- Feb 10, 2025
- Nandini Bahri-Dhanda
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Collaborators on the Dunki Route
The recent outrage over the deportation of handcuffed and shackled Indians who had illegally entered the U.S. made many of us pause and wonder. Beyond the reflexive desire to criticise the Prime Minister at any cost, or the deep-seated self-hate wrapped in the taunt of Vishwa Guru, why is it that certain Indians, well-educated, belonging to a particular social stratum, are always at the forefront of defending rioters, thugs, terrorists, corrupt politicians, rabidly communal members of the minority community and illegal Bangladeshi and Rohingya migrants? Are these the causes that grant them their sense of moral superiority? Because when it comes to leaders with new thoughts and vision, hardworking, enterprising, Indian entrepreneurs, successful industrialists or NRIs, or even everyday Indians, whether a proud member of the minority community or a hardworking sabziwala or pakodawala who may not fit into their Idea of India but lives the essence of India daily - these same people are filled with disdain. It’s almost as if the sight of Indians achieving success without their approval threatens their fragile sense of identity, stoking a deep-rooted envy and bitterness. And yet, suddenly, they are aghast and outraged that our own countrymen could be treated so inhumanely by a foreign nation. "They are not criminals!" they declare. "They were just looking for a better life and crossed the U.S. border without going through the immigration process. So, what if they snuck under a few barbed wires or took the Dunki Route?" The rationale being - They simply aspired to be truck and cab drivers, helpers at takeaways, cargo loaders... the little people driven out by the systems we created but they knew their place. Yes, some were clearly not destitute and had paid a fortune to touts. With so much money at stake, given half a chance at asylum they would have spun tales of persecution, fabricated threats to their lives and paid the victim. But you know what, they are way better than those successful Indian-Americans in their big houses, with their SUVs and swimming pools who built a life for themselves in a new country and still hold a place for the Motherland in their hearts...! I was once told: We sympathise with the underdog. We empathise with the one who got a raw deal. We romanticise struggle - look at Bollywood films till the 80’s... Perhaps. But my take is far more cynical. For as long as I can remember, one thing has stood out - our unique societal attitude towards wealth, success and the means of achieving them. We, a billion people, were conditioned to expect little because we had been taught to trust no one and to believe in nothing. We lived in a perpetual state of gratitude for the barest necessities: a roof over our heads, running water, a few hours of electricity, basic education, a place on a crowded train, and if we were lucky, a hospital bed when we needed one. We were a nation bound to little men in big positions. Our lives, from birth to death, lay in the hands of these so-called civil servants, a term so ironic it might as well be satire. They, armed with petty power, determined our fates, servile to the authorities above them while lording over the people below. Graft was not an aberration; it was a lubricant, smoothing the gears of everyday survival. It became the ultimate family aspiration to secure at least one government job - because that job came with the power to inflict on others the same indignities that had once been suffered. Conformity was expected. Bending was survival. Seekh Jayega was a phrase that could just as well have been official policy - one designed to systematically break the spirit of its citizens. And yet, those who succeeded did so in spite of the system, not because of it. We were a people who stood in endless queues for milk, hoarded sugar and kerosene because we never knew when it would be available again. We waited years, sometimes decades for the privilege of owning a car or scooter. Securing an LPG connection or a telephone line often required a well-placed relative. We didn’t blink when we borrowed an electric connection from a neighbour’s meter, adjusted our bill, or convinced a linesman to sneak our STD calls onto someone else’s tab. Expanding a balcony or adding a room was just a matter of the right chai-pani for the local municipality. These small, everyday compromises didn’t prick our conscience. Each of us, in our own way, took the Dunki Route, became complicit in the cynical normalisation of corruption. It was a silent agreement. Those in power could rob as long as they allowed us our small thefts. And so, we made our peace with it. In this wasteland of hopelessness, in this vacuum of ambition, where mere survival took precedence over aspiration, there existed another world - a rarified bubble occupied by a privileged few, untouched by these realities. That their outrage erupts now is what surprises us. Perhaps it is because the rules changed on the night of November 8, 2016. Demonetization. One can debate endlessly whether it helped or hurt the economy, whether it impacted the poor, the wealthy, or both. But one thing is undeniable - it planted a seed in the collective Indian consciousness: that dishonesty had consequences. That there was, finally, a distinction between Bahut Paisa Banaya and Bahut Paisa Kamaya. And yet, the familiar rentiers scoff, "Are you so naïve as to believe there is no black money today?" Of course not. But I am astute enough to recognise the change. In the way business is conducted, in how digital payments and online transactions have seamlessly woven themselves into our daily life. Compliance, once an afterthought, is now a necessity. Accountability, once easily evaded, is now a looming presence. The old guard clings to cynicism because it serves them well. But the reality is undeniable - transparency is no longer an exception; it is becoming the norm. And that, in itself, is a revolution. So, their Dunki Route - that shortcut, once admired or excused - no longer commands sympathy or admiration. And then comes the weaponisation of language. Three Sanskrit phrases are carefully and cunningly wielded by those who otherwise have no use for the language. Their purpose is singular: to clutch at the remnants of an old order crumbling before their eyes. A few pet phrases have caught the fancy of our rentier class, the acolytes of the Ancient Régime. Not to be left behind, avowed leftist intellectuals, with their cultivated scruffiness, wield these same phrases as ideological weapons. These are the same individuals who, when confronted with the issue of illegal and violence-prone Rohingyas or the deportation of those unable to prove their citizenship, conveniently forget their atheism on odd days and turn Islamist apologists on even days. Their animosity toward Sanskrit is well known, yet they twist their tongues around Vasudhaiva Kutumbakam "The World is One Family" with remarkable dexterity. These carefully curated phrases plucked from a language they would rather see consigned to oblivion, are repurposed as rhetorical darts against those who cherish it with true understanding. Scratch beneath the surface, however, and their Sanskrit proficiency extends only as far as it serves their agenda. Were one to probe deeper and ask them about: "Svastiprajābhyaḥ paripālayantāṃ nyāyena mārgeṇa mahīṃ mahīśāḥ।" (May the well-being of all people be protected by powerful and mighty leaders with law and justice.) Uh- Oh! Now this bit is inconvenient. Another favourite in their arsenal is Atithi Devo Bhava "The Guest is God." With the composure of an ascetic freshly returned from the Himalayas, they painstakingly explain this concept to overawed foreigners, particularly when contracts and deals are at stake. The phrase is also brandished to justify hare-brained open-border policies: "Come one, come all!" - as a means to offset the plebeians at home. After all, as Anatole France famously put it, "The comfort of the rich depends upon the abundance of the poor." Ah! Now we understand the deep anguish.- Feb 08, 2025
- Ramaharitha Pusarla