Jugaad

He sat on his throne of leather and steel, a figure to be revered, adored and loved. Ornate displays, trophies and games of the pampered of society marked his chamber. And like the wealthy, he never failed to display his largesse—donations, charities, grand gestures and lots of gifts, even if most of them were fancy knickknacks he fell out of love with.

His kingdom was large; its goodness well known, its skill unparalleled, and its people happy. In the early days of his reign, he toured the kingdom, met the people, encouraged and rewarded good work—he was a gardener who tended to his flowers lovingly. He even held regular darbars and threw open his palace gates for festivities.

This carried on for a few years—a blissful and satisfied king and his kingdom. Everything seemed fine, but the truth, the people’s truth is made up of everyday realities, of their hardships and their turmoil.  The kingdom was failing—its values disintegrating, its economy fragile and its people discontent.

There was no doubt that the king was a great leader but like all people in power, it consumed him. He worked towards entrenching himself rather than working for the benefit of the people. He got complacent, resting on his past glories, assured of his subjects’ loyalty.

But the people were painfully aware of their difficult lives and were agitated by this change. What should they make of a leader who was becoming increasingly ineffective? When they asked him, he had no answers. He shrugged his shoulders, looked at his ministers, who also solemnly nodded their heads in agreement. When the questions got more persistent, he got more defensive. “You have to work harder”. “Change things, find your motivation”. “If you can’t, then leave”, he thundered.

One fine day, a group of travellers came to visit the kingdom. They had heard all about the glories of this wonderful place and wanted to experience it. When faced with the reality of the present, they were disappointed but they also saw this as an opportunity to bring in their learnings from other kingdoms.

The first thing they told the king was to reduce expenditure and reshuffle his cabinet. And, how did the king go about it? He went all out—banned any kind of celebration, reduced the number of community meal centres, imposed more fines on trivial offences and sold off anything or anyone he didn’t think necessary.

To the king, the plan seemed to have worked, but the people? Oh! How they suffered the fancies of a crazy master. The complaints increased, the king fumed. “Do you think you’ve been the only one to suffer? Look at me! I’ve had to cut down my retinue from 250 to 200! And I am surrounded by idiots. But do I complain?”

The people were aghast. Couldn’t the king see how his new advisors were ruining the kingdom? Couldn’t he see that they were alienating his loyal ones? Rumours flew all around—of disappearances, of deceit, of murderous plots, of debts. Who could be trusted?

Eventually, leaving this rotting state was the only sensible option.  All the experienced artisans, farmers, builders, blacksmiths began leaving one by one. And when they did, their underlings were suddenly forced to yield results. Their king had commanded, so they did. Their half-baked knowledge coupled with inexperience only produced weak work, which could not hold up to the magnificence of the greats. But did the king notice? No. “Talent is everywhere,” he said. “And I have the gift to spot talent”. But do you, O great king, remember the last time you used this gift?

In this spluttering state of affairs, deserted by even his loyal ministers, the king floundered. And found cheap replacements. When that didn’t work, he used guile and sweet promises, to keep the economy running.

It hurt the people to leave behind something they had all toiled and sweated over. But the kingdom was a shadow of itself, now ruled by a pompous buffoon who had forgotten he was king. Compromises had hollowed out its splendour; it was now the kingdom of improvised solutions.