If
the government cannot create happiness for its people, there is no purpose for
the government to exist. – Legal code of Bhutan, 1729
A
day after meeting the queen, we visited Tashichho Dzong, a grand Buddhist
monastery and fortress. It has some thirty temples inside. When a guard noticed
we were walking all by ourselves, without a Bhutanese guide accompanying us, he
was agitated.
‘Where
is your guide?” he asked us.
“We
don’t need a guide. We’re happy to just stroll around and see everything.” I
said. I prefer to go around museums and temples without guides. Some of them
are walking Wikipedia entries.
“No,
that’s not possible. They shouldn’t have let you in.” By now, a small group had
gathered around us. I think they understood that an Indian couple with a small
daughter didn’t pose a threat to the kingdom. But rules were rules. A policeman
was assigned as an escort. He simply walked with us.
On
the way out, a very fair Bhutanese lady began talking to us. She was part of the
cultural ministry. She had earlier seen the commotion surrounding our guideless
stroll. She apologised for the incident. Tashichho Dzong was not only a
monastery complex; this is where the Bhutanese government and the king’s office
are located. That’s the reason foreigners shouldn’t be wandering here
independently.
Later,
our discussion turned to the ‘Gross National Happiness’ (GNH), a concept Bhutan
prefers over ‘Gross Domestic Product’ (GDP). Raised on the books of Ayn Rand, I
began arguing with her. Unless you bring your people out of poverty, what is
the point of telling them about happiness? I honestly thought GNH was simply a
semantic gimmick invented by a kingdom to pacify its poor people.
‘No,
we take GNH very seriously.’ The lady said. She began explaining the science
and structure around it. This was the first time I had encountered a serious
discussion about GNH.
‘Progress
doesn’t necessarily mean happiness.’ She said at the end.
*****
Progress
doesn’t necessarily mean happiness.
I
believe in empirical evidence. What I see with my own eyes, feel and experience
with my own senses is, for me, the best evidence to check any hypothesis.
Most
of my school friends and I lived in apartments of 40-50 sq mtrs (400-500 sq ft)
in which three generations cohabited. All meals were had sitting cross-legged
on the floor. We slept on mattresses laid out on the floor. We squatted on floor-level
Indian toilets, a morning yoga ritual in itself. The apartment had no beds, no
dining tables, and no commodes. We had not heard the word ‘pizza’, not for the
first twenty years of our life. Fruits and vegetables were only organic,
because chemicals to inject them were not yet invented. This is how we lived
for the first 20-25 years.
Later
we evolved, we made progress. We improved our finances, bought dining tables
and beds. We installed western toilets, making the posture comfortable. As a
result of all that, our children are not as flexible as we were at their age. As
children, we never looked at sugar or salt as enemies. Nobody consulted a nutritionist
for advice on diet – I even doubt if there were nutritionists then. Now with our
great culinary progress, we must watch our weight, cholesterol and sugar.
Until
1980, I didn’t have any kind of phone at my house; neither did most of my
friends and relatives. We could land at each other’s houses any time. People
were happy with the unexpected arrivals. The next couple of hours were spent in
delightful chatter.
Later,
phones arrived. First the landlines, then mobiles. Now we don’t go to anybody’s
house without calling first. Visiting someone without calling may shock them. (Why
has he come without calling? Bad news? Does he wish to borrow money from me?
Doesn’t he know I’m busy?) And if we can talk to the person over the phone,
why bother visiting? And if we can send a text, why bother calling? As a matter
of protocol, we may grudgingly find time to attend someone’s funeral (why
did he have to die on a working day?), but visiting him while he is alive
is superfluous.
Until
1972, Bombay didn’t have television. More than fifty children from my apartment
complex met in the courtyard each evening and played a variety of games. We had
no choice.
Then
Bombay became more civilised. Television arrived. Later, incomes improved, and
cars became affordable. Now that courtyard is exclusively a parking lot for
cars. Children spend the evenings at home on their gadgets, while their parents
watch TV.
I
studied in my native language. My friends and relatives spoke exclusively in
Indian languages. On the streets, you asked for an address in Hindi or Marathi.
We listened to Indian music. We sang Indian songs. Girls wore Punjabi dresses
or skirts. Their mothers wore sarees. Boys my age wore Khadi tops, carried cotton
Indian satchels, and wore sandals or slippers.
Then
we made progress. We became more cosmopolitan, more international. We took the
best from the West. Now, our children’s first language is English. They sing
the same songs that children in Europe or America sing. Irrespective of the gender,
they wear t-shirts, shorts, jeans and Nike shoes. Parents pay obscene amounts
of money for the kids to attend a ColdPlay concert in Bombay.
In
my childhood, there were no water filters. No mineral water bottles. No
plastic. Babies were kept clean by the wrapping of a triangular cotton cloth around
their waist. Once it was dirtied, the cloth was changed and washed. Then we
became civilised. Diapers appeared. Convenient for parents. The thick diapers,
made thicker by the kids, are now added to the city’s garbage mountain.
I
walked home from school on unpaved roads. Both sides of the roads were lined
with trees. Saturday being a half day, school started earlier than usual. The
mornings were cold - we always wore jackets or sweaters. And the north of
Bombay was a jungle.
Then
we began introducing civic amenities. Jungles were replaced by residential
towers. As I write this, dozens of trees in my neighbourhood, trees planted in
my great-grandfather’s time, are cut down to build a metro for the Bombay
citizens. So they can travel to work speedily and comfortably. A tree is cut,
and a billboard placed there. It says: “For Bombay’s bright future.”
Now
the cars are air-conditioned. Homes and offices are air-conditioned. I avoid
looking at the pollution index websites. Sweaters are no longer saleable in
Bombay.
Affluence
doesn’t necessarily mean happiness.
When
I lived in Russia, my happiness was inversely proportional to the size of the apartments
I lived in. My last Moscow apartment had very high ceilings and the maximum
cubic feet I have ever lived in. My first marriage came to an end in that flat.
It may be a coincidence, but maybe not. The bigger the house, the more isolated
each of its occupants becomes.
As
we travel in cars instead of walking, we stop meeting people. That is another way
affluence makes us isolated.
During
my corporate career, I woke up with an alarm every morning. It didn’t matter
what time I went to bed. My alarm was set to make sure I reach the office at a
certain time. For the last fifteen years, since leaving my career, there is no
alarm in my life. I sleep until I wake up. My income is lost and my standard of
living fallen dramatically. But I sleep well, and feel fresh and healthy
through the day.
High
standard of living doesn’t necessarily mean happiness.
In
my childhood, the base human emotions – selfishness, anger, jealousy, hatred,
greed, lust- did not have public platforms.
Now
the human race has made miraculous technological progress.
The
Selfie has became a phenomenon. Teenagers with selfie sticks, endless poses and
facial gestures, take much space on social media. The more social among them
take group selfies.
Porno
websites are continuously developed; porno channels are available in family
hotels. Social media provides platforms to vent anger and hatred. Consumerism
is the platform to check the jealousy index. Greed makes an illiterate play on
the stock markets.
Negative
emotions and self-love definitely existed fifty years ago, but were not so
nakedly visible. Thanks to the technological progress; selfishness, anger,
jealousy, hatred, greed, lust are out in the open.
Technological
progress doesn’t necessarily result in greater happiness.
*****
Since
my talk to the Bhutanese lady from the cultural ministry, I have read some
literature on “Gross National Happiness.” Certainly since the time the fourth
king pronounced this phrase way back in 1972, the concept has been
systematically structured and developed.
GDP
growth suggests an improved standard of living. Guns sold in America are part
of their GDP. Other than the gun-makers and the congressmen they sponsor, I
don’t think the expanding gun market brings happiness to anyone. If the
Americans were to focus on national happiness, their public policy, politics
and work ethic would take quite another shape. As the Bhutanese legal code said
in 1729, if the government cannot create happiness for its people, why should
it exist at all?
Bhutan’s
GNH index has four pillars, 9 domains and 33 clustered indicators. It allows
Bhutan to classify each of its citizens into deeply happy/extensively
happy/narrowly happy and unhappy. I meant to describe that this week. But I
began analyzing the relationship between progress and happiness and got carried
away. Next week, I will explain the GNH concept in detail. You may then be able
to check the level of your own happiness.
(To
be continued)
Ravi
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