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Defective
Law Each Speaker can't interpret the
Anti-Defection Act any which way he likes
After Uttar Pradesh, Goa. The political storm in the
little western state re-emphasises the inadequacies of the Anti-Defection Act. The law
itself is clear enough: a party is said to have split when a third or more of its MLAs or
MPs break away. Any number less than a third constitutes illegal defection, not a legal
separation. Unfortunately, the arbiter of a split is the Speaker of the House; and
speakers are prone to strange behaviour. In Goa, for instance, Tomazino Cardozo
effectively outlawed 10 MLAs who had left the Congress in what appeared to be a bona fide
split. When Pratapsinh Rane's rump government sought a vote of confidence, Cardozo refused
to let the 10 MLAs vote. As a result, Rane won a patently bogus majority. Later, of
course, the governor intervened and dismissed Rane.
Compare Cardozo to Uttar Pradesh's Speaker. Kesri Nath
Tripathi's approbation of the "split" in the BSP in October 1997 -- which
enabled the BJP government to survive -- left constitutional experts gaping. Tripathi
ruled that a third of the BSP's MLAs had split and, next, the new group had further split.
Some MLAs -- no identities revealed -- returned to the mother party, he said; the rest
backed the BJP. If Tripathi used a "two split" scenario to justify defection,
Shivraj Patil introduced the term "continuous split" to the Indian political
lexicon. As P.V. Narasimha Rao's Congress exercised its mergers and acquisitions options
in the 11th Lok Sabha (1991-96) Patil, then Lok Sabha Speaker, facilitated the process by
deciding that a party needn't split in one move. Rather, MLAs could break away over a
period of time, in dribs and drabs. Truly, the Indian polity has been federalised. Every
Assembly's Speaker can give the Anti-Defection Act his own special twist. Unfortunately,
the law was designed to curb political immorality, not promote centrifugalism. It is
obviously not working. Either take away the Speaker's authority and give it to the courts
-- or dispense with the Act altogether.
Dribbling from
Memory
The world doesn't owe Indian hockey a living. Upgrade
or perish.
Contemporary Indian hockey wins no medals. Even so,
it has a most original, if unstated, motto: "The future is yesterday." India's
glorious hockey tradition, the magic of Dhyan Chand, K.D. Singh "Babu", Leslie
Claudius and generations of others, was once its pride. Today, this history is an
albatross around the neck. The mindset which governs what was once the national sport is
antiquated, obsessed with the past and confoundingly confident that success only requires
putting back the clock that much more. Most recently, the Indian Hockey Federation sacked
V. Bhaskaran as national coach and replaced him with M.K. Kaushik. The ostensible reason
was the team's failure in the World Cup. Nowhere else are coaches given only a few months
to prove themselves. Ideally, they should have a three to four year contract, be allowed
to reshape players and skills and then assessed. A mere change of guard, rather than one
of policy, will achieve nothing. Before the year is out, Kaushik too is likely to lose his
job.
The essential problem is two-fold. One, India looks to every
new tournament as the one which will signal a revival, as if the ingredients for
rejuvenation are already there. Two, all energies are focused on the national team. This
ignores the decay at the junior levels. Players grow up on grass, are given lectures on
the virtues of dribbling. When they graduate to international matches, they find
themselves hopelessly obsolete in the speedy and athletic game played on astroturf. The
Commonwealth Games are a month away. Other teams are preparing hard; India's has not even
been selected. Instead, Kaushik has been given 51 players for a preliminary camp. After
India gets the inevitable drubbing at the games, perhaps it will consider hiring a quality
foreign coach for its under-16 squad -- and asking him for a bronze at the 2004 Olympics. |