Happy regimes are all alike; every unhappy regime is unhappy in its own way. – Leo Tolstoy (Adapted)
As the Anna cavalcade wound its way from the dark interiors of Tihar to the ‘lights, camera, action' expanse of Ramlila Maidan, a different sort of drama was being enacted at the headquarters of the Grand Old Party in New Delhi. The ignominious defeat in the battle for hearts and minds, not to mention TRPs, by a media-savvy rival, had forced the party to recalibrate its approach to the crisis. The part-raging bull part-shrinking violet act in play, while impressively whimsical, had failed to grip the media and the masses.
“In the war of perceptions,” announced Show-All Sethi, the image consultant tasked with the overhaul, “packaging is the key. Content counts for zilch. Few in Anna's army have actually read the LokPal bill.”
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Heads nodded in sympathy. Few among the party members had read it either.
“Not everyone in the world is vexed with corruption.”
Heads bobbed up and down with vigour. They had not agonised over it for a long time.
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“It's all about brand positioning, eyeball-grabbing slogans and short-n-snappy sound bites.” The marketing maven's hands sliced the air ahead of him with every phrase.
“If so, then we should have been well ahead of the game,” sniffed Chide Them Boys, the party's chief negotiator. His legal mind declined resolutely to think outside the box. “We have the best brand in the business. Hamare paas Nehru-Gandhi parivaar hai.”
“Anna turned spoiler there, “lamented Show-All.” His Gandhi [an] crossed out your Gandhi.” His forehead wrinkled in a frown. “We need to inject some pizzazz into the party. Maybe, compose a theme song with catchy lyrics.”
“My mobile has just the tune,” Zero Loss Cable, the Telecom Czar, paused while juggling five handsets on two ears to join the discussion. Tilting his head to highlight his best profile — his right — he clasped his hands together and sang along with Ray Charles,
“Hard-hearted Anna, the man from the savannah
The meanest marshal in town
Leather is tough but his heart is tougher
He loves to see the government suffer.”
“Not quite the right tone, perhaps” observed Show-All mildly. “We want Youngistan to go Wow! not Ow! Maybe, India's youth icon has something to suggest?”
All eyes moved to the Little Prince seated in one corner of the room, sticking Post-It notes on various spots on a map of India. He was planning his travel itinerary for the next month.
A hand went up. A well-coiffed head thrust forward. Lips were adjusted from a perfect moue into a tight smile. “Our leader is not a parrot,” they intoned before allowing the head to fall back and the features return to default pout mode.
The marketing whiz turned to the future leader for explanations.
“Grown-ups,” the Little Prince sighed, channelling his inner Saint-Exupéry, “never understand anything by themselves. It is tiresome for children to forever explain things to them.”
Still at sea, the adman swam towards familiar territory. “The image of underdog Anna battling the graft monster must go. We need an alternative definition for corruption.”
“A notional definition?” Zero-Loss perked up like a party worker scenting power.
“Corruption is seen as a cesspool in which politicians dunk their grubby little paws and soil what's left of their conscience,” said Show-All. “Why not repackage graft as the wonder fuel powering our economy? The lubricant that sets stuck wheels in motion. The magnetic card that opens closed doors. A ticket for projects to cruise in the fast lane.”
“The question is,” asked the Regent meekly, in the manner of Alice in Wonderland, “whether you can make the same word mean so many different things.”
“The question is,” the Little Prince looked up from his travel guide, “who is to be master — that's all.”