ARTICLES by RAMACHANDRA GUHA (Retrieved from his archives) Appreciating Nehru The most admired human being on the planet may be a one-time boxer named Nelson Rolihlahla Mandela. To spend three decades in prison fighting racial oppression, and then guide and oversee the peaceful transition to a multi-racial democracy, surely ranks as the greatest personal achievement since the end of the Second World War. For the capaciousness of his vision and the generosity of his spirit, Nelson Mandela has sometimes been compared to Mahatma Gandhi. Like Gandhi, Mandela is both a reconciling figure and a universal figure, admired across the social spectrum in his own land and in other lands too. There are also odd personal details that bind them: Mandela was a friend of Gandhi’s second son Manilal, Mandela and Gandhi were both lawyers, Mandela and Gandhi both lived in Johannesburg, Mandela and Gandhi were both incarcerated in that city’s Fort Prison. This prison now houses South Africa’s Constitutional Court, on whose premises one can find permanent exhibits devoted to the life and example of Mandela and of Gandhi. Mandela’s comrade Ahmad Kathrada, his fellow prisoner in Robben Island, once asked why he admired Gandhi. Mandela answered: ‘But Nehru was my hero’. To his biographer Anthony Sampson, Mandela explained his preference as follows: ‘When a Maharaja tried to stop him he [Nehru] would push him aside. He was that type of man, and we liked him because his conduct indicated how we should treat our own oppressors. Whereas Gandhi had a spirit of steel, but nevertheless it was shown in a very gentle and smooth way, and he would rather suffer in humility than retaliate.’ In the 1940s, Mandela closely read Jawaharlal Nehru’s books, including his autobiography. His speeches often quoted from Nehru’s writings. A phrase that particularly resonated was ‘there is no easy walk to freedom anywhere’, used by Mandela in his first major political speech, made in September 1953. Decades later, the phrase found its way into Mandela’s autobiograhy, whose Nehruvian title is ‘Long Walk to Freedom’. In 1980, Nelson Mandela was given the Jawaharlal Nehru Award for International Understanding. Since Mandela was in prison, his comrade Oliver Tambo—who had left South Africa to canvass support overseas, while travelling on an Indian passport—came to New Delhi to accept the award on his behalf. ‘Nelson Mandela’s captors may wish to ponder the fact’, remarked Tambo in his speech, ‘that Jawaharlal Nehru, who was no stranger to imprisonment and was in no way destroyed by it, served the world community, including the British, far better as a free man than as a political prisoner. Nelson Mandela’s 18 years’ imprisonment has in no way destroyed him, and will not.’ Jawaharlal Nehru appealed to Mandela and Tambo on account of his political views. As a socialist and modernist, Nehru’s ideas were, to these South African radicals, more congenial than Gandhi’s. But there was also a practical reason for their appreciation; the fact that, as Prime Minister of India, Nehru worked tirelessly to arraign the apartheid regime in the court of world opinion. Thus, as Tambo noted in his speech in New Delhi in 1980, ‘if Mahatma Gandhi started and fought his heroic struggle in South Africa and India, Jawaharlal Nehru was to continue it in Asia, Africa and internationally. In 1946, India broke trade relations with South Africa—the first country to do so. Speaking at the Bandung Conference in April 1955, Jawaharlal Nehru declared: “There is nothing more terrible than the infinite tragedy of Africa in the past few hundred years.”’ Shortly after the Bandung Conference, Jawaharlal Nehru visited the Soviet Union. When he spoke at Moscow University, in the audience was a young law student named Mikhail Sergeyevich Gorbachev. Decades later, Gorbachev recalled the impact Nehru’s speech made on him. ‘Obviously, we [students] were still very far from understanding the principles of democracy’, he wrote in his memoirs: ‘Yet, the simplified black-and-white picture of the world as presented by our propaganda was even then considered rather sceptically by the students. Jawaharlal Nehru’s visit to Moscow in June 1955 was an unexpected stimulus for me in this respect. … This amazing man, his noble bearing, keen eyes and warm and disarming smile, made a deep impression on me’. Thirty years after hearing Nehru speak in Moscow, Gorbachev helped bring about a peaceful end to the Cold War while permitting a transition to democracy in Eastern Europe. Unlike Soviet rulers in 1956, 1968 and 1979, he did not send troops into Soviet satellites whose people wanted an end to Stalinist one-party regimes. It appears the early exposure to Jawaharlal Nehru played at least some part in the reformist and reconciling politics of the mature Gorbachev. I quote these appreciations for three reasons: because they are little-known, because Mandela and Gorbachev are both considerable figures, and because their admiration runs counter to the widespread disapprobation of Nehru among large sections of India’s youth, middle-class, and intelligentsia. Greatly admired within India during his lifetime, Nehru witnessed a precipitous fall in his reputation after his death. This accelerated in the 1980s and 1990s, when his ideas on the economy, on foreign affairs, and on social harmony all came under sharp attack. There was a vigorous campaign to free entrepreneurs from all forms of state control and regulation; a major, countrywide movement to redefine Indian secularism by making it more ‘Hindu’ in theory and practice; and a clamour from the media and business elite to abandon India’s non-alignment in favour of an ever closer relationship with the United States. India has experimented now with twenty years of anti-Nehruvian policies in economics, social affairs, and foreign policy. These radical shifts have shown mixed results. Creative capitalism is being increasingly subordinated to crony capitalism; aggressive Hindutva has led to horrific riots and the loss of many lives; and the United States has not shown itself to be as willing to accommodate India’s interests as our votaries of a special relationship had hoped. Among reflective Indians, there is a sense that these decades of Nehru-bashing have been somewhat counterproductive. It is true that Nehru was excessively suspicious of entrepreneurs, yet some form of state regulation is still required in a complex and unequal society. His ideas of religious and linguistic pluralism remain entirely relevant, or else India would become a Hindu Pakistan. And it suits India’s interests to have good relations with all major powers—China, the European Union, Russia, and the United States—rather than hitch its wagon to the US alone. Nehru’s respect for democratic procedure, his inclusive social vision, and his independent foreign policy all remain relevant. Other aspects of his legacy are more problematic: these include his neglect of primary education, his lack of interest in military matters, and his scepticism of political decentralization. However, a balanced appreciation of Nehru’s legacy—its positive and its negative aspects–is inhibited by the fact that the ruling Congress Party is controlled so closely by individuals related to him and who claim to speak in his name. In a recent interview to The Hindu, Nayantara Sahgal pointed out that it was Indira Gandhi who created the ‘Nehru-Gandhi’ dynasty, not her father. This is absolutely true. In a book published in 1960, the editor Frank Moraes (by this time a sharp critic of the Prime Minister) wrote that ‘there is no question of Nehru’s attempting to create a dynasty of his own; it would be inconsistent with his character and career’. When Nehru died in 1964, another bitter critic, D. F. Karaka, nonetheless praised his resolve ‘not to indicate any preference with regard to his successor. This, [Nehru] maintained, was the privilege of those who were left behind. He himself was not concerned with that issue’. Living outside India, insulated in their daily lives from the consequences of the deeds or misdeeds of Indira Gandhi, Rajiv Gandhi, Sanjay Gandhi, Sonia Gandhi, and Rahul Gandhi, both Nelson Mandela and Mikhail Gorbachev could appreciate the sagacity and moral depth of Nehru’s political vision. We who live in India are however inhibited from doing so by the unfortunate accident whereby control of our most powerful political party has passed on to Nehru’s descendants. [Ramachandra Guha’s new book, Patriots and Partisans, has just been published by Penguin/Allen Lane.] Jinnah Reassessed (17 Dec 2011) It was on a pavement near Bombay’s Flora Fountain, some fifteen years ago, that I discovered Hamid Dalwai. On the hard dark stone the title of his book leapt out for attention: Muslim Politics in India. I bought it (for something like twenty rupees), and took it home to Bangalore. I have since read it at least half-a-dozen times. Although little known today, Hamid Dalwai was perhaps the most courageous thinker to come from the ranks of Indian Muslims. Born in the Konkan, he moved to Bombay as a young man and threw himself into left-wing politics. He wrote some fine short stories, and also some superb political essays, these translated by his friend and fellow writer Dilip Chitre and published in book form as Muslim Politics in India. The book excoriates both Muslim reactionaries and Hindu obscurantists, and calls for liberals of all shades and faiths to come together on a common platform to build a secular, plural, and modern India. When I included Hamid Dalwai’s work in an anthology of Indian political thought, some critics were puzzled. Others were enraged. The source of the puzzlement (and anger) was two-fold— first, that I had included a man the critics had never heard of; second, that I had excluded Maulana Azad. It is true that Dalwai is now largely forgotten. This is in part because he died in his early forties. As for choosing him over Azad, the fact is that while the Maulana was a great scholar and nationalist, his writings do not really speak to the problems of the present. My admiration of Dalwai was confirmed by a later essay of his that I recently read. This is a reassessment of the life and legacy of Mohamed Ali Jinnah, translated by Dilip Chitre, and published in 1973 in the literary journal Quest. That journal is now defunct, but Dalwai’s essay is included in an excellent recent anthology called The Best of Quest. Dalwai begins by noting that ‘the emergence of Bangladesh was the final blow to Mohamed Ali Jinnah’s grand political dream’. He then debunks the notion that Jinnah was a secular and modern-minded liberal who was forced by the intransigence of Hindus in general and Gandhi and Nehru in particular to advocate a separate Muslim state of Pakistan. Dalwai thus re-examines two key events: the Lucknow Pact of 1916 and the Cabinet Mission plan of 1946. He points out that if Jinnah’s intention, as his apologists claim, was to make common cause with the Hindus against the colonial rulers, then after the Lucknow Pact he should have been ‘right in the centre of the battlefield fighting the British. On the contrary, it appears that during this intervening period, Jinnah was making an assessment of what the British were likely to concede and what share of these concessions the Muslims should demand.’ Turning to the Cabinet Mission Plan, Dalwai argues that Jinnah accepted this because it ‘not only enabled the Muslims to enjoy political power in the Muslim-majority provinces but also to get a fifty per cent representation at the Centre, thus allowing them to rule over the Hindu majority’. Jinnah further ’welcomed the plan because it left the Princely States as they were, and he thought he could use “Muslim India’ and “Princely India’ as counterweights against “Hindu India”’. Jinnah upheld the rights of sundry Nawabs and Maharajas, while, as Dalwai notes, ‘persistently oppos[ing] the demands of the subjects of the Princely States for more rights for themselves.’ Revisionist or nostalgic historians blame Gandhi and Nehru for not agreeing to the Cabinet Mission plan; had they done so, there might still have been a united India. Dalwai agrees that ‘in a sense it is true that if Gandhi and Nehru had satisfied Jinnah’s demands, partition would have been avoided’. However, as he tellingly adds, ‘it was not the prime objective of Gandhi and Nehru to avoid partition at any cost. If any cost were paid for avoiding partition, every Indian would have been converted to either Islam or Hinduism to achieve such a goal’. Dalwai turns next to the historical legacies, c. 1973, of those great contemporaries and rivals, Gandhi and Jinnah. He prefaces his comparison by noting that progressive intellectuals have tended to see Gandhi as a revivalist and Jinnah as a modernist. And yet, as Dalwai points out, ‘in Gandhi’s “revivalist” India the minorities can at least survive, and the country has a secular Constitution. It has launched a great experiment to build a modern nation. In spite of sixteen languages—all equal—and nearly eight hundred dialects, this multi-racial and multi-religious nation is still integrated. The women of this nation have the franchise without having to struggle for it.’ On the other hand, continues Dalwai, Jinnah created ‘a Pakistan which has moved in an anti- secular and anti-democratic direction. Within barely two months of its creation, fifty per cent of the Hindus in that country were forced to leave it. The narrow and rigid traditions of Islam were increasingly strengthened; the state itself became Islamic with no trace of democracy and can still not find its national identity’. If Jinnah was indeed ‘a modern secular democrat’, asks Dalwai, ‘why did his Pakistan become a country which could not have adult franchise and whose politics had all along been founded solely on blind hatred of the Hindus?’ Dalwai ends his devastating portrait of Jinnah’s career with a brief analysis of his personal frailties in the face of the violence at Partition. Gandhi, as we know, spent his last years working heroically to stem the violence, succeeding in Calcutta, before being martyred in Delhi. On the other hand, during the winter of 1947-8, when communal riots raged across India and Pakistan, Jinnah ‘refused to sign a joint appeal with Gandhi which would have helped to create a climate conducive to the protection of the minorities.’ In fact, during the riots, ‘not once did [Jinnah] step out of the Governor-General’s residence. On the contrary, as soon as he learnt about Gandhi’s assassination, he was so much worried about the possibility of a similar fate overtaking him that he ordered a strong wall to be built in the backyard of his mansion’. These facts, writes Dalwai, ‘suggest that he was either a moral coward or a political hypocrite, if not both. In either case, it is clear that Jinnah’s concern for human values was rather weak’. Perhaps this verdict is excessively harsh. In the winter of 1947-8, Jinnah was an old, sick, dying man. Likewise, since 1973 the Republic of India has witnessed a period of Emergency rule and the rise of Hindutva. That said, for all their anxieties and difficulties, Muslims in India are still better off—culturally and economically—than Hindus in Pakistan. The contrast is even sharper when it comes to linguistic pluralism—Pakistan was divided because of the suppression of Bengali and Bengalis, whereas in India multiple languages and linguistic communities have been allowed by the state to flourish. Compared to the West, women in India are grossly victimized; on the other hand, compared to Pakistan they are moderately (and perhaps even substantially) empowered. Finally, in contrast to Pakistan, the military has virtually no role in Indian politics. With regard to whether free India would be united or divided, Gandhi lost the argument. History however, has vindicated him. For, as Hamid Dalwai pointed out all those years ago, the legacy of the allegedly ‘revivalist’ Gandhi has proved somewhat more humane than that of the professedly ‘modernist’ Jinnah. The contrast becomes even sharper when we move beyond the sub-continent to consider the world as a whole. In North America, in Eastern Europe and Western Europe, in South Africa, Tibet and Burma, and as we speak in the Middle East and North Africa—in all these lands where the name of Jinnah is unknown, the example of Gandhi still animates—sixty years after his death—struggles for democracy, social justice, religious pluralism, and the like. HISTORY’S LESSONS Some commentators have compared the struggle led by Anna Hazare with the movement against corruption led by Jayaprakash Narayan in the 1970s. A man of integrity and courage, a social worker who has eschewed the loaves and fishes of office, a septugenerian who has emerged out of semi-retirement to take on an unfeeling government—thus JP then, and thus Anna now. Superficially, the comparison of Anna Hazare to JP is flattering—to Hazare at any rate. But let us look more closely at how Jayaprakash Narayan’s movement unfolded. JP’s papers are housed in the Nehru Memorial Museum and Library in New Delhi. These papers are worth revisiting in light of the struggle of which Anna Hazare has become the symbol and the mascot. Once a hero of the Quit India Movement, then a founder of the Socialist Party, Jayaprakash Narayan abandoned politics for social work in the 1950s. Two decades later, he returned to politics at the invitation of students disenchanted with corruption in Bihar. At first, JP focused attention on his own state; then, much as Hazare has now done, his struggle moved outwards to embrace the whole of India. In the late summer of 1974, as his movement was gathering ground, JP went to Vellore for a surgical operation. While he was recovering, his associate Acharya Ramamurti kept him up-to- date with the struggle. Ramamurti’s communications, note, with some alarm, the entry of a political party into a professedly ‘apolitical’ movement. While JP was away, wrote his colleague, ‘the leadership of the movement at least at local levels, is passing into the hands of the Jana Sangh’. Ramamurti also worried that ‘the common man has yet to be educated into the ways and values of our movement, whose appeal to him continues to be more negative than constructive’. After some weeks in hospital JP returned to Bihar. In September 1974, he invited his friend R. K. Patil to come observe the situation at first-hand. Patil was in his own way a considerable figure, who had quit the Indian Civil Service to join the freedom struggle, and later worked in rural development in Maharashtra. He now travelled through Bihar, speaking to a cross-section of JP’s supporters and critics, and to many bystanders as well. On his return to Nagpur, Patil wrote JP a long letter with his impressions. He appreciated ‘the tremendous popular enthusiasm generated by the movement’. However, he deplored its disparaging of political parties in particular and constitutional democracy in general. As a man of intelligence and principle, Patil was ‘well aware of the patent drawbacks of the Government presided over by Indira Gandhi’. But he did not think it ‘wise to substitute for the law of “Government by Discussion”, the law of “Government by Public Street Opinion”’. Patil reminded JP that ‘there is no other way of ascertaining the general opinion of the people in a Nation-State, except through free and fair elections’. The materials of history thus suggest that the parallels between JP and Anna Hazare are less comforting than we might suppose. Front organizations of the Jana Sangh’s successor, the Bharatiya Janata Party, are now playing an increasingly active role in ‘India against Corruption’. While Anna Hazare cannot be blamed for the infiltration of his movement by partisan interests, he certainly stands guilty, as did JP, of suggesting that the street—or the maidan—should have a greater say in political decision-making than a freely elected Parliament. Such are the parallels in the realm of civil society; what then, of the other side? The main difference here is that while the Prime Minister of JP’s day, Indira Gandhi, was excessively arrogant, the present Prime Minister is excessively timid. Despite his personal honesty, Dr Manmohan Singh is complicit in the colossal corruption promoted by the Ministers in his Government. Further, he is guilty of a lack of faith in the procedures of constitutional democracy. His decision not to stand for a Lok Sabha seat does not violate the Constitution in law, but does so in spirit. Because of his unwillingness to face the electorate, his claim to defend the primacy of Parliament lacks conviction. An arrogant politician can be chastened by defeat—as happened with Indira Gandhi in 1977. But it is hard to believe, based on his recent record, that Dr Singh can act boldly now to recover the reputation of his Government. By not sacking Suresh Kalmadi after the media revealations of his misdeeds, by not sacking A. Raja as soon as the information on the spectrum scandal was sent to his office, by sanctioning an election alliance in Tamil Nadu with the heavily tainted DMK, by refusing to rein in loose-tongued Congress Ministers—in these and other ways, the Prime Minister has contributed to a widespread public revulsion against his regime. It is time that Dr Singh made way for a younger man or woman, for someone who has greater political courage, and who is a member of the Lok Sabha rather than the Rajya Sabha. As things stand, with every passing day in office his reputation declines further. So, more worryingly, does the credibility of constitutional democracy itself. To restore faith in the constitutional process some heads must roll in Government. But serious introspection must take place within what passes for ‘civil society’ as well. The movement led by Anna Hazare has focused sharp attention on the corruption of our political class. However, the task now is not to further polarize state and society, but to find democratic and transparent ways of making politicians more efficient and less venal. The scholar and public servant Gopalkrishna Gandhi recently observed that the arteries of constitutional democracy have become clogged, contaminated by years of abuse and disuse. One needs, he said, a bypass surgery to restore the heart to its proper functioning. The image is striking, and apposite. The current movement against corruption may come to constitute such a bypass, so long as it does not claim to be the heart itself. (published in the Hindustan Times, 24th August 2011) THREE COMPARISONS, As the election results started coming in on Friday the 13th, and the spectacular rout of the Left Front in West Bengal became clear, my mind went back to the spring of 1977. I was a student of St. Stephen’s College in Delhi, too young to vote, but old enough to recognize the significance of the election then being conducted. This followed the lifting of a State of Emergency, during which Opposition politicians had been put in prison and the democratic rights of citizens withdrawn. While in jail, the leaders and cadres of parties opposed to the Congress of Indira Gandhi had suppressed their differences—personal and ideological—and formed a united Janata Party. The leader asked to campaign in Delhi University was Atal Behari Vajpayee, in part because the university had long been a stronghold of the Jana Sangh’s youth wing. I went to hear Vajpayee speak at the Maurice Nagar Chowk. He spoke brilliantly, although at this distance in time I cannot recall exactly what he said. We were charmed and moved by his oratory, but still thought it was in a losing cause. The Congress Party had never lost a General Election—why would it do so now? Insulated in our hostels, playing cricket and playing the guitar, the students of St. Stephen’s College had not been exposed to the horrors of the Emergency. But tens of millions of other Indians had. These now came out to vote for anyone but Indira. The Congress lost all seats in Uttar Pradesh and Bihar, and most seats in Madhya Pradesh and Rajasthan as well. The Congress’s defeat in the General Elections of 1977 was unexpected; the defeat of the Left Front in West Bengal this May expected. Still, there are some notable parallels. For one thing, a party in power for three decades had finally been unseated. For another, the wave had swept away all the stalwarts on the losing (previously ruling) side. Even Mamata Banerjee did not think that Buddhadev Bhattacharya would lose his own seat. (This was as surprising as the defeat of Indira Gandhi in her own pocket borough of Rae Bareilly in 1977.) Finally, both elections witnessed the release of a suppressed anger, a mass anger, of citizens subject to the actions of an increasingly arbritrary and brutal state. Turkman Gate (where houses of poor Muslims were demolished) and Moradabad (where poor Muslims and Hindus were dragged away to be vasectomized) were to Indira’s Congress what Nandigram and Singur became to Buddhadev’s Left Front. So, hearing of the West Bengal results, I was reminded of the Lok Sabha elections of 1977. But as the day wore on, another and possibly more relevant parallel came to mind. This was with the Assembly elections in Andhra Pradesh in 1983. When the Congress lost the General Elections in 1977, it still won 41 out of 42 seats in Andhra. In this state it seemed unconquerable—until one maverick came along to challenge it. This man was the film actor Nandamuri Taraka Rama Rao. ‘NTR’ (as he was popularly known) had previously shown little interest in politics. His own films dealt with mythological rather than social themes. But when Rajiv Gandhi, then Congress General Secretary, scolded the Chief Minister of Andhra Pradesh at Hyderabad airport, NTR was outraged. By insulting the elected head of the State, this political novice from New Delhi, who owed his position solely to his lineage, had insulted the Telugu people themselves. Rama Rao now put his acting career on hold, and ventured into politics. He began a Telugu Desam Party, which participated in the next Assembly elections. Political commentators wrote off the TDP at birth. It had no structure, no organization, no ideology. It was led by a man whose appearance and personality combined the mystic and the comic. The Congress, on the other hand, had deep roots in the Andhra country. T. Prakasam, Pattabhi Sitaramayya, N. G. Ranga, Neelam Sanjiva Reddy, Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan—there was a long list of Telugu-speaking patriots of national renown, all associated with the Congress Party. Not for the first or last time, the pundits of the press called it wrong. The Congress in Andhra was vanquished by a man dressed in saffron who travelled in a van dressed up as a chariot. The imagery was religious, but the message was resolutely political. NTR stood for the self-respect of the Andhras. They were not vassals of rulers from the North but a proud and ancient people, with a record of achievement in literature, music, architecture, the arts, and—not least—state-making. Such was the past; in the present, however, Congressmen in Hyderabad had become chamchas of their bosses in New Delhi. It had thus fallen to NTR to restore pride in the collective and combined history of the Telugu speaking people. Mamata Banerjee is a woman, not a man. She is a lifelong political activist, not a film star who turned reluctantly to politics. Still, there remains one striking parallel between Andhra Pradesh in 1983 and West Bengal in 2011. In both cases, an individual took on a vast, complex, well-funded and socially embedded political organization. In both cases, the will of the person proved superior to the power of the party. This second parallel is perhaps more plausible than the first. This compares like to like—one state election to another, rather than a state election to a national election. In 2011, the Left Front had been in power for thirty-four years in West Bengal. When NTR decided on a change of career, the Congress had been undefeated in Andhra Pradesh since Independence. The opposition to one-party rule took shape in the form, above all, of a person. Charles De Gaulle mistakenly believed France to be an extension of himself. But the Trinamool would be nothing without Mamata. The TDP was created from scratch by NTR. The organization was secondary to the leader, indeed the organization was subsumed by the leader, whose individual charisma and courage triumphed over the party that controlled their state. In the early afternoon of the 13th, the television channels offered a comparison of their own. Mamata Banerjee, they said, was the Indian Lech Walesa. The dockyard leader also came from a modest social background, and represented the interests of the proletariat more reliably than the Communists who were in power in Poland. In both respects he was akin to the Didi of Kalighat. Mamata Banerjee’s own supporters may see her win as sui generis—as having no precursors of any kind. To be sure, her personality is, so to say, her own, while the victory of the TMC-led alliance is a product of the distinctive history of West Bengal. Still, each of the three comparisons offered here is suggestive—up to a point. Each allows us to see the West Bengal elections in a fresh light. Like that of the Janata Party, the victory of Mamata and the TMC is a product of widespread popular anger against authoritarian rule; like that of NTR, it is an affirmation of an individual’s will against the power of an organization; like that of Lech Walesa and Solidarity, it shames the betrayal of the people by Communists who claimed to be speaking in the name of the people. One last point—which must be made, even at the risk of seeming to spoil the party. Janata in 1977, NTR in 1983, and Solidarity and Walesa after 1989—all won elections they would not, a year or two previously, have expected to win. (In the first and third instances, these were elections which, a year or two previously, they would not have thought would be held.) In all cases, the popular enthusiasm that sustained and nourished them in opposition dissipated soon after they came to office. The Janata Party, for India; NTR and the TDP, for Andhra; and Lech