The Weekly Whine: MK Gandhi – the prototype of the modern politician
Hello and welcome to another edition of the Weekly Whine – a newsletter whose frequency is more unpredictable than Manchester United’s form in the post-Fergie era.
A few weeks ago, I met a very eminent columnist, someone who’ve I looked up to for many years. While bestowing underserving sobriquets on my writing, he asked me why my substack newsletters didn’t land in his inbox, and I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I’d been more dillydallying than dilettante when it came to writing them.
The truth is that the older you get, the harder it’s to write. Everything seems more productive than writing. Playing FIFA 23. Watching White Collar again. Hitting the gym. Mocking liberals on Twitter. Making memes.
Also, you become more discerning. In your indiscriminate youth, you are happy to slap your byline on any drivel that you type with you fingers and opposing thumbs. But all ennui must end. So, here’s my talisman. No matter how bad it is, you will find something written by me in your inbox every Sunday. And since it’s Cardio Enthusiast and Intermittent Fasting Day, let me revisit one of my favourite topics:
MK Gandhi – the prototype of them modern politician
Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi was the prototype of the modern Indian politician. He wielded power without holding a constitutional post. He used morality as a shield to deflect criticism. He started a cult of personality which builds up to not allowing any opposition. He was anti-science and followed a self-serving circular logic that he was always right. He abhorred sex and used austerity as virtue one should aspire to.
He placed religion, not rationality, at the centre of his political beliefs. He decided who’d become PM, irrespective of who got the popular votes. He wore the robes of a priest pretending to be a politician and we’ve seen many iterations of that since Independence. I am always reminded of Sarojini Naidu’s comment about Gandhi which was just an observation of him travelling in trains but could be extrapolated to describe his entire politics: “If only he knew how much it cost us to keep Gandhi poor.”
All of this reminds of a hilarious anecdote from Sandipan Deb’s Facebook page, where he translated an article by Niraj J Chaudhary (Sarat Bose’s secretary) about Gandhi’s trip to Calcutta.
Nirad C Chaudhuri was Sarat Bose's secretary in the late 1930s and early 1940s (for those who don't know, Sarat Bose was a prominent Congress politician and Subhas Bose's elder brother). In an article published maybe 40 years ago in the Desh/ Anandabazar Puja special (I don't have a physical copy and no digital copy seems available), Chaudhuri described the week-long visit of Gandhiji to Calcutta when he decided to stay at the Bose house.
I'm writing this from memory, but I can assure you that my hard disk is pretty intact.
A couple of weeks before the visit, detailed instructions arrived for the Boses from Gandhiji's secretary Mahadev Desai. The great man wanted only saag (spinach) for his meals and he was also fond of mud packs on his belly as a guard against constipation. And he would not touch any food that had been in the proximity of anything non-veg. Also, goat milk.
Desai did not mention what sort of saag. In their commitment to make sure that the great man could lead his ascetic life without any difficulty, the Boses went to the College Street market and bought quantities of some 12 varieties of saag.
For mud packs, they sent people to collect soil from the banks of the Hooghly. The women of the family then moulded it into bricks. They bought a new fridge (this is 1941 or so, so imagine the cost) and stored the saags and the mud packs there (remember, the food that Gandhiji would eat could not have been anywhere near any non-veg). They bought five goats. The top floor of the house was cleared out and refurbished for Gandhiji and his entourage to stay in.
The Mahatma arrived. He seemed satisfied with the arrangements which were inspected rigorously by Mahadev Desai. Early next morning, Desai went to check the milk goats kept tethered in the courtyard. He looked each of them in the eye (I am only recounting what Chaudhuri wrote) and four of them stared back him fearlessly. One turned her head away, coy. Desai declared that the first four were immoral creatures and Gandhiji would only have the milk produced by this one who adhered to the correct tenets of womanhood.
Gandhiji used to charge for giving his autograph. Every morning, a stack of autograph books would land on Chaudhuri's desk, with a Rs 5 or Rs 10 note inserted in each of them. Chaudhuri would send them up to the floor occupied by Gandhiji, and they would come back in the evening with the precious autograph and without the currency notes.
There were also hordes of people who wanted to meet the great man. Chaudhuri would note down the requests and send them up. The only ones granted an audience were white women. These closed-door meetings, in some cases, lasted several hours.
If someone can locate this wonderful piece by Chaudhuri and share, it will be a service to India.
I don’t know what’s my favourite bit about the exchange. The search for saag. The fridge bought for said saag. The demure goats. The veg food that had never been in the proximity of any non-veg food, a pre-cursor to the microwave debate that rages in offices today. I am just glad Sandipan Deb shared it on my timeline and I can now share it with yours.
Before we leave, we leave behind the greatest Gandhi tribute band of all time:
Random Musing: The Great Garba
It’s that time of the year again when various raging debates hit our timelines. Should themed pujas be allowed? Should non-Hindus be allowed to do garba? Should Falguni Pathak songs be remixed? The answers are Yes. Yes. And No.
And I really don’t care who gets to Garba or visit Pandals, as long as it’s not me cause it’s the season where I feel like 52 Blue, the lonely whale whose frequency can’t be heard by anyone else from his species. Lucky bastard, he probably doesn’t have to do Garba, visit pandals or make small talk.
And to cap it off, I leave you with the poorest of PJs.
Q: What do you call a newsletter writer who doesn't get decent open rates?
A: Sub Scribe
Bye. Please don’t cancel me.