Lawmakers, LOLmakers

The problem with discussing humour in Parliament is that most people think all the wisecracks were made in the British Parliament, half of them between William Gladstone and Benjamin Disraeli in the 19th century, and the remaining half by Winston Churchill in the 20th. And that the Indian Parliament is a pandemonium or, as a trial judge in Delhi infamously described it while denying bail in a criminal case to Kalpnath Rai, MP, “a fish market”.

Prime Minister Narendra Modi has been lamenting far too often about the falling standards of humour in Parliament. The problem however is that he has not done much to arrest the fall.

Modi is said to be a humorous man (critics in the Congress would say, funny man), but not much so in Parliament. His speeches, in public meetings as well as in Parliament, drip with irony and sarcasm which draw laughter, but he is not one for light-hearted banter that makes a good Parliament great. There is much earthy humour in Modi, at times malicious too, but he has hardly come out with any great repartee of the Gladstone-Disraeli kind in the house, or any nasty Churchill-style put-downs.

Modi says he has been shy of being humorous in the house for fear of his remarks being “twisted out of shape,” and so he expends his humour on his colleagues and officers in private chats. Come to think of it, most of our prime ministers have been like that—muscularly mirthless in Parliament, though they all have been reputedly humorous in their private lives. Indira Gandhi, whom Modi has taken after in his style of personalised governance, was said to have been very humorous in private chats (“one ought to count one’s fingers after shaking hands with him,” she told an aide after a handshake with Pakistan’s military ruler Mohammad Zia-ul-Haq), but Parliament records have not much to show in terms of light banter or any great repartee from her.

H.D. Deve Gowda took the cake for not just being mirthless, but for being distressingly and depressingly melancholic. He always looked not as if he had taken any cake, but swallowed a bitter pill.

Rajiv Gandhi and A.B. Vajpayee seem to have been two exceptions among the prime ministers of the recent decades; both of them indulged in good-humoured banter and repartee in the house. And both liked being laughed at too, as Rajiv, who had just returned from another of his several foreign tours, did when Telugu Desam Party leader P. Upendra welcomed him “on one of his rare visits to New Delhi”.

Instances of such banter being enjoyed by all might be rare, but a fish market the Indian Parliament has never been. Indeed, prime ministers have had little to claim credit for. The laugh has always been on and by lesser members, but not necessarily backbenchers. It has always been the house veterans—men and women who have been leading large or small parliamentary parties or living as legislative creatures for a few terms—who have been making the Indian Parliament a genteel club of camaraderie.

Or, if you think the Indian Parliament has indeed been a fish market, well then, it has been a fairly feisty fish market. It may have had its moments of infamy, but those were no match for, or not a patch on, the kind of infamous instances that several other parliaments, including the mother of all, have had. Why, speakers in the British Parliament have been executed and murdered (a reason why their speaker-elects are “dragged” to the chair), and members have fought with swords (that is why the gangway between the treasury and opposition benches in Westminster is traditionally two sword-lengths wide).

Such violence has never been witnessed in the Indian Parliament. Our speaker-elects are escorted to the chair by the leader of the house and the leader of the opposition—a custom said to have been inspired by the British tradition of the speaker being dragged by the duo. Our treasury and opposition benchers sit much closer than two sword-lengths, and the closest that any honourable MP came to being lethal, at least in recent times, was when Lagadapati Rajagopal, the Congress member from Vijayawada in the 15th Lok Sabha, shot a jet of pepper spray in his desperate bid to block the Telangana bill six years ago.

It is another matter that some of our state legislators have tried to settle debates with their biceps, but even those houses have not descended to the depths to which the Parliament of Ukraine recently did with some of the rowdiest scenes that have ever been staged in any house of any repute anywhere in the world.

Believe me, most of our MPs are nice people to know, many of them learned, well-read and wise, and most of them full of mirth, warmth and goodwill (though, indeed, a few are full of themselves). Indeed, political battles are fought on the floor of the house with much bitterness in words, phrases and intent, but the malice melts in the moments of mirth that occur far too often. Political lore has it that Manmohan Singh used to get offended by the criticism from the opposition during his early days as P.V. Narasimha Rao’s reformist finance minister, and that it was Rao who asked opposition leader Vajpayee to meet Singh and mollify him.

Unfortunately, the public does not get to see much of the camaraderie because it happens when the cameras are switched off, as it happened three years ago when Modi, in a rare instance of reach out, walked across to Singh’s seat and shook hands after the Congress launched a bitter attack on his economic policies.

Such instances had been common earlier. The moment the house is adjourned, one could see (not on TV unfortunately) members who had been fighting like cats and dogs reaching out to each other, slapping on backs, and laughing their way to have coffee together in the Central Hall, or to pinch a cigarette from each other in the smoking room. As N.K.P. Salve, one of the finest debaters that the Rajya Sabha has had, once said in the house: “You see us here, and you may have one opinion about us. But if you see us in the lobbies and the Central Hall devouring [sweets and coffee together], that... would surely impel you to feel that we are the greatest gentlemen on the earth.”

Much of the camaraderie in Parliament cuts across party lines, the most legendary one in recent decades being the one between Cambridge comrade Somnath Chatterjee and BJP’s Hon. Jaswant Singh Esq. The two, both anglicised gentlemen, would be impaling each other with words in the house, but the moment the house is adjourned the two would walk out together for a coffee in the Central Hall. If Mamata Banerjee and Margaret Alva remained thick friends even after the former left the Congress, the kitty bondage between young Supriya Sule of the Nationalist Congress Party and Harsimrat Kaur Badal of Shiromani Akali Dal is creating a new lore of cross-party pairing.

The camaraderie has a lot to do with the sense of humour that most politicians have acquired through years of public life or, as Congress leader Jaipal Reddy once said, they acquire it over years of parliamentary life. Indeed, nasty put-downs of the Churchillian kind are rare in the Indian parliamentary life; on the contrary, the humour in Indian Parliament has been of a softer, nicer and largely well-meant variety intended more to put the other person at ease. Once when BJP’s Venkaiah Naidu felt a little uncomfortable at being stared at by Congress leader Kapil Sibal, the latter put him at ease saying Naidu had a pleasant face. The good humour was reciprocated promptly with Naidu telling Sibal: “Nobody tells me that I have a pleasant face; not even my wife.”

Names, especially uncommon ones, often lend to humour. Once CPI(M)’s M.A. Baby was congratulating Najma Heptulla on one of her several elections as deputy chairman of the Rajya Sabha. Baby used the occasion to humour her and seek her indulgence while running the house. “You are charming and firm,” said Baby. “I hope you will be indulgent, too.” A laughing Heptulla replied: “I will be, specially to babies.”

Congress leader Mallikarjun Kharge once made use of his name (Mallikarjun is another name for Parameshwar) to put down the BJP’s Bishnu Pada Ray. When he found that Bishnu Pada was frequently interrupting him, Kharge said, “You are Vishnu. Vishnu and Parameshwar never agree with each other. But kindly wait till Parameshwar finishes what he has got to say.”

Running the house often is a nightmare. It needs not only knowledge of rules and conventions, but also tact. A sense of humour, especially if one can laugh at oneself, would really help. Heptulla had that in abundance. Taking part in the debate over the Insurance Regulatory and Development Authority Bill, 1999, the CPI(M)’s hoarse debater Nilotpal Basu spoke of how Marlene Dietrich got one of her pretty legs insured with Lloyds of London. Could Sachin Tendulkar similarly insure his wrist and Yehudi Menuhin his arm? he wondered. From the chair Heptulla intervened: “I wish somebody could insure my throat and my finger which presses this button, because these are the two most important things needed for the running of the house.”

Even nasty put-downs, if they come from venerable elders of the house, can put the house at ease. Once CPI veteran Indrajit Gupta was launching a bitter attack on the BJP for its communal politics, and its RSS-inspired ideas of Indian life and culture. “Why bring in the RSS here?” asked a BJP member. “You are all products of the RSS,” retorted Gupta. As the house erupted into pandemonium, one BJP backbencher shouted aloud: “I am not.” An amused Gupta laughed out and said: “Very well then, stand up and be counted.” In a moment the pandemonium turned into light-hearted laughter. The rancour ended then and there, and the house proceeded smoothly.

Pramod Mahajan, who is missed not only by the BJP but the entire house, had a way of building up mirth and laughter while also scoring political brownie points. Speaking against the confidence motion moved by the Deve Gowda government in 1997, he recalled, or made up, a story about one of his visits to China with a parliamentary delegation. “There were three of us. When I introduced myself as from the largest party in Parliament, our host assumed mine was the ruling party. I said no. Next came the turn of the Congress MP who claimed to be from the second largest party. ‘Then you must be from the ruling party?’ asked our host. He said he was not, and pointed to the member from Janata Dal who was from the ruling party which was the smallest of the three. I do not know what kind of an impression our host gained about our democracy,” concluded Mahajan amid laughter.

The tug-of-war between speakers of English and Hindi often leads to moments of mirth. But once when MP from Manipur, Dr Thokchom Meinya, pleaded that he had not heard Speaker Sumitra Mahajan calling him because “Madam, it is bit difficult for me to follow you in Hindi,” Mahajan put him down saying: “I only called your name. Is it not the same in English and Hindi?”

Despite the partisan rancour with which members often have to treat those from other parties, there are also certain gentlemanly rules that render the house a genteel club at times. For instance, it is a sacred convention that any member making his or her maiden speech is never interrupted, even if he is speaking balderdash. This once led to a humorous situation. When he was called to speak in the debate over the motion of confidence moved by the 13-day A.B. Vajpayee government in 1996, first-time MP Churchill Alemao of United Goans Democratic Party launched forth in Konkani. Speaker P.A. Sangma stopped him saying, he had to give notice a day earlier if he had wanted to speak in any language other than English or Hindi. But Alemao surprised him saying he had taken permission. To the speaker’s query as to who had permitted him, Alemao said, “the pro-tem speaker”.

Apparently, Alemao had got permission to be sworn in in Konkani, which he thought was carte blanche to speak in Konkani throughout the term.

To make matters worse, Alemao continued in Konkani, despite the speaker’s order, and members allowed him the indulgence. Naturally with no translator available, nothing went on record. When he sat down, someone asked, so what did he say? Promptly came a loud remark from a treasury bencher: “He was supporting us.” Alemao’s protests were buried in the sound of laughter.

But the big laugh came two years later during the 1998 general elections. One morning Goans saw Alemao’s campaign ads in their newspapers, describing himself as the first MP who spoke in Konkani in Parliament.

Simple formula

Prime minister V.P. Singh’s decision to implement the Mandal commission recommendations put every other party in a catch-22 situation. They could neither support it nor oppose it. Finally, the Rajiv Gandhi-led Congress came up with the creamy layer formula so as to keep the upper classes happy by eliminating the elite among the backwards from enjoying the benefits of reservation.

As Gandhi was launching forth on his party’s stand in the house, Singh objected saying, “You are making it all too complicated.”

Pat came the response from Gandhi: “Not at all. On the contrary, I am making it simple. So simple that even you will understand it.”

Hit below the belt

While discussing import of bullet-proof jackets for security personnel, V. Gopalsamy (Vaiko, then in the Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam) wanted to know whether bullet-proof pants would also be purchased. Minister of state for home P. Chidambaram took exception to such ridicule, but prime minister Rajiv Gandhi made light of it saying he would get one for Gopalsamy. “What would Gopalsamy do with bullet-proof pants?” wondered A.B. Vajpayee. “It may preserve his chastity,” shot back Gandhi.

Hearty mistake

Congress veteran P. Chidambaram has a reputation of being one of the most careful speakers so much so that it is difficult to catch him making a mistake—be it over facts, figures or even in the choice of English words and phrases. But once he got it wrong. Replying to a discussion as finance minister on Finance Bill 2006, Chidambaram announced duty exemption for cardiological items like coronary stents, and added: “This shows that our heart is on the right side.”

Men’s only

V. Narayanasamy of the Congress once accused a Telugu Desam candidate of “manhandling” a woman minister during the elections. But when Narayanasamy refused to name the candidate, G. Swaminathan of the All India Anna Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam asked whether the offender was a man or woman. Pat came the answer from Telugu Desam Party leader P. Upendra: “How can a woman manhandle?”

History’s hangover

Participating in the adjournment motion against the P.V. Narasimha Rao government over militants burning down the Charar-e-Sharief mosque in Srinagar, BJP leader A.B. Vajpayee went on talking about one Dost Mohammad which puzzled listeners.

It took a while for the house to realise that he was referring to Mast Gul, the militant leader who had set fire to the mosque.

But how did Vajpayee make that mistake? It was later learnt that he had been reading a book on Afghan history. Dost Mohammad was the Afghan ruler in the 1830s, whom the British sought to replace.

Terrorising words

Adding an inadvertent word can often create unintended meanings. In a speech in 1996, when there still were terrorist killings in Punjab, the Shiromani Akali Dal’s Sardar Surjit Singh Barnala was making a long-winded speech. The speaker urged him to conclude several times, and finally the grand old sardar said: “Mahodaya, mein jaldi se katham karoonga aapko [I will finish you quickly].” What he intended was aap ke liye (for your sake).

Engleessh, please

BJP leader Jaswant Singh, who held the portfolios of foreign affairs, defence and finance on various occasions in the A.B. Vajpayee ministry, was known for his military manners, anglicised deportment and clipped English delivered in a booming voice.

Once when he sat down after giving a long-winded speech, which went over the heads of most members, a backbencher asked aloud: “Now would someone translate that speech into English, please?”

Good speaker, bad speaker

Communist veteran Somnath Chatterjee is still hailed as one of the finest debaters that the Indian Parliament has ever had. His vast scholarship, his command over the English language, his diction and accent, his deep understanding of the issues of statecraft, and his strong ideological moorings made him a debater par excellence. Later after he became speaker, he ran the house with an iron hand; but given his reputation, no member could stand up to him.

Till Varkala Radhakrishnan came. Though a fellow-communist, Varkala was the very antithesis of Chatterjee. He spoke halting English, and was a very native Malayali in his very demeanour itself. But he had come to Parliament with a reputation of having been one of the finest speakers that the Kerala assembly ever had.

One day, Chatterjee lost his cool when Varkala was going on and on with his speech, despite the speaker telling him that the time allotted to him had expired. Chatterjee shouted from the chair: “Varkalaji, I know you had been a good speaker; but you are a bad member.”

Pat came the response from Varkala: “Sir, it is the opposite in your case. You had been a good member, but a bad speaker.”

Vampire word

S. Jaipal Reddy was known for his vocabulary, particularly of alliterative and bombastic words. As one who had spent most of his parliamentary life on the opposition benches, he often chose hard-hitting words to attack
governments.

But when he described the A.B. Vajpayee government’s stand on Ayodhya as “a humongous fraud on the nation”, virtually the entire house was flabbergasted. The BJP was outraged, and they wanted him to withdraw the word. As Reddy, then in the Janata Dal, stood his ground, even colleagues from his own party and the like-minded Congress, too, tried to persuade him. Most members felt the word was unparliamentary. But when Reddy asked them to check the list of unparliamentary words, humongous was not there. Soon someone found that it only meant “enormous” and was more popular in American English than in British, but passions remained high for a whole day.

Later Reddy joked with friends in the Central Hall: “They thought humongous was some synonym for Dracula.”

Insult dictionary

Jaipal Reddy’s run with words attacking the BJP ran unhindered most of the time. Till one day, Sushma Swaraj gave it back to him. After the house listened to one particularly harsh speech by Reddy in the Rajya Sabha, Swaraj, who was a minister, stood up and said: “I went to a bookshop and came across a book titled A Thousand Insults,” she said. “When I went to the bookshop next, I found the book updated to A Thousand More Insults. I do not know who wrote the book, but I know who reads it—Jaipal Reddy.”

Starred answers

L.K. Advani was particularly harsh on Manmohan Singh in one of his speeches in 2008, calling him the weakest prime minister, a nikamma (good for nothing) prime minister and so on. When his turn to reply came, Manmohan retorted that he could understand Advani’s frustration. “To fulfil his ambitions, he has made at least three attempts to topple our government. But on each occasion his astrologers misled him.... At his ripe old age, I do not expect Shri Advani to change his thinking. But for his sake and India’s sake, I urge him at least to change his astrologers.”

A similar exchange took place towards the end of his second term. Apparently, to project a secular image for himself, Advani once said that the sight of the Babri Masjid being pulled down by kar sevaks had moved him to tears. Later when he again scoffed at Manmohan as the weakest prime minister, Manmohan retorted: “I would not have been found weeping in the corner, when a mob of hoodlums was destroying the centuries’ old mosque.”

Interpretation: 404 not found

Shashi Tharoor’s speeches are a nightmare for the interpreters, for obvious reasons. Tharoor, too, knows this. In one of his recent speeches during a budget debate, he said: “Mr Chairman, sir, I love the concept of sin taxes. The government puts a high tax on liquor and then imposes such high taxes on everything else that they drive people to liquor. With due apologies to the interpreters, we are all reeling from a bad case of intaxication.”

Definition? Dada’s or Didi’s?

Pranab Mukherjee used to be called affectionately as “Dada” and Mamata Banerjee as “Didi”. During the debate on the finance bill 2009-2010, when Dada was the finance minister and Didi was the railway minister, Bhartruhari Mahtab of the Biju Janata Dal pointed out an anomaly over definition of senior citizen. While the income-tax department (under the finance ministry) defined 65 as the qualifying age for senior citizens, the railways gave senior citizen concession to those above 60. Pointing to this anomaly, Mahtab said: “Didi says anyone above 60 is a senior citizen. Dada says, no, one has to be above 65. This anomaly is there both in Dada’s and Didi’s budgets….”

Pat came the response from minister of state for finance, S.S. Palanimanickam: “One is based on the health and another is based on the wealth.”