The Monster with Many Heads

21st February, '09

The ‘Shri Ram Sena’, they call themselves. They believe they are preserving the core of Indian culture and values, which according to them are chiefly Hindu. They want to achieve this by physically assaulting anybody who tries to venture into the vast arena of any other culture. This could include one’s clothing, behaviour, choice of friends, choice of hang-outs, or even one’s participation in an occasion like Valentine’s Day. Their target has mostly been women so far. And these remain the facts of the matter.

This makes me think about a few things.

Firstly, the matter of culture. Often people refer to it as something stagnant sitting in the corner of the room that one can decide to grab and instil into one’s lifestyle any time they choose. Can culture be as forced as that? My grandmother often told me stories about our mythology, our festivals and our traditions. She sang me songs and cooked me food that had come down to her through generations before her. She shook her head when she saw me in a pair of pants. She hated it when I would cut my hair. Yet at the end of the day, she let change into her house, albeit through the back door. And all of that today is my culture- the stories, the songs, the recipes, the traditions, but also the jeans and the short hair. That’s what culture seems like to me- something that’s an accumulation, a transformation, an amalgamation; something that just lets life run its course.

So, what’s all this uproar about Western culture invading Indian culture, I ask? Every Indian today is mixed-up, desperately trying to strike a balance between what is essentially Indian and what is Western; the former being what was passed down to him as culture, and the latter, what he sees around him as culture. We want globalisation, but we also want tradition. We want technology but we also want the old ways. It is a constant war, of choices, of ideals, of outlooks and as a result, of lifestyles. All one can do is to be Indian in one instant and transform into a non-Indian in the next. It’s an impossible choice to make. The only way is to just be.

Secondly, the matter of Indian culture being essentially Hindu. India has long been the country of diverse faiths and religious ideals. You have all heard the rest of the argument, about equality, about secularity, about democracy- big words thrown around to give weight to a discussion. But these words actually form the core of each of our lifestyles. For example, Hyderabad would not be Hyderabad without its Biryani and its Charminar, the Shalwar Kameez is an integral part of Indian clothing and English is as important an Indian language today, as any other. Indian food, Indian clothing, Indian architecture, Indian languages, Indian traditions, these are all a concoction of all the different religions of India. Culture is very often an offshoot of religious beliefs and so Indian culture belongs to all the religions which have resided in India. It is organisations like Shri Ram Sena which try and divide us Indians in the name of religion to feed their vested interests. They use religion and the name of God to push themselves ahead politically. Their methods are devoid of any principles or values. All that dwells there is a hunger for power.

Finally, the issue of the female gender always having to carry the gargantuan weight of terms like culture, heritage, tradition (I am not even going to begin with terms like chastity and purity); another issue that has been beaten to the ground by feminists before, but I must have my say. It has always been very convenient for men to throw this load upon our shoulders and carry on with their lives as they please. They wear, speak and eat change as suits their convenience but cannot tolerate it when change invades our female lives. Very often it is a matter of convenience, but it could also be a matter of choice and of one’s identity. I feel like wearing a bindi and flowers in my hair, but only once in a while, when I’m in a mood for it; just like he chooses to wear his Kurta-pujama on occasion. And these are just the trivial choices, I'm talking about. So, why should my choices and moods be restricted more under the name of culture? Many Indian men today understand and respect this choice, but there are still a few who under the pretext of being the saviours of Indian culture (like the ones belonging to Shri Ram Sena who went around brutally beating up girls standing near or sitting inside pubs)try to dictate women's lives.

Shri Ram Sena, what are they trying to do? Make time go backwards, reverse 'change' as a phenomenon, restrict individuals' choices, feed religious hatred into our minds; I don’t see anything positive in what they are trying to do. They are walking the exact same path as the 'Taliban'. There is an irony in that comparison; two severely religious groups, fighting against each other, but their tenets and the resultant actions are the same; two religious groups unleashing intolerance and control over their people in the name of religion. Like I said earlier, all it is, is a fight for power and nothing else. Hinduism seems to have finally made its way under the label of 'fundamentalism' thanks to cults like the Shri Ram Sena. It hounds us all, this monster with many heads.

Barely Any Daylight

(August '05)

There’s barely any daylight but the rumble in my stomach urges me to get up from this hard floor which I have called my bed for several years now. I splash some cold water on my face and it’s a nice feeling except for the few cuts from last night, which sting a bit. I hear my anklets jingle on the street as I make my way to the various houses where I wash, clean, sweep, and swab everyday. I swing open the gates of the first house, and try to make my way past the lawn quietly, so I don’t catch the attention of the bearded man there, the master of the house, watering one corner of the lawn. Just as I thought I’d make it into the house surreptitiously, he turns, and taking all the time in the world, he looks me up and down, and smiles one of his oily, filthy smiles. I sigh as I realize that the mistress did not come back home last night, again.
I enter the house in haste, and my eyes begin to take on a life of their own. They dart quickly from one table to another, past the tea table, the refrigerator, the little space in front of the book shelf and finally they rest upon the air cooler. I quickly walk towards it and pocket the shiny coins that my eyes just spotted, into my bodice. I smile my first smile of the day and even as I’m savoring the moment I feel a hot, prickly, oily breath on the back of my neck.


There’s barely any daylight but this urge to puke makes me rush up from the floor and run a few steps… just so I won’t have to lay down, back into the puke again. I see my daughter leave the house, the sound of her anklets fading into the distance as she walks down the street. I try not to picture her face but it keeps coming back to my mind. Last night was like any other night; I came back exhausted after a long day of labour, and asked her for the change she pinches everyday from the houses she works at. Push came to shove and before I knew it I was reaching into her bodice to grab those shiny coins, and she was trying to stop her tears from mixing with the blood on her face. But soon I had left all this behind and was in a world of my own, a world where no pain existed, where no tears existed, and most of all no hunger existed.
But there are many hours now before I can break my manacles and reach out for that place. For now I have to carry on to work. I trudge along the dusty road until I see the tall building which my sweat has helped erect. Even as I enter, the familiar smells of cement, and concrete hit me in the face… and without being able to help it I burst out into a fit of cough. I have been at work many hours now and I see the contractor walk lazily into the site. I watch with envy as he settles down in his chair and calls one of the labourer women to go bring him a cool drink from the shop opposite. I walk on past him but a surge of cough takes over my breath. He spots me putting down my cement bag for a few seconds, and I know that I have lost a considerable amount from my day’s wage, to that look on his face. I carry on working, like nothing happened.


There’s barely any daylight, and I’m lying alone on my bed still dealing with the fact that my wife didn’t come home last night. This is not the first morning that has begun this way. And yet the pain doesn’t seem to go away or even reduce. I glimpse into the mirror and all I can see is the scar on my face, the extra pounds around my stomach; an ugly, unwanted man looking at himself. It’s horrible to have to make the first tea of the day yourself, all the time aware that you’ll have to drink it standing alone in the kitchen. The lawn needs some watering, so I pull out the pipe and begin with one corner. The gush of the water is soothing, and I am beginning to feel better. Suddenly, the sound I have been waiting to hear for the past half hour catches my ears… a pair of anklets trying desperately not to make themselves heard. I turn and smile my best smile hoping it will quell her fears. The swiftness with which she enters the house makes me want to throw the pipe away right there and go after her… but I have always known myself to be a responsible man.
When I am finished with her and she gets back to doing her house work, this feeling of filth slowly comes creeping into me. And before I know it I have this uncontrollable urge to have a shower. I can smell her sweaty, unwashed smell all over my body and it’s making me sick. The room also seems to float in her stench, and everywhere I walk it follows me making me feel soiled and impure. By the time I walk out of the bathroom, my impurity has all been scrubbed away and she’s gone. I’m glad I don’t have to see her filthy face until tomorrow morning.
A few hours later, I walk into the construction site, and notice how lax the atmosphere is. These labourers rely completely on our kind-heartedness for their daily bread. Someone has to be made an example of, I think to myself; but first I need something cool to drink. Soon, I’ve sent someone to bring one. What cools me more than the thought of a cool drink is watching this labourer woman walking away with the money for a cool drink in her hand, a sway in her hips, a bounce in her step, and many secrets tucked away carefully inside her clothes. Of course, there will be many opportunities to delve into those later during the day. Even as I watch her dance into the distance, a hard, sandpaper cough sounds nearby, and I dart my eyes to look there. He’s set his cement bag down, and is making it seem like he’s being paid only to cough. I gaze at him and know that I have found my example.

I am a slave

(August '08)

Slavery in its worst form is the harvesting of human minds that is done across nations, with no credit given to the human himself. The phenomenon of the First World Developed Countries stripping the Third World countries, the Developing Countries, for their resources is not new to anyone. While, earlier it was mainly resources of the earth, now it is also resources of the human body and intellect. As if kidneys, hearts and later even wombs were not enough, now it has come to the human mind.

The intellect is now a resource and its harvest is now a new form of slavery. An idea, the faculties of the mind, even a way of thinking can be carried across continents, thanks to technology. A barter is made- my idea for your money, my labour for your development, and in this way, the developed become more developed and the developing stay developing.

This is still acceptable, digestible as long as the idea has a face, an identity that can be appreciated, and recognized for its worth. But millions of workers in the BPOs of India are paid for their ready problem-solving skills, for their expertise, to assist a 'white' living across the globe. Their accents are altered, their manners polished, their names changed, their Indian-ness removed, until they can be a virtual foreigner, ready to suit the foreigner's expectations. The incentive of leading comfortable lives with the easy money they make is given to them to willingly forget that they are themselves, for a few hours each day.

While slaves of the past slaved to survive, the slaves of today are addicted to this new drug called 'luxury'.

Purpose

(March '08)

''Like a bomb it sits, waiting inside me; waiting, festering, twisting and turning, revising, absorbing and discarding, it waits tick-tock, tick-tock, waiting to explode.
I squirm in uneasiness, trying hard to crystallize my thoughts, make them productive, trying hard to convert some flakes of rationality and creativity into something solid, tangible.
I feel like a suicide-bomber, just waiting for the right instant; Reckless in all my unsurity of life and so, so calm in my surety of death and with it immortality.''

This feeling was not new to her. It came off and on, like the ripples in a pond when someone carelessly tossed a stone within. It hit her because of the averageness of life around her and very often her own too. It caused a discomfort that was not erasable by action or time; as it had entered her, so it would have to leave, of its own accord.
She had done all she could to make life move ahead. Now she waited, for what, even she didn't know. She just trusted it would come and waited. Life was on hold.