Test Cricket as Classical Dance: Interplay between the Functional & the Aesthetic

Trying to define Dance is like trying to prove a mathematical axiom. The relative obviousness of both collapses
the distance which brings perspective. Yet, taking into account all possible definitions, I should define it as ‘a
repetitive set of macro-movements embedded into a certain aesthetic texture that expresses and communicates
a range of emotions without stamping upon the possibility of micro-level improvisations’. Numerous origins and
purposes ascribed to get a firm grip on the semantic and syntactic nature of Dance notwithstanding, all
definitions contain a fair bit of ambiguity on one account or the other. Most of the ambiguities revolve around
whether the relationship of Dance with transformation, transportation and rhythmic movement is essential or
merely empirical, whether the functional follows a separate mode of aesthetics and whether there could/should
be any valid functional dimension to aesthetics.

However, the debate goes into a much higher order of ambiguity when the historical question is invoked. Given
that classical is essentially historical, whether Dance is the movement of the body in a historical space or
whether History encroaches upon the space marked for Dance aesthetics, cannot be overlooked. Also, the
definition of historical space itself invokes the linear, non-linear and multi-linear contested histories in a perpetual
conflict – of art, politics, culture, society, aesthetics, ambitions and survival. Yet, the only engagement with
history the dancing bodies have is the historical text written over them. Dance may be seen as physical
movement cutting across a historical space, taking forward a legacy, a cultural code, a tradition, what is truly
essential to Dance – the human body – operates not on history, but on memory – body-memory.

What does the body do? It is written upon – it feels, remembers, endures, interacts with objects and other bodies
– and it survives. Survival and its code is fundamental to body-memory, the most essential. All the rest is a mere
coincidence, except aesthetics which has to be a choice. The dancing body too, then, addresses two modes –
the functional, which follows the survival code and the aesthetic, which is a choice all along. The choice of
aesthetic movement is an ethical choice. True Dance happens when the ethical and the primordial come
together, when civilizational or cultural coincide with the fundamental. Thus, transcending the gap of millions of
years yet engaging with the immediate, Dance becomes an Art.

Sadly, most of what we call classical Dance today is a mere representation of our ‘cultural heritage’. It subscribes
to the worldview which refers to Culture as Resource, drawing from Ashis Nandy’s three definitions of Culture. It
is undeniable that Classical Dances look at such representation of culture to survive and promote themselves.
Yet, if there is a fundamental link between Dance and the Human Body, it cannot be contained within the scope
of Culture as Resource. To give Dance its due, we must look at the second definition: Culture as Lifestyle. When
the cultural activity is seen as a lived experience, it invokes the bodily, brings into consideration the primitive and
melts the solid boundary between the spectator and performer. Within this widened scope of culture, sports
cannot be overlooked. In an increasingly urbanized world of shrinking spaces, sport may be the most important
reference of lived cultural experience for many societies. Still, not many would take seriously a plea to consider
any sport as a dance form.

The greatest difficulty with that is the validity of the range of communication and ‘aesthetic texture’ of sport in
general, particularly with reference to rhythmicity. It is surely a bit of a stretch to consider most Olympic sports as
dance forms for their range of emotional communication is too limited. Yet, sports such as Boxing, Tennis,
Football, Hockey etc. could be worth a serious consideration as per their different rhythmic cycles. Within the
scope this paper however, we shall examine the case of Test Cricket as a structural form in order to study how it
opens up the possibilities of looking at Dance in general, and adds to the aesthetic range of bodily movements
Dance practice is associated with. We shall also look at how both are surviving the economics of today and in
what forms – how representative of the original vigour and flavour – they are degenerating into.

The first question of course, is that of rhythmicity in the game of Test Cricket. To understand how rhythm works in
Cricket, one has to acknowledge that as against any Dance form, Test Cricket is an ensemble of various forms –
batting, bowling and fielding primarily – all of which follow their own cycles with different frequencies; and each
form interacts with another following a tier-two cycle. It is like a musical instrument with strings of unequal length.
Rhythm has a far more nuanced meaning on the Cricket Field and flawless perfection is rarely achieved. Those
used to television viewing of a Test match shall find it very hard to imagine how the entire field operates like a
stage and every movement works as critical to its choreography. Only in a stadium, one gets to see how the ball
travels through fielders back to the bowler walking back to his run-up mark and how it lubricates the body of the
sport. Only in a stadium do you see how the bowler sets his field to each ball in order to communicate a different
order of challenge to the batsman, as well as the crowd. The choreography of the field is vital to the setting up of
the dual that is at the heart of the game – the contest between the bat and the ball, also the batsman and the
bowler.

Also, Test Cricket’s close relationship with nature cannot be overstated. The way rain, dew, hardness, humidity,
time of the day, heat, light, breeze, and a whole lot of unknown factors drastically change the complexion of the
game should be proof enough. Test Cricket plays with all the possibilities of nature as a potent tool to disturb the
rhythm, which in turn adds to its rich rhythmic texture. However, the most complete metaphor for the game of
Cricket is life itself. More pertinently, how the aesthetic makes way for itself within the routine bits of of life is
central to the conception of the sport and hence, brings together the cultural and the primitive. The game’s
central contest operates through the duality between the challenger and the survivor. The bowler, with the help of
his fielders, challenges the batsman who tries to survive the challenge. At times, this challenger is a tiger-like
predator – fast-bowler – whose aggression is evident and at other times, it is a sly as a fox spinner, who
operates on temptation as his weapon. Central to the armoury of both is deception which, I must add, is the
leitmotif of the music Test Cricket operates on. Everyone dances to this tune of deception, which is embedded in
the aesthetic texture of Cricket. It is the essential communication the game establishes with its spectators – on
and off the ground. Once the ball zips past the edge of the bat, it disturbs the psyche of the batsman, and bucks
the bowler up as all fielder go up in unison to make ooohhh, aaahhhh sounds.

Let’s try and analyze the crucial aspects of this leitmotif further. Deception has no aesthetic value per se;
however, it adds character to the choice of aesthetics within the game. Survivor’s adherence to the aesthetic
exhibits defiance in the face of the survival challenge laden with deception, and makes a case for the interplay
between the functional and the aesthetic, between the low-culture and high-culture. Test Cricket, when seen as a
Dance form, adds value to not only physical movement and physical challenges, it traces the root of the
aesthetic within the primitive, bodily and fundamental. It underlines the need to make an aesthetic choice within
the functional aspects for aesthetics, rhythm and communication are as fundamental to human psyche as
movement itself is.

Integral to any Dance form however, is its code, its language, its geometry and its history. Test Cricket too has its
language ( runs, spin, drift, follow-through, crease), its metaphors (‘dancing down the wicket’), its own proverbs
(‘never run off a misfield’), its written and unwritten rules and codes (‘play as straight as possible, in the V’, ‘no
gap between the bat and the pad’), its conventions and its geometrical constraints (‘Cricket is a side-on game’,
‘head must be still’) – variable with respect to the role within the match. It communicates the various challenges
of human life – survival, moral, aesthetic, social and political – on top of its true mandate: to ’score’. The last bit
not only unsettles the order of things, it also allows within the scope of the game, to experiment with and break, if
needed, each and every one of them. That is why, Test Cricket is a ‘dance of possibilities within and without its
own code – written or unwritten.’ It inspires defiance against the historical by breaching the aesthetic or statistical
borders while operating within a definitively historical space, it valourizes the spirit of ambition while challenging
just that by locking the players within a tough duality, it inspires breaking its own code to stretch its possibilities.

However, Test Cricket’s most remarkable resemblance to Dance comes through its ability to transport the
performer into his ‘zone’. Interestingly, an ability to stay longer ‘in the zone’ happens to be an oft-repeated
distinction between the good and the great batsmen. What is the zone? It is the state in which, as Grotowski
sought, the body takes precedence, the body knows and does without the mind having to think out the response.
The ability to transport a performer into his zone is the most transformative experience any art form offers. The
restored state is never the same as original, as Schechner’s research has also tried to establish. Crucial to the
zone is the position, posture and the degree of freedom body enjoys. Not only does it allow the body to feel more
relaxed, it also opens up more options for movement. The best of Dancers, just as the best of Cricketers, are
those who feel more time on their side, who give their bodies more options to respond – be it to an aesthetic or a
physical challenge.

If the dancing effort can be broken down to usage of space, weight, time and flow, these are also concepts on
which the craft of the bowler and the batsman both depend. For the batsman, to go back and across to give
himself space, shift weight on the front or back foot depending on his shot selection, picking length early and
moving late and of course, to have the fluidity of movement keeping the head still are bounding blocks of not
only the aesthetic texture, but also of what we call the technique of a batsman. The bowler, though, uses the
crease as space to make angles, uses his weight to jump more or less before the delivery, bowls a faster or
slower one to deceive in time and corrects his non-bowling arm to have a rhythmic flowing action. The usage of
the concepts of geometry, like Bharatnatyam, is at the heart of cricketing technique. So is the improvisation with
micro-movements, like with facial gestures and hand movements in many classical dance forms. With a flick of
the wrist, the bowler gives the ball lateral or top spin while the batsman turns the face of the bat to deceive the
fielders. The chakkars of Kathak can be seen in the swivel-action of pull, while the straight drive could be the
equivalent of a stiff but perfect Manipuri movement. One cannot map cricketing technique onto dance but it is
easy to see that the scope for improvisation with micro-movements in Cricket is just as much as in any dance
form we know, if not more.

Before moving further, it is important to mention technique in Cricket is far from universal. Not only race and
culture specific, also function specific techniques have emerged. The Caribbeans lifting the front leg or Asians’
wristy flicks clearly have a lot to do with the climatic conditions of their regions. Also, wicketkeepers across
teams also have a certain kind of technique, not unlike all-rounders or tail-enders. However, all these trends are
specific to an era and have been changing throughout the history of the game. The notion of ideal body too,
holds only function specific meaning. A fast bowler is taller than the rest on an average, and most wicketkeepers
are usually short. At the same time, Cricket as a sport is physically much more tolerant than most other physical
performative traditions for not only a potbellied David Boon or Merv Hughes have defied ideal body types,
Sydney Barnes was a menacing fast bowler till age sixty-two. It clearly goes on to show how the possibility for a
performer to bring his own experience and physical assets into play in order to overcome standard acrobatic
expectation, has been huge in Test Cricket.

Also, Test Cricket deploys both organization of space in time – which adds to the choreographic richness of the
event – and organization of time in space – which, through statistics, brings historical depth to the event – as
strategies to work with space and time. Because of the design of the game – contest within every contest – it can
be seen as a vertical layout as against the standard horizontal layouts of dance forms. Part of the reason of this
layout is the relatively timeless structure of the game; while most performances, in general, stack their aesthetic
offerings on the time rack, Test Cricket has a distinct quality to it for it operates in relative timelessness. As lack
of time is an accepted reason to end the match in a draw, Cricketers use the time and space much more
authoritatively for self-expression. Hence, time feels much less oppressive than otherwise and players find
ample scope for exhibiting individuality within the five-day match. It not only makes space for the finer aesthetic,
but also for a different order or liberties with its structure. The latter can perhaps be seen as accommodation of
the folk – and surely not appropriation, as in dance – within the classical aesthetic. This is also where the
functional might supersede the aesthetic and in turn, widen the range of aesthetics itself.

Often one finds oneself voiceless as the audience of any artwork or performance. Such is the Economics of Art
nowadays that the democratic right to participate and appreciate has disappeared for the commoners. Classical
dancers often perform in cities under the banner of a big sponsor, only select audience watch the ticketless
performance as a privilege and revel in it. The dancer performs, referring to Natyashastra, an ancient religious
text heavily codified in gestures familiar to only a select minority. Classical Dance is turning into almost
inaccessible museum-ised high-art that is an instrument of alienation. To discern a good dancer from bad, to
know a dancer as an individual performer and not a mere carrier of a traditional dance form, is growing
increasingly difficult for a common man’s opinion has been rendered useless. Surely Test Cricket is at a certain
advantage in this case, for sports have an in-built evaluation system. The statistics produced by any player
speak for him; the aesthetic dimension, however, is on a rapid decline for the same consumerist market based
economy works here too.

Just as any Art form, Cricket too sells products. In this case, the game has degenerated into more populist forms
such as T20 which require a much lesser attention span and concern for the delicate touch. The struggle for
Dance and Cricket both today is that of a graceful survival. Cricket has found its method in making lots of money
through T20 and putting a share of it back into funding its white elephant – Test Cricket. In Dance however, the
popular forms have found their own way and followed a different, more transparent and mainstream route. The
classical forms, in the case of India at least, have operated through a different, more elitist, more conservative,
extremely oppressive network which caters to an altogether different audience as well – those who want to buy
the spectacle of the nation called India, or sell it. Classical Dances of today merely facilitate Cultural trade.
Cricket has a lesson to teach there. By flushing out the populist forms, the classical only hurts itself. The link
between the two must not be broken, for however lacking in aesthetics the popular may be, its democratic
appeal is its strength. By flushing the democracy out, aesthetics play into the hands of a few. This serves neither
the tradition that gets cornered, nor the forms that get fossilized, nor the people who are permanently alienated.
The purpose of this paper is not to prove that Test Cricket is definitely a classical dance form, but to stretch the
aesthetic and technical imagination of Dance, as it is understood. While we may define Dance in the most open-
ended words and try to give it an amoeba meaning, when it comes to perception, we hit the boundaries of our
conception much too early. It is there that I wish to intervene through this paper and make space for a dance
form that is just as much about performing a ‘task’ as it is about rhythmic communicative movements. It does not
resort to the ancient or religious (or both) texts, nor does it try to convey its higher meaning by invoking historical
and divine.

In Test Cricket, the performer is the movement that he merely represents in Dance. By enlarging the space
marked for Dance aesthetics and including the Test Cricket form in it, Dance studies shall be widening its own
understanding of movement so human bodies – of dancers and dance-lovers both – could move freely within. It
shall, thus, also acknowledge a different kind of rhythmic pattern – a more layered one, if I may say so. Also, to
establish what classical Dance, as it stands today, may have to learn from outside to deal with the challenges of
the market. Most importantly, we shall, thus, come to respect the fundamental human urge to ‘be’ aesthetic – not
only as an exhibit, but also as a ‘living’ being performing tasks and overcoming the endless and exhausting
challenges of life.

Freddie: Reluctant Predator, Helpless Hero

Barring Douglas Jardine, no cricketer from the bygone era has fascinated me as much as Fred Trueman. Peerless as he was in his times, he possessed that very rare quality:  menace. While Lillee-Thomson, Holding-Roberts and Wasim-Waqar chased like a pack of hounds, Trueman was a true Lion. Through him, I began to appreciate that beastly bit of the gentleman’s game: fast bowling. Cricket, they say, resembles life very closely. But could you define life without the shadow of death? However out-of-focus it may seem to be, that blurred bit of death far away in the lurking, is crucial to the discipline of what we call life.

Speaking of resemblance with life on the cricket field, those dark shades of death are provided by the predators who mix deadly speed with the mysteries of nature, such as humidity, wind and ball-type to cast spells of fear and hostility. Let it not fool you that they are dressed in all-whites, these men are entrusted with balancing the ecology of the cricket world. They threaten survival and are known to be unrelenting against anything casual. They believe in the form and appreciate the formal, cautious and alert; everything else is punished. They safeguard the natural selection process ‘testing’ one and all, zooming into sieve-like weaknesses and justifying the aura of the truly greats. Legendary Sydney Barnes picked Victor Trumper out of the ordinary whereas fearsome Malcolm Marshall held high regards for Boycott’s courage and technical proficiency.

Andrew Flintoff, about to play his last Test at Oval, was one of the very few predators of his times. He was no Trueman or Lillee, let’s face it, but a predator nonetheless. He shall be remembered for his spell at Edgbaston to Ricky Ponting which the aussie called ‘best sequence of deliveries I’ve ever faced’, and to Kallis on his return to Test Cricket after a long injury. They were two of the most fascinating spells of the modern times, delivered to two of the most accomplished batsmen. He shall be remembered for his 18 over spell at Oval 2005 and for his series leveling toils in Mumbai as a captain apart from his Ashes heroics that made him a local hero.

Anyone who has followed Fred’s Cricket closely and seen him bowl his heart out the world over knows how under-rewarded he has been. For every scalp of his he bowled a few exceptional overs. You may argue that it happens to every bowler in the game and it evens out over a long career but we know it hasn’t evened out for Freddie. Every time he held the red ball in his big hands, he pulled the people to the edge of their seats. They may not have been assured of a wicket but they knew Flintoff  would make them all sweat for their runs. In the decade when English Cricket was falling apart, Freddie meant hope. He tested one and all. Be it on dead pitches or the liveliest of them, he gave it his all. It’d be difficult to find a batsman of our times whom Flintoff didn’t give a working over. The most prolific and the most talented both were forced to admit the genius of Freddie. And what’s more, he made them enjoy it. He would beat the outside edge, stop and stare back. And then all of a sudden, he’d break into a smile, the most disarming of smiles from a fast bowler. He lacked neither belief, nor effort; yet he refused to misbehave. From a beer guzzling boy to the go-to Man of English attack, Flintoff’s was an inspirational march. He matured on responsibility, relished the improvements he made and pushed himself to go the extra yard.

Flintoff wasn’t a born wizard. He discovered the force of nature he was gifted with bit-by-bit and it spurred him on. Due to his hit-the-deck style as against England’s routine  big swinging new ball men, he remained their first change man. But his was the most welcome of changes. We waited for him to steam in with hope in his hands and he obliged with a wicket just to prove us right. He roared with arms spread and declared himself on the big stage match after match. It was the roar of a predator, the roar of a man who discovered himself on the pitch. While Freddie was still a reluctant fat boy, Test Cricket believed in him. The game entrusted him with responsibility and waited on the sidelines to let the magic of Freddie unravel itself. And Freddie reciprocated; he had to.

Ashes 2005 marked his completed transformation to an English Hero. It was an 80s style fast bowling all-rounder’s thunderous blow to the invincibility of Aussie dominance. He exposed the knights, ripped open the chinks in their armours and swatted like a revolving door whoever tried to stop him. That 18 over spell he bowled at Oval showed the world how badly he wanted the Ashes. By the time he finished, he had turned the clock back. Aussies were vulnerable, other teams the world over were licking their lips, and the crown lay rightfully on the head of a fast bowler. Trueman would’ve been happy.

But Flintoff was no Trueman. He was born in an era of Aussie dominance and being an Englishman, he couldn’t put so much premium on winning. Though he believed he was good enough for any challenge, failure wasn’t unacceptable to him. For him it was too integral a part of life to lose sleep over. Which is why, though he kept beating the outside edges and deceived one and all with his bouncers as well as yorkers, he never took as many wickets as he should have. Perhaps it was fitting for his attitude. Perhaps we’d have to concede he rarely wanted them so badly. Though he was still the man who troubled the batsmen of his era most, he didn’t get them out as often as someone else in his place would have. He relished the foreplay so much that, more often than not, the intercourse wouldn’t take place. Whatever Freddie did, that shadow of reluctance never left him.

However, that shadow rendered him an inexplicable aura, a depth of character, a certain kind of invincibility and an insane amount of affection from the world over. McGrath never had it though he had 500-plus wickets; Kallis never had it though he had more wickets and 10000-plus runs; his own teammate Pietersen never had it despite his excellent returns. Flintoff is an unlikely Hero for the numbers that show in front of his name. Which is why, hundreds have written about him trying to unravel his magic figure however unsubstantiated by his record. It is a case in point that records don’t make a legend, though they often try to defy one, without much success. They will try to erase Freddie’s too; and they shall fail. Every time a fast bowler bowls his heart out to play the predator, he performs a divine duty. He is bound to be blessed in return. Freddie’s legend is his blessing, it’s his gift. In his story, there lies the victory of Test Cricket and the victory of man, one inspiring another, back and forth. And in his smile, there’s always a bit of divine.

Tommorrow, Freddie shall play his last Test. He’ll make a few runs and take a few wickets, alright. He may or may not help England retain the Ashes, we know he’ll give it all he has. He shall struggle with injury and his own reluctance to come out on top. Then, it is upon the future to decide whether Oval 2009 shall mark the best of Freddie. We hope he will turn the clock back once again, we all hope so. Hope. With Flintoff, you always had hope, you always have hope. That’s what he meant to us; that’s what he means to us.

Blind But Seeing…

I woke up to the sound of heavy knocking on my door. I thought I had overslept and ran to the door. It was Mr. Lahkar, General Secretary, MASS. He smiled faintly at me and spoke softly, “Get ready in half an hour. Let’s go then!” I nodded before he could complete his sentence and he left right away. On another day in another place, I’d have taken the bed and forgotten about it. Not on my first day in Guwahati when it might have led to interesting things. I tried to recall where we were going but could not recollect having been informed the last night.

In less than half an hour, there was another knock. I was ready this time. I sat pillion on the bike and we slowly rode though the already busy streets. Within a while, we were away from the buzzing town and going towards the outskirts of the city. It was a good time to ask, “Where are we going Lahkar Sir?” He knew only Assamese and very little Hindi and I, Hindi and English. I spoke a mix of the languages I knew and he spoke a mix of what he knew. It was rather bizarre the way we conversed, struggling with vocabulary, diction and interpretations.

In reply to my question, I was informed of what a great man Mr. Mukul Mahanta, the man I was going to meet in a few minutes, was. Before the details could be finished, we were at his gate. A rather green and peaceful bungalow on the outskirts of the city, it could be safely branded as curiously charming. Mr Mahanta came to greet us at the door. The intellectual powerhouse behind MASS, he was dressed in an unmistakably RSS like dress. Blessed with a good physique, he seemed to be too agile and supple for a seventy-five year old.

The next one and a half-hour was one of the most thrilling of my life. I was sitting in front of a man whose opinion mattered. He had even mediated the talks between ULFA and Assam CM Tarun Gogoi about a year back. Mr Lahkar kept nodding to all that he said while I probed him, delicately. An IITian from Kharagpur, he put more force behind his grand ideas than required and gave impressions of being a hardliner. He didn’t think much of anyone and believed a solution to the problems of North-East could be engineered. He had worked for most of his life in America and after having returned, made bamboo-chairs, wonder-tables and wonder-beds. “The greatest failure of humanity has been that we haven’t yet been able to make a truly comfortable chair to sit on,” he declared. His extraordinary ability to analyze and engineer was trying to overpower the relatively invisible mesh of socio-political conflict. I thought he was oversimplifying things when he declared, “When a mother loses her first son to the conflict, she readies the second with even more eagerness.”

He relied too much on ULFA’s gun-power while constantly mentioning what ULFA said to India: ‘You liberate us. We shall liberate you.’ Clearly, he had little regard for softer methods or areas. Also, he gave a glimpse of his ideas by saying that only IITians should be allowed to contest elections in India. Having come from another IIT myself, I couldn’t disagree more. Just as mere bullets cannot win Freedom, mere intellect cannot guide a nation. He was wrong on both accounts, I thought. Yet, what surprised me the most was how he narrowed down the entire conflict of the North-East to Assam’s sovereignty. “You liberate us and we shall take care of our neighbours,” he shot back at the very mention of Manipur. The attitude, if not the opinion, was perfectly in sync with the perception of Assam being a hegemonic state in the North-East.

While on my way back, Mr Lahkar took me to the old office of MASS. The building was designed by Mr Mahant himself and was owned by Parag Das, an inspiring leader of MASS and a prominent journalist who was assassinated in broad daylight while at the peak of Army operation against the insurgency. Later, after his secret killing, his daughter-in-law asked for the house to be vacated and MASS was forced to move to another office. The sight of the building was eerie. The blades of grass had grown too tall. It had been abandoned for quite a while. We stared at the building for a few minutes as if waiting for something. Sound of a gunshot. Or that last shriek before his death. Perhaps, some blood sliding slowly against the walls. But, nothing happened. As we rode off in silence, a video footage of Parag Das’s assassination played in my head, many times over.

It was when we reached the new office that I noticed the photograph of Parag Das, right behind Mr Lahkar’s chair. The portrait that leaned forward was labeled neatly. From that moment on, I always felt Parag Das’s presence in the office. Even when I sat on the roof of the house, alone, to have a good look at the humid city of Guwahati, he seemed to be around, walking beside me, equally alone and equally sad. Yes, what always kept me company in that office was a deep sadness. To be frank, the entire city was sad; a comfortable sadness, however. Like a long time friend who visits you on a daily basis. His arrival doesn’t please anyone. It is too routine to even matter beyond the immediate.

The office comprised of three rooms on the first floor of a two-story house. In the first room was a computer table with only a monitor and keyboard on it. There was no CPU. Why, I asked. “Police confiscated it for their investigation against us,” I am told. There’s another long table on which there are a lot of documents. A few chairs, too. The second room was Mr Lahkar’s office. His table and chair, Parag Das’s photograph and a big banner of MASS behind him, another two chairs for the guests and some old reports and newspapers. In the third room was a library. Quite well maintained, I must say; covered with dust, too. A lady called Lolita had the keys. She gave me many reports and books to read. Also, there were many newsletters that MASS published regularly. Each of them looked, read just the same – in language, style, content, everything. Only, the names changed every time. There were books on North-East, Assam, conflict resolution, various tribes of North-East, their culture and values, and a whole lot of them mere opinion-books by bureaucrats or retired army officials giving simplistic solutions about how all the problems of North-East could be resolved. Interestingly, they always spoke of a one-man solution. A bureaucrat always thought one good bureaucrat could resolve it all. An army fellow would say his servicemen could do it. A committee here, a council there. There was no dearth of advices.

The adjacent room didn’t claim to be a part of the office. It comprised of a bed, a round table and a kitchen. It was the only part of the building that truly mattered though. We would have breakfast in the morning, then go off to sleep in different parts of the building, meet for lunch then, go sleep again to meet for dinner at nine. Not everybody slept exactly, but they did something equivalent.

One fine day, I decided to find things out. Dust the surface to look into the past, enquire about the future, and try to make sense of the present then, I resolved within. “Manab Adhikar Sangram Samiti (MASS) was a 200,000 men strong organization in the late eighties. We had our men engaging with human rights violations everywhere, in the remotest parts, most importantly in the rather inaccessible upper Assam. We had with us, the best of journalists and activists of Assam. We fought cases for those violated and made people aware of the changing times. ULFA was being chased down by the Army then and impunity was common. They didn’t spare us either. We lost our men, the best of them. Now, we are down to six and a half. Lochit Bordoloi, our leader, has been booked under National Securities Act. It was the last and final blow. Now we are merely trying to stay afloat. The scenario in Assam isn’t rosy just yet. You’d have to go to the villages in Upper Assam to know what it is like. Only, our hands, those that have not been cut, have been tied. How do you think we feel? I have lived through the stormiest of times in the history of this state; and survived, surprisingly. Make no mistake, I am under surveillance. My phone must be getting tapped. For every small gathering, I have to seek permissions. It’s not easy convincing them. They can finish me any time, or book me under some act. You have no idea what it is like here…” Mr. Lahkar was right. I had no idea what it was like there. To see all your men fall one by one cannot be easy on the eye, and heart. More importantly, to see a dream shattered must be tragic. That evening, I sat on the roof watching the sun set with a heavy heart. It was natural to wonder whether there’d ever be a sun rise again.

However, nature has its own uncompromising discipline. It overdoes the inspiration bit, I thought, and could leave you with a faint bitterness. Since then, every time I saw Mr Lahkar smile that tired smile of his, I could sense how much effort it took. Now, MASS for me, had zeroed down to that one man. I studied each layer of his character like a student of the conflict would read books after books. He feeling sorry for his weak English made my heart heavy. When he asked me apologetically at lunchtime whether mere dal-rice would be okay, I wanted to hug him. But I would only nod. He often spoke fondly of his family in the village. Those were few occasions when his smile carried more innocence than exhaustion, more affection than burden of loss. What turned him sad though were his wife’s worries about their future; and his concern for his children’s.

At times, activists and journalists do put their lives in the line of fire. But you rarely think of how their dependents – wives and children – cope with the struggle. We comfortably isolate them from the conflict and see the activists as children of ideology marching ahead for freedom. Interestingly, Mr Lahkar was too simple a man for any ideology. You wouldn’t imagine him speaking of Lenin or Marx. Often he spoke of Parag Das, whom he had known personally. He was a simple man from the village who thought it was his duty to speak out for the injustice meted out to his people. That made him more credible, unlike many others I met soon after. They would attend international conferences but could speak only in that language – of big words and big schemes. Their ideas had little space for a simple man like Mr Lahkar and his simple problems. They spoke of genocide and occupation instead. Not to forget, an indic civilization project and Hindu right-wing nationalism. Those trained in ideological blabber would theorize unnecessarily and refuse to see anything beyond conspiracies.

A conflict – any conflict – means various things to various people. For some it is an ideology put to test; for some it is a war to be clinched militarily; for many others it is an opportunity; for many more it is a study of human nature; for those who can afford it, it means searching for a home away from home; for the most it is an attack on the collective civilized morality and perhaps, a long exhausting march to peaceful times. Surely, not all of them survive. Few survive with dignity; fewer with self-respect; none without scars.

For me, as a student and an outsider, those days gave me a glimpse of the whole universe within a single drop. If you looked closely, you could see every blade of grass, every drop of the oceans, every tear in the eyes of humankind and every smile that appeared and faded; every drop of blood that dripped too, of course. If you looked closely, that is…

That drop was Parag Das’s photograph. That drop was also Mr Lahkar’s tired smile, and that old office of MASS. Even that firm and self-assured formula: ‘You liberate us. We shall liberate you.’ A year has gone by. Time, armed with three seasons, hasn’t been able to destroy it. Sitting on my table-top, it has maintained its surface tension and freshness. I can still see in it all that I saw then. Seeing is not the problem. It has never been the problem. Jose Saramago writes in Blindness, his classic, “I think we are blind, Blind but seeing, Blind people who can see, but do not see.”

Yet, not all of us are blind. Not all of us are equally blind, at least. Some of us actually see. It is always upon those lucky enough to see to keep up the sanity. The chaos and violence can always be smelled in the air of our civilization. Liberty and Fraternity are privileges that need looking after. We need those who like planting trees and are committed to watering them regularly, without much fuss. They can only be the ones who still see – for some inexplicable reason – who bother about our collective blindness.

However, what I found most tragic was that those who claimed to see – the sympathizers of the cause of the people of North-East – whether in or out of North-East, betrayed their own blind. They saw neither the agony of living nor the blood on the walls. Misuse of sight was common. And if there is one reason we can all put our fingers on with utmost surety, it is ambition.

Those who can see want to see afar. The immediate, that what can be smelled or touched by all, that what is right next to the people, doesn’t interest them. So they speak of conflict, occupation, liberation and self-determination. Big words go a long way in all ‘businesses’.

Mr Lahkar was special for he saw without ambition. In the middle of a blindness of epidemic order, he didn’t think his surviving eyesight a miracle worth going down straight to the epics. He was Camus’s Rebel – an ordinary man in an endless ordinary struggle with the extra-ordinary absurdity of the world around.

It was somewhat fitting that I couldn’t meet him when I left MASS office. He was in some other part of the city busy with preparations for a big event MASS was doing for the people from far and remote areas. I had to go to Imphal, on a short notice. It was an abrupt end, perhaps in line with the ways of this world.

Profiling Krati

Tarun Tejpal wrote about the first comprehensive Outlook survey on Sex in 1994, “It is a gauge of our—Indian—social insularity and insecurity that we baulk from facing up to this most central of issues—I can think of another equally important one that we duck: communalism—and generally spend our public lives brandishing the simplistic and faux morality of adolescents.” He discussed Sex there. Let us here take up this ‘another equally important one’: Communalism.

Faux morality is the key. Morality, however counterfeit, does not operate in isolation. It is an agreement that many sign together, for a variety of reasons. That is why, when a father who sympathizes with the right-wing nationalism cannot answer her rather rebellious daughter on the carnages against Muslims, fake encounters and their systematic demonization, he retorts, “Ab tumse kya behes Karen? Humko is samaaj mein rehna hai, tumko toh rehna nahi hai!” (What’s the point in debating with you? I have to live in this society, not you.)

One of these daughters is Krati who, with the support of Commutiny (www.commutiny.in), set out to group together a bunch of young men and women and encourage ideas of communal harmony. She is a short and plump lady in her mid-twenties with a lot of self-confidence. Her father did sign one such agreement some years ago, with none other than RSS. His friends are still khaki-wearing men who believe in historic injustice done to Hindus by the Muslim rulers and promote every move of national integration, religious purification and moral policing. It is this ‘samaaj’ that Krati’s father, like many others, has to live in.

Living in Gomti Nagar, a locality of Lucknow primarily inhabited by the political as well as economic elite of the UP state, she has seen how the insecurity of the wealthy prepares a solid ground for ideological hatred spread systematically. But she also knows that any change she can bring about shall be a product of negotiations with those like her father. So she begins with the children of Mahamana Malviya School, a school funded and ideologically controlled by the RSS. From then on, it is an all out war. However, they don’t really confront ideological brainwash directly. They can’t go and show the children films that openly accuse RSS and other right-wing outfits. Patience is the key; so is wisdom.

When I asked her where it all began, she takes a deep breath and tells me she is quite tired of telling this. Naturally, her earliest memories of a communally divided society go back to the demolition of Babri Masjid. Sweets were distributed all over Vishwas Khand, a locality within Gomti Nagar. People listened to LK Advani’s provocative speeches behind closed doors. Those were puzzling times for a child to grow up in. The elder generation talked as if a new history was being written. Hindutva was being talked about everywhere and Hinduism, in whatever form accessible, had little to offer to the act of growing up in a city. Interestingly, Krati studied in a muslim majority school in those days and most of her friends happened to be muslims naturally. Make no mistake, her parents wouldn’t have allowed it had they had a choice. They had moved to Lucknow in the middle of an academic year and that was the only school she could get an admission in. That is where it started. Later, while doing her MSW from the university, she worked in a muslim slum and realized no sweepers or ANMs bothered about those areas. Second class citizens prevailed through unhygienic conditions and hostile neighbourhood that demonized and terrorized them. On top of it sat the law that saw them as permanent defaulters. The rice, the spices, the meat and the blood too had been cooking for quite long, on a low heat burner. The biryani had to be perfect.

As it stands, home is where the process of change starts. Krati’s mother, not quite fond of her ideas, prepares food all the children who visit her. Teacups arrive every now and then. The food tastes good, honestly. Yet, she is often called in. Sometimes, they display their bitterness. Otherwise, a rejection to a certain fate they do not quite appreciate. Father shouts,”What do you think this is? It’s my house! Will you completely destroy my religion? How many of these people are muslims? How many?” Some times Krati answers; mostly, she does not. It doesn’t matter. Some plates and cups are marked with nail-polish for Krati’s group. Some are kept aside for puja and her parents’ needs. A tussle between religion and society goes on. There is a lot of gray area in the middle. There’s no guarantee that a cup that a Muslim boy drank tea out of shall never touch the lips of her mother. It does; and she knows it. Therein lies a moment of a quiet smile on Krati’s lips.

It is this smile that marks the success of all that Krati has been up to. Hers is not a battle of absolutes. She is not fighting for a place in the epics. Her target is short stories. And she has managed quite a few. Her father reads Ram Puniyani, though he dismissed him to begin with. Loads of kids from Dalit and Muslim bastis come into her house and they don’t remain confined to the drawing room. They enter the kitchen even. There, the story goes beyond the cups and plates, lest you overlook.

Perhaps they won’t admit it yet, but a significant change has come about. However, a belief one has always lived by cannot disappear one fine day. It cannot disappear for it falsifies your entire life and makes you look like an idiot. And of course, the ideas of national integration, moral policing and ethno-religious cleansing are so deep-rooted and well-networked in the Hindutva ideology that for many, it has already crushed Hinduism to the extent of abandoning it. Hindutva, the ideology of an angry middle-class urban Hindu, is the only claimant for Hinduism now in our cities, as Ashis Nandy argues. For the believers of this ideology, giving up on that anger means ceasing to be a Hindu, giving up their faith. So it wouldn’t happen so fast, not yet.

However, as Krati’s patience has deep roots in her own home, she doesn’t tire of taking it out on the streets. So she argues with those who think Sri Ram Sena’s goons in Mangalore are right in ‘protecting’ our culture, among them her own father. And with those who think Kashmir problem is yet another reflection of the Muslim mind which we can’t surrender to because if we give Kashmir today, Karnataka may stand up tomorrow – a view held by many. And with those whose imagination gets stuck into Pakistan regardless of the issue at hand. And with those who think speaking for a cause means being affected directly. When she did a candle light vigil with her group for the victims of Orissa violence, a certain gentleman asked her whether all of them came from Orissa. Her stories don’t exactly have a dramatic ending, but often they end as if many more stories were about to start from there.

In the drawing room of her own house – a rather ordinary single story house that gets overshadowed by the shiny multi-storied ones that surround it – she runs her small office. The group is called ‘The Wings’. They haven’t got their wings yet, but they want to fly. They are reasonably diverse and quite enthusiastic. When they are not discussing anything important, they take little digs at each other, look through the recent scraps from the opposite-sex in one-another’s ‘orkut’ scrapbook, and bet on the silliest of things so as to find a loser and hence, a treat for everybody. Most of them just out of their teens, are in the middle of the most crucial phases of their lives – a phase that’ll soon dictate their respective destinies even. But they are unaware of it while in that small room. Outside their only concern may be clearing CAT or passing the end-semester exam for engineering, inside that room their concerns cover a much wider spectrum. And they all have their own little stories of resistance to speak of:

Ajay is a soft-spoken lanky commerce undergraduate student. His father works for the Border Security Force (BSF). When we discuss the excesses of the armed forces committed in Kashmir and North-East, he doesn’t fail to mention having serious differences with his father on that account. On the other hand, Nilay, an engineering student, after arguing with me over ‘national integrity’ and ‘development’, admits to having widened the window of his mind. Though India and its territorial integrity is of primary importance to him, the fact that every people must be able to choose how they want to live makes an impact on him. Then there is Abhinav from Azamgarh – a part of his identity he often prefers to hide – an MBA aspirant and a commerce graduate with a significant stint under the RSS training. He shouts in the middle of a discussion, ”Mujhe history na batao! History mujhe tum sabse jyada malum hai (Don’t teach me History. I know more History than all of you).” He is rather difficult, they say. Clearly, not all of them pull in the same direction all the time, but that is what makes them an interesting bunch.

They do workshops with the school kids and discuss the politics around their respective identities. Interesting it is for many of the group members like Abhinav, who participate in the act most enthusiastically now, didn’t think much of it when they started. Many even joined it for there was a girl leading the group; not many of them stayed of course. They also work with dalit or muslim slums at the edge of the city. Small efforts at encouraging them to express themselves and understand the world around them somewhat better, is what they aim at. A candle light vigil for peace in Orissa here, an awareness campaign for women empowerment there. It is not entirely about communalism, but it’d be naïve to assume that communalism itself is entirely about communalism. It is important that they don’t tire themselves out. It’s important that nothing becomes a routine. Collective Imagination is the sole parameter a group’s future can be seen through.

There are problems, too. Taking permissions for every event is one big headache. The boys of the group are not entertained at all. Krati, being a woman, is treated somewhat better. Yet, soft mannerisms don’t exactly lead up to a soft ideology. A lean middle-aged constable confides in them dismissively, “These people you are going to rally for peace around with… They are the ones who’ll stab you from behind first thing! All we can do is gang them up together and shoot them.” Some respect for law and order! Later the CO rings them to ask, “Looks like a big event. There will be media…right?” He shall be there. Then, there are sponsors. A certain insurance company fellow – a clean shaved young man in his mid-twenties – wearing a crisp white shirt and a neat blue tie, remarks, “Actually we sponsor kitty parties. But there they have women who may buy our policies. What about your poor children? Anyway… I’ll talk to my superior.” Perhaps he will. Perhaps he won’t. There are others too. She won’t be defeated for the lack of trying.

Of course there are moments when things go beyond her tolerance. For example, someone argues, for the umpteenth time, that ‘all Muslims are fundamentalists and support Pakistan in all Indo-Pak cricket matches.’ A shake of head or closing of eyes cannot be ruled out. She does admit shyly smiling, “Kabhi kabhi toh man karta hai ki keh doon tum log kuchh nahi samajh sakte! Niklo yahan se saare ke saare!” (Sometimes I get so pissed off, I feel like saying you guys just won’t get it! Get lost all of you!) But before you charge her of dissent, there’ll be a smile followed by a patient effort at dialogue. Sometimes, it is all about hitting the top of the off-stump with a nagging consistency. About knowing that the inevitable shall happen – a wild cut or an ambitious drive to break the shackles. People listen eventually, to you and to the side they’ve simplistically branded as aggressors. There must be an honest effort, however. To nag, to surprise, to out-think, to exhaust; and to do it endlessly. Endlessly.

There are interesting times to look forward to. The group has achieved a critical mass. There’s a faint buzz locally about their work. Four schools are already co-operating with them. Within a few months, for the next academic year, there could be eight feathers in the hat. The group members are excited. They look up to her and see hope in their work. Many of them want to achieve some sort of economic stability and then return to continue the good work. There is a growing sense of camaraderie that you cannot possibly overlook. Soon enough, the office will move out of Krati’s parents’ house. A bit of them, though, shall always remain in that drawing room. What I find most endearing about them is that despite all sorts of differences of opinions and backgrounds, she has been able to create a sense of equality and openness within the group. However trivial it may sound, it is one of those battles most ambitious groups never win. Not to forget, the chief minister of her state could do well to take a leaf out of her book in this regard.

Her stories may be short and inconclusive, lacking in drama too if you expected that, yet there are connecting threads across all of them. Perhaps, later they could be turned into an inspirational anthology. There is hope. Where there are wings, there will be flight. As I am about to finish the story on this note while I watch India play Sri Lanka at Colombo, the match is halted for some spectator hurled a stone at the Indian fielders. While the security guards confront the situation, my aunt remarks, “It must be some musalmaan. There are many in Sri Lanka…” I am reminded of my own role, thus. This story is not finished yet.

Profiling Tarsh Thekaekara

A meeting had been set up inside Mudumalai with the Paniyas and Kattunayakans, two prominent forest dwelling tribes of Nilgiris. The Paniyas seemed willing to move out of the core zone of the Mudumalai Tiger Reserve. They were afraid that Tarsh, representing a pro-adivasi organization, would try to convince them against it as it’d hurt their culture, lifestyle and values. However, as he got an inkling of what was on their minds, he promptly told them he had no business objecting to that. His only concern was to ensure they knew exactly what the relocation package was, and were not signing anything without understanding the implications. The meeting was wrapped up and he was about to make a move when he overheard an old Kattunayakan man laughing it all off saying, “How can we move out of here? They’ll to arrange 4 buses just to move our dogs!” Tarsh was decidedly startled. He thought everyone was willing to move. He promptly asked the man, “You don’t want to move from here?” “No! We have always been here. They say Aiyankolly is not far, only 50 km from here, but anywhere that’s not walking distance is too far.” came the answer. It was a resounding negation that made a mockery of all his effort. So he asked, “Why didn’t you speak up then?” He casually replied, “What do we care? Over the last few years they have had hundreds of meeting. I don’t think anyone will ever move. We don’t bother with any of these meetings.” Concerned for their cause, Tarsh persuaded them with all his force to stay on for the meeting with the forest department and tell them they were not moving. None of the Kattunayakans attended the meeting. The forest department held that they had all agreed to move. Another round of negotiation and persuasion had to begin.

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It is difficult to find a beginning to Tarsh’s story, precisely because his story doesn’t begin with him. Life around him seems like a smooth continuum – of ideas, concerns and efforts – as if inspired by Biology. What was passed on to him has taken a respectable life of its own. He is an original, located in his own times and surroundings. And most importantly, he is not afraid to differ from anybody. Yet, his is not a story of landmark achievements or heroic feats. It is a story of a tireless negotiation, much like the one glimpsed above, where no answer and no position is final. That you keep your senses open to the changing equations is the only ask!

It didn’t start with Commutiny (www.commutiny.in) either. Tarsh had already set out for his journey, on foot. And then Commutiny van came and picked him. Then, the highly debated Forest Rights Act combined with the ‘Tiger Amendment’ (to the Wildlife Protection Act) arrived. It was an unprecedented legislation on wildlife conservation. If there was ever a chance for an activist to make a difference to the lives of indigenous people as well as wildlife conservation, it was here. Here was a legislation that didn’t pit the Adivasis against wildlife, sought to correct the historical injustice meted out to the Adivasis and saw them along with the forest department as an integral part of the conservation process. There was a crying need here to reach out to the Adivasis and listen to them, build an understanding between them and the forest department and help them decide what is best for both. That is the role Tarsh has been playing: discussing optional livelihoods, organizing Adivasis in the face of rising gram panchayats entirely represented by outsiders, dissecting the merits of moving to the buffer zone and having limited yet necessary engagement with the forest etc. Precisely, he is acting as a link between two historical enemies: a political Adivasi organisation and the forest department. Neither has been too willing to compromise on their respective historic positions. To work together under the new laws it needs someone in the middle. Someone, who is not going to give up.

As Tarsh himself says, there is nothing creative about it. One has to be ready to do some donkey-work, he has learnt. Evidently, working with Adivasis is pretty much devoid of any glamour. Theatrics – stylish, smart and loud – that we so often associate with leadership, are totally absent. You must talk plain and be willing to repeat yourself. To talk abstract, theorize or offer a conceptual understanding – things we condition ourselves to admire so much – turn out to be pointless. Also, you need to be rooted in the local context: this tree, this soil, this season, this insect…

Having been trained at IIT Kanpur as a technology graduate, it was a handy lesson for me. Nothing we were taught had any connection with the immediate surroundings. The aim of technology was always out there, somewhere in the future. Coming from there, to watch Tarsh explain how to use a GPS system to an Adivasi lad was truly heartening. The boy would get readings for a few villages daily and so would Tarsh, so that those villages that didn’t exist on government records could be plotted on the map and claimed rights for.

However, the grand scheme hasn’t crushed the little joys either. While at School for Adivasi children that his parent’s friends set up many years ago, Tarsh is in his element. Having been a student of the same school till eighth standard, he doesn’t want to lose touch with the children he taught physics regularly till a few months back. “That’s my classroom,” he pointed out towards a tree under whose shade he taught children. “How were your exam results?” he asks the children who passed out of the school after eighth standard and just got the results for their ninth standard exams, dressed up in colourful clothes for Pongal celebrations. Most don’t want to discuss the results and merely smile back or run away. To one bunch of girls, he gives his laptop so they could watch an animal documentary and submit an essay on it later. To another kid, he asks to submit an essay on honey collection. These are innocent kids, so unlike their urban counterparts. Their smiles are pure and they have little else to say. They neither wear confidence on their sleeve nor give firm answers. Another boy Tarsh met while riding towards the office and enquired about his recent absence from the school had only this to say in reply: “simply!”

What must be admired is that his engagement with Adivasi children is not entirely about teaching them Science on the lines of modern education. His concerns are much more deep rooted. Unlike many others around him, he thinks indigenous culture and values must be preserved and one important step for that would be to not run them over with our standard education, hence values too. An otherwise aggressive Tarsh is a changed man when asking the kids about what they are learning and requesting them to write essays. It doesn’t take much to see that while on this journey, he has been learning a few lessons for himself.

Of course it helps that his parents set up ACCORD (Action for community Organisation Rehabilitaion and Development) and the Adivasi Munnetra Sangam (AMS). Good doctors joined them and  set up a hospital exclusively for Adivasis which is also now managed by Adivasis. A few other young people who turn up to gather some experience often become collaborators in the cause. In the absence of a hierarchy and boss, they have a tradition of doing peer review on each other to monitor and fine-tune each other’s progress. Of course it also helps that he works with WWF India, and has the support of the Coordinator of the Nilgiri Eastern Ghat Landscape, Mohanraj; and the Conservator of Forests and Field Director of the Mudumalai Tiger Reserve, Rajiv Srivastava. Both are not only able administrators, also accessible men willing to contribute to the cause of conservation without impinging upon the rights of Adivasis. Also, the fact that District administration and Forest Department is quite decent and much less corrupt as compared to some of its northern counterparts cannot be ignored. In fact, the Kerala govt. is often seen to be more progressive on adivasi rights than any other. For Gudalur, a town right next to Kerala border, where Tarsh is located, source of inspiration is not very far.

Through FRA and Tiger Amendment, the government is trying to set right many of its previous wrongs. The multitudes of wrongs have copulated to produce enough offsprings in the meanwhile for none to know too accurately the state of affairs. Add to that, the ambitious nature of science and its ruinous relationship with natural ecological balance over all these years. Inside the maze that there is, there are no easy answers anymore. If the Adivasis are to reduce their dependency on firewood from the forest, should they use induction heaters or LPG? Should honey collection, abandoning which is unthinkable to the forest dwellers, be allowed despite the core zone being in theory an inviolate space? Each of these small questions needs an elaborate process to be answered. So much so that two factors matter more than any agreement reached – first, that the people should feel they have had a say in the decision; and second, that no agreement should be taken to be final.

Here is a glimpse into how a routine negotiation would unfold:

In a meeting with the Field Director on the Tiger Reserve, the idea of stopping honey collection from the core zone to keep it inviolate, got some of the adivasi leaders rather worked up. As they’ve been doing that for ages and it is too central to their economics as well as religious belief system, the idea of not being allowed to enter the forest even for honey collection was totally unacceptable to them. They wanted an assurance right there from the FD that they would be allowed to continue this practise. Tarsh calmed their nerves and tried to explain to them that they’ll have to find a way out together over a period of time. As the FD, even he was bound by rules, and did not have the authority to overide the Wildlife protection Act and grant them rights. Some Range Officers suggested that the tribals all take up bee keeping (in wooden boxes),  and promised to get an experts to conduct ‘trainings’. Immediately, one of the Adivasis replied, “What do you know about honey? You will waste a lot of money, we know some good NGOs working on honey, and we’ll arrange the training ourselves!”

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Close to Masinagudi, Adivasis of the Irula tribe live in the buffer zone of the MTR. The forest department wanted to reduce their dependency on the forest and so was suggesting agriculture as an alternative  livelihood.Promptly, they did all they could to make it possible for the Irulas to start on agriculture. The Irulas were reported later as saying, “They say they have spent 7 lakhs on our village. They ploughed the land, built a check dam for water, and even gave us the seed, but we never wanted to do agriculture in the first place.” So nothing grew, and now the range officers complain that the adivasis don’t listen to anyone and can never ‘improve’.

When the traditions and beliefs of the peripherals are up against a central law, there is bound to be dissent. For our modern world that is running out of dignified dreams, not trampling over the indigenous values is a challenge that can only be met collectively. Also, being a true leader is about knowing when to come to the fore and when to step back and be ordinary. The inspirational bit in Tarsh’s story is that he is content being a mere link as long as it connects in the right direction; but never fails to ask the right questions.

We walked into Chembakolli, a village at the edge of Core Zone and quite far from Gudalur, where an Adivasi told Tarsh that Church had offered the adivasi kids, free of cost, a hostel in Gudalur town so that they could attend high school regularly. He sought advice from Tarsh who promptly responded, “The problem with free favours is that they take away from you the right to question how things function. Perhaps you should insist on paying a small fee and keep a stake in the way they look after your kids.” Yes, it is not easy to take positions on such matters. And that’s why even being an ordinary link to the right questions is so important.

Right questions. Tarsh tells me an old story when one day, walking along the road close to his house early morning, he found a dead leopard. Promptly, he passed on the information to the forest guards. In the evening, he enquired them about the post-mortem report. They exclaimed, “So it was you who found it in the morning! See, don’t tell anyone else now.  Otherwise we have to file a long report and answer a lot of stupid questions about how it died. It’s already dead. What’s the point? Who wants to know about the dead leopard anyway? We quietly buried it.” We have a bit of a laugh. The next day, he gets to know of another dead leopard. This time, many have seen it already. Injury, suffered in a fight with another leopard, is found to be the cause. We try to get permissions to take the school kids for the post-mortem, but fail.

The forest is full of stories. I tried to get close to as many as possible. Tarsh’s story is just one of those many. It has been inspired from many and even inspires some. We, at Commutiny, are blessed to have someone as committed as him among us. Together, we must ensure that what didn’t start with him should also not end with him.

Don’t You Have Any Views on Kashmir

A drunken looking man to whom I was introduced by a friend whom I joined for a late night dinner at Mysore fired, “So you are researching on Kashmir?”

A reluctant nod was promptly greeted with, “But isn’t Kashmir problem already resolved?”

“How?” I was positively perplexed and partially embarrassed about my ignorance.

“Well, the people of Kashmir have accepted democracy in these elections…no?”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean…”

“So what do the people want there?”

“Well, it would hardly be proper to give a blanket statement representing an entire people’s complex array of aspirations.”

“Alright…” A peaceful pause with eyes looking down. “But still…?” And they lit up again.

I really didn’t want to say a thing but for those four pairs of amused eyes stuck on me. I had to begin, “As far as I remember, the last time Kashmiri people showed solidarity under one slogan, it was Azadi!”

“What’s that?”

“Azadi…” “Freedom…?”

“Oh…is it?” Pause. “Freedom from India? Strange!”

I gave him a blank stare. He poured himself another drink.

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My cousin, an MBA graduate, working with a big IT company. One night he calls up to update himself on my well-being and shoots during a dangerous pause, “Hey, tell me this. What do you think these Kashmiris want? Do they want to merge themselves with Pakistan?”

“What do you think?”

“I was watching news one of these days and they were waving Pakistani flags in one big demonstration.”

“Yeah, I know. See, my understanding says that it is much more complicated…”

“So who has complicated it?” There was a dangerous accusatory finality in the tone.

I sighed, “Okay. So what do you want me to tell you?”

“That whether the Kashmiris want to side with Pak or not?”

“Well, if that is what waving a Pakistani flag means to you…”

“What does it mean to you?”

“To me no singular moment means a thing! I see the status of a conflict in the way it progresses. It’s like in a test match the scorecard can tell you who holds an overall advantage but to know which way it’s going, you’ve got to see how the session has unfolded and who has the momentum.”

“Right. So how do you think the Kashmir situation is unfolding?”

“Okay, first tell me what has got you interested in it?”

“The sight of them waving Pakistani flags, of course.”

“So of course, you’d want it to be the defining moment of Kashmir struggle?”

“Why?”

“That’s exactly what you should ask yourself. Why? Why should waving of Pakistani flags get you all interested in the Kashmir question while nothing in the last many years did?”

“But this is much bigger than all that. This means they are out on the streets saying they want to be with Pakistan!”

“My dear, they’ve been saying a whole lot of things for the past twenty years. Not all of that gets covered in our newspapers. So perhaps, they say what is really unacceptable to us so as to tease us into listening. If it is Pakistan, they shall say Pakistan!”

“So finally, now they want to merge with Pakistan?”

*************************************************

“Kashmir?” Ravi, an ex-colleague at a software company in Pune, was pleasantly surprised. “Good yaar, so have you been to Kashmir?”

“Yeah…”

“But your program is funded by some NGO…right?”

“In a way…”

“So then, you’d be interested in all that Human Rights perspective etc.” He was categorically dismissive.

It wasn’t new to me. I merely smiled.

“See, it’s nice to visit Kashmir and all. It’s a beautiful place. I’ve seen pictures of Dal Lake and Gulmarg etc. But you know, all this human rights is nonsense. They want a separate country because they are Muslims. That’s it. You complete your research, have a good time, share the snaps with me. It is all wonderful. But remember, Kashmir belongs to India. We are not going to give it up. Those who want freedom may cross the border…”

Laughter. Other colleagues join him.

*************************************************

Raman, an acquaintance from Gaya and working in Mumbai is browsing through channels while I sit next to him. For a while, we watch some Marathi channel where Mr Raj Thackrey goes on spewing venom against north Indians in Marathi that both of us don’t understand. Angry and frustrated after a while, he remarks, “Why can’t someone shoot him down?”

I think of keeping mum. Then add reluctantly, “Do you think that’ll help ease down the sentiments he is trying to provoke?”

“Perhaps not, but still… At least this bastard shall be dead.”

Many channels are skimmed through. We land on BBC for a while. A documentary on Kashmir Valley issues is running. It shows gruesome images of what Kashmiris have gone through. How the women suffer and how they struggle to make ends meet after losing their men to the conflict. Raman shouted, “Yeah…Yeah… Go on crying over the deah of Muslims!” Looking for acceptance towards me, he added, “These people wouldn’t ever bother with the death of our soldiers. What do these Muslims want anyway? They make war wherever they are…”

Many more channels are skimmed through, once again. We comfortably land on some comedy show now.

*************************************************

A very senior Cancer specialist from Pune, with me on a trek to Madhya Pradesh, declares, “Patriotism is the most important thing in this world. I am a Doctor. But I also fund the education of children who are from poor families. Why? Because I want to see India do well. Children are the future of the country…right?”

“Right…” I softly added.

“Yeah. I value patriotism the most. Nothing should be above the nation. I worked in America for many years, but nowI am back. One should live and die for one’s own country. At least die in your own country!”

He smiled proudly and wanted me to reciprocate. I did. He continued, “That’s why I don’t understand when people take a position against their own countries. We should support whatever is good for India. Even if Kashmir wants freedom…so what? We should never give up any part of our territory. Why should we? We love our motherland. Everybody should….right?” Another proud smile.

“Right.”

*************************************************

An ex-roommate from Rajasthan who could never locate most of the states, let alone their capitals, on the map, was full of surprise, “You are going to look into Kashmir issue?”

I go into the other room. He follows, “But why?”

“Well…it interests me.”

“What is there to interest anyone in it? This Kashmir, Assam, Nagaland etc… aren’t they all complete idiots? All of them want their own country. What kind of nonsese is that! How can India give them all their own countries?”

“And why not?” I was plain curious.

“What kind of a lunatic are you? Does anything like this happen anywhere? He laughs violently, as if trying to hurt me with it.

*************************************************

A tenth class boy, son of an Air-force officer from Pune. With me on a trek in Himachal, he asks, “So what is this Armed Forces Special Powers Act?”

“An instrument of terror in the hands of our armed forces, actually.” I was quoting from Sanjoy Hazarika’s committee report.

“What is there that it allows and should not be?”

“To kill on mere suspicion, for one.”

“So we should let our soldiers die but shouldn’t let them kill someone they suspect?”

“No, we want our soldiers to be accountable for who they kill and who they suspect and why.”

“That’s rubbish. If you were in the Army, you’d never say so.”

“Perhaps. But now that I am privileged unlike the Israelis to not have been brainwashed, I should make use of my gray cells and sensitivity for human life. Don’t you think so?”

*************************************************

A very senior doctor in Gudlur who, after having worked in the US for many years, now looks after a hospital for Adivasis. Knowing about my work, he is curious, “So how’s it in Kashmir?”

“Peaceful by general Kashmir standards, I believe.” I believed that.

“So can we take these elections to be free and fair?”

“That’s what even the Kashmiris say, so we must take their word.”

“But do you think they still want Azadi?”

“At least, there’s no evidence to the contrary…”

“Right. But you know, Indian can really not allow Kashmir to go!” This was abrupt; and absurd, to me.

“Really?” I am never too good at concealing my surprise.

“Yeah of course. If you ask an army guy, he shall tell you that Kashmir’s location on our map is too strategic for the Army to give up.” He surely had friends in the Army feeding him.

“See doctor, I think the greatest success of Indian democracy as yet, thanks to Mr. Nehru, has been that we haven’t allowed our armed forces to think on behalf of our nation and tell us what’s best for us. Besides, I don’t think they would’ve thought Tamilnadu any less strategic, had the conflict been taking place here.” He seemed to agree.

*************************************************

In a meeting with a youth group called ‘The Wings’ at Lucknow. I share my understanding and thoughts on Kashmir issue with the men, women, boys and girls. Once I am done, a brief silence is followed up with a rather wild discussion. Certain notable glimpses are being shared.

A twenty something boy starts softly, “So you believe the poular sentiment is for Independence. Let’s say we want to be sensitive to their sentiments. What should we do? Give them an independent nation?”

I wanted to provoke a little so as to scratch the surface, “It surely won’t be charity. After all, Kashmir never joined the Indian dominion in quite the same capacity as others.”

“What if we do as you say and then tomorrow Tamilnadu stands up asking for the same? And then Orissa, then maybe Haryana…”

“Yeah… so what?”

“So, are we to give them all a separate nation?”

“Well, if that’s what they all want, what do you suggest?”

“I can of course not allow that. That’s why I cannot support an independent Kashmir.”

“Why? Why exactly can you not allow that?”

“Come on! What will happen to our National Integrity? After all I am an Indian. I feel for India.”

National Integrity! I am really enjoying it now. “So you’d support keeping Kashmir by force, even if there’s no moral basis for it?”

“I cannot let my country break apart. How can you not see that?”

“Okay. Tell me this. Let’s say your father is afraid allowing you to marry the girl of your choice will sow the seeds of rebellion in the hearts of your younger brothers as well. So he forces you to marry the girl of his choice. Would you support his position?”

“Well, of course that’s not true with Kashmiris. They have all the freedom if they don’t make trouble against India.”

“I seriously doubt that. And most Kashmiris can tell you a million stories to prove the contrary.”

“I don’t buy that. And what is the option? Pakistan? Can’t they see the development we have here? Can they not compare it with the state of Pakistan to see for themselves?”

Development. That’s a tricky one. I cannot afford to start an all new debate. Yet, the nodding heads around tell me how strongly they all feel about our national march towards a shining future. “The option is Azadi,” is all I say.

He falls silent for a while. I add, “And if your father genuinely fears all you brothers wanting to go against him, how do you think it shows upon him? After all, if every state of India wants to break off ties with India, don’t you think it is time for India to do some soul searching about what it stands for as a nation? Shouldn’t Indians be ashamed of it?”

Another young man, who’d have interrupted me violently had I not been requesting him to hold on all this while, jumps into the discussion, “Tell me this. Let’s say we give them their Kashmir. What if China gobbles them up tomorrow?”

“Well, it might catapult you into future-telling but honestly speaking, it wouldn’t be your business by then. Gandhi said to the British back then, ‘Leave us to God! Or leave us to the Dogs! But leave.’ Can’t we do the same? Shouldn’t our Kashmiri brothers be shouting the same, had we allowed them to speak to us?”

He is visibly agitated. There is violence is his body language as his eyes pop out and he shouts, “Let me tell you something my dear friend. Freedom has to be earned. We threw the British out of this country. They didn’t give it to us in charity. We won’t, either. If they could, they would have taken it by now.”

“I hope you realize you are going a few centuries backwards through these revolutionary ideas.”

“Whatever. And secondly, Sheikh Abdullah wanted to be with India then. That’s why they joined it…”

“Right. And then these years exposed to them the real face of Indian democracy which they don’t like!”

“I don’t care. International Politics is not as if you are having dinner in a restaurant, ordered butter chicken and now want to cancel it so you could eat mutton korma elsewhere.”

“So an entire community should be banished forever to suffer just because what they once held, let them down.”

“Of course they must. You choose only once.” He declared.

“It is that one chance that has been denied to them all along,” I reminded him.

Later in the day, the first boy came up to me and admitted that he has been forced to rethink his position. He thanked me for inspiring him to change his views. The other young man, who had taken the exit door right after, is told to be a strong believer in the RSS ideology. The group thinks he is impossible.

*************************************************

Kashmir. We all know her. Or at least, we know of her. We’ve heard stories. That she has (had) an affair with someone called Pakistan. That she has had many lovers. That she is a muslim. That she is a terrorist. That she has been violated, by many, over and over again. That she is beautiful beyond imagination. That she used to be even more beautiful. That she is an evil seductress. That she isn’t. That she wasn’t, ever.

And we are in a hurry. To have an opinion. On Mumbai. On Delhi. On communal riots. On global warming. On economic recession. On Shahrukh. On everybody; and everything. On Kashmir too. There isn’t enough information around – in the newspapers, or television. So we tell ourselves anyway. We feed into ourselves a thoroughly consistent and linear world-view of this chaotic, decidedly non-linear world. After all, Rationality is a fundamental need. And it’s the only one that can actually be manufactured.

So what do you think of Kashmir problem?

Vinod Dua Live

NDTV. A question pops up during the break.

“Who is the anchor of Vinod Dua Live?” The options are: a) Barrack Obama, b) Gilani, c) Vinod Dua & d) Shekhar Suman.

My first reaction is: Obvious. Second: Ridiculous. And a little distant third: Generous.

I can now spot in the question a certain reflection of most questions we face today. However, that’ll take some tweaking. I try.

“Who is the anchor of Vinod Dua Live?” The options are: a) Barrack Obama, b) Gilani, c) Amir Khan & d) Shekhar Suman.

Perfect.

It may still be obvious and the question, much too ridiculous. Yet, we can’t find the answer. For we are still searching among the given options.

Fear of the Peripherals: learning to grow unafraid of Rules, Conventions, McDonalds, Govt. Policies and so on…

I distinctly remember the discomfort in each of my bones as I took those tentative steps inside McDonalds, for the first time. The film was about to start and I was terribly hungry. Next to the ticket window, the clown-ish mascot of McDonalds — the only eatery around — sat smiling with its arms stretched on the bench. Mocking at my helplessness, it said, “Finally!”

 

Inside, it felt like a frame straight out of a Hollywood movie. I wouldn’t have been surprised if someone came and whispered to me, “Go sit on the second bench towards your right. There’s a film shoot on. That’s the camera! Don’t stare into it. Go!” Thankfully, nobody did. Else, I’d have hit the door instantly.

 

Everyone inside did everything just right. They seemed too self-assured, knew where to go, what to order, how to order, where to sit and how to eat. As if in a western dance performance, the measured smiles and calculated swings thrilled me, more so for I could barely bring myself to think of holding my own in as alien a setting as it felt. For me, it was like an aquarium. The only difference was that I had to enter it and act as smooth as a fish.

 

You may ask, what’s wrong with me? The problem is that it felt like a world in itself, and more importantly, one that completely disregarded the real one. The rules of a McDonaldized world were different. So were the parameters of intelligence. It may be all about knowing how much cheese you should want, whether to go for a shake or a coke, where to get the sauce from and whether to order French fries or not. Yet, it is more important to be sure about your choices beforehand for you get little time to decide. There are people behind you in the queue who have learnt their lessons well. They know of combo meals and extra cheese! And they are in a hurry! You must risk being taken for a retard if you cannot act smart. You must know how to smile at the girl taking the order without meaning anything at all. You must know that it’s a sin to ask for water! Drink Coke instead! And of course, you shouldn’t expect any warmth from any corner. You don’t get anything real in a performance.

 

McDonalds makes you feel like an outsider until you convert into one of ‘them’. It intimidates your identity and shakes up your confidence by sending out a message like, “Where have you been? … Ok, catch up!” That is, until you become a regular! And when you do, it turns all ‘natural’ – like always, like everywhere.

 

——————————-

 

In November 2007, I rode through entire Kerala on a bike and while on my back, I met a terrible accident close to Ooty. With the help of people around – physical and financial for I was very short on cash – I landed in a small town in the Nilgiris: Gudlur.

 

While getting my bike repaired, I happened to notice a tribal woman walking the road. She was wrapped in a white cloth and was very dark in colour. Her hair, almost fully white, was clearly not very well done. She walked with a strange jerk in her body and her eyes seemed to be searching always. Suddenly, she ran across the road towards the tea shop right next to the auto-mechanic shop where I stood. Reaching up to a bench, slowly she opened her fist. There were coins in it, lots of coins. Spreading them all on the bench she started counting. Making small heaps and then counting the heaps, she counted her money. The exercise didn’t assure her. So she performed it again. And again! And looked very confused at the end, every time! Finally, she walked up to the owner’s desk and spread her coins there yet again. Through his eyes perhaps, he took her in confidence and gave her 10 rupee notes in exchange. Sad to lose all her coins and still not sure as to whether she had got all her money, she came out shaking from top to toe.

 

And then she walked up to me, begging for money like an untrained child. Only her eyes spoke, but they too didn’t try to evoke pity. They merely enquired whether I could give her some money. Her hands were reluctantly half-outstretched and her entire body looked off-balance. One would imagine that she had just received electric shocks. I, though very short on cash, gave her a ten rupee note. The moment it touched her palm, she acted as if she was plugged once again. Not knowing how to express gratitude, or even smile, she didn’t know what to do. About turn with a sudden jerk and she walked off! She wasn’t civilized of course. And she was afraid!

Elsewhere, we both were not beggars. Yet, out of our zones in the mouth of a tragedy, we shared the same fate. It was only fitting that I helped her as much as I could.

 

——————————-

 

There are rules and there are conventions. Breaking the rules is punished and breaking the conventions is condemned. The former is a legal overstepping whereas the latter stands for cultural overstepping. However, while rules can be read out of the rulebooks, conventions are nowhere to be found. It is only when one engages positively with the cultural frameworks, however alien to begin with, that one can acquaint oneself of them.

 

For example, when Martin Crowe hit Andy Roberts over his head for a six at Taunton in 1984, he proved his competence through his authoritative talent and responded to the short stuff he ducked but didn’t appreciate. What he failed to realize though was that he had broken a convention. When you are as young as he was and facing a West-Indian quickie, you show respect. Peter Willey at gully informed him of the sin right after, “Oh dear … that was very silly of you.” The beamers he received searching for his head soon taught him a lesson on fear.

 

Fear. What welcomed me when I first entered a city school after five years of education in the remotest of villages was fear. What was beating in my chest when I first tried to board a local train in Mumbai was also fear. And it was fear that garlanded me from behind when I first got off the bus at Imphal.

 

What follows the first pangs of fear is a relatively longer process of reconciliation the duration of which can only be determined by taking into account how peripheral the subject is and how close to the core he wishes to reach. It is during this while that one engages with the rules and conventions; even unwritten rules and written conventions. However, what holds the key is the spirit that backs the effort and most importantly, preparedness of the mind.

 

Sadly, those on the periphery are always found lacking in preparedness when the floodgates are opened. Governments pass orders with mere signatures and countless lives, far too distant to matter, are forced to reconcile with their sorry destinies. These orders, legislations and policies are the cornerstones of our administrative practice.

 

However, that there is a world trying to live out there under the blanket of fear of each of these policy decisions is of hardly any interest to most. It is the world at the periphery – geographical, psychological, historical, political, social or economic – I speak of. Unlike our metropolis and in fact, every urban space in proportion to how urban in spirit it is, they don’t buy food, culture, entertainment, information and even character. Being on the periphery means to them holding on to a certain truth they believe in. It is this truth they fear govt. policies threaten to wipe out. It is this truth that is too dear to them.

 

Fear of losing one of the many dear truths to the ‘universal lie’, Saramago remarked in his Nobel lecture, was peculiar of our blind age. This universal lie is what those forest dwellers of Bandhavgarh and people of Imphal valley or Naga Hills – struggling to make ends meet on the margins of the nationalist spirit and Indian polity – see as a conspiracy. Yet, out development hungry urban middle class is not moved, not even interested. Slowly we are approaching a double-edged disaster – of one tribe wanting to strengthen the universal lie and many others trying to save their plural truths.

 

It is this one huge monolithic tribe safeguarding and strengthening the universal lie from their privileged positions that inhabits our cities – big or small. Cities: the most parasitic units of our society have always upheld one or another, but always a universal lie. Be it empty theorizing from the academia or naïve ideological rallying on the streets, their universal nature has been the source of nothing but fear for each one of the peripheral truths. Ironical though it may sound considering the melting pot argument favouring them, the heat generated to melt all differences is the heat of universal lie – a certain rpm around the axis of modernity or science, for example. That plurality is gassed with this heat is an aspect few care to notice.

 

Every falsity needs keepers. In this case, there are modern institutions. What better example than the Armed Forces – adored and respected by metropolis though feared and detested by the disturbed areas on the margins of Indian nation. Another would be the forest department, supposed protector of forests and wildlife. Ask any forest dweller what he fears the most and it shall invariably turn out to be a forest officer.

 

The institutions we see as our saviours are a threat to their peaceful existence. Their only protector is their distance from the centre. What those on the periphery fear the most is intervention. What those close to the centre want the most is intervention, or regulation which is more or less a synonym for governance – directed towards their own benefits of course. Yes, of course it is not as black and white as it may sound, but to overlook the difference between the two grays at opposite ends of the spectrum would be nothing less than a crime.

 

The gray on the margins is the result of many years of adding a little black to their white, or could be seen as the universal lie infiltrating into one of the plural truths. The tribal population of those ousted from the forests and left with no land to live off, trying to earn a living out of the coal mines and hence depending on govt. policies is that gray. After having learned to breathe through the fine mesh of army convoys, having to send your own son to join the armed forces for the lack of a healthy socio-economic atmosphere around is that gray. The tensile strength of the fabric of any society is not a constant but a variable that does get manipulated.

 

While on our way through tribal villages close to Amarkantak, we spotted a few women breaking stones. The broken stones would eventually be sold at a cruel rate to the contractor who would make enormous money by selling a truckload to his client. As a mere experiment, we walked up to those women and enquired about whether they sought permission from the government for breaking stones. Without posing a single argument, they were about to leave before we apologized and requested them to resume work, but not without telling them that we had no authority and they shouldn’t pay heed to just about anybody. Try questioning someone breaking traffic rules on Delhi roads to see the difference for yourself.

 

The difference is that of fear. When fear settles in communities, it becomes its own enforcer. Nothing else matters. The only truth that remains is that of an endless conflict – of opposing interests, worldviews, lifestyles, even methods of resistance.

 

Commenting on our civilization’s failure to partner with the nature without confronting or destroying it, Amitav Ghosh declares, “Only in fiction can a reconciliation be affected between the quest of a scientist determined to prevent the disappearance of a species and the needs of a fisherman who must hunt in order to live.”

 

But I must add, one enemy fiction must always be wary of is: the truth. Whenever fiction tries to speak the truth, it shall cease to be fiction and lose its potency, even meaning. As long as it is satisfied being that one shade out of many on the canvas – a shade neither too bright, nor of the crown, nor of the painter’s signature, it shall contain all our truths.

 

Reconciliation: the natural antidote of fear.

Fiction: the grandfather of plurality, the ultimate protector of a truth that does not claim to be ‘the truth’.

Truth: the universal lie.

 

Search for Paradise

What was 2008 like? Years later, it shall mark the beginning of my search for Paradise; not one, but many. The search is not over yet, though the year is. However, the year was far from disappointing. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that it was the best of my life.

 

- At Sarchu, on the way to Leh from Manali, inside a dark candle-lit tent while the bone chilling wind blew outside, late in the night, I, along with an enthusiastic cheering and ‘ooooh… aaah…ing’ group of eleven, guessed successfully a girl’s sunsign. She was a Capricorn who later tried to convince me that she wasn’t like a regular Capricorn, much like all Capricorns do.

 

- Sang Kabir along with Shabman and Prahlad Tippaniya and a bunch of friends. There was tambura, dholak, manjeere, khartal and yes, spirit of folk music.

 

- For the first time in my life, saw a Test Match live at Kotla, Delhi. It was a tie between India-Australia, not the most amazing one though. Yet, that it marked the beginning of a paradigm shift in the realm of following Test Cricket is never to be forgotten. It was Kumble’a last Test of course. And most importantly, I saw Sachin without the mediating TV Cameras!

 

- Slept on the road to Jalori Pass in Himachal after lunching in the lush green and drinking from the streams. A small car after about twenty minutes came to a screeching halt; the driver was positively baffled.

 

- Lost for directions, drenched in the heavy rain, walked endlessly through the forest and villages, through endless grasslands and rainwater ponds, with a bunch of four in Sukhtawa, Madhya Pradesh.

 

- Listened to Kishori Amonkar at NCPA, followed it up by walking along the Marine Drive, then walking up to Colaba and having Seekh Kebabs there. Walked to VT then and local back home. Even in 2008, Bombay was beautiful as ever; except for those ugly moments.

 

- Just before dawn, crossed Zojila pass from Laddakh side to enter Sonmarg. Full moon night. Moon was right above our heads and it made zojila look beautiful like nothing ever has. The highway, smooth as silk, smiled in agreement and dished out a reflection of the moon like only a placid lake can. Other side of Zojila, Sonmarg was another story altogether. In search of paradise, that was close.

 

- Bathed in almost every river and waterfall of Madhya Pradesh over a month long trip and walked through many many forests.

 

- Cycled from Kullu to Jalori through a landscape so beautiful as entertaining was the bunch of friends coming along. We parked the bikes wherever we liked, bathed in the river waters along the road, drank from the streams and ate from the little restaurants and then, at the end of the say, camped next to a river so the music wouldn’t be interrupted all night.

 

- Floating vegetable market of Srinagar at 5AM. A solitary lady on a small row boat rowed by a boy sat still. In the most noisy but alive market, a solitary silent lady was a sight more to the pleasure of irony than beauty.

 

- Traveled on the rooftop of a bus to Manikaran on the narrowest possible highway of sorts, breathtaking views around.

 

- Camping in a small school on a hilltop on the way to Araku from Vizag, I chatted with a bunch of children till late in the night talking about what had been the highlights of my life after having left the job.

 

- Was treated with every delicacy of Bikaner – Kachori to Pandhari to Rasmali to Rabri to Gaal ke laddoo. Surprisingly, it is a very small town with a buzzing night life, with a difference thankfully. The nights were pleasant and windy, starry and full of chatter and other activity.

 

- In the back seat of a bus, inside a dark tent in a forest, climbing a hilltop, day and night, sang my heart out with a bunch of middle-aged and young men and women. Talat was the favourite; Rafi could never be ignored. Hemant Kumar and Mukesh too had a lot to add to the experience.

 

- Enjoyed the starriest of nights at Sarchu, Ranikhet, Munsiyari, Jibhi and Berinag. Well, I think starry nights look most beautiful when it is really cold around you.

 

- In Munsiyari, a small high-altitude town in the arms of Panchchuli range, talked for hours to a kumaoni girl, the daughter of the owner of guest house. She was beautiful like no city-bred girl can ever be and innocent like only imagination can be. Yes, in 2008, during Munsiyari winters, love was a possibility.

 

- Walked miles barefoot on the east coast from Vizag to Bhimunipattam. The colour of sky, the temperature of the waters, the type of sand, the mood of the sun, the curves of the coastline kept changing as if to entertain themselves.

 

- Made friends with schoolboys, retired army officers, political activists, enthusiastic young men, birdwatchers, seasoned trekkers men and women, research scholars, wildlife filmmakers, small restaurant owners, hotel owners in small towns and almost everything in between; even tribal men. And everywhere – Kashmir, Manipur, Himachal, Madhya Pradesh, Andhra, Chattisgarh, Delhi… Villages, small towns, cities, forests… Not that I am in touch with each one of them but that was never the aim. I befriend them in spirit still, I think of them often and always with warmth. I surprised myself with the kind of tear jerking farewell my heart gave to them. Oh yes, it was also a year high on emotions.

 

And well, the few friends I made on JNU campus remain the most precious. I may have serious disagreements with them but after all these years of living out of IIT campus, their company pulled me back to the days of super-idleness that Mr Russell could have taken a leaf out of. The films we watched and downloaded, crores of teacups we sipped together and all those debates we had – they all had a fair bit of my hostel life in it.

 

- Ate heartily almost all types of food – very local to the places I traveled to and also global food. From Trout to Lamb Stake and a memorable Seafood Froth, the year offered good variety. However, my pick for the year would have to be the omlette I had at that roadside café the name of which I cannot recall. We noticed it while mountain biking and once we started, we took about two hours to finish. Countless omeletts were ordered one after another. Appetite had never known this excess. Later on our return we repeated the feast and enquired about the recipe. Well, we were told of many herbs that were being used from far too distant places than one would imagine from the location.

 

Another must mention has to be Sattu Parathe. This year, I must have had around four hundred of them and the next year figure can only look up.

 

Yes, 2008 was a year worth living. And I lived. I listened to people’ stories and told them mine, several times over. We had time and eagerness to listen to each other, things people around us haven’t had always. We ended up making promises we may not keep but what matters is that those promises are meant to be kept, honestly. What happens to them later is up to the time to arrive. Whether it shall keep its promise, we’d know only in future. What do you think, 2009?

Oye Lucky! Lucky Oye!

After having lurked in the reckoning for many years, a new wave of Hindi Cinema seems to have arrived at the door. We haven’t yet embraced it, but the windows that were left open did allow the smell in. Oye Lucky… is the latest and most decisive blow the new independents have managed yet.

 

The film marks the most amazing presentation of the changing infrastructure of ambitions coupled with landscapes of greed, but more heartening is that finally, the reconciliation with our cultural roots has also begun. After all these years, the arrogant denial of our own identity may be about to end. Through Oye Lucky… cinema is finally engaging with its surroundings and not merely trying to create a super-reality (a more entertaining reality though) of its own. It still possesses its own language and style but now, it is willing to talk to us in our language. Not just that, it has also begun to acknowledge our geography and history.

 

Not completely, of course. But what is truly thrilling is that it is being done without much fuss. The loud mouthing that some, like Anurag Kashyap, have been indulging in does not represent the bunch. The likes of Rajat Kapoor, Nishikant Kamath and Dibankar Bannerjee have been instrumental in an original, incisive cinema that is not trying to prove anything.

 

Sure it is not about our villages, not yet. Though the camera is still roaming the streets of Mumbai and Delhi where it is easy to shoot on a small budget, we must all hope that soon Luckys shall be traced down to their villages in Punjab, the canvas shall be painted with the yellow of the mustard fields, the journey of Neetu Chandra’s innocence – whether it made way for a mini-skirt she hated or covered itself in a dark room after Lucky was jailed – shall also be told.

 

That must happen. However, till then, we must enjoy the fact that the language Lucky and Bengali are speaking is real. It may not be pretty otherwise but the very fact that they are unashamed of speaking it on the screen is heartening. And that is precisely what works with Oye Lucky…: that it does not try to look pretty. The aesthetics are finally being challenged. Classical is finally making way for the folk, or at least it is not overshadowing the folk.

 

Honestly, what can be more wonderful than not having to listen to a metallic voiced Sonu Nigam and to get to hear a certain Master Mahaveer Chopra who sings his heart out in ‘Tu Raja ki Rajdulari…’, one of the most touching renditions I’ve listened to in many many years? And in a similar vein, an adorable Abhay Deol not trying to do another superstar-ish SRK act?

 

Yet, if I must put my finger on one aspect that makes Oye Lucky… a must-watch, it’d have to be its linguistic texture. Frankly, it feels like after all these years of eating a cherry-cake with its wrapper on, someone unwrapped it and put in your mouth. Imagine the first time you bit into it and that’s as much as you could relish the film if you understood its language well.

 

For many years now, Hindi Cinema has been in a rut. Bigger the promises worse were the results! Finally, it is trying to come out, without making much noise. It is time we took notice and welcomed it.

 

Knock! Knock!