It has almost been an year since the last post. What better way to start posting again (and hopefully continue this time) than with... A Guest Post! The other day Aparajita sent me this poem she wrote as the sky outside her window assumed a pensive, 'pink and rainy' mood. I was blissfully surprised for I never knew that she writes so well (though I have always assumed to my advantage that she is an extremely deep and thoughtful person). So, here's 'The Rainy Sunset':
In a cluttered mess the cars canter past,
Below the overhead bridge on which the trains tanker fast,
A fresh smell, the sky a fresh pinkish blue
Washed by angry raindrops that pelt through
The concrete jungle that I can see
Rushes past me, changing lives at tumultuous speed,
A sudden fear of being left far behind,
An instant reconciliation with a happy prime
As I watch through the latched windows
I yearn for less yet stronger it grows.
In an effort to move I stretch the rested feet,
The calm of the moment but, is too pretty to cheat
Amidst the buzzing circus, evolving yet stagnant,
My mind drifts afar, in all the noise silence is poignant
As screams the view below, of dreams, desires, and hope
Seeks work and pleasure, sobs tears of the heart that today broke
I hear it so clear and yet so vividly far,
Numb of apathy am as distant as the farthest star,
Content with my peace and yet by it perturbed
Am I human enough, if by mankind not stirred?
Doubt of a moment, washed away in lesser,
Ingratitude, hatred, treachery teach indifference is better,
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
Today is 2nd October - another one of those national holidays. I had written the following on the 15th of August this year, but did not get a chance to post it. It talks about the need to more actively engage ourselves in public life. Alas,not much has changed since then. Rather, my doubts have further been confirmed through a series of personal experiences. Almost as a supplement to my reading 'The Great Indian Middle Class'by Pavan Varma, a book that very interestingly documents the development of this seemingly ubiquitous feature of contemporary India and the dillemas it faces, small incidents with friends at home have seemed to demonstrate the inherent callousness towards, even shirking away from, a responsible public life. Rather than trivialise a larger thesis, personal experiences only suggest that what is true for societies is true for individuals, or even the converse. There is not only ignorance, but also a desire to remain so. Perhaps, the real roots of despair about the state of the nation do not lie in the inactivity of public authorities, but in willing slothfulness of our own selves. I don't write of my recent experiences here, I will later on. But this should provide something to reflect on - may be help us see the little things that we unknowingly do everyday that only indicate that we are too happy getting on with our own narrow lives. A beginning thought owing to the day - We revere our leaders enough to only revere them.
62 years on from 1947, we have enough reasons to rejoice. So we must make it a point to celebrate, and celebrate the moment of our independence with both gusto and grace. This, however, must not be an excuse to shy away from the purpose of celebration. Rather, it must be a motivation for us to contemplate as to why do we celebrate? Celebrations are a manifestation of happiness, an expression of the view that we are grateful for what we have. But does that not push us enough to at least give a second thought to why should we be grateful?
If we like to remember and exult in something that happened years ago, it is only because at that time we had hoped that the achievement will help us realise our dreams. ‘At the stroke of themidnighthour’ 62 years ago,India ‘woke up to a new dawn’ only with the expectation of a new day. That is why we celebrated then, that is why we must celebrate now. But do we really have a new day? In my view, we are partly clouded at10 am. Nonetheless, we all hate to let moments of celebrations slip away because we want that extra holiday. Well, there is something, then, that we need to do to compensate for that holiday: we need to make sure that we have some legitimacy in taking a day off. If that does not happen, then we are a shallow people, and we will not like to be known as a shallow people.
If this day brings to our minds the memory of great men who laid down their lives to build what they sought to, then we must seek inspiration from them. If we take this day off so that we may remember them and pay homage to them, then, it is obligatory on our part to emulate them, or at least make an effort to do so and make humble beginnings. If we do not do so, we do not respect them; instead, we mock their efforts and legacy.
I watched ‘Slumdog Millionaire’ with my family a few days back. There was severe dismay at the wayIndiawas presented in the movie. ‘What business does a foreigner have giving a derogatory picture of our land to the world?’ ‘And are we not an emerging giant? Oh, right, maybe it’s just jealousy.’ Such a reaction is scary. It is a kind of complacency that shrouds reason and turns meaningful patriotism into a sort snobbish jingoism. Or is it something more than complacency, something closer to despair? When gory pictures of deplorable slum-living appeared on the screen, young cousins were asked to look away. There was disgust and disbelief. An effort was made to make ourselves believe that such a thing existed ‘only in the movies’. And such a reaction is dangerous. Envisioning a freeIndia, Nehru once said that “as long as there are tears and suffering, so long our work will not be over”. We are far from this. In a diverse and unequal setting likeIndia we at least want some degree of mutual empathy between its people. Instead of fostering this, we are willingly trying to be indifferent to reality so that it does not byte. We are unknowingly cultivating in our social psyche a ‘culture of apathy’. And this will clearly not do for us because deliberate inaction on the part of those who are conscious of a problem is tantamount to deleterious action on the part of the wrongdoers.
I do not contend that we all be saints. We could just be ordinary people, with all our material and personal pursuits, but at least with a conscience. And this conscience should prove to be basis enough for us to indulge in public affairs. All that I contend is that it is a feasible human possibility to get public and private lives to coexist because they always did in our land, and still do but only in an ever shrinking measure. Sadly, when the need for this renaissance is more than ever, we seem to too unwilling to make a definitive start towards being active participants in civil society. If we could set a moment apart to think about problems, ponder over their solutions and based on that make a small move somewhere – only if each one of us could individually act in our own small capacities rather than just crib – it would stir the soup. Gandhiji said that we must be the change that we want to see. Let us not be the change, let us restrain our ambitions in the public sphere, but at least we could harbour dreams to have that change some day. And the dreams would be strong enough to mobilise the latent effort. But to dream those dreams, we cannot turn our backs on reality but will have to face it – for it is only if we face reality that we will be able to empathise with those who have the worst of it, and empathy is where it all starts. So let us make these small beginnings, each one of us, and try and explore the roots and the consequences of what we so innocuously celebrate each year, try and make sense of our independence.
In saying all this, I am not trying to be idealistic. I’m just trying to be a little hopeful. And perhaps being hopeful is terribly difficult for all of us, because being hopeful entails some bit of commitment to effort on each of our parts, or else it starts to stink of hypocrisy and guilt. And we do not like to be outwardly hypocritical, nor do we wish to unravel upon ourselves any form of self induced guilt. However, much to our convenience, we love our lethargic lives and comfortable sleep. So let’s get all of this together, get on with our own little private affairs, and continue to revel in despair.
Often little snippets of life, forlorn instances mirror the way life plays itself out. This is a brief account of a train journey between Dehradun and Delhi that happened to me a few days back. It is a well known route. Early morning, the ‘Janshatabdi’ pulls out of the sleepy but frantic station scene at Dehradun to pass through the forested hillocks(getting scantier by the day) and human settlements (growing rapidly each night) of Rajaji National Park. This opens out into the farmlands and urban dwellings of the plains. Each time, the scene outside and the scene inside offer a prospect to romanticise and reflect. This is a live account of these scenes and ponderings – written as and when they were perceived.
Look out of the window of your second class compartment. It takes a while for your eyes to get used to the rickety swaying of the train. As the train pulls out, the stagnant smell of the night, of dirty toilets and rusting window panes, is replaced by a soft morning odour of melting raindrops. It’s always a nice start, early in the morning.
There are other people too, with their own ways, yawning, stretching, some just out of bed, and others ready for a heady day. You look around for company, prospecting from the very start. You’re not always lucky though. So you turn away once again and look out. It is not your first time. You know what is in store – the broad dimensions of the journey. The city that is moving out will soon merge into the forest, only to be intermittently intercepted by the small settlements. They weren’t there earlier, they are here now. There are, nonetheless, gapes to be filled in – the finer strokes in the outline. So there is a fair bit of expectation – chance gets it fair bit, sometimes a little more also. In the relative solitude, for the train is still half empty, an odd glimpse of a chital excites the eye. The excitement isn’t long-lived. At the next station the train fills up. You hope for good companionship. But the thing you hate the most, bad luck, tirelessly follows you. You accept it, and try and make the best out of it. You think of a pick-up line (though it’s not really the best thing to think of when your co-passenger happens to be a belligerent old couple). You are just trying to invent a smile for your face when they set off a fight over their baggage with another passenger. A smirk escapes your lips. You needn’t worry though; others will have their chance at you.
A young man passes by. He has a book in hand – The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho. It is the journey that matters. Suddenly the train comes to an irritating halt. You get the idea that it’s the elephants crossing. Sadly, you’ve left the jungle behind and are in the middle of a mango orchard. No elephants in a mango orchard! It starts getting humid in the compartment. You just start hating the Indian Railway.
The train moves after a while. The landscape changes. The planted fields are full of water. It is just after the first monsoon rains. You look out for peacocks but there aren’t any. You’ll have to do with egrets. There is considerable excitement among the egrets. They vigorously jerk their heads off and on in the water clogged paddy. You recall that every time you travelled this way these birds used to be completely white. You wonder why their heads are yellow. May be they aren’t the same birds. Putting up a brave face, one of them comes daringly close to the train and fumbles, trips and falls in a funny manner. It must have been nervous. The egrets get boring too.
The sun starts swimming faster through the clouds. Was the rain just an illusion? May be the sun is too. Shades of white play on your arm that rests against the window. The paddy needs both, the sun and the rain, you reflect.
You get your bag out and fish out a book. Reading makes you drowsy so you look out again. It’s a little cloudy and you feel good. And you see more than egrets this time, sparrows, crows, drongos, treepies, swallows – all too common but they still look nice. And then you get your moment to romanticise – yesterdays, today and tomorrow, all quietly mingle into a steady stream of thought. You think of the evenings you have spent on this route before, when going home. The same poplar trees look a shade dimmer; the sun seems to be turning redder. You think of the days gone by – things you wish to remember and things that you cannot forget. You sail into the future – conjuring dreams that change every second, adjusting the finer detail, raising the bar a little higher each time. A song escapes your lips – you don’t know the lyrics too well, though at times it is the music you lose track of.
The constant rocking is lulling you to a nice sleep as a gentle breeze picks up. You lose touch with everything around you for the next two hours. A sudden jerk wakes you up. You groan a little as your back aches because of the crooked posture you slept in. But it’s always fun sleeping in the train so you forgive yourself for the backache.
The ride is about to end. You pull down your bags and take steer them down the thin aisle to the exit doors. It is humid and you’re sweating. The open doors blow in gushes of air. It helps. The station can be seen in the distance and the train slows down. You pick your bags up ready to jump off as the halt is a short one.
The destination is just the start of another journey.
What’s in a name? Two things: one, a sense of purpose. A name indicates what the item at hand deals with, its characteristics, something that defines it in its entirety and brings out its individual traits. It is solely concerned with describing what is inherent, almost denoting the spiritual identity of the object. Two, a name helps the outer world connect to the thing that has been named – a relatively more material pursuit. The name leads to the immediate attraction – catching the eye – and subsequently becomes a link in the channel of communication. So a name completes the being – both sides of its world, the inner and the outer. It was this thought that went into naming this one – of dichotomy and diversity.
I love life; at times, I hate it too. We all do. Over time, I have managed some insight into this phenomenon. In fact, this phenomenon itself is an example of a wider experience that seems to set the stage for everything that happens to us as individuals and, collectively, as a society; an experience that is the very cause of this alternation. The experience is persistent – it gives us the options, helps us make the choices and regenerates itself once those choices are made. It is a circular constellation that always holds us in its grasp – almost feeding onto itself and growing bigger each time. It is the experience of dichotomy in life – a two-mindedness, a duality that accosts us at every turn, every milestone, every speed breaker. There is the pervasive existence of the other – the ego and the alter-ego, the spiritual and the material, symbiosis and competition, the past and the future. It does not end. We remain rather oblivious of this duality when it is possible to manage both the opposing forces at the same time, to hold them together consensually. However, it becomes more than apparent when we fail to do so. The economics of it is simple: scare resources lead to the inevitability of tradeoffs. There is an objective to be maximised under certain constraints, but in reality the constraints are dynamic and keeps changing. (While this forms the basis of ‘rational behaviour’, it can at times drive one to the peak of ‘irrationality’ – although in slightly differentiated implications of the term ‘rational’). The dichotomy perhaps can be elaborated as a something that makes everyday a balancing act between faith and temptation. Faith – a value judgement of one stand being better than the other – and temptation – an attraction towards the other – constantly interact against each other. Faith may be determined by upbringing, by instruction, by personal reactions to circumstances (usually based on the previous two) as also (though only in desperate situations) by the lack of options. Similarly, temptation is also guided by internal factors and externalities. It might be that circumstances push us into disbelieving in our faith. Or, it might just be that we wish to experiment with something else for reasons of variation and newness. The first issue lies with the ‘tug-of-war’ between faith and temptation that makes following a single path very difficult. However it is important to realise that even if we let faith go for the temptation, the second issue arises in that faith reverses to become the new temptation, for the older temptation has taken its place.
It is this double layered configuration that makes life separate from mere existence. It gives life its vitality – always keeping one on his feet, pushing them to make choices and shape their lives – and makes it enjoyable. Nonetheless, this switching from one end to the other may involve pain, suffering, inconvenience and monetary losses – things that may be clubbed under the idea of ‘transition costs’. So the switching, continually or even once tires people out, leading to despair, and makes them hate life (at times). Nonetheless, it is something that makes it interesting.
The dichotomy also leads to another idea that again makes life very remarkable – diversity. Because the dichotomy results in people making different choices over a varying range of issues, the cumulative result is much more than a simple on-off button. It encapsulates a variety of mixes and matches, each individual choosing his appropriate bundle. The diversity is thus unavoidable, as well as exciting. There are two lessons here though, one leading from the other. First, as diversity is inevitable, we must learn to both respect and manage it. Second, to respect and manage it, we must first appreciate the underlying dichotomy.
This blog seeks to detail dichotomy and diversity, often in approaches that will differ and may not directly display either of the notions. However, they will form the colours in palette that will be used to paint the ultimate picture. It may be sheer experience or rigorous analysis, but it always displays an underplay of the two forces. Hope it gives the reader as much insight into things, as it gives me!
