Nehru, October 1956

Great Speeches of Modern India Edited by Rudrangshu Mukherjee, Random House, Rs 395

Vijayalakshmi Pandit used to tell the story of visiting Berkeley while she was United Nations general assembly president and being told by the vice-chancellor of an outstanding Indian girl studying there. Mrs Pandit asked if the girl topped her class. No, not quite, said the vice-chancellor but she really was outstanding. Was she then an expert sportswoman? Or did she excel at some musical instrument? Was she especially active in social work? The answer was negative each time. “But she must do something well for you to mention her!” The vice-chancellor thought a bit and said she was a good debater. “That’s not an accomplishment,” Mrs Pandit retorted, “that’s a national disability!”

To mention that anecdote in the context of this magnificent anthology of sonorous rhetoric might look like trivializing the unrolling majesty of our history. But, no, it’s the gift of the gab that fleshes out a moment full of poignancy and immortalizes it for the edification, enlightenment and, yes, entertainment of posterity. Jawaharlal Nehru’s Tryst with Destiny will make Independence more meaningful for India’s future generations just as the Gettysburg address defines democracy for all time. A word, a phrase, catches the mood of the moment, and lives forever.

As Rudrangshu Mukherjee rightly points out in an Introduction that could well rank with some of the better passages that follow, a memorable speech marries words, voice and gesture. The reference to Satyajit Ray’s “English accent” is amusing for it was a moveable feast: the maestro spoke for effect. Clement Attlee, whose accent was naturally upper class (Haileybury) English, didn’t need to. Though Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan showers praise on Attlee’s speech on Indian independence, no one remembers a word of it, while Winston Churchill’s epithets about the brightest jewel, half-naked faqirs and Indians chopping European logic between bouts of bloody killings live on in unforgettable infamy.

Reading cold print cannot, of course, convey the full flavour of the passion that must have inspired composition and delivery. At the other extreme, an actor might be able to raise a moving peroration to a level even higher than the original. I have often wondered whether Michael MacLiammoir, the flamboyantly Irish actor, did not do more than justice in his unforgettable rendering of the Speech from the Dock by the Irish patriot, Robert Emmet, who was hanged, drawn and quartered — the last man in Britain to suffer this barbarity — in 1803.

India and Ireland have followed similar trajectories, and it is not impossible to imagine Utpal Dutt rendering in his fine gravelly voice the concluding words of Emmet’s dying declaration, “Let no man write my epitaph; for as no man who knows my motives dares now vindicate them, let not prejudice or ignorance asperse them. When my country takes her place among the nations of the earth then and not till then, let my epitaph be written.” Nathuram Godse’s justification must rank with that testament even if Mukherjee disputes Verrier Elwin’s Socratic comparison.

This is an exhaustive and extraordinarily eclectic selection. The admirably cogent (though sometimes not sufficiently informative) introductions to each speech add to the appeal. As for the speeches themselves, it would be impertinent as well as irrelevant after this passage of time for any reviewer to comment on the substance of declamations that shaped history. Two of the speeches do, however, prompt reflections of a contemporary nature.

First, M. Singaravelu’s “god is dead and must be buried” discourse in 1933 touched on the still unsolved riddle of who is a Hindu. He speaks of a “non-Hindu” being an atheist to a Hindu. But if we accept Hindu as a territorial label deriving from the Indus river, which the Bharatiya Janata Party has been trying to popularize for its own non-secular purposes, then it is perfectly possible to be a Hindu and reject the sanatan dharma that is the correct name for the majority religion of this land. Second, the secular statesmanship of Mohammad Ali Jinnah’s oration at the inauguration of Pakistan’s Constituent Assembly was soon followed by exhortations to his crack troops to uphold “Islamic democracy” and “Islamic social justice”. As Voltaire and Talleyrand, two of the sharpest minds to straddle the 18th and 19th centuries, both remarked, words are given to man to disguise his thoughts.

Eight of the speakers are still with us and the two avowed politicians among them are used to the slings and arrows of newspaper hacks. Reading Atal Bihari Vajpayee on Tibet and his speech in Lahore, I could hear again the rich, very un-English, monotone declamation that used to be customary for Indian oratory. Similarly, Lal Krishna Advani’s anguish at the events of December 6, 1992, must have been conveyed in the tremulous high-pitched tones of sincerity. But when and where did he pour out his heart? The Introduction could have supplied these mundane details. They would have furthered understanding and, therefore, appreciation.

And if Gandhi’s Ahmedabad trial speech was moving, the handwritten verdict of C.N. Broomfield bears testimony to Britain’s judicious blend of liberty and law. For sheer chutzpah, I would also have liked to read Major F.J. Harriott’s prosecution of “the titular majesty of Delhi” at Bahadur Shah Zafar’s Red Fort trial. Another criticism could be that all the examples fall in the “great and good” category. There are no demonic tirades, no pointed speeches that hurt more than pointed bullets (quoting Bismarck) unless you include Indira Gandhi’s terse Emergency announcement. But as the editor explains, any collection has to be subjective.

It’s a mistake to believe that politicians must be actors only now that television demonstrates that all the world’s a studio. When Ronald Reagan was asked if it wasn’t unusual for an actor to be president, he retorted, “Show me one president who wasn’t!” What has changed is that words alone do not impress the infotainment industry. Props matter — Swami Vivekananda’s turban and flowing saffron, for instance, would have been an instant hit, especially with expansive gestures to match. Secondly, many of today’s bon mots are tapped out on the computer screens of professional wordsmiths. In the film The Queen, Alistair Campbell, Tony Blair’s speechwriter, murmurs, “You owe me Tony!” after the prime minister’s “people’s princess” (for Diana of Wales) captures the British imagination.

But if that were all, Campbell, not Blair, would have been the public’s choice. Just as a spin doctor does not a leader make, neither do glib phrases alone move a nation. A great speech that has a lasting resonance has to come from the heart. This anthology offers ample evidence of that.