35053668-Empire-of-the-Soul-Paul-William-Roberts

64
EMPIRE OF THE SOUL
the Second World War. In scarred, often epileptic black and white, it
seemed decades old, but it was this month’s news. Indira Gandhi,
looking angry, warned Pakistan to stop interfering in her nation’s
affairs, promising dire consequences. She also warned opposition
leader Jayaprakash Narayan to stop disrupting the country with
strikes, again promising dire consequences, which proved to be more
than idle threats. A month later she would declare a state of national
emergency, suspending democracy across the subcontinent. At this
point she was still fighting to salvage her image as the most powerful
woman in history, only the second woman in seven hundred years,
after Sultana Razia, to become a ruler of Hindustan. And she had
the means to do it: after her landslide victory in the 1970 elections,
she’d sacked seven cabinet ministers and taken over the home and
information and broadcasting portfolios for herself. She had not yet
proved she could rein in the print media, but she had the broadcast
media firmly under the yoke. In a land where complete illiteracy
exceeds thirty per cent, this made at least half of her portfolio a
mouthpiece for the government.
‘The Prime Minister, in a stirring speech, urged national unity and
cautioned disruptive elements to put their country before their personal
ambitions . . .’ Smiling politicians planted trees, opened buildings,
cut cakes and ribbons. Athletes won races. Business deals were done
with hearty handshakes. The country was on the move, according
to the newsreels.
A scarred monochrome slide then appeared upside down,
advising everyone to buy Mohan paints.
Finally, the titles of the current feature flickered into view. The
film showed in black and white, again, although the poster outside
had flamed with colour. As inappropriately jaunty music played,
the credits featured a tiny cartoon mouse that scuttled over the screen,
pausing to emphasise the names of the stars. Both titles and music
seemed ill-suited to The Fall of the Roman Empire. Peter Sellers
received prominent billing, and I wondered who on earth he’d been
cast to play in ancient Rome. Eventually it dawned on me that we
were watching credits for The Mouse That Roared. The first scene
began. In curiously unreal and faded colours by now, and on a
savagely scratched film, a group of centurions rode across terraced