Friday, April 6
Mutton No Pyaaza
Indian psephology, that is the study of elections, is a lame creature that leans heavily on two wobbly crutches: one is "anti-incumbency," which is both the name and full content of the theory, and the other is the onion. Unlike the vegetable itself, which is layer within succulent layer, the theory doesn't cut very deep, although it does make you feel like crying. "Everyone eats onions," an economist recently explained to BusinessWeek, "So you cannot afford for onion prices to go up." Not exactly the ISLM model, but even so he is right.
A month ago, onion prices leapt up and punched 25 rupees per kg., triggering a special alarm in the Opposition quarters in Delhi and Lahore; it has subsided since then, but MPs were already mid-performance for an irritated electorate. An onion crisis can be as emotive an issue as communal slaughter, but unlike communal slaughter, it weakens the government that is held responsible. Preliminary polls suggest that price rise will be a determining factor in UP, and the BJP is making hay while the sun shines, proclaiming its unique concern for the palate, if not the actual stomach, of the common man, and glibly forgetting its own past contretemps with the treacherous bulb. In 1998, the onion went up 600%, a fatal blow to two BJP state governments.
"Our development work was overshadowed by the onion factor," Bhairon Singh Shekhawat, the resigning CM Rajasthan, had said with a shudder, "Pyaj hamare peeche pada hua tha." The Onion Came After Us; in the political imagination, this phrase is accompanied by the distant sound of howling wolves.
So onions are clearly more than just a bellwether of commodity inflation, but living in Bangalore I never understood why, and assumed that for North Indians they occupied some inscrutable symbolistic plinth, beside Salman Khan and college elections. I moved to Delhi but still I was blind until the recent March spike. North Indians, of course, are profligate consumers of onion - not because it is an ingredient in every dish, but because it is a dish, set alongside all others. Coffee is about the only thing you can order that won't come with a hefty wet baggie of sliced onion, and North Indians dont drink coffee.
My working-day lunch is usually channa and kulcha, or any of the variations on roti-sabzi you can get for ten rupees from pushcart vendors, with requisite side dish of pyaaz. This eating arrangement is the real site of the onion's political clout. Pyaaz is the lick of flame in these mouthfuls of starchy mush that are the daily lunch of millions of blueish-whiteish-collar workers in Delhi. Such men are the bone and muscle of Indian party membership, their sweaty shoulders underneath polyester shirts are the shiftless bedrock of the economy. In Delhi, at least, they are easily roused to anger but not easily to action: corruption is as banal as the afternoon heat, and the martial defense of deen or dharma is a seasonal obligation best left to the young. Roti kapda makaan are relatively secure, but pyaaz must be defended.
When onion prices go up, bad news is delivered daily by apologetic lunch vendors, and unlike other ingredient vegetables, an absent onion is visibly absent. There is no pamphlet or manifesto that you can set before a man that will twinge his spirit as much as rajma chaval accompanied by a bleak, bloodless radish. It becomes personal that such straits have come to pass; as though Kamal Nath had said, "Saley... let them eat achaar." It is a prod to the most sensitive spot on the belly of the dozing beast, Urban Middle Class Male, and when this great beast rears up, no man retains the saddle.
* * *
On the plus side, the weight that onion prices drop on the political seesaw could promote cross-border trade and promote good relations with Pakistan. In the year prior to March 2007, India exported more onions than ever before - 1.1 mn tonnes - mostly to Pakistan, which had a bad harvest. The last time onion prices rose in India, in 2005, it was Pakistan shipping the stuff our way. If domestic political stability becomes reliant on price-stabilizing trade, at least theoretically, politicians would be more interested in keeping bilateral relations healthy. But first we'd have to eat more onion.
A month ago, onion prices leapt up and punched 25 rupees per kg., triggering a special alarm in the Opposition quarters in Delhi and Lahore; it has subsided since then, but MPs were already mid-performance for an irritated electorate. An onion crisis can be as emotive an issue as communal slaughter, but unlike communal slaughter, it weakens the government that is held responsible. Preliminary polls suggest that price rise will be a determining factor in UP, and the BJP is making hay while the sun shines, proclaiming its unique concern for the palate, if not the actual stomach, of the common man, and glibly forgetting its own past contretemps with the treacherous bulb. In 1998, the onion went up 600%, a fatal blow to two BJP state governments.
"Our development work was overshadowed by the onion factor," Bhairon Singh Shekhawat, the resigning CM Rajasthan, had said with a shudder, "Pyaj hamare peeche pada hua tha." The Onion Came After Us; in the political imagination, this phrase is accompanied by the distant sound of howling wolves.
So onions are clearly more than just a bellwether of commodity inflation, but living in Bangalore I never understood why, and assumed that for North Indians they occupied some inscrutable symbolistic plinth, beside Salman Khan and college elections. I moved to Delhi but still I was blind until the recent March spike. North Indians, of course, are profligate consumers of onion - not because it is an ingredient in every dish, but because it is a dish, set alongside all others. Coffee is about the only thing you can order that won't come with a hefty wet baggie of sliced onion, and North Indians dont drink coffee.
My working-day lunch is usually channa and kulcha, or any of the variations on roti-sabzi you can get for ten rupees from pushcart vendors, with requisite side dish of pyaaz. This eating arrangement is the real site of the onion's political clout. Pyaaz is the lick of flame in these mouthfuls of starchy mush that are the daily lunch of millions of blueish-whiteish-collar workers in Delhi. Such men are the bone and muscle of Indian party membership, their sweaty shoulders underneath polyester shirts are the shiftless bedrock of the economy. In Delhi, at least, they are easily roused to anger but not easily to action: corruption is as banal as the afternoon heat, and the martial defense of deen or dharma is a seasonal obligation best left to the young. Roti kapda makaan are relatively secure, but pyaaz must be defended.
When onion prices go up, bad news is delivered daily by apologetic lunch vendors, and unlike other ingredient vegetables, an absent onion is visibly absent. There is no pamphlet or manifesto that you can set before a man that will twinge his spirit as much as rajma chaval accompanied by a bleak, bloodless radish. It becomes personal that such straits have come to pass; as though Kamal Nath had said, "Saley... let them eat achaar." It is a prod to the most sensitive spot on the belly of the dozing beast, Urban Middle Class Male, and when this great beast rears up, no man retains the saddle.
* * *
On the plus side, the weight that onion prices drop on the political seesaw could promote cross-border trade and promote good relations with Pakistan. In the year prior to March 2007, India exported more onions than ever before - 1.1 mn tonnes - mostly to Pakistan, which had a bad harvest. The last time onion prices rose in India, in 2005, it was Pakistan shipping the stuff our way. If domestic political stability becomes reliant on price-stabilizing trade, at least theoretically, politicians would be more interested in keeping bilateral relations healthy. But first we'd have to eat more onion.
