A Better India: A Better World by N.R. Narayana Murthy
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

This is a refreshing book by an important business leader. When an Indian colleague first lent it to me, I wasn’t thrilled to read it but felt obliged. I was very much positively surprised. N.R. Narayana Murthy, the founder and chairman of Infosys presents a rather coherent and positive vision to the world according to himself. If only many more business leaders thought like him, one might even feel tempted by this thing called ‘compassionate capitalism.’  Narayana Murthy has thought much about India, his homeland, and its contradictions. In the introduction to his book, he outlines these:

“The enigma of India is that our progress in higher education and in science and technology has not been sufficient to take 350 million Indians out of illiteracy. It is difficult to imagine that 318 million people in the country do not have access to safe drinking water and 250 million people do not have access to basic medical care. Why should 630 million people not have access to acceptable sanitation facilities even in 2009? When you see world-class supermarkets and food chains in our towns, and when our urban youngsters gloat over the choice of toppings on their pizzas, why should 51 per cent of the children in the country be undernourished? When India is among the largest producers of engineers and scientists in the world, why should 52 per cent of the primary schools have only one teacher for every two classes? When our politicians and bureaucrats live in huge houses in Lutyens’ Delhi and the state capitals, our corporate leaders splurge money on mansions, yachts and planes, and our urban youth revel in their latest sport shoes, why should 300 million Indians live on hardly Rs 545 per month (US$10 at current exchange rate), barely sufficient to manage two meals a day, with little or no money left for schooling, clothes, shelter and medicine?” (pp. xiii-xiv).

His starting point is Franklin D. Roosevelt’s ‘four freedoms’—freedom of speech and expression, freedom of religion, freedom from want, and freedom from fear (p. xiii). He later elaborates on what a ‘civilized society’ entails: “a society where everybody has equal opportunity to better his or her life; where every child has food, shelter, health care and education; a society where duties come before rights; where each generation makes sacrifices to make life better for the next generation” (p. 11). Obviously, many of these tenets are increasingly not present in today’s USA and, worse, many Americans on the right would dispute these principles as smacking of socialism.

Narayana Murthy is a well-read and well-travelled, learned man who clearly thinks a lot about societal issues. In the introduction his acknowledged three books that have influenced him deeply: The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism by Max Weber; My Experiments with Truth by Mahatma Gandhi; and Peau Noire, Masques Blancs by Franz Fanon (p. xiv). This rather eclectic selection shows the breadth of his reading and attests to an open mind. He builds his own philosophy on these disparate strains of thought, emphasizing the importance of values and leadership. He sets out early in the book that, “I do not know of any community—a company, an institution or a nation—that has achieved success without a long journey of aspiration, hard work, commitment, focus, hope, confidence, humility and sacrifice” (p. xxiii).

His student years in France in the 1970s were very important in forming his thinking. In the first chapter, a lecture to students, he compares France to India for its civil-mindedness: “In France, everybody acted as if it was their job to discuss, debate and quickly act on improving public facilities. In India, we discuss, debate and behave as if the improvement of any public facility is not our task, and consequently, do not act at all” (p. 11). His conclusion: being a developing country is a mindset. Here he breaks clear of the Left, placing the onus on the individual, as well as the society as a whole, to take responsibility for its own destiny. He tells a story of how he lost any sympathy for the Left after having been incarcerated by Bulgarian authorities when traveling back from Paris to India in 1974 (pp. 4-5).

This is a collection of 37 essays and speeches given at a variety of fora during the 2000s and selected for the book by the author himself. They are divided into sections: Address to students; Values; Important national issues; Education; Leadership challenges; Corporate and public governance; Corporate social responsibility and philanthropy; Entrepreneurship; Globalization; and, finally, three short chapters on Infosys. In such a collection it is inevitable that there are overlaps between the chapters and many recurrent themes. I’ll pick a few themes that I found interesting here below.

He addresses students in a variety of schools, ranging from prestigious institutions like INSEAD, Indian Institute of Technology, IESE Business School in Barcelona and NYU, to various other universities in India. He exhorts his values: “You must believe in and act according to the principle that putting public interest ahead of private interest in the short term will be better for your private concerns in the long run.” … “Ego, vanity and contempt for other people have clouded our minds for thousands of years and impeded our progress. Humility is scarce in this country.” … “No county that has shunned merit has succeeded in solving its problems.” … “The reason for the lack of progress in many developing nations is not the paucity of resources but the lack of management talent and professionalism” (pp. 14-15).

Narayana Murthy is a fan of globalization and refers to the ‘global bazaar’ and Thomas Friedman’s ‘flat world’ in several places. In this context, he calls for “an environment of tolerance and respect for multi-culturalism” (p. 19). He sees global warming and environmental degradation as major threats and sees that the answers must lie in global cooperation: “The solution is not to force developing nations to forgo what the developed world has enjoyed for over a century. It is to come together as one planet and use innovation in technology to produce alternate energy solutions and reduction of carbon emissions.” His thinking reflects the intergenerational equity perspective embedded in the original definition of sustainable development: “After all, this is the only planet we have. Conduct yourself as if you have borrowed it from the next generation. Remember that you will have to give it back to them in good shape” (pp. 20-21).

He is also very critical of laissez-faire capitalism, a theme that resonates throughout the book: “Unfortunately, the greed of several corporate leaders, the meltdown of Wall Street, the increasing differences between the salaries of CEOs and ordinary workers, and the unbelievable severance compensation paid to failed CEOs have called into question whether capitalism is indeed a solution for the benefit of all, or if it is an instrument for a few cunning people to hoodwink a large mass of gullible middle-class and poor people. Never before in the history of capitalism have so few people brought so much misery to so many.” His views of how to manage a company are in line with his broader beliefs: “The only way you can save capitalism and bring it back to its shining glory is by conducting yourselves as decent, honest, fair, diligent and socially conscious business leaders. In every action of yours, you have to ask how it will make the lowest level worker in your corporation and the poorest person in your society better. You have to learn to put the interest of the community—your corporation, your society, your nation and this planet—before your own interest.” Again emphasizing the need for sacrifice, he states that, “(T)o succeed in these days of globalization, global warming and laissez-faire capitalism, every worker in your corporation will have to accept tremendous sacrifices in the short term and hope that goodness will, indeed, succeed in the long term and make life better for every one of them” (pp. 21-22). Certainly not the thinking en vogue on this continent!

Naryana Murthy is also rather harsh on India. In a chapter entitled ‘What Can We Learn from the West?’ he chastises his own nation for faulty values: “Indian society has, for over a thousand years, put loyalty to family ahead of loyalty to society.” … “Unfortunately, our attitude towards family life is not reflected in our attitude towards the community. From littering the streets to corruption to violating contractual obligations, we are apathetic to the community good.” … “Apathy in addressing community matters has held us back from making progress which is otherwise within our reach. We see serious problems around us but do not try to solve them. We behave as if the problems do not exist or as if they belong to someone else” (pp. 47-49). He continues, “our intellectual arrogance has also not helped our society. I have travelled extensively and, in my experience, have not come across another society where people are as contemptuous of better societies as we are, with as little progress as we have achieved.” He identifies things that India should learn from the West, including accountability, dignity of labour (“everybody in India wants to be a thinker and not a doer”), and professionalism (punctuality, respect for other people’s time, respecting contractual obligations), concluding that “the most important attribute of a progressive society is respect for others who have accomplished more than they themselves have, and the willingness to learn from them” (pp. 50-51)

Elaborating on individual responsibilities, he adds one more: discipline. “There are several ingredients for national development—natural resources, human resources, leadership, and finally, discipline.” … “The utter lack of discipline exhibited by our people is rendering these other three powerful factors ineffective for fast-paced economic growth. We see umpteen examples of undisciplined behaviour around us every day. What is even sadder is that this behaviour has become the norm even among the powerful and the elite.” … “Discipline is about complying with the agreed protocols, norms, desirable practices, regulations and the laws of the land designed to improve the performance of individuals and societies. Discipline is the bedrock of individual development, community development, and national development” (p. 57). In this category, Narayana Murthy includes aspects, such as lack of discipline in thought, or intellectual dishonesty (objectivity to focus on outcomes and results, rather than politics or focus on caste and religion; corruption). To achieve discipline, India needs role models (honest, accountable, disciplined leaders committed to change), swift and harsh punishment of offenders, transparency, political reform, and an improved bureaucracy (p. 65).

The part focusing on important national issues considers a wide range, including the role of population in economic development in India. Talking about population growth as a strain to development risks getting attacked from both the Left and the Right these days, but Narayana Murthy barges right into the issues. He highlights the need for ‘good human capital’ (p. 94) but also warns that “a failure to stabilize India’s population will have significant implications for the future of India’s economy” and that “high population densities have also led to overloaded systems and infrastructure in urban areas” (p. 95). He links the population debate to environment and resources, in particular energy demand, noting how the combined demands from India and China will put pressure on world resources: “The rapid growth in emerging economies cannot be sustained in the face of mounting environmental deterioration and resource depletion” (pp. 96-97). He sees a clear role for the government, which must “focus on conservation-friendly policies. For example, subsidies on conventional fuel make it difficult for renewable energy sources to compete and should be removed at least for rich and middle-class people.” … “The government can play a key role as a regulator in making Indian industry environmentally responsible” (pp. 99-100). Would someone please tell that to the politicians in Washington, DC?

So, how to deal with the issue of excessive population growth? Well, there’s the need to meet unmet need of contraception and the issue of how Indian states have failed to implement family planning programs. Narayana Murthy recognizes that there’s been a significant decrease in population growth in certain southern states, such as Kerala, Tamil Nadu, Karnataka and Andhra Pradesh, where “state governments here focussed on human development, opened up local economies, and improved social services … Rising female literacy in these states contributed to the success of family planning … A focus on women’s and children’s health also contribute to population control.” He concludes, in line with what is also known from empirical literature: “human development goes hand in hand with lower population growth” (pp. 98-99). What he doesn’t mention is that states like Kerala have for decades been run by parties from the Left.

His ‘Framework for Urban Planning in Modern India’ also recognizes the importance of planning but calls for “radical, immediate reform in the planning and management of our cities” that “must adequately address the shortage of low-cost housing” (pp. 104-105).

Moving to corporate governance, he extols the virtues of good corporate governance to enhance corporate performance while ensuring that corporations conform with the interests of investors and society by “creating fairness, transparency and accountability in business activities among employees, management and the board” (p. 174). “The abuse of corporate power results from incentives within firms that encourage a culture of corruption. … Clearly, good governance requires a mindset within the corporation which integrates the corporate code of ethics into the day-to-day activities of its managers and workers” (p. 181). “Corporate leaders have to create a climate of opinion that values respectability in addition to wealth” (p. 184).

So what is this ‘compassionate capitalism’ that Narayana Murthy longs for?  According to him it is about “bringing the power of capitalism to the benefit of large masses. It is about combining the power of mind and heart, the good of capitalism and socialism … The benefits of growth have to be distributed widely” (p. 215). While this does not exist anywhere, Narayana Murthy does pay some respect to what he calls the ‘Swedish model.’

He returns to the theme of the lack of credibility of capitalism today: “Greedy behaviour from corporate leaders has strengthened public conviction that free markets are tools for the rich to get richer at the expense of the welfare of the general public” (p. 216). Lest capitalism is rejected as the most accepted model for growth in developing countries and by the alienated poor, the business leaders have to regain the trust of society and abide the value system of the community where they operate. Touching on a debate that rages both in America and Europe, Narayana Murthy weighs in on executive compensation: “Business leaders should shun excessive managerial compensation. Managerial remuneration should be based on three principles—fairness with respect to the compensation of other employees; transparency with respect to shareholders and employees; and accountability with respect to linking compensation with corporate performance … We have to create a climate of opinion which says respect is more important than wealth” (pp. 216-217). Indeed.

At the end, this rather visionary and socially aware business leader sees globalization in an almost exclusively favourable light, concluding that “we need a flat world because is spreads the American beliefs in free trade to the rest of the world; it benefits consumers from all over the globe; it helps create a world with better opportunities for everyone; and, finally, it brings global trade into focus, shunning terrorism and creating a more peaceful world” (p. 256). The self-confessed admirer of the United States would be bitterly disappointed with the level of political discourse here today.


View all my reviews

Sikkim Earthquake, 18 September 2011

On Sunday, just when I had arrived, there was an earthquake. It didn’t really register with me. Delhi shook gently, enough for many others to notice, but I was jetlagged and went to sleep. My colleague Gus thought he was suddenly feeling the symptoms of old age as dizziness set in and he had to sit down on the sofa, he told me afterwards.

What had taken place was an earthquake with an epicentre in Sikkim, hundreds of kilometres away from the national capital region. The quake hit the Sikkim-Nepal border area at 18:10 hours near the boundary between India and Eurasia plates. It was 6.8 on the Richter Scale and, given the style of construction and rough hilly terrain, it would turn out to be the most destructive earthquake to hit India in ten years. People rushed out of the houses that started to collapse. In addition, there were reports of extensive landslides and downed power lines. “Tremors were felt between 30 seconds to one minute in some parts of Sikkim, including Gangtok,” the State capital, said Shalesh Nayak, Secretary in the Indian Earth Sciences Ministry, said according to The Times of India (19 September 2011). Nearly everyone in Sikkim and Darjeeling spent Sunday night in the open as aftershocks triggered fears of a second wave of destruction.

Sikkim is a Himalayan state in the Indian northeast, bordered by Nepal to the west, Tibet (China) to the north and Bhutan to the east. Its southern border is with the Indian state of West Bengal. The mountainous State is quite sparsely populated—according to the latest 2001 census, the total population was only 540,000 people—and only 11% of the people live in urban areas. “Sikkim is sheer magic,” gushes the State’s official website. “This is not just the most beautiful place in the world but cleanest and safest too,” it continues. This pristine idyll was shattered by the quake.

Indian Prime Minister Manmohan Singh called Sikkim’s Chief Minister Pawan Kumar Chamling, who reportedly described the damage as serious. Early reports confirmed 15 dead in Sikkim and across the border in Nepal, but the death toll would keep on rising. By the following Saturday, 24th of September, there were reportedly 75 dead and more than 61,000 left homeless in Sikkim alone. In addition, 10 people were reported dead in Bengal and 7 in Bihar. And the rescue crews had not yet reached the most remote areas due to landslides and heavy rains.

On Tuesday, 20 September, The Times reported that virtually nothing was left intact on the 100 km long road connecting Gangtok to Chungthang, and that roads and bridges between Meeli and Namchi in south Sikkim and Rawangala in west Sikkim had been severely damaged. All of this hampered rescue operations.

Rumtek, a major Buddhist monastery, located at an elevation of 1,768 metres some 24 kilomters from Gangtok, was badly damaged, leaving some 400 monks without shelter. A team of ten South African engineers were in the Teesta River area working together with the locals to develop a hydroelectric scheme. Two of the men had been inside a tunnel when the quake took place. They were barely able to escape as a major crack developed and the tunnel was suddenly flooded with water from the river. These kinds of stories catch the eye as they find themselves into the newspapers. Inevitably, rumours would emerge that the Teesta hydroelectric project was somehow connected to the earthquake. Needless to say, such rumours are obviously baseless.

The official response to the disaster was quite rapid and effective, it would seem. The Government of India immediately declared Sikkim a disaster area and promised funds for reconstruction and recovery. Prime Minister Singh would visit the quake stricken areas in Sikkim on 29 September 2011. Nearly 6,000 Army and paramilitary forces personnel were deployed without delay. However, their work was hampered by the landslides and it took days for the troops to reach Mangan, the quake’s epicentre, and nearby areas of north and west Sikkim, where the heaviest damage had been reported. The rescue convoys were stuck at various locations with fallen trees, downed power lines and landslides. It was reported that two young Army men and a junior engineer had also been killed.

By Monday, Army helicopters started dropping food and supplies to people in the worst affected areas. They also started evacuating people to safety. Apart from the general destruction and lost homes caused by earthquakes, death often comes afterwards from diseases that spread when people must stay in the open and without adequate food, clean water or sanitation.

On Wednesday (21 September 2011) The Times ran an article about how Dipak Ghosh at Jadavpur University had detected abnormalities that could presage a major earthquake. The scientist runs a solid-state nuclear track detector that he has embedded 70 cm underground besides the Faculty Club. As he monitored the devise 9 days before the earthquake, he noticed abnormal fluctuations in radon gas emissions from below. Should he have reported this to warn authorities of the impending danger? This would have been risky, as earthquake prediction is far from an exact science. In 2009 when a 6.3 magnitude quake destroyed the medieval city of l’Aquila in the Abruzzo region of Italy, a local scientist Giampaolo Giuliani had recorded similar forewarnings from his four radometers in the area. He however was under injunction barring him from reporting the monitoring data, as officials claimed that such predictions would spread unwarranted panic. In that quake, 308 people including 20 children died, 1,500 were injured and perhaps 80,000 left homeless.

Ghosh, Director of the Biren Roy Research Laboratory for Radioactivity and Earthquake Studies at Jadavpur University, was well aware of the criticism that Giuliani had had to face around his earthquake predictions. “It is not so easy. I am into this research monitoring soil radon since 2006,” he told The Times. “What I gathered from the data is that there is a direct correlation between the soil radon anomaly within 1,000 kilometres from the measuring site, and for intensity above 4 in the Richter scale. They occur 7-15 days before an earthquake with few exceptions,” said Ghosh, comparing earthquake prediction based on radon with a doctor performing an ECG on patient, which would indicate that the person is at risk of a heart attack but would not be able to predict its timing. Earthquake forecasting using radon monitoring remains controversial amongst the scientific community.

On Thursday, when many people had slowly started returning home—or whatever was left of it—for shelter from the continued rain, an aftershock of 3.9 shook Gangtok at 22:30 sending people scurrying out into the open. During the same evening, a 4.8 magnitude quake, with its epicentre in Myanmar, was felt in parts of Meghalaya, Manipur, Tripura and Mizoram in northeast India, but there were no reports of casualties according to Mail Today (23 September 2011).

As always, it is the regular people, poor folks eking out a living in the harsh environment where flat agricultural land is hard to come by and where it has been constructed on elaborate terraces for generations, that are most affected by disasters such as this. These are the people who lost family members amongst the dead.

As I left Delhi on Saturday night, it was reported that fresh landslides in Langchun in the rain-soaked northern Sikkim were again stopping rescuers from reaching remote villages. The landslides and the aftershocks would continue for the days and weeks to come. Casualty figures from Sikkim’s neighbours confirmed 6 dead in Nepal and 7 in Tibet; 2,322 and 2,960 buildings, respectively, were completely destroyed in these states. On 28 September 2011, authorities downgraded the casualty estimates in Sikkim from 77 to 60 following verification of double counting and locating people who had been listed as missing in the confusion of the immediate aftermath of the earthquake. This at least was good news.

Delhi Heat

Delhi is hot. I mean not warm and sunny. I mean searing hot. The sun is shining from a cloudless sky and the temperature is around +40 degrees Celsius. As we walked the few hundred metres to have lunch at the India International Centre, Jayati with whom I am working here remarked: “You’re lucky you weren’t here last week; now it’s a bit cooler.” But according to the forecast would soon again get warmer—and indeed, on May 12th the year’s record was broken with an official high of +43.1 degrees Celsius. Khushwant Singh, the famous Indian writer, sums it up in his latest, The Sunset Club: “It is said hell is a very hot place. If you want a foretaste of what may be your fate, you should spend the month of June in Delhi.” It is now May, and maybe this is only a foretaste of what comes after.




Last time I was here, in January, just four months ago, it was freezing. The cold and damp fog of winter enveloped the city for weeks. A dozen or more people died as the frigid winds blew down to the northern plains from the Himalayas. Now they die of the heat. People with no shelter, exposed to the vagaries of climate. It is the rag pickers and the poor elderly who perish when the weather gets too cold or too hot. Or when it floods. Delhi is renowned for its floods when the monsoon rains come later in the year. The river Yamuna, which crosses the vast conglomeration, rises above its banks. The slums are soaked and again poor people are washed away with the waters. Which kills more people, I ask myself. So far, it is not the cold of the winter, although the seasons are getting quite extreme lately. Which way would I prefer myself, if I had the unenviable choice? They say one feels numb and warm before one passes away from freezing. Drowning is supposed to bring along a calm, with a light that shines presumably from somewhere above. But how do they know? As far as I can see, nobody has really died and come back to tell. I think that, considering the options, I’d prefer succumbing to the heat. Maybe my brain is already overheating, as I'm thinking this way.

In the evening the heat subsides with the sun and it is actually quite pleasant. Hot and dry, but not suffocating. A couple of nights ago, I headed out by myself, as my travelling companion had acquired an acute case of ‘Delhi Belly.’ No wonder, as in this heat all kinds of micro-organisms thrive. It was more of a wonder in January, when it was cold, that I acquired a bad case of the same ailment. I attribute it to complacency. Then I had thought it was safe enough to eat salads and other uncooked food. Obviously I was badly mistaken. After a couple of agonizing days when I finally was strong enough to get on my feet I headed to the Max Healthcare Super Speciality Hospital. I could see why today so many people, including Westerners, choose to have themselves treated in Indian hospitals if they get gravely ill. Of course, this option is only available to those who can afford it; which is to say, perhaps the top 10 percent of Indians plus the foreigners who see the value of being treated here. The Max was a sprawling complex in a park-like setting, spanking clean, friendly, efficient and cheap by Western standards. After just a quarter of an hour wait, I was examined by the highly professional Dr. Monica Mahajan who discharged me with a set of prescriptions that I was able to pick up from the ground floor dispensary on my way out. Give me this anytime over an overpriced and unfriendly American hospital where they ask for your religious affiliation and credit card before they even start treating you.

This recent night I was perfectly fine and jumped into the tiny white Tata taxi that I had hired on a weekly basis to take me around. I asked the dark skinned moustachioed driver, Shiva Dayal, to take me to Khan Market. I wanted to visit the two fabulous bookstores operating at the popular place. Just a few years ago, this was just a local market. Today it is one of the fanciest shopping areas in New Delhi with lots of boutiques frequented by fancy ladies sporting expensive jewellery and handbags. Khan Market was crowded, the lights of the shops beckoned browsers. I first went to Bahri Sons, but soon realized they were about to close for the night. The two young women tending the cashier were no longer interested in making a sell. Instead they were counting the stack of bills the shop had collected from customers during the day, joking and giggling with each other. I decided to head to Faqir-Chand & Sons, a small but magnificent book handler not far away in the same row of shops. They gave me more leeway time-wise, as well as service-wise, and I was able to browse through their amazing and amazingly disorganized collections. In a place where the newest books on politics and international affairs lie next to an assortment of other tomes with no apparent connection through their topics—Jack London’s Call of the Wild adjacent to Mein Kampf; biographies of Che Guevara and the Beatles next to a photographic guide to sex positions from Kama Sutra—one can find true surprises that one just has to purchase. I picked up an inspiring anthology of Indian environmental writing, Voices in the Wilderness: Contemporary Wildlife Writings, edited by Prerna Singh Bindra.

Having picked my selection, I continued to an alley on the side of Khan Market where several small doors lead up to discreet little bars. Discreet only from the outside, however. I climbed the stairs to one called Route 04 and found a noisy room crowded with mostly young people, all Indian, consuming quantities of beer and cocktails. I could see plates of nachos carried to the tables to be consumed by the lively customers. Many of the women were breathtakingly beautiful, as many Indians are, with their large dark eyes lined with kohl. It was still early on a Monday evening, but the DJ in a corner was playing Led Zeppelin at high volume. A group of fashionable kids were sharing an oversized hookah at a close-by table. As it was happy hour, I got a second bottle of Tuborg for the same price. IMFL, they call it: Indian made foreign liquor. I could have stayed for the rest of the evening, but I was getting hungry and the somewhat depressing looking pseudo-Mexican/New Yorker snacks did not appeal to me.






I asked Shiva to recommend a restaurant with good Indian food that also served beer. The latter was a condition I would not compromise upon tonight. He said he knew just the place for me and off we drove to a new shopping centre close to Lodhi Gardens not far from Khan Market. The restaurant was called Pindi and boasted a neon sign promising genuine Mughal and Chinese cuisine. It was brightly lit with tables lining the sides of two adjacent oblong rooms. I sat at one and started browsing the menu. Soon Shiva returned with the bad news: the place had no beer. A discussion ensued involving the portentous proprietor and a couple of waiters mixing Hindi and English in a way that left me completely confused. I was led to a less conspicuous corner table and told to sit down. The paunchy owner assured me that things would work out. I would just have to be discreet about my beer. He only had two left and he had already told a group of some half a dozen foreigners sitting in the next room that there was no beer. The manager did not want them to see that someone arriving after them was actually served the cold drink. I agreed to be prudent and a waiter brought me a can carefully wrapped in a paper towel, so that it would not be obvious to any observer that the tin contained the coveted brew. With this, the evening proceeded. In my euphoria I ordered far too much food: succulent Rada mutton, with large chunks of soft lamb attached to bone served in an onion sauce containing minced lamb; delicious Karani Paneer, cottage cheese stewed in wonderful gravy; white long-grained rice.

India’s economy is growing rapidly and in the West this is often seen as a threat. People in the US complain about outsourcing of jobs, as well as about bright and hardworking Indian professionals taking jobs in America. Some of it may be true, but the thriving modern sector is still only a thin layer: icing on the boiling cake of India. Most of India is still very poor and this poverty has both a geographical dimension as well as many social aspects. Often these overlap. The UN ranks India 119th among 169 countries based on the Human Development Index. This ranking does not only include monetary income but takes into account aspects such as health and education. This puts India into the ‘medium human development’ category. The index, however, hides huge differences between people. These differences can be explained in numerous ways: historical and structural factors, the highly varying government policies between states, inefficiencies, corruption, the caste system, rural to urban migration, etc.

Some Indian states lie very far behind Delhi, Mumbai and other major cities in the level of human development. Within the big cities, too, the inequality between people is staggering. Huge slums sprout beside shiny new skyscrapers and fancy villas. Little children and severely handicapped people beg at each intersection in Delhi accosting cars as they have to stop at traffic lights. New Delhi is a gorgeously beautiful city with ample green parks lining the streets. Its majestic avenues linking parts of the spread-out city are good for cars but the distances are long for people without transportation. Old Delhi is different, picturesque for a casual visitor, but rough on those who must live there. Teeming with humanity, its narrow streets are cramped up and dirty, buildings crumbling. Violence flares up easily in poverty.

On 11 May 2011, in the middle of my stay here, the Planning Commission of the Government of India redrew the official national poverty line at Rp. 20, or less than US$0.50, per day. The motivation can only be to reduce the number of people living below the poverty line, so that India doesn’t look so bad in international comparisons or so that the government doesn’t have to extend social services to as many people. But poverty remains, wherever you draw the line.

On a recent night, my friend Nidhi took me to the Sikh temple, Gurudwara Bangla Sahib. The place was crowded and very welcoming to people of any creed or colour. We removed our shoes and were given saffron headscarves to cover our hair in respect to the Sikh faith and culture. The gorgeous white temple was alive with music as people gathered there for prayers. We walked slowly around the vast square pool reflecting the lights of the temple in the dark evening. The Sikhs are proud people, never to be found among the beggars. Instead they have formed a supportive social system whereby any person in need—and one does not have to be Sikh—can find food and shelter in the temple. A tall and thin pole with lights on top has been raised high to guide people to the temple from a long distance. Also now we observed a large crowd of men and women, young and old, who had gathered waiting on the porch of a big hall to be fed. As we passed by, the gates were opened and the people streamed in for their free meal.




Our meal wasn’t free at the Blues café and bar on Connaught Place at Delhi’s commercial and business heart not too far from the temple. Sitting in the air-conditioned comfort listening to rather loud rock, we talked about the inequality and the persistence of abject poverty in India. Like Nidhi said, “Delhi is not a good place if you don’t have money,” The trouble is, there are so many who do not—and even the climate conspires against them.

Svajanam/Kinsmen – Dakshina Ensemble featuring Kadri Gopalnath and Rudresh Mahanthappa @ Asia Society, New York, November 7, 2007

The evening was truly unique. Two alto saxophone masters with both their roots in South India on the stage together: Kadri Gopalnath and Rudresh Mahanthappa – hence the title of the collaboration: Svajanam means ‘kinsmen’ in Sanskrit. But as to their approach to the saxophone, in many ways, the similarities between the two ended with their instruments and ethnicity. Despite this, the music that followed presented an amazing amalgamation of classical Indian tradition and that of American jazz.

The collaboration in practice brought together two bands each led by the respective sax masters. Kadri Gopalnath is celebrated as the first person to play Indian classical music with the decisively Western instrument, the saxophone. His renditions of Carnatic music of South India have brought him fame in his home country, as well as abroad through his many recordings and concerts in North America, Europe, Australia and Asian countries. On this night, his cohorts included the renowned female violinist A. Kanyakumari and Poovalur Sriji on various Indian percussions and electronics. Dressed in traditional garb and seated on rugs placed on a small stand on the stage, the trio could have performed pure Indian classical music.

To their left stood Rudresh Mahanthappa with his New York-based jazz quartet, consisting of guitarist Rez Abbasi, Carlo De Rosa on bass and royal hartigan on drums. Mahanthappa is by many considered one of the most original young voices on the alto sax and has been recognized as such by the prestigious Down Beat magazine over the past several years. Elegant in a black suit and dark blue shirt, wearing his wavy hair long, he looked the part of the young jazz lion that he is.

I am only making this distinction between the two sides to emphasize the varying starting points of the musicians. In reality, on stage the two musical traditions melded seamlessly into one, flowing in and out of the moulds. Both leaders, each of them masters of improvisation, soloed powerfully throughout the evening. Gopalnath blew lengthy raga-like scales covering the full range of the instrument from the honking low register to whining laments on the upper reaches. Curiously, he would sit back and remove the headjoint of his colourfully decorated sax every time any of the other musicians would start soloing.

Deeply rooted in be-bop, Mahanthappa’s playing was bluesy and his articulation more syncopated than that of his older kinsman. Mahanthappa’s alto sound is clear and unsentimental even when soaring through fast and complex runs.

The concert was paced to alternate heated rhythms created by the Indian team with Gopalnath and A. Kanyakumari’s flexible solos and pensive moods when the two traditions merged to produce new and often hauntingly beautiful moments. Some of the highlights featured Mahanthappa’s solo ballads that were matched by the inventive guitar of the Karachi-born Rez Abbasi, a rising star in modern jazz guitar in his own right.

The two Americans forming the jazz foundation of the band demonstrated their sensitivity and big ears throughout the evening. Both De Rosa and royal hartigan responded to the challenges created by the musical adventure in an extraordinarily imaginative way. Their collaboration with Poovalur Sriji’s complicated and impressive rhythms was both respectful and adding nuance to the melange. Sriji’s own credentials, ranging from performing with Western artists, such as Yehudi Menuhin and Bela Fleck, as well as with leading Indian musicians, speak for themselves. Carlo De Rosa produced one of the most memorable solos of the evening on his upright bass.

The truth is that the musicians were truly able to cross over the musical barriers that lesser talents might find insurmountable. At the end of the evening, the listener did not think about the contrasting idioms of Indian classical music and jazz; one only remembered a rewarding musical experience in which the totality was distinctly larger than the sum of its parts. Svajanam first debuted on these same premises at the Asia Society in 2005. As the creators hoped writing in the concert leaflet, Svajanam truly highlighted the “multi-faceted intricacies and intersections of jazz and Carnatic music thus creating a sound that transcends the label of ‘Indo-Jazz fusion’.” I look forward to a long continuation of this fruitful collaboration. Kadri Gopalnath and Rudresh Mahanthappa truly are kinsmen.

© Juha Uitto 2007

Sharing Apples and Wives on the Top of the World

It was hard to imagine how people would eke out a living in these surroundings. The hillsides were steep and covered with rubble and boulders. The high mountaintops shone unbearably bright with pristine white snow against the cloudless blue sky. There was barely anything organic in sight. Even the houses perched on the slopes were made of stone. We were only six kilometers from the border of Tibet.

My travel companion Ratna was chatting up a group of women we had encountered upon arrival in the village of Dubling in the Indian Himalayas. We had driven in a four-wheel-drive up the gravel road on the path that wound up the hillside. Only a kilometer and a half from the Titang power station by the riverside in the valley, the trip had taken us more than half an hour to navigate. At times it had been demanding to hang onto the handles as the vehicle ambled slowly at improbable angles.

Entering the village, we saw perhaps ten to fifteen houses located on rather a steep slope. They were the same color as the rocks on the hills they were made of. Below, there were a few stony fields that were still the same monotone grey after the long winter. Wheat and beans would be amongst the few crops to grow at this altitude. A few cows and donkeys were foraging in the orchard munching on whatever little there was to eat.

The women, all dressed in traditional patterned robes and wearing colorful pillboxes on their heads, snickered as we entered the village. Their round sun-darkened faces displayed distinctly Tibetan features beneath the sweet smiles. The women were sitting on the flat roof of one of the houses attending to their chores, mostly sowing cloths, and chatting leisurely. One of them was nursing a tiny baby in her lap. The mother looked to be in her teens with a pretty, innocent face. There were several goats basking in the sun, their white pelts reflecting the rays unmitigated by the thin mountain atmosphere. This was early-March and the harsh winter was just behind. Therefore, the women had time on their hands before they would need to start to tend to their fields. It was obvious that, against all the odds produced by the harsh environment and the isolated location, the people in Dubling were not destitute. Everyone appeared cheerful and well fed. To our astonishment, there were several large parabolic antennas standing on the roofs. One of our new acquaintances actually did her knitting while sitting on the concave edge of one. Electricity thus clearly was available in the village.

My friend who has an easy way with people was joking with the ladies in a language unknown to me. Ratna Reddy was an economics professor from Hyderabad in the south of India, far from where we were, but he had conducted a lot of field research in various remote communities in the country and had knowledge of an array of languages in this vast and varied country. The purpose of our visit to this – and many other villages in the northern state of Himachal Pradesh – was to assess whether an internationally-funded project intended to promote small hydroelectricity by installing tiny environmentally sound power stations in the numerous streams that flowed down from the Himalayas was reaching its objectives and benefiting the local people. The village of Dubling was one of the intended beneficiaries of the Titang scheme run by a local not-for-profit outfit, Sai Engineering Foundation. It was the remotest scheme in the entire project.

Ratna was explaining the purpose of our trip and the project, and inquiring whether it was benefiting the village. They had electricity alright and used it mostly for lighting and watching the television. Unfortunately, they could only see one government-sponsored channel. The tall mountains made reception weak and Dubling out of reach of private broadcasters. Ratna got us invited to one of the houses – free, although the proprietess first asked playfully how much we would pay in entrance fee. Inside was small, walls and floor the dull grey of baked earth. A vertical tree trunk connected to a horizontal beam holding the habitation safe in case of an earthquake, which are quite common in the hills. The centerpiece of the room was a wood burning chula with a pipe leading to a rooftop chimney. There was a single bare light bulb providing light. No windows, presumably to keep out the extremely cold winter winds. In the corner, sat a small black and white TV set.

We asked the lady why she was still cooking with firewood when the Titang station just down the hill produced ample and clean electricity. She explained patiently that cooking with wood was the tradition and the hearth also kept the room warm in the winter. Most importantly, however, the electricity tariff was still too high and fuel wood was free for all to collect. But collecting it must be quite a hike in this barren environment, I thought. In the summertime, they’d use liquid petroleum gas for cooking, as there was no need for heating and the mountain winds had eased enough not to blow out the flame. This was a story we would hear over and over again in all the villages we’d visit. It would take time and an economic restructuring to make electricity affordable to the people.

Bidding farewell to the ladies who promptly got back to their chores, we wandered up the steep and narrow path made muddy by the melting snow to the next level of houses. We were followed by a small group of children wearing wool caps and sweaters. We encountered a group of men sitting on another rooftop chiseling wooden utensils with their tools. The scene was very leisurely in the bright noon sunshine. Some boys were hovering around, learning the craft by watching their elders. The most senior of the men sat cross-legged at the center of the small group wearing a black knitted vest over his green jacket. His mustachioed face was tan under the round cap. The hills behind him appeared totally barren. Only a few trees close to the village stood grey still without leaves in the early spring.

Arriving at the main square of the village we found the Buddhist temple. Perched on the steep hillside, somewhat larger houses surrounded the square that had the appearance of being the main place of the village. Tanned faces with squint lines observed us from doorways. The peaks behind were still white with snow. A youngish man, perhaps in his 30s, smiled confidently and emerged as a natural counterpart for us to approach. Sitting on a stone bench by the temple, he finally explained to us what constituted the economic backbone of Dubling: Kinnaur apples. Beautiful, large, juicy, dark red apples. Kinnaur apples are famous all around India and fetch a premium price on markets in Delhi and other big cities. The short but extremely sunny summer, fresh clean mountain water, and the rocky soils are ideal for apple production. The young and clearly wealthy man said that he could produce 250-300 cases of apples annually from his orchard.

But how on earth could they get the apples to the market? The solution was very cooperative and beneficial to all of the people in village. The families would get together and rent a truck in which the men would drive the apples to Delhi or to Chandighar. It wasn’t, after all, that far. You’d need a long day to drive to the Himachal capital of Shimla. Then another down the foothills and into the plains north of the national capital. In a couple of days nothing bad would happen to the fresh produce from the Himalayas. The men would receive an ample compensation for their effort selling the produce in Delhi to eager mouths waiting for the arguably best apple in the world.

The man told us that he belonged to a common family typical up here. They were several brothers sharing the same wife. This practice has a long history in Himachal. The ancient legend tells about five brothers with a blind mother. The men used to go hunting in the mountains and every time they’d return from the hunt their mother would tell them to share the catch. One day, one of the brothers had come across a beautiful young woman in the forest and carried her home. Enthusiastically, he exclaimed to his mother that today he had an extraordinary catch. The mother who could not see ordered him to share it with his brothers like everything else. This practice thus still lingered on in the mountain communities with limited land and other natural resources to share.

Life up in the hills was harsh, but not bad to those who had grown up there. Nobody starved and the houses stayed warm during the long winter. In fact, the government had made offers to relocate the people from these remote villages closer to services, but they had flatly refused. After all, this was home.

As for electricity, it was definitely welcome to the villagers who saw many benefits from it. However, there was a lot to do to make expansion of electric power affordable to people. Sai Engineering Foundation – set up under the name of the controversial frizzy haired guru Sai Baba – had originally wanted to demonstrate that it was economically feasible to use small hydropower to generate electricity to remote communities in the mountains. Even they had had to give up the idea and accept that power station operation had to be subsidized from their other operations. Yet, the people in Dubling and other villages benefited even from limited power. They had more reliable current for the TV that brought them news and educational programs, the light hanging in the ceiling allowed them to work and socialize in the dark evenings, and there were now outside lights lighting up public areas to make them safer. Life could be worse.

© Juha I. Uitto, 2004