Today,
Jawaharlal Nehru’s legacy to India is under question as never before. An
alternative version of Indian nationalism challenges the secular socialist
non-aligned vision that dominated India for over 40 years. Nehru,
aristocratic prince of hearts, Cambridge-educated intellectual, handsome,
charming, manly, world statesman and adored by all Indians, is now cast as
the creator of a malign bureaucrat-dominated leviathan state which
squashed the enterprise of his people. Worse, Nehru is accused of
promulgating a romantic ‘‘secularism’’, he was an Englishman cut off from
the life blood of the Hindu faith, fatally elitist and distant from the
very ‘‘masses’’ he so romanticised.
From Nehru was born the Nehruvian elite — characterised by the
Nehruvian dilemma — a thin wavering line of some of the best educated,
most cosmopolitan people in the world, trying to understand, govern and
identify with the world’s poorest and most illiterate.
Shashi Tharoor is Nehru’s legatee. Like the subject of his book, he too
is a western-educated lover of the genius of his own country; his writings
strain to throw off colonial perceptions and strike out towards the
future, where the Indian is not only someone steeped in the Bhagavad Gita
but also in Proust (and sometimes P.G. Wodehouse). Indeed Nehru’s
‘‘discovery of India’’ has become almost a rite of passage for India’s
educated class which learns to read Kalidasa in a western university.
He continues his quest in this deeply felt portrait. In the process, he
delineates that generation of Indians who invented India even as they
fought for her freedom, who created a new beloved country in passionate
works of poetry, literature, song, who were mutually divided but united in
their constant love affair with the entity known as India. India was
Gandhi’s child, Sardar Patel’s motherland, Maulana Azad’s ideal and
Nehru’s aphrodisiac.
Nehru
is part of a Penguin Lives series and doesn’t claim to chart pathbreaking
new ground. Much of the material is drawn from secondary sources and a
great deal of it, such as Motilal’s devotion to his son, Jawaharlal’s
neglect of Kamala and Indira, sharp differences with Gandhi and Bose, the
Robert Frost poem discovered on his study table, have passed into
folklore.
Tharoor’s portrait is seductive not for its information but for its
insight into the freedom struggle’s most glamorous figure and for the deft
warp and weft between unfolding events and the progress of a human life.
The effect of Jallianwala Bagh on Nehru’s political development, the toll
of long imprisonment and the electrifying influence of international
meetings such as the Brussels Congress against Colonial Oppression are
woven into the evolution of the mercurial, hot-headed, refined,
short-tempered, courteous man, who succumbed in the end to an economic
structure that was far too theoretical and far too driven by emotional
nationalism — the benevolent patriarch whose ‘‘imperial travels’’ among
the Indian masses led him, as it turned out, towards a faulty grand
design. ‘‘The people’’ became an inert thing which had to be moulded and
enhanced by Nehru’s own act of will because of a subliminal suspicion of
the illiterate. Tharoor’s Jawaharlal is irresistible, but he is also a
monumental egoist, he is a passionate politician, yet unable to build a
new generation of leaders.
One relationship Tharoor might have dealt with superbly had he turned
greater attention to it was Nehru’s relationship with Gandhi. What
peculiar attraction lay at the centre of that ever-changing relationship?
Was Nehru’s own insecurity about India at the heart of his reverence for
his “Bapuji”? Tharoor’s questioning, subtle narrative opens the door to
deeper questions about the man in whose mind modern India first came to
life. Nehru emerges as flawed and lonely but, as the author suggests, let
us never forget that the foundations of democracy that were laid half a
century ago have proved deep and irreversible.