Dr Najma Heptulla is a distinguished parliamentarian and a prominent advocate for democracy, social justice and women’s rights. In Pursuit of Democracy - Beyond Party Lines chronicles her journey, a path marked by self-discovery and goal setting, as well as by struggle, determination, hard work, and enterprise. With a career spanning over four decades, Heptulla has ushered in pivotal changes in the Indian polity. Following is a chapter from her new book.
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As children of independent India, many of us were inspired by Pandit Nehru’s push towards a policy that underscored using science and technology for the betterment of society. His large projects had put India on the scientific map, and Mrs Gandhi had continued in his footsteps. Being a scientist myself, I was in complete agreement with them. If India was to succeed, it had to be a powerhouse in the field of research and application of the sciences. Back then, 70 per cent of India was still agrarian and large swathes of it illiterate. Most conversations or even policies centred on the urban middle classes. Plenty of research was being done but most seemed to miss a commercial connection. Confined to isolated pockets of urban university laboratories, the research was not being used effectively or efficiently to make policy choices. Above all, rural India seemed to be almost ignored in that research.
I had a twin advantage—I was a scientist and I came from a rural background. This allowed me some insight into what could help define a roadmap to achieve Pandit Nehru’s vision, and thereby address the huge gap in policy. Progress would come from training villagers to think and approach problem-solving scientifically and seek solutions accordingly. It had to be in the fields for which they had a natural aptitude, or had learnt about through experience and wisdom passed down from one generation to the other. If we could use their knowledge and explain the science to them, then we would be able to convert them to a more logical form of problem-solving.
I wrote to Mrs Gandhi about an idea, which I called ‘Lab to Land Policy’. It was to start with a pilot project, which entailed sending a group of young scientists with experience in soil management, environmental studies, and water management, and agriculturalists to a chosen district. By collaborating with each other and studying the current farming and resource management practices, this group could be used to make suggestions, which then could be implemented successfully. Besides adjusting current practices to meet the demands of a changing environment, the interaction of these scientists with the villagers would serve dual benefits. A scientific approach could impact the villagers, while the scientists could benefit from seeing how their theory could be put into practice by taking the laboratory outside of the four walls and into the open.
Mrs Gandhi was very excited about the idea and suggested that I put them to her very senior and trusted bureaucrat, P.N. Haksar. Haksar was a seasoned diplomat, one of the most powerful in Mrs Gandhi’s office. Educated at the London School of Economics, he had Left leanings and admired the Fabians. He became Mrs Gandhi’s key advisor, influencing India’s support for the creation of Bangladesh. He championed the license raj and nationalization of banks and foreign-owned companies. As the mastermind behind the 1972 Shimla Agreement, he facilitated Pakistan’s recognition of Bangladesh and established the Line of Control. The treaty aimed to resolve Indo-Pakistani disputes peacefully, without resorting to war. Eventually, he fell out of favour because of his dislike for Sanjay Gandhi, and refused to come back to Mrs Gandhi’s office when she was back in power in 1980.
[P.N. Haksar] dismissed my suggestions by saying: ‘Now, sell it to the politicians, young lady.’ I was annoyed. I thought he was rude and insulting (back then, I was young and not very diplomatic). I too got up in a huff and retorted, ‘I would rather not sell it to any politician but become one myself.’ That was the end of that
I went to Delhi and met him. A well-built man, Haksar was about 60 years old, with a thick crop of greying hair, and black-framed spectacles. When I entered his office, he was sitting behind his desk. I said ‘namaste’. He looked up from his papers but ignored my greeting. I handed over my recommendations. He read them and said they were good suggestions. Then, very patronizingly, he dismissed my suggestions by saying: ‘Now, sell it to the politicians, young lady.’ I was annoyed. I thought he was rude and insulting (back then, I was young and not very diplomatic). I too got up in a huff and retorted, ‘I would rather not sell it to any politician but become one myself.’ That was the end of that.
Somehow, Haksar’s advice kept gnawing at me. When I went to the Rajya Sabha, I joined the Science and Technology Consultative Committee, headed by Mrs Gandhi, since that ministerial portfolio was under her.
PN Haksar and Indira Gandhi TT Archives
As time went by, Haksar’s words resonated more and more. I guess I had grown up. Looking back, perhaps, he was smarter and far more sagacious than I had given him credit for. Or perhaps the fire of my youthful arrogance had been quelled by the realities of life. Or maybe it was a bit of both. I realized that for me to be effective, it was important to convince the right stakeholders — in my case, my compatriots and comrades in Parliament. It was important, as he said, to ‘sell’ an idea on how it could help them with their constituencies. I realized I had to involve ‘the politicians’ in the decision-making process. The lesson learnt on that day with Haksar helped me over the years, whether I was presiding over an unruly House or negotiating on behalf of India with foreign leaders.
The committee also became a good source of finding people who had similar views. One such person I came across was Digvijaysinh Jhala, Maharaja of Wankaner, who became a great friend and fellow accomplice in our attempt to influence policy related to science and technology. I fondly called him Wankuji because he was from Wankaner, a city in the Morbi District of Gujarat on the banks of the Machchhu River. Wankuji was a wonderful person and besides being interested in the sciences, his interest was focused on environment and resource management. We found a common ground and decided that our first task was to find like-minded members who could support us on our different policy recommendations.
We realized that we needed to make it attractive for Mrs Gandhi to even consider the proposal. The one thing that always caught her attention were the words ‘benefit the farmers’. In those days, one of the main purposes of television was education of farmers. Farming and farm management programmes, like ‘Krishi Darshan’ in Hindi-speaking India, ‘Amchi Mati Amchi Mansan’ in Maharashtra and in all states in their own languages, were prime-time mainstays
We retrieved all the résumés of the members from the committee administrators (back then, it was not as easy as it is now—almost all information is available today at the click of a button) and approached them for their support. We thought we should keep it simple (but nothing is simple, of course). A simple agenda we thought would be convincing legislators and Mrs Gandhi of the importance of a colour television (remember this was still 1980 and the Asian Games were still a few years away). Mrs Gandhi always thought that investment in a colour television was a frivolous expenditure since it would take tremendous resources for the conversion. I had raised it with her several times earlier, and every time her eyes would glaze over and she would ignore what I was saying, which she did not do often.
We realized that we needed to make it attractive for Mrs Gandhi to even consider the proposal. The one thing that always caught her attention were the words ‘benefit the farmers’. In those days, one of the main purposes of television was education of farmers. Farming and farm management programmes, like ‘Krishi Darshan’ in Hindi-speaking India, ‘Amchi Mati Amchi Mansan’ in Maharashtra and in all states in their own languages, were prime-time mainstays. I took my proposal to her once again and said that colour television could really help the farmers. I explained how, for instance, a black-and-white programme on leaf rust—a fungal disease of the wheat—could hardly help the farmers. They could relate to it easily if shown in colour. And it could also draw in the younger audience. She just looked at me in disbelief with a slight smile and a twinkle in her eyes at my perseverance. Finally she chuckled, ‘You are so mischievous. You never give up, do you?’
In 1982, we finally tasted sweet victory. India was hosting the 9th Asian Games in November of that year. It was a proud moment for us. Games in black and white would not have the same effect as those broadcast in colour. Doordarshan was given 18 months to shift to colour technology, procure outdoor broadcasting (OB) vans, cameras and train its engineers. Doordarshan OB vans were stationed at three games venues to provide coverage in colour. In April 1982, the broadcaster started introducing and testing programmes in colour, and officially the games were telecast in colour. Mrs Gandhi was not yet convinced that India needed to move to all colour. So again, I armed myself with more benefits for ‘Krishi Darshan’ and suggested these to her since we had already invested in the OB vans and training. To my surprise, she seemed to agree and since then, colour television became a permanent feature across households in India. A very popular decision indeed, it met with great success nationally. And that felt good.
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