Sitaram Kesri, the Congress president, was once a petty shopkeeper in his native Danapur, Bihar. In recent days, this piece of trivia has been established as being the bedrock of Kesri's politics: the bargaining of the bazaar is his article of faith. There are few other metaphors to describe his conduct since the Jain Commission's report became public knowledge. Initially, Kesri's party refused to debate Justice M.C. Jain's highly questionable conclusions and insisted the DMK be removed from the Government. When this prejudging of the DMK was objected to by the United Front (UF), Kesri began writing letters to the prime minister, with a regularity normally reserved for pen friends. Each day threw up a fresh formula. From asking for the DMK's virtual banishment from the polity, the demand was reduced to dropping the party's ministers pending further inquiry. From asserting Jain's report was sacrosanct, the Congress came round to agreeing to a fresh judicial panel to study his findings. To call this shadow boxing would be to insult pugilists. By refusing to either withdraw support or revoke his anti-DMK demands for about two weeks, Kesri took indecisiveness and delay to new heights. Unfortunately, he also emasculated governance and, willy-nilly, created a north-south divide -- in his party and beyond. Eventually, Kesri went to the President kicking and screaming.

In some senses, Kesri represents the worst in the country's politicians. Anything is negotiable; even the outrage felt over a former prime minister's murder can be simulated or modulated, as the occasion demands. It is not as if Kesri was idle in the time between writing letters. He used the period to attempt a split in the UF, jockey for political space and somehow, anyhow enter the government. As a veteran politician, Kesri should know that the best route to power is through the polling booth. Unfortunately, it will take more than just rustic cunning -- and an amazingly elastic backbone -- to lead the Congress to victory in a general election.

Star of India
In effect, Abdul Kalam's Bharat Ratna is a recognition of the unsung scientist.

Perhaps the only disconcerting aspect of the awarding of the Bharat Ratna to A.P.J. Abdul Kalam -- director-general of the Defence Research and Development Organisation -- is that it has been clubbed with the creation of sinecures by I.K. Gujral for sundry friends and acolytes. In a polity which specialises in unearthing innuendoes where none exist, questions are bound to be raised as to why Kalam was conferred India's highest honour by a regime on its last legs -- two months before the customary announcement on Republic Day. All this will be unfair to Kalam, a distinguished space scientist and the doyen of India's missile programme. He is the sort of achiever no Indian will shirk from acclaiming as among the country's greatest.

A Bharat Ratna should be more than just somebody with professional success to his name; he should be an inspiration for an entire nation. In recognising Kalam's worth, India, in effect, recognises its unsung scientist. He, who sheds blood, sweat and tears for findings which may not always be world class but works in a bureaucratic minefield which is netherworldly. For instance, Kalam's creation of strategic missiles on a shoestring budget has been virtually negated by politicians incapable of formulating a coherent deployment policy. Even so, if scientist Kalam has suffered from the politicisation of defence, citizen Kalam has hopefully begun a depoliticisation of the Bharat Ratna. For years, India's greatest prize for its children has been reduced to a gift politicians give each other. Even Satyajit Ray was given the Bharat Ratna only after he had won the Oscar. It is instructive to note that, before Kalam, the previous Tamil to win the Bharat Ratna was M.G. Ramachandran in 1988. Such cronyism had taken away from the lustre of the Bharat Ratna; Abdul Kalam has restored some of its dignity.

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