Are our leaders even mortal?

It often appears as if we, as a country, have been blessed with superheroes masquerading as mere politicians

I struggle with jetlag whenever I have a long-haul flight. Short flights aren’t always kind to me either, presumably because I am not the spring chicken I used to be. It’s why I am always in awe when newspapers and television channels talk about our political leaders and how they have none of the problems that beset the rest of us.

More and more newspapers and television channels now feel the need to inform us of these developments, which makes sense because it proves that serious journalism is alive and well in what is obviously a vibrant, thriving democracy. This is how I found out that the Prime Minister returned from a recent holiday to the United States and plunged straight into the business of governance, stepping out to check on the progress of a building renovation. What shocked me wasn’t the unearthly evening hour at which he stepped out—a time when most of us unlucky enough to have real families would be gathered around a dinner table—but the commitment to proper construction that sent a bold message via every photographer summoned to document this event. It was a message that appearances matter above everything else, and I stood before my television set to applaud this masterstroke.

The other thing that surprised me about that previously unannounced inspection was the declaration that this wasn’t a man prone to jetlag. I would have been exhausted after a long flight, with anything other than renovation on my mind. And yet, here was a man, much older than I was, stepping off a private plane and being driven past the usual annoyances like protesting farmers to a building site. It spoke of a set of priorities that simply didn’t make sense to me, proving once again that I would never have the skills required to become a politician.

I have come to accept that our leaders aren’t mortal. They are closer to demigods, flying above us all during famines and droughts, showering us with flower petals during pandemics, appearing at corners of the globe as if by magic, and reminding us that they are ready to do whatever it takes to continue using our taxes in exchange for blessing us with their continued presence.

It’s why I have begun taking notes and am trying my best to replicate the way these icons function. I no longer fly without a sheaf of papers, for instance. They are mostly blank sheets, but I find that staring at them during a flight and asking companions or fellow passengers to click photographs of me looking at them makes for oddly endearing posts on my LinkedIn profile. The number of likes I receive shoots up, and I get a significant number of comments about my productivity. It’s all about pretending to work rather than doing any actual task, and this lesson has been life-changing for me.

Another thing I have begun to do is only visit family and friends who have social media accounts and decent smartphones. I inform them of my arrival at least an hour in advance, then encourage them to take candid photographs of me that I can eventually upload with the right kind of status message. ‘Just visited my beloved 75-year-old aunt and sought her blessings before my flight’ is precisely the kind of post that makes me seem like a more caring individual than I actually am, while making a subtle point about how I respect an elder I secretly despise.

I know I will always fall short of the kind of high standards routinely being set by our Prime Minister, of course, but I intend to spend the rest of my life trying to aim for that high bar. It’s the little things that, I find, have the most profound impact on my life. I used to refrain from talking about my achievements in the past; now, I make up achievements that don’t even exist. I have lost a few friends in the process, but this has only strengthened my resolve. What is the loss of family and friends anyway? The true patriot is one who can abandon a spouse for relentless flights abroad in the service of one’s country.

We should use our leaders as models for the kind of slogans we teach our children. I no longer think of something like ‘India Is Shining’ as appropriate, because it doesn’t capture the spirit of our glorious ministers. I suggest ‘Let’s All Fake It Until Some Of Us Make It’ instead.

When he isn’t ranting about all things Mumbai, Lindsay Pereira can be almost sweet. He tweets @lindsaypereira
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The views expressed in this column are the individual’s and don’t represent those of the paper.

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