Nov 07, 2024 07:50 PM IST
Describing Bibek Debroy in a sentence is near impossible. An output of writing to fit two lifetimes, scholarship across diverse and disparate fields, a connoisseur of food and classical music, an insatiable curiosity, generous to friends, and a zest for life, which ended too soon.
Journalist, author, lawyer, diplomat, and one of India’s most irreverent wits, Khushwant Singh wrote a famous syndicated weekly column titled, With malice towards one and all. It was half mocking and self-deprecating, but hugely popular for its social commentary. He was a genial Sikh who suffered no fools and did not hesitate to call a spade a spade. He died in 2014 at the age of 99. His column’s title comes to mind while writing this tribute to Bibek Debroy, who died on November 1 at the much younger age of 69. Debroy could be impish in his writing, caustic in his words, withering in his dressing down, but never malicious, much like Khushwant Singh. Used to calling a spade a spade, Debroy sometimes didn’t care to soften his words which then would be hurtful to the recipient. As a Sanskrit scholar, surely, he was aware of the aphorism, Satyam bruyat, priyam bruyat, na bruyat satyam apriyam, i.e. speak the truth, speak pleasant (things), but avoid speaking unpleasant truths.
Debroy might have rebutted that while truth can be bitter, it also cures. Was he then speaking unpleasant truths to help sort out the unpleasantness in India’s society? Or in our policies? At other times, though, he chose to be silent. This became evident in the past decade when he was strangely silent on some economic issues. After all, he was the chairman of the Economic Advisory Council to the Prime Minister for the past seven years. Surely there would have been plenty of occasions of disagreement? I am told that within the government, dissent is kept strictly internal. How then does one speak truth to power, when you chair a high-profile council? Only behind closed doors, clearly.
Recently, taking advantage of our long friendship, I had the boldness to ask Debroy whether he had to ever speak publicly against his conscience. He admitted he had and told me the context. Since he is no more, I cannot share the details publicly in this column, but only to say that this was possibly one of the rare occasions when he was under such pressure and acquiesced. Otherwise, he was known to be stubborn and independent-minded, who could not easily be defeated in argument, let alone brow-beaten. It is also a testimony to his humility that he admitted his errors without any hesitation, at least to his friends.
Of course, he and his office did express criticism of India’s statistical system and its inadequacies, or a contrarian view of taxing agricultural income.
Debroy’s brilliance, scholarship, and lucidity in articulation were never in doubt. And a streak of impulsiveness too, which probably mellowed in later years. At Cambridge, his PhD guide was Frank Hahn, considered to be a potential Nobel laureate. But the story goes that he chose to abandon his PhD over differences with his external examiner, rather than persevere and adjust. This tendency manifested later in life in his impetuous exit in 2005 from the Rajiv Gandhi Institute for Contemporary Studies, where, as fate would have it, he spent the longest tenure in his multifaceted career.
His first real job on returning to India from Cambridge was as faculty at the Gokhale Institute of Politics and Economics in the sylvan surroundings in Pune. He was assigned a role in the East European studies group, and his early papers were on the economic systems of Communist countries. In Pune, he discovered the Bhandarkar Oriental Research Institute, just across the road from Gokhale Institute, which provided material for a lifelong passion for the study of ancient Sanskrit texts. In another fateful twist, he returned to Gokhale Institute 40 years later as its chancellor.
Last year, he was invited to give a talk not on economics, but on “An economist’s journey through the epics”. This was a remarkable oration, frank, forceful, and inspiring. The sheer volume of his work, translations of epics and other texts, is incredible. He is only one of two authors who have managed to translate the unabridged Mahabharata and the Ramayana into English.
Incidentally, his Indology writing began with the Mahabharata at the Centre for Policy Research, where he spent six years. In 2004, he recovered miraculously from a heart attack. This was like a renewed lease on life that he used for prolific output. In later years, one sensed more serenity, a softening and detachment. An article written four days before his death revealed a kind of premonition of the final exit.
Describing Bibek Debroy in a sentence is near impossible. An output of writing to fit two lifetimes, scholarship across diverse and disparate fields, a connoisseur of food and classical music, an insatiable curiosity, generous to friends, and a zest for life, which ended too soon. Yet, there were aspects of his persona that remained inscrutable.
One of Maharashtra’s towering personalities of the past century was PK Atre, who provided tutelage to an early aspirant and later famous playwright, Vijay Tendulkar. In his tribute, Tendulkar concludes: “Despite my closeness, I still don’t know this versatile man and he remains an enigma.” These lines fit Bibek Debroy too, genius in many ways, a renaissance man, whose writings on economics and Indology did great service to the nation, but who also remained hidden and silent in crucial ways.
Goodbye, dear friend.
Ajit Ranade was formerly vice chancellor, Gokhale Institute of Politics and Economics.The views expressed are personal
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