What can I say of a man I met once? And years later learnt that he died a tragic death? Did he make an impact? Did I sound like a pompous bureaucrat, talking of my life in Delhi? Or did we talk politics? Did he sound displeased with my unconventional views? Did he talk of the causes he passionately believed in? I can’t seem to place things right. When I read about his death, I was shocked. He seemed so alive. In death I knew him better. It was moving to read what his friends had to say about him. A life committed to making documentaries on environmental issues and lives of people affected by it. I remembered how modest he was, in spite of all the fire inside him.
Saratchandran left his job in the Gulf. He saved up enough to buy film making equipment, married the woman he loved and settled down in Ernakulam. He had no kids. His looks betrayed his age- 52 years at the time of death. He spent his life on causes he believed in. Not on professions that pay you or reimburse your travel bills. Making documentaries on Cola companies that drive down the ground water, on expressways that divide people of a town, on tribals affected by mining companies denuding forests in distant lands, against detention of activists. He participated in World Social Forum, other such ‘alternate’ events and documentary film festivals. One couldn’t always agree with his causes but he had intense passion behind his belief in them. He spent his life on his terms, spurning a life of relative comfort.
He came to our house one evening with Sunanda- his sister & Anil, his brother-in-law. Anil & Sunanda are friends from my days at University Campus in Trivandrum. Sarat was Anil’s favourite brother-in-law. Sarat readily agreed to take my son & Anil’s son to see “The Goblets of Fire” the then latest Harry Potter film in town. There were no volunteers among elders to do that. I remember picking up Sarat and the kids from the movie hall. We had dinner at home and they all left. He called me up once later to know whether DVD duplicating can be done in Nehru Place. (He would give copies of the human interest stories to audiences where his documentaries were not allowed to be screened, I learnt later)
The next I heard of him was about his death. On the night of his death, no one knew what exactly happened. Except that he got thrown off a crowded train. When I read more about him, I felt silly. There he was, spending an evening with us- never talking about his life or his favourite causes. We probably discussed the right recipe for fish curry and the madness that is Delhi. I felt silly that I didn’t probe his mind or try to understand what drives him. I felt silly that while we remain cocooned in our middle class safety zone, there are those like Sarat who chase their dreams for the world. Adieu to a life cut short by fate, to a man who dedicated his life to his beliefs. He leaves behind grieving for him a wife, siblings and parents.
Friday, 30 April 2010
Sport in the time of innocence
The flight was delayed from Goa. I had reached the airport at 5.30 AM. I hadn’t slept through the night. Although the airport is only a short distance from the Guest House, all my journeys have been like this. I am ridden with anxiety about missing the flight, what if the Guest House caretakers oversleep and forget to wake me up with a cup of tea as instructed, what if the car doesn’t turn up to take me to the airport…. I twitch and turn in bed.
In the airport, I saw large kits being loaded on to the luggage scanner. There was excitement in the air. The Indian and Sri Lankan cricket teams were travelling in the same plane; I was told when I checked in. When I got into the flight I didn’t see any cricketer. Amazingly I could see all around me guys with who were connected to the business of cricket. There were Sponsors, media, advertisers, commentators, ex players and many guys in suits and black berries. Is this real? Am I the only “non-cricket” person in the flight? I wondered. Then I could see our modern day superheroes ambling in like gladiators to a Roman Coliseum. I could see a young, excited guy taking snaps of his idols in the plane. I saw a Sri Lankan player with funny coloured hair. The Executive class was full of the super heroes. The junior players were herded into the economy class. The guy sitting next to me was engrossed in a conversation about the advertising rights and other stuff I couldn’t follow. I slowly fell into a peaceful nap.
***********************
The great wars were fought in the summer. The sun burns bright and the paddy fields were barren after harvests. The earth was parched, dull brown in colour. The volleyball court was a patch of land; a paddy field in monsoon, which has been pounded to an even surface by players with constant serving, boosting, smashing and placing. The players wore lungis and some of them sported a towel tied tightly across the forehead- with the intention of going for a dip in the river nearby to wash away the sweat of the game and the dust of the day long toil. The bare chest players were the village working class society, strong guys who lead a brutal life on the fields all day. The upper crust was mostly onlookers with their fair, decadent bodies and life of leisure. They were equally enthused in the ongoing matches. The Muslims were strong, good players. But they would take breaks when the Mosque sounded Azzan for prayers. The matches were played until sunset. The players would call out to each other loudly to smash or boost. The teams were spontaneously formed on the basis of skill sets of each team. Official matches were played with the nearby village when the enthusiasm would run at its highest.
This silly pastime was looked down upon by village elders who sat on their haunches with sunken cheeks, white hair and tired, worn out bodies. “Waste of time”, they cursed as they puffed their bidis one more time and spit on to the bare earth. The matches were never scheduled in monsoon when most of the players would be busy ploughing the rain drenched lush green fields or planting saplings. Some would be busy fencing off the coconut groves and some, with low lying paddy fields would be worried about the eventual arrival of irrigation water. Some were busy studying for the exams almost guiltily when the rest of the family is busy rustling up the means of survival.
The game was in full swing. Points being notched up with great effort, lost in foolish mistakes. There is excitement in the air… No one talked of money: No one talked of valuations. The Panchayat Members, village Pradhan and Block Development Officers ignored the game and its’ proponents in the village. Some players were brilliant. They didn’t foresee a career in sports. In fact they didn’t foresee anything at all- Just a long life of toil and frugal living. A job as a constable in the State Police would be a great stroke of luck. They weren’t sponsored by sports equipment companies, soft drinks, airlines, razors, insurance companies or banks. They were playing for village pride. No one tried to nurture their talent… That was sport in the time of innocence…
In the airport, I saw large kits being loaded on to the luggage scanner. There was excitement in the air. The Indian and Sri Lankan cricket teams were travelling in the same plane; I was told when I checked in. When I got into the flight I didn’t see any cricketer. Amazingly I could see all around me guys with who were connected to the business of cricket. There were Sponsors, media, advertisers, commentators, ex players and many guys in suits and black berries. Is this real? Am I the only “non-cricket” person in the flight? I wondered. Then I could see our modern day superheroes ambling in like gladiators to a Roman Coliseum. I could see a young, excited guy taking snaps of his idols in the plane. I saw a Sri Lankan player with funny coloured hair. The Executive class was full of the super heroes. The junior players were herded into the economy class. The guy sitting next to me was engrossed in a conversation about the advertising rights and other stuff I couldn’t follow. I slowly fell into a peaceful nap.
***********************
The great wars were fought in the summer. The sun burns bright and the paddy fields were barren after harvests. The earth was parched, dull brown in colour. The volleyball court was a patch of land; a paddy field in monsoon, which has been pounded to an even surface by players with constant serving, boosting, smashing and placing. The players wore lungis and some of them sported a towel tied tightly across the forehead- with the intention of going for a dip in the river nearby to wash away the sweat of the game and the dust of the day long toil. The bare chest players were the village working class society, strong guys who lead a brutal life on the fields all day. The upper crust was mostly onlookers with their fair, decadent bodies and life of leisure. They were equally enthused in the ongoing matches. The Muslims were strong, good players. But they would take breaks when the Mosque sounded Azzan for prayers. The matches were played until sunset. The players would call out to each other loudly to smash or boost. The teams were spontaneously formed on the basis of skill sets of each team. Official matches were played with the nearby village when the enthusiasm would run at its highest.
This silly pastime was looked down upon by village elders who sat on their haunches with sunken cheeks, white hair and tired, worn out bodies. “Waste of time”, they cursed as they puffed their bidis one more time and spit on to the bare earth. The matches were never scheduled in monsoon when most of the players would be busy ploughing the rain drenched lush green fields or planting saplings. Some would be busy fencing off the coconut groves and some, with low lying paddy fields would be worried about the eventual arrival of irrigation water. Some were busy studying for the exams almost guiltily when the rest of the family is busy rustling up the means of survival.
The game was in full swing. Points being notched up with great effort, lost in foolish mistakes. There is excitement in the air… No one talked of money: No one talked of valuations. The Panchayat Members, village Pradhan and Block Development Officers ignored the game and its’ proponents in the village. Some players were brilliant. They didn’t foresee a career in sports. In fact they didn’t foresee anything at all- Just a long life of toil and frugal living. A job as a constable in the State Police would be a great stroke of luck. They weren’t sponsored by sports equipment companies, soft drinks, airlines, razors, insurance companies or banks. They were playing for village pride. No one tried to nurture their talent… That was sport in the time of innocence…
Monday, 19 April 2010
A Railway Journey
It has been years since I had a long Railway journey. The Missus being in the Railways entitles me to privileges to travel in relative comfort in trains free of cost. In return I give up my LTC benefits. Things changed as I grew older in government. Flights became the norm. In a tough posting there have been occasions when one had to take a flight as many as eight times a month. Slowly I developed an intense dislike of the food served in flights and started longing for a Railway journey where one could lie back reading a book in air-conditioned comfort as the train rumbles on. There is of course the bonhomie among co- passengers which is sorely missing in a sanitized short plane ride. A night and day in an enclosed space often brings co-travelers a great deal closer.
I read a very interesting book by Biswanath Gosh called Chai Chai- about places one would stop on a Railway journey but would never get off. The author takes a break at stations one would only stop at on a long journey and spends a couple of days at each non-descript junction with a fame that befell them by virtue of being situated at the cross roads of Indian Railway lines. Places like Ballarshah, Itarsi and Shoranur…
With the Missus and Chathu in Chennai, I am back to one of those inevitable phases of separation among Government spouses. I was in the Rajdhani express to Chennai last week. In younger days one would wish for single attractive women to be your co-passengers. Now I only wish that no elderly person, pregnant woman or a mother with infant child one would displace me from the lower berth that has been allotted to me- With an unceasing back pain, I am no more in a mood to clamber on to upper or side berths where my long legs won’t fit in.
As soon as I got in and settled down in my lower berth, I could see a hyperactive elderly Mami (short term for an elderly Brahmin woman) who had her entire extended family travelling with her in various parts of the train. In a few moments she had convinced half the guys in my compartment to take up berths in other coaches so that she could travel in close proximity of her family. The males of her family left her to coordinate the brouhaha that accompanied this re-arrangement, which involved hectic consultations and negotiations with strangers before the train got moving. I must have sounded cussed when I refused to move citing a back pain and inability to lug my luggage around. (I wasn’ t fibbing- a year back I would have readily moved) But she offered to do the shifting of luggage also. But I discovered that in exchange I would be taking a upper side berth two coaches away, which is an inch and a half short of six feet (my height). I politely declined. So did the guy sitting in the lower berth facing me. He was going on a pilgrimage to Rameshwaram. He was from UP and I overheard him telling someone on his mobile that ever since his younger son expired he had been planning this pilgrimage- for the peace of his soul. Suddenly I felt a rush of grief and sympathy for this rather non-descript old man living with the burden of memories of a predeceased son.
The train started moving. Tea is served. The passengers are quiet and were busy reading, gazing out, plugged into their personal media players or talking on their mobiles. A young typical Tamilian Chennaite got talking. He, incidentally landed close to us as a result of the complex reshuffle of berths. Throughout the journey, he went about the task of helping North Indian travelers fix up appointments with Doctors in Chennai, book bus tickets to many destinations like Chidambaram and Trichy. “ Yeny place in Tamilnad, Saar, Yacee super deluxe buses are there. It is naat like Narth India, he said. But don’t trust the Aato chaps, he said, they bring a bad name to an otherwise lovely, warm city. Really a good Samaritan, salt of the earth, the kind of guy, who reinforces our faith in humanity. I also realized that he is the archetypal South Indian bumbler with a funny accent, poked fun at by pretty much everyone in the North of Vindhyas. By the end of the journey, most travelers had his two mobile numbers (one his brother’s and the other his) to be accessed in distress.
In my return journey, my co passenger was a Subedar Major in the Army travelling on posting from Ordnance Depot Avadi to Jammu. Since we both belonged to the same mother of all departments in the Government, we got chatting. Another Tamilian family (a couple working in State Govt with an only son) were going on LTC to Delhi, Shimla and Jaipur. There were feeble attempts between the Subedar and the Tamil family to communicate with each other. I realized how different they were. After several attempts both sides were communicating through me, with arguably good conversational abilities in both Tamil and Hindi(or bad, depending on how you look at it).
The food got worse in the return journey. With my Subedar friend threatening the caterers that Saab’s (i.e my) wife is a General Manager in the Railways and that this quality of food will not be tolerated. This sudden elevation of the status of Missus to GM (which is a couple of notches above her present exalted position- I haven’t reached her level; thanks to the slow pace of promotions in Defence Ministry Departments) failed to impress the caterers and they went about their task businesslike. The food and the general cleanliness of the train only got worse as we neared Delhi.
Years back, food used to be served in large round steel plates containing small steel bowls for vegetables and Dal. They were loaded from designated stations like Guntakkal, Itarsi, Gwalior and Jhansi. After each meal the plates were taken away, the wasted food containing only organic stuff dumped in large sacks and the plates and bowls go for washing. Now the caterers in spiffy uniforms give a whole lot of pouches. Pickle, Jam, butter, tea, milk powder and a whole lot of other stuff comes in small plastic or paper pouches which after use, contribute greatly to the degradation of the environment. The Railway tracks and the common areas near the toilets become inundated with plastic and paper garbage by the end of the long journey. These guys are clearly not equipped to deal with large mounds of recyclable garbage.
I really didn’t do much reading. I had hopes of finishing Niall Ferguson’s Ascent of Money on this trip. Instead, I just lay myself down and watched the landscape rushing by, past ravines, mountains, desolated countryside, cities and coasts. The whole experience puts you in a reflective mood, about life and its’ many uncertainties. Many years back I undertook journeys to join my post in Ahmedabad in a bank, to appear for interviews in the civil services, to meet a dear friend in Lucknow, to fight a court case in Allahabad, to meet my parents in Palghat. I remember a night interchange in Jhansi when I discovered that my berth has been sold by the TTE to another passenger for a small consideration. I remember becoming friends with an Australian school teacher of the Kodaikanal International School. I also have vivid recollections of an attractive lady journalist (where would she be now, I often wonder: we did keep in touch for some time), a student from BITS Pilani, an Assamese with whom I shared a joint, a Tirupur textile industrialist who played songs from the Hindi movie Chandni loudly in his first class compartment and survived on cucumber, carrots and copious amounts of whisky thoughout the journey. It is almost as if I see a microcosm of the country in these journeys. And these journeys are very different from three hour flights with snooty nosed guys who treasure their privacy and laptops so much.
I read a very interesting book by Biswanath Gosh called Chai Chai- about places one would stop on a Railway journey but would never get off. The author takes a break at stations one would only stop at on a long journey and spends a couple of days at each non-descript junction with a fame that befell them by virtue of being situated at the cross roads of Indian Railway lines. Places like Ballarshah, Itarsi and Shoranur…
With the Missus and Chathu in Chennai, I am back to one of those inevitable phases of separation among Government spouses. I was in the Rajdhani express to Chennai last week. In younger days one would wish for single attractive women to be your co-passengers. Now I only wish that no elderly person, pregnant woman or a mother with infant child one would displace me from the lower berth that has been allotted to me- With an unceasing back pain, I am no more in a mood to clamber on to upper or side berths where my long legs won’t fit in.
As soon as I got in and settled down in my lower berth, I could see a hyperactive elderly Mami (short term for an elderly Brahmin woman) who had her entire extended family travelling with her in various parts of the train. In a few moments she had convinced half the guys in my compartment to take up berths in other coaches so that she could travel in close proximity of her family. The males of her family left her to coordinate the brouhaha that accompanied this re-arrangement, which involved hectic consultations and negotiations with strangers before the train got moving. I must have sounded cussed when I refused to move citing a back pain and inability to lug my luggage around. (I wasn’ t fibbing- a year back I would have readily moved) But she offered to do the shifting of luggage also. But I discovered that in exchange I would be taking a upper side berth two coaches away, which is an inch and a half short of six feet (my height). I politely declined. So did the guy sitting in the lower berth facing me. He was going on a pilgrimage to Rameshwaram. He was from UP and I overheard him telling someone on his mobile that ever since his younger son expired he had been planning this pilgrimage- for the peace of his soul. Suddenly I felt a rush of grief and sympathy for this rather non-descript old man living with the burden of memories of a predeceased son.
The train started moving. Tea is served. The passengers are quiet and were busy reading, gazing out, plugged into their personal media players or talking on their mobiles. A young typical Tamilian Chennaite got talking. He, incidentally landed close to us as a result of the complex reshuffle of berths. Throughout the journey, he went about the task of helping North Indian travelers fix up appointments with Doctors in Chennai, book bus tickets to many destinations like Chidambaram and Trichy. “ Yeny place in Tamilnad, Saar, Yacee super deluxe buses are there. It is naat like Narth India, he said. But don’t trust the Aato chaps, he said, they bring a bad name to an otherwise lovely, warm city. Really a good Samaritan, salt of the earth, the kind of guy, who reinforces our faith in humanity. I also realized that he is the archetypal South Indian bumbler with a funny accent, poked fun at by pretty much everyone in the North of Vindhyas. By the end of the journey, most travelers had his two mobile numbers (one his brother’s and the other his) to be accessed in distress.
In my return journey, my co passenger was a Subedar Major in the Army travelling on posting from Ordnance Depot Avadi to Jammu. Since we both belonged to the same mother of all departments in the Government, we got chatting. Another Tamilian family (a couple working in State Govt with an only son) were going on LTC to Delhi, Shimla and Jaipur. There were feeble attempts between the Subedar and the Tamil family to communicate with each other. I realized how different they were. After several attempts both sides were communicating through me, with arguably good conversational abilities in both Tamil and Hindi(or bad, depending on how you look at it).
The food got worse in the return journey. With my Subedar friend threatening the caterers that Saab’s (i.e my) wife is a General Manager in the Railways and that this quality of food will not be tolerated. This sudden elevation of the status of Missus to GM (which is a couple of notches above her present exalted position- I haven’t reached her level; thanks to the slow pace of promotions in Defence Ministry Departments) failed to impress the caterers and they went about their task businesslike. The food and the general cleanliness of the train only got worse as we neared Delhi.
Years back, food used to be served in large round steel plates containing small steel bowls for vegetables and Dal. They were loaded from designated stations like Guntakkal, Itarsi, Gwalior and Jhansi. After each meal the plates were taken away, the wasted food containing only organic stuff dumped in large sacks and the plates and bowls go for washing. Now the caterers in spiffy uniforms give a whole lot of pouches. Pickle, Jam, butter, tea, milk powder and a whole lot of other stuff comes in small plastic or paper pouches which after use, contribute greatly to the degradation of the environment. The Railway tracks and the common areas near the toilets become inundated with plastic and paper garbage by the end of the long journey. These guys are clearly not equipped to deal with large mounds of recyclable garbage.
I really didn’t do much reading. I had hopes of finishing Niall Ferguson’s Ascent of Money on this trip. Instead, I just lay myself down and watched the landscape rushing by, past ravines, mountains, desolated countryside, cities and coasts. The whole experience puts you in a reflective mood, about life and its’ many uncertainties. Many years back I undertook journeys to join my post in Ahmedabad in a bank, to appear for interviews in the civil services, to meet a dear friend in Lucknow, to fight a court case in Allahabad, to meet my parents in Palghat. I remember a night interchange in Jhansi when I discovered that my berth has been sold by the TTE to another passenger for a small consideration. I remember becoming friends with an Australian school teacher of the Kodaikanal International School. I also have vivid recollections of an attractive lady journalist (where would she be now, I often wonder: we did keep in touch for some time), a student from BITS Pilani, an Assamese with whom I shared a joint, a Tirupur textile industrialist who played songs from the Hindi movie Chandni loudly in his first class compartment and survived on cucumber, carrots and copious amounts of whisky thoughout the journey. It is almost as if I see a microcosm of the country in these journeys. And these journeys are very different from three hour flights with snooty nosed guys who treasure their privacy and laptops so much.
Thursday, 25 March 2010
Walk with Comrades
I read Arundhati Roy’s walk through the forests of Central India with great interest. The handful of regular readers of the blog would know my predilection with the leftist movement and more interestingly my not-so charitable view of Ms Roy’s brand nonfiction. But this is one woman with great felicity with words. One wishes one could write like that. The description of a long hard journey through the forests is dreamy eyed and romantic. What is however, not so romantic is the weapons, gory murders and the Maoist perspective on all events of near and distant past.
Faith begins where thinking ends, as they say. Maoism for the 21st century Indian intellectual is the new religion driven more by faith than by hardnosed reason and realism. Where the romance of the revolution begins, objectivity ends. A thousand years of inequity is sought to be washed away in blood and flesh. It is even more saddening to think that we have been this way before. The new Maoist has MP3 players, laptops and crude guns and bombs. The Naxalite of 60s was well read, sported a birds’ nest hairstyle and was driven more by grinding poverty and an alive and kicking Mao. Mao’s mortal remains have subsequently been suitably embalmed and preserved. China is growing at an amazing clip by burying his teachings along with him. The Maoists of Dandakaranya are still motivated by the long dead Chairman.
What never ceases to amaze me about Ms Roy’s nonfiction is that she has a conspiracy theory of the role of the state. Those of us who are privy to the inner workings of the State can’t help but have a nice long gut wrenching laugh. Accusing the state of being a super intelligent conspirator, almost redeems the State from its’ incompetence. As I silently suppress waves of laughter, I think: The Maoist insurgency would never have arisen if the state existed in the first place in many parts of Central India.
Years ago, a job in the Government was considered to be important. Today, I have friends mocking me and sending internet jokes on non-performing Babus. Would our cities become garbage dumps, will our education system be so rigid, would there be so many people unemployed outside the organized sector, if, and only if the Government were efficient? So, while reading the fetchingly attractive Roy, I couldn’t help but balk at the description of the Government and its security establishment as brutal co-conspirators with the corporate interests, who are out to bleed the tribals to death.
She has cited interesting parallels to the Malaysian strategy of fighting the communists with what is known as strategic hamleting, by General Sir Harold Briggs in the 1950s- a strategy of driving people into roadside camps to insulate them from the Communist influence in the hinterland. The good lady avows that the Indian State does it all in a day’s work in every part of the country; Nagaland, Mizoram, Telengana etc. Why pray are we unable to build expressways, SEZs, railway lines, dams, airports etc at the blisteringly fast pace at which Maobadi China is doing them? All it takes is to string together and “strategically hamlet” poor souls out of their existing homes, drive them into roadside camps and bingo we can get on with the business of building roads and airports to beat the Chinese. Many of her statements stretch credibility.
But she has a great audience outside India. Ms Roy is avidly read in Pakistan. The Dawn has published her tome almost simultaneously as Outlook in India. Faiz rings loud in Central India, claims Dawn. Our lady heard a downloaded version Iqbal Bano’s rendition of “Hum Dekhenge” from a Maoist comrade’s ipod and goes on to describe it. One couldn’t blame Pakistanis for believing that Faiz is sung in Central India and not Bollywood hits. Ms Roy has added to the romance of exterminating the class enemy (much like the term Maoist infested area- a term she finds reprehensible; akin to a reference to pests or insects. We must brace up for a repeat performance of the 1960s and 70s. If feudal landlords were the targets in the 60s, today it is the hapless traveler in Rajdhani Express or the underpaid police constable doing a tough job. I hope the end won’t be brutal or violent this time. I hope it wouldn’t shatter the dreams and lives of a whole generation as it did then. I hope we won’t have romantic revolutionaries trying to eke out a living long after that dream has died. Might be a good idea to see if Ms Roy sees how old revolutionaries are leading their lives. Kanu Sanyal has just committed suicide.
********************
I was one of the first to migrate to the iPod bandwagon. I still consider it a great product. The iPod Touch is even better. I can’t afford the iPhone and hence am eternally waiting for prices to crash.
The iPad is all the rage. It is touted as the next big reader to beat kindle, the next media player and the constant companion of the future. The one crucial flaw with kindle or ipad is that it hasn’t got some of the cool features of the good old fashioned papyrus stuff that occupies our lives and our bookshelves: Something that folds and can be held with one hand. It needs no power input or battery charging. You can snuggle into bed with a book and the bedside lamp on. Until solar powered ipads come on the scene, I think the ipad needs a stand which can prop it up in bed and can be read hands-free. Or it has to be made in the form of a book, foldable and holdable with fingers of one hand. Am I buying it? Well I am excited at the idea. But I remember that my first pure white ipod (presented by my sis) got two facelifts in 4 years. I shall bide my time. Let me see how it evolves…Meanwhile my gorodesk (a beautiful Japanese contraption which is very useful to prop up the laptop in bed) has broken. I got it imported from Japan through a friend who was posted there. Am looking for a replacement. I bought something from ebay. It just isn’t as sleek as the Gorodesk
Faith begins where thinking ends, as they say. Maoism for the 21st century Indian intellectual is the new religion driven more by faith than by hardnosed reason and realism. Where the romance of the revolution begins, objectivity ends. A thousand years of inequity is sought to be washed away in blood and flesh. It is even more saddening to think that we have been this way before. The new Maoist has MP3 players, laptops and crude guns and bombs. The Naxalite of 60s was well read, sported a birds’ nest hairstyle and was driven more by grinding poverty and an alive and kicking Mao. Mao’s mortal remains have subsequently been suitably embalmed and preserved. China is growing at an amazing clip by burying his teachings along with him. The Maoists of Dandakaranya are still motivated by the long dead Chairman.
What never ceases to amaze me about Ms Roy’s nonfiction is that she has a conspiracy theory of the role of the state. Those of us who are privy to the inner workings of the State can’t help but have a nice long gut wrenching laugh. Accusing the state of being a super intelligent conspirator, almost redeems the State from its’ incompetence. As I silently suppress waves of laughter, I think: The Maoist insurgency would never have arisen if the state existed in the first place in many parts of Central India.
Years ago, a job in the Government was considered to be important. Today, I have friends mocking me and sending internet jokes on non-performing Babus. Would our cities become garbage dumps, will our education system be so rigid, would there be so many people unemployed outside the organized sector, if, and only if the Government were efficient? So, while reading the fetchingly attractive Roy, I couldn’t help but balk at the description of the Government and its security establishment as brutal co-conspirators with the corporate interests, who are out to bleed the tribals to death.
She has cited interesting parallels to the Malaysian strategy of fighting the communists with what is known as strategic hamleting, by General Sir Harold Briggs in the 1950s- a strategy of driving people into roadside camps to insulate them from the Communist influence in the hinterland. The good lady avows that the Indian State does it all in a day’s work in every part of the country; Nagaland, Mizoram, Telengana etc. Why pray are we unable to build expressways, SEZs, railway lines, dams, airports etc at the blisteringly fast pace at which Maobadi China is doing them? All it takes is to string together and “strategically hamlet” poor souls out of their existing homes, drive them into roadside camps and bingo we can get on with the business of building roads and airports to beat the Chinese. Many of her statements stretch credibility.
But she has a great audience outside India. Ms Roy is avidly read in Pakistan. The Dawn has published her tome almost simultaneously as Outlook in India. Faiz rings loud in Central India, claims Dawn. Our lady heard a downloaded version Iqbal Bano’s rendition of “Hum Dekhenge” from a Maoist comrade’s ipod and goes on to describe it. One couldn’t blame Pakistanis for believing that Faiz is sung in Central India and not Bollywood hits. Ms Roy has added to the romance of exterminating the class enemy (much like the term Maoist infested area- a term she finds reprehensible; akin to a reference to pests or insects. We must brace up for a repeat performance of the 1960s and 70s. If feudal landlords were the targets in the 60s, today it is the hapless traveler in Rajdhani Express or the underpaid police constable doing a tough job. I hope the end won’t be brutal or violent this time. I hope it wouldn’t shatter the dreams and lives of a whole generation as it did then. I hope we won’t have romantic revolutionaries trying to eke out a living long after that dream has died. Might be a good idea to see if Ms Roy sees how old revolutionaries are leading their lives. Kanu Sanyal has just committed suicide.
********************
I was one of the first to migrate to the iPod bandwagon. I still consider it a great product. The iPod Touch is even better. I can’t afford the iPhone and hence am eternally waiting for prices to crash.
The iPad is all the rage. It is touted as the next big reader to beat kindle, the next media player and the constant companion of the future. The one crucial flaw with kindle or ipad is that it hasn’t got some of the cool features of the good old fashioned papyrus stuff that occupies our lives and our bookshelves: Something that folds and can be held with one hand. It needs no power input or battery charging. You can snuggle into bed with a book and the bedside lamp on. Until solar powered ipads come on the scene, I think the ipad needs a stand which can prop it up in bed and can be read hands-free. Or it has to be made in the form of a book, foldable and holdable with fingers of one hand. Am I buying it? Well I am excited at the idea. But I remember that my first pure white ipod (presented by my sis) got two facelifts in 4 years. I shall bide my time. Let me see how it evolves…Meanwhile my gorodesk (a beautiful Japanese contraption which is very useful to prop up the laptop in bed) has broken. I got it imported from Japan through a friend who was posted there. Am looking for a replacement. I bought something from ebay. It just isn’t as sleek as the Gorodesk
Tuesday, 9 March 2010
Indus vs India
Mani Shankar Aiyar’s definition of Pakistan was simple- He tries many alternatives and comes to the rather interesting definition that “what is not India is Pakistan”. It was their un- Indianness that gave Pakistan a definition of Nationhood. Years later, one sees the nation grappling with its’ multiple identities as an Islamic State, a modern Nuclear Power, a hotbed of fundamentalism, military rule interspersed with democracy, one can’t help being convinced by that definition.
The book “Indus Saga” written by prominent Pakistani Lawyer & Politician Aitzaz Ahsan is remarkable for many reasons. I have been trying to read it for the last few years and didn’t know that it has been published in India also (by Roli Books). Thanks to the simple wonders of internet shopping, I own a copy now and have been reading it with great interest these last few days. These are days when the stress at workplace doesn’t make it easy to do serious reading.
Ahsan, was a Minister in successive PPP (Pakistan People’s Party) ministries and more recently he came into limelight for leading the struggle to reinstate the Chief Justice of Pakistan. My Pakistani civil service class-mates from Australian National University say that Ahsan chose not to join the Civil Services of Pakistan, in spite of securing a high rank. He chose a life of politics and law. The movements for democracy and restoration of legal institutions that he spearheaded helped to retain Pakistan as a South Asian democracy and not another despotic theocracy or a military dictatorship. He is a politician who has even gone against his party leaders to stand up for the institutions he believed in.
The book gives an interesting perspective to the civilizational origins of Pakistan. Ahsan makes a distinction between India and Indus. The land west to the Indus river, he says, constitutes a civilization all by itself going back to the Harappan era. One that is different from mainstream Indian and West Asian cultures. He states that the Indus civilization is not entirely evolved from marauding armies from the West, or the cultural osmosis by predominantly Hindu India. From the Harappan days, Indus had its own culture and hence, the author argues, the idea of Pakistan existed prior to the artificial divide caused by partition. One may disagree with the author, but couldn’t but be impressed with his marshalling of facts to sustain his argument and develop it.
At another level, he argues that the martial/ feudal culture of the Indus as against the mercantile culture of India was what distinguishes the two nation-states. From the Harappan era through the colonial rule, the author plots the trajectory of the Indus culture. The absence of a maritime culture and the inability to assimilate the mercantile culture of the British are some of the features that distinguish the Indus culture. He tries to encapsulate the Indian culture as bourgeoisie as against the feudal culture of Indus- the accountant/ trader/ book-keeper of India as against the artisan/ peasant/ landlord of Indus. He argues that it was easier for Indians to assimilate the British mercantile system whereas the Indus couldn’t manage the transition as effortlessly.
The danger with Ahsan’s definition of India is that it doesn’t cross the Vindhyas or try to understand the many splendoured North Eastern States. Even the present state of Pakistan subsume several identities and cultures- Pathan, Sindhi, Baloch,Punjabi and many others within its’ fold. Ahsan defines the Indus culture competently. The colourful and pluralistic entity called India doesn’t render itself easy to simplistic characterizations. In the national consciousness of Pakistan, India is primarily the belt consisting Punjab, UP, Haryana, Rajasthan, Gujarat, Bihar and J&K (which they believe ought to have been theirs). The period prior to National movement could be described as the one in which the distinctions, especially among the elite, between Indus and mainstream India came into sharp focus. I had always thought that a Punjabi from Pakistan can seamlessly integrate into Delhi culture today. A Malayali from the South or the Manipuri from North East is sure to feel alien. One couldn’t fault Ahsan for having swayed by a definition of India, which, I am sure many in India unwittingly hold. Even mainstream India couldn’t be easily characterized as bourgeoisie or mercantile. There are tribals, fuedals, artisans and several other strands that constitute the vast populace of India.
The book traces the development of the artificial divide of Hindu India vs Muslim Pakistan that continued for two centuries up to the end of colonial rule. Jinnah’s vision was not of an Islamic State but a state for Muslims. A vision, which was probably driven by a sense of alienation by sub-continental Muslims -or caused by the patronizing approach towards them by Nationalist leaders. A vision, which in hindsight, has gone horribly wrong. Without going into the sub text underlying the Indus-based definition, I can say that this book, written from jail during one of the author’s many detentions, is an un-prejudiced and candid analysis of Pakistan’s rich civilizational origins. This book would help us understand our neighbour better- and not let our impressions be shaped by the religious fervor of their bearded Mullahs or their violent loonies with suicide jackets and dreams of sex starved virgins in paradise or their Generals bandying about conspiracy theories.
The book “Indus Saga” written by prominent Pakistani Lawyer & Politician Aitzaz Ahsan is remarkable for many reasons. I have been trying to read it for the last few years and didn’t know that it has been published in India also (by Roli Books). Thanks to the simple wonders of internet shopping, I own a copy now and have been reading it with great interest these last few days. These are days when the stress at workplace doesn’t make it easy to do serious reading.
Ahsan, was a Minister in successive PPP (Pakistan People’s Party) ministries and more recently he came into limelight for leading the struggle to reinstate the Chief Justice of Pakistan. My Pakistani civil service class-mates from Australian National University say that Ahsan chose not to join the Civil Services of Pakistan, in spite of securing a high rank. He chose a life of politics and law. The movements for democracy and restoration of legal institutions that he spearheaded helped to retain Pakistan as a South Asian democracy and not another despotic theocracy or a military dictatorship. He is a politician who has even gone against his party leaders to stand up for the institutions he believed in.
The book gives an interesting perspective to the civilizational origins of Pakistan. Ahsan makes a distinction between India and Indus. The land west to the Indus river, he says, constitutes a civilization all by itself going back to the Harappan era. One that is different from mainstream Indian and West Asian cultures. He states that the Indus civilization is not entirely evolved from marauding armies from the West, or the cultural osmosis by predominantly Hindu India. From the Harappan days, Indus had its own culture and hence, the author argues, the idea of Pakistan existed prior to the artificial divide caused by partition. One may disagree with the author, but couldn’t but be impressed with his marshalling of facts to sustain his argument and develop it.
At another level, he argues that the martial/ feudal culture of the Indus as against the mercantile culture of India was what distinguishes the two nation-states. From the Harappan era through the colonial rule, the author plots the trajectory of the Indus culture. The absence of a maritime culture and the inability to assimilate the mercantile culture of the British are some of the features that distinguish the Indus culture. He tries to encapsulate the Indian culture as bourgeoisie as against the feudal culture of Indus- the accountant/ trader/ book-keeper of India as against the artisan/ peasant/ landlord of Indus. He argues that it was easier for Indians to assimilate the British mercantile system whereas the Indus couldn’t manage the transition as effortlessly.
The danger with Ahsan’s definition of India is that it doesn’t cross the Vindhyas or try to understand the many splendoured North Eastern States. Even the present state of Pakistan subsume several identities and cultures- Pathan, Sindhi, Baloch,Punjabi and many others within its’ fold. Ahsan defines the Indus culture competently. The colourful and pluralistic entity called India doesn’t render itself easy to simplistic characterizations. In the national consciousness of Pakistan, India is primarily the belt consisting Punjab, UP, Haryana, Rajasthan, Gujarat, Bihar and J&K (which they believe ought to have been theirs). The period prior to National movement could be described as the one in which the distinctions, especially among the elite, between Indus and mainstream India came into sharp focus. I had always thought that a Punjabi from Pakistan can seamlessly integrate into Delhi culture today. A Malayali from the South or the Manipuri from North East is sure to feel alien. One couldn’t fault Ahsan for having swayed by a definition of India, which, I am sure many in India unwittingly hold. Even mainstream India couldn’t be easily characterized as bourgeoisie or mercantile. There are tribals, fuedals, artisans and several other strands that constitute the vast populace of India.
The book traces the development of the artificial divide of Hindu India vs Muslim Pakistan that continued for two centuries up to the end of colonial rule. Jinnah’s vision was not of an Islamic State but a state for Muslims. A vision, which was probably driven by a sense of alienation by sub-continental Muslims -or caused by the patronizing approach towards them by Nationalist leaders. A vision, which in hindsight, has gone horribly wrong. Without going into the sub text underlying the Indus-based definition, I can say that this book, written from jail during one of the author’s many detentions, is an un-prejudiced and candid analysis of Pakistan’s rich civilizational origins. This book would help us understand our neighbour better- and not let our impressions be shaped by the religious fervor of their bearded Mullahs or their violent loonies with suicide jackets and dreams of sex starved virgins in paradise or their Generals bandying about conspiracy theories.
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