Justice, What’s That?
I have nothing new to say on the Bhopal gas tragedy, except to reiterate one glaring fact: of the four Estates allegedly protecting our democracy, three (the executive, the legislature and the judiciary) were working relentlessly to ensure that UCC/Dow got off lightly. Simultaneously, they were working relentlessly to ensure that the victims of the disaster were scandalously short-changed. Despite the crocodile tears and belated muscle-flexing to nail the culprits who made sure Warren Anderson got VIP treatment when he entered and exited India, both the UPA and the NDA regimes, aided and abetted by almost every well-known Supreme Court lawyer and judge, stand guilty of monumental betrayal and gross inhumanity. (The lawyer who emerges with the greatest dishonour is the late Nani Palkhivala. He persuaded the US courts, on behalf of UCC, not to entertain compensation demands by the victims in American courts; if the cases had been tried in New York, Warren Anderson’s company would have gone bankrupt paying damages.) I would not like to believe that these otherwise patriotic legal and political worthies sold out for monetary considerations.
The past three weeks have once again shown up the ugly face of Indian democracy. There is one law for the rich and another for the poor. The shame of Bhopal, which we all share, is not so much of ‘justice delayed is justice denied’, but the fact that, in 2010, India is still two countries.
Six Of The Best
I come from the other La Martiniere, the grander, more famous and historically noted. (The boys fought on the side of the British in the 1857 war of independence.) We were a merry, disorderly bunch in the Lucknow of the ’50s and ’60s, enjoying the secular and decadent culture of a city in which the aristocracy was generally impoverished and on the run. Getting beaten by the Anglo-Indian masters was a routine affair and being caned by the principal was for many a badge of honour. Our principal was a dark Bengali gentleman called Datta Ray who had changed his name to Doutre for obvious reasons. He was not cruel or cane-happy or cold-hearted. However, for a grave offence he would deliver “six of the best” with a rod he kept locked up. If memory serves me right, I was caned twice by Doutre. Once for bunking PT for two years and once for repeatedly bunking chapel. It was a proud moment, the caning. You were asked to “bend down”—and whack! What Mr Doutre did not know was that under my khaki shorts I had inserted a thick exercise book to cover my posterior. Mr Doutre was at once surprised and pleased that I took his punishment so manfully.
The masters too used the cane, but their beating was confined to the left or the right hand or the knuckles. Only the principal had rights over our bums. The vice-principal was a bachelor called Franke DeSouza. He was a legendary figure, like John Martin at Doon and Gibson at Mayo. He devoted his entire life to the school and, after he retired, at his request, was given lodgings on the campus. He lies buried unlamented in the fields of La Martiniere.
DeSouza taught us chemistry with a passion which was entirely wasted. When he got angry, which was quite often, he would furiously pull the students’ hair from side to side. I was frequently at the receiving end of his pulling. It was rather painful. Surprisingly, all the boys, including me, worshipped Franke DeSouza. The little that I know of CO2 is because Franke put the fear of god in me. But I have to say this: all of us who were walloped by him felt we had more than earned the punishment. Did any of us complain? Did we go howling to our parents? Never. In any case, if we had gone crying to our loved ones, they would have said: “I am sure you deserved it.” Corporal punishment in not so small doses was considered to be good for building character and discipline.
Before the lynch mobs get after me, let me quickly add that those were different times. We were tougher, even somewhat insensitive. I recount this bit of nostalgia not in support of corporal punishment but to give you a flavour of days gone by.
Read It And Die
What is news? How do you spot the genuine from the fake? The Irish journalist, Claud Cockburn, believed “News is something someone, somewhere does not want to read. The rest is PR.” Lord Thompson asked: “News? You mean the stuff between the ads.” The poet W.H. Auden thought “anything which does not appear on the front page is news”. Well, here is another take. It comes from possibly the best novel ever written on the profession of journalism. Evelyn Waugh in his masterpiece, Scoop, says, “News is what a chap who doesn’t care much about anything wants to read. And it’s only news until he’s read it. After that, it is dead.”
