“B***h, how I wish one of the bodies recovered from the Taj turned out to be yours! Jihadi apologist!”
This has been among the many abusive notes I have received. Not one of these people has the courage to reveal a name or a location. Not one of them is interested in any of the bodies recovered.
India is plagiarising the Western dream gone wrong because of ‘outsiders’. Xenophobia is ruling.
The attack on Mumbai brought to the forefront an uncomfortable question: If India has become a ‘soft target’ for terrorists, then has it happened overnight? What makes the system so complacent?
The intellectualisation of religious differences has most definitely ingrained itself in the middle class and the educated elite. If the jihadis are not illiterate poor boys anymore, then neither are the prejudiced critics.
If you have ever claimed to be a political animal then they seal your fate as a washerman’s dog. Recently, it was used as a headline in a major newspaper that carried a review of my book. The first sentence read, “There’s a saying in Hindi which goes: dhobi ka kutta, na ghar ka, na ghat ka. The washerman's dog doesn't know where he belongs, whether at home or at the ghats with his master.”
An educated person was saying that I consider Pakistan my (and the Indian Muslim’s) master only because I have written about that country from the Indian Muslim point of view? Apparently, my journey is unfulfilled because I am looking for my identity in Pakistan. Every shred of my Indianness needs to be labelled before I become acceptable even for ‘tolerance’.
Earlier we only dreamed of making Mumbai into Shanghai; now we want leaders like former Australian Prime Minister John Howard who spoke up for the right to spy on mosques and against immigrants. His quotes have been doing the rounds since the Gujarat riots and are used on any occasion, irrespective of the nature of terrorism. Some are blown up and bloodied with red font: “This is our country, our land, and our lifestyle, and we will allow you every opportunity to enjoy all this…We didn’t force you to come here. You asked to be here. So accept the country YOU accepted.”
The Western model is being mimicked with not a care for authenticity. What these hate-mongers do not realise is that Indian Muslims are indigenous people of the land and not immigrants. The India that the British left was not a Hindu nation. Patriotism is not about any religion.
While all inhuman acts are despicable, let us not put all the culprits under one category. Who is sponsoring them? Are they working on their own or being prompted by foreign agencies? Or local ones?
On what grounds do Muslims have to deal with advice such as this: “They can stop sheltering terrorists among them and start turning them and their collaborators over to the authorities or be prepared to have a Modi or his look-alike to be the next PM”?
It is convenient to ask one community to collaborate with the government, but what do you do when the government itself is merely talking tough to get mileage? The new militancy often responds to just such puerile pugnacity. Like all impetuous motives, it can turn dangerous. We must understand that terrorist organisations do get banned and there can be a high alert for them. Is there a way to caution people against politicising their own consciences and becoming a quasi Establishment?
Drumbeaters come in various garbs. Do the housewives from a posh locality who screamed, “They’ve raped our motherland. We want war” know the price of war? Would they send their children into the armed forces?
Do we realise that even as our people claim to be world citizens they use the ruse of resurgence of ‘Indian culture’? They may wear a branded leash, but these are the real washermen’s dogs with elastic values and no bite. They go wherever they hear a familiar bark to join the herd.
His spit had licked the envelope before sealing it and what he assumed to be my fate. This was several years ago. It was what we charmingly refer to as hate mail. He, a nameless person with no address, had camouflaged his handwriting in cunning ways. He was telling me about how I should be blown up; several parts of the body were mentioned, many of which I did not know I possessed. He said that I had no right to be in my country. A coward was telling me this?
12/12 is the day I dedicate to cowardice. That was the day The News published a piece of mine; it had already appeared in Counterpunch, a US-based publication; there was credit attributed at the bottom. No one noticed. Straw warriors geared for battle.
How seriously can you take the words of those who are insecure about 1600 words written by an Indian that appear in a Pakistani newspaper? For two decades I have addressed these same issues in newspapers in my country, written open letters to various leaders in columns in Indian publications. It did not count. I became the great betrayal.
It would have been all right if I were a socialite describing the Camembert Dariole at one of the restaurants of the Taj. It would be okay if I was reeking of nostalgia for a lost haveli in Lahore. It would have been okay had my name been different.
“You can tell the ideals of a nation by its advertisements,” said Norman Douglas.
The other day television screens crackled with the image of Lata Mangeshkar singing, “Ae mere watan ke logon, zara aankh mein bhar lo paani, jo shaheed hue the unki, zara yaad karo qurbani.” This is one of the most disgusting images where a respected person is used and allows herself to be used to advertise a ‘war-like’ scenario.
Zee TV’s Sa Re Ga Ma Pa show was talking about ‘Pakistan aur Bharat ki jung’ months before the Mumbai attacks. This Saturday they got a godman to be the chief guest; the sets had the ‘Om’ sign fluttering all over, and the songs were interspersed with clippings from the Mumbai attacks. Words like dushman were used throughout. The Swami very kindly said that not all Muslims were bad, and then he covered one nostril and exhaled from the other to teach people the technique of self-control.
Indian democracy is in danger not because of articles that question the policies of the government, but because a group of people believes that the only way you can get some self-respect is if you have an enemy. Such political jugglery lacks both foresight and depth. It also uses denial. No one is even discussing the blasts of Bangalore, Jaipur, Ahmedabad. Mumbai has become the focal point. The Mumbai of 26/11. If you go back to a bit of the past, a past that is still seeking justice from the secular judiciary of the country, you are reminded about the colonisers, “your great great grandfather”, the Mughals, who razed temples. History tells us they came as conquerors; they did not visit India to show off their skills as architects of monuments with filigree work. What did we expect?
Is it the same as one’s own elected leaders with dubious credentials colonising minds?
They brandish knives to preserve a heritage and in the process mar it. The upsurge of so-called nationalism runs parallel to the economic liberalisation process. Today, CEOs of companies hold forth on “Imagining India”. The majority of the population does not have the luxury if imagining even regular water supply and electricity. Deaths due to malnutrition are just not sexy enough. We need an idea even for nationhood to plug itself.
Such assertions usually occur when there is a crisis or some sort of material satiation, as in Iran. The opposite happened in the erstwhile Soviet Union and the true yardstick of how to gauge the fall of communism was to see how the new Russia responded to religion and McDonalds, both tremendous power bases.
Western imperialism that now houses the diaspora has acquired a halo. Gordon Brown will carry his ‘Fight terrorism’ tuck box on his picnic visit to India. We genuflect at the altar of these former masters only because they let some of our people drive cabs and become curry kings. This attitude of snobbery has percolated down to our concept of culture.
I shall not replicate the anger of the man who said, “When I hear about culture I reach for my revolver.” For I do believe that even reaching for a revolver for such an abstract provocation is part of cultural brainwashing.
It is facetious to propagate a nationalistic blind belief that seeks to replicate superstition in religions. Therefore, I protest the callousness with which Indian Muslims are being herded into believing that their only way of ideological survival is to belong to or promote the idea of “Muslims for Secular democracy”. I am waiting for groups called ‘Hindus for Secular Democracy’, ‘Christians for Secular Democracy’, ‘Sikhs for Secular Democracy’. An ad man, who is referred to as ‘god’ – a blasphemous thing to do in Islam - has the temerity to talk about asli and naqli Mussalman. These celebrities have managed to garner local Muslims much like politicians do during elections.
There is something extremely devious about carrying a huge tricolour on the eve of Bak’r Eid and making it a moral message of Right versus Wrong. They are playing into the hands of all fundamentalist forces that use religion. How many of these famous people will send their children in the army? Will any of these high society Muslims be accessible to the person from Bhendi Bazaar when he is being denied his rights or when he is told that the ghetto he lives in is a danger zone? Will these Muslims speak up for those dumped in jails only because they are circumcised? We need to fight the demons inside us before we look for enemies outside.
It is ironical that hip peace proponents are taking part in the jingoism-with-a-religious-flavour repast of a “war-like situation”, which only their imagination seems to conjure.
By allowing such groups to hijack nationalism, we have failed to realise that patriotic zeal is becoming its own opponent. Culture fascists have appropriated the right to freedom of expression, which binds those who do not adhere to their idea of such expression.
Tagore put it succinctly: “Neither the colourless vagueness of cosmopolitanism nor the fierce self-idolatry of nation worship is the goal of human history.” History, unfortunately, has never been much concerned about larger goals. It is but a sequence of events strung together, mostly due to a lapse of memory.
Vishnu Hari Dalmia of the VHP had once said that the Hindu Rashtra has to do with culture and not religion; he had been kind enough to emphasise that those who live in this country must accept the ethos which has a place for both Ram and Akbar, though not Babar.
To drown in the juices of our diversity and to hark back to our fairytale version of ancient civilisation is to deny history. Post partition secularism rose as a response to the Raj and more specifically the theocratic state across the border. It had to redefine itself to include equal opportunities for all religions which have been enshrined in Articles 25-28 of the Indian Constitution.
Nehru felt the need to change India’s “outlook and appearance and give her the garb of modernity”. Is it merely a garb?
Nirad Chaudhari had stated that being Indian was only a geographical term. It suited him to don dhoti or tweed as per his compulsions in a distant shore. What about the emotional investment of those born and bred in the country and carrying its ideological baggage without flashing it?
The pantomime of patriotism is a strategy to help people continue to be as lazy as they are while sending out the signal that their conscience allows them to sleep at night. National consciousness appears to have become a cure for insomnia.
Some of us prefer a state of wakefulness. I assume my Constitution respects my rights as much as I respect my duty towards it. I call myself an Indian because I touch its reality on my own terms without wearing blinkers.
If you believe for a moment that the residents of Mumbai are angry about the recent terror attacks, then they have succeeded in fooling you. There is no anger; there is irritation. Their daily routines have been mucked up.
For those 60 hours when terrorists took hold of what have been constantly referred to as 'landmarks' of the city, they sat glued before their television sets. They saw the image of Indian wealth and power being destroyed by invisible men. They were not interested in those men. They were not interested in anything beyond the fact that these men– men who ate dry fruits, for pete's sake – had held five star hotels hostage.
No one was talking about the 58 people who died at the local train station or the 10 others who died at the hospital or the taxi driver whose vehicle was burnt and so was he. Or even the cops who took the bullets.
They may cry themselves hoarse at peace marches, they may cry themselves hoarse on panel discussions, they may cry themselves hoarse in petitions that sound like school essays, but their sensitivity is like froth on lager; it will settle down after a few sips.
They are basking in their newfound role as conscience keepers; the international press is watching global India in all its glory as they stand dressed as global citizens near the Gateway of India with black smoke rising over the dome of the Taj Mahal Hotel in the background. It is both symbol and saviour of their pathetic attempts at downward mobility. It is a counter-reaction. After all, the terrorist wore Versace, until now the uniform of their kind.
They audaciously claim that there is no time for resilience anymore; they won't take it. Resilience? They have been spitting it out, a sardonic sneer being the new expression. It is a sad sight, for the chauffeurs of the cars they drove up in, the person who ironed their clothes and the valet who waited on them till they were all set for their date with the candle-light dinner of sound bytes, all those minions had to show resilience. They had to travel by the local train to bring these people to the streets. This is resilience.
They can shudder as much as they want before that dome wrapped in smoke. Do they recall another dome? The one that was broken down with hammers by our own people, egged on by senior leaders?
Soon after December 6, 1992, and the demolition of the Babri Masjid, there was no such spontaneous expression of grief or anger. 900 people were killed in cold blood, hunted down because of the faith they were born in. Reports gave figures of more than 200,000 people, most of them Muslim, fleeing the city during the riots. Cops who took part in the death dance were promoted; no politician was asked to resign. In the subsequent revenge bomb blasts, orchestrated by an underworld don and not by the local Muslim population, unlike what happened in Gujarat in 2002, 250 people died.
Those who are railing against the government today had kept quiet then. Quiet at a time when the government and the police had backed the local lumpens, our very own citizens.
They were not bothered because the areas targeted did not house their cocktail party circuit. Some did express disgust when they heard stories about the Muslim driver asked to remove his pants in the street to confirm his religion. They were disgusted by the sheer indelicacy but they had an ace up their sleeve – he was a mere driver.
Today, the people who would run down the elite are speaking up for them; they are all into rubbing shoulders and back-scratching. It is a limited edition utopia: our elite vs. their elite.
If you don't play their game, you are as bad as the terrorists. 'Condemn' is the catchword. I have refused to do so. One mainstream newspaper journalist wanted my opinion and said the same thing. He mentioned some liberals who were condemning. I said I condemn those liberals and I condemn the government of India. My views were not carried. I did not expect them to. I can hit out at the government only if I belong to one elite group. They are going to decide. They will constitute the citizens movement. Men and women who had never heard about such groups are now parroting the names of Lashkar-e-Toiba and Jaish-e-Mohammed.
One aging film star even said that this time India has become exposed to international terrorism. His utter ignorance did not strike anyone, for we have been blaming the outside hand, mainly Pakistan, for years. In effect, only because this time his people were the targets he has discovered such a phenomenon.
In 16 years nothing has changed. A week after this carnage, a flight attendant serving on a private airline was pointedly asked by a passenger what religion she belonged to. He spewed out, "Why the bloody hell are you Muslims doing this to our country?"
She calmly replied, "Sir, this is my country too."
He shot back, "I don't think so, because people from your community are behind these attacks."
She was on the verge of tears but said bravely, "Sorry Sir, they don't belong to India. They are not Indians."
I have had 16 years of practice, yet sometimes the tears flow; sometimes I am taken aback. We are being pushed into a corner unless we play the game of 'we are all one'. I call it a game because ever since that December there has been suspicion. My superficial elitism, an elitism I have fortunately never internalised, makes it easy for them to hit out differently. There is irritation that I am not the poor, illiterate Muslim that fits into their pigeonhole. There is disapproval that I don't dress up in standard Muslim clothes, or speak in a standard Muslim way.
I don't have a big business enterprise where I can flash secularism if I employ Hindus like Azim Premji does. I am not a film star like Shahrukh Khan who can happily claim a Pathan allegiance and will still be considered acceptable because he says cute things like he is a monkey entertaining people. I don't even have the good sense to join in token gestures of sympathy and denounce terrorism and talk about Islam as a religion of peace.
They are irritated because I do not quote anything from the Quran, but can bring up Shakespeare and Neruda and revel in Urdu poets like Faiz and Faraz.
In 1992-93, there were a few who had told me, "As truly secular people it is our duty to protect you Muslims."
I don't buy into their protection business. Therefore, the minute I open my mouth I become "that Muslim woman using the minority card". It does not strike them that I may not be safe myself, and it is rather dismissive to say I am having fun flaunting the minority status.
No paranoia here, yet I will be accused of it.
India's big legend, superstar Amitabh Bachchan, can show how disturbed he is and how afraid by saying that he has loaded his licensed pistol and keeps it under his pillow now. No prominent Muslim would be able to say that, so there is no question of someone like me even dreaming about a scenario of possessing a licensed gun.
Suketu Mehta wrote in The New York Times, "This is the problem, say the nativists. The city is just too hospitable. You let them in, and they break your heart." It is interesting that he uses a term like nativists at a time when he is hailing the wealthy 'outsiders' for the rich dreams they have sponsored.
He is buffering an exclusivist notion by showing concern about the cream of society. He is concerned about how the terrorists want people to keep out of Mumbai, which contradicts his nativist theory. He is concerned that cricket matches won't happen for a while. Does he remember that a local political party had dug the pitches and prevented any cricket match with Pakistan in the city?
He comes up with a rather insensitive analysis when he states, "In 1993, Hindu mobs burned people alive in the streets — for the crime of being Muslim in Mumbai. Now these young Muslim men murdered people in front of their families — for the crime of visiting Mumbai…Their drunken revelry, their shameless flirting, must have offended the righteous believers in the jihad."
For being a much-touted global citizen and an expatriate he seems to believe that it is kosher to make the Hindu-Muslim divide clear. (Incidentally, what is the connection between tourists and Hindus?) He ought to know there is a difference between Hindus and Hindutva groups and Muslims and Islamist goons. Somewhere it bothers him too, like it does the elite, that these goons were not bearded or wearing skull caps; they drank and made merry. They were so much like the young men in pubs in any part of the world.
Mumbai is a city of transaction but the free market can hardly be construed as breaking the barriers. If anything, it is most elitist. It is a thoroughly 'Show me the money' scenario and individualism prevails.
The privileged class is also a product, the creation of the 'manufacturing company'; we politely call it ethos.
Today's dissent is peripheral, not feral. It is cultivated in the factory of prototypes, assembly-line ideas that subsist on amnesia.
I shall always remember November 2008 and never forget December 1992. Surface scratches irritate, but don't last. I still have the anger from old wounds.
Elections are not about braving the cold, heat, dust, old age, ennui to cast your vote. They are about politician-watching.
The young must give way to the old, we wail. We have no new names to pull out. All are the babalog of big men, and the occasional woman. Our attitude towards the young turks, a term that ought to make us smile at the irony when applied to these novices, is superficial. Look at them, we say, they at least look presentable in international conferences.
The flapping, translucent dhoti has given us many a moment of suspense, unless it swayed round the legs of a well-spoken ‘old boy’ from a touted alma mater who knew how to work his way with expensive toys that squeak and squawk.
Today’s politicians are chic, well-to-do, educated, or at least have some pretence to it, and seem to prefer Bordeaux to battle.
This is not a sudden development. We have had stylish people in public office, and even during the Independence Movement. Then came a period of couture drought. Netas decided that if they had to hide so much loot they had better not look as though they were hiding it. So they dressed down as kisans, chaprasis, the kind of people they pack into trucks. Some did tog themselves up as local goons, but that is because they were local goons.
When did the change take place? And why? Is it visible to the naked eye? Who benefits most from it?
This so-called style has been the unique contribution of those who can stay in power irrespective of who is in power. They represent the ‘cashy’ face of society that the respectable business communities feel safe about.
“Fund-raisers” are not renowned for political merit and their purpose is to play goodwill ambassadors. However, the moment the money dries up, their power too dwindles. Fortunately, the concept of allegiance is as dry as their martinis.
Besides, the new breed of ‘public servants’ are bosses in their personal business ventures, or successful professionals. It can be safely assumed that being well-heeled such a person could be trusted with party funds. However, the game is quite different. Rich they may be, but 60 per cent of the amount that is collected for party or election purposes goes in the dear MP’s pocket.
Of course, they won’t give you that impression. Élan is something they can project with ease since they know the business of surviving in pimp land. Touch feet, open doors, be part of the exclusive club where sycophancy pays, and no one complains.
The paraphernalia is important. Earlier going around in an Ambassador car was looked on as a necessity. Now, your humble leader will get into a BMW, even talk knowledgeably about its merits, and flaunt his assets – nifty suit, pricey haircut, and things that constitute the good life. Fundamentalist leaders too talk about their love for cigars and champagne. Golf is their sport, and vacationing abroad a regular occurrence.
Is hypocrisy finally dead? That is one way of looking at it. But why do they suddenly change track when it is election time? In the rarefied circles that they move in they continue to talk about globalisation and the liberal economy, yet they do know that life does not begin and end at Malabar Hill and Golf Links. There are Malegaon and Karol Bagh to be dealt with as well. So, they become ‘accessible’. Huge hoardings and full-page ads appear where they flaunt their own sincerity. If they are lucky, then a bunch of their friends will laud their efforts, not only regarding stray dogs that made life miserable when they went for their evening constitutional, but also how the sincere gentleman provided clean drinking water to the residents of Chinchpokli or Muzzafarpur. They have probably never heard of these places; it just sounds good.
I don’t know whether it conveys arrogance or plain ignorance. For those of us who can afford nonchalance, it surely makes life seem beautiful if you don’t have to hear a politician talk and let him flaunt his baubles instead. As for the unwashed millions, even the hick-town politician does not care about them. He is too busy getting his dhoti starched.
I dabble in what people call creative pursuits (I find fine dining extremely creative too).
I am a frustrated artist. A frustrated singer. A frustrated gourmand. A frustrated photographer.This helps. It adds pathos to the plebeian. It gives me more to write about.
A curious voice might want to ask, “But what do you really do?” Those who know a bit about me are aware, and for those who are not I am a blank sheet; I like to start anew. Words are my weapons, they are also my shield. They are a blessing and they are a curse.
I call my main blog ‘Cross Connections’ based on the title of an old column of mine. I have lots of old columns – the longest one went on for 11 years; the shortest lasted at least a year. You will probably find remnants (and some renewal) of me scattered around in the cyber world…for the rest, they are mostly yellowing parchment. Once when I saw my words and face in a newspaper splattered with ketchup at a roadside stall, I admit I was devastated. I do not like ketchup.
I have a healthy disregard for objectivity. Give me an 'ism' and I shall give you a subjective opinion.
