Tag Archives: Bahishkrit Samaj
যে জাতি মাতৃভাষার অধিকার ও সম্মান রক্ষা করতে মানভূমে, ঢাকায়, বরাক উপতক্যায় বারবার রাস্তায় নেমেছে, মার খেয়েছে, মৃত্যুবরণ করেছে, এমনকি দেশ স্বাধীন করেছে, সে জাতির মুখের ভাষার প্রশ্ন যে রাজনৈতিক প্রশ্ন হয়ে ওঠে, সে আর আশ্চর্য কি। তবে পশ্চিমবঙ্গে সাম্প্রতিক কালের যে বিতর্ক দানা বেঁধেছে মুখ্যমন্ত্রীর মুখের ভাষা নিয়ে, তা ঠিক ভাষার অধিকার নিয়ে নয়, সর্বসমক্ষে শালীনতা বজায় রাখার দায়িত্বজ্ঞান নিয়ে। সে কথায় একটু পরে আসব। প্রথমেই বলি আমার নিজের কুল-গরিমা নিয়ে। আমার পিতৃকুল হুগলী জেলার পাটুলিগ্রামের অনেক বহুকালের (মানে বহু শতকের) বাসিন্দা এবং এই ‘দেশ’-এর সঙ্গে এই প্রজন্মেও আমাদের সম্পর্ক বেশ গভীর। আমরা রাঢী ব্রাহ্মণ এবং কৌলিন্যপ্রাপ্ত (অর্থাৎ কুলীন)। আমার পূর্বপুরুষেরা বিবাহ-সুত্রে ফুলিয়া মেল প্রাপ্ত হন। অর্থাৎ হিন্দু-প্রধান পশ্চিমবঙ্গের সামাজিক বিন্যাসে আমরা একদম যাকে বলে টপ-ক্লাস। আমাদের কুলের একজন রায় বাহাদুর ছিলেন, যা কারণে অকারণে (যেমন এখুন) আমরা টুক করে জানিয়ে দিই (ইংরেজিতে যাকে বলে নেমড্রপিং)। এর থেকে একটা জিনিস পরিষ্কার। তা হলো যাকে কিনা কিছু পন্ডিত এক বিশেষ ধরণের ‘সাবল্টার্ন’ বলেন, এবং আমাদের ‘নিজেদের’ মধ্যে চর্চায় বলি ‘ছোটলোক’ (প্রকাশ্যে বলি অন্ত্যজ, ব্রাত্যজন ইত্যাদি ), আমরা আর যাই হই, তা নই। আমার এই কুলেরই আমার প্রিয় এক জ্ঞাতি জ্যাঠামশাই আমাদের পৈতের পরের বছর দুর্গাপূজার সময় এক সংস্কৃত মন্ত্র শেখান। এটি আচমন মন্ত্র। কোনো অস্ট্রিক ব্যাপার স্যাপার নাই। মন্ত্রটি এরকম – ‘ওঁ বিষ্ণু তদ্বিষ্ণোঃ পরমং পদং সদা পশ্যন্তি সূরয়ঃ। দিবীব চক্ষুরাততম্।। ওঁ বিষ্ণু ওঁ বিষ্ণু ওঁ বিষ্ণু।’ কুলীন টু কুলীন জ্ঞান ট্রান্সফার হিসেবে আমার রসিক জ্যাঠা ফাজিল ভাইপো-কে এর মানে বলেন। ‘ওঁ বিষ্ণু’ অর্থাৎ একটি বাঁশ , তদ্বিষ্ণোঃ অর্থাৎ সেই বাঁশ, পরমং পদং সদা পশ্যন্তি অর্থাৎ পরের পশ্চাতে সদা প্রবেশ করাইবে, ইত্যাদি ইত্যাদি। বলাই বাহূল্য, আসল মানেটা তাই ছিল না। সেই অর্জিনাল-এ বিষ্ণুর বঙ্গায়ন হয়ে বাঁশ হয় নাই। আমাদের পাটুলিগ্রাম তথা জিরাট-বলাগড় এলাকায় বাঁশঝার বেশ ঘন। তাই হয়তো বিষ্ণু যখন হিন্দুস্তান থেকে বাঁশঝার নিবিড় এই বাংলাদেশে আসেন আমাদের হাত ঘুরে, একটু অদলবদল হয়ে যায় আর কি। ইয়ার্কি মারছি বলে রাখলাম – বিশেষতঃ বোষ্টমদের প্রতি এই ক্ষমাপ্রার্থনা। আমরা শাক্তরা একটু ইয়ে হই। এবার ফিরি রাজনীতি, ভাষা ও শালীনতা প্রসঙ্গে।
পাটুলিগ্রামে যা বাঁশ, লন্ডনে তাই ব্যাম্বু, আর এই দুইয়ের মাঝামাঝি জল্পাইগুড়িতে মুখ্যমন্ত্রীর কাছে তাই হয় ‘বাম্বু’। এতে বেশ একটা ‘বিতর্ক’ হয়েছে। এক দল বলছেন, রামঃ, বঙ্গেশ্বরীর মুখের এই ভাষার ছিরি? একদম ‘ঝি-ক্লাস’। কোটি টাকার আঁকিয়ে ও গল্প-কবিতার বই লিখিয়ের আড়ালে এই তাহলে স্বরূপ? আরেকদল বলছেন, আমাদের এই বাংলাদেশের লক্ষলক্ষ মানুষের মুখের ভাষা এরকমই। যিনি জননেত্রী তার ভাষাও যে হবে গণমানুষের মতো, নন্দনে বসে মার্কেজ পড়নেওয়ালাদের মত নয়, তা বলাই বাহূল্য। দুই পক্ষকেই বলি, ভাবের ঘরে চুরি করে কি লাভ? বাম্বু দেওয়ার কথা শুনে আকাশ থেকে পড়া, প্রবল ভাবে শ্রেণী-ঘৃনা উগরে দেওয়া মুখ্যমন্ত্রীর শব্দচয়নকে সমালচনার উছিলায়, এগুলি ভন্ডামি ও ন্যক্কারজনক। একই সাথে, যারা এমন ভাব করছেন যে কিছুই হয়নি, ভাষা তো ভাষাই, শব্দ তো শব্দই, মানুষে তো এমন করেই কথা বলে গোছের অজুহাত দেখিয়ে বাম্বুর খুঁটি দিয়ে নেত্রীর সাথে জনগনের হৃদয়ের সম্পর্কের গভীরতা মাপছেন, তাদেরকে বলি যে বাংলার গণমানুষকে অপমান করবেন না।
এটা ঠিক যে সব শব্দই সমানভাবে একটি ভাষার সম্পদ – বেশি সম্পদ বা কম সম্পদ নয় । ভাষা জীবন পায় তার ব্যবহারে। সেই ব্যবহারের একটা প্রেক্ষিত আছে। ঠিক যেমন আমরা মাষ্টারমশাই-এর সামনে সিগারেট খাইনা ( যারা উচ্চতর লিবার্টি চেতনার ভারে কুঁজো হয়ে গেছে, তাদের কথা বাদ দিলাম ), ঠিক তেমনই মা-বাপের সামনে কিছু ধরণের শব্দ প্রয়োগ করিনা যা কিনা ইয়ার-বন্ধুদের সাথে চলে। ব্যক্তিগত জীবন ও যাপনকে উলঙ্গ ভাবে মেলে ধরা যাদের জীবনাদর্শ, তারা এই স্থান-কাল-পত্র বুঝে শব্দ প্রয়োগের মধ্যে দ্বিচারিতা দেখতে পারেন। তাদেরকে অনুরোধ, যে ধরনের গণমানুষের কথা বলে বাম্বুর সামনে পর্দা টানা হচ্ছে, সেই রকম ভাষা তারা পথে যেতে-আসতে রোজ ব্যবহার করে দেখুন। গণমানুষ বলবেন ‘মুখ সামলে’। এই গণমানুষ ‘গালমন্দ’ বোঝেন, আবার বোঝেন কারুর মুখের কথা সুন্দর। তাই জনগনের ঘাড়ে বন্দুক রেখে বুলেট বা বাম্বু, কিছুই ছোঁড়া অনুচিত। জলের লাইনে ‘ঝি’-দের ঝগড়ার ভাষা টুকুই যারা শুনেছেন কিন্তু শীত-গ্রীষ্ম-বর্ষা রোজ সক্কাল সক্কাল উঠে কিছুক্ষণের কর্পোরেশনের জলের সাপ্লাই-এর জন্য একাধিক বালতি নিয়ে অপেক্ষা করা যাদের জীবন-যাপনের অংশ নয়, তাদেরকে বলি – এরা গান গায়, ভালবাসে,ঘুম পাড়ানিয়া গান শোনায় শিশুদের। আপনারা যাদের লোকসঙ্গীত বিশ্ববাজারে বেচে খান ও ফান্ড আনান, এরা সেই ‘লোক’। গালি দেওয়া বা বাম্বু দেওয়া, একটিও সহজাত নয়। হয় তা পরিস্থিতির সামনে একটি প্রত্যুত্তর, চরম হতাশার প্রকাশ কিংবা জিঘাংসার উদগিরণ। আমি অবশ্যি কলকাত্তাই সেই ভদ্দরলোক শ্রেণীকে এসব গালি-চরিত থেকে বাদ দিলাম, যাদের কাছে f-ওয়ালা ৪ বর্ণের ইংরেজি গালি হলো কুল (অর্থাত নব্য কৌলিন্যের চিহ্ন) কিন্তু বাংলা গালি হলো চীপ ও ভালগার। তারা অন্য গ্রহের বাসিন্দা। তাদের দূর থেকে প্রণাম।
বাম্বু দেওয়া বা বাম্বুর দ্বারা তাড়া খাওয়া, এ যদি রাজনীতির ভাষা হয়, তাহলে আমি বলব এ ভাষা অশালীন হোক না হোক, চরম হিংস্র তো বটেই। রাজনীতি যখন এলাকা দখল বা এলাকা ধরে রাখার খেলায় পরিনত হয়, সেই প্রতিহিংসার রাজনীতিতে বাম্বু এক প্রতিশোধমূলক একক। প্রধানমন্ত্রী তার মন্ত্রিসভার আরেক মন্ত্রী সাধ্বী নিরঞ্জন জ্যোতির কুকথার বলেছেন যে নিরঞ্জন গ্রামাঞ্চলের মানুষ। গ্রামাঞ্চলের মানুষ উঠতে বসতে সাম্প্রদায়িক বিষ ছড়ান না, বাংলার তৃণমূল স্তরের মানুষ বাম্বুর চিন্তায় আচ্ছন্ন থাকেন না। তারা চাকরি চান, নিরাপত্তা চান, বাম্বু দিতে চান না, নিতে তো নয়-ই। বাঁশকে কেন্দ্র করে রাজনৈতিক সংগ্রাম কল্পনা আমাদের বাংলাদেশে বেশ পুরনো। বাঁশেরকেল্লার মধ্যে যতটা ছিল ‘সাবল্টার্ন’ ততটা ছিল হিংস্র সাম্প্রদায়িক মৌলবাদ। প্রধানমন্ত্রী তার মন্ত্রিসভার আরেক মন্ত্রী সাধ্বী নিরঞ্জন জ্যোতির কুকথার সাফাইতে বলেছেন যে নিরঞ্জন গ্রামাঞ্চলের মানুষ। গ্রামাঞ্চলের মানুষ উঠতে বসতে সাম্প্রদায়িকতার বিষ ছড়ান না, বাংলার তৃণমূল স্তরের মানুষ বাম্বুর চিন্তায় আচ্ছন্ন থাকেন না। তারা চাকরি চান, নিরাপত্তা চান, বাম্বু দিতে চান না, নিতে তো নয়-ই। রাজনৈতিক দল একটি তাঁবুর মত, তা দাঁড় করিয়ে রাখতে বাঁশ লাগে। বাঁশ যেন বাংলার রাজনীতিতে স্থায়ী কাঠামোর কাজ করে, সচল না হয়। নইলে তাঁবু-ও ভেঙ্গে পড়বে। তাঁবুর ব্যাপারীরা বাঁশ সচল করার আগে আশা করি একটু ভাববেন। কারণ ফেইসবুকে সেদিন দেখি এক জায়গায় লেখা , ‘সময় থাকতে পিওর হন,নইলে বাম্বু দেবে জনগণ’।
[ Down to Earth, 15-28 Feb 2014 ; Dhaka Tribune, 5 Apr 2014 ]
My home in Kolkata happens to be very near Kalighat. This is one of the holy Shaktipeeths (centres of divine power) that are spread across the subcontinent where different body parts of Lord Shib’s wife Mother Sati fell. For Bengali Shaktos, the Shaktipeeths, especially those in Bengal and Assam are of immense divine importance. At Kalighat, the reigning goddess is Mother Kali. In my life, I can rarely remember an auspicious occasion where a trip to Mother Kali of Kalighat was not undertaken. Kali, the dark mother holds immense sway over her mortal children.
As I grew up, I have often roamed about in the by-lanes around the temple. The temple lies on the bank of the Adi Ganga, at one time the principal flow channel of the Ganga and now a near-dead, rotting creek. This area with river-bank, shops, inhabitants, ganja-sellers and smaller temples has pulled me towards it time and again. Some of the smaller temples right on the river-bank belonged to goddesses whose names I did not know. In the pantheon of caste-Hindu Bengalis like me, there was an assumed mainstream where Mother Kali and Mother Durga had very important places. It was only by chance that I went to Kalighat once on a weekday afternoon on a chance school holiday due to rains. I was quite taken aback by the huge crowd, a few thousands strong, that had gathered around the temple. But to my astonishment, they were not there for the main temple of Mother Kali but for a very small temple of Mother Bogola. The people had a very intricate set of offerings that looked quite different from what I was used to seeing. And everyone there knew this occasion and at that moment, I was the fool in town, with my pantheon suddenly seeming irrelevant. Due to my very limited immersion in what we call in Bengali as gono-samaj (mass society can be a poor translation of the concept), a divine set had been built in my head that had entirely bypassed what was so near and what was always there. The blindness and illiteracy due to my social locus and ideologies that come with it was very badly exposed. Social alienation creates culturally illiterate beings.
Thankfully, the festivals of Southern West Bengal (where my home is broadly located) gave me many opportunities of unlearning and literacy. And they are not too hard to come by unless one is of the kind whose worlds are not defined by the physical-ecological-social reality they live in but the fantasy worlds they can afford to inhabit. I started attending the mela of Dharma Thakur, whose few sacred sites spread over the two Bengals, and have a distinct character in the kind of rice product that is offered (called hurrum) among other things. There is the 500-year old fish-fair held near the akhara of the seer Raghunath Das Goswami at Debanandapur in my ancestral district of Hooghly. The many Charaker melas that I have been too have been so enriching in its cultural produce that one wishes to be a sponge. The Gajaner mela in Tarakeswar, again in Hooghly district, goes on for 5 days and the cultural action is frenzied. The number of ‘parallel sessions’ (if one were to call the things going on there) is probably more than a thousand and there are no websites to print out the schedule. And that does not matter. The Ganga Sagar Mela is different every time. This mela, the second-largest in the Indian Union, is literally and allegorically an immersion experience. The experience is different in different times of the day, on different days of the mela and in different years. The festival around Salui Puja (worshipping the Sal tree) in Medinipur has tremendous footfall. Further west, in the adibashi areas, I once attended the Chhata Parab on Bhadra Sankranti day. In Malda, the week-long Ramkeli festival is a cultural cauldron that overflows during the summer month of Jaistha. The 2 big Ms associated with this fair is music of the Gaur-Vaishnavite tradition and mangoes that are harvested around this time. While stalls selling wares are an integral part of these festivals, each festival is different in its different parts and substantially different from each other. It is sad that I have to underline this point but I say this remembering my one-time know-all attitude towards these festivals before I had even attended them. What culture can a bunch of brown people produce left to their own devices? To know that, one has to have some humility in admitting cultural illiteracy and suspend ideas of supposed superiority of textual literacy, White man knowledge systems and the artifacts they produce. This unlearning can be harsh, especially when whole self-identities are built around wallowing on these artifacts. But there are too many brown people making too many things for too many centuries to take imported ideas of superiority seriously. One can live without being exposed to this reality and that wont cause any peril. The urbanites of the subcontinent have created a wondrous system by which they can eat rice but not know the rice-type or the growing area, get a house built but not know where the masons live. But of course they know where Indian wines are grown and the life-events of authors they have read, and other details of the lives of sundry characters of their fantasy world. The mindscape of the ‘enlightened’ can be more enlightening to the rest of us than they would want to it be.
The point of mentioning these festivals is not to create a mini catalogue but mention certain characteristics. Most of these festivals have a deep connection with the local ecology – cultural and natural. These are not American Burning Man type of fossil-fuel powered ‘creative’ fantasies (I have always failed to understand what is ‘creative’ about pursuits that require high fossil fuel burning or require pollution intensive factory made accessories). They don’t say ‘free entry’; that I mention that at all is absurd in their context. They don’t ‘say’ anything at all. They happen. They are organic, as opposed to the ‘festivals’ that are primarily thronged by the ‘fashionable’, the ‘articulate’, the ‘backpacker’, the ‘explorer’ and other curious species of the top 5% earning class of the subcontinent. Most of these festivals don’t have the kind of portable artifact quality that is so popular with the rootless, possibly best exemplified both by the Great India Mall and its location (the ‘Sector’ ‘city’ called NOIDA created by destroying many villages like Chhajarsi and Hazipur, now known by more fashionable and presentable names like Sector 63 and Sector 104). Most of them are not part of the ‘Incredible India!’ imagination and hence are largely devoid of white and brown people with cameras. Such a shabby state of affairs, however, has not prevented some of these festivals to go on for centuries, without sponsorship from ill-gotten-big-money supporters.
It was sometime in high school that I started noticing newspaper headlines such as ‘Kolkata’s young heads to the clubs’ (clubs being dancing places with rhythmic music). Many more young people regularly headed (and still do) to the East Bengal club or Mohan Bagan club grounds for football matches. But this was a different club. The idea was to create a fantasy and a false sense of feeling left out, of being in a minority, on not being ‘in’. For the already socially alienated, this pull can be magnetic – particularly because these come without pre-conditions of prior social immersion. If at all, certain kinds of fantasies and ‘enlightenments’ celebrate delinking from one’s immediate social milieu and replacing that with fantasy milieus, typically with White people’s hobbies. If the products of such indoctrination happen to arrive at the Muri Mela of Bankura (a festival where hundreds of varieties of ‘muri’ or puffed rice is produced, exhibited and sold), all they might see is more of the same. However, they do aspire to tell the difference between different red wines. Anything that requires being socially embedded in a largely non-textual cultural milieu (hence Wikipedia doesn’t come in handy), they are like fish out of water, gasping for the cultural familiarity of over-priced chain coffee stores.
It is the season of a new type of festival. Like an epidemic, big-money ‘lit’ fests have spread all over the subcontinent. The sudden-ness of the epidemic reminds me of the time when suddenly, year after year, brown women started winning ‘international’ beauty pageants. That ’arrival’ was meant to signify that browns are beautiful. The present trend probably is meant to convey that now there are enough number of moneyed browns spread all over who can nod knowingly hearing English. ‘Half of Jaipur is here at Google Mughal Tent’ – read a tweet from one of the fests. This tone sounded familiar to that time when I read that youth of my city headed to the clubs, but saw that no one around me did. May be I just belonged to an odd social sector, or may be they never counted me. But I am quite privileged otherwise. I never ever saw a headline saying youth of India head to Ganga Sagar mela on Makar Sankranti. At any rate, it is a greater statistical truth than saying youth of such and such city head to such and such ‘lit’ fest. This non-counting of many and over-counting of some is a predictable and sinister game that is played by the urbanbubbleophiles over and over again till it actually starts sounding true. The believers in such a worldview fear real numbers – the ‘odd’, the stubborn, the smelly. They would much rather ‘weigh’ according to their ‘subjectivities’. The sizeable ‘hip’ throngs within their tents are never ‘masses’; they are assemblages of aficionados. They have individual minds. They can think. They are human. The rest are better kept out until some floor mopping is required.
When real estate dacoits, construction mafias and mining goondas come together for a ‘cause’, one can well imagine the effect. The well lit fests provides a good opportunity for branding and white-washing crimes. Taking prizes from greasy hands, some authors are only too happy to oblige in that project. There they are, on the newspaper –smiling. They write ‘sensitively’, argue ‘provocatively’, and entertain ‘charmingly’. Ill-gotten prize money from the infrastructure mafia can supply powerful batteries for their headlights as they reach into the dark inner recesses of the human condition through their words. All this boils down to a few days of litting, ‘Think’ing, festing and other things that may get you in jail when done to people who have dignity and the courage to speak up.
The need to distinguish oneself from others can be rather acute in certain sectors of the subcontinental bubble urbania. What distinguishes one from the others whose ‘purposeful’ lives are peppered by sampling cultures whose social roots they are alienated from, long drives, coffee-chain hangouts, mall meetups, multiplex evenings and money-powered ‘rebelliousness’. To see oneself purely as a consumer – a seeker of market defined and mass-produced hatke (alternative for the discerning new Indian) ‘experiences’ and ‘thrills’, can be bit of a self turn-off for the brand and ego conscious yuppie. In a society where they want to define taste, no quarters should be given to others to make them appear as vacuous and crude. Hence, there is the search for ‘meaningfulness’ beyond the necessary evil of quotidian parasitism. This is best accomplished while practicing parasitism with a thin veneer of ‘meaningfulness’. Practising White people’s hobbies and engagements, with a bit of Indian elephant motif thrown in, fits the bill perfectly, at home and in the head. The well Lit fests of the rich with the ‘famous’ for the aspirational and the arrived accomplishes multiple functions at the same time. It is apparently ‘meaningful’ to be an onlooker at ill-gotten money sponsored talk-shows with only a few rows of seated brown sahibs and mems separating the top 5% income audience from the gods discussing the intricacies of brown and paler experiences. This ‘refinement’ is so much more substantive than double-refined mustard oil. And then there is the extra benefit of the Question and Answer – that which gives a feeling of participation and contribution, even accomplishment and ‘production’. That should give enough warmth, inject enough meaning and experiential richness to last through a cosmopolitan, urban winter after the show is over. And if any heat was lacking, such festivals and the spotlight it brings on the ‘winners’ and other such losers gives them an opportunity to impress those who hold such characters in awe and worship them. This gives these heroes a perfect pretext and opportunity to sample some fresh, young, fan ‘meat’. Some famous winning authors frequenting these spaces are equally famous for drug binges, for serial hunting of fans half their age, with some of these hapless young ones dying early deaths. Such ‘launches’ bring together publisher and author, writer and fan and above all, potential bedfellows. When infrastructure sleaze hosts ‘intellectual’ posturing, the sleaze-fest is complete. And of course it has to be winter. That is the time when brown and white migratory birds from White lands come down to brown land. They are in much demand – hopping from one gawk-fest to another. They dare not hold it in summer, like the Ramkeli festival. Their armpits might just start smelling like those of the ones outside the gates.
The well lit festivals have as much connection to ground realities as the owners of the palaces have with the local population. The court-like atmosphere, graced by tropic-charred whites turned native and tropic-born natives itching to be white, creates much gaiety and banter. Typically and predictably, the pre-eminent language of these well lit courts is something that most localites would not identify with. That goes for most of the books and the preferred language of the authors. Collectively it represents their fantasy world, as they claim to represent much. It is not as if the writers thronging these places are most sold or most read. The English-speaking spokesperson who has captive white and coconut (brown outside, white inside) ears becomes the chosen voice. He is the authentic insider and quite often a chronicler of the urban ennui and excitement of the parasites. The subcontinent has many authors who have sold more and been read more than all brown Englishwallahs taken together, but no infrastructure mafia wants to honour them by prizes. The loot of people’s money from the Commonwealth games by a famous prize giving company is better utilized elsewhere. Why is it that the Chennai or Kolkata book fair, with more attendance of authors and readers than a desert jamboree can ever manage, will never be covered by corporate media with the same degree of detail, as an event of similar importance. One has to ask, what are these choices meant to convey, why now, for what, for whom, against whom. The benign smile of prize acceptance of some of these first-boys and the fellowship of enthusiastic clappers need to be seen for what they are and what they represent. Why this project of pumping air into the English cat so that it looks like a tiger, to assist it to punch above its weight? Who does it want to scare into submission? Who does it want to provide confidence? Cultures, especially those that come associated with upward mobility, hubris and power, seek to displace others. As Hartosh Singh Bal puts it, ‘English mediates our own social hierarchy.’ The soft hearts of sensitive beneficiaries of cultural-economic hierarchies are too sensitive to probe their complicity in this project. Elsewhere, as Akshay Pathak has shown, the way some well ‘lit’ fests have tried to replicate their foreign idiom of ‘storytelling’ through festivals in less ‘lit’ places like Dantewada shows another aspect of the dark underbelly of the ‘articulate’ beast. Such beasts hunt in packs, as shown by their excellent ‘teamwork’.
This odd idea of non-local ‘exploratory’ tourism cum weekend-thrill is a symptom of a deeper disease. This disease adds layer after layer between the earth and the birds who float atop that earth, with the organizers making sure that the undomesticated and the unrefined stench of the earth does not make its way in to this stratospheric paradise. Such ‘cosmopolitan’ inhabitants who belong nowhere produce nothing. Of course they know about the Sati ‘tradition’ and shur their book and minds with that. These are those who see no intrinsic value in any tradition but partake in its goodies, document it, sample it, sell it to visiting firangs, package it as if they were wares on sale but contribute very little to the richness of the human condition, on a long term basis. If this worldview and lifestyle becomes the dominant one, I shudder to think what kind of a cultural desert the flittering non-traditionalists will produce with their contempt of tradition and rootedness. Given their clout and power, that urban-industrial dream of an atomized society might become true, till every grain looks the same. Individual grains of sand around Jaipur have more heterogeneity and character than this.
Would the dominant idiom and language of these well lit fests survive if Whites paid reparations for colonialism and slavery? Will any of these well lit fests survive even for a year if the world magically becomes becomes crime-free? Something that owes its very survival to dirty money and claims to be a festival of ‘mind-opening’ needs to be exposed. This is true for many other creative pursuits of these times and these classes- they don’t exist without the backing of money, cannot be produced by the poor (hence most human beings) and, if the world could be flattened so that everyone was at mean income, none of these creativities would even exist. These are pursuits for which inequity is a necessary pre-condition. But there is art beyond that, in persisting oral traditions, lores, gods, non-‘cosmopolitan’ ways of everyday creativity and knowledge and earth inspired insurgents like Namdeo Dhasal and Gaddar but that is beyond the well lit faces and enlightened minds of the perfumed ones. It must be painful for the ‘enlightened’ ones to imagine that the world can actually go on without their collective knowledge being at the centre of it. But it does. It always has. And whether you like it or not, and whether you matter or not, it always will.
Playing the ‘poor’ card to criticise caste-based reservations / Pitting class against caste – a false dichotomy
[ Daily News and Analysis, 19 Feb 2014 ; Millenium Post, 19 Feb 2014 ]
There is the Congress, the outer Congress, the inner Congress and the inner-inner Congress. Janardan Dwivedi, a long time fixture at the Indira Congress, has is a member of the last circle. The sovereign who wants to push something unpopular also wants to know how deeply unpopular it is. One-way to do this is to make someone very important but not supremely important to say something that the party can distance itself from given the reaction is too harsh. Debates around caste-based reservations, especially revisiting its principles, fall in that category.
The Dwivedi has opined that economic criterion and not caste-based criterion should be the basis of reservations. That the Dwivedi heart bleeds for all poor and not only the lower-caste or tribal poor is now out in the open. In an election year, the poor gain transient importance. The Indira Congress fancies itself to be everybody’s party and is fast becoming anything but that. Cryptic winks to savarnas,‘impromptu’ eating with Dalits, scaremongering at the minority ghetto, private aircraft travellers ‘mixing’ with rail-station coolies – all these are the bamboo poles that some people hope will hold up the Congress tamboo (big tent) at the elections. But let’s return to reservations.
Remember when Mayawati was building statues in Uttar Pradesh a few years ago? A predictable class was disgusted about the crassness of Mayawati building her own statue, as if this megalomania was unprecedented. It is not surprising that the same class choses to forget that the ‘Emergency’ Gandhi was awarded a Bharat-ratna during her own regime. To her credit, Mayawati did not suspend people’s right to life so that trains could run on time. Mayawati did not only build her own statues. People who did not know and did not care about the identity of these other statues nevertheless became oceans of empathy overnight. Overnight empathizers of Dalits precisely tabulated the amount of good that the statue money could have done to Dalits. Health-care, education, sanitation and much more – Uttar Pradesh has many needs. While all this is true, these timeless needs get spotlight only at specific times. The timing gives away the apathy that is dressed up as empathy at opportune moments. This was true about statues. This was true about the intense brainstorming and ‘out-of-box’ thinking about expansion and deepening of primary education that highborn thinkers did during their Youth For Equality protests. Ingenious recipes of making the pie sweeter were proposed to stall a fairer sharing of the pie. Well-timed love can couch much hate. Experienced serial abusers know this well.
Is there any substance in Dwivediji’s concerns? When someone talks about reservation on economic basis, he is saying that poverty in itself, irrespective of caste, is an impediment to equality of opportunity. That is very true. What wrong did the poor Vaishya boy do for which he is denied certain opportunities that a not-so-poor Dalit girl may get due to the reservation system as it exists? On the face of it, this goes against the principal of natural justice. But that is true only if the society is considered a unified one, as some fairy stories would want you to believe. It is not. Reservations do not create societal divisions. The divisions are pre-existing realities. The demand for reservations is a demand for rightful share of present opportunities given such realities. Savarnas and Ashrafs should be thankful that the ‘low-born’ are not demanding reparation or separate electorate, yet.
One may fantasize that we live in some post-casteist society, but this is simply not true. Given these pre-existing divisions, the empathy for the poor Kshatriya or Saiyyad and his lack of opportunities also has a solution. That part of the pie that is at present ‘unreserved’ (‘general category’ as the lingo does) and is openly competitive to all has to be modified to reflect economic reality. Rather than ending caste-based reservations, the hitherto unreserved opportunities (the ‘general category’ pie) ought to have reservation solely on the basis of economic criterion. The proportion of economic reservation in the general category must reflect the economic inequity in the general population. The question is not whether reservation should be for the poor or the lower castes. It should be for the poor and the lower castes, separately. What say, Dwivediji?
[ Daily News and Analysis, 23 Dec 2013 ]
Very recently, I was on a flight from Zurich to New Delhi, operated by Swiss International Air Lines. My co-passenger was brown like me and had strong opinions on the mis-pronunciation of English words by desis. The person was especially perturbed how even proper nouns and place names were being rendered unrecognizable. My co-passenger was quite sad that this was happening. I mostly did the listening. I guess trans-continental flights are spaces that assume a kind of brown cultural homogeneity and hence a commonly held set of sensibilities. The top 5% income category browns have many worldly burdens. Defending the sanctity of the mother tongue of Anglo-Saxons apparently is one of them.
All through our journey, the captain kept us updated about how the flight was going. The captain, who was Swiss, repeatedly said that out destination city was ‘Deheli’. The firangi word pronunciation Nazi who I was sitting with it seemed to have no take on this. ‘Deheli’ was okay, given the race of the speaker. There was nothing to be ‘corrected’. It was his natural accent. There was no need to graduate into some ‘ higher’ state of correctness, whatever that is. While ‘Deheli’ of Swiss extraction was deemed acceptable, ‘Delly’ is the pronunciation of choice for the uppity. This is what some pack of pale-face marauders had pronounced a few centuries ago and what could be wrong about that. Dehli or Dilli may not sound anything like ‘Delly’ but that did not make ‘Delly’ a mis-pronunciation in my co-passenger’s sensibilities. This sensibility is more widely held. It is my suspicion that the origin and contours of such refined sensibilities and the predictable double-standards hold some clue to the increasingly rootlessness one observes in the metro-centric aspirational classes of the subcontinent.
Now try to imagine the reverse. When someone says ‘New Yaark’ as many in Punjab may do, or ‘Lawndawn’ as many in Bengal do, the brown thikadars of English pronunciation will react with thinly veiled contempt. You may even be ‘corrected’ in ‘good faith’ – ‘See, it is ‘actually’ pronounced like this’. Between these responses, the speaker of ‘Lawndawn’ will be classified by the enlightened brown ones as either being not well rounded enough or being an obstinate non-learner or worst still, getting some vicarious thrill by sticking out.
They will try to explain root-cause of ‘New Yaark’ and ‘Lawndawn’ – you know, socio-economic rungs and such. And that moment of trying to explain is an illuminating moment – it explains the person who is doing the explaining. Their exasperation with ‘Lawndawn’ standing uncorrected goes much further and deeper than plain prickliness about the mother tongue of English people. It veers into the underbellies of their Anglicized exteriors – into ideas of correctness, propriety, higher and lower, sameness and difference, own and foreign, alienation and privilege.
At the centre of this probably stands the fear of being swept away in this brown subcontinent by those who think, imagine and love in their mother tongue. The alienated recognize the confidence that comes with it. That confidence is a threat that needs to be broken; otherwise it has insurgent qualities that might just want to reclaim centre-stage. What absurdity is that, in ‘this time and age’? The speed with which we label something absurd hints at something else. As Allan Bloom said, ‘The most successful tyranny is not the one that uses force to assure uniformity, but the one that removes awareness of other possibilities, that makes it seem inconceivable that other ways are viable, that removes the sense that there is an outside’. The even sadder bit is that an alienated, self-hating minority is able to dictate the terms of what is this outside.
‘New Yaark’ and ‘Lawndawn’ symbolize exactly the sort of confident agency that is rootless is fearful of, partly because it reminds them of their own ‘non-place’-ness. Identifying deeply with the oppressor’s ‘refinement’, they would rather have agency always stay with the oppressor while they can take on the mantle of being gatekeepers to that enchanted world of refinement. The culturally illiterate Bombay-Delhi bubble urbania, with their undue and incestuous grip on the ideology of indoctrination systems like centres of higher learning, fear things that draw inspiration from the ground beneath their feet, and not from the words of gods from superior worlds. They love to play the role of this native priest (to lesser brown folks) and translator (to remotely enthusiastic firangis). They stand at the gates of modern citizenship in brownland, correcting their backward folks as liberated pundits. I wish it were funny. It is not.
Eight tight slaps from Niyamgiri tribals / On giving up other ways of being human / Slippery slopes of development
[ Daily News and Analysis, 6 Aug 2013 ; Shillong Times, 9 Aug 2013 ; Millenium Post, 9 Aug 2013 ; Echo of India, 12 Aug 2013 ; Morung Express, 20 Aug 2013 ]
You lifted one fistful of salt
And an empire was shamed.
One fistful of rubble
And pour it on our shameless heads.
(Written by Gopal Gandhi on 6th December, 1992 – the day of Babri demolition)
In the United States of America, Thanksgiving Day is an example of a rather successful attempt in creating a popular and false impression of a harmonious past of North America – one of peaceful coexistence between White Christian colonizers and the colonized indigenous people. With decades of state endorsement, school indoctrination and mass-market celebration, genocide has been whitewashed into a love-in of sorts. But the descendants of the survivors still live and there is no forgetting. Certain truths cannot be buried by concrete and asbestos.
On one such day, some years ago, strolling in the Harvard campus, I saw a small group of native American youth standing in a semi-circle around a temporary structure that whispered –‘ this is a special space’. Someone elder led the invocations that exuded an unmistakable aura of sacredness to me. Before the genocide, this used to be a community celebration. Now, to the onlooker, it is a bunch of weirdos in strange gear doing their own thing in a campus that celebrates ‘diversity’ – adding to that vaunted cosmopolitan urbanscape that so many hold up as a model of all human futures, that pinnacle of rootless aspirations. Before the genocide, this was public culture. Today it is a curious performance, an act in the corner. How does it feel? I do not know. But I do know that less than 3 months from now the debi-paksha (the lunar fortnight of goddess Durga) will start and my clan-home in a village called Patuligram in Hooghly district of West Bengal will come alive to welcome the mother goddess, like every year. What if we had to do this invocation on the sly, and looked upon curiously? Could I then feel how those young people at Harvard were feeling that day? Probably not. I would not be accounting for the loss of language, community, clan-people, independence. And still they survive. For it is not that easy for everyone to give up other ways of being human.
It is partly an appreciation of this stubbornness that drew some activists, students and ragamuffins to a protest last week in front of the Orissa Bhavan at New Delhi. Niyamgiri, the holy hill, produced the valiant Dongria Kondh who have not only challenged the collective might of some of the most powerful money-gatherers and fixers of the world, but have also tripped up the trajectory of ‘progress’. What obscene cost-benefit calculation can put a price on a god and his abode? To us Bengali Shaktos (worshipper of goddess Shakti), what would be the ‘right price’ to dig up the Kali temple at Kalighat if bauxite were to be found underneath? The Dongria Kondh people have stuck to their main man, their principal deity Niyamraja for Niyamraja (the giver of law) has been sticking to them forever. Ijurupa, Phuldumer, Batudi, Palberi, Kunakadu, Tadijhola, Kesarpadi and Serkapadi are eight villages whose gram-sabhas have rejected a proposed bauxite-mining plan in Niyamgiri. In effect, these are eight tight slaps to an entire industry of consensus building that includes corporate houses, lobbyists, politicians, columnists, economists, ad-agencies, ‘development’-wallahs. CSR-wallahs, FabIndia-DSLR-NGOwallahs and probably your and my dad. Such has been the force of these slaps that the forces-that-be have pushed into action their spin-machine to concoct some ‘depth of Indian democracy’ type of bed-time story out of it. The force of the eight slaps (and there may be more) come precisely from forms of socio-political legitimacy and communitarian rights which are the bane of the forces-that-be. For all their love of swadeshi gods, like others, the saffron-party too has been exposed – that their love for alumina can easily make them sell gods on the sly.
In February, in Lakutia, near Barisal in East Bengal, I saw the ruins of a series of shiv-mandirs – corpses of places of worship. I remember muttering under by breath, ‘never again’. Many have surrendered to those words, so simple yet so decisive – “it is too late now.” The Dongria Kondh seem to have different ideas about time and action. Far away, in southern Orissa, an explosive experiment in grassroots democracy is shaking the world. If it has not shaken your world, it better did.
Honey Singh has already won / Honey-ed lyrics won’t change bitter truths / Hypocrisy in selective censuring / Beyond the ease of banning Honey Singh
[ Daily News and Analysis, 7 Jan 2013 ; Echo of India, 15 Jan 2013 ; Millenium Post, 12 Jan 2013 ]
A specific song by Honey Singh has been ‘discovered’. The tragic incident at Delhi created the fertile ground for this. If the discovery was supposed to raise awareness against the contents of the songs and thus censuring Honey Singh, that scheme has failed miserably. The number of online views of the said song has shot-up steeply ever since the free publicity. So much for sensitization. Honey Singh has since then denied having to do anything with the song. Many people and groups, who, till yesterday had hardly heard of Honey Singh or this song, have assembled his paper and cloth idols to consign them to flames in public amidst much supportive sloganeering. This speedy move from relative ignorance to active denunciation, however heartfelt, is all too familiar. This has also given a good cover to misogynist groups to peddle high-decibel righteousness. If morality fired censorship riding high on the back of a human tragedy is not immoral and cynical, I do not know what is. Even more cynical is how some such groups stand side-by-side folks who have devoted decades working at the grassroots – Honey Singh has provided a strange equalizing opportunity, a short-cut of sorts.
Some of the same who are so-outraged and want to stop watching Anurag Kashyap’s movies for his association with Honey, do not stop deifying the tinsel- jewels in that sordid procession that led to the mansion of the erstwhile Mumbai butcher. Neither will they stop using products that are advertised using advertisements that ‘objectify’ women or boycott filmstars who publicly endorse such products. Walking the talk requires a different culture than consumer culture. Many patriotic songs are full of exhortation of death and killing of name-less ‘others’. ‘Religious songs’ have elements of killing demons (considered by many as euphemism for dalits) and infidels. But we are like this only.
Some have deemed the lyrics of the specific song akin to hate speech. The song, in addition to explicit description of sexual acts, objectifies women as sexual objects, indeed as objects to rape. The curious thing is, while so many people are denouncing the song, it also liked by many. One is free to judge people who like it but online anonymity is a curious mirror, which often shows that even in the absence of a public voice that likes the song, such liking exists nonetheless. If one considers penning and singing the song as criminal, is liking the song similarly criminal? If I publicly stick my neck out and say I like the song, is that criminal? You may not like to talk to me or ‘give’ your daughter in marriage to me or ‘leave’ your sister alone near me – but that is up to you. But am I to be prosecuted for stating that I like it? This is not an argument for the sake of being contrarian.
Honey Singh has put to tune utterances and fantasies that are not unknown. He has sung what many males draw on bathroom walls. Some argue that the free distribution of such material creates an ambience that facilitates viewing women in a certain way – rape is a part of that way of viewing. The individual, in such a milieu, has a greater propensity to rape. To problem with such conjectures is that they do not have a clear causal relationship with criminal action. In the absence of that crucial link, to criminalize human behavior, however reprehensible it may be to some, leads all of us down an extremely slippery path. For what is important is the principle of criminality that gets legitimacy – that there does not need to be a strict causal relationship between action and crime. Theories of broad propensity are good enough. Consider the implications of this for the ‘single, migrant, underclass, male’ theory.
We should strive towards a fuller understanding of the popularity of songs such as these. The sad use of ‘impressionable children’ to grind their own axe has to stop. There is no evidence that grandfathers from ‘purer’ times any less likely to grope. And why should everything be ‘family friendly’ anyways? I have a hunch that we have more to lose by sacrificing free expression than the supposed gains of censoring Honey Singh. The slow systemic effects of the former can however pale in front of the immediate charge of the latter. Also, media ‘explicitness’ as a cause for sexual violence also tacitly legitimizes the ‘titilation’ theory. The less said about that, the better.
Central to all of this is a certain anxiety that unless there are curbs, the Honey Singhs will win hands down. There is a tacit acknowledgement that there are no robust alternatives on offer to item numbers or to the likes of Honey Singh. And there is the rub. There is a secret fear that there is no cultural repertoire that is up-to-date and ‘presentable’. Beyond religion and sex, the relationship of the market with non-sexual elements of ‘Lok-sanskriti’ is faint. In ‘Lok’ sanskriti, the real ‘Lok’ is important in production, consumption and propagation. When profiteers reduce the role of ‘lok’ only to consumption, we have a problem at hand. Organized industry has a certain idiom it is comfortable. Socially rooted cultural produce without corporate intermediaries, say the Baul-shahajiya minstrels, thrive in a supportive ecology. One cannot take away the ecology and then expect that it will continue its own evolution, as if nothing changed.
One hundred ‘folk-music’ festivals in fashionable AC auditoriums in Delhi cannot provide alternatives work in a context where ‘folk’ are displaced and brutalized. Music and art, in their many shades, springs from forth from life. Without it, it is simply a plant without roots- destined to die sooner or later. The new world selectively cuts roots. Hence Honey Singh lives. Only when we have a world where we cut no roots, then we shall see. After the destruction of rooted cultural idioms and ways of life, from where does one expect songs of life to spring ? What will the songs be about – since sadness and pain is ‘unfit’ for modern consumption? Even the idea of songs from struggles of the displaced is met with the some kind of mental cringe, if not a mental block. Consumption – is the basic framework in the new world. And there are no holy hills, groves, cultures, homelands, people. Honey Singh has sung the allegorical anthem of the new world. He may have sung it a bit too loudly, at an inopportune time. In disowning him, however loudly, there is not the slightest risk of any displaced community getting their homestead back. Honey Singh and the ‘Folk’ Festivals have already won.
The fax internet democratic republic / Focus on rapes that India forgets / Rapes do happen where there’s no internet / Rape: Elite mode not needed
[ Daily News and Analysis, 30 Dec 2012 ; Millenium Post, 7 Jan 2013 ; Kashmir Times, Jan 2013 ; Echo of India, 12 Jan 2013 ; Kashmir Reader, Jan 2013 ]
The notice has been served to ‘the people’. The Justice Verma Committee, set up to review the present criminal laws relating to safety and security with an eye to amend them, has asked ‘all members of the public’ among others to respond with ideas, knowledge and experience, to assist the committee in reaching its objective. The notice has been published in many newspapers. This mode of public consultation is not new. Parliamentary committees regularly serve such notices to the public. This usual practice has received unusual publicity due to the widespread focus and interest that has been generated in the context of the Delhi gang-rape. The government has touted this consultation practice as some measure of its response to public outrage. That the awareness of such consultations is abysmal is failure pf democratic governance. By taking advantage of this lack of public awareness, the government has now shed a spotlight so bright such that a not-so-rare practice is appearing extraordinary. This is disingenuous at best. This is a very smart stunt, not the act of setting up the committee itself, but how the setting of such committee has been publicized by the government.
The 3-member committee has asked that the pubic send in their comments by emailing email@example.com or by sending a fax at 011-23092675, by the 5th of January. Embedded in this hasty empathy is a deeper message – its attitude towards consultation in this aspiring democracy. It is indeed tragic that the horizon of imagination of the powerful about modes of consultation with an utterly poor and regularly sexually brutalized people, is limited to email and fax. Unfortunately, when rapists target their victims, they do not discriminate on the basis of access to communication technology. Most rape victims and potential rape victims in the territory of the Indian Union do not have access to fax or email. It is not hard to predict that this lifeless and bureaucratic invitation will evoke very few responses from the billion plus populace. Most of the submissions will be in English, a minority will make their point in Hindi. The culture set by parliamentary committees that explicitly state that submissions be made in English or Hindi has excluded and turned off the majority of the literate. Thus people, whose mother tongue in neither English nor Hindi will hardly write back . One must commend the Justice Verma committee’s adverts in that they do not explicitly mention any language in which the submissions need to be done. By the Delhi-based political culture of active exclusion of non-Hindi vernaculars has already taken its toll in the form of voicelessness and resultant disengagement. No democracy worth its name can afford that. Still larger is the majority to which email / fax are alien if not unheard media. That does not give them any respite from being raped; neither does it stop them from having opinion and rape legislation.
For a few decades now, a 3-tiered pecking order of citizenship has developed with the English/Hindi literate, the literate in ‘other’ languages and the illiterate. If you know only Tamil, it does not matter how erudite you are or how eager you are to put your opinion through on matters of legislation, the blunt message of the government about your suggestions to parliamentary committees essentially is, thanks, but no thanks. The lesser that is spoken about the lack of governmental efforts to reach out to the illiterate populace about their opinion, the better.
How state views the participation of people in making legislation in a participatory democracy gives out how it views such processes in the first place – an unnecessary but unavoidable ritual that is not to be taken seriously. Bureaucratism and alienation are every handy to help snuff out even the last possibilities of life of the ritual. All this points to a deeper disease, a malaise that reduces consultative democratic practices to things done for the record, not for the people. Humane governance thus loses out to the clerical efficiency to bookkeeping. It is not that the government has never tried to engage the people at large. The Bt Brinjal consultations, where minister Jairam Ramesh held court at various areas beyond Delhi to hear what people had to say, were a positive step towards inclusive consultation. This example has unfortunately not been followed up for other legislations.
People, who bear the brunt of every day atrocities, clearly are not qualified to comment well on these issues. Those who keep cases pending for years and award gallantry awards to supervisors of rape of inmates are. Access barriers and ‘expertise’ hence become methods of choice for shunting out popular opinion in a democracy – given that fundamental rights of expression become less violable under metropolitan scrutiny. A democratic state folds itself to fit the aspirations of the people. A heartless state expects the people to contort themselves to fit some alien definition of an engaged citizen, or else, not be counted at all.