By Karan Thapar

It was, no doubt, another world but things were not that different. In the 1950s and ‘60s, when my father was a soldier, the Army kept its distance from politicians. There were many reasons why but suffice it to say they were considered a breed apart. They called them ‘dhoti-kurta-wallahs’. Half a century later not that much has changed.

I can recall the dismissive tone when Daddy talked of politicians. It wasn’t contempt; more like a response to a silly joke. He bristled at their inability to take or standby difficult decisions. He laughed at their ceaseless quest for easy popularity. And he despised their crafty manipulation of simple developments. He called them “tamashbeens”. “They can’t help it” he would say. “They make a tamasha out of everything.”

Perhaps this is why his feelings for them coloured his view of their profession. And it’s a sentiment the armed forces have passed down the generations. Ask any man in uniform – or, for that matter, his wife and family – and you’ll get the same response today. In their eyes politics is a dirty word.

If you saw last week’s no-confidence debate I’m sure you can guess why. I spent hours watching, listening and trying to understand. At first it made little sense. It was so obviously pointless. At best it was childish; at worst pathetic. Then I remembered Daddy’s phrase. That explained everything. This was a spectacle. It was truly a tamasha.

I’m afraid our politics has been reduced to low farce. The Lok Sabha has become a public stage and the players, who strut around like Shakespearean fools, are the men and women of our government and opposition. Their antics, their growling and their clowning, their shouting and their interminable interruptions, is what constitutes our democracy.

If you ask me for a single instance that encapsulates the full horror of this tamasha then it must be the voices we all heard shouting at 8.20 p.m. on Tuesday the 19th after Mani Shankar Aiyar rose to oppose Yashwant Sinha’s point of order. And why do I say voices when I’m sure I recognise them as, no doubt, you must have too? Only because I would hate to identify people I know with what I’m sure I heard them say.

“You need your bloody brains examined” said the first voice.

“Bloody traitor” : the second.

“How dare you?” : the first.

“Up yours” concluded the second.

Is this what is meant by the phrase ‘of the people, for the people and by the people’? Is this the essence of popular representation? I can’t believe it. In fact, I do not recognise the India it reflects. This was disillusioning. It was undignified. It was, I’m afraid, embarrassing.

What sort of Parliament is it where the dominant memory you take away is of Mamata screeching or Raghunath Prasad Singh bellowing? Perhaps they’re made for each other but do we deserve either of them?

I’m all for a good verbal joust. I’ve no compunction about a debate that turns personal. Wit, innuendo, sarcasm, repartee and even the occasional low blow is par for the course. In fact, it’s the spice of a parliamentary exchange. But must we shout and scream? Must we always and only interrupt? Must our language tbe crude and vulgar?

And why, when it was over, did our parliamentarians appear to turn their backs on each other? Do the divisions of politics run so deep that common courtesy is squeezed out? Even if we, on the outside, are fooled by the rancour they, on the inside, should be able to see beyond? But not on tuesday night. Like enemies they parted preparing, no doubt, for the next battle.

Yet it need not have been so. In the early 1960s in Britain, when Harold Wilson, the new Labour leader, launched his first no-confidence against Harold Macmillan’s government, the fireworks were not dissimilar. Wilson was cutting his teeth and Macmillan recognised it was at his expense. But when it was over, Harold the elder walked up to Wilson and in full public glare put his hand on his shoulder and said : “You were in fine form old boy. How about a drink?” The evening ended with the Prime Minister and the Leader of the Opposition sharing a scotch at the Common’s Bar.

Couldn’t Vajpayee have tried something similar? And what prevented Sonia Gandhi walking up to congratulate him? Such gestures would not have detracted from their authority. They would, however, have breached the divide.

Soldiers, of course, understand this. When a defeated General is accorded the full courtesies of his rank its not romantic sentimentalism but respect for the uniform he wears and the professionalism of his conduct. But then war is not a tamasha, not even in the hands of our politicians.

It was, no doubt, another world but things were not that different. In the 1950s and ‘60s, when my father was a soldier, the Army kept its distance from politicians. There were many reasons why but suffice it to say they were considered a breed apart. They called them ‘dhoti-kurta-wallahs’. Half a century later not that much has changed.

I can recall the dismissive tone when Daddy talked of politicians. It wasn’t contempt; more like a response to a silly joke. He bristled at their inability to take or standby difficult decisions. He laughed at their ceaseless quest for easy popularity. And he despised their crafty manipulation of simple developments. He called them “tamashbeens”. “They can’t help it” he would say. “They make a tamasha out of everything.”

Perhaps this is why his feelings for them coloured his view of their profession. And it’s a sentiment the armed forces have passed down the generations. Ask any man in uniform – or, for that matter, his wife and family – and you’ll get the same response today. In their eyes politics is a dirty word.

If you saw last week’s no-confidence debate I’m sure you can guess why. I spent hours watching, listening and trying to understand. At first it made little sense. It was so obviously pointless. At best it was childish; at worst pathetic. Then I remembered Daddy’s phrase. That explained everything. This was a spectacle. It was truly a tamasha.

I’m afraid our politics has been reduced to low farce. The Lok Sabha has become a public stage and the players, who strut around like Shakespearean fools, are the men and women of our government and opposition. Their antics, their growling and their clowning, their shouting and their interminable interruptions, is what constitutes our democracy.