The Nano was supposed to be Tata's gift to India. Instead, the world’s ‘cheapest’ car — unveiled at the 2008 Auto Expo — became one of the finest examples of hubris in modern Indian business, writes KUSHAN MITRA
A few hours before Ratan Naval Tata unveiled the Tata Nano at the 2008 Auto Expo — his top public relations flack — a certain Nira Radia, well before her fall from grace and, indeed at the top of her influence, had deigned to grant some of us from the India Today group an interview with the big man. Along with my seniors, Shankkar Aiyar and R Sridharan, I walked into one of the suites of the Taj Mansingh with some trepidation; after all, this was big. Ratan Tata, the boss of the Tata Group, India’s largest conglomerate operating from salt to steel was launching the world’s ‘cheapest’ car at the ongoing Auto Expo.
Tata spoke with a quiet determination, his determination to launch a car that would take India’s masses off motorcycles and put a roof over their heads. Yes, the Nano was not as safe as many other cars, he agreed, but it was a lot safer than carrying an infant on a two-wheeler. It was enclosed from the elements and it would give a whole new generation of Indians mobility. And by making it in West Bengal, Tata Motors would bring industrialisation to a neglected part of the country.
A few hours later, I fought my way through the scrum of people trying to make their way into the launch at Hall 11 of Pragati Maidan. All sorts of exhibitors and rivals were trying to make their way in, and there were bouncers at the entrance. I found my hand grabbed by Debasis Ray, the communications head of Tata Motors, now the top communications person at the Tata Group, who somehow dragged me inside the hall.
At this time, I had been an automotive reporter for almost eight years; this was my fourth expo as a reporter. I had already become jaded from the song and dance shows that accompanied most automotive launches. But this was different. Never before had I sat in on any car launch with such a crowd. And a multinational crowd at that. It seemed that every foreign correspondent in town was there and many, many more. There were hundreds of television cameras, thousands of journalists and more. Along with a friend from a television channel, we clambered onto the flat-bed of a small truck on display at a distant corner, but still had a decent view of the stage.
Ratan Tata walked onto the stage as a superstar, and when the car was launched to a rendition of Strauss’Also Sprach Zarathustra, it seemed kind of appropriate that the name of Zoroaster, the Persian God, was in the tune. After all, Tata was the doyen of the Parsi community in India. One can, however, argue whether this was the Zarathustra that Tata had in mind given that Strauss’ composition was inspired by Nietzsche, but that is a debate for another time.
As soon as the three launch cars were driven onto the stage, I noticed a charge towards the stage by the assembled crowds. Thankfully, this was a time before Facebook live or Periscope, but mobile networks were crammed with reporters trying to get the first copies away. While I managed to get a quick glimpse of the cars, I knew I had to run to the post-launch press briefing with Tata.
Most press conferences after car launches are dull events, as most reporters wanted ‘exclusives’. As a business magazine feature writer, I had no such compulsion, but Ray came in and told us all one question each. The rush to ask questions was such that I had no qualms whatsoever to use my Bengali connections with Ray and plead for the opportunity to ask a question. Which I did; I really can’t recall what I asked exactly back then but it had something to do with when we could expect the first Nanos to roll off the line at Singur. I think Ratan Tata answered, “Shortly.”
But I knew that could not give a timeline, in fact, many in the room knew that. But I was possibly the only journalist in the room to know that first hand. The Nano might have rolled out in front of us today, but it was not going to roll off an assembly line anytime soon.
Rewind a few months, mid-2007. I’m standing under a flyover on the Howrah-Durgapur Expressway near a small town called Singur, a block in Hooghly district. My paternal ancestors came from a few kilometres away, from the towns of Hooghly-Chinsurah, Bandel and Chandannagar. Even though I was a probashi Bengali returning here after almost a decade, I still knew this part of the world. On the west bank of the Hooghly, these alluvial flats were extremely fertile; yet this was also where the roots of India’s industrial revolution during colonial rule had taken hold.
Yet, after three decades of Communist Party rule, industry had been gutted. Not only industry, but young Bengalis like my father and most of his friends moved out in droves. The Singur plant was Tata’s idea of bringing it all back to Bengal, an attempt to rejuvenate the State, and the Communist Party apparatchiks had bought into the idea wholeheartedly. Tata Motors had demanded a plot of land close to the trifecta of highways — the main highways from India’s cardinal point in the east leading to north, west, and south. From the viewpoint of logistics, Singur was perfect. The Nano, after all, was going to be a massive bestseller, therefore logistical needs had to be kept in mind.
Personally, while not being a fan of Tata vehicles as an auto reviewer, I supported the plant. Bengal had been hollowed out of its best and brightest over the past three decades. A belated effort at development led by industry would help this one richest of States recapture her lost glory. The global economy was booming, led by the Communist nation of China. Bengali Communists were wide-eyed at the achievements of India’s eastern neighbour and wanted to emulate it. And then there was the hated (by Communists, even now) Narendra Modi, the then Chief Minister of Gujarat. If he could drive investment in truckloads, so would Bengal.
But Ratan Tata, a clever man no doubt, had not factored in one person. West Bengal’s Opposition firebrand, Mamata Banerjee. The Communist Government in West Bengal was reeling after three decades of stagnation, and a belated attempt at industrialisation and development had impinged on their greatest achievement in the late 1970s — land redistribution. A few months earlier, riots and police shooting had made the headlines in Nandigram, a small settlement to the south of Kolkata. But it was at Singur where Banerjee would lay the foundation of her eventual rise to power in the State.
The Tatas had been allocated 997 acres of land; the process was smoothed by the local units of the Communist Party, indeed some of the bigger land losers were members of the party. Most of the land had been acquired under an antiquated 1894 Eminent Domain Act, under which land is taken for public improvement projects. Many of the land losers, particularly those with small holdings, were livid. The old Act meant that compensation levels were depressed, and even though prices were set at Rs20 lakh an acre or more, some wanted more. The Tatas had promised jobs to each of the families affected, but the attachment with land is strong in Northern India and more so in Bengal. It was no surprise that Mamata made maati (land) one of her main campaign issues in 2011.
Almost every industrial project witnesses protests against land acquisition. As I discovered during a trip to the proposed Posco steel project in Odisha, the reasons are historical. Ham-handed land acquisition during India’s socialist era in the 1950s and 1960s led to land losers being poorly rehabilitated. land losers for projects such as the Hirakud Dam and Paradip Refinery gained few jobs; almost all jobs went to ‘outsiders’ and poor villagers were left with no jobs, and with zero financial knowledge, almost universally wasted their compensation money. This story is repeated in almost every project across India, with a few notable exceptions in the Western States of Gujarat and Maharashtra where there was far more local support for industrialisation.
Recently, every major project has seemed to attract busy-bodies of all sorts, from so-called “human rights activists” to “opportunistic” Christian missionaries. Singur was no different; but the State Government was keen as were the Tatas. Initially, at least, the local media was for the large part also on board. But then, there was a murder.
