I am certainly with those who hope the CBI appeals against that inhuman and misguided court verdict ordering a closure to the Bofors case and robbing us of country’s most high profile scam. Let me hasten to clarify that this is not for the various sterling reasons trotted out by the BJP or CPM—the call of justice, the need for transparency, and that sort of thing. No, I want Bofors to carry on because it is the nearest thing we have to a gripping political soap without a discernible end; one that has more characters in it than Kyunki Saas Bhi Kabhi Bahu Thi, more revenge in it than the Revenge of the Sith, more twists in it than the Mahabharata. May the boFors be with us always, is what I say.Those who were too wet behind the ears to know the significance of Bofors, don’t realise what they missed out on. That rush of adrenaline with every new episode, those interminable charges and counter-charges, those documents that ranged from the inaccessible to the undecipherable, those cryptic diary entries, those bank accounts strewn cross the globe, those Deep Throats who kept surfacing in Geneva and Stockholm and New Delhi, those Parliamentary walkouts and election spiels. The cast of stars thrown up by the drama ranged from prime ministers to three tubby, identical-looking NRI brothers with innumerable Swiss bank accounts; from an Italian energy tycoon to Swedish investigators and Swiss judges; from film stars, sundry mediapersons.The story begins in the late ’70s, when it became known that the Indian army was in search of a 155 mm gun. Now defence purchases, as you know, have two basic functions. To equip the army and secure it in strategic terms; and to equip various faceless individuals and secure them in monetary terms.Strict norms govern such deals. Since the Republic wished to convince itself that it was run on the highest principles, all brokers were invisibilised. There must be no MiddleMen, StartMen, or Endmen, the Republic declared—with a nudge and wink. But they existed nevertheless. They walked down the power corridors bearing briefcases, cruised through streets in limos, had the finest suiting materials fashioned by Saville Row masters into safari suits, flashed the most expensive Mont Blancs in their coat pockets and, well, had their well-manicured fingers entrenched in every pie.No one was any the wiser, of course, because the Republic keeps its secrets rather well. But one day came a Swedish radio broadcast and the Bofors guns started booming—in Parliament and outside it. Rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat, they went, against the government of a prime minister felicitously known as Mr Clean. The more Mr Clean denied any knowledge of the deals, the more his political opponents accused him of having pocketed the cash.Soon Opposition doyens ended up with sore throats and thigh bone fractures thanks to their hi-jinks in Parliament and newspapers turned over the entire front page to uncovering the “truth” — which, like every self-respecting iceberg remained largely under water. With every new paragraph they ran, the search for “truth” appeared more tricky. Tantalising tidbits kept readers in a perpetual sweat. Every reader began to believe that he/she was Hercule Poirot, himself. Oh ho, Italian businessman with unpronounceable name and Italian bahu, sounds fishy. Ah ha, Swiss bank accounts with codenames like Lotus and Pitco, relating to NRI businessmen linked to government, very, very fishy. What have we here? An ante-dated agreement of cancellation in the name of “Moineao S.A.”, sounds distinctly odd. Hmmmm, where are those blasted Channel and Canary Islands anyway? The information trickle kept the nation’s grey cells ticking.Meanwhile, governments rose and fell over Bofors, inquiries were instituted, chargesheets framed and cases filed. The nation then resorted to its ultimate weapon: the CBI, with its inspiring motto ‘Industry, Impartiality, Integrity’ was brought in. Now at last the truth will be out, we cried. But the truth kept transforming itself. With every change of government, the CBI’s exertions waxed and waned. At times, it appeared as if it was on steroids; at other times, as if on sedatives. Sometimes it looked as if arrests were imminent; at other times, not a mouse stirred. And, as always happens, time and mortality carried away key players. They, in turn, carried off bits of this gigantic jigsaw puzzle with them to the great beyond.If there a moral to this tale it is this: time and a good legal team will wash you of your sins—although you may not be around when that happens. And, yes, kickbacks are precisely that: they kick back, and how(itzer)!
