Superstar India Page 10
Right outside, on the wide street over which the Jagannath annual chariot yatra moves in splendour, there were dozens of lepers and beggars. It was all terribly disturbing and I found myself getting distracted, even disgusted. Holi preparations were on, with phallic-looking plastic pichkaris dominating roadside stalls and handcarts. It was a long drive back to the fancy hotel with acrylic elephants and plastic pelicans positioned on the premises. The busy route was without lights or facilities. Considering Bhubaneswar/Puri are prime destinations, it was especially distressing to note the indifference of the local administration. All one could spot at key intersections were statues of Biju Patnaik, the most-loved leader of Orissa. Nearly everything in sight is named after Patnaik, starting with the airport.
Despite World Heritage Site status, the place remains desolate and hopelessly underdeveloped. No wonder 48 per cent of Orissa's people exist below the poverty line. Shocking! And no wonder it is the state with the highest rate of infant mortality. And children routinely die of malnutrition. ‘Nobody cares,’ said a government officer laconically. Least of all the Centre. Neglected for decades, Orissa is seething under the surface, and the Naxalite presence growing steadily. As an officer informed us, ‘The state government is courting big business—we are trying to attract foreign capital, inviting people to invest in mining. They are coming… of course, they will… to rape us. The poor farmer will be rendered a pauper, his lands taken away for so-called “development”. Do you know what they're offering our people for one acre of farmland, which they've cultivated for generations? A measly 35,000 rupees! We should learn from our neighbours in West Bengal, where the farmers will not part with even an inch, unless they get their fair price—anything from 10 lakhs onwards.’ (This was said before the Nandigram massacre.)
We passed paddy fields where the second rabi crop was being sown by emaciated women, bent double. Close by flowed the Daya river, its bed nearly dry. ‘This is the River of Blood,’ our guide said solemnly. ‘It was here that the great Emperor Ashoka decided to renounce violence and embrace Buddhism, after the river turned red with the blood of slain soldiers.’ All in all, my senses were protesting as we drove into the hotel's grand foyer, where a talkative bunch of ‘entrepreneurs’ was getting ready for a Leadership Series. What irony! And to think, a few miles away, Emperor Ashoka's historic rock inscriptions were left in the shabbiest of states, with a bright blue wire meshing cage ‘protecting’ this national treasure. And inside that cage were workers' clothes and farm implements, rags, bottles and other junk, thrown against the preachings of peace from a leader who had the courage to turn his back on unbridled power and walk away in search of salvation.
Indians are Peace-loving
Peace. Such a loaded word. Especially in today's ghastly times. In place of ‘Rivers of Blood’, and an ironically named river called ‘Daya’ (compassion), we have Streets of Blood. Violence dominates our news, and it's as if we've conditioned ourselves to expect bloodbaths on a regular basis. Nobody bats an eyelid while reading about/viewing the goriest scenes. And yet, it is one of our ongoing self-delusionary beliefs that we are indeed a peace-loving nation. It is an entirely bogus claim, of course. But we cling on to the image of ever-smiling people who wouldn't hurt a fly. Point out historical references or provide statistics and the same people turn into belligerent argumentative beasts ready to clobber anybody who suggests anything to the contrary.
It is only in India that young children are not stopped by adults (who should know better) from pelting stones at defenceless animals—puppies, kittens, ponies. Why? Because they can! Because foolish adults smile indulgently at these naadaan bachchas who are only ‘playing’. Shocking, but true. Even in tiny hamlets, a passing vehicle attracts stone-chucking by idle, bored kids who're probably tired of sneaking up on a just-born calf to hit it mercilessly with a branch of a tree. Mothers shake their heads with a ‘kids will be kids’ look, while fathers stare stonily at the larger bullock they've just whipped for not pulling the cart fast enough. Take that further: In Mumbai, where millions (yes, millions) of commuters hang out of overcrowded train compartments, getting to and from work, it is not uncommon for kids along the tracks to hurl stones at those poor workers, and blind or main them in the bargain. Pictures appear in the dailies the next day, of someone who has lost an eye, someone else with a gash to his head. Everybody tch-tches. ‘This is terrible. Catch the culprits,’ the Enraged Citizen yells. Nothing happens. The police commissioner is always away in Delhi. And local MPs are too busy partying to bother with a lost eye or gashed head. Life is cheap in India, man! Train accidents, bomb blasts, floods, earthquakes, natural devastation… unnatural devastation, riots, knifings, killings, shoot-outs… on the hour, every hour. You can count on something truly terrible taking place round the clock. We are so used to it, we hardly notice. It is like an eczema patch—sure it itches, but soon the itch itself becomes a habit. And if the itch goes away, one starts missing the urge to scratch, scratch, scratch till the patch bleeds.
Our morbid preoccupation with the macabre must have something to do with our mythology, which is replete with the most startling references
We are fascinated by violence. Anything dripping blood becomes instantly riveting. People can watch an accident victim without moving or blinking for hours. I often wonder what exactly they're staring at—the open oozing wounds? Crushed limbs? Pulped brains? What?
Our morbid preoccupation with the macabre must have something to do with our mythology, which is replete with the most startling references to ghastly acts perpetrated by otherwise sane individuals on the innocent. Rishis such as Dronacharya demand a severed thumb from disciples such as Eklavya, and the Mahabharat is so sickeningly gory, it leaves you wondering why anyone would wish such awful fate to befall anyone else. No wonder we don't ourselves recoil at cruel and sadistic practices. And look at our history. Our kings and emperors had their relatives’ skulls crushed under the gigantic feet of elephants. Traitors were thrown into cauldrons of boiling oil, enemies were hacked to pieces, limb from limb. Children speared to death… these images are so embedded in our minds that when they recur, we don't condemn them. We ‘recognize’ them as being somehow known to us.
Much has been written about the riots that rocked Mumbai in '92-'93. A movie (Black Friday) that deals with the subject in an upfront way was blocked for years. Viewers who eventually got to watch it in plush multiplexes came out of the theatres in the state of a James Bond martini— shaken but not stirred. Near one of those movie halls is an American-style diner named, incongruously enough, ‘Ruby Friday’, without wincing at the name… that's how we've immunized ourselves. No pain, no gain, they say. But here in Mumbai it's the reverse that works—no gain, much pain.
I remember returning from our farmhouse in Alibagh the first day of the riots, and watching the skyline with mounting horror. Feathery plumes of smoke were touching the evening sky as countless fires burned through the metropolis. The boat ferrying us back to the historic Gateway of India was crammed with anxious folk staring disbelievingly at the grey spirals of soot, followed by neon-orange tongues of fire, licking the thick blanket of smoke that hung ominously over the eerily silent city. For once, Mumbai's shrill, high-pitched clarion call was silenced by something bigger than itself… something entirely unexpected and therefore unplanned for. A terrorist attack? In Mumbai?? Oh… come on… why us? We are so cosmopolitan… so urbane… so tolerant… so apolitical… how silly of ‘them’ to attack ‘us’. We understand just one thing—money. We are interested in just one thing—more money. Leave us alone, yaar, to make gobs of it. We are Mumbaiwallahs, bhai, not those Delhi-types. We make movies, we entertain the rest of India. We pay our taxes—the highest in the country. And we produce good cricketers, well… we used to, till Ganguly and those Punjabi fellows came into the picture.
Mumbai has gone into an unfashionable ‘Martyr Mode’, which is at a total variance to its earlier self-image. Bombay used to be bindaas—a complacent worl
d by itself—self-congratulatory and almost childish in the way it would boast about its ‘amazing spirit’. Mumbai is a martyr. In fact, Bombay was like an attractive but giddy teenager, immature at many levels but with the rather charming wiles of a precocious young person. Bombay believed in its own invulnerability (‘Nothing can touch us… we are so special’). And then, all these myths got cruelly shattered. Bombay's delusions about its indestructibility were snatched away—and the scary part was how effortlessly the plan was executed. It was as simple as sauntering in, placing the deadly bombs at strategic places, and sauntering out… nice and easy. Bombay became Mumbai—polarized, divided, paranoid and unsafe.
The very metropolis that owes its reputation to its diverse mix, is now being pushed into differentiating between the ‘Marathi manoos’ and ‘others’. What a shame! But of course, the average Mumbaikar will feign ignorance of this nasty development. ‘It's a phase,’ the person will say. The note of optimism is vague. The future looks pretty grim and ‘non-inclusive’. But nobody wants to acknowledge as much.
So many years later, people are still bewildered by their memories. But have started to put on a brave face and discuss—you've guessed it—Mumbai's ‘amazing spirit’, instead. We need to believe we are God's chosen people, ‘special’ in every way, or else we'd collapse and the already shaken metropolis would find it difficult to get its groove back in a hurry. This holds true for the rest of the country, too. We have all become experts at the game of ‘Pretend’. Let's pretend. We can pretty much pretend to be whatever suits us at that moment.
Chameleon-like, we change colours to adapt to ever-new environments. Right-wing fanatics? Okay, we can deal with them. If we ‘pretend’ they aren't there, they may just go away. Naxalites planning a series of violent attacks? Ha ha… don't be silly. The movement is long dead. Who remembers Charu Mazumdar these days? Maoists in our backyard? Never! They're busy in Nepal. Terrorists from Pakistan caught red-handed? Must be some mistake— these days, everybody is called a terrorist. We assure ourselves we are much better off than our neighbours. Which isn't saying very much, when you consider who those terrific neighbours are.
Sri Lanka (LTTE), Bangladesh (let's not start on these guys), Nepal (another royal blood bath on the cards) and of course, our favourite foe, Pakistan (Hello, Dawood!). Sure, we are better off—or are we really?
This so-called superiority comes from some ancient notion about our great and good civilization. Nobody has a clear idea as to what that represents in today's times. But we know we were great once… and we believe we can be great again.
Not that we aren't great even now, but greater!
Violence? Woh hota rehta hai… but basically hum log bahut pyaare hai. Yeah, right.Tell that to the victims of Godhra… or to anybody who has ever lost a loved one in today's seething India. See if that cheesy line works, and if it doesn't… run for your life, baby.
Run like hell!
On our last visit to Darjeeling, that's exactly what we had to do—run for our lives. At the time we were busy being ‘aware’ parents, determined to take our children on a Bharat Darshan. Unlike some of our contemporaries whose idea of a family vacation didn't extend beyond London, we decided we'd be different and show our kids all that's good and wonderful about India. The irony of our well-intentioned decision hit us as we were rudely woken up by a hotel clerk who instructed us to pack immediately and leave the picturesque hill station as fast as possible. ‘A bandh has been declared—the first one in Darjeeling's history.’ We were rather cross to be disturbed at that hour, but thought it wise to pay attention to an agitated local. We were ready to go in under an hour. Kalimpong beckoned, and besides, the driver of our hired vehicle wasn't prepared to hang around for even ten extra minutes. ‘They are coming… bombs, guns, knives… we go now. If you no go, then, I go… danger in Darjeeling…’
Well… it was true. We saw make-shift road blocks at the main intersections as Subhash Ghising's GNLF separatists got busy bringing everything to a grinding halt in this idyllic hill station in the Himalayas. ‘What about our view of Kanchenjunga? And sunrise over Tiger Hill?’ I pleaded. ‘What about a bullet through your head?’ my husband commented tersely.
That was a long, long time ago. But the problem has still not been resolved. Our Bharat Darshan got derailed from that summer onwards. And worse, the children were so relieved… of course, they preferred holidays in London, like every other ‘phoren-obssessed’ Indian. ‘We can always see India when we are older,’ they cheerfully assured us next summer when we brought up the subject. ‘Too many hassles in India… we might get killed,’ added one, just to drive home the message. London bombings? ‘It won't happen to us…’ C'est la vie!
‘Myself, Shobhaa Dé. What is Your Good Name?’
Myself getting most confused. Myself, never knowing fully how to answer such difficult questions. Myself acting smart sometimes and parodying… errrr… myself! There was a time I'd be irritated by such an introduction. If someone asked for my ‘good name’ (shubh naam), I'd counter, ‘Sorry… I don't have one. But will a bad name do?’ These days, I know better. And find it rather endearing to be thus addressed. I reply blithely, ‘Myself Shobhaa Dé. And yourself?’ It works great. And establishes an instant rapport.
Besides, literal translations are far better than wild interpretations. ‘We live on your backside’ is my new neighbour's way of informing me that his flat faces our back door. But, instead of saying it in Hindi, which a majority of Indians have a working knowledge of, my neighbour chose his version of English. Why? To show me he knows the language and is not some country bumpkin. This is something peculiar to us—we often refuse to converse in our own language or languages (since most Indians speak at least three, if not more), because we equate English with education, a bourgeois lifestyle and ‘culture’ (if you please!). I hear women saying, ‘She is knowing very good English… she is coming from a cultured family, you know.’ This is rather worrying, since it implies that those who have not been exposed to English in school/college are either uneducated or, worse, uncultured! Sixty years after the British left our shores we still associate a ‘good’ education with the ability to speak the language we inherited from them. Our old cook Subhash, semi-literate but smart as they come, decided to quit his job one day and relocate to a distant suburb. Why? ‘Because I want my children to go to a good school and speak good English.’ The school he'd enrolled them into in our neighbourhood was not a bad school, but the medium of education was Hindi, with Marathi as a second subject. ‘What will my son do with Hindi and Marathi? I want him to be a big man with a good education some day. He must go to an English-medium-school.’ Today, that boy is joining the merchant navy, and only speaks English! So… did Subhash make a good move back then, or what?
This is a vexing question, particularly for those of us whose medium of thought is English. It's not a ‘foreign’ language to us. In many ways, it is our only language. People find it strange when I tell them I dream in English, or count in English. If someone were to shake me awake in the middle of the night, I'd yell, ‘Hey… stop it. What's happened?’ Not, ‘Kya ho gaya?’ Is this a plus or a minus? Frankly, I don't care. It is the way it is. Not just for me, but for millions of other urban Indians who grew up believing English was ‘their’ language… not a foreign one that had to be mastered in order to get ahead in life. In my case, I was enrolled in a Scottish missionary school, went to a Spanish Jesuit college, and grew up with people who also used English as a first language. Sounds weird. But there it is!
I no longer feel apologetic about this, not even when someone tries to provoke me by saying, ‘But how come you don't write in Marathi—it is your mother tongue, after all.’ Marathi is definitely my mother tongue. It was the tongue my mother spoke to me in for a few short years. It was her tongue. Not mine. But I spoke to my mother mainly in English—and she certainly didn't mind! I spoke to my father in English as well, right up to his last day, when he walked me to the elevator of h
is fifth floor flat and saw me off with a cheery, ‘Bye darling… come again soon!’ He did not find it odd either that we invariably spoke to one another in a language that wasn't our own. Ditto for husband and kids. We converse in English, not Bengali. It's the language that comes most easily to us. In fact, it is our unthinking and entirely spontaneous form of expression. It stumps foreigners who (legitimately) wonder—how come?
Interestingly enough, my mother picked up conversational English once her four children started attending school in Delhi. That's when she learned Hindi as well—a rather strange version of it, spoken with a strong Garhwali accent since the two boys working in our modest government quarters were from Tehri-Garhwal. But once she began to use both languages, there was no stopping her. What nobody told my mother was that her slang-strewn English was not quite ‘propah’.
It was our English! And she'd mastered it, listening to all of us chatting with friends. She had no idea that adults used an entirely different, more formal idiom. I used to find her conversation completely cute. Imagine the picture—a traditionally dressed, conservative Maharashtrian wife of a senior government officer, sounding like a rock ‘n’ roller… (‘This is one hell of a place— wow!’) without realizing it! What was charming to my ears may have sounded strange to Delhi's stiff babus, whose wives never opened their mouths. Especially not at deadeningly-boring receptions and ‘At Homes’, where greetings were restricted to ‘Hello ji…?’ I adore Indian English and marvel at our inventiveness. We can bend English any which way we feel like and still succeed in communicating the essentials. This is a creative feat which deserves to be documented meticulously, for every few years we add phrases and expressions that reflect our evolving selves. ‘Totally jhakaas’ cannot be translated effectively enough. ‘Phookat ka bhav mat khao’ is too delightful to ruin by explanation. ‘He thinks too great of himself’, or ‘Stop eating my head, baba’ are, again, beyond any translator's skills. ‘Uski khopdi ulti hai, bhai,’ or ‘Saala, peeyela sadela, khadoos, no-good aadmi hai—uski vaat laga do…’ Dialogues from Munnabhai? Where do you think those dialogue-writers got those priceless lines from?