The Dynamic Paradox

Two old friends were regulars at Lalbagh, one of them a historian, the other an economist. Both of them had graduated from St. Stephen’s in Delhi in the 60’s and had kept their friendship going for many years. The historian had achieved fame of sorts, having published several books, including some that won awards. The economist hadn’t done too badly either, having worked with governments in various parts of the world.

Now that they had put up their boots, so to speak, they had come home to Bangalore. Regular as clockwork, they met at around 6 o’ clock in the morning near the LalBagh West gate, and then they took the path around the lake. They walked at a leisurely pace, but paid little attention to anything around them. They did not hear the birds, nor spot the water-snakes. They did not even see the birds sunning themselves in the little island that the park authorities had created, and from which the general public were excluded. If you followed them, , you could hear opinions voiced about events of the day-on political leaders, parties, and policies, and how everything was going wrong in the country. The litany of complaints seemed unending. They did not notice people who pointed them out to their friends, as the eminent so-and- so’s, or maybe they did, and basked in an internal glow of fame. They were, both of them, pretty short, and as. is the case with many short people who were academicians, with very loud voices. Sometimes, when their arguments grew heated, even the birds, usually placid and focussed on getting their early worms, squeaked and flew away.

The two- Venkat and Seshadri- had been friends since their school days in Bangalore.Their fathers had been civil servants, and both were Tambrams, so it was not surprising that they became friends. And when they both went along to Kengeri for a Scout Camp, their bond became even stronger.But when, later in the year, the school announced that Venkat would be awarded the “Srinivasa Rao Memorial Award “for the best scout in the school, things began to turn a bit sour for the two friends. 

It must be mentioned that Srinivasa Rao had been a King’s Scout in his day, and later had gone on to teach at the school for many years. Winning this award was a great honour indeed, for all the scouts in the school. But then, after all, Venkat and Seshadri were still in their early teens and the bonds of friendship were quickly restored.And these bonds only strengthened when they both met at St. Stephen’s College in Delhi, where their parents had sent them, hoping, of course, that they too would become members of that famous, if slowly rotting, group called the Indian Administrative Services.

But in the way that these things happen, neither of them made it to the IAS despite their efforts at cracking the exam. Venkat chose to become an economist and went on to study at famous Universities abroad. Seshadri chose to study History, and made quite a name for himself as a scholar, before returning to Bangalore in his old age, just as Venkat did.

Republic Day was just ten days ahead, and everyone who has been to Lalbagh around this time of year, knows that it’s the busiest time for the park. The Glass House gets its annual lick of paint as do the scattered wrought iron benches. And the nurserymen began to bring in their goods- its’ the best time of the year for sales. The paths around the lake had been spruced up, and everywhere, these seemed to be a festive air.

But for Venkat and Seshadri, seated on the bench just to the right of the steps that lead down to the Rose Garden, there were weightier matters to be talked about. And anyone sitting nearby could hear them, for they both talked loudly, perhaps because of their academic backgrounds, or perhaps they were both becoming hard of hearing. They sat here together, practically every day, talking till their voices turned hoarse, after their walk in the park.

And in the manner of old friends, neither paid any attention to what the other was saying.

Every year there’s an exhibition at Lalbagh on Republic Day. Preparations for this event begin early, and a lot of work goes on behind the scenes – from picking the theme to settling on a “Chief Guest!” This year, the authorities had settled on a theme that was really close to the heart of Republic Day-the awards given to distinguished Indians, honouring them for their work. There would be a photo gallery, of course, but the feature was to be the topiary work that would be placed around the Glass House. These “plant sculptures” would be modelled on the designs of the various medals that would be awarded: the Padma level awards, the Bharat Ratna, and so on.

“The dynamic nature of our economy is paradoxical. On the one hand… and on the other… ” . The economist was in full flow, completely oblivious of the water-birds, of the bright red Gul Mohur flowers, and the clouds and the blue sky, which could well have come from a painting by Monet, and also to the fact that his detailed exposition of what troubled the Indian economy evoked no response at all.The historian, as was his wont, paid no attention whatever to whatever his friend was saying, and instead was composing his thoughts. 

As soon as the economist stopped to catch his breath, the historian began to talk: “the paradoxical nature of the Indian state is not static. Everything is dynamic – as you probably are aware. . ..”. It was now the economist’s turn to switch off, and formulate the next dynamic paradox.

Anyone listening to them speak – and there were many of them, for their voices were very loud – would have come to the conclusion that these two were very high-flying academicians. “Eenu Englishu ” , said one, in Kannada.

When the Republic Day awards were announced, Venkat and Seshadri eagerly looked for their names in the lists. Venkat had got one and he was besieged with phone calls, while Seshadri  scanned the lists in vain: his name wasn’t there, and though he spotted Venkat’s name in the lists, he couldn’t bring himself to call him and offer his congratulations. 

It was the “Srinivasa Rao Memorial Award” all over again, thought Seshadri, disconsolately, he was always a better networker than I was. 

Two regular walkers, who were among those who had observed the two scholars conversing loudly and animatedly every day, noticed that they were no longer seen together in Lalbagh. One of them remarked to the other, as they walked along the embankment by the lake, “ Thank God! Those two no longer sit here together. Lalbagh is the quieter for that, and we can hear the birds again!”