In dusty Beawar in Rajasthan in early November, I sat down for a chat with several unemployed men and women. They used to work in the dominant industry in town, stone-cutting and polishing. But after some years breathing in the dust from the stone, they had developed silicosis, an incurable respiratory disease. So as far as they were concerned, being diagnosed was an effective death sentence.
The Rajasthan government has a scheme, which gives those diagnosed with silicosis a sum of Rs 1 lakh, and when they die, gives their families Rs 3 lakhs. Generous, at least on paper. To get this money, though, such people must first be certified that they do indeed have silicosis. Only specific government-approved doctors can issue these certificates. For Beawar residents, the nearest such doctor is 50 km away, in Ajmer. He is available to do the certification only one day in a month. During that day, he can see a maximum of about 15 patients. Given that suspected silicosis cases in Beawar alone numbered in the hundreds when I visited, with more diagnosed nearly every day, any given patient could expect to wait several months to be certified and then to get their compensation. Never mind if, in the meantime, they died.
Just so is a government policy – formulated ostensibly to help victims of a deadly disease – rendered meaningless.
A popular measure
While they worked, these were not especially poor people. They earned reasonable salaries, which is why they were dressed in reasonable clothes and wore reasonable shoes. Yet here they were, their future destroyed by a disease, forced to chase the crumbs an administration throws at them because it is uninterested in reforming the industry.
Yet more than one of those I met actually appreciated the generosity of the Rajasthan government. “They are trying to take care of us and our families”, said one.
Another said: “At least they are interested in us poor people.”
In other words, we have here a policy that is touted as a boon, that as implemented is demonstrably failing most of the very people it is supposed to help, yet is nevertheless apparently popular, nevertheless considered to be a measure of the good intentions of the government toward the poor.
Not so different from what we take away from Anjali Mody’s article about demonetisation in Scroll.in a few days ago.
Demonetisation was sold to us on November 8 as a hammer-blow against black money and corruption (and, lest we forget, terrorism and counterfeit money). In the weeks since, we’ve seen long lines at banks, tears and quarrels and deaths in those lines, constantly shifting rules on cash withdrawals and deposits, Automated Teller Machines that need recalibration and are usually out of cash if they have been recalibrated, a new Rs 2,000 note that nobody accepts because it is too difficult to make change, regular arrests of people carrying hundreds and thousands of these Rs 2,000 notes – and the coming to newfound familiarity in this country of a new word: cashless.
Plenty of folks more knowledgeable than me have asked serious questions about all this which remain unanswered. Like: where’s the black money, really? If people hoarded it in the old Rs 500 and Rs 1,000 notes, why won’t they now hoard it in the new Rs 2,000 notes? Who are these men who have collected piles of new notes, and how did they get them? (Surely not one Rs 2,000 note at a time from grudging Automated Teller Machines).
But if those are the concerns of readers and writers of articles like these, Anjali Mody set out to learn and explain what poorer Indians think about demonetisation. On the face of it, it is the poor – overwhelmingly so – who have suffered because of it. ATM lines are largely made up of the poor. The scarcity of cash directly affects the poor. Going cashless is still not much of an option for people without cards and smartphones: the poor.
The great divide
I mean, I complain about it and believe I see the cynicism, futility and wrong-headedness in this move to demonetise – but to tell the truth, it hasn’t affected me in any serious way. The longest ATM queue I’ve been in has had about 10 people. We had only a few old notes at home anyway on November 8, and we used them up where we could. Between my wife and me, we have access to seven credit and debit cards, besides three different bank accounts and thus Rs 6,000 every day, should we need it. For us, demonetisation has caused no real trouble.
But the lady who comes to sweep for us? The florist on the corner? The guy who delivers chai at our neighbourhood library? They’ve had all kinds of problems: from finding change to standing in a queue for five hours to getting three months’ salary in defunct currency. Others like them around the country, others worse off than them, have endured all this and more.
And yet Mody found what plenty of others have also found: despite these and other concerns, demonetisation remains popular with the poor. People told her that finally here was a measure that caused problems for the rich. Finally, here was talk of the greatest divide of all in this country: the one between the rich and the poor.
In other words, we have here a policy that is touted as a boon for the poor, that as implemented is demonstrably an assault on the poor, that occasions muttering but arguably no particular discomfort among the rich – but that the poor nevertheless welcome and celebrate. And they do so in large measure because they think it will trip up the rich.
As a car driver laid out for Mody: “[H]e hoped that the government would place curbs on the lifestyle of the rich.” As an auto driver Mody spoke to put it: “There is also pleasure in seeing the rich made uncomfortable for once.” (And remember too, as Mody also points out, that people like these two drivers themselves “earn more than what 99% of Indians earn”.)
In still other words, we have here a policy that ends up feeding on – whose very success seems predicated on – class resentment. That must say something elemental about that divide, about this country.
Garibi hatao redux?
And it brings to mind an earlier prime minister. To this day, you will meet poor Indians – ageing poor Indians by now – who speak admiringly of Indira Gandhi. Like the member of the Waghri tribe (formerly classified as a criminal tribe) I met outside his hovel in Santrampur in Gujarat. It stood in a stand of thorny bushes, just past the town’s stinking garbage dump. He and I sat in the dust to talk and that’s when he told me that Indira Gandhi cared for poor Indians like him as no other politician has since. “You remember her garibi hatao [remove poverty], don’t you?” he asked.
In coining and using that slogan, Indira showed she understood India’s fundamental fault line. In much the same way, demonetisation shows that Narendra Modi also understands that fundamental fault line.
Indira showed no interest in going beyond the slogan and actually addressing poverty – but she knew the tremendous appeal of that slogan. That was her consummate political genius. Three decades after her death, the garibi has by no means been hatao-ed.
Three decades after her death, for much the same reasons, we may have found ourselves another consummate political genius, in Narendra Modi.