Whenever I have to cross the Ganga (and, that is quite often, say, going to Howrah Station, Kolkata's principal rail terminal, over the Howrah bridge, or going to the State Secretariat over the Second Hooghly Bridge [Vidyasagar Setu] or going by a motorized launch from Dakshineswar to the Belur Math), somewhere deep inside me few words keep ringing. Like the tunes of a much-loved song whose lyrics you have long forgotten: "... ever-changing, ever-flowing, and yet ever the same Ganga."
No, this write-up is not a paean to the River of Bharat. Every time I cross the Ganga, I am reminded of the author of these exquisitively beautiful lines.
I do not remember when I first read those lines. Or where. But they have remained with me since, and will remain with me forever. This is part of Jawaharlal Nehru's last will and testament, written in 1954, at the age of sixty-five: "... [the Ganga] has been a symbol of India's age-long culture and civilization, ever-changing, ever-flowing, and yet ever the same Ganga. ... [She] has been to me a symbol and a memory of the past of India, running into the present, and flowing on to the great ocean of the future." (p. 206)
For me, Nehru, the author of incredibly beautiful English prose, has taken precedence over Nehru, the freedom fighter, or Nehru, the Prime Minister.
Is that unfair? May be. Shashi Tharoor would say, yes. And he has reasons to.
Make no mistake. Nehru: The Invention of India is written by an admirer.
And, make no mistake, either, that that admiration has in no way diminished the wonderful readability of the book. Only, it has been written more than twenty years ago, in 2003. Now, two decades later, with s-o much having changed around us, you have to occasionally pause reading, to place Nehru in the Bharat of 2024.
Did Nehru make mistakes?
Of course he did.
Many.
Stopping the Army from driving out the invaders and referring Kashmir to the United Nations. Silently watching when China gobbled up an independent country whole. (Offering Dalai Lama asylum is poor atonement). Enomoured of his beloved USSR, foisting on the country "planned" economy. Dreaming of internationalism that was clearly beyond the reach of a country just emerging out of the shadow of colonialism.
But to focus on Nehru's failings without taking into account the time he lived and worked in is the job of a vote-seeking politician.
The historian plays by a different rule book.
Two parts of the country have been chopped off in the name of religion. Over five hundred areas of the subcontinent are dithering whether to join India or Pakistan or to remain "independent." Refugees, bereft of everything except their memories, are pouring in in their millions. And, a millennia-old civilization was clearly in danger of descending into primordial anarchy.
And you are to piece together a country out of that physical, psychological, and emotional wreckage.
Easy?
NO.
Could there have been a better Prime Minister? May be. May be not. This is one of history's those unanswerable "what-ifs".
Sixty years after the man passed away, why should we focus only on his shortcomings, and not, at the same time, his achievements also, which are not insignificant?
You will find yourself agreeing with one of the best tributes paid on Nehru's death by one of his great critics and one of his great successors. Atal Behari Vajpayee mourned in May 1964, "that vibrancy, and independence of mind, that quality of being able to befriend the opponent and enemy, that gentlemanliness, that greatness" (p. 236)
Today's politicians - all of us, really - have a lot to learn, both from the mourner and the mourned.
Nehru: The Invention of India has not necessarily made me a Nehru bkakt; but it came dangerously close to making me a Shashi Tharoor bhakt!!
To be an admirer of the subject and to write an unbiased, clear-eyed biography is no mean feat.
As I am writing this, I have already taken up my next book.
Why I am a Hindu written by ...
... well, eh...
... by Shashi Tharoor!
I would love to know.
The next time I am cruising over the Ganga from Belur Math to Dakshineswar, I know, over the constant humming of the motor of the creaking launch, like the refrain of a long-forgotton song, the words will keep ringing somewhere deep inside me:
"...ever-changing, ever-flowing, and yet ever the same Ganga..."