I have finished reading Patel’s biography. I shall not
write a review, simply because it is so detailed a book that writing anything
but a very long essay will be doing it a grave injustice. I shall only urge my
readers to go through it as mindfully as I have, promising them that (if they
are the inquisitive and thoughtful sort) will not be wasting their time. However,
I must quote two lines from the Preface to the new edition: ‘What should we
make of continual attempts today to misuse or exploit Patel for political
purposes? It is hurtful to encounter bids to use the Sardar to promote a
politics of Hindu supremacy and Muslim subordination.’ That should well enough
indicate the overall tone of the work.
Yes, I have discovered that Patel was indeed, a ‘strong
man’, and so, in a vexed and tumultuous age when so many diverse interests and
urgent needs were clashing so repeatedly and so violently, he naturally, while
doing very great things, also made a lot of critics and enemies. Such enemies
continue to exist in our own generation, often deliberately misunderstanding
things that he believed, said and did. Let us leave it at that. I should only
like to add that I find it an unspeakable tragedy that so many great leaders
who were contemporaries could agree so little among themselves over so many
fraught issues – if they could, our subsequent history might have been very
different.
However, I cannot resist the temptation to quote a
paragraph from the penultimate page, where the Iron Man, old, tired and dying,
his life’s work done, was leaving the capital city for his beloved native
Gujarat for the last time, probably knowing that he was never going to return. Here,
Gandhi has waxed lyrical, and the historian has been eclipsed by the poet. As
the aircraft flew up, ‘Behind him receded his life, as colleague to Jawaharlal –
a touchy and at times contemptuous colleague, yet always loyal; as the
Government’s helmsman and the raja of
the rajas, as watchdog, welder and
policeman to India; inheritor, along with Nehru, of the Raj; Congress’ decision
maker, displacing the Mahatma, on the eve of freedom; as a lion pacing restlessly
in the Ahmednagar cage; as Quit India’s indefatigable organizer; stern boss of
a party and of Premiers; prisoner and defier of the Raj; Bardoli’s brilliant
general; Gandhi’s rocklike lieutenant, caring friend and merciless leg-puller;
the one who smilingly stepped aside for another, for Jawaharlal in later years and
for Vithalbhai earlier; the rough, haughty, fashionably attired conqueror of
the Ahmedabad Bar who yet thirsted for greatness, the adult London student
wasting no breath on dalliance, the lawyer feared in Borsad and Godhra, silent
husband of young Jhaverba – sad, dear and wrapped in mystery; as the youth who
was severe on himself and upon those taking him for granted, the lad with a
chip on the shoulder, the neglected fourth son of impoverished peasants…’ it
brought tears to my eyes, and I could only think of the exquisite way in which
Irving Stone describes the passing of Michaelangelo in The Agony and the Ecstasy. Yes, read the book.
Oh, and I just finished watching a movie titled Juror
#2 on Netflix. It is a very interesting variation on the theme of one of the
classic movies of all time, Twelve Angry
Men, but it is definitely not the same story, because here the said juror,
sitting in judgment over a man’s life, is himself (unwittingly-) guilty of the
crime. I shall not give spoilers, because it is an eminently watchable movie,
and it ends on a very tense, uncertain and disturbing note.
I am happy to find that several old posts here have
gotten back to the most-read. As I have said more than once, nothing that I
write dates quickly. It goes without saying that comments – sensible, relevant
comments, even queries – are always welcome, no matter how old a post might be.
Winter is in the air, I can faintly sense it now, and
I am thrilling to it. You still sweat in the sun, yet the water is cold
already. Soon it will be time to pull out the jackets, pullovers and blankets
once more. What comfort there is in the endless cycle of the seasons!
Tomorrow is another Mahalaya, start of Devi Paksha, the tithi I was born on 63 years ago. I am too old to wake up at dawn
to listen to Biren Bhadra’s Mahishasura
Mardini on the radio, as I did for nearly fifty continuous years. Just wish
me good sleeping.
And yes, Episode 16 is up there on Spotify as of today. Many of you have not yet visited the previous one, which was a small compilation of ‘nonsense’ poetry, a genre that I like to say I am particularly fond of, because it dispels the false notion that I am a sourpuss. Do listen and get back to me: I love to hear (or read) all those lovely comments.
