Woman in Red

This is a mischievous book. The gripping story and gushing prose can beguile an unwary or not too well informed reader into believing that Javier Moro’s meticulously detailed (even to describing the innermost thoughts of someone locked away alone in a bedroom) effusion presents an accurate picture of the Indian political scene. The Red Sari (a catchy title that the text fails to explain) is sometimes wildly inaccurate and sometimes hilariously funny, albeit unintentionally. Take the poor Gurkhas for instance. Convinced they were Pakistani Muslims, John Foster Dulles famously (or infamously) dragged Pakistan into the Southeast Asia Treaty Organisation because he wanted fighting men. Similarly ignorant of geography, ethnicity and nationality, Moro sandwiches these sturdy Nepalese between Bodos and Mizos as another rebellious north-eastern tribe. This isn’t his only blunder. He makes Indira Gandhi ‘shake hands, give hugs, and be in physical contact’ with voters. India’s late Iron Lady might have allowed Fidel Castro to envelop her in a bear’s embrace and pecked Sirimavo Bandaranaike on the cheek. Lesser folk were kept at strictly ‘Namaste’ distance.

These are minor flaws. It’s more serious when Chandra Shekhar’s epochal decision to refuel American warplanes on the eve of the Kuwait war, which prompted the approving New York Times headline, ‘India’s Premier Blazing a Foreign Affairs Trail in Middle East Policy’, is totally ignored. There’s calculation in the omission, for Chandra Shekhar’s achievement exposed Rajiv Gandhi’s ambidextrous tactics. First, Rajiv approved of the permission to the US. Then, sensing populist gain, he noisily denounced it. The volte-face wasn’t especially perfidious by political standards. But it contradicts Moro’s black and white, virtue and vice, depiction. Moreover, the text makes clear Sonia Gandhi viewed Chandra Shekhar as her husband’s murderer. She thinks he didn’t provide Rajiv adequate security. That is why Congress courtiers still froth at the mouth at the mention of Chandra Shekhar’s name. Like Moro, they hope to win Sonia’s favour.

Let me not, however, deny The Red Sari its due. Readers who know nothing about the country or its leaders and don’t care much either may find this very readable mix of politics, love, intrigue and violence exciting. But is it history? The Kindle version called it a ‘novel’. Roli Books says it’s ‘A Dramatized Biography of Sonia Gandhi’. Biography implies authorisation and authenticity. However, the acknowledgements seem to exonerate Sonia of responsibility for a work of outright partisanship whose every word redounds to the glory of the Nehru-Gandhi family. Intriguingly, Rahul Gandhi has only a walk-on part. Obviously, he didn’t tell Moro (though he’s told everyone else) that he swore to enter politics the day his father was killed. The Epilogue’s very last line names Priyanka as India’s next God-appointed custodian. If classification is necessary, The Red Sari is propaganda.

Sanjay and Maneka are the villains of the piece. We are told Sanjay—not Siddhartha Shankar Ray—invented the Emergency. Jarnail Singh Bhindranwale was Sanjay’s ‘grotesque creation’. Maneka is evil incarnate, anxious to destroy in-laws, party and country for her insatiable ambition. If Maneka seeks election, it’s blatant self-promotion. When Indira, Rajiv, Sonia and Rahul do so, it’s self-sacrificing service to the nation. Yet, newspaper reports indicated anguished gnashing of teeth in 10 Janpath. Why, I cannot imagine. True, Moro lightly spatters his heroes and heroines with some warts and moles. But surely Sonia’s camp has wit enough to realise this makes larger-than-life characters less implausible? Sonia, Rahul and Priyanka should be grateful there’s no mention of Rajiv justifying the massacre of Sikhs with his comment about a great tree falling. And although Moro hammers away at the theme of secularism (of which the Nehru-Gandhis are the only protectors), he doesn’t even mention the shameful Shah Bano case. Nor the permission Rajiv gave for a Hindu shilanyas at the Babri Masjid.

Actually, the book’s contents don’t merit serious discussion. The problem is that many readers won’t see that. They might swallow hook, line and sinker the author’s portrayal of Sonia fighting single-handedly against the forces of darkness. The Red Sari is like the novelettes that used to be serialised in women’s magazines in England and were eagerly devoured by young female shop assistants and typists. It would be harmless if that were all. But the unabashed exaltation of one woman will stick in the gullet even of those who believe in the secular liberal principles to which the Indian National Congress was once committed and fear the darkness that might be the alternative.

(Sunanda K Datta-Ray is a journalist and author of several books)

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Sunanda K Datta-Ray