Reading Nirad C. Chaudhuri’s Autobiography of an Unknown Indian fifty years after it was first published, one cannot but remember the controversy, the “howls of protest,” from the “wogs,” in Khushwant Singh’s memorable phrase, that greeted its release in 1951. The primary cause of the outrage was, of course, Chaudhuri’s dedication of the book: “To the British Empire.”
Even today, half a century on, one cannot quite suppress a frisson of discomfort at the apparent tribute to a colonial power that held not only India, but many other nations across the globe in subjection for centuries, draining them in the duration of their wealth, their resources, and most cruelly of all, their self-respect and belief in themselves. One can well imagine the feelings of an Indian audience when confronted with such a dedication barely four years after independence. Chaudhuri certainly paid a heavy personal and professional price for his ill-timed iconoclasm: he was forced out of his job, deprived of his pension, and blacklisted, being denied even a place among the country’s intellectual elite, in whose ranks he naturally belonged. Eventually he left India permanently to settle in England, where he lived and wrote until his death in 1999 at the grand old age of 101.
The modern reader might be more favourably inclined than Chaudhuri’s contemporaries to appreciate the irony richly inherent in the full dedication, which becomes very apparent upon even a slight examination: “To the memory of the British Empire in India, Which conferred subjecthood upon us/But withheld citizenship/To which yet every one of us threw out the challenge: "Civis Britannicus sum"/Because all that was good and living within us/Was made, shaped and quickened/By the same British rule.” Chaudhuri is clearly accusing the British Empire of unfairness in conferring subjecthood but withholding citizenship: he means that while the Empire made subjects of its people, it failed to give them the rights and freedoms of true citizens. Chaudhuri’s Latin invocation recalls a similar deprivation of the subjects of the earlier Roman Empire. The subsequent lines suggest that such adversity as is experienced by those under foreign rule, brings out the best in those so subjected, for only by nurturing our best and highest natures and qualities can we hope successfully to oppose a force as powerful and far-reaching as Empire.
This kind of reading supports what Chaudhuri later called his “backhanded criticism,” of the British Empire, the nuances of which, he lamented (with some justice) his countrymen failed to appreciate. Are we then to assume that Chaudhuri has been profoundly misunderstood and that he was, in reality, an unequivocal critic of the British Empire? Were the many Indians who, reading but the opening dedication, criticized Chaudhuri as a toady of the British, totally in error and did him a gross injustice? If we were to examine Autobiography in its entirety, would we reach a radically different conclusion?
Rather dampingly, perhaps, the answers to all three questions must finally be “no,” or at least “far from it.” Chaudhuri was no critic of the Empire; on the contrary, he believed it to be, in spite of all its faults, a force for good, certainly a necessary evil, having united a miscellaneous congeries of weak, warring, and decadent princely states under a strong central government. Similarly, Chaudhuri praises the Roman Empire and the Islamic Empire, arguing that these empires constituted in their time the only “vital,” “virile,” and “living” forces capable of shoring up cultures in decline, at a low point in their development and therefore fundamentally unfit for self-rule.
Chaudhuri’s perpetual apologia for British rule leaves crater-sized lacunae in his analysis of that rule – great gaping vacuums that, to a generation educated and enlightened by the tireless research of postcolonial, feminist and cultural and ethnic studies scholars, seem so astonishing as to be downright ludicrous.
Nowhere in Chaudhuri’s interpretations of the British Empire do we encounter the basic definition of imperialism, its raison d'être as opposed to its raison superficielle – the real reason for empire being always plunder, exploitation and profit, and the official, or public reason being to bring stability (in modern parlance “freedom” and “democracy”) to the conquered territories. Chaudhuri accepts the second, overt but completely meretricious reason, and hence arises quite naturally the inversion in his thinking that leads him to claim the evils of the Empire as blunders, unfortunate but unintentional and perhaps inevitable in so giant an enterprise, and its benefits as the intended result of a great civilizing, stabilizing mission. Thus Chaudhuri finally presents us with a looking-glass image of empire, whereas, in the real world in which most of us are forced to dwell, a conqueror benefits the conquered not because he wishes to or because he has the best interests of the latter at heart, but because he needs a degree of order and stability to establish and perpetuate his larger aim of exploitation – in short, because he must.
Monday, August 8, 2011
Thursday, April 9, 2009
A Consortium of Pubgoing Loose and Forward Women
Dear Friends at Facebook,
I am a Facebook customer and have been using Facebook, like many millions of others all over the globe, to connect with old friends and to make new ones.
I understand that you folks at Facebook are deeply committed to making the use of your site a positive and fulfilling experience for all of us who visit it. Please extend the same commitment to us now when we have need of it. A situation has arisen for a group of Facebook users that could really use your help. I write on my own behalf and that of other users who have been affected by this misuse of Facebook.
The position is as follows:
On February 5, 2009, a Facebook user, journalist Nisha Susan of Bangalore, India, started a group to protest the beating of a number of women by religious fanatics in Southern India. She named this group “The Consortium of Pubgoing Loose and Forward Women,” an ironic reference to the fact that the victims of the assault were attacked by fanatics who felt that these women were somehow insulting “Indian culture” by going to a pub.
Within weeks, this group’s membership had grown from five members (of whom I am one) to a staggering 55,000 people from all corners of the world. The group became a forum that brought people together to participate in real-time activities to promote the cause of women’s rights in India. The group also served a greater purpose: it became a creative and vibrant space for wide-ranging debate on issues touching on all aspects of human rights - the rights of women to be treated equally, the upholding of religious freedom, and larger human rights issues were all hotly debated and discussed by dedicated users.
However, as was always a possibility with such a large and diverse group, we came under attack from hackers. In the last week or so, the attacks have evolved into a daily barrage that disrupts our ability to express ourselves freely – or at all – on the group. Several members of the group have also been the victims of vulgar abuse by the unknown hacker(s). For instance, he/she has renamed the group” A Good Bong is a Dead One,” which is a reference to people like myself, who belong to the Bengali community of India, known colloquially as “Bongs.” Many of us feel that, aside from indulging in hate-speech, the hacker also sounds rather threatening when he makes statements of this sort.
Our founder, Ms. Susan, has been nothing short of heroic, repeatedly re-installing the group in its original form, but the hack attacks have been continuous and relentless. Most activity on the group is now at a standstill. We feel our privacy and our freedom to express ourselves peacefully have been violated in no uncertain manner. Therefore we earnestly request you to look into this problem and stop a recurrence of such attacks. Some of us have already filed complaints against the hacker with the FBI’s cyber crimes division at www.ic3.gov, but we feel that you should also be notified of our predicament in order to facilitate maximum communication between all the parties involved – users, law enforcement, Facebook, and if necessary, media.
We are enthusiastic users and supporters of Facebook and would like to continue to be so. We therefore appeal to you to please help us in this regard. On the eve of your first Initial Public Offering, I feel sure you will remember that we, your customers, are a crucial part of your richly deserved success.
Please help us.
I am a Facebook customer and have been using Facebook, like many millions of others all over the globe, to connect with old friends and to make new ones.
I understand that you folks at Facebook are deeply committed to making the use of your site a positive and fulfilling experience for all of us who visit it. Please extend the same commitment to us now when we have need of it. A situation has arisen for a group of Facebook users that could really use your help. I write on my own behalf and that of other users who have been affected by this misuse of Facebook.
The position is as follows:
On February 5, 2009, a Facebook user, journalist Nisha Susan of Bangalore, India, started a group to protest the beating of a number of women by religious fanatics in Southern India. She named this group “The Consortium of Pubgoing Loose and Forward Women,” an ironic reference to the fact that the victims of the assault were attacked by fanatics who felt that these women were somehow insulting “Indian culture” by going to a pub.
Within weeks, this group’s membership had grown from five members (of whom I am one) to a staggering 55,000 people from all corners of the world. The group became a forum that brought people together to participate in real-time activities to promote the cause of women’s rights in India. The group also served a greater purpose: it became a creative and vibrant space for wide-ranging debate on issues touching on all aspects of human rights - the rights of women to be treated equally, the upholding of religious freedom, and larger human rights issues were all hotly debated and discussed by dedicated users.
However, as was always a possibility with such a large and diverse group, we came under attack from hackers. In the last week or so, the attacks have evolved into a daily barrage that disrupts our ability to express ourselves freely – or at all – on the group. Several members of the group have also been the victims of vulgar abuse by the unknown hacker(s). For instance, he/she has renamed the group” A Good Bong is a Dead One,” which is a reference to people like myself, who belong to the Bengali community of India, known colloquially as “Bongs.” Many of us feel that, aside from indulging in hate-speech, the hacker also sounds rather threatening when he makes statements of this sort.
Our founder, Ms. Susan, has been nothing short of heroic, repeatedly re-installing the group in its original form, but the hack attacks have been continuous and relentless. Most activity on the group is now at a standstill. We feel our privacy and our freedom to express ourselves peacefully have been violated in no uncertain manner. Therefore we earnestly request you to look into this problem and stop a recurrence of such attacks. Some of us have already filed complaints against the hacker with the FBI’s cyber crimes division at www.ic3.gov, but we feel that you should also be notified of our predicament in order to facilitate maximum communication between all the parties involved – users, law enforcement, Facebook, and if necessary, media.
We are enthusiastic users and supporters of Facebook and would like to continue to be so. We therefore appeal to you to please help us in this regard. On the eve of your first Initial Public Offering, I feel sure you will remember that we, your customers, are a crucial part of your richly deserved success.
Please help us.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Letter to Protest Violence Against Women
This letter is posted on behalf of the Consortium of Pubgoing Loose and Forward Women, courtesy of P.R. Chaudhuri. You can use this letter as it is written or make any alterations you see fit - or send your own letter. The important thing is to communicate your protest and your outrage. The addresses to which the following letters/emails may be sent are appended below. When sending thse emails, PLEASE send a copy to mahilabharati@yahoo.com - this is Chaudhuri's email address. The copy will enable the Consortium to keep a record of how many emails were sent. Thank you!
Dear Sir,
In the last week women in the cities of Bangalore and Mangalore have faced physical attacks by gangs of strangers. These women , without the slightest provocation - unless exercising your rights as a free citizen of India by travelling, driving a car, or walking on the street as all of us have the right to do - can be counted as a provocation - were threatened, intimidated, cursed, and beaten. Some of them will be traumatized for life ; others will be afraid to walk the streets of their own cities again. These attacks are nothing less than a dastardly attempt to circumscribe the freedom of movement of women.
We are a group of concerned citizens, male and female, old and young, Hindu, Muslim, Sikh and Christian, from all walks of life, who have gathered to express our outrage and to register our strong protest that such goons are allowed to disrupt the lives of ordinary citizens with impunity. We ask that you restore to us our right to walk our own cities free of fear and the threat of assault. We ask that you bring these miscreants to justice and return to us the confidence in our lawmakers which should be our birthright. For this is not just a "women's issue," when one woman is attacked, we are all diminished; we all have our rights as citizens eroded along with her.
We, the people, ask you for justice and for protection. We hope and trust that you will not fail us.
Sincerely,
Addresses follow:
Dr. VS Acharya
Home Minister - Karnataka State
Room no. 315 & 315 A
Vidhan Soudha
Bangalore 560001
Tel: 080 22252536
vsacharya@gmail.com
P. Chidambaram
Ministry of Home Affairs, North Block
Central Secretariat
New Delhi - 110 001
Phone: 23092011, 23092161
websitemhaweb@nic.in
Dr. Ajai Kumar Singh
DG & IGP
Karnataka State Police Headquarters
Nrupathunga Road
Bangalore
Tel: 080 22211803, 22942999
police@ksp.gov.in
When sending thse emails, PLEASE send a copy to mahilabharati@yahoo.com - this is Chaudhuri's email address.
Dear Sir,
In the last week women in the cities of Bangalore and Mangalore have faced physical attacks by gangs of strangers. These women , without the slightest provocation - unless exercising your rights as a free citizen of India by travelling, driving a car, or walking on the street as all of us have the right to do - can be counted as a provocation - were threatened, intimidated, cursed, and beaten. Some of them will be traumatized for life ; others will be afraid to walk the streets of their own cities again. These attacks are nothing less than a dastardly attempt to circumscribe the freedom of movement of women.
We are a group of concerned citizens, male and female, old and young, Hindu, Muslim, Sikh and Christian, from all walks of life, who have gathered to express our outrage and to register our strong protest that such goons are allowed to disrupt the lives of ordinary citizens with impunity. We ask that you restore to us our right to walk our own cities free of fear and the threat of assault. We ask that you bring these miscreants to justice and return to us the confidence in our lawmakers which should be our birthright. For this is not just a "women's issue," when one woman is attacked, we are all diminished; we all have our rights as citizens eroded along with her.
We, the people, ask you for justice and for protection. We hope and trust that you will not fail us.
Sincerely,
Addresses follow:
Dr. VS Acharya
Home Minister - Karnataka State
Room no. 315 & 315 A
Vidhan Soudha
Bangalore 560001
Tel: 080 22252536
vsacharya@gmail.com
P. Chidambaram
Ministry of Home Affairs, North Block
Central Secretariat
New Delhi - 110 001
Phone: 23092011, 23092161
websitemhaweb@nic.in
Dr. Ajai Kumar Singh
DG & IGP
Karnataka State Police Headquarters
Nrupathunga Road
Bangalore
Tel: 080 22211803, 22942999
police@ksp.gov.in
When sending thse emails, PLEASE send a copy to mahilabharati@yahoo.com - this is Chaudhuri's email address.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Driving with Chris
I was in a hurry to get home, for the rain was scything across my windscreen and visibility was declining. So, it seemed, were my fellow drivers, whose cars scurried past, as though we all shared a common object – hunkering down till we could get to the shelter of our respective homes. We were isolated in our moving machines, but we were warm and safe. I was just thinking how good it felt not to be out in this weather when I saw him.
He was standing alone at a bus stop, hood pulled back, head hunched forward, eyes peering expectantly at the road ahead. I wondered how long he had been waiting. Even though I had just spotted him, there was that in his attitude that led me to think he might have been standing there some little time. And he was noticeable, being the only human being I had really seen that evening, for the cars were mere moving blurs, their drivers quite undistinguishable through the lashing curtains of rain.
I passed him, then changed lanes to the left, but the next couple of intersections forbade a U-turn, so I had to drive on a little way before I could finally turn the car around. As I drove back, I thought about what my lover would say when he knew I had been picking up strangers again.
“Taking enormous risks… Crimes of opportunity… No knowing what might happen… Extremely foolish… Have told you and told you…”
When I drove up to where the youth was still standing, I noticed that he was neatly, though cheaply dressed in a gray sweatshirt with a hood and black trousers. He was still gazing up the road with eager anticipation, as though each passing minute rendered him more impatient. He glanced at my approaching vehicle with surprise, but when I rolled down my window and called out “Excuse me, sir, would you like a ride?” he smiled, nodded, and stepped forward. Climbing into the car, he fastened his seat belt without being asked and thanked me politely.
He was very polite. Every sentence ended with “Ma’am.” He was also educated; he was working towards a degree in business from a local community college. Emboldened by his friendliness, I ventured to ask him why people in his community had so much difficulty accessing higher education.
He did not look offended. Nor did he seem to need the apologies that accompanied my question.
He regarded me for a few moments, his eyes serious, even a little sad, before he answered.
“Black people have settled, ma’am,” he said in a slow, deep voice. “We’ve been hopeless for so long that we’re finding it hard to hope again.”
He spoke musingly, as though mine were a question that, despite its banality, still carried some significance because it formed part of his own thoughts. Behind the quiet words I read the sorrow of a whole people – I heard the echoes of African spirituals and the resignation of a culture that has been part of the U.S. for as long as any other and yet has still to struggle to be accepted.
He talked about his sense of isolation from some of his peers who were into “the street life” including his own brother, who was “not into school, ma’am – he runs with a tough crowd.” Sometimes, he admitted, he felt alone because it seemed that not too many other young black men supported him in his quest for educational and financial opportunity. His voice was relaxed, conversational, but the words still sounded measured and thoughtful, the tones of one who spends time examining and analyzing the world and his place in it.
“Had you been waiting long?” I presently enquired.
He nodded. “I’d forgotten that it was President’s Day,” he said, smiling. “They suspend the bus service in observance of this day.”
President’s Day commemorates George Washington and Abraham Lincoln’s birthdays. The one was responsible for leading the American Revolutionaries against British armies, and the other for the civil war that eventually led to the end of institutionalized slavery in the United States. They had suspended the bus service on this day, so young men like the one beside me, who depended on public transportation to get around, could not get to work and had to depend on the chance of a ride offered by a stranger, a chance itself fraught with its own risks.
We turned into the bus station where the young man wished to be dropped off. As the car idled at the curb, he gave me his number, scrawling it and his name hastily on a battered ticket of Friday Night Valentine.
“Where do you work, Chris?” I asked.
“FedEx,” he responded, and quickly, as though he feared to be disbelieved, fished out a grubby-looking card with his name printed on it and the company’s logo on the top right.
I turned the card over. There was a name written on the back.
“Benny Hinn,” I read aloud. On the journey Chris had spoken once or twice of his faith in God, who he believed was guiding him through the challenges he faced as a young black man trying to make good.
Chris smiled enthusiastically, “Yeah, he’s great. I love his show.”
I knew the name. He was a Christian “televangelist” – a term my MS Word seems to know, though it professes ignorance of Hinn in particular – and he is reputed to be one of the richest of them all. For non-Americans, televangelists are men – and some women, too – who use television to spread the message of their faith. Hinn had been born in the town of Jaffa in Israel, and I had first heard his name from a white woman in Idaho, who narrated ecstatically how Hinn had been to India and how millions of Indians had apparently gathered to hear him “speak of the Lord.” This could well be true – Indians will gather to hear anything – we’re not particular – and as for the Lord, even non-Christian Indians accept Jesus as a god. One or two more don’t make a difference; we have so many, some of them still flourishing on the earthly plane, like the Sai Baba in the Deccan. Indeed, if Hinn had been advertising his powers as a faith healer, he was quite likely to have attracted even more of a following. Indians adore silver-tongued faith healers, and tolerate the schism that usually exists between their words and their promises with commendable patience. Such worthies are often vouchsafed a place in the pantheon of semi divinities. Hinn’s chances, I fancied, were fair; though he had a lot of competition, there was nevertheless plenty of room.
Chris obviously admired the man enormously, and found his words a source of encouragement and comfort. But we had no time to discuss Hinn, for the young man, understandably, was eager to be on his way. It must have been time for his train.
“Be careful in the rain out there, you hear?” I called after him, grandmother fashion.
He smiled, nodded, and lifted a hand in farewell. I looked after him as he disappeared into the station, probably towards the turnstiles. If he took the train to get to work, he would be likely to use a pass. Queuing up for a ticket every day would be too time consuming.
Later that day, I read that a few years earlier, Benny Hinn had solicited donations from his congregation for a “seed-faith” gift for the purchase of a thirty-six million dollar Gulfstream Jet.
He, too, had to get to work if he was to continue his mission of serving his flock, one of whom had just wandered into my car this rainy evening of late February.
He was standing alone at a bus stop, hood pulled back, head hunched forward, eyes peering expectantly at the road ahead. I wondered how long he had been waiting. Even though I had just spotted him, there was that in his attitude that led me to think he might have been standing there some little time. And he was noticeable, being the only human being I had really seen that evening, for the cars were mere moving blurs, their drivers quite undistinguishable through the lashing curtains of rain.
I passed him, then changed lanes to the left, but the next couple of intersections forbade a U-turn, so I had to drive on a little way before I could finally turn the car around. As I drove back, I thought about what my lover would say when he knew I had been picking up strangers again.
“Taking enormous risks… Crimes of opportunity… No knowing what might happen… Extremely foolish… Have told you and told you…”
When I drove up to where the youth was still standing, I noticed that he was neatly, though cheaply dressed in a gray sweatshirt with a hood and black trousers. He was still gazing up the road with eager anticipation, as though each passing minute rendered him more impatient. He glanced at my approaching vehicle with surprise, but when I rolled down my window and called out “Excuse me, sir, would you like a ride?” he smiled, nodded, and stepped forward. Climbing into the car, he fastened his seat belt without being asked and thanked me politely.
He was very polite. Every sentence ended with “Ma’am.” He was also educated; he was working towards a degree in business from a local community college. Emboldened by his friendliness, I ventured to ask him why people in his community had so much difficulty accessing higher education.
He did not look offended. Nor did he seem to need the apologies that accompanied my question.
He regarded me for a few moments, his eyes serious, even a little sad, before he answered.
“Black people have settled, ma’am,” he said in a slow, deep voice. “We’ve been hopeless for so long that we’re finding it hard to hope again.”
He spoke musingly, as though mine were a question that, despite its banality, still carried some significance because it formed part of his own thoughts. Behind the quiet words I read the sorrow of a whole people – I heard the echoes of African spirituals and the resignation of a culture that has been part of the U.S. for as long as any other and yet has still to struggle to be accepted.
He talked about his sense of isolation from some of his peers who were into “the street life” including his own brother, who was “not into school, ma’am – he runs with a tough crowd.” Sometimes, he admitted, he felt alone because it seemed that not too many other young black men supported him in his quest for educational and financial opportunity. His voice was relaxed, conversational, but the words still sounded measured and thoughtful, the tones of one who spends time examining and analyzing the world and his place in it.
“Had you been waiting long?” I presently enquired.
He nodded. “I’d forgotten that it was President’s Day,” he said, smiling. “They suspend the bus service in observance of this day.”
President’s Day commemorates George Washington and Abraham Lincoln’s birthdays. The one was responsible for leading the American Revolutionaries against British armies, and the other for the civil war that eventually led to the end of institutionalized slavery in the United States. They had suspended the bus service on this day, so young men like the one beside me, who depended on public transportation to get around, could not get to work and had to depend on the chance of a ride offered by a stranger, a chance itself fraught with its own risks.
We turned into the bus station where the young man wished to be dropped off. As the car idled at the curb, he gave me his number, scrawling it and his name hastily on a battered ticket of Friday Night Valentine.
“Where do you work, Chris?” I asked.
“FedEx,” he responded, and quickly, as though he feared to be disbelieved, fished out a grubby-looking card with his name printed on it and the company’s logo on the top right.
I turned the card over. There was a name written on the back.
“Benny Hinn,” I read aloud. On the journey Chris had spoken once or twice of his faith in God, who he believed was guiding him through the challenges he faced as a young black man trying to make good.
Chris smiled enthusiastically, “Yeah, he’s great. I love his show.”
I knew the name. He was a Christian “televangelist” – a term my MS Word seems to know, though it professes ignorance of Hinn in particular – and he is reputed to be one of the richest of them all. For non-Americans, televangelists are men – and some women, too – who use television to spread the message of their faith. Hinn had been born in the town of Jaffa in Israel, and I had first heard his name from a white woman in Idaho, who narrated ecstatically how Hinn had been to India and how millions of Indians had apparently gathered to hear him “speak of the Lord.” This could well be true – Indians will gather to hear anything – we’re not particular – and as for the Lord, even non-Christian Indians accept Jesus as a god. One or two more don’t make a difference; we have so many, some of them still flourishing on the earthly plane, like the Sai Baba in the Deccan. Indeed, if Hinn had been advertising his powers as a faith healer, he was quite likely to have attracted even more of a following. Indians adore silver-tongued faith healers, and tolerate the schism that usually exists between their words and their promises with commendable patience. Such worthies are often vouchsafed a place in the pantheon of semi divinities. Hinn’s chances, I fancied, were fair; though he had a lot of competition, there was nevertheless plenty of room.
Chris obviously admired the man enormously, and found his words a source of encouragement and comfort. But we had no time to discuss Hinn, for the young man, understandably, was eager to be on his way. It must have been time for his train.
“Be careful in the rain out there, you hear?” I called after him, grandmother fashion.
He smiled, nodded, and lifted a hand in farewell. I looked after him as he disappeared into the station, probably towards the turnstiles. If he took the train to get to work, he would be likely to use a pass. Queuing up for a ticket every day would be too time consuming.
Later that day, I read that a few years earlier, Benny Hinn had solicited donations from his congregation for a “seed-faith” gift for the purchase of a thirty-six million dollar Gulfstream Jet.
He, too, had to get to work if he was to continue his mission of serving his flock, one of whom had just wandered into my car this rainy evening of late February.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Saugata Chatterjee, Bangalore, February 6, 2009
"The fault, dear Brutus, lies not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings." Julius Caesar, Act I, Scn II.
On February 6, 2009, Saugata and his friends were brutally assaulted by a group of goons who specifically targeted the women among the persons present. Saugata and his friends were standing outside a pub in the evening when the - feeble word - incident occurred. The women were verbally abused and struck in the belly, breasts and kicked in the groin. The men trying to defend them were mercilessly beaten. Predictably, the assailants turned out to be on first name terms with the police, and it was the victims, not the criminals, who were arrested. Although they were subsequently released and not detained in custody, the police proved - again predictably - reluctant to register a complaint, citing reasons as laughable as Saugata not being fluent in Kannada, even though the report was to be written in English.
What can one say in a commentary on a situation - again, feeble word! - like this? I am outraged. I am furious. But there is more - there is a desire to say the most brutal things as frankly as possible, to use words like fists and nails and swords, smashing and clawing at the armour of complacency that we have worn for so long. There is the desire repeatedly to expose the rot within, till the stench assails our inured senses, till our stomachs heave, till it becomes impossible to live within the putrefying bubble of our own indifference. We have ceased to feel the bile in our throats at such injustice; we have learned to live finished, glossy lives where all that is ugly and real is deemed not to exist.
Please, no more.
Our politicians are criminals - sometimes they win elections from jail cells.
Our police force is a joke, a brigade of Bozos, a body of men - mostly of men - who are feared by the common people for very real reasons. No-one in her right mind would ever approach the Indian police for protection.
Women in our country have been second-class citizens for as long as I can remember.
The rule of law in our country is evocative of nothing but laughter.
We are a disengaged, craven nation, a consumerist zombiehood that is impervious to most things that don't offer immediate gratification.
Eliot knew what he was talking about when he spoke of "the hollow men."
It is true that one cannot continue to function in a white heat of anger at injustices like the one mentioned above. Very well, then - let the heat be replaced by a cold fury, a clenched determination to do everything in our power - and our power is considerable - to ensure that there is not a repeat of February 6, that people can stand in a public road with their friends without fearing attacks for which the law, the government, the state, offers no remedy but mockery and indifference.
Write letters, form groups, post on blogs, email your friends. Send chappals to the elected officials of Karnataka with a note to hang them around their necks when they go to work.
Throw your shoes. It could be done to Bush, and it can be done to these travesties of humanity who rule us.
http://vishshanker.sulekha.com/blog/post/2009/02/this-happened-in-bangalore-bengaluru-shocking.htm
On February 6, 2009, Saugata and his friends were brutally assaulted by a group of goons who specifically targeted the women among the persons present. Saugata and his friends were standing outside a pub in the evening when the - feeble word - incident occurred. The women were verbally abused and struck in the belly, breasts and kicked in the groin. The men trying to defend them were mercilessly beaten. Predictably, the assailants turned out to be on first name terms with the police, and it was the victims, not the criminals, who were arrested. Although they were subsequently released and not detained in custody, the police proved - again predictably - reluctant to register a complaint, citing reasons as laughable as Saugata not being fluent in Kannada, even though the report was to be written in English.
What can one say in a commentary on a situation - again, feeble word! - like this? I am outraged. I am furious. But there is more - there is a desire to say the most brutal things as frankly as possible, to use words like fists and nails and swords, smashing and clawing at the armour of complacency that we have worn for so long. There is the desire repeatedly to expose the rot within, till the stench assails our inured senses, till our stomachs heave, till it becomes impossible to live within the putrefying bubble of our own indifference. We have ceased to feel the bile in our throats at such injustice; we have learned to live finished, glossy lives where all that is ugly and real is deemed not to exist.
Please, no more.
Our politicians are criminals - sometimes they win elections from jail cells.
Our police force is a joke, a brigade of Bozos, a body of men - mostly of men - who are feared by the common people for very real reasons. No-one in her right mind would ever approach the Indian police for protection.
Women in our country have been second-class citizens for as long as I can remember.
The rule of law in our country is evocative of nothing but laughter.
We are a disengaged, craven nation, a consumerist zombiehood that is impervious to most things that don't offer immediate gratification.
Eliot knew what he was talking about when he spoke of "the hollow men."
It is true that one cannot continue to function in a white heat of anger at injustices like the one mentioned above. Very well, then - let the heat be replaced by a cold fury, a clenched determination to do everything in our power - and our power is considerable - to ensure that there is not a repeat of February 6, that people can stand in a public road with their friends without fearing attacks for which the law, the government, the state, offers no remedy but mockery and indifference.
Write letters, form groups, post on blogs, email your friends. Send chappals to the elected officials of Karnataka with a note to hang them around their necks when they go to work.
Throw your shoes. It could be done to Bush, and it can be done to these travesties of humanity who rule us.
http://vishshanker.sulekha.com/blog/post/2009/02/this-happened-in-bangalore-bengaluru-shocking.htm
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
"Measure for Measure" (Impact, Berkeley)
Impact Theater’s production of Measure for Measure in Berkeley (April 20 through May 26) asks the question: what happens when authority attempts to “own” human sexuality? The issue seems particularly relevant in the light of contemporary attempts by the Christian right to codify and limit sexuality according to a narrow set of rules. “Measure” opens on a suitably contemporary note – loud techno music, Playboy magazines, a bottle of Guinness. In this play’s world, sexuality and the ownership of it are just as relevant today as they were during the reign of the “Virgin” Queen (whose virginity was itself more a political construct than a question of personal choice) - perhaps more so, since we are supposedly “free” to do what we like. The production’s politics, aptly for a play staged in Berkeley, are very anti-authoritarian, and one of the ways, it seems to be saying, that totalitarian ideas or institutions seek to consolidate their power is through the “ownership” and regulation of sexuality. And we are made to feel that this is much more dangerous than it might seem.
In Measure, such a threat is examined through the characters of Angelo and Isabella. They are individuals, but both are also clearly representatives of certain kinds of totalitarianism. Angelo (Cole Alexander Smith), wears a military uniform, the edges pressed to razor-like sharpness, and sports a close-cropped jarhead haircut. Smith’s portrayal is nuanced, bringing fully alive to the audience Angelo’s inner conflict as he desires Isabella (Marissa Keltie), yet hates himself for desiring her. Her modesty is the very quality that most arouses his lust. From time to time, this Angelo swallows pills to calm his turbulent feelings and maintain his self-contained, rule-bound military façade. His self-hatred and writhing helplessness in the face of his uncontrollable desire is thrown into sharp focus by his desperate need to hide his transgression, and his even more desperate desire, as his eyes scan the audience, to share it with another human soul. This Angelo is truly schizophrenic, and the final twist of the play, added by director Melissa Hillman, who was not satisfied with the conventional ending of the original, highlights how much this production seeks to present Angelo as a tragic hero.
Isabella, the object of Angelo’s futile desire, is the result of the religious institutionalization of sexuality, of which also this production evidently intends a powerful critique. Marissa Keltie is virginal in a white nun’s habit, but is soon revealed as a narrow-minded egotist who is as obsessed with her own moral superiority as Angelo with his role as enforcer of justice. She rages when Claudio begs for his life at the cost of her virginity, shoving him aside and hissing venom into his face. In Hillman’s Measure, Isabella is just as much of a fanatic as Angelo, but with her there is no trace of the inner conflict that complicates and enlivens the male character.
But the highlight of the play is undoubtedly Jeremy Forbing’s performance as Lucio. Since the Duke (Ted Barker) is (tellingly) blind in his disguise as Justice Incognito, Lucio thinks it safe to perform outrageously obscene capers in front of the Friar, yet clearly he is the only one who really feels sorry for Claudio’s impending fate. In fact, Lucio provides the closest thing in this play’s world to a moral center: he is capable of compassion and forgiveness. Angelo has degenerated into a tyrant; Isabella is prudish and sanctimonious, Claudio (Daniel Duque-Estrada) and Julieta (Dana Lau) are little more than victims caught unprepared, Mariana is loving but misguided in her blind devotion to Angelo, and even the Duke appears as an ineffective ruler whose schemes do not have the effect he had anticipated.
Impact’s “Measure” gently, and with laughter, reminds us of that quality of mercy that cannot be measured, either in the military rulebook or by religious dogma. In a world torn by both, the suggestion cannot but be a compelling one.
In Measure, such a threat is examined through the characters of Angelo and Isabella. They are individuals, but both are also clearly representatives of certain kinds of totalitarianism. Angelo (Cole Alexander Smith), wears a military uniform, the edges pressed to razor-like sharpness, and sports a close-cropped jarhead haircut. Smith’s portrayal is nuanced, bringing fully alive to the audience Angelo’s inner conflict as he desires Isabella (Marissa Keltie), yet hates himself for desiring her. Her modesty is the very quality that most arouses his lust. From time to time, this Angelo swallows pills to calm his turbulent feelings and maintain his self-contained, rule-bound military façade. His self-hatred and writhing helplessness in the face of his uncontrollable desire is thrown into sharp focus by his desperate need to hide his transgression, and his even more desperate desire, as his eyes scan the audience, to share it with another human soul. This Angelo is truly schizophrenic, and the final twist of the play, added by director Melissa Hillman, who was not satisfied with the conventional ending of the original, highlights how much this production seeks to present Angelo as a tragic hero.
Isabella, the object of Angelo’s futile desire, is the result of the religious institutionalization of sexuality, of which also this production evidently intends a powerful critique. Marissa Keltie is virginal in a white nun’s habit, but is soon revealed as a narrow-minded egotist who is as obsessed with her own moral superiority as Angelo with his role as enforcer of justice. She rages when Claudio begs for his life at the cost of her virginity, shoving him aside and hissing venom into his face. In Hillman’s Measure, Isabella is just as much of a fanatic as Angelo, but with her there is no trace of the inner conflict that complicates and enlivens the male character.
But the highlight of the play is undoubtedly Jeremy Forbing’s performance as Lucio. Since the Duke (Ted Barker) is (tellingly) blind in his disguise as Justice Incognito, Lucio thinks it safe to perform outrageously obscene capers in front of the Friar, yet clearly he is the only one who really feels sorry for Claudio’s impending fate. In fact, Lucio provides the closest thing in this play’s world to a moral center: he is capable of compassion and forgiveness. Angelo has degenerated into a tyrant; Isabella is prudish and sanctimonious, Claudio (Daniel Duque-Estrada) and Julieta (Dana Lau) are little more than victims caught unprepared, Mariana is loving but misguided in her blind devotion to Angelo, and even the Duke appears as an ineffective ruler whose schemes do not have the effect he had anticipated.
Impact’s “Measure” gently, and with laughter, reminds us of that quality of mercy that cannot be measured, either in the military rulebook or by religious dogma. In a world torn by both, the suggestion cannot but be a compelling one.
Monday, February 19, 2007
Among the Lost
Ranchi, India, was notorious for one thing - its lunatic asylum. People used the word "Ranchi" as a sort of synecdoche - "you belong in Ranchi," "He looks like he's escaped from Ranchi." They said that many of those in Ranchi weren't even insane; they might be women or older relatives who had become a burden; so they were labeled insane and dumped in the living hell that was the asylum in Ranchi.
Indians are terrible with mental illness. Mentally ill people, unless monied - in which case protection and help can yet be had - get little sympathy, and ostracism, ridicule, and cruelty are common. Psychiatrists make - or, until recently, used to make - little money. Students who have passed the medical entrance exam with marks too low to get them into regular medical college opt for psychiatry or dentistry - "dental" and "mental" as they are called. Now, however, with increasing wealth, it seems that both the awareness and the incidence of mental illness has received a shot in the arm. There are therapists on street corners; my parents say "depression" and "anxiety" with assurance, and TV pundits expound on the social ills and wells responsible for all this unhappiness. But the most common explanations for mental illness are: she's making it up; get him married, he'll settle down, and c'mon, pull yourself together, you nancy.
The nancy explanation, I think, is the one his relatives favour for my neighbour M. M. has been ill ten years, almost as soon as he immigrated from his native Pakistan. He has a wife and four children, one of whom is a severely disabled daughter. Soon after his marriage M. became depressed; he began sleeping all day and eventually lost his job. Since he had no health insurance, he received no effective treatment. The family began to collect welfare from the government. During his illness, two more children - the last of the four, twin boys, were born to him.
In Pakistan M. would very likely have been kept at home, but here in North America he expected to be able to get better. His relatives' reaction was much the same as it would have been back home. They berated his laziness and said he ought to snap out of it. Some blamed his wife for not being able to make him work. They suggested that she indulged his malingering, and that if she went about it the right way, he would be obliged to stop lounging around the house and would get back to work. M's wife, too, found it hard to believe in this mysterious illness that was so hard to see. She lamented that M. slept all day and woke up at night to chat on the internet; she threatened to go out to work if he did not take up a job. M. did not like the idea of his wife going out to work. It became a bit of a game between them; M.'s wife threatening to work, and M. pleading with her not to because he said it would humiliate him in front of their relatives. Meanwhile, they continued to get their meagre welfare cheques.
When M and his family moved into this county, they received a long list of mental health professionals whom M. could see. But the list was deceptive; it was dated 2004, and M. received it in the latter half of 2006. It said that the list might not be accurate, and, in the language of advertisements, advised M. to confirm for himself if the practitioners listed therein were still part of the Medi Cal insurance. M. remained lethargic, and when C. and I called to find out, we were told that only two places existed where M. could see a doctor (as opposed to a psychotherapist). One was called the Schumann-Liles clinic, the other Pathways to Wellness. We decided to try the first one, and made an appointment for a Saturday afternoon, since M. had now started to wake up in the afternoons.
On the way to the clinic I found that we were lost; the clinic was not quite where we had thought it would be. C. called them on his cell, and asked where they were. Then he said, "You can't see us? What do you mean?"
It turned out that the receptionist was saying just that; the doctor couldn't see us, and the clinic did not take new patients. She did not deny that we had an appointment, and offered no explanation for why we had not been told before, or indeed why the doctor would not keep the appointment. I lost my temper, and asked them where they were located, so that I could come in person and talk with them. But they wouldn't say where they were located; they repeated that the doctor couldn't see us, and that there was no need for us to come. When I said that there certainly was, and that they could depend upon seeing us in short order, they threatened to call the police.
Finally, with me barking into the cell phone and C. trying to get me to stop the car in case there was an accident, we pulled up in front of the clinic. Three doors that appeared to be entrances were closed. We walked over a narrow path of wilted grass that led around to the back of the building where these was an entrance that seemed to be open. The sign said "Schumann-Liles" and at the door two black men stood talking together. One of them asked me the date.
We walked into a room the size of a walk-in closet. Small as it was, it was crammed with people, some of whom were sitting on the floor, some standing, like my interlocutor, at the door, as though reluctant to come in at all. A woman sat on her haunches, her long, straggly hair falling over her face; she rocked her head in her hands and spoke quietly to herself. Another woman, red of face and nervous of manner, twittered uneasily in a corner. "Voices," she said. " I hear them all the time."
The receptionist in the tiny window waved to me to sign in, and then went and peeped into the doorway of an office down the passage, which could not have been more than four feet in length. I heard her say "The patient is threatening us, and we'll probably have to call the cops." And "When she does come here, don't let her in."
It was plain they were talking about me, so I walked up behind them and announced "I'm already here, and I've not threatened you at any time. I just want my brother to be seen, and if you think that means you need to call the police, please don't let me stop you." I thought it was better to simply call M. my brother, rather than waste time on the complexities of my relationship with his family.
They turned and looked at us in dismay- clearly, this was unexpected. They were even more disturbed when I decided to inform the waiting patients, in a loud, carrying voice, what had happened to us on our way to the clinic. One of the staff - the only well-dressed and well-groomed one among them - scurried to get us chairs. I learned later that she was the doctor on duty for that day.
But my heroic stand had no befitting end - after I sat down triumphant, the feeling of vindication began to ebb. The red-faced woman, whose name, it turned out, was Clara, sat down beside me.
"I don't hear them so much as I used to," she murmured confidentially. "They come less now, but I still can't get to sleep at night. I take lots of Seroquil, you know."
"Oh, yes?"
"Yes. But I still spend most nights just walkin' around, you know."
"That's a shame."
"Yes," she said. She slurred her words a little. I looked over at M. He sat with his head sunk upon his chest, his unshaven face covered with little white hairs. I remembered that one of M's chief complaints was that he could not sleep.
Clara grew bored with me and began talking to the woman on the floor, who told us how she couldn't live without junk food.
As we sat there, I became less and less sure I wanted M. seen here at all. It was clear no-one here was getting much help, and the murmurings and sighs around me began to seem Hadesian in their resignation and despair. They would never get out, I thought to myself, and it did not seem very likely that we would, either. The very receptionists, with their put-upon faces and eloquent disinterest, were reluctant Charons who wished their replacement would hurry up and relieve them of their oars. I looked down at the spotted dark blue carpet, frayed and almost black with repeated visits to this waiting room of the lost and fumbling.
Finally I spoke to a Mrs. Barnett, who said doctors left rather frequently, and that the doctor with whom the original appointment had been set up was no longer with the clinic. She apologized, I think, but to me the news sounded by this time like a reprieve. I agreed, hurriedly, to another appointment in a branch of the same clinic in Oakland, because I felt somehow that if I did not I would not have done my best by M., but I knew this was the last time I was entering Schumann-Liles, here or anywhere else. I gathered my little party and fairly shot out the door.
On the following Monday I called Mrs. Barnett to cancel M.'s appointment. She asked if I wanted to reschedule, but I said we wanted to try Pathways to Wellness next because it was closer, so no, I was canceling.
"Good news," she said. I did not ask her what she meant.
Indians are terrible with mental illness. Mentally ill people, unless monied - in which case protection and help can yet be had - get little sympathy, and ostracism, ridicule, and cruelty are common. Psychiatrists make - or, until recently, used to make - little money. Students who have passed the medical entrance exam with marks too low to get them into regular medical college opt for psychiatry or dentistry - "dental" and "mental" as they are called. Now, however, with increasing wealth, it seems that both the awareness and the incidence of mental illness has received a shot in the arm. There are therapists on street corners; my parents say "depression" and "anxiety" with assurance, and TV pundits expound on the social ills and wells responsible for all this unhappiness. But the most common explanations for mental illness are: she's making it up; get him married, he'll settle down, and c'mon, pull yourself together, you nancy.
The nancy explanation, I think, is the one his relatives favour for my neighbour M. M. has been ill ten years, almost as soon as he immigrated from his native Pakistan. He has a wife and four children, one of whom is a severely disabled daughter. Soon after his marriage M. became depressed; he began sleeping all day and eventually lost his job. Since he had no health insurance, he received no effective treatment. The family began to collect welfare from the government. During his illness, two more children - the last of the four, twin boys, were born to him.
In Pakistan M. would very likely have been kept at home, but here in North America he expected to be able to get better. His relatives' reaction was much the same as it would have been back home. They berated his laziness and said he ought to snap out of it. Some blamed his wife for not being able to make him work. They suggested that she indulged his malingering, and that if she went about it the right way, he would be obliged to stop lounging around the house and would get back to work. M's wife, too, found it hard to believe in this mysterious illness that was so hard to see. She lamented that M. slept all day and woke up at night to chat on the internet; she threatened to go out to work if he did not take up a job. M. did not like the idea of his wife going out to work. It became a bit of a game between them; M.'s wife threatening to work, and M. pleading with her not to because he said it would humiliate him in front of their relatives. Meanwhile, they continued to get their meagre welfare cheques.
When M and his family moved into this county, they received a long list of mental health professionals whom M. could see. But the list was deceptive; it was dated 2004, and M. received it in the latter half of 2006. It said that the list might not be accurate, and, in the language of advertisements, advised M. to confirm for himself if the practitioners listed therein were still part of the Medi Cal insurance. M. remained lethargic, and when C. and I called to find out, we were told that only two places existed where M. could see a doctor (as opposed to a psychotherapist). One was called the Schumann-Liles clinic, the other Pathways to Wellness. We decided to try the first one, and made an appointment for a Saturday afternoon, since M. had now started to wake up in the afternoons.
On the way to the clinic I found that we were lost; the clinic was not quite where we had thought it would be. C. called them on his cell, and asked where they were. Then he said, "You can't see us? What do you mean?"
It turned out that the receptionist was saying just that; the doctor couldn't see us, and the clinic did not take new patients. She did not deny that we had an appointment, and offered no explanation for why we had not been told before, or indeed why the doctor would not keep the appointment. I lost my temper, and asked them where they were located, so that I could come in person and talk with them. But they wouldn't say where they were located; they repeated that the doctor couldn't see us, and that there was no need for us to come. When I said that there certainly was, and that they could depend upon seeing us in short order, they threatened to call the police.
Finally, with me barking into the cell phone and C. trying to get me to stop the car in case there was an accident, we pulled up in front of the clinic. Three doors that appeared to be entrances were closed. We walked over a narrow path of wilted grass that led around to the back of the building where these was an entrance that seemed to be open. The sign said "Schumann-Liles" and at the door two black men stood talking together. One of them asked me the date.
We walked into a room the size of a walk-in closet. Small as it was, it was crammed with people, some of whom were sitting on the floor, some standing, like my interlocutor, at the door, as though reluctant to come in at all. A woman sat on her haunches, her long, straggly hair falling over her face; she rocked her head in her hands and spoke quietly to herself. Another woman, red of face and nervous of manner, twittered uneasily in a corner. "Voices," she said. " I hear them all the time."
The receptionist in the tiny window waved to me to sign in, and then went and peeped into the doorway of an office down the passage, which could not have been more than four feet in length. I heard her say "The patient is threatening us, and we'll probably have to call the cops." And "When she does come here, don't let her in."
It was plain they were talking about me, so I walked up behind them and announced "I'm already here, and I've not threatened you at any time. I just want my brother to be seen, and if you think that means you need to call the police, please don't let me stop you." I thought it was better to simply call M. my brother, rather than waste time on the complexities of my relationship with his family.
They turned and looked at us in dismay- clearly, this was unexpected. They were even more disturbed when I decided to inform the waiting patients, in a loud, carrying voice, what had happened to us on our way to the clinic. One of the staff - the only well-dressed and well-groomed one among them - scurried to get us chairs. I learned later that she was the doctor on duty for that day.
But my heroic stand had no befitting end - after I sat down triumphant, the feeling of vindication began to ebb. The red-faced woman, whose name, it turned out, was Clara, sat down beside me.
"I don't hear them so much as I used to," she murmured confidentially. "They come less now, but I still can't get to sleep at night. I take lots of Seroquil, you know."
"Oh, yes?"
"Yes. But I still spend most nights just walkin' around, you know."
"That's a shame."
"Yes," she said. She slurred her words a little. I looked over at M. He sat with his head sunk upon his chest, his unshaven face covered with little white hairs. I remembered that one of M's chief complaints was that he could not sleep.
Clara grew bored with me and began talking to the woman on the floor, who told us how she couldn't live without junk food.
As we sat there, I became less and less sure I wanted M. seen here at all. It was clear no-one here was getting much help, and the murmurings and sighs around me began to seem Hadesian in their resignation and despair. They would never get out, I thought to myself, and it did not seem very likely that we would, either. The very receptionists, with their put-upon faces and eloquent disinterest, were reluctant Charons who wished their replacement would hurry up and relieve them of their oars. I looked down at the spotted dark blue carpet, frayed and almost black with repeated visits to this waiting room of the lost and fumbling.
Finally I spoke to a Mrs. Barnett, who said doctors left rather frequently, and that the doctor with whom the original appointment had been set up was no longer with the clinic. She apologized, I think, but to me the news sounded by this time like a reprieve. I agreed, hurriedly, to another appointment in a branch of the same clinic in Oakland, because I felt somehow that if I did not I would not have done my best by M., but I knew this was the last time I was entering Schumann-Liles, here or anywhere else. I gathered my little party and fairly shot out the door.
On the following Monday I called Mrs. Barnett to cancel M.'s appointment. She asked if I wanted to reschedule, but I said we wanted to try Pathways to Wellness next because it was closer, so no, I was canceling.
"Good news," she said. I did not ask her what she meant.
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