Shashi Warrier | The debate of all debates & India

About the time I got to voting age more than four decades ago, I read the transcript of the debate between Presidents Reagan and Carter. Ronald Reagan was more coherent than Jimmy Carter while speaking of his tax policies and the effect they’d have, and he won the elections that followed. I’ve wished ever since that we’d see political debates like that here in India, between, say, prime ministerial candidates.

In my better moments, I even tried to follow America’s presidential debates, but reality intruded. It was painful enough having to listen to one’s own politicians boasting on TV — watching some other country’s politicians do it was as inviting a prospect as a visit to the dentist.

Until Donald Trump burst onto the scene in 2016. His debates with Hillary Clinton were lively, if not educational. Trump’s name-calling — Crooked Hillary — and disdain for the standards of debate made all the difference. Knowing that (Joe) Biden’s popularity ratings are low and sinking, and that his nickname, Sleepy Joe, is ever more popular, I was sure that Trump would be even more aggressive in these elections than ever before.

So I was looking forward to the first of this year’s debates, scheduled for June 28. The debate was due to begin at half-past-six in the morning, which is when I wake up to my regular alarm, turn it off, close my eyes for five minutes, and wake up to my backup alarm at half-past-eight. On the morning of the 28th, though, I forced myself out of bed at the first alarm and dragged myself to the TV room.

But then, again, reality intruded. Every year, the monsoon winds bring rain, thunder and lightning, and, in generous measure, power failures. This year’s power failures have been more generous than ever, and we sometimes found our overhead tank running dry during a cloudburst because we hadn’t the power to pump it full.

The power failed again as I was reaching for the TV remote, so I gave up on the debate and started on my morning chores, followed by a leisurely breakfast. I had a relaxed morning and was beginning to feel just a little sleepy when the power returned a little after 10 o’clock. I turned on the TV and found that the entire debate had been uploaded on YouTube, and started watching at the beginning. Then doorbell rang, so I muted the TV and found Murthy on the doorstep. “A little early, aren’t we?” I asked.

“I was passing by after a nine o’clock meeting,” he said as he sat down. “I thought I’d drop in.” He looked at the muted TV, on which were two old men, one with white hair and the other orange. “I didn’t know you were interested in American politics,” he continued.

“I’m not,” I said. “I was just looking for some casual entertainment, the kind that Trump provides.”

“Do you mind if I watch this with you?” he asked. “I always watch every presidential debate in the US elections.”

“Sure!” I said, my respect for him rising up a notch. I turned up the sound to hear one of the two anchors ask Biden about the economy. Biden mumbled something in reply that I couldn’t catch, possibly because I’m not used to his accent, and partly because he slurs his words so much. I sat back on the sofa and then my mind sort of changed gears and I began instead to see our very own prime ministerial candidates on TV.

The one on the left was old and white-haired and bearded and senile, while the other, on the right, was middle-aged and greying and bearded but not quite grown-up. The old man spoke first. “I feel that God has sent me down to earth to save this country,” he said. “The world sees this country as the teacher of the world, the friend of the world.”

The middle-aged one replied, “How can we teach the world anything when half a billion of our people go to bed hungry every night? I have a plan to eliminate poverty with one gigantic effort, in an instant! We will do a survey and make sure that everyone has what they deserve!”

“Don’t trust him!” said the old man, pointing. “He will take your gold and give it to an intruder, and leave you to starve!”

“Don’t trust him!” said the middle-aged one, pointing right back. “He’s only trying to make business for his rich cronies! He doesn’t care about the common man or the country’s resources!”

“Our country’s greatest resources are its knowledge and wisdom!” said the old man. “We learnt plastic surgery millennia ago, when someone attached an elephant’s head to a human trunk. We knew that (a+b)² equals a² + b² + 2ab. We are the 2ab: we lead in knowledge, and knowledge is power. That is a 56-inch chest!”

The middle-aged man laughed. “How can we claim a 56-inch chest when a neighbouring country grabs four thousand square kilometres of our territory and we don’t protest?”

The old man laughed in turn. “But his great-grandfather gave away 38,000 square kilometres to those very neighbours! You won’t hear him complain about that — he got his position because he was born into that family!”

I felt then that someone was hitting me on the shoulder with a hammer but discovered it was only Murthy trying to shake me awake. “You were snoring,” he said. “I’ll move on. You go to bed.”

I yawned as I closed the door behind him, and thought to myself that we should have prime ministerial candidates debating as soon as possible — at the very least it would be entertainment, just like the exit polls!