Recently, while reading a blog by popular Pakistani columnist Nadeem F Paracha in the Dawn newspaper, I came across an interesting comment by a certain Anjum Hameed. It raised the most interesting and pertinent points.
The comment was: “Out of curiosity, I want to know WHY we can’t take on our friendly, neighborhood mullah??...you think he will ex-communicate us??...he can’t...our religion allows us to pray and worship God in our own homes, in our own corner…”
There are several aspects that Hameed’s views have highlighted. Three of them are.
1. The relationship between the general populace and ecclesiasts.
2. The difference between spirituality and religion.
3. The primordial need to belong.
Let us analyze these three in detail.
1. The Mullah and I
Why is it that I cannot voice opinion against the neighborhood Mullah? And, if I were a Christian, against the padre of my congregation?
It is not the fear that I will annoy my one-point contact with God. I am certainly saner than that. If I believe in a ubiquitous and omnipotent god, then I for sure realize that I don’t need a go between such as the Mullah or the Pandit.
The answer is that by some historical quirk of fate a handful of people assumed the right – or perhaps were inadvertently bestowed with the right – to ‘guide’/‘direct’ the flock in matters religious and spiritual. Eventually these guys also assumed the right to ‘guide/direct’ the entire community as a unit.
And now I am scared of not belonging to that community/unit, which the Mullah/Padre/Pandit is quite capable of ensuring if I do not follow his diktats.
2. Religion or Spirituality?
That brings us to the next point.
So essentially organized religion – as represented by its modern day leaders — is nothing but a tool to herd people into a single unit for political purposes. It is not very different from a political party. The only difference being that religion uses the garb of spirituality after maligning/ twisting it big time.
3. Insecurity
But the bigger question is, why should I belong to a particular community at all in the first place?
The answer is simple: Insecurity.
Human being has always found security in numbers. For all our dramatic modern achievements, human beings are frail – physically and mentally; frail, because in spite of our achievements, we are not secure in our skin.
We view each other with suspicion. If the other is of a marginally different physical and mental make-up, we completely distrust him/her. The corollary to that is our tendency to join hands with those with the same physical and mental make-up as our own.
And religion (particularly organized religion) is the biggest expression of that insecurity of ours.
In short: to hell with Organized Religion — be it the anachronistic Hinduism, putrid Islam, redundant Christianity or decadent Buddhism.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Television Discussions: Looking For Civility and Reason
Panel discussions on Indian television have come a long way from the sleepy and monotonous sessions of the Doordarshan era.
Back then the static camera and uninspired presentation of views actually killed the informed decency of the panelists.
With the media boom, the picture changed. Apart from the lively involvement of audience and the eloquence of media-savvy panelists, technology also ensured the involvement of speakers from across time zones, promising a deeper, broader and more enlightened discourse on issues.
Not only are today's newsmakers and commentators seemingly more open to instant reactions to their views, they are also well versed -- in varying degrees -- with the dynamics of live media.
However, what one very badly misses is good old civility in conversations. By ‘civility’, one does not mean mere non-use of un-parliamentary language. I mean ‘civility’ in the very basic sense; something like ‘Wait for your turn to speak’, which is taught to kindergarten children.
By nature we Indians are a garrulous lot, no doubt. The understated adjective, ‘argumentative’, which Prof Amartya Sen bestowed on us, is perhaps a quality that flows in our bloodstream. But should that stop us from having reasonable debates on TV without out-shouting each other?
I think there are two parts to the problem, besides that fact that we are inherently argumentative.
First, television news, as the cliché goes, is no more just news today. It is entertainment. It is competition. It is also often a direct response mechanism that gives panelists the first taste of public sentiments.
Given this scenario, most Indian panelists – very often regular fixtures on particular channels – look to make the most out of their 30-60 minute daily airtime quota to ensure that they are heard. For such a desperate lot, it is irrelevant whether a fellow-panelist is making a pertinent point, answering specific questions or stating facts that could give the discussion a fresh perspective.
Irrespective of the political inclination of the panelist or news channel, discussions today are generally all sound and fury.
That brings us to the second aspect of the problem. One of the primary reasons for the cacophony on television is plain bad handling by producers as well as anchors.
Why can’t it be made clear before the start of the programme that volubility will not be considered a plus point? Why can’t anchors be better trained to moderate discussions? And finally, why can’t we have better learned panelists for specific topics?
For instance, on a discussion in the aftermath of 26/11 on Times Now, we had Shobha De offering views on the tactical and strategic mistakes on the NSG and actually pitted against the NSG chief himself!
Times Now often has a certain non-entity called Rahul Easwar (at best a college level debater) to defend the hooligans of Sriram Sene and Shiv Sena. This gentleman doesn’t even get his facts right and survives debates on shrill assertions.
Twice – once on Times Now and then on NDTV – Eeaswar was censured by a fellow panelist and the anchor for making provocative statements. One such statement was actually in favour of Sati.
The other extreme of his ideology is the soft-spoken Swapan Dasgupta whose voice is often lost in the barrage of his “louder than thou” co-panelists.
Recently, on NDTV’s Left, Right and Centre, which was discussing the fuel price hike, it was Rajiv Pratap Rudy and one of CPIM’s young faces who simply outshouted folks like Business Standard editor Sanjay Baru. Rudy was audacious enough to assert that the common man doesn’t bother about economics! Rudy was promptly corrected by a lady in the audience.
But the most annoying is perhaps the anchors’ self-righteous diatribe. In the zeal to make their own view-point the most dominant one (to hell with balance or objectivity!), they often pepper other speakers’ views with irritating ‘buts’, ‘ifs’ and, if necessary, ‘you suck!’ (No, I did not make up the last example. It was used by a ‘senior’ anchor on Times Now against Arundhati Roy).
At the end of such a session, and particularly from Rudy’s statement, it was clear that the idea was never to reach out to the layman. It was just to make sure that one’s sound box was the most sought after by the pandering visual media.
Back then the static camera and uninspired presentation of views actually killed the informed decency of the panelists.
With the media boom, the picture changed. Apart from the lively involvement of audience and the eloquence of media-savvy panelists, technology also ensured the involvement of speakers from across time zones, promising a deeper, broader and more enlightened discourse on issues.
Not only are today's newsmakers and commentators seemingly more open to instant reactions to their views, they are also well versed -- in varying degrees -- with the dynamics of live media.
However, what one very badly misses is good old civility in conversations. By ‘civility’, one does not mean mere non-use of un-parliamentary language. I mean ‘civility’ in the very basic sense; something like ‘Wait for your turn to speak’, which is taught to kindergarten children.
By nature we Indians are a garrulous lot, no doubt. The understated adjective, ‘argumentative’, which Prof Amartya Sen bestowed on us, is perhaps a quality that flows in our bloodstream. But should that stop us from having reasonable debates on TV without out-shouting each other?
I think there are two parts to the problem, besides that fact that we are inherently argumentative.
First, television news, as the cliché goes, is no more just news today. It is entertainment. It is competition. It is also often a direct response mechanism that gives panelists the first taste of public sentiments.
Given this scenario, most Indian panelists – very often regular fixtures on particular channels – look to make the most out of their 30-60 minute daily airtime quota to ensure that they are heard. For such a desperate lot, it is irrelevant whether a fellow-panelist is making a pertinent point, answering specific questions or stating facts that could give the discussion a fresh perspective.
Irrespective of the political inclination of the panelist or news channel, discussions today are generally all sound and fury.
That brings us to the second aspect of the problem. One of the primary reasons for the cacophony on television is plain bad handling by producers as well as anchors.
Why can’t it be made clear before the start of the programme that volubility will not be considered a plus point? Why can’t anchors be better trained to moderate discussions? And finally, why can’t we have better learned panelists for specific topics?
For instance, on a discussion in the aftermath of 26/11 on Times Now, we had Shobha De offering views on the tactical and strategic mistakes on the NSG and actually pitted against the NSG chief himself!
Times Now often has a certain non-entity called Rahul Easwar (at best a college level debater) to defend the hooligans of Sriram Sene and Shiv Sena. This gentleman doesn’t even get his facts right and survives debates on shrill assertions.
Twice – once on Times Now and then on NDTV – Eeaswar was censured by a fellow panelist and the anchor for making provocative statements. One such statement was actually in favour of Sati.
The other extreme of his ideology is the soft-spoken Swapan Dasgupta whose voice is often lost in the barrage of his “louder than thou” co-panelists.
Recently, on NDTV’s Left, Right and Centre, which was discussing the fuel price hike, it was Rajiv Pratap Rudy and one of CPIM’s young faces who simply outshouted folks like Business Standard editor Sanjay Baru. Rudy was audacious enough to assert that the common man doesn’t bother about economics! Rudy was promptly corrected by a lady in the audience.
But the most annoying is perhaps the anchors’ self-righteous diatribe. In the zeal to make their own view-point the most dominant one (to hell with balance or objectivity!), they often pepper other speakers’ views with irritating ‘buts’, ‘ifs’ and, if necessary, ‘you suck!’ (No, I did not make up the last example. It was used by a ‘senior’ anchor on Times Now against Arundhati Roy).
At the end of such a session, and particularly from Rudy’s statement, it was clear that the idea was never to reach out to the layman. It was just to make sure that one’s sound box was the most sought after by the pandering visual media.
Friday, September 24, 2010
'Garbhavati Ganeshotsav'
My wife tried to hand me a plate of double omlette… (Mourya Rey...) But try as I did, my stretched hand simply couldn’t reach out… (Bappa Bappa…!!) Agonizingly close yet out of reach… Meanwhile Rafisaab consoled me for not being able to have my omlette and eat it too. With deep sympathy, he offered to sing ‘Yeh Duniya Agar Mil Bhi Jaye To Kya Hai’ merely to (…Pudhyavarshi Laukarya) cheer me up… But I sullenly stepped out into Chandni Chowk and walked into Peaco’s where Seva had already ordered an English Breakfast … (…Ganpati Ka JayJaykaar)… Hungry and angry, I was just about to take my first spoon of kesari bath when a horrible sounding Indian wild ass, straight from the Rann of Kutch, barked into my ear… Garbhavati Ganeshotsav!
…and I jumped up, wide awake, bewildered. In a few moments, realising that I had a long day ahead, I sighed, even as something somewhere in me distinctly said, “Oh no, not again.”
It takes a lot for an average Mumbaikar to get annoyed. The level of tolerance we have for the otherwise intolerable is, I believe, considerably higher than the citizens of any other city.
We are okay with people, even those who ought to have better sense, peeing on the roadside in that peculiar position that pretends to not let an imagined gallery of onlookers to size them up.
We wouldn’t give the pan-chewing jerk more than a glare when he bends over us to spray his disgusting venom out of the local train window with practiced perfection.
We have never really thought much about the grey fumes emanating out of exhausts on our way to work or back home – it’s hardly on our radar.
All perhaps because everytime something annoying crosses our way, we tell ourselves, “A little more and we are home and it's bedtime.”
The soft and inviting 6”X5” corner of bedrooms is the typical Mumbaikar’s ultimate landing pad. By the end of the day we would kill (rhetorically speaking, of course) to slump into it, leaving worldly ‘pleasures’ (?!) far behind.
But it so often happens during this time of the year that our daytime battles loyally follow us into the other world, blurring the lines between the real and surreal. When that happens, you know the famed tolerance of the Mumbaikar (some funnily call it the ‘spirit of Mumbai’) is flirting with the limits. Mosquito coil-makers perhaps make a living out of keeping Mumbaikar’s patience from snapping.
The Ganesh Utsav is an annual test to verify the current irritability levels of the megalopolis’s citizenry – and if found to be amply high, to heighten it even more, whichever way possible.
Mumbaikars being Mumbaikars, one could pardon us for overdoing the circus as an antidote to the otherwise miserable lives we live. But you know the city has lost it when authorities take it upon themselves to join the madness.
As if the constant braying of loudspeakers and thumping of singularly tasteless drumbeats is not enough, the city transport service, BEST, has found an innovative way to drill the message of ‘look how annoying we can get’ into commuters’ heads. Their WMD is something called BEST TV.
Supposed to be an audio-visual medium to reach out to travelers with pious civic messages, tacky advertisements and Bollywood promos, BEST TV joined the ‘Ganpati’ celebrations this year with a programme of its own – a contest of the elephant god idols.
And the torment was let loose.
While the programme is called ‘Gharghuti Ganeshotsav 2010’, thanks to the state-of-the-art sound systems, the announcement virtually ends up saying ‘Gharbhavati Ganeshotsav – 2010’ every 15 annoying minutes, whether you like it or not. The genius who manufactured the bus (pssst… the Chinkis) or the sound system (possibly someone as technologically challenged as me) forgot to install a volume control device. But we have more. The same genius somehow managed to connect the sound system to the buses’ electronic route indicator. You dare to put off put off the audio, the indicator goes off too.
In short, the tragedy unfolds every day as I enter the bus, and plays out throughout my journey of 2 hours (one way) at the same insane volume. The excruciating exercise is interspersed with ear-blasting festival music, sloppy sloganeering and godforsaken balladry.
While I escape the visual impact by jumping into the seat facing the opposite direction, my ears and brains get drilled and chewed respectively. Actually, my ordeal with the inanities associated with Ganeshotsav began much earlier, some seven years back in Pune where I was a PG student. At that time the favourite recurring leitmotifs were a crappy bhangra number (Kala Kavva Kaat Khayega Sach Bol) and raunchy ‘item’ songs (Gur Ki Kali and Babuji Zara Dheere Chalo).
Actually, these songs are not bad if played in a disc or a college party. But in a Ganesh pandal? Well well...
The idea of public celebrations is itself unpalatable to me. But I abhor it when it spills over into the streets, intrudes your private space, makes sleep an improbable activity and all the time carrying absolutely no semblance of decorum associated with a religious festival.
Tilak’s intentions were noble when he sought to popularize the community celebration of Ganesh Chaturthi. He wanted to bring in a community feeling among Indians this way. Pity he didn’t prescribe an exit clause, because the community celebration of the Ganesh Chaturthi festival long seems to have lost its utility.
In today’s outrageously extravagant editions, the Ganeshotsav comes across as a gargantuan horror of sorts.
Besides eating up tonnes of money, resources and man-hours, the fortnight long celebrations are also single-handedly responsible for boosting air, water, noise and mind-space pollution levels.
As for me, this past fortnight has made me fleetingly miss the boisterous railway stations of Mumbai. Besides my double-omlettes of course.
“…Pudhyavarshi don’t Laukarya”! Please!
…and I jumped up, wide awake, bewildered. In a few moments, realising that I had a long day ahead, I sighed, even as something somewhere in me distinctly said, “Oh no, not again.”
It takes a lot for an average Mumbaikar to get annoyed. The level of tolerance we have for the otherwise intolerable is, I believe, considerably higher than the citizens of any other city.
We are okay with people, even those who ought to have better sense, peeing on the roadside in that peculiar position that pretends to not let an imagined gallery of onlookers to size them up.
We wouldn’t give the pan-chewing jerk more than a glare when he bends over us to spray his disgusting venom out of the local train window with practiced perfection.
We have never really thought much about the grey fumes emanating out of exhausts on our way to work or back home – it’s hardly on our radar.
All perhaps because everytime something annoying crosses our way, we tell ourselves, “A little more and we are home and it's bedtime.”
The soft and inviting 6”X5” corner of bedrooms is the typical Mumbaikar’s ultimate landing pad. By the end of the day we would kill (rhetorically speaking, of course) to slump into it, leaving worldly ‘pleasures’ (?!) far behind.
But it so often happens during this time of the year that our daytime battles loyally follow us into the other world, blurring the lines between the real and surreal. When that happens, you know the famed tolerance of the Mumbaikar (some funnily call it the ‘spirit of Mumbai’) is flirting with the limits. Mosquito coil-makers perhaps make a living out of keeping Mumbaikar’s patience from snapping.
The Ganesh Utsav is an annual test to verify the current irritability levels of the megalopolis’s citizenry – and if found to be amply high, to heighten it even more, whichever way possible.
Mumbaikars being Mumbaikars, one could pardon us for overdoing the circus as an antidote to the otherwise miserable lives we live. But you know the city has lost it when authorities take it upon themselves to join the madness.
As if the constant braying of loudspeakers and thumping of singularly tasteless drumbeats is not enough, the city transport service, BEST, has found an innovative way to drill the message of ‘look how annoying we can get’ into commuters’ heads. Their WMD is something called BEST TV.
Supposed to be an audio-visual medium to reach out to travelers with pious civic messages, tacky advertisements and Bollywood promos, BEST TV joined the ‘Ganpati’ celebrations this year with a programme of its own – a contest of the elephant god idols.
And the torment was let loose.
While the programme is called ‘Gharghuti Ganeshotsav 2010’, thanks to the state-of-the-art sound systems, the announcement virtually ends up saying ‘Gharbhavati Ganeshotsav – 2010’ every 15 annoying minutes, whether you like it or not. The genius who manufactured the bus (pssst… the Chinkis) or the sound system (possibly someone as technologically challenged as me) forgot to install a volume control device. But we have more. The same genius somehow managed to connect the sound system to the buses’ electronic route indicator. You dare to put off put off the audio, the indicator goes off too.
In short, the tragedy unfolds every day as I enter the bus, and plays out throughout my journey of 2 hours (one way) at the same insane volume. The excruciating exercise is interspersed with ear-blasting festival music, sloppy sloganeering and godforsaken balladry.
While I escape the visual impact by jumping into the seat facing the opposite direction, my ears and brains get drilled and chewed respectively. Actually, my ordeal with the inanities associated with Ganeshotsav began much earlier, some seven years back in Pune where I was a PG student. At that time the favourite recurring leitmotifs were a crappy bhangra number (Kala Kavva Kaat Khayega Sach Bol) and raunchy ‘item’ songs (Gur Ki Kali and Babuji Zara Dheere Chalo).
Actually, these songs are not bad if played in a disc or a college party. But in a Ganesh pandal? Well well...
The idea of public celebrations is itself unpalatable to me. But I abhor it when it spills over into the streets, intrudes your private space, makes sleep an improbable activity and all the time carrying absolutely no semblance of decorum associated with a religious festival.
Tilak’s intentions were noble when he sought to popularize the community celebration of Ganesh Chaturthi. He wanted to bring in a community feeling among Indians this way. Pity he didn’t prescribe an exit clause, because the community celebration of the Ganesh Chaturthi festival long seems to have lost its utility.
In today’s outrageously extravagant editions, the Ganeshotsav comes across as a gargantuan horror of sorts.
Besides eating up tonnes of money, resources and man-hours, the fortnight long celebrations are also single-handedly responsible for boosting air, water, noise and mind-space pollution levels.
As for me, this past fortnight has made me fleetingly miss the boisterous railway stations of Mumbai. Besides my double-omlettes of course.
“…Pudhyavarshi don’t Laukarya”! Please!
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Obituary: Venu Nagavally, The Eternal Devdas, Sleeps
In a way, Venu Nagavally is happy now. He has finally met death, his object of affection and one of the two central characters of most of his movies. The other being destiny.
Nagavally’s persona was best portrayed perhaps by Lalettan, the lead character of Sarvakalashaala, arguably Nagavlly’s best movie. Lalettan, played by the then fantastic Mohan Lal, spends close to seven years in that one college, going through his under-graduation, graduation and post graduation.
It’s not that the lonely orphan loves studies or is ambitious about his academics. It’s just that he doesn’t want to leave his venerable alma mater -- his only support system.
Like Lalettan, Nagavally never passed out of his college days. He survived on sheer nostalgia; nostalgia for his own days of youth, when Castro and Marx were his gods and an ever expanding flock of friends his family. In the process, he kindled our memories. And how!
As an actor, he was not great. His morose and lifeless characters were almost always depressing -- the typical self-destructive devdas. He was perhaps the quintessential art-house actor.
But behind the camera Nagavally let his hair down. He loved to portray the camaraderie among friends and neighbours (and no one could beat him at that). Be it Swagatham, Ayitham, Sukhamo Devi, Kalippattam, Sarvakalashala or Hey! Auto, youthful banter and frolicking of the main characters were the high points of his movies.
Nagavally was the typical “thinking moviemaker” of the 1980s Kerala. Yet, he also was intellectually honest. We get an indication of this in one scene in Sarvakalashala.
The otherwise chirpy, impish and affable “Chakkara” — a sidekick played by Manianpilla Raju -- one fine day turns (pseudo-) serious, complete with a jubba, oiled hair, a side-bag and a thoughtful look.
When asked what the problem was, he says he wants to get serious in life. “Oru Venu Nagavally mood!” (I’m in a Venu Nagavally mood) he says. Rarely has any moviemaker made fun of himself in such a fashion and yet come out unscathed.
No single character took centre stage in Nagavally’s movies. They all played their parts. Yet they beautifully complemented the plot itself.
But wait. Of course there were central characters. Unmistakably yes. And they were destiny and death. Nagavalli’s movies were the visual manifestation of “man proposes, god/fate/destiny disposes”.
He charmed us with his witty dialogues (which he lent to other moviemakers too, like Priyadarshan) that were more or less directly lifted from the lay Malayalee’s routine conversations. But after he had lulled us this way, he would unleash the tormenting twists and turns in the plot, that left a lump in our collective throat.
Be it the accidental death of the character played by Ashokan in Swagatham or the passing away of Lal’s character in Sukhamo Devi, or the shooting of Siddhan -- the eccentric vagabound poet played by Nedumudi Venu -- in Sarvakalashaala. The dying character usually left behind so many incomplete tasks and profound thoughts that they changed almost everybody’s life overnight. Talk about vacuum.
Death indeed was the harbinger of unimaginable changes in Nagavally movies. It was the point of deflection in most of his narratives, or the culmination of the storm kicked up his other muse, destiny.
Consider the shock the mortuary van gives us when it passes by her gate just as Urvashi sets out to elope. The very person who was supposed to help her elope is lying in the van, cold dead.
Or this: Actor Sunny, Lal’s elder brother in Sukhamo Devi, reaches home on hearing of his younger brother’s death. After exchanging compulsive pleasantries with Lal’s buddies, with a quivering voice, he asks: “Enikku oru cigarette tharumo arenkilum?” (Someone give me a cigarette) And then his trembling hands cannot light the cigarette. Unmatched, till this day.
Lal Salaam, sakhavu Nagavally! May you have a good time with your beloved.
Note: Nagavally passed away in the wee hours of Thursday, September 9, 2010.
Nagavally’s persona was best portrayed perhaps by Lalettan, the lead character of Sarvakalashaala, arguably Nagavlly’s best movie. Lalettan, played by the then fantastic Mohan Lal, spends close to seven years in that one college, going through his under-graduation, graduation and post graduation.
It’s not that the lonely orphan loves studies or is ambitious about his academics. It’s just that he doesn’t want to leave his venerable alma mater -- his only support system.
Like Lalettan, Nagavally never passed out of his college days. He survived on sheer nostalgia; nostalgia for his own days of youth, when Castro and Marx were his gods and an ever expanding flock of friends his family. In the process, he kindled our memories. And how!
As an actor, he was not great. His morose and lifeless characters were almost always depressing -- the typical self-destructive devdas. He was perhaps the quintessential art-house actor.
But behind the camera Nagavally let his hair down. He loved to portray the camaraderie among friends and neighbours (and no one could beat him at that). Be it Swagatham, Ayitham, Sukhamo Devi, Kalippattam, Sarvakalashala or Hey! Auto, youthful banter and frolicking of the main characters were the high points of his movies.
Nagavally was the typical “thinking moviemaker” of the 1980s Kerala. Yet, he also was intellectually honest. We get an indication of this in one scene in Sarvakalashala.
The otherwise chirpy, impish and affable “Chakkara” — a sidekick played by Manianpilla Raju -- one fine day turns (pseudo-) serious, complete with a jubba, oiled hair, a side-bag and a thoughtful look.
When asked what the problem was, he says he wants to get serious in life. “Oru Venu Nagavally mood!” (I’m in a Venu Nagavally mood) he says. Rarely has any moviemaker made fun of himself in such a fashion and yet come out unscathed.
No single character took centre stage in Nagavally’s movies. They all played their parts. Yet they beautifully complemented the plot itself.
But wait. Of course there were central characters. Unmistakably yes. And they were destiny and death. Nagavalli’s movies were the visual manifestation of “man proposes, god/fate/destiny disposes”.
He charmed us with his witty dialogues (which he lent to other moviemakers too, like Priyadarshan) that were more or less directly lifted from the lay Malayalee’s routine conversations. But after he had lulled us this way, he would unleash the tormenting twists and turns in the plot, that left a lump in our collective throat.
Be it the accidental death of the character played by Ashokan in Swagatham or the passing away of Lal’s character in Sukhamo Devi, or the shooting of Siddhan -- the eccentric vagabound poet played by Nedumudi Venu -- in Sarvakalashaala. The dying character usually left behind so many incomplete tasks and profound thoughts that they changed almost everybody’s life overnight. Talk about vacuum.
Death indeed was the harbinger of unimaginable changes in Nagavally movies. It was the point of deflection in most of his narratives, or the culmination of the storm kicked up his other muse, destiny.
Consider the shock the mortuary van gives us when it passes by her gate just as Urvashi sets out to elope. The very person who was supposed to help her elope is lying in the van, cold dead.
Or this: Actor Sunny, Lal’s elder brother in Sukhamo Devi, reaches home on hearing of his younger brother’s death. After exchanging compulsive pleasantries with Lal’s buddies, with a quivering voice, he asks: “Enikku oru cigarette tharumo arenkilum?” (Someone give me a cigarette) And then his trembling hands cannot light the cigarette. Unmatched, till this day.
Lal Salaam, sakhavu Nagavally! May you have a good time with your beloved.
Note: Nagavally passed away in the wee hours of Thursday, September 9, 2010.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Ego, Ambition And The Genesis Of Partition
They ask, ‘What are the sacrifices of Mr Jinnah and the Muslim League?’ It is true I have not been to jail. Never mind. I am a bad person. But I ask you, ‘Who made sacrifices in 1921? Mr Gandhi ascends the gaddi (throne) of leadership on our skulls’.
--Mohammed Ali Jinnah at a Muslim League meet in Peshawar on November 24, 1945.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I guess it has got something to do with being an Indian. The logic behind the subcontinent’s partition in 1947 has always flummoxed me. For anyone who has a reasonable understanding of Pakistan’s founding, the main argument that fuelled it comes across as merely an exercise in rabble rousing. What is more, by now even respected sections of the Pakistani media and civil society have completely trashed the bogus ‘two-nation theory’, and instead are looking for a wholly new basis of nationhood.
So, it has been my endeavour for a while now to identify that one point in time that marked the fertilisation of the idea of Pakistan. And here it is.
Simply put, there would have been no Pakistan without Jinnah. But my search for that one vital event that led Pakistan’s founder astray from mainstream India, led me to a slightly different conclusion: Without Pakistan, there would have been no Jinnah.
Though this was known in an abstract way, a comment that Jinnah made, perhaps in an unguarded moment, condensed the whole issue into that one all-important point.
Addressing a charged Muslim League crowd, he said: “They ask, ‘What are the sacrifices of Mr Jinnah and the Muslim League?’ It is true I have not been to jail. Never mind. I am a bad person. But I ask you, ‘Who made sacrifices in 1921? Mr. Gandhi ascends the gaddi (throne) of leadership on our skulls’.
In a nut shell, Jinnah had spelt out his primary grouse.
The story goes back a long time though, to the 1910s and 20s -- an era when the Congress’s most popular leaders, the Bombay triumvirate of Pherozeshah Mehta, Dadabhai Naoroji and Gopalkrishna Gokhle, were fading. The Congress itself was still a party of the elite and with membership largely confined to the urban centres of Kolkata, Mumbai, Chennai and Pune.
Gandhi was, of course, reasonably well-known world over by then. Besides he had also maintained working relations with the Congress. But he was not really in the Indian picture, let alone dominating it, till his return from South Africa in 1915.
Being a trusted lieutenant of Gokhale and heir to the Mehta-Naoroji-Gokhale line of thought, it seemed only a matter of time before the dashing Mohammed Ali Jinnah took over the reins of the Congress’s national leadership. With a thriving legal practice, stunning looks, a sophisticated mind and an inescapable elitist aura, Jinnah was popular among the who’s who of the Congress. Also, he was an ardent believer in his predecessor’s constitutional methods of negotiations and litigation to seek an increased role for Indians in governance.
In short, he was the next national leader. Or at least Jinnah believed so and was preparing for the formal ascent. Then, December 28, 1920 hit him. And hit him hard.
On that day, at the Congress’s Nagpur plenary session, Gandhi moved the historic non-cooperation resolution -- a new and revolutionary brand of protest. Jinnah, an out and out believer in maintaining the British connection, was loath to do anything unconstitutional or mass-based.
But he didn’t realise the extent to which Gandhi, in the five years since his arrival, had touched India’s grassroots. His unconventional message, put in simple language, had stirred the masses.
At Nagpur, when Jinnah arose to speak against the resolution, he began his address with “Mr. Gandhi…” Instantly, the conferences erupted into catcalls, hoots and angry “No. Mahatma Gandhi”! While he stood his ground and continued with “Mr. Gandhi”, an utterly humiliated Jinnah painfully realised that Gandhi had stolen a march over him – ‘stepping on his skull’.
Unwanted, his dream of national leadership in ruins, Jinnah left Nagpur by the very next train. Soon, the hopeless barrister quit Congress forever. In early 1921 he withdrew completely from the political stage, which till the other day he thought naturally belonged to him, to concentrate on his flourishing legal practice.
However, he had his pound of flesh 27 years later – in Pakistan.
It is tragic that despite being an ardent believer in Hindu-Muslim unity, a secular patriot and a brilliant tactician, his ego and ambition led Jinnah, in his desire for revenge and power, to trick an entire people.
It shows why, till his very end, Jinnah was not sure what exactly Pakistan meant or stood for. He just needed his turf. There is evidence that till as late as April 1947 he was ready to compromise on Pakistan and agree to a united India -- as long he was given that turf and acknowledged as a leader of consequence.
Jinnah was first blinded by his inability to gauge the national mood in 1920 and then, most importantly, by his ambition. For the latter, Pakistan was the sole balm, and posterity’s bane.
--Mohammed Ali Jinnah at a Muslim League meet in Peshawar on November 24, 1945.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I guess it has got something to do with being an Indian. The logic behind the subcontinent’s partition in 1947 has always flummoxed me. For anyone who has a reasonable understanding of Pakistan’s founding, the main argument that fuelled it comes across as merely an exercise in rabble rousing. What is more, by now even respected sections of the Pakistani media and civil society have completely trashed the bogus ‘two-nation theory’, and instead are looking for a wholly new basis of nationhood.
So, it has been my endeavour for a while now to identify that one point in time that marked the fertilisation of the idea of Pakistan. And here it is.
Simply put, there would have been no Pakistan without Jinnah. But my search for that one vital event that led Pakistan’s founder astray from mainstream India, led me to a slightly different conclusion: Without Pakistan, there would have been no Jinnah.
Though this was known in an abstract way, a comment that Jinnah made, perhaps in an unguarded moment, condensed the whole issue into that one all-important point.
Addressing a charged Muslim League crowd, he said: “They ask, ‘What are the sacrifices of Mr Jinnah and the Muslim League?’ It is true I have not been to jail. Never mind. I am a bad person. But I ask you, ‘Who made sacrifices in 1921? Mr. Gandhi ascends the gaddi (throne) of leadership on our skulls’.
In a nut shell, Jinnah had spelt out his primary grouse.
The story goes back a long time though, to the 1910s and 20s -- an era when the Congress’s most popular leaders, the Bombay triumvirate of Pherozeshah Mehta, Dadabhai Naoroji and Gopalkrishna Gokhle, were fading. The Congress itself was still a party of the elite and with membership largely confined to the urban centres of Kolkata, Mumbai, Chennai and Pune.
Gandhi was, of course, reasonably well-known world over by then. Besides he had also maintained working relations with the Congress. But he was not really in the Indian picture, let alone dominating it, till his return from South Africa in 1915.
Being a trusted lieutenant of Gokhale and heir to the Mehta-Naoroji-Gokhale line of thought, it seemed only a matter of time before the dashing Mohammed Ali Jinnah took over the reins of the Congress’s national leadership. With a thriving legal practice, stunning looks, a sophisticated mind and an inescapable elitist aura, Jinnah was popular among the who’s who of the Congress. Also, he was an ardent believer in his predecessor’s constitutional methods of negotiations and litigation to seek an increased role for Indians in governance.
In short, he was the next national leader. Or at least Jinnah believed so and was preparing for the formal ascent. Then, December 28, 1920 hit him. And hit him hard.
On that day, at the Congress’s Nagpur plenary session, Gandhi moved the historic non-cooperation resolution -- a new and revolutionary brand of protest. Jinnah, an out and out believer in maintaining the British connection, was loath to do anything unconstitutional or mass-based.
But he didn’t realise the extent to which Gandhi, in the five years since his arrival, had touched India’s grassroots. His unconventional message, put in simple language, had stirred the masses.
At Nagpur, when Jinnah arose to speak against the resolution, he began his address with “Mr. Gandhi…” Instantly, the conferences erupted into catcalls, hoots and angry “No. Mahatma Gandhi”! While he stood his ground and continued with “Mr. Gandhi”, an utterly humiliated Jinnah painfully realised that Gandhi had stolen a march over him – ‘stepping on his skull’.
Unwanted, his dream of national leadership in ruins, Jinnah left Nagpur by the very next train. Soon, the hopeless barrister quit Congress forever. In early 1921 he withdrew completely from the political stage, which till the other day he thought naturally belonged to him, to concentrate on his flourishing legal practice.
However, he had his pound of flesh 27 years later – in Pakistan.
It is tragic that despite being an ardent believer in Hindu-Muslim unity, a secular patriot and a brilliant tactician, his ego and ambition led Jinnah, in his desire for revenge and power, to trick an entire people.
It shows why, till his very end, Jinnah was not sure what exactly Pakistan meant or stood for. He just needed his turf. There is evidence that till as late as April 1947 he was ready to compromise on Pakistan and agree to a united India -- as long he was given that turf and acknowledged as a leader of consequence.
Jinnah was first blinded by his inability to gauge the national mood in 1920 and then, most importantly, by his ambition. For the latter, Pakistan was the sole balm, and posterity’s bane.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Friendly Neighbourhood
The two most decisive human emotions, apart from greed, that have played a role in shaping mankind’s evolution are “love” and “hatred”. Love/like and hatred/dislike can be of two kinds: instant and built up.
Any entity can evoke instant hatred or love from us, irrespective of whether it is really worthy of that emotion.
Take, for instance, one’s attitude towards an overflowing sewer laden with the most gross of the city’s waste. One need not think too much to react in a particular way in this case. Similarly, the sight of a new born elephant calf in all its joyful impishness brings overwhelming feelings of tenderness to our hearts.
But, sometimes the feeling is built across a period of time – often through indoctrination (though not in the negative sense here). Our general view of Adolf Hitler is a case I point. Communal hatred too has such roots.
Most of us are prisoners of such attitudes, particularly the latter kind, which become a part of an individual’s socialisation process. One could, however, add a third category here – the love-hate relationship. One loves and hates the same entity or idea with more or less the same intensity but for evidently different reasons.
This third category is what the Indian subcontinent’s inhabitants have towards each other; all the more so if it is Indians and Pakistanis. Indians love as well as hate Pakistanis with the same degree of acuteness. Pakistanis, essentially of the same nature as Indians, reflect this attitude.
The vice-like grip of mutual mistrust that has bedeviled the relationship between the two countries is often coupled with the fondness for each others’ pop culture. Their decades-old quest for peace is pock-marked by wars and skirmishes.
Destiny also often plays a role and comes up with strange opportunities to reinforce either of these attitudes. History is dotted by instances where world statesmen have grabbed opportunities provided by fate with both their hands and that one act ended up being the game changer.
Tony Blair’s visit to the US in the aftermath of the 9/11 attacks – the first by any foreign dignitary to the US post attack – was an ultimate gesture in friendship. It reinforced the UK’s image in the US as THE ‘friend in need’ and reversed the drift in US-UK relationship.
In 1962, immediately after India’s defeat at the hands of the Chinese PLA, Pakistan gifted to China nearly 5,000 sq km of land in Pakistan-Occupied-Kashmir. Sensing an opportunity to form an alliance against India, it was a masterstroke by Pakistani President Ayub Khan and remains the bedrock of its all-weather friendship with China.
The Indian Navy’s timely assistance to Sri Lanka during the December 2004 tsunami did a world of good to a relationship traditionally marred by the ethnic Tamil issue. The navy rushed to the Indian Ocean nations, particularly Sri Lanka, with 19 warships, 11 helicopters and four aircraft for rescue, relief and reconstruction on the very day the tsunami struck. This not only dramatically boosted India’s image in these countries, but also gave it strategic leverage among these states, something even China could not manage.
In such a context, India’s almost non-existent reaction to recent events in Pakistan is nothing less than astonishing.
Here is a country that is struggling with one of the worst floods in nearly 80 years, with 14 million displaced – more than the cumulative figure for the 2005 Kashmir earthquake, the 2004 tsunami and the 2010 Haiti earthquake -- and billions worth of property lost.
Apart from the $900 million that the World Bank has committed, the international community has not been really forthcoming with help. Only the US, for strategic reasons, has been of any substantial help.
Given such a scenario, one wonders what would have been the impact on the common Pakistani, if India had made a gesture of unilateral help for the ravaged country, keeping aside for the moment the current chill in relationship.
It would, of course, be preposterous to say that it would have annihilated overnight the years of vitriol. But it would certainly have touched the Pakistani’s heart – which is where everything begins.
Irrespective of whether the Pakistani state accepts such an offer, I strongly believe the lay Pakistani would have thought, “Wow, when the world community virtually left us high and dry, India extended its hand of friendship? That is something.”
If India could extend $1 billion in soft loans to Bangladesh, what stopped it from helping Pakistan during such a catastrophe? Especially, when the Indian government itself is led by a supposedly humane Prime Minister, whose vision it is to permanently mend ties with the long-standing rival.
I guess, the government’s attitude is also reflective of the general mood in this country. Consider the coverage of the devastation in the Indian media. According to the Mint, dated August 13, Total prime time news coverage of the Pakistani floods among Indian television channels between August 1 and 11 amounted to a pathetic 13 minutes and 55 seconds.
The leading Hindi news channel, Aaj Tak’s, share? 0 minutes.
Leave aside the fact the country in question is Pakistan or the strategic import. Does this kind of indifference make any journalistic or humanitarian sense?
But then, history can also be portrayed as a series of missed opportunities. At least in India’s case.
If Jawaharlal Nehru had heeded Vallabhai Patel’s words and waited till the army finished its job of ousting the Pak-backed tribals from Kashmir before taking the issue to the UN, we probably wouldn’t have the Kashmir problem as we know it today.
Had India accepted the big powers’ offer of permanent membership in the UN Security Council when it was formed, instead of gifting it away to China, the dynamics of India’s role in the world would in all likelihood have been be qualitatively different today.
If India had not contemptuously rejected the membership to Asean when it was formed and offered, we wouldn’t have had to beg to be part of it today.
“If” is history’s biggest redundancy. Yet, I am left wondering.
Any entity can evoke instant hatred or love from us, irrespective of whether it is really worthy of that emotion.
Take, for instance, one’s attitude towards an overflowing sewer laden with the most gross of the city’s waste. One need not think too much to react in a particular way in this case. Similarly, the sight of a new born elephant calf in all its joyful impishness brings overwhelming feelings of tenderness to our hearts.
But, sometimes the feeling is built across a period of time – often through indoctrination (though not in the negative sense here). Our general view of Adolf Hitler is a case I point. Communal hatred too has such roots.
Most of us are prisoners of such attitudes, particularly the latter kind, which become a part of an individual’s socialisation process. One could, however, add a third category here – the love-hate relationship. One loves and hates the same entity or idea with more or less the same intensity but for evidently different reasons.
This third category is what the Indian subcontinent’s inhabitants have towards each other; all the more so if it is Indians and Pakistanis. Indians love as well as hate Pakistanis with the same degree of acuteness. Pakistanis, essentially of the same nature as Indians, reflect this attitude.
The vice-like grip of mutual mistrust that has bedeviled the relationship between the two countries is often coupled with the fondness for each others’ pop culture. Their decades-old quest for peace is pock-marked by wars and skirmishes.
Destiny also often plays a role and comes up with strange opportunities to reinforce either of these attitudes. History is dotted by instances where world statesmen have grabbed opportunities provided by fate with both their hands and that one act ended up being the game changer.
Tony Blair’s visit to the US in the aftermath of the 9/11 attacks – the first by any foreign dignitary to the US post attack – was an ultimate gesture in friendship. It reinforced the UK’s image in the US as THE ‘friend in need’ and reversed the drift in US-UK relationship.
In 1962, immediately after India’s defeat at the hands of the Chinese PLA, Pakistan gifted to China nearly 5,000 sq km of land in Pakistan-Occupied-Kashmir. Sensing an opportunity to form an alliance against India, it was a masterstroke by Pakistani President Ayub Khan and remains the bedrock of its all-weather friendship with China.
The Indian Navy’s timely assistance to Sri Lanka during the December 2004 tsunami did a world of good to a relationship traditionally marred by the ethnic Tamil issue. The navy rushed to the Indian Ocean nations, particularly Sri Lanka, with 19 warships, 11 helicopters and four aircraft for rescue, relief and reconstruction on the very day the tsunami struck. This not only dramatically boosted India’s image in these countries, but also gave it strategic leverage among these states, something even China could not manage.
In such a context, India’s almost non-existent reaction to recent events in Pakistan is nothing less than astonishing.
Here is a country that is struggling with one of the worst floods in nearly 80 years, with 14 million displaced – more than the cumulative figure for the 2005 Kashmir earthquake, the 2004 tsunami and the 2010 Haiti earthquake -- and billions worth of property lost.
Apart from the $900 million that the World Bank has committed, the international community has not been really forthcoming with help. Only the US, for strategic reasons, has been of any substantial help.
Given such a scenario, one wonders what would have been the impact on the common Pakistani, if India had made a gesture of unilateral help for the ravaged country, keeping aside for the moment the current chill in relationship.
It would, of course, be preposterous to say that it would have annihilated overnight the years of vitriol. But it would certainly have touched the Pakistani’s heart – which is where everything begins.
Irrespective of whether the Pakistani state accepts such an offer, I strongly believe the lay Pakistani would have thought, “Wow, when the world community virtually left us high and dry, India extended its hand of friendship? That is something.”
If India could extend $1 billion in soft loans to Bangladesh, what stopped it from helping Pakistan during such a catastrophe? Especially, when the Indian government itself is led by a supposedly humane Prime Minister, whose vision it is to permanently mend ties with the long-standing rival.
I guess, the government’s attitude is also reflective of the general mood in this country. Consider the coverage of the devastation in the Indian media. According to the Mint, dated August 13, Total prime time news coverage of the Pakistani floods among Indian television channels between August 1 and 11 amounted to a pathetic 13 minutes and 55 seconds.
The leading Hindi news channel, Aaj Tak’s, share? 0 minutes.
Leave aside the fact the country in question is Pakistan or the strategic import. Does this kind of indifference make any journalistic or humanitarian sense?
But then, history can also be portrayed as a series of missed opportunities. At least in India’s case.
If Jawaharlal Nehru had heeded Vallabhai Patel’s words and waited till the army finished its job of ousting the Pak-backed tribals from Kashmir before taking the issue to the UN, we probably wouldn’t have the Kashmir problem as we know it today.
Had India accepted the big powers’ offer of permanent membership in the UN Security Council when it was formed, instead of gifting it away to China, the dynamics of India’s role in the world would in all likelihood have been be qualitatively different today.
If India had not contemptuously rejected the membership to Asean when it was formed and offered, we wouldn’t have had to beg to be part of it today.
“If” is history’s biggest redundancy. Yet, I am left wondering.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Greatness Rediscovered...
Reverence can be blinding, rendering us incapable of viewing the subject impartially. All the more so when he or she is the primary symbol of an entire system of indoctrination.
The original and valid reason for the veneration is often forgotten with time, and only the residual aura and larger-than-life image remain. Long years of strife, sacrifice, discipline, determination and meticulous strategizing – they all degenerate into comic book heroism.
It is human tendency to place on a pedestal a person of superior qualities. If the ‘superior’ person is of any social relevance, a glass comes free with the pedestal. The transformation of a flesh-and-blood human being into a myth is, thus, complete.
Once the real, flesh-and-blood person gives way to the mythical hero, the next stage of the downfall begins.
When an image is portrayed across several generations as ‘perfect’, the resurfacing of relatively minor defects (which were a publicly-accepted part of the real life), can be devastating. This is because, the edifice of infallibility is usually not based on any in-depth study or understanding of the subject. It is based on a staple diet of legends, quotations and hearsay.
Add to this hype, the machinations of some who use the subject to further their own agenda and you have the stage set for the crumbling of any great image, and, sadly, the real personality too.
In short, the easiest way to make man’s achievements supremely un-repeatable is to turn that person into god. And the easiest way to pull that god down is to reduce his/her entire lifetime of fantastic achievements into myths and to portray the relatively unimportant failures as supreme flaws.
I, like most other Indians, have grown up in a system where, besides the 33,000 crore Hindu gods and a handful of non-Hindu ones, the society also thrust upon me a bunch of political gods.
So, when in my 20s I saw, heard and felt a new social wave assaulting these, by now brittle, characters for some compelling and otherwise mostly flimsy reasons, I was forced into a deepers understanding of these gods – call it modern theology, if you please!
Needless to say, Mahatma Gandhi, was on the top of that list.
The two most distinctive personalities I came across in my small-scale quest to understand Gandhi were Rabindranath Tagore (through his books of course) and Gopal Godse through his brother, Nathuram Godse’s writings, and personal tete-e-tetes.
Gopal Godse, for starters, was one of the five convicted in the Gandhi assassination case and the younger brother of Nathuram Godse, the man who shot Gandhi.
Tagore, who according to me had a better vision for mankind than Gandhi, was both a great critic as well as admirer of Gandhi. He joyfully welcomed Gandhi’s attempts to awaken the teeming masses of the subcontinent, who, till then, had been left in the cold by the political currents of the day. Tagore, however, decried Gandhi’s use of nationalism and religion as platforms for the process.
The ‘Mahatma’ title is said to be bestowed by the poet-philosopher, although according to records, Gandhi had received that title much before. In South Africa to be precise.
Godse, whom I met a few times as a post-graduate student in Pune, on the other hand, was obviously a virulent critic of Gandhi. An innate hatred for non-Hindu identities and a myriad image of past Indian glory had conviced him – contrary to stark facts – that Gandhi was out to defang ‘Hindus’ virility.
Both, Tagore and Godse, had the advantage of having spent a good part of their adult lives in the Gandhian era.
However, neither had the advantage of hindsight in forming their first impressions of the Mahatma. Neither, I will argue, did they have a deeper understanding of Gandhi’s mundane life and involvement in the humdrum of the politics of the day.
At best both Tagore and Godse had an overall view of Gandhi’s personality through his own speeches, media coverage and, worst of all, hearsay. In Godse’s case, one is compelled to believe that a strong ideologically-coloured perceptive filter played a major role (something Tagore was arguably bereft of).
That is where Mohandas – A True Story Of A Man, His People And An Empire scored a march over other critiques of Gandhi.
If meticulous research, uncomplicated language, and making full use of hindsight is the hallmark of a good biography, ‘Mohandas’ has just one word to describe it: “Brilliant”.
The author (whose name I would leave for the end) traverses the tedium that the reticent boy from Porbandar goes through in the process of transforming into one of the mightiest personalities of all times. I use the word “tedium” here because that is what the biographer chooses to highlight in this book -- the dull details that eventually added up into exhilarating upheavals.
For those looking for the ‘whys’ behind most of Gandhi’s decisive moves and acts – particularly the controversial ones – ‘Mohandas’ is a treasure-trove. Rarely is there any justification given for Gandhi’s thoughts. Most often, only the thoughts are presented.
Be it the better-known ones such as the Khilafat move, his troubled relationship with his eldest son Harilal, his experiments with Brahmacharya, his last fast or lesser understood ones like his relationship between Vallabhbhai Patel and Jawaharlal Nehru or his relationship with his wife Kastur, or his understanding of non-violence and Gita, ‘Mohandas’ cleared most of my doubts.
Those who think they know everything there is to know about the above list will be in for quite a few surprises.
The author attempts to gauge the man that Gandhi was, the human being that the Mahatma was, the mere mortal that the demi god was. The irritability, sadness, biases, prejudices, desperation and frustrations that went into the making of the Mahatma are curved out in delicious detail.
The most poignant aspect about being the Mahatma was that throughout his nearly 60-year career as a mass leader, he was constantly spending himself out emotionally. Yet, rarely did anyone realise that he too needed emotional replenishment. The great man too suffered pain, hurt and agony during the course of his interactions with the people around him – relatives or otherwise.
Trust me. The picture of Gandhi that emerged at the end of the biography was much more sober and humane. Nevertheless, at least for me, his humanity was all the more inspirational.
At the end of the book, I came to this conclusion: “I do not believe that Gandhi, with his credo of non-violence and truth, was a modern day god or demi-god on the lines of a Christ, the Prophet or Buddha. But I am increasingly convinced that the Prophet, Christ and Buddha were the Gandhis of their respective eras. The deficiencies of technology of their day and age elevated them to the status of gods.”
The author of the biography is Rajmohan Gandhi, the grandson of the protagonist. Now, before anyone is tempted to say, “No wonder”, let me just quote what M V Kamath of the Organizer – the RSS mouthpiece – has to say about the book:
“The only word to describe this work is ‘fabulous’. Literally scores of people have written on Mahatma Gandhi…But…Mohandas will henceforth be remembered as the last word on the subject.”
Maybe. Maybe not. Because -- despite being written about so much -- Gandhi remains one of the least understood of Indian national icons. But for sure, Rajmohan Gandhi’s Mohandas is a masterful contribution to those who are looking for the man behind the Mahatma.
The original and valid reason for the veneration is often forgotten with time, and only the residual aura and larger-than-life image remain. Long years of strife, sacrifice, discipline, determination and meticulous strategizing – they all degenerate into comic book heroism.
It is human tendency to place on a pedestal a person of superior qualities. If the ‘superior’ person is of any social relevance, a glass comes free with the pedestal. The transformation of a flesh-and-blood human being into a myth is, thus, complete.
Once the real, flesh-and-blood person gives way to the mythical hero, the next stage of the downfall begins.
When an image is portrayed across several generations as ‘perfect’, the resurfacing of relatively minor defects (which were a publicly-accepted part of the real life), can be devastating. This is because, the edifice of infallibility is usually not based on any in-depth study or understanding of the subject. It is based on a staple diet of legends, quotations and hearsay.
Add to this hype, the machinations of some who use the subject to further their own agenda and you have the stage set for the crumbling of any great image, and, sadly, the real personality too.
In short, the easiest way to make man’s achievements supremely un-repeatable is to turn that person into god. And the easiest way to pull that god down is to reduce his/her entire lifetime of fantastic achievements into myths and to portray the relatively unimportant failures as supreme flaws.
I, like most other Indians, have grown up in a system where, besides the 33,000 crore Hindu gods and a handful of non-Hindu ones, the society also thrust upon me a bunch of political gods.
So, when in my 20s I saw, heard and felt a new social wave assaulting these, by now brittle, characters for some compelling and otherwise mostly flimsy reasons, I was forced into a deepers understanding of these gods – call it modern theology, if you please!
Needless to say, Mahatma Gandhi, was on the top of that list.
The two most distinctive personalities I came across in my small-scale quest to understand Gandhi were Rabindranath Tagore (through his books of course) and Gopal Godse through his brother, Nathuram Godse’s writings, and personal tete-e-tetes.
Gopal Godse, for starters, was one of the five convicted in the Gandhi assassination case and the younger brother of Nathuram Godse, the man who shot Gandhi.
Tagore, who according to me had a better vision for mankind than Gandhi, was both a great critic as well as admirer of Gandhi. He joyfully welcomed Gandhi’s attempts to awaken the teeming masses of the subcontinent, who, till then, had been left in the cold by the political currents of the day. Tagore, however, decried Gandhi’s use of nationalism and religion as platforms for the process.
The ‘Mahatma’ title is said to be bestowed by the poet-philosopher, although according to records, Gandhi had received that title much before. In South Africa to be precise.
Godse, whom I met a few times as a post-graduate student in Pune, on the other hand, was obviously a virulent critic of Gandhi. An innate hatred for non-Hindu identities and a myriad image of past Indian glory had conviced him – contrary to stark facts – that Gandhi was out to defang ‘Hindus’ virility.
Both, Tagore and Godse, had the advantage of having spent a good part of their adult lives in the Gandhian era.
However, neither had the advantage of hindsight in forming their first impressions of the Mahatma. Neither, I will argue, did they have a deeper understanding of Gandhi’s mundane life and involvement in the humdrum of the politics of the day.
At best both Tagore and Godse had an overall view of Gandhi’s personality through his own speeches, media coverage and, worst of all, hearsay. In Godse’s case, one is compelled to believe that a strong ideologically-coloured perceptive filter played a major role (something Tagore was arguably bereft of).
That is where Mohandas – A True Story Of A Man, His People And An Empire scored a march over other critiques of Gandhi.
If meticulous research, uncomplicated language, and making full use of hindsight is the hallmark of a good biography, ‘Mohandas’ has just one word to describe it: “Brilliant”.
The author (whose name I would leave for the end) traverses the tedium that the reticent boy from Porbandar goes through in the process of transforming into one of the mightiest personalities of all times. I use the word “tedium” here because that is what the biographer chooses to highlight in this book -- the dull details that eventually added up into exhilarating upheavals.
For those looking for the ‘whys’ behind most of Gandhi’s decisive moves and acts – particularly the controversial ones – ‘Mohandas’ is a treasure-trove. Rarely is there any justification given for Gandhi’s thoughts. Most often, only the thoughts are presented.
Be it the better-known ones such as the Khilafat move, his troubled relationship with his eldest son Harilal, his experiments with Brahmacharya, his last fast or lesser understood ones like his relationship between Vallabhbhai Patel and Jawaharlal Nehru or his relationship with his wife Kastur, or his understanding of non-violence and Gita, ‘Mohandas’ cleared most of my doubts.
Those who think they know everything there is to know about the above list will be in for quite a few surprises.
The author attempts to gauge the man that Gandhi was, the human being that the Mahatma was, the mere mortal that the demi god was. The irritability, sadness, biases, prejudices, desperation and frustrations that went into the making of the Mahatma are curved out in delicious detail.
The most poignant aspect about being the Mahatma was that throughout his nearly 60-year career as a mass leader, he was constantly spending himself out emotionally. Yet, rarely did anyone realise that he too needed emotional replenishment. The great man too suffered pain, hurt and agony during the course of his interactions with the people around him – relatives or otherwise.
Trust me. The picture of Gandhi that emerged at the end of the biography was much more sober and humane. Nevertheless, at least for me, his humanity was all the more inspirational.
At the end of the book, I came to this conclusion: “I do not believe that Gandhi, with his credo of non-violence and truth, was a modern day god or demi-god on the lines of a Christ, the Prophet or Buddha. But I am increasingly convinced that the Prophet, Christ and Buddha were the Gandhis of their respective eras. The deficiencies of technology of their day and age elevated them to the status of gods.”
The author of the biography is Rajmohan Gandhi, the grandson of the protagonist. Now, before anyone is tempted to say, “No wonder”, let me just quote what M V Kamath of the Organizer – the RSS mouthpiece – has to say about the book:
“The only word to describe this work is ‘fabulous’. Literally scores of people have written on Mahatma Gandhi…But…Mohandas will henceforth be remembered as the last word on the subject.”
Maybe. Maybe not. Because -- despite being written about so much -- Gandhi remains one of the least understood of Indian national icons. But for sure, Rajmohan Gandhi’s Mohandas is a masterful contribution to those who are looking for the man behind the Mahatma.
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