There is an old proverb about glass houses and stones. Parliament this week decided to test its structural integrity by adding another folk wisdom to the rule book – if you point one finger at the government, be prepared for the other side to point all five fingers and 150 books back at you.
The trouble began with a book that officially does not exist. Rahul Gandhi, Leader of the Opposition and habitual disruptor of parliamentary calm, attempted to quote from an unpublished memoir by former Army chief Gen. Manoj Mukund Naravane
The House was promptly informed that one cannot quote from a book that has not yet been published. Rule 349 was summoned and the passage was confiscated. This procedural meticulousness lasted precisely until Nishikant Dubey rose to speak.
From footnote to full bookshelf
Dubey, the BJP’s stormy petrel, did not bother with footnotes. He arrived with what appeared to be a portable archive. If Rahul Gandhi brought one unborn book into Parliament, Dubey countered with a mobile library of post-Independence truths.
At least 150 books, he declared, exposed the Nehru-Gandhi family’s aiyyashi, makkari, and bhrashtachar (debauchery, deceit, and corruption). Some were banned, others controversial, all apparently crying out for urgent parliamentary discussion. This was no tit-for-tat. It was ‘eent ka jawab pathar se’. Against an excerpt, a bookshop. Against one book, an entire library.
The Lok Sabha, briefly mistaken for a literary festival, was treated to references ranging from Jawaharlal Nehru’s alleged aiyyashi during Partition to Indira Gandhi’s personal relationships as described by former aide M.O. Mathai; from ‘The Red Sari’ to the Emergency, Bofors, the Mitrokhin Archive and Sanjay Baru’s ‘The Accidental Prime Minister’. The Chair intervened repeatedly, but Dubey persisted. The House was adjourned.
Publish or perish
The core argument rested on a curious binary. Rahul Gandhi was wrong because the book he quoted from was unpublished. Dubey was right because his books were published – even if some were banned, disputed or legally contentious. Publication, it appeared, had become the sole test of parliamentary truth.
That the debate was technically on the President’s Address became a minor inconvenience. Literature had entered the House, and like most uninvited guests, refused to leave quietly.
The selective librarian
Congress MPs protested, with some justification. Why was the Leader of the Opposition barred from quoting an article based on a memoir, portions of which had already appeared in print, while a ruling party MP was allowed to narrate the moral history of the Nehru-Gandhi family at length?
Government sources clarified that Dubey cited published material, which is permissible. This explanation did little to calm tempers but did establish a new convention – unpublished books threaten national security; published scandal literature strengthens parliamentary democracy.
Curiosity as collateral damage
None of this augurs well for the dignity of the House. But politics has never been a finishing school. What Dubey achieved, perhaps unintentionally, was to revive interest in books long consigned to ideological shelves.
If Rahul Gandhi wanted to provoke a discussion on one book, Dubey ensured a nationwide book hunt.
In the end, both sides have proved one thing. When it comes to mud-slinging, everyone claims the moral high ground – preferably from a glass house, armed with a stone, and now, it seems, a well-stocked library.
