User:Mohit Mehta(My ideas)

INTRODUCTION: AN INVITATION TO BOMBAY The envelope was hand-delivered to our house in Golf Links, Tan enclave in New Delhi whose name captured the clubbable lifestyle of its leisured and propertied Indian residents, soon after we had arrived in the middle of a north Indian winter to begin a long assignment. It contained a large card, with a picture embossed in red and gold of the elephant-headed deity Ganesh, improbably carried on the back of a much smaller mouse. Dhirubhai and Kokilaben Ambani invited us to the wedding of their son Anil to Tina Munim in Bombay. In January 1991, just prior to the explosion in car ownership that in later winters kept the midday warmth trapped in a throat-tearing haze overnight, it was bitterly cold most of the time in Delhi. Our furniture had still not arrived-a day of negotiations about the duty payable lay ahead at the Delhi customs office where the container was broken open and inspected-and we camped on office chairs and fold-up beds, wrapped in blankets. The Indian story was also in a state of suspension, waiting for something to happen. The Gulf War, which we watched at a big hotel on this new thing called satellite television, was under- cutting many of the assumptions on which the Congress Party’s family dynasty, the Nehrus and Gandhis, had built up the Indian state. The Americans were unleashing a new generation of weap- ons on a Third World regime to which New Delhi had been close; its Soviet friends were standing by, even agreeing with the Americans. The Iraqi invasion of Kuwalt had pushed up oil prices and forced the Indian Government to evacuate some three million of its citizens working in the Gulf. The extra half-billion dollars all this cost India was pushing the country close to default on its foreign debt. Officials from the Ministry of Finance were already negotiating a bail-out from the IMF in Washington; the IMF was setting stiff ‘conditionalities’-in effect a complete shift from Nehru’s model of high external protection for the economy and government allocation of savings. Even the CNN clips of Tomahawk cruise missiles zipping neatly down the streets of Baghdad were in themselves part of another breach in India’s walls. The clites who ran the national TV monopoly or the big newspapers no longer had India’s half-illiterate population to themselves. Little of this was admitted in New Delhi. The coalition government of V P Singh, which had swept out the glamorous Rajiv Gandhi on a battery of corruption scandals, had itself collapsed in November after less than a year in office. India was ruled by an even smaller coalition of opportunists under a wily politico called Chandrashekhar, kept in office at Rajiv’s pleasure for who knew how long. Everyone clung to the autarkic, Third World verities. Politicians and journalists pounced on the slightest admission by their fellows that perhaps India’s vision of the world had been flawed and it had better adjust to the new order. At the Ministry of External Affairs, in the red sandstone majesty of Sir Herbert Baker’s Secretariat buildings, a bright young official on a new economic desk assured me that India’s finances were strong enough to take the strains. At a party of intellectuals’ young academics and filmmakers in rough cotton kurta-payjama suits scoffed at the prospects for satellite TV. How would the advertising payments get out to the broadcaster through the maze of foreign exchange controls? Which foreign companies would want to plug products they could neither export to India nor make locally? The wedding invitation was a good excuse to break away from this stalemate in New Delhi, and make contact with the Indian commercial class in Bombay.