While this is perhaps a universal phenomenon, Indians, I suspect — more than anybody else — revel in the paraphernalia of power. In my book, Being Indian (2004), the chapter on power begins with a random scene I witnessed at Indira Gandhi International Airport in New Delhi. A convoy of cars came screeching to a halt. The escorted car had a blue light on top. A policeman in the front seat, machine gun slung around his shoulder, leapt to open the door. A young police officer stepped out. Uniformed minions, walkie-talkies in hand, sprang to clear the way. The official at the entry point fell back with a deferential salute. Gun-toting escorts guided the officer to the VIP lounge.

The choreography of power in our country is fascinating — and revolting — to watch. Even a deputy director of a minor department in a state has outlandish plaques in the front and back of his official car with a red or blue light on the top and the bonnet. A minister’s importance is judged not only by the patronage he distributes, but by the size of his office and residence, the army........

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