Some books on the shelf are often ignored. Not intentionally or not because they have no worth, but their abiding presence makes them inconspicuous. Seeing them day in and day out makes them a part of the routine landscape and they do not stand out against the fresh paperbacks. Yet, a jump out of the oblivion is sometimes more pleasing than the addition of several new ones.
It was bought when I was in seventh standard, eight years back. Schools habitually host book fairs, and I had made it a habit of parents’ to buy me something from each of those. It was, then, the thickest volume I had ever owned. The cover page has a bluish texture inset with a crayon drawing of an armchair by the window gazing out on to the mountains – two parallel ranges, the one in the foreground dark, lower, and the at the back snow-clad, white. The title reads RUSKIN BOND: Collected Fiction.
I do not remember when I was introduced to Ruskin Bond. It might have been a passage in a primary school reader, or a chance mention by someone, but I cannot recall not knowing about him. The first notable stint, and the one that left a lasting impression, came when I was thirteen. ‘Our trees still grow in Dehra’ is a collection of short stories that was the prescribed text for our literature course. It is a book that I judged by the cover, but it did not disappoint. From what I can recall from memory (though memory is often what we want it to be), the cover had a picture of Chir Pine, set against a dusky background, just like the one outside the Dining Hall in School. It was that spectre of the imposing bunches of needles, through which peered that moon as we waited (or rushed) for dinner, which never made me forget the book or its characters. Bansi, the tonga- wallah who would ride the young boy to Rispana, Binya, the mountain girl, the banyan tree who befriended the author and let him know of the friendship by making one of its leaves caress against the authors cheek, the boy who grazed buffaloes and then led them to a waddle in the lake. All Simple folk, no flounce or paraphernalia, like the ones you meet in those distant, faraway places - places which are a lot closer home. Or even if you do not meet them, even if they are too undemanding to be real to literary eye, they engender a romance.
They are not people who would be ideal subjects for philosophical dissection. Rather, they stand out because they merge so well into the surroundings. Theirs is not a rebellion, but a synergy with their ambience. They blend into their landscape to form a greater meta-landscape, a distinct reality. It is this reality, often devoid of a proper plot, just a node in time, which forms the story.
To qualify For the Scholars’ Blazer in school it was mandatory to read 20 books at least, and then have a discussion with a panel of masters on those books. Out of 20, in my case, 5 were Ruskin Bond’s. The Headmaster asked me that what explained the conspicuous appearance of one particular author on the list. The answer is this – it is a striving to create a sense of belonging to and identification with a place that has only existed in memories, several of which are acquired or imagined, yet none of which are untrue. Mr. Bond writes about a place that he calls home and that I call home. Yet the place he writes about, and the place I perceive as I exist in my daily routine, though geographically the same, seem to diverge in experience. My reading Ruskin Bond, very often, is a subconscious attempt at reconciliation.
This, in fact, is the charm of literature. It is a relief from the empiricism of everyday life, a getaway into the more subtle of human experiences, an exploration of alternative realities. This is not to say that literature is escapist – escapism is for cowards. Literature is for the brave – for those who attempt to delve deeper into reality to uncover the finer layers, to discover ‘what-could-be’.
A few years back, I was in Mussoorie, walking along the crowded Mall, when I saw Mr. Bond at a distance. He had a leisurely gait and I knew I could catch up. I remember being at a loss for words when I actually did manage to sneak in a hello. All I remember telling him was that I had read his books. He appeared unfazed; I must have been quite red for I stammered. I am sure I was inconsequential enough to be mentioned in one of his writings. Yet, hill people (and I would be glad to call myself one) can be unpredictable in their simplicity. I would be happy if he stays true to this image.
As I write, sitting in the Verandah of my house, I can see the Mussoorie hills shrouded by dark, heavy clouds. The sky overhead too is gathering itself up. In the house opposite mine is a mango tree that has been there since before me. In my own house, there used to be three litchi trees. Now one remains. The rain, when it does come, would swell up the fruits, making them juicier and sweeter. The old Dehra might be disintegrating, but right now, I can sense a drizzle.
The Naxalites have stepped up their offensive against the Indian state, including civilians, in the past few weeks. It has brought forth a flurry of reactions from the government, the media and civil society at large. Some view it as an indication of bolstered naxal strength; others consider it a last gasp for survival by a faltering rebellion. However, in this absolute frenzy, (as always) there are certain underlying issues that are undermined by the necessary concern of realpolitik. The question that baffles me follows from amateur considerations of moral philosophy: What is the right thing to do? Nevertheless, a preliminary enquiry only manages to throw up further questions.
There is a contention in the public sphere regarding the how the Naxal ‘threat’ should be tackled. The government and a sizeable chunk of public policy and security analysts have a clear stand: While there is room for non-violent discourse if the ‘Rebels’ even temporarily abjure violence, every blow on the Indian state must be met with an equal retaliation. There is also, however, a group of intellectuals and human rights activist, who justify the movement on grounds of inequitable development in the Indian Union, and insist that the resolution must be through dialogue (which may need to be initiated by the state). They contend that, even in the present scenario of heightened violence by the naxalites, retaliatory state violence will only further hurt the adivasis. The former strand of thought, however, believes this to be contradictory, as they argue that the insurgency is inhibiting development and developmental activities can proceed only when order, peace and permanence is established. An important point is in order here: both sides agree that violence on the part of Naxals is categorically wrong, and their actions, be they for whatever reason undermine their objective. Where they differ is on consequentialist grounds – how will an armed retaliation affect the welfare of tribals. And while the Naxalite ‘sympathizers’ may be accused of an agenda against the State and the actions of the State (as most glamorously captured by ‘Operation Greenhunt’) be justified on numerous grounds, perhaps what the former are making is a stronger, more subtle point – the manifestly good intentions of the state in performing its welfare duties may in fact have negative, unintended consequences on the ground. Thus, ironically, those being blamed for being detached from reality in justifying a ‘political’ solution, might actually be anticipating a more consequential reality.
Though it may seem a little heretic, at least in two ways a case can be made for justifying the means adopted by the Naxalites. One argument that was once put before me some time time ago (and so is obviously borrowed) was fashioned as follows: ‘They had a choice to live with arms or die without them. What could have they chosen?’ Another reason, which I can vie to be partially novel, draws on a sense of karmic balance. It has been contented by several influential scholars that not only has progress in any form has bypassed tribal regions more than sixty years of independent Indian polity, but a steady process of deprivation has been instituted by the State (See This Fissured Land by Gadgil and Guha and Environment and Ethnicity in India by Sumit Guha). Not only have the tribals been dispossessed of their land, they have been disenfranchised of their basic means of subsistence by the State having restricted their access to traditionally shared forests and commons. The effects of a misguided continuation of ‘scientific’ colonial forestry post 1947 era appear to have been accentuated by rent seeking and formation of power clouts and nexuses. This has clearly meant slow but sure death for several communities over time. If the Indian state, which is supposed to have perpetrated this form of social penury, is taken to represent the civil society as a whole in a democracy, then perhaps by some standards a violent confrontation may be justified.
However, this rationalization can be severely dented if viewed in light of the present. It has been well established that in Naxal dominated areas, basic amenities, schools and hospitals are almost non-functional. Moreover, there have been allegations of cold blooded murder of the tribals themselves, and then attempts to cover them up by labelling the victims as ‘police informers’. This would make the Naxalite Movement liable for accusations of losing track, of first, becoming an angry vendetta, and then transforming into a bloody battle for power. Such actions undermine the very motive of the movement, and thus, disrobe it off a possible legitimacy of violence.
Each time a brutal attack is carried out, the media, the experts and the public, almost unanimously display anger, angst and outrage. It is a frenzied incidence of public emotion. But this opinion is definitely not the best one to consult for formation of policy. In a digression, McCloskey, in one of his popular columns in the Eastern Economic Journal, concedes that expecting undergraduates to ‘think like economists’ is fruitless for “economics, like philosophy, cannot be taught to nineteen-year olds. It is an old man's field. Nineteen-year olds are, most of them, romantics, capable of memorizing and emoting, but not capable of thinking coldly in the cost-and-benefit way.”[1] Public policy is not far removed from economics. Such words are disheartening when someone, marginally older than nineteen attempts to do moral philosophy in the domain of Public Policy. But then, it isn’t the nineteen year-olds only who are capable of ‘memorizing and emoting’.
[1] McCloskey, D. (1992). ‘Other Things Equal: The Natural’, Eastern Economic Journal, Vol. 18, No. 2 (Spring, 1992), pp. 237-239
