KARGIL: The war that wasn't a war. The conflict in 1999 that claimed hundreds of soldiers’ lives, fought against an enemy that wouldn't acknowledge it was there and would not even reclaim the corpses of its dead (in order to protect its denials). An unnecessary war that sowed more mistrust in Delhi toward Islamabad than the officially declared wars had ever done, the Kargil conflict nonetheless played a huge part in awakening a sense of patriotism among the Indian people — who had just begun to slip into the cynical self-centeredness of our postmodern age.
KASHMIR: For years the fabled playground of favored tourists, a status it has yet to regain after nearly two decades of violent conflict. But it was always much more than a land of snowcapped mountains, exquisite carpets, and idyllic houseboat holidays. Kashmir has had to bear the burden of being a testament to the Indian secular democratic ideal, an affirmation that religion has nothing to do with nationhood and that Indian pluralism admits of no exceptions. The idea of India can only succeed if it embraces justice in Kashmir. That is what makes Kashmir so important for the future of India.
KHALISTAN: (1) An imaginary homeland for the pure of faith, the land of the Khalsa; (2) also khali-sthan, the space between its advocates’ ears; (3) in the words of Khushwant Singh, a “duffer state.”
KHAN: One of five unrelated cinematic heartthrobs who rule the hearts of Indian filmgoers and the wallets of the industry's bankrollers. Each of them — Shah Rukh, Aamir, Saif Ali, Salman, and Fardeen — has variously been dubbed “King Khan” by unimaginative assistant editors. But they may all have to make way, in critical acclaim, for a namesake who doesn't chase actresses around trees but can really act — the quietly impressive Irrfan.
KOLKATA: More a state of mind than a city, it epitomizes all that is magnificent and all that is squalid about urban India: its people, its theaters, its coffeehouses, and its bookshops set against some of the most depressing slums, the most wretched pavement hovels, the most noxious pollution, the most irreparable decay in the world. It seems a city without hope, a soot-and-concrete wasteland of power cuts, potholes, and poverty, yet it inspires some of the country's greatest creative talent. To the true Kolkatan there is no other city quite like it: if one tires of Kolkata, to paraphrase Samuel Johnson about old London, one tires of life.
LATA: Still doesn't need a surname to be recognized, indeed she doesn't even need a face; her ageless voice alone means magic to millions. The holder of various world records for the number of songs sung and hits achieved, Lata Mangeshkar has no equivalent in any other civilization, a singer at the top of the charts for over five decades. The late Piloo Mody once defined All-India Radio as an institution designed for the promotion of two women: Indira Gandhi and Lata Mangeshkar. He was half wrong. Lata has done far more for All-lndia Radio than All-India Radio can ever do for her.
LAW: Rivals cricket as the major national sport of the urban elite. Both litigation and cricket are slow, complex, and costly; both involve far more people than need to be active at any given point in the process; both call for skill, strength, and guile in varying combinations at different times; both benefit from more breaks in the action than spectators consider necessary; both occur at the expense of, and often disrupt, more productive economic activity; and both frequently meander to conclusions, punctuated by appeals, that satisfy none of the participants. Yet both are dear to Indian hearts and attract some of the country's finest talent. And in both cases, the case for reform seems more and more irresistible, as results fail to keep up with the nation's legitimate expectations. Unlike cricket, though, the problem with law is one of popular access to it. As an eminent judge once put it, the law courts of India are open to the masses, like the doors of the Taj Mahal Hotel.
LAXMAN, R. K.: You don't need to read the Times of India to be a fan of the first Indian Magsaysay Award winner for journalism, who won for his images rather than his words — the spry, smiling cartoonist whose audience exceeds even his newspaper's. Three generations have delighted at his rapier-sharp wit, his telling eye for instantly recognizable human foibles, his brilliance at capturing an insight in an image. And his enduring creation — the frail, perpetually bewildered, balding, check-coated “common man”—remains an abiding symbol of our day.
MAHARAJA: (1) Ancient feudal ruler, extinct as a species since 1947 and as a class since 1969; (2) title of some of India's better hoteliers; (3) symbol of Air India, usually depicted in turban, waxed mustache, and leggings bowing deeply from the waist, an act of which most real maharajas were incapable.
MANGOES: What more can one say about the king of fruits (though it now sells at prices that make it the fruit of kings)? It seems that the immortal Ghalib was frequently ribbed by his friends about his passion for the fruit. One day, they spotted a donkey going up to a mound of mango skins, sniffing it, and turning away. “See,” they chortled, “gadha bhi nahin khata hai” (even a donkey doesn't eat it). “Yes,” Ghalib replied quietly, “gadha nahin khata hai” (a donkey doesn't eat it). The greatest news story of 2007 in Indo-American relations is undoubtedly not the nuclear deal but the import of Indian mangoes to the United States — bringing hope of civilization to a land that had only tasted the fibrous, insipid, flavor-challenged American versions of the fruit before.
MARUTI: (1) ca. 1500 B.C., the Hindu wind god; (2) ca. 1975–76, a wheeled object in the shape of an inverted bathtub, with scooter tires and a smuggled West German engine, five of which were produced, as a “People's Car,” by an unqualified engineer with government funds in a striking example of democratic socialism; (3) ca. 1982–present, a Japanese car, manufactured under an Indian name in keeping with the nation's commitment to indigenization, sold to the masses in ever-larger numbers, with the government's participation in the profits declining in inverse proportion to its sales. (See also Ambassador.)
MATRIMONIAL ADS: Seized upon by every hack journalist who wants to ridicule India for fun and profit, but they are no more amusing or pathetic than the lonely hearts announcements that litter the personal columns of the Western press. Indeed, they have an even more valid role to play in Indian society than elsewhere, for they harness modernity to the preservation of a traditional cultural practice, that of the arranged marriage. Matrimonial advertisements have brought together families who might never have heard of each other if they had stuck to the local barber. At the same time, the ads are a microcosm of Indian social preoccupations and prejudices, with their excruciating specificities about caste, age, salaries, and the intactness of hymens. But Indian typesetters always find ways to relieve any tensions with deftly placed printers’ devils like the ones that, in one day's issue of a Delhi paper, invited proposals for a “fair-complected young widow, aged 92,” declared the liberality of a “U.S.-based unclear scientist” who proclaimed “caste, color, no bras,” and touted the attractions of a young divorcee “holding respectable job in pubic relations.” I don't know if any of the advertisers achieved the desired results, but they could have made a remarkable ménage à trois.