I have read a slew of books about India and its separation from Britain in the past year. As someone who was brought up in the generation that believed Britain’s empire in India, the Raj, was a force for good, they do not always make comfortable reading.
Gandhi’s autobiography, subtitled “The Story of my Experiments with the Truth”- like most of Gandhi’s books, written in jail – was first published in the Gujarati language as a series of newspaper articles. This gives the autobiography an episodic flavor. As most autobiographies, and all biographies, are monolithic, this makes it very readable. What it doesn’t do is leave much of a punch.
Of course, Gandhi wasn’t writing with a view to making a bestseller out of his life. But I was left with a hollow feeling that, after five hundred pages, I didn’t know him any better than I did after the first few dozen. Those initial pages give the impression of a self-centred tyrant who puts his wife and family through hell in pursuit of the truth; that he’s ruthless in politics, and that he’s well aware his public charisma is a political weapon. Of the many friendships he forms, often with others of a religious bent, the only ones that last more than a few pages are with powerful figures, and it’s difficult to avoid the impression that those are friendships of circumstance rather friendships of the heart.
As to the histories of the various political campaigns of which he was architect – the satyagraha movements in South Africa and India – these are out of the book’s stated scope. So, as a history, it’s all but useless.
But there is one quotable paragraph which seems especially pertinent to our times:
In the very first month of Indian Opinion [a journal], I realized that the sole aim of journalism should be service. The newspaper press is a great power, but just as an unchained torrent of water submerges whole countrysides and destroys crops, even so an uncontrolled pen serves but to destroy.
In these days of wanton abuse of the press, it would do well if journalists were mindful of that.
Gandhi’s nemesis in the Indian independence movement was Mohammed Jinnah. Nearly all historians credit Jinnah with the creation of Pakistan in a way that they do not credit Gandhi or Congress with the creation of modern India. India would have become independent anyway, runs the thought, but Pakistan was an invention, and Jinnah the man who realised that invention.
The autobiography “Jinnah India-Partition Independence” by Jaswant Singh is marred by typos, rambling passages that should be shortened or cut, endnotes that don’t always match the text and from which several pages are missing: in short, as literature, there is room for improvement. Yet, as a view of what caused the Partition, it is insightful.
At the beginning of his career in politics, Jinnah was committed to a single, unitary Indian state after independence. The Muslim League, of which he was to become president, was to represent the interests of Muslims within that framework; it was not to advocate for a separate country. Yet, four decades after Jinnah became prominent, a separate country was what It demanded and received, and Singh does an excellent job of showing the steps by which Congress marginalised the Muslim League at the same time as the League painted itself into a corner.
The pivotal moment came, according to Singh, in the 1937 elections. As neither party expected to win, Congress and the League agreed to a formula to share power. However, when Congress won by a landslide, they ignored the agreement and bulldozed their own course regardless of the damage to their relationship with the League. This, provided the cause of the split, and, although the concept of Pakistan had been coined some two decades previously, it was from this point on that the idea of a separate state became mainstream.
The cause was one aspect; opportunity the other. This came as the Congress shot itself in the foot during WWII by refusing to support the British effort against the Axis powers. Congress withdrew from politics, its leaders were imprisoned (again) and thus had no voice. By the end of the war, the League had made itself a friend of Britain. Although Congress, when its leaders were released from prison at the end of the war, attempted to make up for lost ground, it was already too late.
And that brings me to the third book, “Inglorious Empire”, by Shashi Tharoor. As a work of literature, this is the pick of the three books. It reads well, the notes and references match the text, and it has enough jokes to make up for the heavy stuff.
But the heavy stuff is heavy. A large number of people in both India and Britain are inclined to view the Raj as a force for good – a thesis that Tharoor demolishes. India was first and thereafter plundered; its historical unity was suppressed and such fault lines as there were, were exploited; such political freedoms as were granted were rationed and often withdrawn on a whim; divide-and-rule (not only along religious lines) was an explicit tool of imperial suppression, and enlightened despotism was despotic without being enlightened. Out of two centuries of British rule, India got the English language, cricket and trains – accidental consequences. Nearly all of this is supported by referenced facts.
Aside from a tendency to see Mughal India through rose-tinted glasses, two things undermine Tharoor’s book. In an early part of the book, Tharoor says there were “unsubstantiated” rumours that weavers’ thumbs were broken to put the local textile trade out of business, where in his concluding remarks, he not only tosses aside the “unsubstantiated” but asserts that those thumbs were not broken, but severed. The extent to which the accusation is true is not what troubles me; it’s the change that worries me.
The greater worry is the economic argument. In short, Tharoor says that India accounted for about a third of the world GDP at the dawn of British rule and about 2% at the end. Set aside my instinctive wariness about paleo-economics – the sparse data and the political agendas. The problem is that a “reduction” from 30% to 2% does not necessarily reflect an absolute fall in living standards. Given the huge global economic growth during the Industrial Revolution, it could well be that, while India failed to get richer, nor did it become, in absolute terms, poorer. This is still no good thing, and there is plenty in Tharoor’s book to suggest that the fruits of that global growth were expatriated to England rather than staying in India, but it is one of Tharoor’s central themes and his book would be all the stronger were it addressed. But it’s an excellent read for all that.
In 2014, sailing back from the Philippines to Hong Kong, we were sucked into a lightening storm. We were on the open sea, defenseless in a boat that suddenly seemed very small. Bolts of lightening as thick as an oak plunged from sky to sea; the night became day for seconds at a time. And I was at the helm of a glorified lightening conductor. For the only time in my life, I thought: “This is it.”
It wasn’t. The thought that followed was that, if this was it, I was going to go down as a sailor. We punched through the storm and made it home unscathed. But the experience brought to mind the Buddhist aphorism that life is short and the time to death uncertain: whatever time one has, use it well. And, as a result, all of those projects I’d been putting off took on a new urgency.
The foremost and most conscious of those was writing. But another crept up on me: mountains. At the time, I was spending a lot of time in Tehran, which is situated on the lower slopes of a mountain called Tochal. I’d stumbled across the access path on my first visit. On a second recce, I made it as far as the Shirpala hut, at about 2,600m (Tehran rises from about 800m in the south to about 1,300m in the north, whence the jump off point). On the third attempt, I summited at 3,900m. I’d met friendly (most people everywhere are) people on the way, and I had the immense satisfaction of finding my own way up.
It was also a week before I could walk without pain.
So, having got the bug, when I and the owner of that boat decided to go trekking in the Himalaya, I decided that I didn’t want to be one of the many who, when asked if they enjoyed it, reply “I’m glad I did it…” as they hobble along. I trained like mad.
It paid off. We spent eight days trekking in Sagarmatha National Park, and not an ache or a strain to show for it. Here, courtesy of my fellow trekker’s photographic talent, are some shots.
This is the mountain from a distance, on the way up:
And this is what it looked like when we got to base camp:
That’s a whisky flask in my mouth, my trekking companion (also on the yacht), and was taken from the base camp (4,600m, though we went a little higher).
Ama means “mother” and “Dablan,” necklace, and here’s a photo that shows why:
Here’s Lhotse, with Sagarmatha (Everest) peeping out at the back:
And here are some of random mountain shots:
These birds are Danphes – Nepal’s national bird – to see one was lucky, but to see three at the same time was extraordinary.
This goat appeared when I wasn’t looking – I only saw him when I saw the photograph.
Here’s the view from a rope (okay, they’re steel cables, not ropes) bridges. Not for those with no head for heights:
The photo in the bottom right shows a mule train crossing the bridge, and this brings me to the down-side.
All of us middle-class folks from the wealthy part of the world have a devastating impact on the local ecology. It’s not only the erosion shown in the two pictures above, and the garbage and the sewage that goes unseen (and untreated). Nearly all the stuff that we consume – and we consume heaps – has to be flown to Lukla and carried in by mule and yak trains and porters. Yes, this creates a livelihood for the local Sherpa people and, yes, this has alleviated the poverty. But the pristine air is filled with the buzzing of helicopters ferrying around supplies, not to mention those too lazy to do it the hard way.
I walked, but it was with the uncomfortable feeling that my self-indulgence came at a very high cost to others and to the environment. When I started planning this, Ama Dablan was to be the first of a series of treks to ever-higher places. These are all in poor countries – Nepal, Tanzania, Argentina – and the next step is to work out if I can visit these places without messing them up. Not an easy one.
One of the good things about airport bookshops in strange places is that they often stock books that I wouldn’t otherwise come across, and my two picks – from Dubai – were both worth the price.
The Perplexing Theft of the Jewel in the Crown by Vaseem Khan is a fun read. Set in Mumbai, the premise is pleasingly absurd. The British crown jewels are exhibited in India, and not only is the crown stolen, but with it the Koh-i-Noor, the diamond whose name translates to Mountain-of-Light, claimed by Britain as a spoil of war in the 1942 Punjab War. In steps Detective Inspector (Retired) Chopra, with his baby elephant, Ganesh, to solve the crime.
He does, albeit on the back of rather too many faces he can’t quite place. But what makes the book worthwhile is the happy dust that’s sprinkled over it. Mumbai is a vast metropolis teaming with poverty and corruption. These are not glossed over, but Chopra’s indominatable optimism sweeps both him and the reader through this. Even the bad guys aren’t evil, just misguided. And, without giving the ending away, the diamond is acknowledged as a symbol for both nations.
And, while I wouldn’t rate Khan’s depictions of Mumbai on a par with Chandler’s of LA, he comes pretty close.
The protagonist of the The Sand Fish, by Maha Gargash of Dubai, is also a Noora – in this case, a common girl’s name in Arabic, meaning brightness. We start with her in her younger years in the Musandam, a little visited promontory that extends into the straits of Hormuz. The book is set in the 1950s, when people in this area lived as they had since the dawn of history.
I haven’t been able to read much fiction by Arab women (because there’s so little, at least in English). Although Gargash’s book is not as vibrant as Rajaa Alsanea’s Girls of Riyadh, what it lacks in pace it makes up for in the depiction of life in that place and time. The Sand Fish makes it clear how limited the options for women (and indeed, for men) were; it depicts the power dynamics between wives of polygamous husbands, and it hints at the changes that were to sweep that part of the world from insignificance to global fame.
And yet, at the end of the book, it’s the author in her notes, not the protagonist Noora in her internal life, who tells us why the book ends the way it does. That does not ruin the book, but it does make the end of the story anti-climactic. And I still have no idea what a sand fish looks like.
I’ve just spent a week in Andalucía in Spain, not boozing it up at the Costa del Red Barrel but in the mountains of the Sierra Nevada with a bunch of other aspiring writers, at a literary retreat (organised by The Literary Consultancy, and conducted by Lesley Glaister). It was a joyous week for me, though very hard work, and I’d recommend any aspiring writer to go on a similar course.
One thing it brought to mind was how far off-course this blog has drifted. The blog was supposed to be about reading and writing, about books that I like and why I liked them, and about writing techniques that I’d stumbled across and how they improved things or didn’t. Perhaps an occasional political post, but just now and then.
What it’s turned into has been quite different: a third-rate political blog, one that echoes the dismal spirit of politics in Britain and the US but without adding any originality of perspective to what’s already out there.
I don’t have the time or inclination to go the extra yard to provide that. So I’m canning the politics. Those who want to read about politics in Hong Kong will find a most excellent blog here, and the Rude Pundit in the US has a depth to which I can only aspire. Or Breitbart, if your politics are that way inclined. As to the slow-motion train crash of Brexit – well, who needs a blog?
So, adios politics, bienvenido books!
Imagine if Hilary, when being stalked by Trump during the second presidential debate, had said what her book says she wanted to. Imagine if she’d lost her composure, rounded on him and said: “Back up, you creep.” Imagine how many of her supporters would have thought At last. At last she showed some spunk, at last she showed a real person, not another bland political mask so polished and so hooked on polite deliberation as to come across as void of character or conviction. Imagine how many undecided voters would have gone out to vote for her.
It was not to be. And, yes, she won the popular vote. But set that to one side. My point is that this points to a central flaw in political discourse on the left: the obsession with never offending anyone. Sure, the nine Trump supporters interviewed by The Guardian will probably support him no matter what, as will these folks. But I’m not thinking of people who believe in walls, or white supremacists who think they aren’t white supremacists. I’m thinking of the maybes, those who sat on the fence, and I’m not only thinking of Trump.
Farage is no different. Forget about his policies, his hazy grasp of facts. The reason that he was able, almost single-handedly, to get Brexit through was because he had one or two core beliefs which he expressed in simple terms that resonated with the man on the street. He connected in a way that no other contemporaneous politician did – not Cameron, and certainly no one in the then Labour party. He attacked distant bureaucrats for attacking Britain’s democracy, he appealed to the concerns of a crowded island about the hoardes poised to invade. What he meant, or at least what many people wanted him to mean but believed he was unable to say it in this politically correct climate, was “kick the wogs out and keep them out.” That won the Brexit referendum.
Few on the left – few commentators and no mainstream politician – cut it this clean. There is no black and white, only ever shades of grey. On the right, there is no grey. Trump has spent the last eight months calling Clinton a “bad person” and Democrats “obstructionists.” Those memes stuck. On what occasion, during Obama’s six final years, when the Republicans voted down every single important legislative initiative, irrespective of its merits, did he label them thus? The only occasion that comes to mind is climate change, when he declared “we don’t have time to convene a meeting of the Flat Earth Society.” That was as close as it got. How many of us would have loved him to say “Stop playing politics with people’s lives and do your fucking jobs.” And ultimately, what did his decency get him? Certainly not a hint of cooperation from the GOP.
So shouldn’t Hilary have let rip?
The problem with a black and white judgement is that it’s a blunt weapon. Once we’ve categorized a person or a group of people as “bad,” “a creep,” or whatever, it’s very difficult to retreat from that label. There’s a loss of face, a serious reconsideration. Disagreeing with someone’s policies is one thing – we can agree to disagree or inch closer to agreement – but a creep is a creep and that’s that. (The converse is not true – Trump had no problem backing down from his pre-candidacy praise of Hilary.)
So labeling political opponents in moral terms makes it all the more difficult to move on. And moving on is what polities have to do to remain polities. Neither the US nor Britain are moving on: while Trump has passed far more Executweet Orders than any preceding president in the same period, and while his administration has simply chosen to ignore its constitutional duty and instructed bureaucrats to ignore inconvenient laws, the battleground he’s created is such that no legislative achievement looks possible. The Tin Lady, May, who has to live with Farage’s legacy, does not seem to be taking positive steps to come up with a Brexit that a majority of Britons can live with. Rather, she seems stuck in a self-reifying fantasy that she can have her cake and eat it – with a hard crash-out Brexit as the only realistically possible outcome.
But in Hilary’s case, it was different. While Democrats dislike Trump, Republicans despise him. “Back up, you creep!” would have done her no harm and much good: had Trump lost, he would have been consigned to history’s dustbin, and most Republicans would have applauded her forthrightness. As it was, her failure to blast Trump came across not as composure under fire, but weakness. That cost her dear.
Upper Albert Rd
What a super start my one-and-only has got off to! Not only has she sorted out the logistical issues with toilet roll supplies, but she’s also dealt with those awful scruffs infesting Lego. Or LegCo. I can never remember.
Just in case you don’t remember, in 2014 the government rightly decided that civic square, outside the legislature, which was put there in order that civilians could applaud the government’s bold initiatives in – well, I’m not quite sure as I wasn’t here, but there must have been something – so was not to be abused to express civil discontent. A rabble of malcontents, pseudo-intellectuals and human-rights types thought otherwise, and were duly arrested and convicted but with a mere slap on the wrist as punishment.
They learnt their lesson this week. No mere slap on the wrist, but a good purgative stretch in prison. You’d think it would be as simple as that, but the bleeding hearts are at it, whinging about the legal technicalities of punishing people twice for the same crime. Well, I’ve always believed in giving people a second chance. The first judge, who handed down those ludicrously lenient sentences the first time round, got it so wrong. Of course the judiciary should be allowed a second chance to allot the correct sentences. And a third, a fourth. Until the miscreants have been appropriately hung, drawn, quartered and their heads put on stakes.
While my one-and-only is a little disappointed that even the second judge stopped short of those richly deserved capital sentences, she can at least face her electorate with pride and say “Promise kept”. She did, after all, promise to heal the divisions in society. As you know, set theory isn’t my thing but if one has a barrel containing both rotten apples (set A) and good eggs (set E), the way to create a single, undivided set is not to mix them all up, which would create the abomination of a rotten egg omelette, but to remove set A leaving only set E. This, she has now done with singular, mathematical precision.
Others whine that the Chinese Communist Party, the CCP – or the C2P (pronounced C-squared-P of course) as I prefer to think of them – is behind this. What nonsense. She’s never taken so much as a word of advice from me, and I’m married to her. In any case, my one-and-only can barely understand Mandarin well enough to mind her Ps and Qs, let alone be fluent enough to take an order.
But 2014 was only the start of the divisions. Last year, some of these miscreants’ associates were elected to the legislature. Well, you can imagine where that lead. I mean, turning up to make the laws of the land wearing clothes that most of my students would be ashamed to be seen in – ill-fitting T-shirts, jeans, un-combed hair and the like – it wouldn’t have been allowed in my undergraduate years in Cambridge, I can tell you. Not that plaited ties and tweed jackets were de rigeur, but a certain sense of sartorial appropriateness was called for. A straw boater while punting on the Cam, a dinner jacket in the college refectory, that kind of thing. Not undergarments, working man’s trousers and sporting footwear while debating matters of state.
But their arrogance was such that they flouted the laws they were elected to uphold, and have been ejected to much approbation. Of course, the mob from whom they drew their support have harped on about it, but one cannot have twenty-year-olds making law. Goodness knows, they may even have brought new ideas.
Ah, breakfast has arrived, and I see Thomas the butler has arrived with my preprandial rum. Must go,
Part of me wishes the whole Russia thing would just go away. Yes, Russia interfered. Yes, Trump and his hideous brood, even if they weren’t active in soliciting Russian help, did nothing to stop Russia’s interference by, for example, making it public that Russia had offered help. And nobody cares. Trump’s supporters don’t care. The Democrats are nowhere to be seen. If they’re giving Trump and the Republicans enough rope to hang themselves, they should be tugging the other end of the rope. But all we have is their silence and that silence, right now, looks very much like not caring. If they don’t care, why should we?
Part of me also wonders if the whole Russia thing is a useful distraction from the real damage that the Republicans are doing. The Muslim ban has distracted from zillions of administrative hurdles that have been placed in the path of Muslims (and everyone else – my nephew is struggling to visit as a student) who apply for visas. The Keystone XL authorization, which did nothing more than remove one of the many obstacles to the project, distracts from the systematic dismantling of environmental protections; the Paris pull-out from executive fiat that is being used to side-line qualified scientists and civil servants whose work goes against the agenda.
Yet instead of using these as headlines, the newspapers headline ExecuTweets and ignore blatant lies such as “clean fossil fuels” (Note: all fossil fuels contain carbon and burning those fuels amounts to adding oxygen to carbon thus producing carbon dioxide: there is no such thing as a “clean” fossil fuel).
So part of me thinks that the Russia thing in particular, and Trump’s public idiocy in general, are welcome distractions from what’s going on behind the scenes: the fulfillment of the Tea Party agenda – for which Russia itself is a model. Putin’s politics are, like the Tea Party’s, divisive and xenophobic; he has no coherent vision other than clinging on to power, and milking the structure for as much as he and his family and cronies can get out of it. In his fifteen-odd years in power, has done nothing to fix Russia’s broken economy, nothing to control the oligarchs, and has hidden his inaction behind a series of distractions including the wars in Chechnya and the Crimea. He won’t pay the price for this: millions of disenfranchised and impoverished Russians (not to mention Syrians and Chechens) pay that price.
But part of me is an entrepreneur, and that part says “bring it on.” As Trump leads his country backwards into the 1950s of his imagination, he vacates a world of opportunity for those of us moving into the 2050s. Yes, the rest of us will have to try a little harder on climate change than we otherwise would. Yes, sooner or later he’ll go to war with someone because – well, that’s what embattled autocrats do. Yes, eternal vigilance is the price of freedom. But as Trump renders America irrelevant on the world stage, he makes that same world an oyster for the rest of us.
Last Friday, another four of Hong Kong’s democratically elected legislators were booted out of Legco on technicalities. The technicality is that, under Article 104 of the Basic Law, the lawmakers are required to take an oath. Thus far in HK’s Legco, the taking of oaths has been regarded as something between a formality and a joke, and has been used by incoming legislators to score some cheap political points. This time was no different, with over a dozen incoming lawmakers scoring points one way or another. But, with Beijing increasingly insecure, it pulled out all the stops to have undesirable lawmakers removed. Appealing to – with a certain irony – the feudal and anachronistic ritual of oath-taking, Beijing has now had six lawmakers thrown out for not following the exact form and not being solemn and sincere, with at least another two in the pipeline.
Central to the judgement is Beijing’s interpretation of Article 104. This was handed down on 7 November, 2016, and sets out the standards for solemnity and sincerity in taking oaths. This interpretation was rushed through in order to be available for the judgement to be handed down a day or two later for the two lawmakers who were first ejected. As it happens, that judgement relied on the Oaths and Declarations Ordinance rather than the interpretation, so the rush was unnecessary.
It may also render the interpretation invalid.
(You don’t have to be a lawyer for what follows – it’s in plain English.)
Article 158 sets out the means by which the NPCCC may interpret the Basic Law and the law. I’ve highlighted the relevant passages in bold:
The power of interpretation of this Law shall be vested in the Standing Committee of the National People’s Congress.
The Standing Committee of the National People’s Congress shall authorize the courts of the Hong Kong Special Administrative Region to interpret on their own, in adjudicating cases, the provisions of this Law which are within the limits of the autonomy of the Region.
The courts of the Hong Kong Special Administrative Region may also interpret other provisions of this Law in adjudicating cases. However, if the courts of the Region, in adjudicating cases, need to interpret the provisions of this Law concerning affairs which are the responsibility of the Central People’s Government, or concerning the relationship between the Central Authorities and the Region, and if such interpretation will affect the judgments on the cases, the courts of the Region shall, before making their final judgments which are not appealable, seek an interpretation of the relevant provisions from the Standing Committee of the National People’s Congress through the Court of Final Appeal of the Region. When the Standing Committee makes an interpretation of the provisions concerned, the courts of the Region, in applying those provisions, shall follow the interpretation of the Standing Committee. However, judgments previously rendered shall not be affected.
The Standing Committee of the National People’s Congress shall consult its Committee for the Basic Law of the Hong Kong Special Administrative Region before giving an interpretation of this Law.
On each of the previous four occasions on which the Hong Kong Government has sought an interpretation, it followed the above procedure. The cases went through the lower courts, the CFA referred the matter to the NPCCC, and the NPCCC’s interpretation was applied in forming the final, non-appealable judgement.
On this occasion, in its rush to deliver an “Interpretation,” the NPCCC simply discarded due process. The interpretation was handed down by the NPCCC, unasked for by the CFA or any other court in Hong Kong.
The absence of due process completely eludes the judge and counsel, but is surely very relevant. It would invalidate the 7 Nov interpretation.
Then we have the timing. The final clause of Article 158 (italicised by me) states that “judgments previously rendered shall not be affected.” The oaths were taken on 12 October, 2016. The Interpretation came out on 7 November, 2016 (see para 19 of the judgement). This means that, even if the interpretation is valid, the judge’s conclusion in para 22 that “true and proper meaning of BL104 and takes effect from 1 July 1997” is in direct violation of Article 158.
Again, I would have thought that Senior Counsels would have spotted this.
Constitutional law aside, the larger picture is grim. The government seems prepared to take whatever steps are necessary to win. Hence, it seems to have given itself an unlimited budget for doing so. And while the government is under no legal obligation to recover the huge legal costs it is racking up, it has made it clear that it intends to do so. At millions of dollars per legislator, this will push many into bankruptcy.
That threat will yield the compliant Legco that government so wants. But the price is huge. Dissent, no matter how theatrical and no matter how offensive some people find it, so long as its expression is not violent, is the hallmark of a healthy body politic. Suppression is the hallmark of authoritarianism. That’s the essence of two systems, and the essential difference between rule of law and rule by law. It’s clear which direction Hong Kong’s government has set.
Lower Albert Rd
I know it’s been a while, but the past few months have been awfully exciting, what with God summoning my one and only to CE-ship of Hong Kong, she hearing his call, and having 777 of the election committee answer His summons. Though I’m not a number theorist, I can’t help but observe that 777’s prime factors are 3, 7 and 37, so lots of 3s and 7s no matter how you cut it. The Holy Trinity and the Seven Churches of the Apocalypse in the Book of Revelations all rolled into one, if you go for that kind of thing.
It would be remiss of me not to tell you of the Inauguration, though I was somewhat relegated to the sidelines. Between you and me, I found President Xi (I was told “x” is pronounced “sh” in their language, so his name is pronounced “she”) a little brusque. When I told him I study algebraic topology, he seemed non-plussed so I explained, as I often have to, that I study mathematical doughnuts. He responded by introducing me to a business magnate who operates a supermarket with a bakery chain, saying that we should “get connected,” whatever that means.
Anyway, Xi went on to give what sounded like a fine speech which confirmed that two systems supervenes on one country. All very fierce and I only wish my Mandarin was good enough to have understood any of it. My one and only, however, seemed quite bouyed, and was quick to point out that her predecessor didn’t receive the honour of a state visit. After that and the tea and biscuits, it was off to look at half-finished roads, bridges, tunnels and what-not. I didn’t quite see the point as most of them go from nowhere to nowhere, but President Xi seemed duly impressed.
Then of course came the removal to Government House. I feared it would be haunted by the ghosts of dead governors but, to the contrary, it’s been quite pleasant, not least because, with my one and only’s limitations regarding domestic stock-keeping arrangements and the consequent lack of toilet paper, I’d become rather fed up with having to clean up down below with kitchen paper, old newspapers, government gazettes, policy documents and whatever other scraps I could find lying around. I wouldn’t say it’s quite the same as our modest semi-detached in Cambridge, and the assorted lackies can get under one’s feet, but it’s an improvement over the nondescript days of serviced apartments.
As soon as the move was over – well, if China treats all its Nobel Laureates like that, no wonder it has so few of them. I mean, they seem to be have thought that stage four liver cancer is akin to a head cold, and that a hot water bottle and an aspirin will see it off and poor old Liu back in comfortable solitary confinement in two shakes. And then he goes and carks on them. All the more surprising as, aside from a surprising innuendo to the effect that my son’s rather well-remunerated position at a Chinese Internet company was secure only for so long as my one and only resolved Hong Kong’s internal contradictions, Xi had seemed the decent type.
Of course, as Legco amply demonstrates, in logic one can prove anything from a contradiction. With Liu keeping the international press distracted, they didn’t notice my one and only’s alacrity in having the courts toss out another four of those contradictions, with the rest of the so-called pan-democrats on final notice. As my sweetness and light says, the way to heal a divided society is to remove the dividers.
Interesting times, and it’s a curse to live in them. But, the butler’s arrived with a fresh toilet roll, so I must be off,