, got gold medal from the National School of Drama in 1988. He was the second actor to achieve the feat 19 years after Om Puri was awarded gold medal in the NSD.

First let me introduce in brief about the play. Then, I will equally briefly explain
the objective behind mentioning it. The play portrays the tragedy of a man and a woman struggling for possession of their 13-year-old daughter.

The father, a cavalry captain, is intellectual, a freethinker, a man of ideas. His wife is narrow, selfish and unscrupulous in her methods when her antagonism is wakened.

While the father's love is concerned with the development of the child, that of the
mother is interested mainly in possession of the child. Therefore, she
fights the man with every means at her command, even to the point of
instilling the poison of doubt into his mind by hints that he is not the
father of the child.

Not only does she seek to drive her husband mad but also through skillful intrigue she leads every one, including the Doctor to believe that he is actually
insane.

Finally even the old nurse is induced to betray him: she slips the
straitjacket over the Captain, adding the last touch to the treachery.
Robbed of his faith, broken in spirit and subdued, the Captain dies.

In one of the last scenes, the devastated Captain succumbs to his wife Laura’s
shenanigans and weeps inconsolably. The triumphant wife taints; You
are weeping? What kind of man
you are?

Captain
bursts out amid interminable sobs, & yes, I am weeping. Can't
the men weep? They feel pain like women when a needle in pierced through their skin?
Don't they agonise on being deprived of things so dear to them? The
soliloquy is very long. Its gist is that the manhood has nothing to
do with weeping.

Now let me explain the motive behind mentioning the play. But first of all, let me
clarify that the play has absolutely no bearing on my life or my family. It is just
one poser of the dying Captain that keeps haunting me;Why the men
can't weep?

As I am ageing, I feel the social milieu brings more and more pressure on me not
to weep. It is a mid- life crisis and not very typical one. Most of the
people of my age might be feeling that pressure. But perhaps they either
don't recognize it or, if recognize, don't confront the
question.

When I was young, I used to cry a lot. I strongly believe nothing is more effective
prescription for catharsis than weeping. We & means me and quite a
few friends like me-- would weep when listening Mehadi Hasan and Ghulam Ali,
reading Pablo Neruda immortal poetic tribute to poet Lorka or Amarkant's
novel & Sukha Patta, or reading Faiz Ahmed Faiz' nazms on Palestine child or Bertold
Brecht plays.

I even wept reading Semuel Beckett's play, Waiting for Godot,
which otherwise is seen as a (black) comedy evoking wry humour. Beneath
the comedy, the absurdity of the mankind is terrifying and
tearjerker too.

And mind you, the tears were not a lachrymose manifestation of a maudlin. The tears were a natural tribute to the great men whose ghazals, poetry, plays and novels
so very subliminally purged our hearts.

Most of those friends have outgrown the phase. They don't weep any more. Many even sneeringly laugh when recall the tearful tributes of the Salad
Days.

I am perhaps caught in the time warp, as far the idea of weeping is concern. The age and circumstances have combined to conspire against my longing for weeping.
Most of my colleagues at work place are at least 10 years younger to me.

They respect me but, obviously, can't share the emotional outpouring my sublime thoughts might betray. In the peer group, such ideas on literature, music or ideologies are seldom discussed.

If at all discussed, we often end up showing cynicism for the
system with utter disdain. We have over the years become
conditioned to talk, mostly, contemporary politics.

Oh, I have already typed out 750 words. So, I stop here. Much as I might want to write on this subject, I have to bear the readers time in mind. Don't I keep saying that brevity is the soul of good writing?

Why men can't weep ?

Many of you may not have heard about August Steinberg. He was one of the most
important playwrights of nineteenth century Europe.

His play 'The Father'- one of the 10 all time great plays in the world, has
been a memorable experience for me. I essayed the role of the doctor- Dr
Auster Mark in the play directed by Alok Chaterjee.

Alok, a very talented theatre person, got gold medal from the National School of Drama in 1988. He was the second actor to achieve the feat 19 years after Om Puri was awarded gold medal in the NSD.

First let me introduce in brief about the play. Then, I will equally briefly explain
the objective behind mentioning it. The play portrays the tragedy of a man and a woman struggling for possession of their 13-year-old daughter.

The father, a cavalry captain, is intellectual, a freethinker, a man of ideas. His wife is narrow, selfish and unscrupulous in her methods when her antagonism is wakened.

While the father's love is concerned with the development of the child, that of the
mother is interested mainly in possession of the child. Therefore, she
fights the man with every means at her command, even to the point of
instilling the poison of doubt into his mind by hints that he is not the
father of the child.

Not only does she seek to drive her husband mad but also through skillful intrigue she leads every one, including the Doctor to believe that he is actually
insane.

Finally even the old nurse is induced to betray him: she slips the
straitjacket over the Captain, adding the last touch to the treachery.
Robbed of his faith, broken in spirit and subdued, the Captain dies.

In one of the last scenes, the devastated Captain succumbs to his wife Laura’s
shenanigans and weeps inconsolably. The triumphant wife taints; You
are weeping? What kind of man
you are?

Captain
bursts out amid interminable sobs, & yes, I am weeping. Can't
the men weep? They feel pain like women when a needle in pierced through their skin?
Don't they agonise on being deprived of things so dear to them? The
soliloquy is very long. Its gist is that the manhood has nothing to
do with weeping.

Now let me explain the motive behind mentioning the play. But first of all, let me
clarify that the play has absolutely no bearing on my life or my family. It is just
one poser of the dying Captain that keeps haunting me;Why the men
can't weep?

As I am ageing, I feel the social milieu brings more and more pressure on me not
to weep. It is a mid- life crisis and not very typical one. Most of the
people of my age might be feeling that pressure. But perhaps they either
don't recognize it or, if recognize, don't confront the
question.

When I was young, I used to cry a lot. I strongly believe nothing is more effective
prescription for catharsis than weeping. We & means me and quite a
few friends like me-- would weep when listening Mehadi Hasan and Ghulam Ali,
reading Pablo Neruda immortal poetic tribute to poet Lorka or Amarkant's
novel & Sukha Patta, or reading Faiz Ahmed Faiz' nazms on Palestine child or Bertold
Brecht plays.

I even wept reading Semuel Beckett's play, Waiting for Godot,
which otherwise is seen as a (black) comedy evoking wry humour. Beneath
the comedy, the absurdity of the mankind is terrifying and
tearjerker too.

And mind you, the tears were not a lachrymose manifestation of a maudlin. The tears were a natural tribute to the great men whose ghazals, poetry, plays and novels
so very subliminally purged our hearts.

Most of those friends have outgrown the phase. They don't weep any more. Many even sneeringly laugh when recall the tearful tributes of the Salad
Days.

I am perhaps caught in the time warp, as far the idea of weeping is concern. The age and circumstances have combined to conspire against my longing for weeping.
Most of my colleagues at work place are at least 10 years younger to me.

They respect me but, obviously, can't share the emotional outpouring my sublime thoughts might betray. In the peer group, such ideas on literature, music or ideologies are seldom discussed.

If at all discussed, we often end up showing cynicism for the
system with utter disdain. We have over the years become
conditioned to talk, mostly, contemporary politics.

Oh, I have already typed out 750 words. So, I stop here. Much as I might want to write on this subject, I have to bear the readers time in mind. Don't I keep saying that brevity is the soul of good writing?