Today I almost bought you a hummingbird feeder,
thinking, why not have their long, hovering beaks over for nectar?
Since we have big weeds and loud singing birds already
squawking, really, in this sticky wet air,
With hammers and bells in the Sunday streets
And the steady blowing fan, the annoying horn of the train,
Until we reach a clearer hour, which flattens the bad music
Leaving only a hum that falls like water on leaves
After three years and three people soon in this house
And always more versions of “hum”-- nous, nahono, assi, uns
Just this something, only a bumbling attempt to express myself
With a wish for hummingbirds and other things to come.
"Just remember that your real job is that if you are free, you need to free somebody else. If you have some power, then your job is to empower somebody else." --Toni Morrison
Dalrymple on 1857: the Religious Component
William Dalrymple, a British travel writer and scholar of Indian history, sometimes gets himself into hot water with Indian critics. He was attacked by Farrukh Dhondy a couple of years ago for criticizing V.S. Naipaul's pro-communalist comments, and then more recently by Pankaj Mishra for lamenting the state of non-fiction writing in and about India. But whatever you think of his role in these arguments, Dalrymple as a historian is the real deal: his book Delhi: City of Djinns is an amazing historical travel narrative, which blends Dalrymple's experiences in modern Delhi with a great deal of careful research into Delhi's formidable past.
The current issue of Outlook India has a nice essay by Dalrymple on the Indian Mutiny/Rebellion of 1857 (thanks, Indianoguy!). The essay is really in three parts: one is a fresh look at the fall of Bahadur Shah Zafar, the "last Mughal" -- whose sons were all executed (murdered) by the British after the Rebellion. The second part is a discussion of "Mutiny papers" in the National Archives of India that Mahmoud Farooqi has been translating from Urdu. These documents show the Indian perspective on the events of 1857, where one finds, among other things, that the rebels were motivated by religious rage to a very great extent. Finally, there is a discussion of contemporary Delhi -- in which preserving the emblems of this past is of very little interest to most people.
Though I remember reading somewhere that one of the main causes of the failure of the Rebellion was Zafar's age and his failure to act decisively (see details at Wikipedia), Dalrymple has a slightly different take. There's no doubt that Zafar was old at the time the Mutiny occurred (he was about 80), but his weakness was not his fault. He only ascended the throne at age 60, by which time it was too late to do anything to revive his family's dead empire. Moreover, he contributed a great deal to literature:
One could of course argue, echoing Tagore, that mystical poetry is the consolation of a defeated people, but this is definitely better than the standard image of Zafar as an indecisive invalid. (Some of Zafar's Urdu ghazals are here)
Dalrymple also strongly condemns the violence involved in the suppression of the Rebellion, including the (ghastly) British decision to summarily kill all of Zafar's sons and the wanton destruction of priceless monuments (including the palace inside the Red Fort) in Delhi and other Indian cities. This wasn't enlightened Liberalism or Imperial benevolence, but a dirty war in which indiscriminate killing and humiliation were used to ensure victory.
From my perspective, the most interesting parts of Dalrymple's piece detail the 20,000 Urdu documents in the National Archives that are now being translated by Mahmoud Farooqi. Partly they are interesting because they add to our image of everyday life in India at that time:
But it's more than that. What the papers underline is the extent to which religious feelings drove the rebels. It goes well beyond the question of "greased cartridges":
I don't think Dalrymple is saying that everyone involved in the Rebellion of 1857 was motivated by this kind of religious feeling (indeed, as I understand it there were as many or more Hindu sepoy rebels). But it is worth considering whether people might feel differently about the concept of "jihad" when one shares a political and military goal with a Jihadi.
Finally, Dalrymple talks about the total indifference to the past that many contemporary Indians feel. As Dalrymple puts it:
Cremating the dead is one thing -- but forgetting them entirely is quite another.
[Cross-posted at Sepia Mutiny]
The current issue of Outlook India has a nice essay by Dalrymple on the Indian Mutiny/Rebellion of 1857 (thanks, Indianoguy!). The essay is really in three parts: one is a fresh look at the fall of Bahadur Shah Zafar, the "last Mughal" -- whose sons were all executed (murdered) by the British after the Rebellion. The second part is a discussion of "Mutiny papers" in the National Archives of India that Mahmoud Farooqi has been translating from Urdu. These documents show the Indian perspective on the events of 1857, where one finds, among other things, that the rebels were motivated by religious rage to a very great extent. Finally, there is a discussion of contemporary Delhi -- in which preserving the emblems of this past is of very little interest to most people.
Though I remember reading somewhere that one of the main causes of the failure of the Rebellion was Zafar's age and his failure to act decisively (see details at Wikipedia), Dalrymple has a slightly different take. There's no doubt that Zafar was old at the time the Mutiny occurred (he was about 80), but his weakness was not his fault. He only ascended the throne at age 60, by which time it was too late to do anything to revive his family's dead empire. Moreover, he contributed a great deal to literature:
Zafar came late to the throne, succeeding his father only in his mid-60s, when it was already impossible to reverse the political decline of the Mughals. But despite this he succeeded in creating around him in Delhi a court of great brilliance. Personally, he was one of the most talented, tolerant and likeable of his dynasty: a skilled calligrapher, a profound writer on Sufism, a discriminating patron of miniature painters and an inspired creator of gardens. Most importantly, he was a very serious mystical poet, who wrote not only in Urdu and Persian but Braj Bhasha and Punjabi, and partly through his patronage there took place arguably the greatest literary renaissance in modern Indian history.Himself a ghazal writer of great charm and accomplishment, Zafar's court provided a showcase for the talents of India's greatest love poet, Ghalib, and his rival Zauq—the Mughal poet laureate, and the Salieri to Ghalib's Mozart. (link)
One could of course argue, echoing Tagore, that mystical poetry is the consolation of a defeated people, but this is definitely better than the standard image of Zafar as an indecisive invalid. (Some of Zafar's Urdu ghazals are here)
Dalrymple also strongly condemns the violence involved in the suppression of the Rebellion, including the (ghastly) British decision to summarily kill all of Zafar's sons and the wanton destruction of priceless monuments (including the palace inside the Red Fort) in Delhi and other Indian cities. This wasn't enlightened Liberalism or Imperial benevolence, but a dirty war in which indiscriminate killing and humiliation were used to ensure victory.
From my perspective, the most interesting parts of Dalrymple's piece detail the 20,000 Urdu documents in the National Archives that are now being translated by Mahmoud Farooqi. Partly they are interesting because they add to our image of everyday life in India at that time:
What was even more exciting was the street-level nature of much of the material. Although the documents were collected by the victorious British from the palace and the army camp, they contained huge quantities of petitions, complaints and requests from the ordinary citizens of Delhi—potters and courtesans, sweetmeat-makers and over-worked water carriers—exactly the sort of people who usually escape the historian's net. The Mutiny Papers overflow with glimpses of real life: the bird-catchers and lime-makers who have had their charpoys stolen by sepoys; the gamblers playing cards in a recently ruined house and ogling the women next door, to the great alarm of the family living there; the sweetmeat-makers who refuse to take their sweets up to the trenches in Qudsia Bagh until they are paid for the last load. (link)
But it's more than that. What the papers underline is the extent to which religious feelings drove the rebels. It goes well beyond the question of "greased cartridges":
As the sepoys told Zafar on May 11, 1857, "we have joined hands to protect our religion and our faith". Later they stood in Chandni Chowk, the main street of Old Delhi, and asked people: "Brothers: are you with those of the faith?" British men who had converted to Islam—and there were a surprising number of those in Delhi—were not hurt; but Indians who had converted to Christianity were cut down immediately. It is highly significant that the Urdu sources usually refer to the British not as angrez (the English) or as goras (Whites) or even firangis but instead almost always as kafirs (infidels) and nasrani (Christians).
Although the great majority of the sepoys were Hindus, in Delhi a flag of jihad was raised in the principal mosque, and many of the insurgents described themselves as mujahideen, ghazis and jihadis. Indeed, by the end of the siege, after a significant proportion of the sepoys had melted away, unpaid, hungry and dispirited, the proportion of jihadis in Delhi grew to be about a quarter of the total fighting force, and included a regiment of "suicide ghazis" from Gwalior who had vowed never to eat again and to fight until they met death—"for those who have come to die have no need for food". One of the causes of unrest, according to one Delhi source, was that "the British had closed the madrasas". These were words which had no resonance to the historians of the 1960s. Now, sadly, in the aftermath of 9/11 and 7/7 they are words we understand all too well, and words like jihad scream out of the dusty pages of the source manuscripts, demanding attention. (link)
I don't think Dalrymple is saying that everyone involved in the Rebellion of 1857 was motivated by this kind of religious feeling (indeed, as I understand it there were as many or more Hindu sepoy rebels). But it is worth considering whether people might feel differently about the concept of "jihad" when one shares a political and military goal with a Jihadi.
Finally, Dalrymple talks about the total indifference to the past that many contemporary Indians feel. As Dalrymple puts it:
I find it heartbreaking: often when I revisit one of my favourite monuments it has either been overrun by some slum, unsympathetically restored by the asi or, more usually, simply demolished. Ninety-nine per cent of the delicate havelis or Mughal courtyard houses of Old Delhi have been destroyed, and like the city walls, disappeared into memory. According to historian Pavan Verma, the majority of the buildings he recorded in his book Mansions at Dusk only 10 years ago no longer exist. Perhaps there is also a cultural factor here in the neglect of the past: as one conservationist told me recently: "You must understand," he said, "that we Hindus burn our dead." Either way, the loss of Delhi's past is irreplaceable; and future generations will inevitably look back at the conservation failures of the early 21st century with a deep sadness. (link)
Cremating the dead is one thing -- but forgetting them entirely is quite another.
[Cross-posted at Sepia Mutiny]
More Vicarious Traveling: "The Lost Temples of India"
Someone posted a Learning Channel documentary called "The Lost Temples of India" on Google Video.
It exploits many of of the annoying clichés you would expect, including repeated references to elephants and a near obsession with the phallic symbolism of the Shivalingam.
It also plays a bit of a geographic and historical trick on viewers, by starting and ending with the erotic temples at Khajuraho (which it insists are "lost" and "forgotten"), and shots of the Taj Mahal. But in between it is actually mainly about the South: the temples built by Rajaraja Chola, the city/kingdom of Vijayanagar, and the Meenakshi Temple at Madurai. The attempt to link the Hindu temples of Southern India with Khajuraho is nonsensical, but I suppose the producers felt they had to sex it up a bit (elephants alone would be insufficient!).
Despite its many flaws, it must be said that the cinematography in "The Lost Temples of India" is quite good -- there are some beautiful shots of the temples in question. And there are actually a couple of facts in the documentary, though they sometimes get lost amidst the Orientalist cheese. Since we're traveling vicariously, why not enjoy it a little?
Traditional Indian Architecture: Vicarious Traveling via Flickr
While browsing the deeply-discounted "remaindered" aisles at my local Barnes & Noble, I came across Satish Grover's Masterpieces of Traditional Architecture. It's a coffee-table book with beautiful photographs and appreciative descriptions of fourteen of India's ancient and medieval architectural masterpieces.
In his introduction, Grover points out that the ancient sites in India are all religious (Buddhist, Hindu, Jain, Muslim), not because India was traditionally especially devout. In fact, only the religious structures were carved in stone, so they are the only edifices to survive. The secular architecture of ancient India might have been pretty wonderful too, but those brick and timber buildings have all vanished.
Since I can't do any real traveling this summer because of work, I thought I would link to images on the web of the various monuments in Grover's book as a kind of vicarious travelogue. A lot of people have tagged these sites in their Flickr photos, though for slightly more obscure places like the Karle Caves you have to search on the open internet to see what comes up.
First, one of the oldest of the structures described is the Buddhist temple that has been carved out of a cave at Karle, close to Lonavla in Maharashtra. Building was started at 100 BC, during the height of the earlier, "Hinayana" school of Buddhism (i.e., when the Buddha was not considered a God). The cave is designed to mimic the design features of a wooden temple, and contains flourishes and columns that aren't actually structurally necessary in a cave (they would be if the building were freestanding). In some ways the stone carving is similar to the caves at Ajanta, though Ajanta has wall paintings that Karle lacks.
This reporter from the Tribune went to Karle, and was underwhelmed at the gaudy tourism trade that's opened up outside this truly ancient temple. There's also a Hindu temple to Ekveera Devi that's been built outside of the cave, which is now for most visitors the main attraction. Visitors throw coins and picnic by the Buddhist stupa in the main prayer hall, also called chaitya. Perhaps to avoid all this, one could go at an awkward hour (i.e., early in the morning).
The second ancient monument is also Buddhist, the Sanchi Stupa and temple complex, which is near Bhopal in Madhya Pradesh. Here, Wikipedia has a pretty good description as well as high resolution images. The Stupa was built by Ashoka in the 3rd century BCE to house relics of the Buddha, though additional structures were built over the course of many centuries. This site also has some helpful summaries of the Jataka stories that are represented in the many stone carvings that surround the main Stupa.
One of the earlier temples near the Stupa, oddly, resembles a classical Greek structure because of the design of the pillars. This description of Sanchi, written in 1918, suggests that it might have been the handiwork of foreign stone carvers in India.
My favorite discovery from Grover's book is the Kailashnath Temple (sometimes spelled "Kailashnatha"). This is a beautiful site, carved out of a huge slab of basalt rock. This temple is the heart of the Ellora caves (which also have Buddhist and Jain caves/carvings), and it was built starting in the 7th century C.E.
Here Professor Fran Pritchett's site at Columbia University has the best images. I would especially recommend this page, which has early British engravings of the temple. In the various close-ups one finds, the carvings look truly stupendous; check out this image, depicting the story of the Ramayana carved on a large slab of rock. Wow; this site is high up there on my "must visit" list.
Then of course, there's Khajuraho, which everyone knows about -- but how many people actually visit the site? (I won't link to specific images for obvious reasons, but if you do a search in Flickr or Google Images there is a lot to choose from.) In addition to being "ancient porn," as one Flickr commentor bluntly put it, the sixteen temples at Khajuraho really are beautiful structures. The question of what inspired these erotic carvings, and how they fit into the local Hindu religious rituals, is one that is seriously worth pondering. (One of Grover's speculations is that the carvers might have been from a local tribe or cult, bringing in ideas from outside of Hinduism.)
The Konark Sun Temple in Orissa, built in the 13th century, appears to be a glorious architctural experiment that didn't quite come off as planned. The shikharas, or spires on the top of this temple collapsed some time after it was built, and the temple was on the verge of collapse when the British took charge of its restoration in the mid-19th century. Their efforts, and subsequent efforts by the government of India, have kept it standing, but you can't actually go inside. See Wikipedia, as well as this Indian history site
There aren't a lot of good shots on the internet of the Dilwara Jain Temples in Rajasthan. You get good exterior shots, but I haven't been able to find the beautiful interior carvings reproduced in Grover's book on the internet. These temples were built in the 11th-13th centuries, and were carved entirely out of white marble. Grover doesn't claim that there is a special, Jain architectural style, but he does suggest that these temples are demonstrations of the Jain community's wealth and influence.
One group that did obviously bring a distinctive architectural style were the successive waves of Muslim rulers. Besides the Taj Mahal, the Qutub Minar, and Fatehpur Sikri (all of which have entries in Grover's book) there are places like Gol Gumbaz, the mausoleum of Adil Shah. It was built in the mid 1600s in Bijapur, and it is one of the largest one-piece domes ever constructed. (See this Flick image). Unfortunately, the inside of the building is dark and effectively unadorned. (This is where you wonder if religious devotion impeded the imagination of the builders.)
(If you read the Wikipedia entry on Gol Gumbaz, you'll find a link to an entry on the architecture of Domes in general, which is pretty informative. I now know what "squinches" and "pendentives" are!)
There are several other sites mentioned in Grover's book, but I think I'll end with the Meenakshi Temple at Madurai. This is one of the most widely photographed temple sites in India, and you can see why: it's a huge temple (built in the 1500s), surrounded by nine massive, beautifully decorated Gopurams (gates). Here is a beautiful image taken at night. And here is one taken at dusk. (Seriously, click on those; you won't regret it.) Another must-visit site for me at least.
[Cross-posted at Sepia Mutiny]
In his introduction, Grover points out that the ancient sites in India are all religious (Buddhist, Hindu, Jain, Muslim), not because India was traditionally especially devout. In fact, only the religious structures were carved in stone, so they are the only edifices to survive. The secular architecture of ancient India might have been pretty wonderful too, but those brick and timber buildings have all vanished.
Since I can't do any real traveling this summer because of work, I thought I would link to images on the web of the various monuments in Grover's book as a kind of vicarious travelogue. A lot of people have tagged these sites in their Flickr photos, though for slightly more obscure places like the Karle Caves you have to search on the open internet to see what comes up.
First, one of the oldest of the structures described is the Buddhist temple that has been carved out of a cave at Karle, close to Lonavla in Maharashtra. Building was started at 100 BC, during the height of the earlier, "Hinayana" school of Buddhism (i.e., when the Buddha was not considered a God). The cave is designed to mimic the design features of a wooden temple, and contains flourishes and columns that aren't actually structurally necessary in a cave (they would be if the building were freestanding). In some ways the stone carving is similar to the caves at Ajanta, though Ajanta has wall paintings that Karle lacks.
This reporter from the Tribune went to Karle, and was underwhelmed at the gaudy tourism trade that's opened up outside this truly ancient temple. There's also a Hindu temple to Ekveera Devi that's been built outside of the cave, which is now for most visitors the main attraction. Visitors throw coins and picnic by the Buddhist stupa in the main prayer hall, also called chaitya. Perhaps to avoid all this, one could go at an awkward hour (i.e., early in the morning).
The second ancient monument is also Buddhist, the Sanchi Stupa and temple complex, which is near Bhopal in Madhya Pradesh. Here, Wikipedia has a pretty good description as well as high resolution images. The Stupa was built by Ashoka in the 3rd century BCE to house relics of the Buddha, though additional structures were built over the course of many centuries. This site also has some helpful summaries of the Jataka stories that are represented in the many stone carvings that surround the main Stupa.
One of the earlier temples near the Stupa, oddly, resembles a classical Greek structure because of the design of the pillars. This description of Sanchi, written in 1918, suggests that it might have been the handiwork of foreign stone carvers in India.
My favorite discovery from Grover's book is the Kailashnath Temple (sometimes spelled "Kailashnatha"). This is a beautiful site, carved out of a huge slab of basalt rock. This temple is the heart of the Ellora caves (which also have Buddhist and Jain caves/carvings), and it was built starting in the 7th century C.E.
Here Professor Fran Pritchett's site at Columbia University has the best images. I would especially recommend this page, which has early British engravings of the temple. In the various close-ups one finds, the carvings look truly stupendous; check out this image, depicting the story of the Ramayana carved on a large slab of rock. Wow; this site is high up there on my "must visit" list.
Then of course, there's Khajuraho, which everyone knows about -- but how many people actually visit the site? (I won't link to specific images for obvious reasons, but if you do a search in Flickr or Google Images there is a lot to choose from.) In addition to being "ancient porn," as one Flickr commentor bluntly put it, the sixteen temples at Khajuraho really are beautiful structures. The question of what inspired these erotic carvings, and how they fit into the local Hindu religious rituals, is one that is seriously worth pondering. (One of Grover's speculations is that the carvers might have been from a local tribe or cult, bringing in ideas from outside of Hinduism.)
The Konark Sun Temple in Orissa, built in the 13th century, appears to be a glorious architctural experiment that didn't quite come off as planned. The shikharas, or spires on the top of this temple collapsed some time after it was built, and the temple was on the verge of collapse when the British took charge of its restoration in the mid-19th century. Their efforts, and subsequent efforts by the government of India, have kept it standing, but you can't actually go inside. See Wikipedia, as well as this Indian history site
There aren't a lot of good shots on the internet of the Dilwara Jain Temples in Rajasthan. You get good exterior shots, but I haven't been able to find the beautiful interior carvings reproduced in Grover's book on the internet. These temples were built in the 11th-13th centuries, and were carved entirely out of white marble. Grover doesn't claim that there is a special, Jain architectural style, but he does suggest that these temples are demonstrations of the Jain community's wealth and influence.
One group that did obviously bring a distinctive architectural style were the successive waves of Muslim rulers. Besides the Taj Mahal, the Qutub Minar, and Fatehpur Sikri (all of which have entries in Grover's book) there are places like Gol Gumbaz, the mausoleum of Adil Shah. It was built in the mid 1600s in Bijapur, and it is one of the largest one-piece domes ever constructed. (See this Flick image). Unfortunately, the inside of the building is dark and effectively unadorned. (This is where you wonder if religious devotion impeded the imagination of the builders.)
(If you read the Wikipedia entry on Gol Gumbaz, you'll find a link to an entry on the architecture of Domes in general, which is pretty informative. I now know what "squinches" and "pendentives" are!)
There are several other sites mentioned in Grover's book, but I think I'll end with the Meenakshi Temple at Madurai. This is one of the most widely photographed temple sites in India, and you can see why: it's a huge temple (built in the 1500s), surrounded by nine massive, beautifully decorated Gopurams (gates). Here is a beautiful image taken at night. And here is one taken at dusk. (Seriously, click on those; you won't regret it.) Another must-visit site for me at least.
[Cross-posted at Sepia Mutiny]
Trying to Finish a Book
You may be wondering why the blogging here has been so light of late. No, I haven't been traveling; I've actually been holed up in my basement with piles of books and photocopies for the past month, editing my academic book manuscript. For the first couple of weeks it was possible to be a bit relaxed about it, but recently the prospect of having to actually submit it to meet a deadline has made it hard to think about much of anything else.
The book started as a dissertation, and has undergone many changes of direction in recent years. First, it wasn't until 2004 that I really figured out how to simplify and straighten the thesis enough so it could be explained in normal English to a layperson. Then I had to find a publisher, which I did last fall. After that, the biggest challenge was to standardize the language of the book into a single, readable "voice": for better or worse, how I sounded in 2000 is quite different from how I sound now. A lot of my old material (almost 100 pages) had to get cut, but there's some new material written this past year that I'm excited about -- new chapters on "Secularism and Indian Feminism" and "Secularism After 9/11."
It was also surprisingly difficult to get it into the form my publisher wants -- which essentially entails making the pages of the book look like they will if/when it's published. MS Word is incredibly powerful (it can build your index for you!), but it has many odd quirks. Getting the chapter headers and pagination right took a surprisingly long time (damn you, "Same As Previous" default! curse you, "Continuous Section Break"!), and making an "intelligent" Table of Contents that met the publisher's style requirements ultimately defeated me.
But the good news is, Literary Secularism: Religion and Modernity in Twentieth-Century Fiction is about done, and is headed for the hands of an editor.
The book started as a dissertation, and has undergone many changes of direction in recent years. First, it wasn't until 2004 that I really figured out how to simplify and straighten the thesis enough so it could be explained in normal English to a layperson. Then I had to find a publisher, which I did last fall. After that, the biggest challenge was to standardize the language of the book into a single, readable "voice": for better or worse, how I sounded in 2000 is quite different from how I sound now. A lot of my old material (almost 100 pages) had to get cut, but there's some new material written this past year that I'm excited about -- new chapters on "Secularism and Indian Feminism" and "Secularism After 9/11."
It was also surprisingly difficult to get it into the form my publisher wants -- which essentially entails making the pages of the book look like they will if/when it's published. MS Word is incredibly powerful (it can build your index for you!), but it has many odd quirks. Getting the chapter headers and pagination right took a surprisingly long time (damn you, "Same As Previous" default! curse you, "Continuous Section Break"!), and making an "intelligent" Table of Contents that met the publisher's style requirements ultimately defeated me.
But the good news is, Literary Secularism: Religion and Modernity in Twentieth-Century Fiction is about done, and is headed for the hands of an editor.
'Temple Cleansing' in Malaysia and Pakistan
An Indian blogger in Malaysia named Sharanya Manivannan recently posted an open letter to Indian Prime Minister Manmohan Singh (thanks BitchPhD), asking him to take a stand on the Hindu temple demolitions that have been occurring in the country:
Elsewhere in the letter she points out that the Indian government did send a letter of "official displeasure" to the Danish government following the publication of the anti-Islamic cartoons. Why the silence so far on the "temple cleansing" in Malaysia? She also makes some poignant comments about how Indians are treated as a whole in Malaysia, which I'll come back to below.
Some background: In the past few months, Malaysian authorities have demolished a number of Hindu temples in different parts of the country, stating that they were built without a proper permit. But local Hindus have complained that they had applied for permits, sometimes waiting as long as 30 years for a response! Moreover, according to the BBC, at least two of the temples destroyed were more than a century old, which clearly suggests that getting a permit to build is not at all the issue driving the demolitions.
Indeed, it seems pretty clear that these demolitions are part of an organized campaign in a country that is growing increasingly intolerant of religious minorities. (Churches and other religious structures have also been demolished along the same lines.)
Indians make up about 8% of the settled population of Malaysia, which amounts to about 2 million people, and the majority of Malaysian Indians are Hindus. For the most part they have lived in Malaysia in peace (communal violence is very rare), but Indian Malaysians do often complain of discrimination and mistreatment. They have traditionally been a working class population, who came to Malaysia initially to work on rubber plantations.
This turn is especially sad, as Malaysia (like Indonesia) has ancient connections to India and Hinduism. Tamil traders established settlements there as far back as the third century A.D., and ruins of ancient Hindu temples have recently been discovered.
Which brings us back to Sharanya Manivannan. In her blog post, she talks about a picture she saw in the newspaper that encapsulated for her the emotion these temple demolitions provoke in her. It was a picture unrelated to the demolitions, but somehow it triggered her to finally take some positive action:
Hindu groups are starting to organize and actively protest. The Indian Financial Express reports that Indian groups have been appealing to the Malaysian Prime Minister.
Also, in some of the press coverage of the temple demolitions, some Malaysian authorities have begun to express concern that Hindus may begin to turn violent in resisting the demolitions. In fact, the tenor of the resistance is already changing: several people were injured and arrested when they refused to vacate the premises of a temple that was about to be demolished. I wouldn't advocate violence, obviously. But it may be time to get Gandhian on their asses: mass public demonstrations, and a campaign of nonviolent resistance. (And yes, Sharanya, keep blogging about it: make it personal, tell the world your version of the story.)
Two additional wrinkles:
While the Malaysian press, according to the blogger Sharanya I quoted above, has remained silent about the Hindu temple demolitions occurring in the country, I did find articles in Malaysian newspapers about the Hindu temple demolition that recently occurred in Lahore. [UPDATE: The temple may not have been demolished after all...]
Secondly, a version of this has been occuring in recent months (in reverse) in India itself, as an important 300 year old Sufi Dargah was pulled down in Vadodara (formerly Baroda), leading to communal riots that left six people dead. To be clear, Mandirs were also demolished in this campaign (now halted) in the interest of "development," but the lead-in to the Express India story reminds us that India is itself far from immune to indifference to the concerns of religious minorities:
[Cross-posted at Sepia Mutiny]
But I ask you this: when temples that stood for over a century are destroyed, what really dies? Not stone and statues. Not bells and prayers. Not – thankfully and thus far – people. You see, what frightens me is not the loss of these temples themselves, though architecturally speaking, that too is often a disappointment. What frightens me is what these temples are taken to represent, and by extension, what their demolitions therefore represent. (link)
Elsewhere in the letter she points out that the Indian government did send a letter of "official displeasure" to the Danish government following the publication of the anti-Islamic cartoons. Why the silence so far on the "temple cleansing" in Malaysia? She also makes some poignant comments about how Indians are treated as a whole in Malaysia, which I'll come back to below.
Some background: In the past few months, Malaysian authorities have demolished a number of Hindu temples in different parts of the country, stating that they were built without a proper permit. But local Hindus have complained that they had applied for permits, sometimes waiting as long as 30 years for a response! Moreover, according to the BBC, at least two of the temples destroyed were more than a century old, which clearly suggests that getting a permit to build is not at all the issue driving the demolitions.
Indeed, it seems pretty clear that these demolitions are part of an organized campaign in a country that is growing increasingly intolerant of religious minorities. (Churches and other religious structures have also been demolished along the same lines.)
Indians make up about 8% of the settled population of Malaysia, which amounts to about 2 million people, and the majority of Malaysian Indians are Hindus. For the most part they have lived in Malaysia in peace (communal violence is very rare), but Indian Malaysians do often complain of discrimination and mistreatment. They have traditionally been a working class population, who came to Malaysia initially to work on rubber plantations.
This turn is especially sad, as Malaysia (like Indonesia) has ancient connections to India and Hinduism. Tamil traders established settlements there as far back as the third century A.D., and ruins of ancient Hindu temples have recently been discovered.
Which brings us back to Sharanya Manivannan. In her blog post, she talks about a picture she saw in the newspaper that encapsulated for her the emotion these temple demolitions provoke in her. It was a picture unrelated to the demolitions, but somehow it triggered her to finally take some positive action:
It was a newpaper picture of a retired gardener, S. Sarimuthu, whose only daughter had died on June 11th as a result of viral eningoencephalitis and secondary pneumonia contracted while at National Service camp. In this picture of him, which I can't find online, he looks profoundly forlorn. He looks like his heart had been wrenched out of his body, pounded to a pulp, and then poured back inside.
This picture made me cry and cry and cry, and then write this letter. And cry even more the morning after I did, as I explained to someone what made me do it. The family wasn't Hindu. The girl wasn't the victim of genocidal hate-mongering. But I saw that picture and in my mind I saw that father at hospitals, at home -- I saw the way the nurses looked at him, the way the doctors spoke to him, the way hospital authorities dismissed him as she slipped into a coma. I saw him throughout his life, I saw the way this [f-ing] state in one way or another has taken away even this, even her. I saw the colour of his skin and the sheer, unmitigated loss in his eyes, the way his loss and the loss of these temples were entwined, and I could not not write this letter. (link)
Hindu groups are starting to organize and actively protest. The Indian Financial Express reports that Indian groups have been appealing to the Malaysian Prime Minister.
Also, in some of the press coverage of the temple demolitions, some Malaysian authorities have begun to express concern that Hindus may begin to turn violent in resisting the demolitions. In fact, the tenor of the resistance is already changing: several people were injured and arrested when they refused to vacate the premises of a temple that was about to be demolished. I wouldn't advocate violence, obviously. But it may be time to get Gandhian on their asses: mass public demonstrations, and a campaign of nonviolent resistance. (And yes, Sharanya, keep blogging about it: make it personal, tell the world your version of the story.)
Two additional wrinkles:
While the Malaysian press, according to the blogger Sharanya I quoted above, has remained silent about the Hindu temple demolitions occurring in the country, I did find articles in Malaysian newspapers about the Hindu temple demolition that recently occurred in Lahore. [UPDATE: The temple may not have been demolished after all...]
Secondly, a version of this has been occuring in recent months (in reverse) in India itself, as an important 300 year old Sufi Dargah was pulled down in Vadodara (formerly Baroda), leading to communal riots that left six people dead. To be clear, Mandirs were also demolished in this campaign (now halted) in the interest of "development," but the lead-in to the Express India story reminds us that India is itself far from immune to indifference to the concerns of religious minorities:
Two demolition drives, and two different ways of going about it. So while in Gujarat’s cultural capital Vadodara, the BJP went about doing a "balancing act" by razing a 300-year-old dargah, in Rajkot, the BJP fought the Municipal Commissioner tooth and nail for removing a small temple that was encroaching on RMC land. (link)
[Cross-posted at Sepia Mutiny]
Student Gambling on Campus
Should colleges ban online poker? These sites have no redeeming social value, are of questionable legality (especially since they don't pay U.S. taxes, though they run on U.S. money), and have significant harmful potential. But there is also a freedom of speech issue, and danger involved whenever colleges move to strongly restrict student behavior.
I was thinking about this after a Lehigh student, who had been losing money at online poker sites, casually robbed a Wachovia Bank on his way to a movie in December. It seemed a shocking story at the time, especially since the student was President of the Student Council, and the son of a minister from Ohio. (Needless to say, the student was arrested within a few hours of the incident, and is currently facing charges.)
Though I teach at Lehigh, I myself didn't hear much gossip about it after it happened. But I was intrigued to finally see a detailed account of Greg Hogan's story in this past Sunday's s New York Times Magazine. The story describes how Hogan got to the point where he felt the only way to fix his growing gambling losses was to rob a bank in broad daylight.
Here's some background on the problem -- which is nationwide, and hardly limited to Lehigh -- from Schwartz's article:
And here's what's different about online gambling:
It became clear pretty quickly that Hogan had a problem with online gambling, and both his family and the university were putting pressure on him to address his problem. This is where I wonder if the university might have taken stronger action:
I don't buy it -- nothing could be done? Actually, GamBlock has a 'Corporate' version, which could easily block gambling sites for the entire Lehigh community. As I understand it, the university already regulates illegal downloading from campus computers by detecting patterns of bandwidth usage and punishing users who seem to be downloaders. But again, as with underage drinking, downloading videos and music from BitTorrent or peer-to-peer filesharing programs is illegal, so the university is again obviously justified (and smart) to do this.
Is banning gambling from campus computers really justified? I must confess that while I'm leaning towards banning, I haven't fully made up my mind about this issue -- I'm curious to hear from others on the pros and cons.
I was thinking about this after a Lehigh student, who had been losing money at online poker sites, casually robbed a Wachovia Bank on his way to a movie in December. It seemed a shocking story at the time, especially since the student was President of the Student Council, and the son of a minister from Ohio. (Needless to say, the student was arrested within a few hours of the incident, and is currently facing charges.)
Though I teach at Lehigh, I myself didn't hear much gossip about it after it happened. But I was intrigued to finally see a detailed account of Greg Hogan's story in this past Sunday's s New York Times Magazine. The story describes how Hogan got to the point where he felt the only way to fix his growing gambling losses was to rob a bank in broad daylight.
Here's some background on the problem -- which is nationwide, and hardly limited to Lehigh -- from Schwartz's article:
An estimated 1.6 million of 17 million U.S. college students gambled online last year, mostly on poker. According to a study by the Annenberg Public Policy Center, the number of college males who reported gambling online once a week or more quadrupled in the last year alone. "The kids really think they can log on and become the next world champion," says Jeffrey Derevensky, who studies youth problem gambling at McGill University in Montreal. "This is an enormous social experiment. We don't really know what's going to happen."
Greg Hogan is far from the only college student to see the game's role in his life grow from a hobby to a destructive obsession. Researchers from the University of Connecticut Health Center interviewed a random sample of 880 college students and found that 1 out of every 4 of the 160 or so online gamblers in the study fit the clinical definition of a pathological gambler, suggesting that college online-poker addicts may number in the hundreds of thousands.
And here's what's different about online gambling:
Online, Hogan would play 60 to 100 hands an hour — three times the number of his live games. There was no more shuffling between hands, no more 30-second gaps to chat with his friends or consider quitting. Each hand interlocked with the next. The effect was paralyzing, narcotic. "Internet poker induces a trancelike state," says Derevensky, the McGill professor, who once treated a 17-year-old Canadian boy who lost $30,000, much of it at PokerStars. "The player loses all track of time, where they are, what they're doing." When I spoke with an online hold-'em player from Florida who had lost a whopping $250,000 online, he told me: "It fried my brain. I would roll out of bed, go to my computer and stay there for 20 hours. One night after I went to sleep, my dad called. I woke up instantly, picked up the phone and said, 'I raise.' "
It became clear pretty quickly that Hogan had a problem with online gambling, and both his family and the university were putting pressure on him to address his problem. This is where I wonder if the university might have taken stronger action:
Greg Sr. then made the six-hour drive from Ohio to install a $99 program called GamBlock on his son's computer. Highly regarded among gambling counselors, GamBlock makes it impossible for users to access any Internet casinos. (The company's founder, David Warr, says that half of his customer base, which he will only put in the "thousands," is connected to a college or university.)
Hogan soon found a way to circumvent GamBlock, gambling by night in the library's computer lounges. "It was funny to see how many other kids were playing," he says. "By this point I didn't really care so much who saw me." Greg Sr. realized what was happening and asked the administration to lock poker sites out of the public terminals. He says he was told that nothing could be done.
I don't buy it -- nothing could be done? Actually, GamBlock has a 'Corporate' version, which could easily block gambling sites for the entire Lehigh community. As I understand it, the university already regulates illegal downloading from campus computers by detecting patterns of bandwidth usage and punishing users who seem to be downloaders. But again, as with underage drinking, downloading videos and music from BitTorrent or peer-to-peer filesharing programs is illegal, so the university is again obviously justified (and smart) to do this.
Is banning gambling from campus computers really justified? I must confess that while I'm leaning towards banning, I haven't fully made up my mind about this issue -- I'm curious to hear from others on the pros and cons.
An Inconvenient Triumph: Climate Change and the Indian Subcontinent
I just saw An Inconvenient Truth and I think it's beautifully done -- I would strongly recommend it. Even if you don't love Al Gore as a politician, the science is convincing and all the pictures of vanishing glaciers and dried-up inland lakes (Lake Chad!; the Aral Sea!) are terrifying.
In the film, Gore refers several times to the potential catastrophic consequences of Global Warming in the Indian subcontinent. It's somewhat ironic, because countries on the Indian subcontinent are far smaller contributors of greenhouse gases than the developed countries (India's per capita emissions are one sixth the world average) but you can be sure that the subcontinent will feel its effects. As I understand it, there are two major consequences of global warming for the Indian subcontinent that are essentially guarantees, and a third which seems to me to be a maybe:
First guarantee: significant amounts of land in the Bay of Bengal are going to disappear if oceans rise even 1 foot, as is predicted to occur in the next 50 years. Most estimates I've found give the number at about 15% of the total landmass of Bangladesh, with a comparable loss of land in West Bengal on the Indian side. As many as 60 million people will be displaced in both countries.
In Orissa, the receding coastline is already a fact of life. In the Satabhaya region of the Orissa coastline, according to this article, the shore has moved 2.5 km inland over the past 25 years, displacing a number of villages. And it continues to move. (The article doesn't specify what could be causing the rising sea levels in that specific part of the state.)
In the short run, scientists are already noting a pattern of a growing number of low pressure systems (leading to cyclones) in the Bay of Bengal in the post-Monsoon season. These are expected to worsen -- meaning that extreme storms may force mass evacuations of coastal regions well before the land itself disappears. (See this article for more.) Also, erosion caused by the storms is already seriously affecting these regions. As Banglapedia puts it:
Even small changes in the mean sea level could lead to a cascade of problems for the Bengal delta, because the water systems are all interdependent. Even before the land disappears, the damage caused by increased flooding is expected to make a lot of coastal land essentially uninhabitable.
Tyler Cowen, when he was in India a couple of years ago, did a thought experiment on this. It's a little in the "heartless economist" vein, but it's worth reading.
And here's a Salon article about attempts that are being made in Bangladesh to raise awareness about the coming catastrophe.
The second guarantee: The glaciers will disappear, leaving all of the subcontinent's major rivers dry. Abhi already posted on this last fall, though he didn't get much of a response to this shocking fact at the time. These rivers, as everyone knows, provide the vast majority of water to India, Pakistan, Nepal, and Bangladesh. (And glacial water also feeds China; in total, 40 percent of the world's population is dependent on water from the Himalayas.) The retreat of the Himalayan glaciers is not a prediction; it's happening. The only question is when the effects will start to kick in. But I would say that even if it takes 100 years for the water supply to crash, it's not to early to start doing something about it.
But here's the irony: in the short run, the rapidly melting glaciers may actually cause flooding in the plains.
The third "maybe" consequence is that the whole weather pattern could change if ocean currents change as a result of rising water temperatures. The monsoon could disappear entirely (or it could double in intensity!). There's not much to say about this -- because no one really knows -- except that it reminds us how little we really know about what is happening.
In An Inconvenient Truth Gore talks about an instance where scientists were surprised by the rapidity of change. In Antarctica, in 2002, the Larsen ice shelf collapsed over the course of a few weeks. No one predicted that a chunk of solid ice the size of Rhode Island could break up so fast. But now scientists think it was probably caused by earlier partial melting, leading to the creation of 'moulins' under the ice, that exponentially speed up the break-up of ice shelves. Those same moulins are being observed in Greenland, suggesting that large melt-offs may be imminent there too.
In effect, the predictions for ocean level rise over the next fifty years may be understatements: it could be much sooner than that. Scientists have been unpleasantly surprised by things like this before, and may be again.
[Cross-posted at Sepia Mutiny]
In the film, Gore refers several times to the potential catastrophic consequences of Global Warming in the Indian subcontinent. It's somewhat ironic, because countries on the Indian subcontinent are far smaller contributors of greenhouse gases than the developed countries (India's per capita emissions are one sixth the world average) but you can be sure that the subcontinent will feel its effects. As I understand it, there are two major consequences of global warming for the Indian subcontinent that are essentially guarantees, and a third which seems to me to be a maybe:
First guarantee: significant amounts of land in the Bay of Bengal are going to disappear if oceans rise even 1 foot, as is predicted to occur in the next 50 years. Most estimates I've found give the number at about 15% of the total landmass of Bangladesh, with a comparable loss of land in West Bengal on the Indian side. As many as 60 million people will be displaced in both countries.
In Orissa, the receding coastline is already a fact of life. In the Satabhaya region of the Orissa coastline, according to this article, the shore has moved 2.5 km inland over the past 25 years, displacing a number of villages. And it continues to move. (The article doesn't specify what could be causing the rising sea levels in that specific part of the state.)
In the short run, scientists are already noting a pattern of a growing number of low pressure systems (leading to cyclones) in the Bay of Bengal in the post-Monsoon season. These are expected to worsen -- meaning that extreme storms may force mass evacuations of coastal regions well before the land itself disappears. (See this article for more.) Also, erosion caused by the storms is already seriously affecting these regions. As Banglapedia puts it:
Flooding and erosion/sedimentation Bangladesh experiences moderate to severe flooding every year. Frequent storm surges also cause severe coastal flooding. The flood situation is further aggravated by the high tide in the Bay of Bengal. It has been seen with a 1.4m rise in sea level water level rises to about 6m near the meghna estuary. Even with a 0.2m rise in sea level, water level rises between 4.5 and 5m near the estuary. Since most of the coastal area is below 1.5m above mean sea level (MSL) and the area near the confluence of the ganges and Meghna is below 3m above MSL, both depth and area of inundation will increase extensively. However, the water level in the Ganges and Upper Meghna also increases significantly due to backwater effect as a result of changes in the hydrodynamics of flow. Hence the severity and extent of flooding will increase even in the upstream portion of the river. On the other hand, a rise in sea level will also move the shoreline landward and this will result in loss of farmland, leading to the shifting of agriculture, reduced crop yields, and loss of cultivable areas. Increased flooding will cause problems with existing irrigation and drainage system too. (link)
Even small changes in the mean sea level could lead to a cascade of problems for the Bengal delta, because the water systems are all interdependent. Even before the land disappears, the damage caused by increased flooding is expected to make a lot of coastal land essentially uninhabitable.
Tyler Cowen, when he was in India a couple of years ago, did a thought experiment on this. It's a little in the "heartless economist" vein, but it's worth reading.
And here's a Salon article about attempts that are being made in Bangladesh to raise awareness about the coming catastrophe.
The second guarantee: The glaciers will disappear, leaving all of the subcontinent's major rivers dry. Abhi already posted on this last fall, though he didn't get much of a response to this shocking fact at the time. These rivers, as everyone knows, provide the vast majority of water to India, Pakistan, Nepal, and Bangladesh. (And glacial water also feeds China; in total, 40 percent of the world's population is dependent on water from the Himalayas.) The retreat of the Himalayan glaciers is not a prediction; it's happening. The only question is when the effects will start to kick in. But I would say that even if it takes 100 years for the water supply to crash, it's not to early to start doing something about it.
But here's the irony: in the short run, the rapidly melting glaciers may actually cause flooding in the plains.
The third "maybe" consequence is that the whole weather pattern could change if ocean currents change as a result of rising water temperatures. The monsoon could disappear entirely (or it could double in intensity!). There's not much to say about this -- because no one really knows -- except that it reminds us how little we really know about what is happening.
In An Inconvenient Truth Gore talks about an instance where scientists were surprised by the rapidity of change. In Antarctica, in 2002, the Larsen ice shelf collapsed over the course of a few weeks. No one predicted that a chunk of solid ice the size of Rhode Island could break up so fast. But now scientists think it was probably caused by earlier partial melting, leading to the creation of 'moulins' under the ice, that exponentially speed up the break-up of ice shelves. Those same moulins are being observed in Greenland, suggesting that large melt-offs may be imminent there too.
In effect, the predictions for ocean level rise over the next fifty years may be understatements: it could be much sooner than that. Scientists have been unpleasantly surprised by things like this before, and may be again.
[Cross-posted at Sepia Mutiny]
Where Is The Love? Ziauddin Sardar v. Rushdie
Ziauddin Sardar, a prolific left-leaning political writer based in London, has been going after Salman Rushdie lately, calling him a "brown sahib" -- the postcolonial equivalent of an Uncle Tom. I find Sardar's attacks upsetting (I side with Rushdie here, as I'll explain below), but more generally I am so over this habit of brown intellectuals tearing each other to shreds on the question of their loyalty to the "cause." Just because someone disagrees with you, it doesn't mean they are a traitor or a coconut, needing to be "flushed," as a certain desi blogger is fond of saying. There's something pathological and deeply self-destructive about the way minority writers do this to each other, and I wish it would stop.
The current feud is a bit of a convoluted story, starting most recently with Sardar's review of a book on Islam/terrorism by Anthony McRoy called From Rushdie to 7/7: The Radicalisation of Islam in Britain. It looks like your basic, "Watch out, Muslims in Britain have become very radicalized!" type book.
In the review, Sardar says some harsh things about McRoy's book that might or might not be accurate, as he tends to argue more from insinuation than evidence. I don't know, as I haven't read McRoy's book. But he says this about Rushdie:
Now when this story broke last week, I searched the papers looking for what Sardar had originally said about Rushdie, and why. I couldn't find it -- it could either have been Rushdie's approving noises on the War in Iraq, or the act of writing The Satanic Verses itself. (But do you ever need substantial justification to call someone a race traitor? No -- you just do it, and you expect it will stick.)
Rushdie wrote an incensed reply to the Independent here:
To my eye, Rushdie is 'housing' Sardar here, calling him on the doublespeak of victimization as an excuse for random violence (Jihad can never be offensive, because that's not what the Quran says, so terrorism in the name of religion is by definition defensive); on the pathological use of "brown sahib"; and on his refusal to distance himself from radical Islamist positions. (Sardar, incidentally, has published several books pleading for a "moderate" interpretation of Sharia.)
Ah, but it isn't done yet, is it? Nope. Sardar then writes another column, this time in the New Statesman, replying to Rushdie's letter. This column spends about five paragraphs defining the "brown sahib" along the lines laid out by Sri Lankan journalist V. T. Vittachi in his 1962 book The Brown Sahib. In brief: cooperation with colonialism out of self-interest, gymkhanas, English mission schools, acceptance of the superiority of European civilization, lingering colonial mentality after independence. There's your brown sahib.
On how this applies to Rushdie, Sardar has only an assertion, not an explanation:
I can't imagine that Sardar is aware of the irony of his own perpetuation of this cycle of desi intellectuals destroying each other to get ahead. It's also deeply unfortunate that he doesn't acknowledge all the ways in which Rushdie's novels do challenge the "ideology of the colonial masters," and critique (gently) the "Chamcha" position that Vittachi and Sardar are ridiculing. It's as if he hasn't read The Satanic Verses, and so is forced to repeat it -- he as Gibreel, and Rushdie as Chamcha. (Guess who survives the fight?)
I have two concluding thoughts:
First, can we get over the idea that to establish yourself, you have to go after a brown figure who has become successful before you, and accuse him or her of being a sell-out?
And secondly, people, can we just flat-out stop using "brown sahib"/"uncle tom" as a kind of in-house racial slur? Can we actually accept diversity of opinion within the South Asian/ diasporic intellectual world?
[Cross-posted at Sepia Mutiny]
The current feud is a bit of a convoluted story, starting most recently with Sardar's review of a book on Islam/terrorism by Anthony McRoy called From Rushdie to 7/7: The Radicalisation of Islam in Britain. It looks like your basic, "Watch out, Muslims in Britain have become very radicalized!" type book.
In the review, Sardar says some harsh things about McRoy's book that might or might not be accurate, as he tends to argue more from insinuation than evidence. I don't know, as I haven't read McRoy's book. But he says this about Rushdie:
For example, he suggests I labelled Rushdie as a "brown sahib" because I feared that the new generation of Muslims would become "contaminated" with "infidel ideas". This is laughably absurd. The "brown sahib" is a recognisable sociological type on the Subcontinent: an uncritical Anglophile. My point was that Muslims should not be surprised by what Rushdie had done. A brown sahib, somewhere, sometime, was bound to do just that. (link)
Now when this story broke last week, I searched the papers looking for what Sardar had originally said about Rushdie, and why. I couldn't find it -- it could either have been Rushdie's approving noises on the War in Iraq, or the act of writing The Satanic Verses itself. (But do you ever need substantial justification to call someone a race traitor? No -- you just do it, and you expect it will stick.)
Rushdie wrote an incensed reply to the Independent here:
There is much in this review that is, to use terms of which Sardar himself is fond, "skewed", "ludicrous" and "half-baked".
His assertion that "jihad is never offensive" will come as a surprise to those of us who live in the real world, not the ideological fantasy-universe he prefers, in which language loses its meaning, aggression becomes "defence", and aggressors become victims. His claim that "all Muslims see themselves as part of the ummah" could have been uttered by a dedicated clash-of-civilisations hawk, and blithely ignores the profound divisions, political, intellectual, tribal, nationalist and theological, within the Muslim world, and the struggles of genuinely courageous Muslim writers and intellectuals against the repressive Islam that is so much in the ascendant everywhere in that world.
As for his cheap shots at me for being a "brown Sahib", something I have never been called, to my knowledge, by anyone in India, where, Sardar tells us, it is a "recognisable sociological type", I wonder if you would so readily publish an attack on a well-known black writer which used the term "Uncle Tom"?>
Sardar describes me, bizarrely, as an "uncritical Anglophile", which suggests that it is he, not Mr McRoy, who "needs to read much more widely". By the immoderation of his tone and his argument, he goes some way to proving McRoy's point that "Islamic radicalism has become mainstream", which was not, presumably, his intention. (link)
To my eye, Rushdie is 'housing' Sardar here, calling him on the doublespeak of victimization as an excuse for random violence (Jihad can never be offensive, because that's not what the Quran says, so terrorism in the name of religion is by definition defensive); on the pathological use of "brown sahib"; and on his refusal to distance himself from radical Islamist positions. (Sardar, incidentally, has published several books pleading for a "moderate" interpretation of Sharia.)
Ah, but it isn't done yet, is it? Nope. Sardar then writes another column, this time in the New Statesman, replying to Rushdie's letter. This column spends about five paragraphs defining the "brown sahib" along the lines laid out by Sri Lankan journalist V. T. Vittachi in his 1962 book The Brown Sahib. In brief: cooperation with colonialism out of self-interest, gymkhanas, English mission schools, acceptance of the superiority of European civilization, lingering colonial mentality after independence. There's your brown sahib.
On how this applies to Rushdie, Sardar has only an assertion, not an explanation:
Now, I put to you this simple thesis: Rushdie fits the bill.
Alas, Rushdie is not the most prominent brown sahib on the planet. The top dog is the even more legendary V S Naipaul. One of the principal characteristics of brown sahibs is that each one considers himself to be the only authentic article, the true representative of the ideology of the colonial masters. So they direct most of their venom at each other. As Vittachi put it, the brown sahibs love nothing better than to indulge their fancy for "tearing their own kind apart, limb from limb, skin from bone, with finger-licking tooth-sucking glee". (link)
I can't imagine that Sardar is aware of the irony of his own perpetuation of this cycle of desi intellectuals destroying each other to get ahead. It's also deeply unfortunate that he doesn't acknowledge all the ways in which Rushdie's novels do challenge the "ideology of the colonial masters," and critique (gently) the "Chamcha" position that Vittachi and Sardar are ridiculing. It's as if he hasn't read The Satanic Verses, and so is forced to repeat it -- he as Gibreel, and Rushdie as Chamcha. (Guess who survives the fight?)
I have two concluding thoughts:
First, can we get over the idea that to establish yourself, you have to go after a brown figure who has become successful before you, and accuse him or her of being a sell-out?
And secondly, people, can we just flat-out stop using "brown sahib"/"uncle tom" as a kind of in-house racial slur? Can we actually accept diversity of opinion within the South Asian/ diasporic intellectual world?
[Cross-posted at Sepia Mutiny]
Ajeet Cour: A Punjabi Writer
Since I’ve written a lot on Indian writers from Bengal (and lately, the South), I often get emails from people saying, “when are you going to write about Punjabi literature? And what about Sikh writers?” My response is pretty simple: a person needs to be inspired. Ethnic and religious loyalty ought to take a back seat to the quality of the writing, and the effect it has on you as an individual reader. If that means Ian McEwan, Philip Roth, or Zadie Smith get more of one’s critical attention than Amrita Pritam, so be it.
But I was recently invited to give a talk on Sikh writers at a small Sikh Studies conference at Hofstra University, so I started reading authors that I didn’t know very well —- and I was, in fact, quite impressed. So over the course of this summer I hope to profile some Punjabi writers, including some that are Sikh, starting with Ajeet Cour, Kartar Singh Duggal, and Khushwant Singh (who writes in English). Incidentally, many of these writers' works are accessible in North America and the UK, through sites like Indiaclub.com or Amazon Marketplace sellers.
With Ajeet Cour, the place to start is her memoir, Pebbles in a Tin Drum, published in Hindi and Punjabi as “Khanabadosh” (which means “nomad” or “vagabond”). This isn’t a conventional memoir so much as an arrangement of the key crises in Cour’s life. It starts out of order — with her moving account of her adult daughter’s death from a severe burn accident in France. But then Cour backs up, and tells the story of her family’s move from Lahore to Delhi during the Partition; of her failed romance with her English teacher, Baldev (through whom she started on her path to the writing life); of her failed marriage and subsequent divorce; and finally, of her life as a single mother in Delhi who struggled to support herself and her daughters while working as a writer in the 1970s and 80s. She also talks about her experiences as a Sikh woman in Delhi during the riots in 1984. And there are two chapters that I rather liked on the unlikely topic of her legal battles with her landlord —- which dragged on for years and even went to the High Court. This experience gives Ajeet Cour a pronounced hostility for Indian government bureaucracy, which shows up in some of her short stories. For instance, in the collection Dead End there is a short story about a family that tries to get justice for their daughter, after she was raped and murdered by Indian soldiers during the troubles in Punjab. Instead of justice or sympathy, all they get is endless bureaucratic run-around. (A familiar tale for people who have suffered as a result of communal violence in recent years.)
Even though Cour’s life has been pretty unconventional, she remains in many ways a traditional Punjabi Sikh woman. When her daughter is dying in a French hospital, for instance, she takes frequent recourse in prayer:
I had only been saying to God, ‘Look I have not committed any sins all these years. . . . Bless my daughter and help her get well. She is going to be nineteen on the twenty-sixth of November. This is no age to go through such suffering. At this age she should enjoy herself. You know fully well how she has spent her childhood sharing her mother’s poverty and how she had to face her father’s temper and hatred. Things have just started getting a little better. It isonly now that we can afford to relax in the evenings and listen to music and discuss books. Our greatest strength is that we have each other as friends. The friendship I enjoy with my two daughters has given warmth to my ife and dispelled the pain from my existence.
The quality of the translation isn’t great, but there’s a kind of directness and sincerity here and elsewhere in Cour’s writing that comes through anyway, and that I really admire. (There aren’t very many prominent Indian writers of Cour’s generation that are avowedly religious. Most are either silent on their religious beliefs or use their writings to emphasize the “backwardness” or even the danger of naïve religious belief.)
Another passage I admire from Pebbles in a Tin Drum is Cour’s description of the room she was born in and lived in until they had to leave Lahore:
Some are born in gypsy families and others become gypsies through a conspiracy of circumstances.
Isn’t it ironic that man remains totally ignorant about the two most significant events of his life, his birth and his death? The first takes place due to negligence and the second leads to the disappearance of its protagonist from the world. Dust into dust and air into air. You can go on searching eternally but you won’t find those who have blended into earth and air. Poets are free to make the elements — the earth, the air and the sky — as romantic as they like but I asure you that these elements are not only deaf and dumb, they are also blind.
I was told about the first major incident of my life by my mother and grandmother long after it had taken place. Showing me a large, spacious bed they had said, ‘You were born on this bed.’ The bed was placed in a spacious, airy room in my grandmother’s house in Lahore. A wide bed made of strong wood, it was supported by thick, round, carved legs which reminded me of the silver-encircled ankles of Haryanvi women working along with their men in the fields.
And then a bit more on the tension between romance and the real world. As a young girl Cour was attracted to the windows in her house, which her family had covered in heavy curtains:
I feel all that has become a part of my constitution, my texture. Or maybe I have been created by a blend of all these things. You could even say that it was the conspiracy of that room which had blended with my blood the moment I was born. A poet would say that every object in that room was a symbol, a sign whose meaning was revealed layer by layer at a later stage.
However, I am not a poet, I am a storyteller. Of course I can say this much, that I have always longed to feel the open, free air and vast areas of empty space stretched around me. Unfortunately, every window that life threw open on the rippling breezes and blue skies where the balmy sun floated like will-o’-the-wisp was blocked by heavy bamboo curtains, denying me access to what I desperately wanted to reach.
In a sense this is a metaphor for her struggle (which I think is everyone’s struggle) to experience the life in its ideal, beautiful form — in the broad daylight as it were. Most of the time we are stuck indoors with the light on partly cloudy, fussing with the curtains. (This is a domesticated version of Plato’s allegory of the cave of course.)
There is more that could be said about Pebbles in a Tin Drum as well as the short stories of Cour’s that I’ve been reading (in Dead End and Other Stories). But I’ve run on too long already. So I’ll just end with a quote from Cour’s story “Returning Home,” which features an adult woman’s reminiscence of her childhood fascination with her mystical grandfather. It again gets into the theme of religion, though I think it does so from a somewhat secular perspective:
He recited the lyrical hymns from the Holy Book for hours. Whenever he was free-which he almost always was!-he climbed the stairs, humming, and went to the meditation room, and recited hymns from the Holy Book. While reciting, he closed his eyes and climbed down those invisible stairs which lead one to a very dark and very bright spot in the inner recesses of the soul. He spent long hours at that pitch-dark and brilliant, luminous spot in the inner core of his being. And his lips quivered with silent laughter.
I often saw him sitting like that, absolutely quiet. With the open pages of the Holy Book spread before him, his eyes closed, completely oblivious of his surroundings, a silent laughter spread across his face like sunshine, and his hands dancing gracefully.
This is one of the earliest memories of my childhood. Though we always feel that everything connected with those early days of our life were wrapped up in unknown mysteries and inexplicable magic, I honestly feel that my grandfather was a mystery, he was magic personified.
Any comments on Ajeet Cour — or other Punjabi writers you admire (including those who write in English)? I’m open to suggestions for writers to talk to about.
[Cross-posted on Sepia Mutiny]
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