The Wheels of Indian Justice

News about the release of the Nanavati Commission report was in the Indian papers yesterday, but it wasn't until this morning that I finally saw an coherent explanation of what it means, in the Indian Express:

NEW DELHI, AUGUST 8: Twenty years after hundreds of Sikhs were massacred in the Capital, a judicial inquiry has for the first time given a finding that Congress leaders were involved in it.

The Justice G T Nanavati Commission, which was set up in 2000 to undo the "whitewash" by the Justice Ranganath Misra Commission in 1986, has indicted, among others, a minister in the Manmohan Singh Government, Jagdish Tytler, and Congress MP from the Outer Delhi constituency, Sajjan Kumar.

But, having waited till the last permissible day to table the Nanavati Commission’s report in Parliament, the Government today rejected the finding against Tytler on a ground that is bound to trigger a legal controversy.

The Commission concluded that there was "credible evidence against Jagdish Tytler to the effect that very probably he had a hand in organizing attacks on Sikhs."

In its action taken report (ATR), the Government however interpreted these carefully chosen words to mean that "the Commission itself was not absolutely sure about his involvement in such attacks."

And then, turning Indian jurisprudence on its head, the Government claimed that "in criminal cases, a person cannot be prosecuted simply on the basis of ‘probability."(link)


If you were waiting for justice, too bad: as often happens with Indian justice, all you get is bupkis.

Incidentally, some of these guys faced criminal trials earlier, but no one has ever been convicted of anything. Sajjan Kumar, most famously, was acquitted for his involvement in 2002. Both Kumar and Tytler are still in the Congress government.

More recent coverage of Nanavati here, here, here, here, here, here, and here.

[Cross-posted at Sepia Mutiny]

Indian Literature Weekend Roundup

1. Novelist Mukul Kesavan has an essay on the rise of the Muslim League in the 1940s (via India Uncut). He argues that Muslim politics only really consolidated between 1937 and 1942. Key incidents include the Congress' decision to participate in elections in 1935, and the changes in the political landscape that occurred with the beginning of World War II.

2. Kitabkhana links to Kamila Shamsie's review of Tariq Ali's latest novel A Sultan in Palermo (the fourth of five in Ali's "Islam Quintet"), in The Guardian. If you weren't aware that Palermo (i.e., in Sicily) had Sultans, you might want to read this review, and perhaps Ali's novel as well.

3. Hurree also links to Amitava Kumar's long critique of Salman Rushdie at Tehelka. The article at Tehelka isn't accessible to the public, so Kumar has posted the article for us at his personal website. Kumar isn't just dismissing one of Rushdie's books, or even a group of them -- he's going after Rushdie as a whole.

Though I generally admire Amitava Kumar, here I have to disagree with him, especially the central thesis of this essay -- the idea that what Rushdie has been writing about all along is himself. There is undoubtedly narcissism there (in the recent books), but there is also a real feel for the subject matter (in the earlier books). Not to mention brilliant wordplay, compelling storytelling, and verve. And Rushdie's narcissism, especially since it is checked by self-consciousness about the same, need not be a mortal sin. In the right hands, it can also be revelatory.

(Incidentally, isn't it a little bit odd that Kumar marks Rushdie's narcissism in a review that is largely structured as a personal essay?)

It's strange to me that Kumar praises the recent Naipaul (Magic Seeds) while digging into Rushdie. Kumar has mentioned his own debt to Naipaul's prose style before, in Bombay, London, New York (which I reviewed informally here), and I can fully see how important Naipaul's dispassionate, methodical eye might have been to someone like Kumar.

The truth is, both Rushdie and Naipaul do have significant fallibilities. Naipaul has an ugly, sneering side, scarcely controlled in early books like India: An Area of Darkenss, or the early African narratives he wrote. He also has a hatred for things Islamic that he has expressed and expressed and expressed -- writing three long, mean-spirited books about the Islamic world, and giving his blessing, before last year's elections, to the ideology of India's Hindu right.

Rushdie is still in my good graces, though he's slipping. He may have many of the weaknesses Kumar cites -- chief among them narcissism and a tendency to the academic -- but all in all his voice has done a lot more good for Indian literature than bad. That said, I have no trouble at all accepting Kumar's dismissive verdict on the forthcoming Shalimar the Clown. With each bad book, people remember the brilliant, compelling, original Rushdie a little less, and think of the smug, "celebrity" Rushdie a little more. That's a substantial loss.

4. Speaking of Naipaul, I'm surprised that no one has been discussing the long essay on him in the New York Times, the product of an interview conducted by Rachel Donadio. Naipaul here reproduces many of the comments about the state of contemporary literature that he's made elsewhere, though he now seems to be reaching a new, completely unprecedented level of transcendent crankiness. The zinger I can't believe he gets away with is his straight-faced claim that the novel is dead:

Yet the fact that Naipaul has continued to write novels does not undercut his acute awareness of the form's limitations; indeed, it amplifies it. His is the lament of a writer who, through a life devoted to his craft, has discovered that the tools at his disposal are no longer adequate. "If you write a novel alone you sit and you weave a little narrative. And it's O.K., but it's of no account," Naipaul said. "If you're a romantic writer, you write novels about men and women falling in love, etc., give a little narrative here and there. But again, it's of no account."

This is just one of many things in the interview that one can't take seriously. (Another is Naipaul's claim that he's a better travel writer than Joseph Conrad.)

Another bizarre moment is this paragraph:

In conversation, another dynamic becomes apparent, in which the more dismissive Naipaul is of a writer, the more likely it is that he has engaged deeply with that writer's work. Sitting a few feet away from a bookshelf of French novels, Naipaul called Proust "tedious," "repetitive," "self-indulgent," concerned only with a character's social status. "What is missing in Proust is this idea of a moral center," he said. Naipaul also had little respect for Joyce's "Ulysses" -- "the Irish book," he sniffily called it -- and other works "that have to lean on borrowed stories." Lately, he has found Stendhal "repetitive, tedious, infuriating," while "the greatest disappointment was Flaubert."

Here, it seems as if Donadio knows that what Naipaul is saying is incoherent and absurd. But she poses it completely seriously -- as if it makes perfect sense. With the first sentence of the above paragraph, Donadio gives Naipaul's literary nihilism a free pass.

Two Odd Emails Received

I've gotten two especially odd emails lately. One is this:

Glad I red up 2 wea u say ur Saidian respons is stil instinctiv or I'd have left so shockd @ how intelectual modesty can b used 2 let academic imperialism off ze hook. Ze Saidian instinct can hardly stand orientalism masquerading as neutral scholarship in pursuit of knowledge 4 tze sake of knowledge

That's it, exactly as it was sent. At first I thought I was actually getting hate-mail via SMS! Otherwise, how to account for the weirdly compressed writing style? And the conversion of "th" into "z"? But in fact, it's over 138 characters, so it isn't SMS.

Also, the name of the person checked out with Google. He appears to be a young African man in the UK, who was pretty active in the recent G-8/Live-8 media whirlwind. I still don't know what the heck he's saying in this email, though. I think it has something to do with my 'postcolonial theory' essay from a few weeks ago.

The second is a little bit sad:

Sir
I want to learn Hindi.My mother tongue is Urdu.Please
help me.

Sorry my friend, I don't think I can help you. Still, all the best to you in learning a language you basically already know.

Don't freak

(Today is Stream-of-Consciousness Newspaper Columnist Appreciation Day.)

From The Guardian (thanks Punjabi Boy):

An immediate answer to yesterday's G2 front page teaser: has Britain lost its sense of humour? The answer is a clear no, at least judging from the new T-shirts being worn by young Asians on the underground, which display the slogan: "Don't freak, I'm a Sikh". We'll give top marks to the joke writer for that one and (for some obscure reason) the tale has also prompted a very loosely connected thought: does anybody know what happened to the Guardian Angels? Unlike funny Sikhs, you don't see too many on the tube these days. Surely they're missing a fantastic marketing opportunity?


Also a bit about it in The Mirror:

In a humorous, totally British response, some Sikhs have started wearing stickers on their rucksacks and bags bearing the legend: "Don't freak, I'm a Sikh."

Every day, millions of Londoners still use the Tube. But more people are walking to work, taxis are far harder to come by and most prefer to sit downstairs on the bus.

Suddenly the roads of London resemble Beijing, swarming with bicycles.

You stop at the traffic lights and all these born-again cyclists surround you, wobbling all over the place.

They must be nuts.

In London, you are infinitely safer on the Tube than you are on a bike.

* * *
And music critic Siddhartha Mitter had a nice Op-Ed type commentary on NPR a couple of days ago. It turns into a meditation on turbans...

Hanif Kureishi and British Multiculturalism

In the August 4 Guardian, the writer Hanif Kureishi weighs in on what British multiculturalism might mean in light of the atmosphere of extreme intolerance that prevails at some of the London Mosques. (Via Locana)

Kureishi's name has been in the air a bit since it was revealed that the men behind the 7/7 bombings in London were second-generation Brit-Asians. The spread of an ultra-fundamentalist ethos amongst second-generation British Muslims was something Kureishi explored in his screenplay to My Son the Fanatic (which began as a short story in The New Yorker) as well as in The Black Album, a novel responding to the turmoil in the British Muslim community following the Rushdie affair.

But the interesting part of this essay isn't really its central point about the poison of religious extremism –- which I think any moderate or progressive person would probably agree with. What is more intriguing is actually Kureishi's unusual use of the word 'multiculturalism' in the context of British 'faith schools'. There's a lot of confusion about what these schools are and how they work (especially for us non-Brits), and in this post I'll explore them a little.

Here's Kureishi:

If the idea of multiculturalism makes some people vertiginous, monoculturalism -- of whatever sort -- is much worse. Political and social systems have to define themselves in terms of what they exclude, and conservative Islam is leaving out a lot. . . .
You can't ask people to give up their religion; that would be absurd. Religions may be illusions, but these are important and profound illusions. And they will modify as they come into contact with other ideas. This is what an effective multiculturalism is: not a superficial exchange of festivals and food, but a robust and committed exchange of ideas -- a conflict that is worth enduring, rather than a war.

When it comes to teaching the young, we have the human duty to inform them that there is more than one book in the world, and more than one voice, and that if they wish to have their voices heard by others, everyone else is entitled to the same thing. These children deserve better than an education that comes from liberal guilt. (link)


The rhetoric of multiculturalism that has supported to the establishment of a number of state-funded Muslim schools in England in recent years, with plans for more to be built –- with the blessings of the Blair government.

But for Kureishi, the people who need to come to terms with multiculturalism aren't mainstream Britons, but radicalized and culturally isolated British Muslims. Kureishi is therefore opposed to these schools, which he sees as 'monocultural' rather than multicultural, and if anything, part of the problem:

It is not only in the mosques but also in so-called "faith" schools that such ideas are propagated. The Blair government, while attempting to rid us of radical clerics, has pledged to set up more of these schools, as though a "moderate" closed system is completely different to an "extreme" one. This might suit Blair and Bush. A benighted, ignorant enemy, incapable of independent thought, and terrified of criticism, is easily patronised. (link)


For Kureishi, there is no difference between radical clerics in the East London mosques and the state-sponsored Religious Education that is universally taught in the English school system. Most Americans, used to the strong separation of church and state that has been in effect in American public education since 1948 (i.e., when prayer in school was banned; McCollum v. Board of Education), will probably see what Kureishi is saying as essentially common sense.

But it's a more complex story than that. Britain has never been a place where strong separation of church and state has been practiced. The Anglican Church is still technically established (in England at least -– not in Wales or Scotland), and enjoys certain privileges by virtue of its special status in English life. Did you know that the English monarch is not permitted to marry a Catholic? And that the Archbishops of Canterbury and York have reserved seats for them in the House of Lords? Most of these are merely symbolic, token privileges, remnants from an era in which the Church of England was one of the driving political powers in English life. But they would be unthinkable in the U.S., India, or France.

Also, the Anglican Church is by law an 'open church', which means that people who ordinarily never go to Church services are still permitted to use local parish Churches for baptisms, marriages, and funerals. Thus, while active membership in the Anglican Church dropped to 11 percent of the English population by the 1990s (according to Monsma and Soper's The Challenge of Pluralism, which is my primary source for much of the background information in this post), 55 percent of England is still baptized into the Church, and 60 percent casually identify as Anglicans. ("Social Anglicans," one could say)

Most importantly of all, Britain (here including Scotland and Wales) has a long tradition of directly funding religious education in schools. Though this tradition of Anglican schooling goes back to the early 19th century, it took significant steps forward in 1870, when the British government first began building primary schools, and then again in 1944, when the modern system of Local Educational Authorities (LEAs) was put into place.

Since then, the “faith schools” Kureishi is referring to in this opinion piece have in fact become quite widespread: 35 percent of British primary and 16 percent of secondary schools fall into this category. Because their students significantly outperform students at non-religious schools, many faith schools are quite selective in their admissions process. Historically the schools were either Anglican or Catholic, with very small numbers of schools given over to other denominations (Presbytarians, Methodists, etc.), as well as a handful to Jews. However, it's important to note that most Christian faith schools do admit students from other faiths without any 'religious tests' (for instance, frequent Sepia Mutiny commentor 'Bong Breaker' –- a Bengali Hindu -– went to one of the more prestigious Anglican schools, and clearly benefited from the experience).

[Some of these schools do not admit non-Christians. There was a controversy in Manchester about this not too long ago.]

The Anglican Church has been quite explicit about their reasoning for this policy of inclusion -– with endlessly declining attendance in England, they are in desperate need of new members, and they see the inclusion of non-Christians in Anglican state schools as a potential source of new converts (see the extracts from the 'Dealer Report' here). This policy of inclusion is also a good one from the civil rights perspective, as it lessens the perception of discrimination amongst England's minorities. Anyone can go to one of these schools if they can get in, and I imagine for Hindu or Muslim parents the danger of their kid converting to Christianity is probably mitigated by the significant educational advantages that this kind of education offers.

Until quite recently, no Muslim schools were able to match the strict criteria necessary to receive state support. Now a few have appeared and more are in the offing, which raises two serious questions to consider. One is, will the Islamic state schools be places where moderate, multiculturalism-friendly Islam is inculcated? The second is, will the principle of the government's 'supportive neutrality' to the different faiths be challenged once more 'foreign' faiths enter the picture? In short, can the British public handle state support for Muslim schools?

With the first question -– do the Islamic schools work? -- I don't have much information, except to say that it appears so. Indeed, because of the strong degree of state control and oversight that is associated with state support, the Labour government has been keen to support these schools wherever possible (see this interview). It appears to be a way for them to 'reach out' to the Muslim community (or more cynically, to appease it), while also gaining leverage against the informal and sometimes dangerous 'education' offered at some Mosques. In essence, if you can't stop the kids from getting religionized, maybe you can control the kind of religion they are exposed to.

A fair criticism of the Islamic faith schools (and a reason why they are in fact potentially a bad idea) is that most Muslims in England are immigrants, unlike the members of majority faiths. Though advocates for the Islamic state schools promise they will be centers for a moderate kind of Islam, the schools might not be helpful to immigrants or the children of immigrants who aspire to learn the ropes of British society. In short, the Islamic state schools run the exact significant risk Kureishi identifies -- 'monoculturalism' rather than multiculturalism.

But the Islamic schools have in fact been controversial for other reasons than this, particularly to English conservatives. A number of Church officials as well as people associated with existing (Christian) faith schools like David Bell have spoken out against them, along fairly predictable lines. This way of thinking -– support for state religious schools, except Muslim schools -– seems openly discriminatory and, in David Bell's case, hypocritical.

One interesting twist on this issue – and a way to potentially resolve the integration/religious freedom dilemma inherent whenever we think about multiculturalism in the realm of religion –- is the proposal for 'multi-faith' schools, which are 'faith schools' that are actually split between four religious communities. The students in such schools are fully integrated, and are given a fair amount of religious education in common, with some separation for specific/advanced instruction.

Another new occurrence is the proposal to start a Hindu state school in northwest London in 2008, which has recently been approved. Once the state school system becomes more complex than simply Christians/Jews vs. Muslims, the parameters of the debate over religious education in England will change yet again. (There are also apparently two Sikh state schools in the UK; I don't know if there are any plans for Jain, or Buddhist state schools.)

* * * *

Some closing thoughts. Though Liberal Democrats and others on the British left would love to see an end to state support for religious schools, it's not likely to happen as long as the schools continue to be popular -- and outperform non-religious government schools. (The Left would also like to see the abolition of the Monarchy, which seems to be about as popular in Britain as Diego Maradona)

The U.S. model of strict separation ensures that the public school classroom cannot be used as a site where extremist religious views are propagated. The simplest and most radical solution to the multiculturalism question in the UK would be to simply dismantle the faith school system entirely, and follow the U.S. Model.

[Similarly, the simplest and most radical solution to the 'Personal Law' conundrum in India would be to establish a Uniform Civil Code with a completely secularized and woman's-rights oriented approach to marriage, divorce, property rights, inheritance, and childhood custodial rights.]

But the American model isn't for everybody, and state support for religion is a fact of life in Britain, and not likely to go anywhere. As long as it exists, fairness dictates that new religious minorities –- Hindus, Muslims, etc. -– should have the right to try and participate in the faith schooling system. It is the task of the British government to try and ensure that such endeavors as Islamic faith schools work to the advantage of the cause of tolerance, integration, and cross-cultural understanding, and benefit British society on the whole.

Moreover, as we're seeing with the corrosion of the secular school system (a corrosion that George Bush himself is promoting, with his support for Intelligent Design), even the vaunted American system is itself in some jeopardy.

[Other links:
--Saheli's response to the Kureishi piece
--Locana's follow-up post, taking it back to the Indian system
--A recent Crooked Timber post on the British religion/education issue.]

[Cross-posted at Sepia Mutiny]

Pishoo! Ctunk Ctunk Ctunk (A paragraph for your evaluation)

I got interested in reading more Zulfikar Ghose after my post on Pakistani novelists a few days ago. So I've been reading parts of The Triple Mirror of the Self, where I'm mainly enjoying the final section of the novel -- the part set in India. (As with Rushdie, Ghose seems to be most alive with details and characters when he goes 'home'. The other sections of the book -- in native American Texas, and in Latin America -- are solid, but they don't carry quite the same spark.)

Ghose's style owes something to Joyce, especially of Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, but it strikes me as pretty distinctive in some ways as well. Below is one paragraph from The Triple Mirror of the Self (1991) for your evaluation. Keep in mind that it's the voice of a child-narrator, who grows up as the story moves forward. In that sense it's very similar to Joyce's Portrait, which starts with the famous "Moocow" sentence: "Once upon a time and a very good time it was there was a moocow coming down along the road and this moocow that was coming down along the road met a nicens little boy named baby tuckoo..."

Here, though, is Zufikar Ghose:

He climbed up the balcony again. His ears had caught the sound of the train before he saw it. Not the clattering suburban trains that went past every five minutes. But the gliding, sweeping motion of the electric locomotive that produced a smoother sound as it pulled the red carriages of the Punjab Mail, still some ten miles from Victoria Terminus, slowing down for its penultimate stop, Dadar. He stared at the train and was filled with a feeling of magic. Lahore one minute and shoo-shoo clickety-click tucka-tucka-tucka pishoooo you're gliding into Bombay. And there he was in the women's compartment with his mother and his sister Zakia looking out of the window at the long Lahore platform at last disappearing. The huge steam engine down the curving track heaving, throwing out a great cloud of black smoke. Choocho-sho choocho-sho and over the river ctunk ctunk clack-clack clack-clack through the iron bridge. Fast then across the vast green plain. Delhi. Agra. Names from memory, from history lessons, stories told by his father with a huge illustrated book in his lap. Domes in the distance, minarets, sandstone, marble, ghosts of armies charging across the plains the horses of Moghul kings kicking their heels. English soldiers at the railway stations, marching down the platform on steel-tipped boots. Clack-clack tock, clack-clack tock, the metallic sound drilled to be precise, efficient and powerful. Crowds of people. Turbaned men. Veiled women trailing children. Now across the middle of India. So much dust. Cough cough. But then the steam locomotive is disconnected, along comes the square-faced electric engine and we're gliding down the mountains whoopie with the air now moist and the breeze coming from the ocean, the magical Sindbad-the-sailor ocean, the Arabian Sea. Full of pearls it must be, emeralds and rubies. One minute Lahore and then Pishoooo you're gliding through forests of coconut trees and the little bits of blue glass shining in the distance are bits of the Arabian Sea like little presents wrapped in blue paper hanging from the trees.

I'm not sure. There are some things I like such as the overall sweep of the paragraph, and the way it gives a sense of the massive space of the country, with the railroad at the dynamic center. But there are also some things I'm not so crazy about...

What do you think?

Learning Hindi

Manorama has a great post about her experience taking Hindi at her university. She is a Bangladeshi-American graduate student, and is studying the language mainly for scholarly/ academic purposes, as I understand it. Her post dovetails nicely with one of the issues raised in my post yesterday -- how and whether South Asians in the diaspora end up learning Hindi -- and gives me the chance to do a little digging of my own into the status of Hindi and other South Asian languages at American universities in particular.

Manorama's university decided it needed to separate the 'Heritage' Hindi students from the 'non-Heritage' (i.e., white, in this case) students. Students who grew up in households where Punjabi, Hindi, Gujurati, etc. were spoken generally end up in the Heritage section, where less effort is spent on pronunciation and some basic vocabulary, while more effort is spent on grammar and so on. It's arguably a good idea, though it results in de facto segregation:

My current Hindi instructor, from what I gathered, disagrees vehemently with this division between heritage and non-heritage students. The fact that people disagree on this issue is not as troubling to me as the ways in which people in our group were defending their views. A few of my classmates scoffed at the idea of setting up a system which would almost inevitably result in "the brown kids" being put in the heritage class, and how novel of an idea this was, particularly as something the university might support with a rhetoric of ability and non-ability. While it is true that the likelihood of non-South Asian students being in the heritage course is quite slim, it is also true that there are South Asian students who join the non-heritage section. This is what happened in my case; while Bangla is spoken in my home, and while I speak it daily with my parents, Bangla and Hindi are not the same.

Manorama puts herself in the non-heritage class, only to find the teacher (and later, even the students) harshly deriding the approach to learning and overall work ethic of the heritage students in the other section:

My instructor noted that having "heritage students" can be very irritating because the inconsistencies or variations of a language which they learn at home are things which they insist on clinging to in his course. No matter how much he tries to correct them, they persist. Things are done differently regionally in Hindi, and people who have a background in other South Asian languages are reluctant to learn Hindi properly. [. . . snip]

However, my instructor went on to say that American students work the hardest, and heritage students don't. They don't keep studying, they don't devote enough time to it, they don't care. At this point my voice seemed to have completely disappeared from the conversation, and it was as if my physical presence was just an illusion. The fact that I was standing right next to my instructor seemed to not matter--nor the fact that I worked my tail off in first year Hindi and that is why I am a good Hindi student now. And guess what? Skin check: Brown. South Asian. Not American in the sense of culture or lacking exposure to a South Asian language. And in this conversation, apparently, invisible.

As I see it, there are two issues here. One is, many ABCDs have a very odd and inconsistent knowledge of the Indian mother-tongues they (sort of) grew up with. Their knowledge of grammar is poor or non-existent, often regionalized or permuted through another Indian language (in my case, my exposure to Punjabi made some aspects of Hindi, when I studied it at Cornell in the early 1990s, seem off -- or 'wrong'). And yet the same Desi students are often flip about the course, thinking of it as an 'easy A' or worse, a social event.

But the instructor seems to be forgetting the main reason this discrepancy may (in some cases) exist, and that is that most of the American students are studying Hindi for academic or (at the graduate level) professional reasons. Most of the South Asian students, on the other hand, are taking it for a vaguer, less focused reason, so it's no great surprise they slack. The instructor here seemed to forget an obvious surface reason for the discrepancy, and turned it into a quasi-racial distinction.

(I'm going to leave Manorama's post now to go into some general statistics and issues about learning South Asian languages in U.S. universities, but I encourage people to read the rest of her post at some point)

Foreign Language Study in the U.S.: Systemic Problems

Here's the thing: this is a tempest in a teapot. The number of universities where Hindi is available is still quite small, and the number of total students taking Hindi in the U.S. every year -- Heritage and non-Heritage -- is close to miniscule.

A recent study from the Modern Language Association found that the total number of students taking Hindi in the United States in 2002-2003 was 1,430. The number of students studying Urdu was 152. And Bengali, a language spoken by some 200 million people worldwide, was only studied by 54 students in the entire United States!

Some statistics for background: during the same school year, there were about 1.4 million students in U.S. universities taking foreign languages. 74% of them took either Spanish, French, or German, with Spanish being the most popular by a wide margin.

Why is the study of South Asian languages so rare here? And is there anything that can be done about it?

One possible factor is the absence of "Less Commonly Taught Languages" (LCTLs) in primary and secondary schools (K-12), where only about 38 languages are taught anywhere in the country (and in most schools, only two -- French and Spanish -- are in fact available). I know some schools in ethnic enclaves like Yuba City and some districts in Queens (PDF) have experimented with offering languages like Punjabi and Bengali. But the overwhelming majority of American students will have never even conceived of a South Asian language as an interesting or worthwhile thing to learn before getting to college. If they take any foreign languages in college, they are likely to continue with what they were doing in high school -- French or Spanish.

I don't know how to solve this problem, but I wonder if it might be possible to make Hindi, for instance, available to more high schools via metropolitan consortium programs?

Secondly, the professional advantages for an ordinary American student to learn Hindi were quite low in the past. I wonder if that might be changing as a result of the Indian high tech boom? People who want to do business with India generally prefer English-speaking Indians, but if you want to go to India, you still need to be able to talk to people on the street. This seems like a highly debatable point; do readers out there have experience with this?

Third is a practicality issues -- many colleges and universities are simply too small or can't afford to hire full-time faculty to teach South Asian languages. In principle, it is the big research universities and 'flagship' state universities that have decent South Asian language programs (the best of which is still the University of Wisconsin-Madison, where you can take Bengali, Gujarati, Hindi, Nepali, Sanskrit, Tamil, Telugu, Tibetan, and Urdu!).

My own university has about 4,500 undergraduates, of which about 80-100 are of South Asian descent at a given time. Since only a fraction of them are likely to take Hindi, and only a tiny number of non-desi students are likely to enroll, it would be very difficult here (as at other, comparable places) to justify hiring a full-time professor to teach Hindi-Urdu. Still, Lehigh does have enough desi students to have its own competitive Bhangra team ("LU Bhangra"), so why not have Hindi?

One option for smaller schools might be a program called FLTA, the Foreign Language Teaching Assistant program. Here native speakers come in on a Fulbright (J-1 visa) to teach LCTLs (including South Asian languages), while pursuing their own studies in a non-degree program at the same university where they teach. It might be a good way for Indian post-grads to get some experience in the U.S.

(I went way beyond the 'Blogging Call of Duty' and actually called up the IIE office. They said this year the program has 250 people going to various U.S. universities on the FLTA program, which is a pretty impressive number if you think of the numbers of people those 250 people could potentially be teaching.)

But despite improvements like the FLTA program, the options for South Asian language study in the U.S. remain rather limited at present. And as Manorama's story indicates, even when you have the chance to do it, the whole experience can be a little twisted.

[Cross-posted at Sepia Mutiny]

Bollywood Delusions: Race vs. Language

There's a short article in Bollywood Mantra about the new Hindi film actress Katrina Kaif, who has a small role in Sarkar and a starring role in Maine Pyar Kyun Kiya. She speaks Hindi with a heavy British accent, so professional 'dub' actresses fill in for her. Two other films of hers coming out will also have other women's voices:

Katrina Kaif will have two releases in as many weeks and Akshay Kumar, who starts with her in Raj Kanwar's Humko Deewana Kar Gaye, thinks she's shaping up to be a "major heroine". But Katrina's relatively small walk-on part in Ram Gopal Varma's Sarkar and her full-fledged part in David Dhawan's Maine Pyar Kyun Kiya have one thing in common - she did not speak her own lines in both films. Reason? Apparently Katrina's Hindi is a bit on the weaker side.

In fact, Varma had originally decided to retain Katrina's ultra-anglicised voice in keeping with her US-returned character in Sarkar. But the Hindi spoken by the actress was way too outlandish to pass off as a non-resident Indian accent. (link)


This raises a whole complex of issues, most of which point in one way or another at the weird neuroses that continue to haunt Bollywoood. But let me just make two points.

1. I'm generally sympathetic to the situation of Katrina Kaif. She was born and raised in England (indeed, her mother is British), so why shouldn't she speak Hindi with an accent? Some of my Indian friends tend to be a bit intolerant of Hindi or Punjabi spoken with a bad American or British accent (i.e., by people like me). It doesn't really bother me, but it is a double-standard: Indians speaking English with Indian accents want to be accepted and respected in the west, so why shouldn't that tolerance work the other way around? Kaif did apparently lose some roles earlier because of her poor Hindi and her accent, including a part in Saaya (not that that's a big loss).

If, by some bizarro accident I found myself in a Bollywood movie, I would also need that kind of help. So on this note I am somewhat sympathetic.

2. But why is Katrina Kaif in Bollywood to begin with? Why is she getting parts? It's not for her acting ability, which seems pretty minor, at least in Sarkar. I believe she and others are being brought in because they look white.

I don't hold that against them, but I do question why it's such a commodity in Bollywood. Here I swing slightly toward the side of the Bolly-skeptics. Generally, the complaint one hears is that the industry is hopelessly derivative of Hollywood in terms of storylines and filmic sensibility. In my post last week I disputed this -- I think there has been a spurt of creativity and innocation in the past 5-10 years.

But in terms of its attitude to skin complexion and actors' facial physiognomy, the recent wave of Anglo-looking actors and actresses suggests it's a no-contest. Or perhaps I should say, it's still a no-contest: Indian actors have always tended to be much lighter-skinned than ordinary Indians, and the projection of 'western lifestyle' has been a part of Indian movie mythology for at least 40 years. And it's always been somewhat troubling to me -- a sign of a lingering colonial mentality.

The difference now, in this era of hybridity-globalization, is that the simulacrum of whiteness is approaching perfection.

The oddity is that what is wanted is the physical appearance of whiteness mixed with a classy, sometimes English-inflected, but still authentic Hindi-speaking capability. I find that to be an interesting paradox. The need for good Hindi can be explained as an issue of effective communication with mass audiences, but it doesn't make the paradox any less real.

To put it very directly: Why is physical difference from Indian norms acceptable (or even desirable), while significant linguistic difference is an impossibility?

Pakistani writers: Questions of identity

[Cross-posted at Sepia Mutiny]

Soniah Kamal of Desilit Daily posts an essay by Muneeza Shamsie on Pakistani literature from the May 7 Dawn (no direct link). The article raises some questions for me about the nature of Pakistani literature, including the basic question of how to define it.

Shamsie has edited several anthologies of Pakistani literature, including one that is scheduled to come out this year (And the World Changed: Contemporary Stories by Pakistani Women; not yet listed). Muneeza Shamsie is also the mother of Kamila Shamsie (pictured right), who seems to be a bit of a prodigy, having published four novels by the age of 32.

I'm grateful to Muneeza Shamsie for offering a long list of Pakistani writers in English; some of them are names I was unfamiliar with. But there are also some things Shamsie does in her essay that I find to be puzzling.

1. Zulfikar Ghose -- the first Pakistani novelist in English?

Here is Muneeza Shamsie:

In 1967 the expatriate Zulfikar Ghose published the riveting The Murder of Aziz Khan. This was the first cohesive, modern English novel written by a writer of Pakistani origin. The plot about a poor Punjab farmer destroyed by a group of industrialists, though fiction, was so close to the bone, that the chattering classes were abuzz, speculating "who-was-who." Ghose’s remaining novels were set in South America, his wife’s country and few reached Pakistan. (link)


It's interesting she grants Zulfikar Ghose this status, since his only association with Pakistani nationality is the fact that he was born in Sialkot, and is a Muslim. He's never lived in Pakistan, though at one point in the early 1960s he almost moved there. According to Muneeza Shamsie's own biography of him here (a fascinating read, by the way -- this man has had an exciting life), Ghose's family left Sialkot for Bombay in 1942, and Ghose went to England to study in 1959. He married a Brazilian woman in 1964, and has lived in various places in the western hemisphere (including South America) since then. Since 1969, Ghose has taught at the University of Texas. As far as I can tell he is still there, teaching away. (Funny how many cool people end up in Austin, isn't it?)

To me it seems like Ghose is "Pakistani" by association, but defining writers that way could potentially open up some problems. For instance, if the criterion is birth in what would later be Pakistan, many other writers might qualify, including Khushwant Singh (who published his first novel, Train to Pakistan in 1956).

He didn't write in English -- and so remains off Shamsie's list -- but another problem case is Saadat Hasan Manto, a Kashmiri Muslim who was born in an area that remained in India (Ludhiana, Punjab) during Partition. He migrated to Pakistan in 1947, which would seem to make him a Pakistani, except that most Indians one talks to think of Manto as a great Indian writer. (A translation of Manto's classic story, "Toba Tek Singh," is available online.)

Fortunately, later in the same essay, Shamsie acknowledges the problem of defining a "Pakistani" writer, which is exactly the same as defining a Pakistani person when citizenship is not considered the main criterion. One thing Shamsie does not mention, however, is the question of people who may have been born in, say, East Pakistan, and then become redefined as Bangladeshis after 1971. (Though I can't currently think of any writers specifically in this category; it may not be a big issue.)

2. "Where are all the Pakistani writers?"

More from the Shamsie piece:

Over the next few years, the number of Pakistani English language writers grew rapidly. Adam Zameenzad published four novels and won a first novel award, as did Hanif Kureishi, while Nadeem Aslam won two. Tariq Ali embarked on a Communist trilogy, and an Islam quintet; Bapsi Sidhwa received a prize in Germany, an award in the USA, and published her fourth novel The American Brat (1993). Zulfikar Ghose, who had written around 10 accomplished novels, brought out the intricate and complex The Triple Mirror of the Self about migration and a man’s quest for identity, across four continents.

Despite this, in Pakistan, everyone said, “Oh, there are so many Indians writing English, but why aren’t there any Pakistanis?” (link)

Here she makes a very good point. The novelists on this list are all quite accomplished, and indeed, there seems to be a critical mass of serious Pakistani literature emerging, albeit based overwhelmingly in the diaspora. (This is true to a much greater extent than it is in India.)

Why then does the idea of "Indian Writers in English" roll off the tongue, while "Pakistani Writers in English" seems a much more tentative formulation? It may have to do, at least partly, with the divergent interests and experiences of the writers on Shamsie's list. The style of writing and the thematic interests in the writing of four of the names mentioned in the above paragraph (Hanif Kureishi, Tariq Ali, Bapsi Sidhwa, Zulfikar Ghose) are so different, it's hard to imagine that all four have their origins in the same country. While the British-Pakistani ('Brit-Asian') writers seem to have a certain critical mass, especially with the arrival of people like Nadeem Aslam, when read as exclusiely in terms of their place of origin, the major 'Pakistani writers' are pretty isolated from each other.

In short, the category 'contemporary Pakistani writer in English' holds together as a kind of geopolitical marker, but perhaps it doesn't correspond to a real body of texts as well as it ought. (The key word is "perhaps.")

3. A final oddity: repetition, with a difference

A final oddity: according to Google Cache, Muneeza Shamsie published a version of this article back in February. It is different, yet the same.

More reviews by Muneeza Shamsie:

On Agha Shahid Ali, Rooms Are Never Finished

On Kashmir to Kabul

On Imad Rahman's I Dream of Microwaves

On Sara Suleri's Boys Will Be Boys

* * * * * *
UPDATE: I did a little more digging, in response to Saheli's comment to the Sepia Mutiny version of this post, in which she suggested that the key to classifying a writer is his self-declaration of nationality:

Self-declaration is the key, though in the case of Zulfikar Ghose that turns out to be harder than I expected when I started out with this post. For one thing, a quote he gives in an interview I found strongly supports the idea that he rejects nationality as a kind of pigeonholing. But at the same time, when I looked at an anthology put together by Muneeza Shamsie on writing by the Pakistani diaspora, his work figures prominently -- clearly with his blessing.

To start with, here's a quote from Zulfikar Ghose that I found after I put this post up:

The fact is that, apart from my second novel, The Murder of Aziz Khan . . . , and my earlier poems that had as their subject my original attachment to India, I do not write about a particular culture at all. I cannot say what I do write about, if anything. All I do is record some images that present themselves and then attempt to discover the imagery that must follow to complete a formal structure that is pleasing to my imagination. From my childhood, I've been froced into exile, a condition become so permanent that I can never have a homecoming; I've no nationalistic attachments to any country, and indeed have very little to do with the world at all. (from Jussawalla and Dasenbrook's Interviews With Writers of the Post-Colonial World).


In short, don't call me a Pakistani, or an Indian, or an American, or a Brit, or a Brazilian!

After reading that, I started to wonder how and why Ghose gave his permission for some of his work to be included in M. Shamsie's earlier anthology Leaving Home: Towards a New Millennium : A Collection of English Prose by Pakistani Writers. That collection, which Shamsie edited, includes sections of Ghose's The Triple Mirror of the Self (a partition novel mainly set in Bombay).

It's clear that he gave his approval for his work to be included, since he writes a brief introduction to the sections from that book included in the anthology... But clearly the title of the anthology suggests he is not uncomfortable being called a "Pakistani Writer"...

In short, even self-declaration doesn't completely solve the problem of classification. This is one of those cases where "desi" or "South Asian diaspora" may be a better label after all.

Quiet Long Island vs. Flooded Bombay

Bombay had 37.1 inches of rain on Tuesday! Wow.

Here in Long Island, things are quiet, quiet, quiet. Here is the photo I took from the front door of the place where we're (temporarily) staying, late last night. It's a 30 second exposure:


It's a version of the other photos I've been posting, of Long Island Sound. The black space in the middle is water. The lights are Connecticut. Nothing is going on.

* * * *
And here is a Flickr photo I found, of the flooding in Bombay:


The trains stopped running, so people walked along the tracks to get home.
The photo is by a cat named GrayArea. Click on the picture (or here to see it in its original context. More Bombay Flickr photos here.

At some stations, even that wasn't possible. Thousands (millions?) of people were stranded.

As of now, it looks like 200 people have been killed because of the rains in Bombay, and 400+ are dead in the state of Maharashtra. It's sad -- and I have a feeling the death toll will rise once the water recedes -- but one should remember that most of us have never seen anything like this kind of rain. (New York with 37 inches of rain would have lots of problems too!)

They seem to have handled this pretty well.

8 Things About Bollywood You May Not Know

bollywood.gif[Cross posted at Sepia Mutiny]

Writing about Bollywood is incredibly difficult for an amateur fan. Many people are mainly interested in the latest filmi news and gossip, and watch current films to see whether they liked the heroine's outfits. Rani Mukherji's colorful outfits are scrutinized closely, but the quality of the film in which the outfits appear is somehow overlooked.

Then you have the retro-hipsters and nostalgists, who note the decline of the industry from its golden era in the 1960s and 70s, when both actresses and actors were impressively plump, and everything was fabulous, in that kind of “Amitabh's pants are way too tight, but the sequins on his orange vest are oh so bright!” kind of way. Yes, I concur: dishoom, dishoom.

Some retro-bollywood fans will even argue that in the old days the films were actually objectively better, which doesn't seem terribly plausible to me. There were of course some things that were better in the high-class productions from the old days. In particular there were beautiful song lyrics (many of the writers were professional Urdu poets) and the language -– one thinks especially of 'courtesan' movies like Pakeezah -- but often it was just as bad as it is today, and for the same reasons it is often bad today: very low budgets, hurried shooting, and the privileging of star-power and profit over artistic integrity.

That said, there have been some interesting changes in the Indian film industry in the last 10-15 years, which are in my opinion worth noting and appreciating. The industry is still far from perfect, but it is evolving.

If you can't please everyone with your opinions or judgment (and I'm pretty sure I can't), you can at least offer some information. Here, I'm going from Tejaswini Ganti's excellent Bollywood: A Guidebook to Popular Hindi Cinema, which was just published last year on Routledge Press. Ganti is by training an anthropologist, who teaches at a university in the U.S. When she researched this book, she did extensive interviews with many people in Bollywood, including producers, stars, art directors, screenwriters, choreographers, etc. In large part, the interviews are what guide her description of the industry, not so much other people's books. (Incidentally, excerpts from her interviews with people like Ramesh Sippy, Aamir Khan, Shashi Kapoor, Shabana Azmi, screenwriter Anjum Rabali, Pooja Bhatt, and Subhash Ghai, to name just a few, are included in the final chapter of the book.) The opening chapters of Bollywood set up the industry in general terms (history, general themes, important facts), while the later chapters get into the impact of key films and key figures (especially actors and directors). The book as a whole is quite readable, in contrast to many other recent books of "film theory" on Hindi cinema that have been coming out.

Here, then, are eight things I picked up in Tejaswini Ganti's Bollywood:

1.”Bollywood” vs. “India”. You hear again and again that Bollywood is the biggest film industry in the world, producing 800-1000 films a year. Actually this isn't strictly correct. It's the Indian film industry that produces that many films; Bollywood -– defined as commercial Hindi films produced in or around Bombay -– produces only about 150-200 films a year. According to Ganti, both the Telegu and Tamil film industries produce equal numbers of films (though I suspect budgets and audiences are probably smaller).

2.Taxation. Unlike in the U.S., where the film industry has always been treated by the government as a legitimate business, in India for many years, the film industry was treated as a vice, and taxed egregiously, at rates between 25 and 75 percent. This is so despite the fact that the film industry is the second largest in the country in terms of capital investment, and the fifth largest in terms of people employed.

Moreover, the tax is not just one tax, but a whole series of them, affecting the producers, distributors, and exhibitors of films. States use taxes to protect local language cinemas, and the Indian government waives taxes on films that are deemed to be especially patriotic (recently, films like Lakshya and LOC: Kargil were 'tax-free'. So the next time you see some uber-patriotic war film and wonder how Bollywood got so patriotic all of a sudden, keep in mind that there's a profit-margin in there.)

The tax situation has improved somewhat since May 1998, when the government finally granted the film industry the status of an actual “industry,” which means some alleviation of taxes, as well as smaller perks like reduced rates for electricity. However, taxes on films are still pretty high.

With all the tax, it's a wonder that the industry survived at all, especially during the deep recession in the early 1970s, when the government imposed a 250 percent tariff on imported film stock.

3. Flops. The success rate for Bollywood films is 15-20 percent a year. The vast majority of films are 'flops'. The industry survives because there is always some rich sap ready to invest in another film (see #6 below).

4. Number of Prints. The number of prints made for even big films is no more than 500 or so, including prints to be sent abroad. Compare to Hollywood, which releases big films on 3000 or more screens at once in the U.S. alone. One has to keep in mind, of course, that normal (i.e., non-multiplex) movie theaters in India are much larger than in America. A big movie theater in India can seat up to 2500 people.

5. Box Office totals. I've often wondered why we don't get precise box office totals for Bollywood releases the way we do in Hollywood. According to Ganti, while theaters at the main urban centers give quite specific box office numbers, the smaller centers (which also sometimes get films a little later) don't report their earnings accurately or consistently.

6. Financing. Bollywood movies are produced and financed in a completely chaotic way. Here are two paragraphs from Ganti on the decentralized, flexible Bollywood system:

The industry is neither vertically nor horizontally integrated in the manner of the major Hollywood studios or multinational entertainment conglomerates. 'Studios' within the Indian context are merely shooting spaces and not production and distribution concerns. Though there has been a move toward integration and points of convergence . . . these instances are not systemic and do not preclude others from entering the business. Essentially, the 'industry' is a very diffuse and chaotic place where anyone with large sums of money and the right contacts can make a film.

Although both the Western and the Indian press use the metaphors of factories and assembly-line production to characterize the Bombay film industry, i.e., 'Bombay's dream factories churn out hundreds of films a year,' in reality the industry is extremely decentralized and flexible and a more apt comparison would be to a start-up company financed with venture capital. Each Hindi film is made by a team of people who operate as independent contractors or freelancers and work together on a particular project rather than being permanent employees of a particular production company. Films are often financed simply on the basis of a star-cast, the germ of a story idea and a director's reputation. . . . Power resides in the stars, directors, and producers. The industry contains very few non-value-added people such as executives, lawyers, agents, professional managers, i.e., the 'suits,' who do not contribute to the actual filmmaking process. There are also no intermediaries such as casting agents, talent scouts, or agencies like ICA and William Morris.


In the absence of lawyers, Ganti notes (and Suketa Mehta corroborates much of this in his book Maximum City, which is also largely based on personal experience with prominent figures in the industry), large deals are often sealed on the basis of verbal agreements between trusted partners. The informal nature of the system also makes it a convenient haven for 'black money' –- cash investments by gangsters, who need to hide their earnings from tax collectors.

7. English. These days, many Bollywood screenplays are written in English originally. The reasons for this are many and overlapping. Here is how Ganti explains it:

While the narration of a [Bollywood] script is in Hindi or 'Hinglish' – a mix of Hindi and English prevalent among urban elites, many contemporary screenwriters first write their scripts in English and then translate the dialogues themselves into Hindi or work with a dialogue writer who is more proficient in the language. The specifics of a screenplay such as location, time of day, scene descriptions, and camera movement are always in English. The presence of English as a language of production may surprise readers, but is testament of the cosmopolitan nature of the Bombay film industry where people come from every linguistic region of India, and are not necessarily native Hindi speakers. . . . This reliance on English by screenwriters is a recent phenomenon and also signals a shift in [the screenwriters'] background. In the earlier decades of Hindi cinema, screenwriters were often Hindi or Urdu poets, playwrights, or novelists who supported their literary endeavors by working in the film industry. Today, the majority of screenwriters come not from such literary backgrounds, but from a wide range of professional as well as film industry backgrounds. (69)


The change in the kinds of people who write the films might explain why some people feel the films today are not up to the par set by the 1950s and 60s. It also explains how the Hindi dialogue in more 'urban' themed films (like Dil Chahta Hai) sometimes seems a little forced, as if everyone would be more comfortable doing the whole thing in English.

8. Synch-sound. The vast majority of Bollywood films are still dubbed. The industry is still generally using older cameras, which produce camera noise, and has never invested in creating sound-proof shooting conditions in their studios. As a result, it's still easier and more efficient for actors to dub their voices in studio after shooting. This state of affairs is unfortunate, as dubbing is sometimes adversely affects the quality of the acting and the 'production values' more generally.

This set-up also helps non-Hindi speaking actors (like the Tamilian superstar Kamal Haasan) to enter into the Hindi film industry. Conversely, it allows Hindi film actors to get into non-Hindi film industries, even if they don't speak the language. The weirdness is that in some cases, if the actors concerned can't quite get their lips around the language in question, other actors' voices might be over-dubbed for their lines. Thus, the actor who is physically on screen may have his lines vocalized by someone else, while the songs in the film are sung by yet a third person!

Audioslave and Payola

I recently bought Audioslave's new CD Out of Exile, and have been enjoying it. It's a very solid effort, though not, perhaps, quite as jawdroppingly, mindblowingly, cansmashingly, portmanteau word-makingly brilliant as the first CD from three years ago. Though Out of Exile debuted at #1 on the Billboard charts back in May, the reviews have been mixed overall, and the Audioslave fan site is pretty quiet.

Tom Morello's guitar work continues to impress, and the songs "Doesn't Remind Me" and "Man or Animal" are the real deal. The latter in particular has that particular bonecrushing, knucklebleeding quality that inspires bloggers to coin new words to express their enthusiasm. But several of the songs sound like technically proficient loud "rock," without sounding particularly personal or meaningful. Rock depends a fair bit on the Romantic image of personal struggle or vision. Here, despite Chris Cornell's well-publicized bout with addiction/rehab a couple of years ago, there isn't much that goes beyond the abstract. And the effort as a whole feels a little too "professional," which is not a good sign.

Then again, sometimes what you want is just something loud and rocking (besides Led Zeppelin) to listen to in the car, and in that vein I'm still happy with my purchase. And I would still take Audioslave or the Foo Fighers over The White Stripes and My Chemical Romance, any day.

* * *
Today I learned that Audioslave's record company Sony BMG, has admitted to 'Payola'-type practices -- effectively, bribing radio stations to play their label's songs with money for radio station giveaways, free electronics, and vacation packages for DJs. One of the bands (but by no means the only band) Sony was trying to promote in particular in this particular scandal was Audioslave.

It's a surprising twist, to say the least, for a band whose guitarist is an outspoken socialist and anti-war activist, formerly of the radical/revolutionary band Rage Against the Machine. Payola, the peak of corruption in an otherwise blithely capitalist entertainment industry, does not exactly jive with the philosophy behind Morello and Tanakian's Axis of Justice...

There is no indication that Audioslave was itself involved with the Payola scandal. But still, it's got to be a little bit embarrassing when your record label sends around emails like this to commercial radio stations: ""WHAT DO I HAVE TO DO TO GET AUDIOSLAVE ON WKSS THIS WEEK?!!? Whatever you can dream up, I can make it happen."

The Lights of Connecticut



On clear nights, you can see the lights of Connecticut across Long Island Sound. They're about 20 miles away, and there are more people there than it looks. On the left is probably Bridgeport, a city of 150,000 people.

And here it is again, zoomed and color-rebalanced (i.e., with Photoshop):



The lights of the Connecticut shoreline look nice at night. But up close are traffic-choked Route 95, fancy suburban shopping malls, and old industrial cities all decaying at the core. It's supposed to be the wealthiest state in the United States, but you wouldn't know it from looking at Bridgeport (probably the lights on the left).

Long Island is also full of people, but the North Shore is somehow quiet. The roads are clogged, but they don't go to anywhere in particular, only deeper into the island. In this part of the island, no one seems to make anything, just pizza, fried fish, and ice cream. And the rocky little beach is so narrow that at high tide it disappears entirely. The only thing out here worth speaking of, the only thing that seems permanent, is the water. Oh, and the smell of burning charcoal in the evenings, and the little bugs that crawl over everything.

We'll be here for a few weeks, on a working vacation; expect more pictures occasionally.

Tagore in America (Sepia Mutiny guest post)

I'm guest posting at Sepia Mutiny, just to test the waters a little.

Kind of crazy to start off there with a long post about something historical, but Tagore's visits to the U.S. are an interesting story to me. This is the kind of thing that I know about as an English professor that most people probably won't know. Here's the opening of the post:

You might not know that Rabindranath Tagore’s first sustained experience of America was not New York or San Francisco, but the farming/university town of Urbana, Illinois. He went there in 1912, to visit his son Rathindranath, studying at the University of Illinois. Father Rabindranath had wanted his son not to study literature or the arts at a place like Oxford or Cambridge (or London, as Rabindranath himself had done), but rather agricultural science in the service of what Tagore hoped would turn into a program for village development.

You might expect this small-town Illinois experience in 1913 to have been a lesson in culture shock for the cosmopolitan (soon to be world-famous) Tagore, who just a few weeks earlier had been dining with the cream of the crop in literary London. But no, Tagore fit right in, impressing the local Unitarians and making friends as he would do wherever he went in those years. He quickly moved from Urbana to Chicago, where he was a hit with the literati there, and from Chicago he started getting invitations to lecture at some major universities, which he accepted.

Tagore actually made five trips to the US, starting in 1912, and ending in 1930, according to his biographers Krishna Dutta and Andrew Robinson, in their excellent (but out of print!) book Tagore: The Myriad-Minded Man. (Note: Their book is the source for most of the information in this post.) By looking at those trips in particular, we can get a rather different image of the man than the aristocratic ‘Gurudev’ that most people know. Tagore came to America, first, to visit his son (who did not stay long), then to raise money for his new university at Shantiniketan. But above all, he came to argue with Americans about American business, industry, and war. What he said and how it was received tells an interesting story about both Tagore and the U.S. in those days.


* * * *
1. The Mystic

In his early visits to the U.S., Tagore presented himself as a mystic poet and a philosopher, and was received by rapt audiences at packed lectures, standing-room only, at dozens of U.S. universities. But it's tricky: in his lectures in the U.S. (especially in the second go-round, in 1916-17), Tagore did present a kind of mysticism, mainly as a response to modern political repression. Tagore was deeply critical of the British "machine" in India, even if he wasn't quite a nationalist (not after the failure of the Swadeshi movement in Bengal). In his later visits, though some of this mystical language remained in his speeches, Tagore spoke quite directly about current events, and criticized British and American policies quite specifically. He also got into some fights with people in the American print-media (for instance, when a reviewer made a comment about his views on Indian child marriage), and wrote copious 'letters to the editor' when newspapers misquoted or misunderstood his ideas. As this image of Tagore took hold, he became much less popular than earlier -– but he nevertheless showed he could hold his own quite well.

2. '$700 Per Scold'

By his second trip in 1916, Tagore was a Nobel Laureate and a worldwide literary star. He was booked for lectures in twenty-five American cities, many of them at university campuses. He gave talks organized by a professional lecture agency associated with his publisher (Macmillan), and received impressively hefty fees ($700-$1000 a pop – a huge sum in those days). He was lecturing, essentially, against western materialism and for a kind of universal spiritual awareness. There was of course an irony in getting paid very well for criticizing materialism, and the Minneapolis Tribune called him on it:

Half-way through the tour the Minneapolis Tribune called Tagore 'the best business man who ever came to us out of India': he had managed to scold Americans at $700 per scold' while pleading with them 'at $700 per plead'. (Dutta and Robinson, 204)


(Of course, Tagore wasn't scolding Americans for his own benefit. By this point he had begun planning for his university at Shanitiniketan, and all of the money he earned would go to that cause.)

Tagore was, not surprisingly, speaking out against militarism a great deal during this lecture series (you can get a flavor for his perspective in the lectures collected in Nationalism). Here he was lucky in his timing; he managed to leave for home just before the U.S. entered World War I.

On his third trip in 1920, Tagore stayed primarily in New York, trying to raise money from wealthy American industrialists. This trip was a failure, in large part because many of the wealthy men he met – people like J.P Morgan -– were involved in businesses that in one way or another depended on dealings with the British empire, and were leery of helping out anyone who was speaking out against it. As Rathindranath put it in a letter, "It was easier for us to speak out against the British Empire in England than in America." And there were signs that the earlier intense curiosity Tagore's presence inspired had worn thin. Perhaps America was a different place in 1920 than it had been before the War, or perhaps (as Dutta and Robinson suggest), fashions had merely changed.

Fortunately, Tagore came to depend less and less on the mysticism and other-worldliness that characterized his early years. As he gained experience, his political critiques of American capitalism became more specific and targeted, less like the vast generalizations about eastern and western 'civilization' of 1917, and more on the order of international power politics.

[We're skipping Tagore's fourth brief trip to the U.S., as not much of consequence transpired, except that he was harassed by immigration at the Canadian border. (Nothing changes, eh?) He also made some statements to the press about the ghastly book by Katherine Mayo called Mother India, which was then a huge bestseller in the U.S. Mayo's book offers that other old myth of India: poor, backwards, savage.]

3. Arguing with America

Tagore's final trip to the U.S. in 1930 was, by comparison to the intermediate visits in the 1920s, a definite success. Though he still took every opportunity to scold western militarism and American business practices (while politely requesting American money for his university), Tagore got invites to all the right parties:

Apart from [Tagore's] striking looks and personality, India was in the news because of Gandhi, and Tagore's [sympathetic] attitude to Soviet Russia had aroused curiosity; probably too, editors realized that this would be Tagore's last visit. In the sixty-seven days Tagore was in the USA, the New York Times ran twenty-one reports on him, including two interviews and a beautiful photograph of him with Einstein, captioned 'A mathematician and a mystic meet in Manhattan.' He was given a private interview with President Hoover, introduced by the British ambassador (a strange contrast with British official behaviour in 1917-1918. When Tagore once more spoke at Carnegie Hall in New York, which held 4000 people, thousands had to be turned away. A dance performance was given at the Broadway Theater by Ruth St. Denis as a benefit for Shantiniketan; Tagore appeared on stage introduced by his admirer Will Durant. There were exhibitions of his paintings in New York and Boston, to which Ananda Coomaraswamy wrote an interesting introduction. (Dutta and Robinson, 298)


On this final visit, Tagore was more careful than earlier about how he posed his critique of western civilization. But he was still ready to dish it:

At a dinner in New York in his honour . . . in the presence of Franklin Roosevelt, the governor of New York, Sinclair Lewis, the latest Nobel laureate in literature . . . and five hundred others, Tagore said: 'The age belongs to the West and humanity must be grateful to you for your science. But you have exploited those who are helpless and humiliated those who are unfortunate with this gift. A great portion of the world suffers from your civilization.' At Carnegie Hall a week later, he went even further. As always he expressed admiration for the ideals of liberty and self-expression of the West at the close of the nineteenth century, but he deplored its failure to live up to them in the East, in particular the failure of Americans to recognize the appeal of India to be free. 'Our appeal does not reach you, because you respond only to the appeal of power.' Japan appealed to you and you answered because she was able to prove she would make herself as obnoxious as you can.' This remark 'elicited considerable laughter and hand-clapping', according to the New York Times (Dutta and Robinson, 300-301)


Reading this account today provokes several thoughts.

It's important to keep in mind that Tagore was not a life-long nationalist figure. He was responding to the situation, and making his critique in language which he thought his listeners would understand. If someone with the Tagore's aristocratic demeanor were around today, he would be talking about very different kinds of issues, and doing it differently. Hopefully, he would be aware that talk of "civilizations" is generally oversimplified and counterproductive. But he made his point: Tagore's aim was criticize an unjust practice (colonialism) and an international system (the League of Nations) which was thoroughly unsympathetic to the plight of colonized people in Asia, Africa, and the Americas. Moreover, he was – in the halls of American power -- pointing out how badly the international system was, even on its own terms, utterly failing.

In some respects, it's surprising how similar America today is to the America of the 1910s and 20s. There is something very typical about the media frenzy that accompanied his first major lecture tour, the dud of his intervening visits, and finally the glamor (with dignity) he managed to get on his last visit there in 1930. He had weathered the initial clamor and the subsequent backlash, and had ended up as a kind of "opinionated celebrity."

Of course, being a "celebrity" rather than an actual political organizer or a committed philosopher has its limits, and it's hard to say whether Tagore's visits to the U.S. had any lasting impact in the American imagination. Certainly, the self-translated Gitanjali has pretty much always been in print, though it has few champions amongst serious literary critics. (These days, Tagore's novels in Bangla are read much more closely; some, like Gora, have been newly translated.) However, though Tagore's literary reputation was generally in decline in the west in his later years, it always remained high in India (where Tagore's “Jana Gana Mana” was adopted as the national anthem), and particularly in Bengal (where 'Rabindra Sangeet' remains incredibly popular and influential). But for all the work fundraising, Shantiniketan suffered for a long while, never quite becoming the site of worldly enlightenment Tagore had hoped for (Visva-Bharati University prospers today). Finally, Tagore's point about the U.S. only recognizing an opposing perspective when backed up by force seems as true today as it was then. At the very least, it seems clear that Tagore knew the American media beast for what it was, and found a way to work with it without compromising himself.

Ok, so it's not an inspiring story of total triumph (but how many of those do we have?). The story of Tagore in America is still instructive, and I think we've seen versions of it again –- with the rapid rise and quick declines in popularity of various self-help "gurus," and perhaps even Arundhati Roy. (If you benefit by exoticization, prepare to spend your life in a cage of well-lit irrelevance.) After his first two trips, I believe, Tagore realized how he was being used, and worked to find a different, more honest way to speak to America.

Tagore was the first Indian writer to really succeed on a global stage not as a curiosity or show-piece, but on the strength of his ideas and his writings. He did a lot to overcome western misconceptions about Indians, even if he did (especially early on) play into some western stereotypes of mystic India. He also probably helped fight the dominant racism of the time, partly by example and partly by his specific political ideas and positions.

More on Tagore:

Another article on Tagore's experience in the U.S.

Articles at Parabaas (including some in Bangla)

Nobel Prize page

Amartya Sen, Tagore and His India

Competing Predictions for the Collapse of Podcasting

There is sort of a debate between Tyler Cowen of Marginal Revolution and Mark Cuban (i.e., of Broadcast.com and now the impressively loudmouthed owner of the Dallas Mavericks) over the future of podcasting.

Cuban thinks it will flame out the way independent streaming radio did in the late 1990s; he should know, as he was involved in that era. But Tyler Cowen thinks the transition will have to do with the way the technology develops. He mentions that a big factor will be search portals:

Some people find blogs through Google, but most find them (I suspect) through other blogs. Podcasting may not work this way. The relative returns to "portal podcasts" will be lower than for portal blogs. Glenn Reynolds can read and process material faster than most people, but no one can hear a two-minute comedy routine in much less than two minutes (no need to write me about speeding up the tape, cutting out the dead space, etc., you get the point). So you won't find good podcasts through other podcasts to the same degree, since it is harder to serve as an effective portal. The sorting will work less well, and the categories will be harder to describe and communicate. Advertising will matter more, and institutions such as iTunes will have more influence over selection and content. Podcasting will be more in hock to MSM than are blogs.

One thing he doesn't mention is the possibility of Google or Microsoft devising audio search engines using voice recognition. I gather from friends in the industry that a lot of people are working on this, though I don't know how far along the development is. If a working version is released in the next year or so, podcasting could have more life in it than people think.

Ideally, that kind of search technology would also be incorporated into MP3 players, so you could search your own voice MP3/podcast collections in the manner of Google Desktop Search. Currently whatever content is stored in my MP3s is in a kind of black hole.

Cowen's last point about the role of the MSM seems right on. I have to admit, despite my hype-ridden posts on podcasting from a few months ago, I'm hardly listening to podcasts these days. The only one I consistently listen to is BBC4's In Our Time, because the topics are so ambitious and interesting (they are, however, currently on hiatus until September). I also listen to a fair amount of Radio Open Source, perhaps not surprisingly. Both are part of the mainstream media.

(Hint: check out their recent discussion of "Integration and extremism of Muslims in Europe" with Peter Berger and Reza Aslan.)

(Another thing: still no desi podcasts, as far as I know. I do get a fair number of people coming to this site looking for "Hindi podcast" or "Indian podcast"; sorry, not yet)