Asian affluence: a coffee shop in a New Delhi mall—India, but not as Britain knows it
For the first time in 400 years, Britain is the supplicant in its relationship with India. When David Cameron recently visited the country, his aim was to jump aboard the Indian juggernaut, now that the globe's economic centre of gravity is shifting east.
Cameron sidestepped subjects that were none of his business—like Kashmir—and concentrated on trying to boost bilateral trade, which has diminished significantly compared to that of other countries in the past 20 years. He spoke of his "humility" and his determination to forge a "special relationship" with New Delhi. It was a familiar phrase: the last time Britain sought a special relationship with a prized former colony it was with America, when Britain's own position was weakening. With India's economy growing by 8 per cent a year, British businesses cannot afford to be left out of its retail, insurance, legal and financial services—at present largely closed to direct foreign competition. The Indian media gave Cameron some coverage, but the days when a visiting British prime minister would attract major attention are gone. Now he was one of several passing leaders desperate to be part of India's rapid, uneven growth. Back in Britain, his pragmatic approach towards the subcontinent prompted a spasm of Raj nostalgia, and the sort of dated headlines that go down extraordinarily badly in India.
The coalition government is at least avoiding some of new Labour's mistakes in dealing with south Asia. India's rise as a significant economic power coincided almost exactly with Labour's 1997 victory. What should have been an advantage to Labour—with its pro-development, pro-immigrant, pro-independence history—turned out to be the opposite. Labour saw the subcontinent largely through the eyes of people who had migrated to Britain in the 1950s and 1960s.
Within months of becoming foreign secretary, Robin Cook offered to mediate over Kashmir, despite being repeatedly advised not to. His words—spoken to appeal to British Pakistanis from Kashmir—led the then Indian prime minister, IK Gujral, to say: "Britain is a third-rate power nursing illusions of grandeur of its colonial past." Twelve years later, another foreign secretary, David Miliband, made similar blunders, lecturing India about terrorism weeks after Pakistani terrorists attacked Mumbai. Given that India, with 140m Muslim citizens, has produced fewer jihadis than Britain, home to under 2m, New Delhi's politicians are not fond of lectures by visitors from London. His matey habit of addressing elderly Indian politicians by their first name—something close friends and family would hesitate to do—also went down badly.
Robin Cook was too in thrall to leading members of the diaspora. In 2000 I joined the India-UK roundtable, set up that year by Cook to promote dialogue between the two governments. Despite being told we could elect our own chairman, Cook appointed Swraj Paul, a bumptious steel magnate and generous Labour donor.
Labour rewarded Paul by making him a lord, privy counsellor, and ambassador for overseas business. Like Lord Levy he was able to present himself as a roving representative of new Labour and modern Britain. He was a poor choice of emissary to India, since he was known for funding Indira Gandhi during her wilderness years after the emergency; India's government during the years of his tenure was led by the Hindu nationalist BJP, which loathed the Gandhi family. Perhaps the Labour government thought this was not important; it certainly never explained why someone who was at the time non-domiciled in Britain for tax purposes should represent Britain abroad. (In 2009 Paul was said to have claimed £38,000 in expenses by telling the Lords that his main residence was a one-bedroom flat attached to a hotel he owned in Oxfordshire, although he appeared never to have stayed there. He repaid the £38,000 and the police investigation was dropped.)
As sections of Indian society have grown more affluent over the past decade, Indian expatriates in Britain no longer hold the cachet they once did. Rather than being admired for making it in the west, they are often seen as holding onto a dated version of their ancestral land. A lawyer friend from Mumbai recently visited a south Asian part of London. Did it remind you of the 1970s, I asked? "No," she said, "it reminded me of the 1600s." An Indian MP who was here in July told me he could not remember the last time he had seen so many veiled women.
India is looking to the future, not to the past. If Britain is able to be more realistic about what India is now, rather than what it once was, we may yet be able to secure a part in this vital transformation.
For the first time in 400 years, Britain is the supplicant in its relationship with India. When David Cameron recently visited the country, his aim was to jump aboard the Indian juggernaut, now that the globe's economic centre of gravity is shifting east.
Cameron sidestepped subjects that were none of his business—like Kashmir—and concentrated on trying to boost bilateral trade, which has diminished significantly compared to that of other countries in the past 20 years. He spoke of his "humility" and his determination to forge a "special relationship" with New Delhi. It was a familiar phrase: the last time Britain sought a special relationship with a prized former colony it was with America, when Britain's own position was weakening. With India's economy growing by 8 per cent a year, British businesses cannot afford to be left out of its retail, insurance, legal and financial services—at present largely closed to direct foreign competition. The Indian media gave Cameron some coverage, but the days when a visiting British prime minister would attract major attention are gone. Now he was one of several passing leaders desperate to be part of India's rapid, uneven growth. Back in Britain, his pragmatic approach towards the subcontinent prompted a spasm of Raj nostalgia, and the sort of dated headlines that go down extraordinarily badly in India.
The coalition government is at least avoiding some of new Labour's mistakes in dealing with south Asia. India's rise as a significant economic power coincided almost exactly with Labour's 1997 victory. What should have been an advantage to Labour—with its pro-development, pro-immigrant, pro-independence history—turned out to be the opposite. Labour saw the subcontinent largely through the eyes of people who had migrated to Britain in the 1950s and 1960s.
Within months of becoming foreign secretary, Robin Cook offered to mediate over Kashmir, despite being repeatedly advised not to. His words—spoken to appeal to British Pakistanis from Kashmir—led the then Indian prime minister, IK Gujral, to say: "Britain is a third-rate power nursing illusions of grandeur of its colonial past." Twelve years later, another foreign secretary, David Miliband, made similar blunders, lecturing India about terrorism weeks after Pakistani terrorists attacked Mumbai. Given that India, with 140m Muslim citizens, has produced fewer jihadis than Britain, home to under 2m, New Delhi's politicians are not fond of lectures by visitors from London. His matey habit of addressing elderly Indian politicians by their first name—something close friends and family would hesitate to do—also went down badly.
Robin Cook was too in thrall to leading members of the diaspora. In 2000 I joined the India-UK roundtable, set up that year by Cook to promote dialogue between the two governments. Despite being told we could elect our own chairman, Cook appointed Swraj Paul, a bumptious steel magnate and generous Labour donor.
Labour rewarded Paul by making him a lord, privy counsellor, and ambassador for overseas business. Like Lord Levy he was able to present himself as a roving representative of new Labour and modern Britain. He was a poor choice of emissary to India, since he was known for funding Indira Gandhi during her wilderness years after the emergency; India's government during the years of his tenure was led by the Hindu nationalist BJP, which loathed the Gandhi family. Perhaps the Labour government thought this was not important; it certainly never explained why someone who was at the time non-domiciled in Britain for tax purposes should represent Britain abroad. (In 2009 Paul was said to have claimed £38,000 in expenses by telling the Lords that his main residence was a one-bedroom flat attached to a hotel he owned in Oxfordshire, although he appeared never to have stayed there. He repaid the £38,000 and the police investigation was dropped.)
As sections of Indian society have grown more affluent over the past decade, Indian expatriates in Britain no longer hold the cachet they once did. Rather than being admired for making it in the west, they are often seen as holding onto a dated version of their ancestral land. A lawyer friend from Mumbai recently visited a south Asian part of London. Did it remind you of the 1970s, I asked? "No," she said, "it reminded me of the 1600s." An Indian MP who was here in July told me he could not remember the last time he had seen so many veiled women.
India is looking to the future, not to the past. If Britain is able to be more realistic about what India is now, rather than what it once was, we may yet be able to secure a part in this vital transformation.
