Familiar Strangers
I saw him this morning again and I was delighted. We dint exchange smile, as usual. But we crossed paths again, as usual. He was not to be seen during the past few days and I during his absence I kept telling Faizan, “I guess, he is ill.” I said this to Faizan several times and once Faizan asked me “Who?” and I said, “I don’t know his name. But people refer to him as Sharma Ji.” Yes, I did not know the name of this man with whom I crossed paths everyday and whose absence did matter to me.
Sharma Ji, is a chai-wala near here, from who has been serving me chai whenever I felt like having chai. His tea stall has no shelter. He sits by the road, under a tree, and with a hand pump stove makes tea. I have never spoken to him other than the usual dialogues of “ek chai… bade cup mein” and “kitna hua?” and he has not replied anything but, “chaar,” or “khulle nahi hai?” As I said, I don’t know his name nor does he know my name. I have overheard people, who like me come to him for a cup of chai, referring to him as Sharma Ji and I have learnt that his second name is Sharma. What made me feel this man’s absence and worried if he was ill? It is a speechless bonding that has been created between us in our silent trysts over some period now.
The last time I saw him, before today, as he saw me, he bent the tea pot to pour chai into a cup and before the chai flowed out of the tea pot he stopped. Yes, he stopped and kept down the tea pot. He had realized that he was pouring tea not into the “bada wala cup.” He stretched his hand to the “bada wala cup” and handed over the chai to me in the “bada wala cup.”
The moment Sharma Ji stopped and stretched his hand to the “bada wala cup,” I was moved deeply. He knew me and my taste, though we had never interacted with each other. He has many customers, like me, who come to him everyday but still he knew what my taste was. May be he knows that of every regular customer of his.
Press Cart and the Wisdom Tree (Photo Courtesy: Pankaj Gupta)
I was reminded, as I sipped tea in the “bada wala cup,” of Press Cart of Manipal. Press cart, for those who don’t know, is situated in Manipal between our institute (Manipal Institute of Communication) and Udayavani (a leading Kannda daily) press. It serves mainly the pres workers who work on nigh shift. The shop opens at around 4 in the evening and is open till 2 in the night. Ever evening after classes (as a student and also as a faculty in MIC) we would go sit under the tree (which we called ‘wisdom tree’) and order something to eat and several cups of tea from the press cart and discuss various serious and not so serious matters under the tree sipping the press cart tea. We shared an intimate relationship with the cooks of Press Cart, though we interacted less with them.
Once Shipla (Sunil Sir’s wife) and I were sitting at Press Cart waiting for Sunil Sir to come out of MIC. Shilpa suddenly felt like hacving chakkuli (a fried item round in shape) and asked the cook of Press Cart to get “two” chakkuli. And the cook came towards us and handed over one chakkuli to Shipla and said “he,” pointing towards me,” doesn’t eat chakkuli.” I was surprised that evening to know that the cook at Press Cart did know my taste and also the items which I eat and I don’t. The cook there would never fill the cup completely for Varadesh Sir for he knew that Sir always has only half a cup of tea.
After I resigned from MIC, still I would go to press cart, at times and always the cook there would ask me “where are you these days? Not to be seen around.” And I know that he asks me this not because he lost a customer but because he too, unknowingly, has made me a part of his world. Like I felt the absence of Sharma Ji, the cook of Press Cart too felt my absence.
It interests me as to how these familiar strangers become a part of our life and how we strike a bond with them, to the extent that the absence of one person really matters to the other.
Recently while coming back home I took a cycle rickshaw and as I got down I realized that I did not have the required change but had only a hundred rupee note. I went to the nearby electrical shop and asked if he had two fifty rupee note and his reply was negative. Then I went to the small grocery shop near by from where we (Faizan, Shoaib and I) usually buy bread and noodles. I asked him if he had change for Rs. 100. He said he dint have. I got worried because I dint know what to do and immediately I hear the shopkeeper’s voice. He asks me, “You have to pay the rickshaw fellow is it?” and I nod my head indicating “yes.” The shopkeeper asked me, “how much?” “Twenty,” I said. He pulled is table drawer and gave me a twenty rupee note and said “you can repay me later.” I took the money paid the rickshaw fellow and returned to the shop thanked the shopkeeper and said “I will return the money soon.” With a warm smile, holding my hand, he said “you are like a family member I trust you.” I was moved by the expression “family member” which this shopkeeper, another familiar stranger, used to refer to me.
How did I become his family member? Why should he have given me the money to pay the rickshaw fellow? Why should have the cook of press cart feel my absence and why should have I felt the absence of Sharma Ji? We are all familiar strangers to each other. But something bonds us. This bonding is beyond speech and expression to me.
Musing over the bonding I share with these familiar strangers, I wonder is such a bonding can be struck with shopkeepers of a big shop or a branded shop? Even if we start recognizing each other and pass smile whenever we meet, in the big and branded shops, would we feel each others absence? Would that shopkeeper consider me as his family member?
I guess globalization, which has been contributing a lot to branded shops, has robbed something beautiful from our civilization. But we still have some Sharma Ji in a corner of a road preparing chai, with his heart, for several familiar strangers like me. There are still some like the cook of Press Cart who feel the absence of a familiar stranger like me. There is still a shopkeeper, whose name I do not know, who tells me that I am like his family member. May these small shops survive in the age of globalization. Amen!
Liberation Through Theatre
Dakxin Bajrange, founder member of the Budhan Theater in Charanagar, Ahmedabad is all set to leave to U.K. for his studies in Theater with the help of the fellowship he has received from the Ford Foundation.
Shifting the focus from himself to his community members, at this point, Mr. Bajrange said, “Chharanagar now enjoys a distinct identity as an ‘actor’s colony’. Many of its inhabitants are employed in reputed places of work; and two of its artists have made entries into prestigious National School of Drama, earning name for themselves as well as for the city of their birth. Another member of their community is a casting director in a Hollywood film production named Patang. Yet another is studying drama at a local college, and one of its major actors is a journalist, and crime reporter for a national daily called DNA. Another youth is working for TV 9, a Gujarati news channel, anchoring a programme on crime; whereas a female counterpart has made her name into Gujarati film industries.”
It is but natural for anyone to ask what is so great about all these. Mr. Bajrange and the people of Charanagar belong to a de-notified tribe called Chara.
What is de-notified tribe?
Britishers tagged million of People of India named them ‘Born Criminals’ to create ‘Criminal Tribes Act – 1871′. An inhuman act, branded 192 tribal ‘Born Criminals’ and make worst life of such communities, put them into different settlement (like Nazi – concentration camps) and restricted their movements who were traditionally nomads and performers.
The British policy makers, baffled by some indigenous itinerary ways of some of the tribes and nomad groups of India, transfixed them in the category of hereditary criminals. Such unnatural legislation coupled with newly imposed forest laws and revenue policies deprived many of the itinerants of their livelihood, which led them into petty crime for sustenance, which reinforced the idea of ‘hereditary criminal traits’. This piece of legislation called the Criminal Tribes Act was enacted by the British Government in 1871 and was periodically revised to vest the police with more power.
The Act authorized the local governments to establish industrial, agricultural or reformatory schools and settlements for the ‘Criminal Tribe’ members. In such cases, the members were not allowed to venture outside the enclosure without a pass, which was issued at the discretion of the manager of the settlement. The law not only restricted their movement to certain area, but made them venerable to all sorts of brutality and excesses.
Let’s look into this act’s page no 356: “Any eunuch so registered who appears, dressed or ornamented like woman, in a public street or place, or any other place, with the intention of being seen from a public street or place, or who dances or plays music, or takes part in any exhibition, in a public street or place or for a hire in private house may be arrested without warrant and shall be punished with imprisonment of either description for a term which may extend to two years, or with fine or with both”
This is an ideal example that how British dominated traditional talents of nomadic communities and seen as criminals. Due to tainted history as nomads social stigmas have developed about the DNTs situating them at considerable disadvantage in competing for employment and education. They have become scapegoats and usual suspects for police, placing them in constant uneasy relation to authority and that has resulted in an extremely high rate of incarceration.
Charas
The Chharas of Gujarat, also known as Sansis in Punjab and Kanjars in Rajasthan, were indigenous and nomadic people of the Punjab region who were “notified” and settled by an order of the British colonial government in the 1930s, in a colony called Chharanagar and rehabilitated as industrial and agricultural labor.
Released from the forced labor camp which had been their prison for the past forty years, the Chharas were resettled at the outskirts of Ahmedabad, in Chharanagar. Roughly three square miles, with a population of over twenty thousand, Chharanagar is primarily known for its home brewed liquor – illegal in the dry state of Gujarat. The government of Gujarat gave them provisional land in front of the settlement, but also set up a police station to keep a close watch on them.
Accustomed to being imprisoned, beaten, extorted and humiliated over the decades, a cumulative anger always burned in the Chharas. The educated among them were denied employment after the name ‘Chharanagar’ was discovered on their resumes, and earnest students were shunted from good schools. Punished once by the past, and twice by a people who maliciously remember it, the Chhara youths were desperately seeking a remedy to break through this vicious circle. With faith in education and inspired by Mahasweta Devi, a literary figure and activist of repute and Ganesh Devi, a scholar-writer committed to the cause of the adivasis and de-notified tribes of India, they decided to jettison the life of crime lived by their parents.
Liberation through theatre
“Theatre Art is used by our forefathers for thieving. Sorry I can’t explain it in detail as it is still survival of our some of people. It was Invisible Theatre. This art was in our genes. We used it for social change and community development. We didn’t inherit our ancestor’s crimes but we did retain that artistic strain. And a play group by the name of ‘Budhan Theatre’ was founded on 31st August 1998 in commemoration of the day when India’s first Prime Minister, Jawaharlal Nehru, lifted the stigma of criminality from the settled tribes in 1952. 5 years after Independence,” recollects Mr. Bajrange
What is Budhan Theatre? Is it concrete made Theatre or auditorium? Is it practicing conventional plays? Or what kind of plays? Who are the performers in it? Why they are performing Theatre Art since last 11 years? Where it is? Let’s glance in the Art who changed identity and lives of Stigmatized Group.
Budhan Theatre is Tradition, Culture, Transformation, Weapon to Protest on a Non- Violent way and medium of development which began in 1998 in the infamous area known as Chharanagar in Ahmedabad City. People had a mindset that it is a ghetto of ‘Thieves’ and Bootleggers. The Charas were always ‘Forever Suspect’ in the eye of legal and judiciary system.
In 1998 with the help of Dr. Ganesh Devy and Mahasveta Devi Theatre journey began and the Charas performed a play Budhan, a play based on the custodial death of Budhan Sabar in Purulia District by West Bengal police. The play was penned by Mr. Bajrange. The play performed over 300 shows in schools, collages, institutes, seminars and festivals. In fact Budhan Theatre has strong relation with violence as most of plays of Budhan Theatre based on the atrocities on de-notified tribes. Through Theatre art, the youth of Budhan Theatre are fighting but on a non violent way.
Budhan Theater made and performed 21 plays among them 8 plays were performed by Chhara children. Now they learn how to express themselves through Theatre Art and develop Theatre. They are writing, directing and composing plays.
Budhan Theatre has performed street plays to raise awareness about the condition of their likes. Their goal is to demonstrate that Chharas are not “born criminals,” they are humans with real emotions, capacities, and aspirations. Each of their productions has dramatized the events surrounding custodial deaths, abductions, beatings and torture of such tribes across the map of the country. At present, a matured Budhan Theatre is reaching out to other similarly stigmatized communities and including their stories in its repertoire.
“By Practicing Theatre in Budhan Theatre, I can see the transformation of performer, community and place where people did not want to come. And now Chharanagar is being identified as a Theatre Activity Centre and slowly, people are coming to Chharanagar,” said Mr. Bajrange with great satisfaction.
In fact, Budhan Theatre is reviving tradition art of Chharas in a positive manner for social change and community development and being develop as a potential cultural platform to raise voice of Denotified Tribes against all odds and atrocities. Budhan Theatre is trying to remove a Criminal Stigma on Chhara Tribe. Through theatre the Charas are sensitizing mainstream societies for social acceptance and to the system for our fundamental and human rights.
“On 31st Aug. 2008, the Charas celebrated Budhan@ten and performed play ‘Ek Aur Balcony’, inspired by French playwright Jean Genat’s La Balcon. In last 10 years we had performed specifically focused ‘Violence’ depicted real life plays and when we were opening Ek Aur Balocy on 31st Aug. 2008, we did not expect that too much audience because we were first time performing in the heart of town. But, when curtain went up we saw entire auditorium was over crowded,” recollects Mr. Bajrange and adds to it, “It’s proved that Violence on Denotified Tribes accepted by wider audience and it is day by day increasing. To perform violence is becoming an Acceptance from the rest of world and acceptance is opening various kind of livelihood options and slowly the stigmatized community is transforming from Past to present and that is all due to THEATRE.”
This write up is majorly based on the paper that Dakxin Bhai presented in Udupi (December, 2008) and partial on my recent meeting with him in Delhi. I have merged the both and tried giving a feature like look to it
The Men
The Truth Of My Prologue Is This: Down With Sleazy
Romanticists!
With Experts In The Ineffable!
I Am Just Like The Others: The Colombian Lady Professor,
The Philadelphian Rotarian, The Drummer
From Paysandu Who Cashed In A Bundle
To Get Here. In A Mishmash Of Languages,
By Dissimilar Routes We All Come Upon: Silence.
- Pablo Neruda
(Late And Posthumous Poems. 1968-1974)
Third Power
An early morning discussion was triggered between Shoaib and me in relation to the view expressed by Arundathi Roy in an interview to Karan Thapar on CNN-IBN. But our discussion was not on her thoughts specifically but an offshoot of her views.
We were speaking of how counter-hegemony, with ideals and dreams for a better tomorrow, also becomes hegemony in itself when it manages to overthrow hegemony. We both agreed on that. But Shoaib is of the belief that you have to be a part of the power structure to fight the system. And I somehow cannot accept that, though I don’t have an alternate plan to fight, for I believe when you are a part of it is hard to fight it for you are chained in more than one way. I believe that power is corrupt. And when something becomes a part of the power structure then it weakens itself, it appears to me.
History has seen the world changing with two kinds of powers, namely- the power of violence and the power of law. The power of love is spoken by all but this idea of love is restricted to family-circle. The great Jayaprakash Narayan, in the introduction to a book by Vinobha Bhave quotes the example of the early days of Christianity when the followers of the religion constructed communities based on love. He says that with the spread of Christianity and its acceptance as the State religion of the Roman Empire, the influence of the principle of love on society became weakened.
He observes that, “So long as Christianity was not a state religion, Christians withstood the corrupt practices of the Roman empire with great courage and heroism in a completely non-violent way in accordance with the teaching of Jesus. But after it became a State religion, practically all efforts to give a non-violent shape to the political, economic and other aspects of the life of society came to an end.”
J.P. quoting the example of Ashoka, who accepted Buddhist dharma and vowed that he would never make war again, points out that “It does not seem, however, that Indian society in Ashoka’s time was permeated of non-violence or compassion.” To J.P. non-violence doesn’t mean mere absence of violence. To him “the exploitation, oppression, gross inequality and other social evils,” which exist within the legal framework of the State are all aspects of violence even though there may be no “open violence.”
With these two examples J.P. clarifies that he is not trying to say that it is the failure of Jesus or Buddha. To him the teachings of Jesus and Buddha, in the examples he mentioned, failed because “these movements became official State religions and lent their support to the State’s organized military and legal power. To him because of this “it was not possible for them to create a society based on non-violence.” He observes that the power of love was swallowed up by the power of the State, non-violence was lost in violence and compassion in the law.
When Mao announced that “Power grows out of the barrel of a gun,” he was just speaking about the harsh reality of modern human culture. Gun is just a metaphor of violence and oppression, it appears to me. This idea of power corrupting ideals and pro-human goals and dreams come across beautifully in the short story TALE OF THE STAIRS by Hristo Smirnenski. Let me narrate the story now:
“Who are you?” The Devil asked him.
“I am a plebeian by birth and all ragged folk are my brothers. How terrible the world is, how wretched the people are!”
It was a young man who spoke with head erect and clenched fists. He stood at the foot of the Stairs – a high white staircase of rose-flecked marble. He gazed fixedly into the distance where the grey crowds of poverty stirred like the turbid waters of a swollen river. The crowds surged and seethed, raised a forest of thin black arms, thunderous cries of wrath and indignation rent the air and the echo faded slowly and solemnly like distant gun-fire. The crowds grew and grew nearer in clouds of yellow dust, single silhouettes showed more distinctly against the grey horizon. An old man approached, bent low to the ground as if seeking lost youth. A barefoot little girl clutched his ragged clothes and stared at the high Stairs with mild cornflower-blue eyes. Stared and smiled. Then thin grey figures came all in rags, singing a long-drawn funeral chorus. Someone whistled shrilly, somebody else thrusting his hands in his pockets laughed loud and harshly and insanity blazed in his eyes.
“I am a plebeian by birth and all ragged folk are my brothers. How terrible the world is, how wretched the people are! But you there, you at the top there…”
It was a young man who spoke with head erect and fists clenched in manace.
“So you hate those up at the top,” the Devil asked, and styly leaned forward towards the young man.
“I shall have my revenge on those nobles and princes. I shall cruelly avenge my brothers – my brothers whose faces are as yellow as sand and who groan more bitterly than the blizzards of December. See their naked bleeding bodies, hear their groans! I shall avenge them. Let me go!”
The Devil smiled: “I am the guardian of those at the top and without a bribe I shall not betray them.”
“I have no gold. I have nothing with which to bribe you… I am poor, a youth in rags… But I am willing to give up my life…”
Again the Devil smiled: “O no, I do not ask as much as that. Just give me your hearing.”
“My hearing? Gladly… May I never hear anything any more, may I…”
“You still shall hear,” the Devil assured him, and made way for him. “Pass!”
The young man set off at a run and had taken three steps in one stride when the hairy hand of the Devil caught him.
“That’s enough! Now pause and listen to your brothers groaning below.”
The young man paused and listened.
“How strange! Why have they suddenly begun to sing happy songs and to laugh light-heartedly?…” Again he set off at a run.
Again the Devil stopped him. “For you to go three more steps I must have your eyes.”
The young man made a gesture of despair. “But then I shall be unable to see my brothers or those I go to punish.”
“You still shall see them…” The Devil said. “I will give you different, much better eyes.”
The young man rose three more steps and looked back.
“See your brothers’ naked bleeding bodies,” the Devil prompted him.
“My God, how very strange! When did they manage to don such beautiful clothes? And not bleeding wounds but splendid red roses deck their bodies…”
At very third stair the Devil exacted his little toll. But the young man proceeded, willingly giving everything he had in order to reach his goal and to punish the well-fed nobles and princes. Now one step, just one last step remained and he would be at the top. Then indeed he would avenge his brothers.
“I am a plebeian by birth and all ragged folk…”
“Young man, one last step still remains. Just one more step and you shall have your revenge. But for this last step I always exact a double toll: give me your heart and give me your memory.”
The young man protested.
“My heart? No, that is too cruel!”
The Devil gave a deep and masterful laugh: “I am not so cruel as you imagine. In exchange I will give you a heart of gold and a brand-new memory. But if you refuse me, then you shall never avenge your brothers whose faces are the colour of sand and who groan more bitterly than December blizzards.”
The young man saw irony in the Devil’s green eyes.
“But there will be nobody then more wretched than I. You are taking away all my human nature.”
“On the contrary, nobody shall be happier than you. Well, do you agree: just your heart and memory?”
The young man pondered, his face clouded over, beads of sweat ran from the furrowed brow, in anger he tightened his fists and through clenched teeth said: “Very well, then. Take them!”
…And like a swift summer storm of rage and wrath, his dark locks flying in the wind, he crossed the final step. He was now at the very top. And a broad a smile suddenly in his face, his eyes now shone with tranquil joy and his fists relaxed. He looked at the nobles revelling there and looked down to the roaring, cursing, grey ragged crowds below. He gazed, but not a muscle of his face quivered: his face was radiant, happy and content. The crowds he saw below were in holiday attire and their groans were now hymns.
“Who are you?” the Devil asked in a low sly voice.
“I am a prince by birth and the gods are my brothers. How beautiful the world is and how happy are the people!”
I guess it was for this reason that Gandhi used to say that those who had faith in non-violence should not enter politics. And possibly it was for this very reason that Vinobha advised the lok-sevaks not to join political parties. It was for this reason, i guess, why Vinobha came up with the idea of lok-niti (government by the people) as an alternative to raj-niti (conventional politics)
My discussion with Shoaib this morning was an offshoot of the comment made by Arundathi Roy in the context of the State declaring war on Maoists. And now as I am speaking of Vinobha and his politics I must mention his idea of the THIRD POWER which he said is “a power which is opposed to the power of violence and distinct from the power of the state.”
Vinobha was often asked as to why he doesn’t accept responsibility in the Government of the nation. To this question he once answered: “Two bullocks have already been yoked to the cart; of what use would it be to take me as a third? The best way for me to help the cart along is to repair the road that it can travel in the right direction.” He continued to say, “We must devote ourselves to building up an independent “people’s power,” and that in itelf will be our true service.” To him, ‘people’s power,’ as i said earlier meant a power inhering in the people which are totally opposed to the power of violence, but other than the power of law.
When Vinobha went on to form the third power or the people’s power he requested his co-workers to not identify themselves as the Sarvoday group or something alike because it could go on to become a sect or take a form of institutionalism. He urged his workers to identify themselves with the common run of humanity and to work among men simply as fellow human beings.
Working with the common run of humanity and with me simply as fellow human beings is what my senior friend and my teacher Harsh Mander is doing. He, as many of you know, was an IAS bureaucrat till he witnessed the attacks of 2002 in Gujarat. After he met the victims of the communal attacks in Gujarat, he resigned form his post and started working individually for the cause of the oppressed. In an interview recently he said, “As for the individual fight, it does get difficult at times to bear constant opposition from strong forces. After the Gujarat carnage we took up the issue of sudden closure of 2000 FIRs without any proper investigation to the Supreme Court and won the case. It was one of the highest points of my life.” To do this he had to move out of the power structure. Now he is a THIRD POWER and I try to draw my lessons from him, his teacher Gandhi- who also was a kind of THIRD POWER- and yet another disciple of Gandhi- Vinobha.
Coming to the matter believed by Shoaib, I have my respects for his views and I guess he should try and do what he can, in the path which he believes in (fighting against the system by being in the system/ using the masters language against the master) and finally what matters is that we need to bring a change. It doesn’t matter as to who brought the change, you or I.
We Are Not Your Monkeys
The rulers who controlled all knowledge
And claimed the Ramayana to be India’s history
Called us many names:
“Demons”, “Low castes”, “Untouchables”
But we were the aborigines of this land
Listen to our story
Today we call ourselves
Dalits – the oppressed
Once the Aryans on their horses
invaded this land
And we who were the natives
became the displaced
O Rama, O Rama !
You became the gods and we the demons
You portrayed our Hanuman as a monkey
O Rama, you representative of Aryans
You enslaved us
to form a monkey army
Those you could not subjugate
you deemed as Rakshasas – demons
But we were the Rakshaks –
Protectors of the forest
To keep your racial purity
you invented the hierarchy of caste
Through your “Laws of Manu” *
you trampled on the rights of women
You made your wife Sita undergo
An ordeal by fire to prove her chastity
Such was your male law O Rama !
When Shambuka the “untouchable”
Tried to gain knowledge
You beheaded him O Rama !
Thus did you crush those that tried
To rise above their caste
Days passed
Years and aeons went by
But our lives remained the same
We skin your cattle
So can wear shoes
We clean your gutters
So you can stay clean
Do you ask then O Rama
What our caste is ?
What our religion is ?
Independence dawned and with it began
the rule of the Constitution
The author of the Constitution
Dr. B.R. Ambedkar
Himself born an “untouchable”
framed the Constitution
around secular ideals
The castle of caste privilege
Began to crumble
No longer could the elite
Skim the milk of religious exploitation
But poverty grew
And to divert the attention of the poor
A new enemy was found
Muslims were targeted
And “taught a lesson”
To destroy Lanka, O Rama
You formed us into a monkey army
And today you want us
The working majority
To form a new monkey army
And attack Muslims
But be warned
Be warned you purveyors
Of self-serving religion
We will be your monkeys no more
We will sing songs of humanity
And we will make you human as well
We will make you human.
Written by Daya Pawar, Sambhaji Bhagat and Anand Patwardhan
*The casteist and misogynist “Laws of Manu” were compiled in the Brahmanic period and Manu is claimed to be the “First Man”.
Waqt Ki Dukaan
Waqt apni dukan kyun sajaye
baita hai mere saamne?
Wo cheez jinki khareedar thi main,
kahan hai?
Yeh masnooi masarraton ke khilone,
shohrat ke ye kagazi phool
aur daulath ki ye momi gudiyan
jo sheeshe ki almariyo mein band hai.
yeh woh cheeze nahi hai
jinhe main khareedna chahu.
Pyar ke ek khubsurath khwab
jo meri sulagti ankho mei tandak bhar de
muhabbat ka ek purtpak lamha
jo meri bechain rooh ko pursakun kar de
bas inhi ek do cheezo ki mai khareedar thi.
Aur waqt ki dukaan in cheezo se khali nikli.
- ‘Naaz’ (Meena Kumari)
Tamasoma Jothirgamaya
The article is majorly quoting the Dalit students who spoke during a public hearing of their conditions. The students have spoken about how they are made to clean the school toilets by their teachers and how they are beaten if they refuse to clean the toilets, how their upper caste fellow school mates sprinkle water on themselves, to purify, if the Dalit students touch them “by mistake,” how the teachers don’t want to touch the notes of the Dalit students. Some of them also speak of their part-time works of disposing dead animals for Rs. 10.
Prakash, a student of class seven says “I need a life of dignity,” while Jayesh a student of class ten intends to BBA so that he will get a “job” and will not have to do “this” kind of work again. The article ends with the question, “Will these abhorrent practices continue for another 50 years?” and I go to sleep with the same question but assuming that it would take more than 50 years.
This morning I woke up when my mobile rang at around 6:30 a.m. A message from Madhura read: “May the festivals of lights bring brightness in your life.” Yes, it is Deepaavali today, I realize and wake up. Deepavali- festival of lights…
I went out to buy The Hindu from the market and as I keep Rs. 3 on the palm of the familiar stranger who hands over The Hindu to me everyday, I see a photo of a few girls celebrating Deepawali and just below the photo, as if to remind the proverb ‘Diya Taley Andhera’ (darkness beneath the lamp) I read the headlines “Terror attack again in Peshawar.”
I come home and see that the paper-wallah as delivered Times of India, like any other day. I bring in ToI inside along with The Hindu and start reading The Hindu first. As I flip the pages I am stopped by the report ‘The sorry plight of Khara tribals in M.P.” which is on the landless exploited Khara tribes of M.P. who are working as mine laborers. As I turn the page and scanning through the editorial, my phone rings. I take the call from my sister, who is at home for Deepawali. She wishes me a happy Deepawali and so does my mother, father, grandpa, grand ma and my aunt. Deepavali- festival of lights…
As I get back to the newspaper, I grab ToI in place of The Hindu, unknowingly. In one of the middle pages I read about a woman being flogged for prostitution in Balasore. The villagers have also video recorded the barbaric act of the 25 year old Dalit lady being publically abused and beaten. I further turn the pages and am caught by a report on one of the last pages. The report is on how Al-Shabaab, a hard-line Islamist group of Somalia has been whipping women for wearing bra. They are of the opinion that bra is un-Islamic.
When I was done with my reading of ToI, I went check my mobile which, I had heard, beeping a couple of times. Yes, as expected, the messages were wishing a happy Deepawali from friends and relatives. Deepawali- festival of lights….
Realizing that I had not completed reading The Hindu, I took The Hindu again and re-started from where I had left. Now I had something more to take. A report by U.N. has declared that one billion people go hungry. A box item said tat India scores low in anti-hunger fight. The box item concludes with a quote from the U.N. report that reads, “Hunger exists not because there is not enough food in India, but because people cannot access it.”
I guess, similarly, there is no lack of light in the world. It is just that some cannot access and some cannot afford light. But as today’s editorial of ToI said, “Light not only shows the path, it is itself a destination.”
We need to realize where to light the lamps to make light accessible to everyone and so that everyone can celebrate light… after all what is Deepawali other than celebration of light?
Tamsaoma Joythirgamaya… Shanti Santhi Santhi Hi…
Gaston Roberge On Meida (Video) Education
Adaab
Gaston Roberge Sir, needs no introduction to film enthusiasts and also for those who have been following this blog (This blog earlier published his enlightening mail, on how to combat violence, and also celebrated his 75th birthday by publishing one of his article) Here in this interview- conducted in mid 2009 at Kolkata, Gaston Sir suggests how video/cinema training and education can be conducted in a better manner for young students.
Peace,
Samvartha ‘Sahil’
Ek Puraana Khat Khola Anjaane Mein…
She: Hi
Me: hello
She: Received your letter
Me: oh! Is it?
She: Thanks
Me: Thanks is too formal a word to be used with friends
She: Ok then give it back 
Me: Take it…
She: It meant a lot
Me: Hmmm
(18 September 2009)
No mail I had previously written to her made her say “It meant a lot,” nor did any SMS or even direct phone calls. So it is obvious that there was something special about a handwritten letter which made the communication so special which meant a lot for her.
Nearly a year ago when she had first sent me a friends request and a scrap on Orkut, I remember replying with a couplet of Ghalib, which he had written a reply to one of the letters that he had received. He said:
Tera Khat Mila Aankhon Mein Noor Aaya
Seene Pe Rakh Liya Mazaa Aaya…
There is some beauty in the act of writing, reading and exchanging letters which as Ghalib rightly points out brings a shine in the eyes. This beauty of letter writing is never spoken about in schools and only a dry leave note and application writing is taught and made to study.
What is this beauty of handwritten letters? There is something human about it. It has more of human touch and less intervention of outside force like technology in it and makes the entire process a very personal experience.
While young, I used to write letters to my cousins and grandparents. Dad wrote me letters when he was out of station and I wrote to him sometimes. But these were not on a regular basis. I started writing letters on a regular basis when I was doing my post-graduation. Divya, who then was in Mysore, and I would write at least two letters in a weeks time. The mind would unfold and flow in words and drop on a blank sheet. It was dark times for both of us. Both of us were walking on the boulevard of broken dreams and through letters we shared our agony and whatever little joy we found. We unburdened ourselves by writing. Letters were like catharsis. Letters had some healing power.
Yes, letters have some healing power. It was December 2006 and I was interning in Bangalore. I was writing letters to my friends back in Manipal. One day a friend sent me a SMS saying, “Sam, your letter received at the right time. I am going to meet her for the last time. It feels good that your letter is with me. I have something to hold on to.” How was the letter related to my friend and his girl? It was unrelated but my letter, I guess, stood FOR me with my friend at the time of crisis. It acted like a healing factor to a certain extent.
Divya and I would call each other only to enquire if the letter has reached or not. The rest of the conversation would happen via letter. When she came home- Udupi – from Mysore she brought all the letters that I had written to her and I went to her place carrying all the letters that she has written to me. We read out the letters in a sequential order and re-lived the moments of letter writing. Those letters had a life, hence they could be re-lived.
We read out letters to each other like Amrita and Zulfi read out letters to each other in the play ‘Tumhari Amrita’ (written by Jawed Siddiquie) It is an interesting play not just because it has just two characters but also because there is absolutely no stage movement in the play and no settings as such. The letters unfold and turn the heart, mind and soul of the audience into a stage and start dancing and performing on the invisible stage. Human heart, mind and soul could be turned into a stage through letters that is how personal and intimate letters and words can be.
Sometimes I think as to what makes the play Tumhari Amrita such an intense and intimate play? With all the possible reasons, once cannot deny the fact that the play being stitched in a letter format is also a reason. The first novel of Fyodor Dostoyevsky ‘Poor People’ or ‘Poor Folks,’ is also written in a letter format and this very form adds an intimacy and beauty to the novel.
Recently the letters exchanged between the Punjabi poet and novelist Amrita Pritam and the painter Imroz got published. Unlike Tumhari Amrita and Poor People, these letters are non-fiction and real. Couple of years ago the letters of Guru Dutt written to Geetha Dutt were also published. These letters give the closest view to the mind of the writer which his/her art would not with such closeness. If one is to read the love letters written by Kafka and Bernard Shaw one would see a different Kafka and a different Bernard Shaw than what is seen in their creative writings. In their creative writings one would see the intellectual and creative side of theirs. But in their letters one can see the passionate side of theirs which is closer to the human side of the artist. Letter is a reflection of the inner most realities of a person.
Gandhi too wrote plenty of letters. His letters had political agenda behind them. He discussed and educated people with his letters. But, seeing through my eyes, the best of his letters were addressed to Rabindranath Tagore. These letters have been reproduced in the book MAHATMA AND THE POET. As one keeps reading the book one would seriously have a doubt as to who is the poet, Tagore or Gandhi. The act of writing brought out the poetic side of Gandhi.
Tagore wrote a beautiful short story titled POSTMASTER. At the end of the story the postmaster moves out of the village leaving behind the girl all alone. Today postmasters of the world have not disappeared yet they have disappeared.
During childhood watching Sidarth Kak and Renuka Shehane every Sunday in the programme was a craze. More than craze it was an addiction. The last segment of every episode would be Sawal-Jawaab. A question would be asked and the audiences were expected to write the answers on a post card and send it to the Surabhi address. Today all reactions, answers and votes are expected through SMS. This shift shows the eroding function of letter writing.
I too stopped writing letters to Divya. But is till have all the letters that she wrote me. I also have the letters that Jayanth Kaikini, Kanaka Ha. Ma., Gowri Lankesh and Ranganayakamma wrote to me thanking me for the congratulating letters I wrote to them for some of their works which touched me. When I open the box of letters, an entire past, an entire era unfolds before me. I find lost days in those letters. The box not just shelters letters it also shelters some of the finest and rarest memories of my life…
Kushbu Jaise Log Miley Afsaane Mein,
EK Puraana Khat Khola Anjaae Mein.
(Gulzar)
During my last few days with The Hindu I attended the Dak Adalat in Mangalore. There were two petitions and both objecting the removal of post boxes from their area. The post officer was of the belief that box was being under utilized and hence be removed but there was objection from people. I saw these objections as a good sign. But sadly that day both the petitioners did not attend the adalat and the only person attending the adalat was the reporter of The Hindu. Their absence indicated that the need of the post box was not much.
Last evening (09 October 2009) I was going through the newspaper after I came back from the University and saw a full page advertisement from the postal department saying ‘WORLD POST DAY.’ When I informed Faizan about it he questioned, “Who writes letters and uses postal system these days?” Then suddenly remembering me writing letters to Manipal a few days ago added: “There are some like you who still write. But on a whole the art of letter writing is dying.”
Once I had written to Divya:
Khat-O-Khitaabat Ki Sada Rasm Ko Jaari Rakhna,
Bhool Jaana Na Humein Yaad Hamaari Rakhna.
(Anonymous)
Today it appears like the art of letter writing is reciting this couplet to me…..
Using Master’s Language Against The Master
Chethan Bhagath has penned an open letter to Mahtma Gandhi (ToI, 04 October 2009) titled ‘Letter to Baapu from generation next.’ In the letter, Mr. Bhagath, inviting Baapu to come back to India and lead the generation next wrote, “We have amazing technology such as the internet now. You could use it so well.”
This line took me a year back in time. The yearly Culture Course in Heggodu with the theme ‘Swaraj’ and one Subrato Bagchi was speaking. Referring to the revolt of Mamatha Benerjee in West Bengal against the Tata Company and their decision to set up a factory in Singur, Mr. Bagchi raised the question, “Doesn’t Mamatha Banerjee use a car? Doesn’t she use a mobile phone? If she does, then she has no moral right to revolt against the Tata.” Saying this Mr. Bagchi went on to make a huge statement. He said, “If Gandhi were to be there today would he use a car and a mobile phone? No he wouldn’t. Because he was against technology and so when he was against them he wouldn’t use them.”
Recently my friend Neeraj Agarwal has been arguing with me that Gandhi’s text Hind Swaraj is outdated. “Gandhi was against train. Do you think we can do in todays time without trains?” asked Neeraj several times. Yes, it is near impossible to avoid train nowadays. So does that mean Gandhi is outdated? I disagree.
More importantly though Gandhi criticized trains, he did travel in the train. He used the train, the one which he criticized, to reach the people and extend the reach of his same criticism. He used the language (here it is the train) of the master against the master. Isn’t that a wonderful politics?
Gandhi was not just against trains, but against technology and machine age in general. A lesser known fact is that Gandhi was also against Cinema. In his opinion Cinema was an evil like gambling and horse-racing. K.A. Abbas once wrote to Gandhi saying, “Today I bring for your scrutiny – and approval – a new toy my generation has learned to play with, the CINEMA! – You include cinema among evils like gambling, satta, horse-racing etc. …. Now if these statements had come from any other person, it was not necessary to be worried about them … But your case is different. In view of the great position you hold in this country, and I may say in the world, even the slightest expression of your opinion carries much weight with millions of people. And one of the world’s most useful inventions would be allowed to be discarded or what is worse, left alone to be abused by unscruplous people. You are a great soul, Bapu. In your heart there is no room for prejudice. Give this little toy of ours, the cinema, which is not so useless as it looks, a little of your attention and bless it with a smile of toleration.”
But the beauty of Gandhian politics is using the master’s language against the master! He did criticise cinema. Yes. But one cannot forget that it was only after the tryst with Gandhi that the great master Charlie Chaplin made his magnum opus MODERN TIMES which criticised industrial revolution and machine age in one of the best ways. Gandhi could make cinema- which is a product of machine age and industrial revolution- against the very industrial revolution and machine age.
An important film theoretician Jean Mitry in his work ‘In Esthetique’ argues that, “It is neither art nor literature which were threatened by the cinema, but a certain conception of art, certain acquisitions, a certian ‘ritual’ …. it did not threaten only an art form but a manner of being, of living and of thinking of which theatre was the supreme manifestation: in short, cinema threatened a culture, perhaps even a civilization.”
The argument of Jean Mitry is remotely connected to that of Gandhi. But the most remarkable element of cinema was that it could be used against the very capitalist, industrial, modern age, as a critique. And that is what people like Ritwik Ghatak, John Abraham (The Malyalam filmmaker), Anand Bhai (Patwardhan), Micheal Moore, Rakesh Sharma, Shri Bhai (Shriprakash) all have been done so far, using the master’s language against the master.
Take the example of the film Lagaan by Ashutosh Gowariekar, which was nominated for the Oscars in 2001. In the film the peasants use the master’s language (here it is Cricket) against the master and won over them and liberate themselves. The colonial power is triumphed over by a colonial game a colonial toy by the peasants in the film.
Even some of the foremost leaders of Indian freedom struggle i.e. Gandhi, Ambedkar, Rajarama Mohan Roy, who fought against the colonial powers got their education in England. Using the understanding got trough English education in England they used the very same education against the colonial power.
But English education colonises the very mind which undergoes English education, argues Ngugi Wa Thiango in his magnum opus ‘De-Colonizing the Mind.’ With all my respects for Ngugi and agreeing with him to a large extent, I feel if we can use the very same English to de-colonize the mind then may be we could fetch better results.
Once Ngugi started writing in Swahili after divorcing English completely, he could hardly reach the world and open the eyes of the world to his world. But Chinua Achebe, whom Ngugi criticises in his book De-Colonizing the Mind, continues to reach to the world and also open the eyes of the world to a new world which has been destroyed by colonization. By using African idioms, proverbs, Achebe is trying to de-colonize English to an extent. If he too were to divorce English like Ngugi, how is that the world would know of the African life and world? He uses the language of the master (here English) and criticises the English.
Similarly while criticising the trains Gandhi travelled all over India by train and spoke against machine age and industrial revolution whose progeny is the train. So if he were to be alive today, yes he would be 140, but I am sure he would be sitting and using internet to reach to the people and using Internet for the pedagogy of the oppressed and at once and at the same time would be criticizing internet. He would criticise the master’s language, for sure. But he would be using the master’s language against the master.
