How India scuttled its scooter bazaar in the 1970s

In 1972, the wait for a scooter — Vespa or Lambretta — stretched to seven years by the government’s own admission. The middle class was growing. A study group of the government’s Planning Commission estimated that 210,000 scooters would be needed in 1973–74. The think tank National Council of Applied Economic Research (NCAER) said annual demand would increase to 243,000 scooters within eight years, by 1979–80.

How many scooters was India manufacturing in 1972? These are the government’s own production/sales figures for 1969–72:

The queues were clearly going to get longer. The two big licensees — Automobile Products of India (API) that made Lambretta scooters, and Bajaj that made Vespa scooters — had applied for permission to increase production capacity to 100,000 units each per annum, but instead of saying ‘yes’, the government started reviewing their applications under Monopolies and Restrictive Trade Practices Act.

See the irony of it? Both firms were born of and ran with government licences. The government decided how many scooters either one could make in a year; it also set their prices. Yet, when time came to increase production, it sat down to consider whether it was creating monstrous monopolies.

That was not the only thing the government did. It sent a team to Milan to buy the “entire plant along with all auxiliaries as well as the technical know-how, including worldwide trademark and export rights” of M/s Innocenti, owners of the Lambretta brand. That might have been a good thing in the early 1960s, but by 1972 Innocenti had already lost to Vespa. They had thrown in the towel. They were closing down their scooter business.

Government of India closed the deal for $1.85 million (Rs 1.5 crore in those days at an exchange rate of about Rs 8 to a US dollar) and proudly announced it was going to start making 100,000 scooters per annum on its own. In the new company, government was to have 51% stake, M/s Innocenti 20%, and API, other institutions and the public the remaining 29%.

Why were Innocenti given a stake? Government’s virtuous reply was that it would keep $400,000 of the sale price within the country and also ensure the Italian company’s technological knowhow forever. Never mind that it was outdated technology that people across the world didn’t want anymore.

Why were API given a share? Because they had proposed to buy out Innocenti’s Italian unit first, and also because their experience of making Lambretta scooters in India would be useful to the new company. So the government said.

A deal of this sort was bound to raise questions. Members of Parliament asked why precious foreign exchange was being spent on machinery that Hindustan Machine Tools (HMT) could have made in India. Government replied it was an “as is where is” deal; they couldn’t choose bits and pieces of the factory.

Wasn’t the machinery old and much-used? Was it worth the price? Government said it had sent a team of experts — including the vice-chairman of API — to inspect the plant, and had also got an independent assessment done by London-based M/s Gibb Ewbank. Industries minister Moinul Haque Choudhury said, “The condition of the machinery was reasonably good and the value was more than the amount of $2 million asked”.

The first scooter from the new factory was not expected until two years later, but the government said that was a lot better than the “7–8 years” making a completely new scooter from the drawing board would require.

Did time prove the government right? The new company, Scooters India Limited, never ran to capacity even in those shortage years. Instead, it ran up huge losses before it stopped making two-wheelers. Like the rest of the world, Indians chose Bajaj’s Vespa technology. And the waiting period for a scooter grew to more than 10 years before the market caught up with demand.

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In the 1970s, government decided the profit margins of Indian industries

Imagine being asked to pay more for a car you bought a year ago. Early in 1972, people who had bought Premier Padmini (Fiat 1100 D) cars between July 1, 1970 and April 15, 1971, received letters to cough up Rs 1,800 each. It was a lot of money in those days when a new car cost Rs 22,000 (see graphic).
The buyers had signed undertakings to pay up if Supreme Court of India allowed Premier to increase prices. The company and its two competitors — Hindustan Motors and Standard Motor Products — had challenged Government of India, which fixed prices of everything from bread to cars in those days.
After losing the case, the government reluctantly notified new ex-factory prices for all three makes of cars on January 24, 1972:

If these ‘low’ prices surprise you, in January 1957 the same cars cost Rs 10,424, Rs 8,934 and Rs 8,702, respectively, at the factory gates. Today, you probably pay that much for a routine service and synthetic engine oil. That’s what inflation does to money.
This case shows what a bizarre economy we were only four decades ago when government even decided how much profit a business could earn. For car prices, the government allowed only 12% return on capital, but Supreme Court increased it to 16%. Either way, market forces had no place in the economy. The home ministry’s Enforcement Department raided car makers and arrested their officers on charges of price manipulation.
Swadeshi (indigenisation) was the only holy grail, shutting the door on new foreign technology. All three cars were almost completely localised, and continued unchanged decade after decade:

The government also had a tendency to get into businesses it had no business being in. When people complained about the deteriorating quality of car components, it set up a committee to suggest improvements and sent inspectors to factories. It in fact opposed the car makers’ demand for higher prices on the ground that they were slipping up on quality.

Politicians of every colour talked about nationalising the car industry, some said the three companies should be merged to reduce costs and bring down prices. Singed by the Supreme Court order, the government sought the law department’s opinion on denying courts any say in matters of price fixation. They were scary times indeed for businesses.
And then, the government decided to turn car maker itself. There had been talk of a cheap car or a people’s car since the 1950s, and in the second half of 1970, the government announced its intention. Two years later, a Cabinet decision was still awaited.
Meanwhile, the way to lower car prices was quite evident to all: lower taxes and duties. The on-road prices of cars were almost 40% higher than the ex-factory price, yet the government refused to look into it. That attitude continues to this day, be it cars, petrol or your weekend pizza treat.
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#Cars #India #Premier #Fiat #Ambassador #Standard #Price #Economy

The inside story of the 1911 Delhi Durbar from Lord Hardinge himself

A time traveller’s exclusive interview with the viceroy, first published a century late

December 30, 1911: This month’s Coronation Durbar and transfer of capital to Delhi are the biggest feathers in Lord Hardinge’s cap at the end of his first full year as Viceroy. As the year draws to a close, he lets readers in on some backstage secrets from the last 13 months spent in preparation.

The Durbar turned out to be a perfect show. Are you satisfied?
Very. I am also surprised, because our dress rehearsals were a fiasco. Even on Durbar day — typical of Indian methods — the last few nails were being driven into the red carpet only two minutes before my escort rode up. But finally, everything worked like clockwork. Even the weather held out bright and sunny although there was a deluge of rain just 30 miles from Delhi.

Is it true you started planning the arrangements before starting for India?
Not at all. The first I heard of His Majesty’s decision to convene a Durbar in Delhi was by telegram on landing at Bombay, on November 18 last year (1910). Everything’s been done in these 13 months.

What did you make of Delhi on your first visit?
When I first came here at the end of winter, 20,000 people were at work on the grounds, water supply, lighting, drainage, the amphitheatres, etc. But Red Fort was a picture of neglect. Diwan-i-Aam, Moti Masjid and other incomparable buildings were littered with rubbish, bricks, stones, refuse, etc, and the fort was surrounded on one side by a wet marshy jungle on the riverbank, which I was told bred and harboured the most poisonous kind of mosquitoes. I gave orders for cleaning up the inside of the fort, and laying it out as a garden. As for the jungle, I had it cut down, drained and turned into a park.

In the early months, plans were repeatedly altered from London. How did you stop that?
I had to put my foot down as the rains were near. The meddling stopped after I conveyed it to His Majesty that while camps covering 25 square miles were laid out, 40 miles of roads, 26.5 miles of broad-gauge and 9 miles of narrow-gauge railway, 50 miles of water mains and enough lighting for two fair-sized towns were still being built.

There was also some awkwardness about the crown…
From the start, we assumed His Majesty would bring his crown. So, when we were told the crown could not leave English shores, and a special one ought to be made for the Durbar at Government of India’s expense, we were shocked. Then, there arose concerns about safeguarding the new crown, as its falling into the hands of rebels in another Mutiny would be politically disastrous. It has now been decided to house it in the Tower of London with the rest of the Regalia.

How cooperative were the native princes?
I would say extremely cooperative, barring, of course, Baroda’s misconduct at the Durbar. They did not upset the government’s plans but some of their demands did unsettle us for a while.

Such as…
Well, one prince wanted to bring two tame tigers to the camp. I reasoned, and finally forbade, the attempt on the grounds that the cats would keep the entire camp awake at night.

Talking of animals, you had strong views against the king’s horses.
The steeds were chosen on purely practical grounds, but from the beginning I believed they were not worthy of the king. My own black thoroughbred looked so much statelier than the horses he used here. In fact, I had wanted his horses to be brought from England, but His Majesty turned down the proposal. Finally, he made do with a small, dark brown horse of no noticeable appearance that was selected entirely for its calm nature.

In hindsight, don’t you think the king should have ridden an elephant during the state entry?
Absolutely. During the parade, His Majesty himself told me that he was disappointed at his non-recognition by the people. I also noticed that the people did not recognize the king, who after all is a small man, and was dressed in a red coat like the other generals and was riding a small horse.

London almost expected an assassination attempt on the king during his visit. What special security arrangements were made?
I personally supervised and assumed full responsibility for all measures taken. The day before His Majesty’s arrival, 300 dangerous characters in Delhi were comfortably locked up for the 10 days of his stay here. But the chief danger in my opinion lay in Chandni Chowk, where the procession was to pass almost under the windows of houses. So, I ordered that nobody but British troops should stand on the pavements that day. I brought in 4,000 police from the provinces and stationed an officer at every window. Nobody was allowed on the rooftops, and Indian troops guarded the back lanes of houses. The procession passed through Chandni Chowk at 11am, but the street was put under curfew from 6am. And during those five hours, every house was thoroughly searched.

The transfer of capital to Delhi was the Durbar’s masterstroke. When was the idea conceived?
The move away from Calcutta had been coming a long time. Lord Lawrence had earlier expressed favour for Delhi, and even Lord Curzon wanted the capital removed to Agra.

But when was the decision taken?
I mailed my proposal to the secretary of state in July, and received his entire support and full authority to proceed, in a telegram on August 7. In November, I learnt the India Council in London had favoured the scheme, and it was accepted by the Cabinet a few days later.

Yet the news remained a secret till the end…
We ensured that it was known to only 12 people in India till the last minute. His Majesty did not share it even with Queen Mary. She was completely surprised when I broached the subject on board the Medina, on their arrival in Bombay.
It was one thing to keep the secret within our circle but another to suppress it while preparing and printing the gazettes and flysheets for the ceremony. We created a special Press Camp, complete with printing machines, and board and lodging for the workers. The staff was brought in three days before the Durbar, and a cordon of troops and police ensured that neither man nor word got outside.

Amid all this cheer, how’s Calcutta taking the news of transfer?
The native population does not mind, but the English trading interests there can’t stop carping. One English newspaper recently published a leader titled HMG, which I thought meant His Majesty’s Government, but later found to be an acronym for Hardinge Must Go! I have since informed one of its editors that I will, but only from Calcutta.

(Adapted from Lord Hardinge’s India memoirs)

Escape from Delhi

Was the American smuggler Daniel Hailey Walcott, Jr, really the first man to escape from Tihar Jail? Did he indeed drop chocolates, cookies and cigarettes over the jail for the other inmates before stealing away to Pakistan in his Piper Apache plane on September 26, 1963? The legend is not based on facts...  

  
On June 27, 2015, two petty thieves escaped from Delhi’s Tihar Jail after crossing four walls, one of which they dug through. Not really a tunnelling job, but that’s what the papers made it out to be. The jailbreak was also a big deal because, apparently, there had been only five at Tihar until then.
Most papers reported that the first man to escape from Tihar was an American smuggler named Daniel Hailey Walcott, Jr.

This is what The Times of India dated July 1, 2015 said:
“The first person to make an unauthorized exit from Tihar was an American smuggler, Daniel Walcott. In 1965, he managed to escape from Tihar in a police vehicle, reached the Safdarjung Airport hangar, boarded his impounded plane and flew out of the country before the jail authorities could react.”

An internet search threw up even more colourful accounts.

This, from Mint:
“In 1962, Daniel Walcott, a swashbuckling Texan who’d won a contract from Air India to carry freight from Afghanistan to India was caught smuggling ammunition in his DC-4s. He was freed after some time in jail, but one of his planes at the Safdarjung airport was impounded. However, he was given access to the airport to pour a little fuel into his plane and run the engines. He managed to do that often enough to accumulate enough fuel for an escape. And escape he did, despite five airport guards hanging onto the tail of the plane. He headed to Pakistan, but not before, as legend has it, circling over Tihar Jail to drop a packet of cookies for his fellow inmates.”


The Tribune:
“THIRTYFIVE years ago, Walcott, an international smuggler, landed at Safdarjung Airport. He was arrested and locked up in Tihar Jail and his plane was impounded. A few days later Walcott escaped from the jail, drove straight to Safdarjung Airport hangar, bluffed his way through and flew off in his impounded aircraft. By the time the authorities woke up and alerted the Air Force, Walcott’s aircraft had crossed the Indian airspace. Walcott’s small propeller aircraft would have taken at least an hour and a half to fly across the Indian airspace but, that was not adequate time for India’s security authorities and the Air Force to thwart the smuggler’s escape.”


The Hindu
“In 1962, Walcott flew into India in a DC4 craft. Caught smuggling ammunition, he was arrested, tried and sentenced, being lodged in Tihar. Released conditionally, he would periodically attend to his impounded aircraft at Delhi’s Safdarjung Airport. One afternoon, he simply took off in it. Having circled over Tihar and dropped cigarettes and chocolates as gifts for the inmates, he flew off to Pakistan.”


And this from the venerable Khushwant Singh in ‘More Malicious Gossip’
“No one knows how he escaped except that he did so in a leisurely style. He simply strolled out of the gates and took a taxi to Connaught Circus where he bought packets of cigarettes and chocolates. He took another taxi to Safdarjung Airport. The constable guarding his plane sprang to attention and saluted the Sahib. The Sahib put gas into his airplane, taxied down the runway and without as much as a “by your leave” from the control tower, was airborne. He flew over Tihar, dropped packets of cigarettes and chocolates for his friends and turned westwards. By the time alarm signals were sounded, Walcott was halfway towards Karachi.”

***

So, did such an audacious jailbreak really happen? Did Walcott veer over Tihar to drop chocolates and cigarettes/ cookies for the other inmates? The case seemed so interesting that I pored over parliamentary debates of that period to get at the truth, and this is what I have found.

a) Walcott did not escape from Tihar. He was a free man on September 26, 1963, the day he flew out.

b) He did not drop any goodies over Tihar. There is no mention of such an audacious act in the debates. Can’t imagine the Opposition leaving a chance to make the government look silly in such a sensational case. Mind you, the case was important enough to merit a half-hour discussion in Rajya Sabha on December 9, 1963. Altogether, Walcott came up for discussion in the upper house 14 times between 1963 and 1970.

This is what really happened:

• Daniel Hailey Walcott, Jr was a smuggler, but also the president of a small airline—TransAtlantic Airways Corporation 
• He owned five planes: a small Piper Apache for personal use, and the rest Douglas Skymasters (DC-3s and DC-4s) 
• He came to India often, and in 1962, Air India contracted him to fly unscheduled freight services between Delhi, Lahore and Afghanistan
• On one of his trips to Delhi, he was found carrying a cache of undeclared ammunition: “10,000 rounds of 12-gauge ammunition,” according to an LA Times article, and “an item that fetches six times its U.S. price on India’s black market,” according to a 1966 article in Time magazine
• Walcott was arrested and two of his planes—the Piper and a Skymaster—were seized. Both were placed under guard at Safdarjung Airport. Walcott fled Delhi in his Piper, leaving behind the Skymaster. By 1967, the parking charges for the Skymaster added up to Rs 151,042.50 (yes, 50 paise also mattered)
• A sub-judge placed an order of restraint on Walcott’s planes on January 31, 1963. After a brief trial he was sentenced to six months’ jail
• Although Walcott was under arrest, he was treated generously and allowed to go out of India repeatedly “on business” during January, February, March, April and June, 1963
• He was permitted, even while serving time, to visit Safdarjung and service the Piper to prevent it from turning into junk because of disuse
• There’s no question of a jailbreak because Walcott was released from jail on September 23, three days before he flew out of Delhi
• The order of restraint on the planes was vacated on September 25 after Walcott paid up his penalty for violating customs regulations. The police guard was removed from the planes. That same day, the New Delhi magistrate, N L Kakkar, lifted the freeze on his account containing Rs 35,000
• However, in the evening, Tata Sons moved court to prevent the release of the planes and a sub-judge issued directions for Walcott to not fly out of Safdarjung Airport. A copy of the order was sent to the aerodrome officer the same day. As a result, when Walcott came to the airport in the morning of September 26, the aerodrome authorities denied him permission to fly
• Still, Walcott made his “unauthorized flight” at 12.17pm. He flew towards Karachi keeping below 3,000 feet altitude to avoid detection by radar. IAF scrambled its Hunters after him, after a delay of 55 minutes. They had orders not to shoot him down. It was a hopeless chase as the fighter pilots were told Walcott was heading for Lahore
• The government maintained that it had served an order on Walcott to not remove his plane from Safdarjung Airport, but on landing in Karachi he told Morning News in an exclusive interview published on September 29, 1963 that if any such order was served when he was already in the air, he was not aware of it. Walcott said, “The cartridges I was carrying were at best worth £200. The most I could have made by selling them in India was about £400. Can you imagine any smuggler flying all the way from America to India and running an enormous risk for such a ridiculously paltry sum?”

***

Unanswered question

Where did the legend of Walcott air-dropping goodies over Tihar arise? Perhaps in this Time magazine profile of him in 1966.

“Five airport guards tried to stop him by hanging on his tail. He blew them off with a blast of prop wash and headed for Pakistan, but not before circling over the jail to drop a packet of cookies to his fellow inmates. Flying low, he eluded the Indian Air Force jets that were scrambled to bring him back.”

Judicial probe's findings

Qutab Minar’s slippery and uneven steps were as much to blame for the high death toll as the power failure that plunged the tower into darkness on December 4, 1981. The inquiry committee that examined the causes of the accident criticised both the power utility DESU and the Minar’s custodian ASI in its report.

The probe panel headed by district and sessions judge Jagdish Chandra started work a day after the tragedy and submitted its report a month later, on January 6. The following were its key findings:

1) Power failure inside the tower was one of the major causes of the stampede. The fault was on the part of Delhi Electric Supply Undertaking.

2) The stampede started when a girl slipped somewhere below the Minar’s eighth ventilator.

3) Deaths from suffocation occurred due to the pressure of human bodies lying one above the other.

4) Almost all the steps inside the tower were slippery and uneven, and had dangerous depressions and contours. Poor condition of the steps led to the girl’s slipping below the eighth ventilator. Archaeological Survey of India was to blame for the dangerous condition of the steps.

The Day Qutab Minar 'Burst'

(I published the following article in December 2011. A new version is available here in 2021) 

On December 4, 1981 , Delhi heard that Qutab Minar had “burst”. It was a misunderstanding, but the outcome could not have been worse had the Minar really collapsed. A stampede inside the tower had left 45 dead and 24 injured. It was the most terrible accident in the Minar’s 800-year history, and one of the blackest days in post-Independence Delhi.

Bags and other possessions of the
deceased piled up outside the gate
leading to the steps

Later that day, a Delhi Administration order was hung outside the tower: “The Qutab Minar will remain closed till further notice”. And it has remained closed to the public ever since. Two generations have grown up without once walking up or looking inside the Minar. The facts of that fateful day are forgotten but hearsay and unfounded theories have made an urban legend of the accident.

So, what really happened that Friday? Why was the city’s grandest living monument reduced to a cold souvenir from the past? I dug through old files for answers.

Grieving relatives  of the deceased

 

When the accident happened in 1981, unrestricted access to the 72.5-metre Minar was already a thing of the past. Since 1955, visitors had been allowed to go up to only the first balcony — 29 metres and 154 steps above the ground, which is as high as an eight-storey residential building. While the Minar’s ‘tilt’ and consequent repairs are often blamed for the restrictions, frequent suicides from its upper balconies were the real consideration. Even after the top four storeys were sealed and the entry of unaccompanied visitors prohibited, suicides from the Minar continued at the rough rate of two per year.

But more than these deaths, what the Minar remained famous for was its breathless climb, fantastic views and windy galleries. The diary of British agent Thomas Metcalfe’s daughter, Emily, records fond Qutab memories from the 1840s: “Many a time have I, with Colonel Richard Lawrence, taken a basket of oranges to the top of the Kutab pillar, two hundred and thirty eight feet high, to indulge in a feast in that seclusion…”

Have you heard about the Kapurthala queen who jumped to her death from Qutab Minar in 1946? Watch...

That happy era went out with the lights inside the Minar on December 4, 1981 . The blackout happened just after 11.30 am, when 300-400 visitors were already squeezed inside the tower and a crowd was pushing on from outside to gain entry. The rush was especially heavy because the entry to monuments used to be free on Friday in those days. Amongst the visitors were 58 students from an industrial training institute in Ropar, Punjab; 130 schoolchildren from Pali and Bhankri villages in Faridabad and some other students from YMD College, Nuh.

I made a video about the Qutab stampede. Watch...

Power cuts don’t make news in Delhi , but in the Minar accident case three causes were reported. The first was a conspiracy theory: some miscreants had molested two foreign women tourists at the balcony level and then tripped the lights to trigger chaos. The second: someone had touched an exposed live wire. And the third: a truck had knocked down a power pole outside.

Although the Minar looks like a long, closed shaft from the outside, some light streams in through the balconies. The masonry also has some gaps for ventilation along the steps, and a little light gets in through these. But on that day, the stampede plunged the Minar’s inside into complete darkness. As the screaming started, people who were at the top, crowded close to the balcony window, cutting out most of the light. Those who were near the outer edge of the stairway pressed themselves against the wall to avoid being pulled into the turmoil, and cut out whatever little light that could have come in through the ventilators.      

The painful cries were either absorbed by the Minar’s thick walls or ignored by those outside, for even as the trapped tourists tried to push their way out, climbing over fallen bodies, the crowd at the doorway did not give way, and pushed on to gain entry. They were finally stopped by the inward opening main door that became immovable with the pressure of the desperate crowd behind it.

It was all over in a few minutes, because by 11.45 am the first SOS had been flashed across to the police’s flying squad (it’s another thing that the first cop reportedly showed up at 12.15 pm and the fire brigade only at 12.40 pm). Most of the victims had no outward injuries. After the last autopsy at 1.30 am next day, doctors declared that almost all deaths had happened due to internal crushing and traumatic asphyxia (suffocation). But journalists who looked inside the tower immediately after the accident reported finding blood, broken bangles and glass all over.

Bodies in hospital

With the main door jammed (some said it had been locked up by a guard to stop entry) and the Minar’s tight staircase — 1.5 metres at the bottom, narrowing to 1.2 metres at the first balcony — pitch dark, the rescue effort got delayed. Finally, rescuers got in using a maintenance scaffolding rising up along the Minar’s wall, and drew out bodies through the ventilation ports. There was no telling the living from the dead. Passing vehicles were stopped and the bodies rushed to AIIMS and Safdarjung hospitals, where the Emergency wards resembled mortuaries. It was a traumatic sight, and the cop who mistakenly flashed the message “Qutab phat gaya hai” acted on the only plausible explanation that came to his mind.

A day later, a judicial probe started into the causes of the accident. More witnesses were heard. Some said the stampede started when a child got electrocuted and the lights went out. Others maintained that women who were molested at the top of the stairs started screaming and tried to rush down in the blackout. But the most plausible explanation was also the simplest: the lights went out, and somebody near the top of the stairs fell. “We then heard ‘gir gaya ’...”

A tourist had tripped, but in the darkness everybody thought the cry meant Qutab Minar was falling.

Don't forget to explore other stories on this blog, and please share if you like them. You can also leave a comment below 

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