Versions of the Ramayana

[For people who don't know The Ramayana at all, here is a short version of the story you can look at to gain some familiarity.]

I've been following the discussion of an episode of The Ramayana at Locana. The discussion concerns an event near the end of the saga, after Sita has already undergone the trial by fire (Agni Pariksha), proving her fidelity to Rama during the time she was abducted by Ravana. In some versions of The Ramayana, the trial by fire is essentially the end of the story for Sita. A couple of more things happen, but then Rama rules for 10,000 years.

But in the Malayalam version Anand's father grew up with (the post is actually the text of an article by Anand's father, N.V.P. Unithiri), the Agni Pariksha isn't enough to clear Sita's honor, and the persistent rumors force Rama to abandon Sita once again. Here is the passage quoted:

"What the society thinks is important. The Gods too look down upon ill fame, and fame brings respect everywhere. Does not every noble man yearn for it? I fear dishonour, oh, learned men, I'll even renounce your company and my own life, if needed, for the sake of honour. Sita has to be deserted. Understand my state of mind, I wasn't sadder on anyday before. Lakshmana, tomorrow you take Sita in Sumantra's chariot and leave her at our border. Abandon her near the holy Ashram of Sage Valmiki on the banks of the Tamasa river, and get back here soon."

This episode is known as Sita Parityaga. I'll be referring to it in this post simply as the abandonment of Sita.

A helpful chart of the different written Ramayanas is here. Notably, the first vernacular version of the story was in Tamil. And in at least one version of the story (Tulsi Das's 16th century version in Awadhi/'Old Hindi'), there is no banishment at all for Sita. And some versions listed have Sita banished, but then (and this seems dignified) she refuses to return.

The classic Griffith English translation (episode here; Table of Contents here) also doesn't mention anything about Sita's banishment. The Amar Chitra Katha version is the same -- after Sita's Agni Pariksha, it's Ram and Sita, happily ever after.

A detailed but still skimmable English version of a version of The Ramayana that does include Sita's abandonment can be found at this site at Syracuse (direct link here). In this version, as in the Malayalam version quoted above, Rama instructs Lakshmana to abandon Sita in the forest (interestingly, Rama doesn't tell her himself what he's doing). Sita passes out, and is rescued by Valmiki, who takes her to his Ashram. There she gives birth to Rama's twin sons, Lava and Kusa. As the children grow up, Valmiki composes The Ramayana to tell the sons the story of their father's greatness. A number of years later, the sons recite the story to Rama, who recognizes it and reclaims them. Sita also returns finally, and is proven innocent through yet another divine test. This time, she asks the earth to swallow her up to prove her fidelity, and the earth opens and she disappears. And Rama's 10,000 year rule is without her. (A little sad, is it not?)

In the comments of Anand's post, several of the commentors question Rama's definition of 'honor' in the abandonment of Sita. Dilip D'Souza, for instance, says that if people are casting aspersions on Rama's wife's fidelity, it's his job to stand by her. (Especially since, in this case, she has already been vindicated via a trial by fire. In the passage quoted above, it seems pretty clear that Rama knows Sita was faithful, but is going ahead with the banishment as a matter of public "honor")

The nice thing about an oral tradition is, you can choose for yourself the version you prefer in your own retellings. (In some oral versions of The Ramayana, for instance, it is Sita who kills Ravana with Rama's bow in the great final battle in Lanka, not Rama.) Speaking for myself alone, if I were to tell this story to a child, I would probably take out both episodes -- the trial by fire and the final abandonment of Sita -- and find some other way to introduce the role of Valmiki and the twins (that part I like; interesting self-reflexivity). I don't see why Rama can't simply trust Sita when she says she rejected Ravana's advances.

We have to acknowledge the many trials of Sita in the early written versions of The Ramayana, as a matter of academic accuracy and respect for the history. And The Ramayana is, like The Odyssey, a great and important epic saga that is an important part of the heritage of world literature. (And I hope nothing in this post comes across as disrespectful of either the story or the broader Hindu tradition in which it plays an important part.)

But in terms of using The Ramayana to transmit values to young people today, specifically the value of trust, I might take a different route. Is that political correctness, or is it simply being responsible?

Another question for readers: what other variants of the story have you heard?

Satellite Radio Super-Globality

A few months ago, my wife started a job that has a monster commute across the NYC metro area. She spends a lot of time in the car, so as an anniversary present I got her XM radio to make the driving time a little more bearable. She seems to like it.

A few days after installing it, I was bragging about the device a little with my in-laws in Bombay. In the midst of my laborious explanation of how it works, they stopped me and said 'hey, what's the big deal? We already have one of those at home.' Dude, no way? Way. In some cases, the Indian market for consumer goods is actually a bit ahead of the western one. Satellite radio turns out to be one of them (the other space where that is true is in mobile phones).

Worldspace Satellite Radio has been around for seven years, and has had India in its service range for five of them. But it's only this year that it has made a major push to gain subscribers in the Indian market (coinciding with a stock IPO). According to a recent Rediff report, Worldspace currently has about 40,000 customers in India, and 63,000 worldwide (compare to 4 million XM Radio subscribers and 1.1 million Sirius subscribers in the U.S.). Worldspace in fact predates American satellite radio (they originally owned XM Radio), though it seems they've now been eclipsed by it in terms of subscriber base. The big news this summer is that XM Radio has invested $25 million back into its parent company.

Worldspace broadcasts from two geostationary satellites, and covers an area that includes 4 billion people, including the majority of Asia (East Asia, South Asia, and Southeast Asia), the Middle East, Africa, and Southern and Western Europe. (See the full coverage map here)

The questionable business strategy and management of this particular company probably isn't that important. More interesting is the potential of the medium as a whole: 4 billion people is a lot of potential listeners, especially considering they are being reached with just two satellites. If other companies enter the space, and put up their own satellites, the industry could explode across Asia. Among other things, it could potentially be an impressive engine for globalization: because satellite broadcasts cover huge swaths of earth on limited bandwidth, they can't be specialized very much by region. Thus, all of South Asia gets the same broadcast. Interesting possibilities...

Satellite bandwidth is very limited, so the number of channels offered generally isn't that impressive. People in major Indian metros are not likely to be blown away by Worldspace's Indian selections (there are about 12 South Asia oriented channels), though they might appreciate the international news and music offerings. People in smaller Indian towns -- where the regular FM offerings are still a little meager -- will probably be much more interested in subcscribing. (Too bad Worldspace's recent marketing push is directed exclusively at the big metro markets...)

A major limitation to Worldspace satellite radio currently is the receiver, which is large and bulky, and not meant to be portable. Indians who buy it are probably people with big stereo systems at home. A portable unit is being developed along the lines of the Delphi MyFi (hopefully cheaper in its Indian incarnation), but until it's released, the biggest potential part of the Indian market isn't being served. (Update: In order for portability to be feasible, the company needs to build a network of terrestrial repeaters, which it has not yet done. So it may take a while...)

More on how Satellite Radio works here. Also see the Wikipedia entry on Satellite Radio.

Language issues in Mangal Pandey: The Rising

The English actors speak quite a bit of Hindi in Mangal Pandey: The Rising, and they do it more fluidly and correctly than I've seen in any other Hindi film. There's more here than in Lagaan, certainly, and more also than in the recent flop film Kisna (which was a breakthrough for Bollywood in some ways despite failing as a film; my review here). So I give props to Toby Stephens especially for putting in the extra hours to try and get it right. Props also to the director Ketan Mehta for not simply copping out of the language issue with the usual solution, namely, reducing white actors' roles to an absolute minimum. (Most of the time, white actors in Hindi period films speak only the kind of functional, imperative voice Hindi a Sahib might use with a servant: "darvaaza khul!".)

The issue of Toby Stephens' use of Hindi relates to my earlier SM post on language vs. race in Hindi films. If audiences accept the Toby Stephens character in this movie, it might challenge my claim that badly accented or phonetically incorrect Hindi is unacceptable to mainstream audiences. He's on screen a lot, and many of his lines go well beyond the usual "Baar aa jao!" type of fare. Stephens has to convey quieter emotions -- tenderness, ambivalence, regret -- a tall order even in one's first language. I personally thought Stephens' Hindi was ok: phonetically correct and generally intelligible, though not all of the time. More importantly, he's not convincing in Hindi some of the time. (And as an ABCD, I'm possibly being overly gentle on this score.)

So I have my doubts about whether The Rising really pulls it off; many of the people in the audience where I saw the film (in New Jersey) were tittering when Toby Stephens first started speaking. They eventually stopped, but I'm not at all convinced it was the silence of satisfaction.

The film might fail for other reasons too. I found it bombastic and over-the-top in the usual way of patriotic Hindi films. Some of the dialogue was truly ridiculous, in the vein of: "After a hundred years of the British Raj, the minds of us Indians have grown rusty. But this grease [i.e., from the cartridges of the Enfield rifles] has made them move again..." At times, it seemed like it was a movie about the greased cartridges, not so much the wrongs of imperialism or emergent Indian nationalism. On a more narrative level, The Risinghad too much testosterone with nowhere to go: this a patriotic "war" movie without much war in it.

So I don't quite see where the New York Times is coming from, with their positive review. And I have my doubts about whether Indian audiences will find this story interesting after, or separate from, August 15. We'll see.

Toy Story Theory: Texts and Readers, Toys and Children

What if Toys were Texts? The children who play with their toys are readers: they absorb the details of character – Buzz Lightyear, Wheezy the Penguin, etc. -- and they do further imaginative work, animating the inanimate. The toys on the shelf can be brought together, and the fictional worlds they inhabit (Woody's Roundup Gang; Buzz Lightyear's epic battle with Zurg) can be cross-referenced and interwoven.

In the Toy Story Theory of the Text, the toys/texts have lives of their own, which turn on when we readers are not around to play with them. They are intelligent, but in Toy Story Theory they are not fully autonomous -- that would be too easy. Their one abiding desire is to be read ("played with"), with affection.

[Update/ A Thesis of a Kind: Looking at the interaction between toys and children in this way, we see a version of the interaction of texts and readers, with some of the usual dynamics turned on their head. What I do below is not 'reader-response' criticism but, in some sense text-response criticism. Though of course, it comes back to the adult reader in the end, as it always must.]

Some time after the events of Toy Story, presumably the following summer, Andy rips his Woody doll while playing with him and Buzz. Woody is placed on the shelf, where he finds another broken toy, the penguin Wheezy, and begins to fear he'll soon be thrown away. When Wheezy is set out for a yard sale, Woody tries to rescue him, but ends up in the yard sale himself, where he is stolen by Al, an obsessive toy collector and proprietor of "Al's Toy Barn". Buzz and several other toys set out to rescue Woody.


The fictional world in TS2 exists in parallel with the 'real', human world, and has to continually interact with it. There are, in particular, two kinds of humans to contend with, Andy, the imaginative child who loves his toys/stories, and Al, the evil Toy Collector, whose only goal is profit. After Woody is abducted, he experiences his moment of Peripeteia -- not as dramatic perhaps as the famous sequence in Toy Story (i.e., where Buzz Lightyear realized he was only a toy) -- but still a powerful moment: Woody actually has a family he never knew about:

Woody is taken to Al's apartment, where he is greeted by Jessie, Bullseye, and the Prospector (an unsold toy still in its original box). They reveal to him that they are toys based on a forgotten children's TV show, Woody's Roundup. Now that Al has a Woody doll, he has a complete collection and intends to sell the toys to a museum in Japan. Woody initially insists that he has to get back to Andy, but Jessie reveals how she was forgotten and eventually abandoned by her owner as she grew up, and the prospector warns Woody that he faces the same fate as Andy ages. Woody agrees to go with the "Roundup Gang" to the museum. (Link)


When a blockbuster story comes face to face with its less successful peers, the initial response is confusion. Why aren't you as good a story as me? Social constructionists point out that stories with clear heroic lines are easier to digest than those involving figures like “Prospector Pete,” the sputtering, morally ambiguous protagonist of a depressing work of historical fiction. Deconstructionists take it a step further, pointing out that Prospector Pete, the old man in the box, is the essential truth of every text/toy: no toy is ever really opened. Feminists point out that Emily loves Jessie as much as Andy loves Woody. (And Chloe loves Olivia – note the intriguing homoeroticism of the child/toy bond!)

The endearing thing about the Toy Story universe is that it is aware of the constructedness of toy popularity, and it doesn't attempt to pretend that it can be undone by creating a world where there are no cool toys and Every Toy is Of The Same Value. What it does instead, by forcing the toys to band together in a small “nutty cluster” (Eve Sedgwick's phrase; she was talking about Dickens, but it applies here too), is suggest the power of a group of idiosyncratic personalities working together. It is only by working together, for instance, that the toys can drive a human-sized car (on which, more below).

“Japan” also plays an interesting role in all of this. The name stands in for pure commercialism, which might seem odd, considering this is a movie about commodifiable toys, which has as one of its aims the re-commodification of “Buzz Lightyear” and “Woody” toys in our real (human-humdrum) world. For the children whose parents have already shelled out $20 for the TS2 DVD, there will be another $30-40 to spend on further real editions of the simulacra they have already consumed.

But Japan is also an exotic, bizarro world where the toys that are forgotten 'here' – relegated to life under beds, on forgotten shelves, are enshrined as attractions in museums and worshipped like Gods. In a sense, “Japan” is the biggest and best stage these toys can possibly have. To go there, as Prospector Pete points out (in the movie – it's not in the synopsis above), means eternal life of the spotless kind, even if being sent there in boxes results in a kind of irreversible separation from the space of TS2.

Buzz and his friends search for Al at Al's Toy Barn, where Buzz gets into a scuffle with another Buzz Lightyear doll (who, like Buzz in the first movie, doesn't realize he's a toy), and the new Buzz sets off with the other toys for Al's apartment, believing it to be a genuine rescue mission. The original Buzz frees himself and follows them to the apartment.

When they get there, Woody tells them he doesn't want to be rescued and intends to go with his new friends to Japan, since he's now a "collector's item". Buzz reminds him "you are a child's plaything... you are a toy!" (ironically, Woody says exactly the same thing to Buzz in the first film) Woody is unconvinced and Buzz's group leaves without him. But Woody then has a change of heart and invites Jessie, Bullseye, and the Prospector to come home to Andy with him. The first two agree, but the Prospector locks them in the room, saying that the museum trip is his first chance (since he was never sold) and won't have Woody messing it up for him. (Link)


Prospector Pete is a story that is so proud of itself, it doesn't even want to be read. It simply wants to be seen, known about, admired, and “collected.”

Al takes the toys to the airport, where Buzz and his group manage to free Woody and Bullseye from the suitcase, and stick the Prospector in a little girl's backpack so he can "learn the true meaning of play-time". Jessie remains trapped in the suitcase, and Buzz and Woody ride Bullseye to rescue her from the plane's cargo hold. (Link)


This is my favorite part of the movie (actually both Toy Story movies) – where the living toys have to navigate the human world. They are too small, so they have to find creative ways to make the sensors on automatic doors notice their presence. (Living stories inhabit our world like ghosts, stymied by automatic doors that demand material, rather than imaginary, weight.)

And crossing a wide, busy street becomes a task of Scylla-and-Charybdean difficulty. In TS2, the toys hide under traffic cones that seem to move across the street of their own, mad volition. The toys manage to sneak across, but their little journey has led to a series of human accidents, and a massive traffic jam.

And then the strange, terrifying airport, and the toys jumping out of the baggage compartment of a moving plane, and .... oh, it's just too good, analysis fails me. [Perhaps we could say: overly bright, automated places like airports are Toy Story's version of hell.]

At home, the toys are greeted by a fixed Wheezy, who regales them with a concert. Buzz asks Woody if he's still worried about his eventual fate. Woody replies "it'll be fun while it lasts. And when it's all over, I'll have Buzz Lightyear to keep me company... for infinity and beyond." (Link)


And this is perhaps the real point of Toy Story Theory, the painful anagnorisis that all sentient toys/stories must experience before the credits roll: just as every toy is eventually going to be put on the shelf and put away, every story has a shelf-life in the mind of its reader, and must die.

Eventually the reader will “grow up,” which is to say, she will fully absorb the pleasures and possibilities of the fictional world embodied in both toy and story. She will want to go somewhere else, and have a different kind of experience.

In TS2, it is implied that the grown up “Emily” (and presumably also “Andy) give up their toys in favor of things like record players and telephone. They give up their toys –which have narratives attached to them (like Mr. Potato Head's “angry eyes”), for "cool" objects that don't have any kind of inherent narrative association.

We often joke that our gadgets (cellphones, cameras, etc.) are “toys,” but actually they aren't toys in the Toy Story Theory, not even remotely. They are objects or tools, elements perhaps, of things that can become narratives, but they don't take us anywhere by themselves. Though the conceit of Toy Story is the idea that a child's toys are actually alive, the living world of the toy/story is contrasted to an adult world constituted by affectively detached objects -- narrative dead weight.

Women in Sikhism: A Promising Reform

Sikhs like to talk a big game about gender equality, but most of the time it's just talk. Patriarchal institutions like dowry are still quite widespread amongst the Sikh community in India, for one thing. And worse: Punjab, as many people will know, has the highest male/female birth ratio in all of India, due to rampant female foeticide. It's hard to talk about gender equality when that is going on.

Well, this week there is one small but promising reform out of Amritsar, the granting of full inclusion of women in Sikh religious services, according to the IANS:

Sixty-five years after making a demand that they be allowed to take part in two rituals at the holiest of Sikh shrines - the Golden Temple at Amritsar - women will finally be able to enter an arena so far dominated by males.

The religious promotion and affairs committee of the Shiromani Gurudwara Prabandhak Committee (SGPC) - the governing body for Sikh shrines - decided Monday that Sikh women would be allowed to perform 'kirtan' (singing hymns) and 'palki sewa' (carrying the Sikh holy book Guru Granth Sahib in a palanquin) on religious occasions.

The decision came when the SGPC has a woman president - Jagir Kaur - at the helm of affairs. The first demand to allow women to do religious service at the Golden Temple was made in 1940 but the male-dominated SGPC never allowed it to happen. Jagir Kaur became SGPC president in 1999 but was unable to get the resolution allowing women to join rituals to be passed.

The controversy over women performing voluntary religious service at the Golden Temple erupted in February 2003 when two Sikh women from Britain were prevented from doing religious service there.

Till now, women were allowed to participate only in certain activities at the temple, like preparing food at the langar or community kitchen. (link)


You might be thinking, wait, don't they already have a woman president of the SGPC? Well, the short answer is, she's no feminist. There's also a longer answer there, involving Bibi Jagir Kaur's likely involvement in the murder of her own daughter five years ago. (She was acquitted.) And there's another issue -- Bibi Jagir Kaur was actually just removed from the position three weeks ago because of a corruption scandal (which means the story above is actually mistaken; more on this at the end of this post).

This reform seems like it might be a big deal for religion in the Indian subcontinent, since neither mainstream Hinduism nor Islam currently allow women to lead prayers or conduct ritual observance. In the Hindu tradition, as I understand it, there have been reformers like Vivekananda who have advocated women's empowerment along the way, but none have gone so far as to advocate women taking on the role of Poojari. (Note: my knowledge of this is very limited; I'm willing to be educated on this by readers.) In Islam, women have been demanding their rights to lead prayers, but it's mainly radical groups in the U.S. like the Daughters of Hajar that are forcing the issue. As far as I know, no one is talking about this in South Asia itself.

While the novelty of this reform is worth celebrating, it's hard to believe it took this long for it to happen. Sikhs have long trumpeted the pro-woman qualities of Sikhism, which are inscribed in the Guru Granth Sahib in various passages, and which go all the way back to Guru Nanak. And Sikh religious services, which revolve around readings from the Guru Granth Sahib (i.e., the holy book), and the singing of hymns (kirtan) are relatively unspecialized, which means the absence of women can't be explained as a matter of "training" or "education." There is also no official priesthood in the Sikh tradition -- technically, any baptized Sikh can lead the singing of kirtan or perform the duties of a Granthi (see here for more). Given those two facts, it's remarkable that the ban on women leading religious services at the Golden Temple -- a flagrant inconsistency -- persisted as long as it did.

This reform is going through even as Bibi Jagir Kaur faces a fresh controversy. She has been accused of embezzling 700 million Rupees (70 crores; US $16 million) from the SGPC coffers. In July she was, in fact, expelled from the SGPC for five years as a result.

As to whether there is any connection between the timing of this reform at the Golden Temple and Bibi Jagir Kaur's (latest) corruption scandal, I can't say.

The Kite Runner

I recently read The Kite Runner, and liked it. Besides the primary story about a pair of friends growing up in idyllic, pre-1973 Afghanistan, there is an interesting consideration of life in the Afghan neighborhood in the Bay Area, "Little Kabul" in Fremont (a town which also has a large Indian population, incidentally).

Fremont is where author Khaled Hosseini grew up after his folks left Afghanistan in 1980. It's interesting to me that in real life Hosseini is a practicing physician (age 38), while he makes the protagonist in his somewhat autobiographical book a professional writer. That Amir's father in the novel accepts his son's unconventional choice of profession without a fight -- which no South Asian parent would ever do! -- might be the only thing that really doesn't ring true for me in terms of the immigrant experience reflected in The Kite Runner.

It's hard to say exactly why The Kite Runner has become such a big hit. According to one recent USA Today article, it's sold more than 1.4 million copies and had 17 printings, which makes it a certifiable phenomenon for a first-time author in today's anemic book market. (Other tidbits: it's currently ranked #9 at Amazon, and hit #1 on the New York Times paperback bestseller list this spring.) It's almost entirely a word-of-mouth phenomenon, which makes it even more impressive. Americans want to read this book -- by an unknown Afghan who happens to have a name that's not so different from "Hussein." That's something.

And most people I've talked to -- including several of my colleagues in the English department -- seem to really like the story. It clicks; it strikes a nerve; it does something. There are also doubters, such as this Slate writer, who found the book's psychological focus on redemption a little too pat -- almost programmed to appeal to western readers. (Hm, she may have a point there.)

In my view, though it's not quite a literary masterpiece, The Kite Runner does do some interesting things narratively, and is a nicely paced and carefully written story. The most intriguing element for me are the references to the 9th century Persian epic the Shahnamah (sometimes spelled Shahnameh), by the Persian writer Firdawsi.

The particular chapter of the Shahnamah that is singled out in The Kite Runner (and it has resonance in more than one way in the story, but I won't give away exactly how) is the story of Rostam and Sohrab. Rostam is a king and a brave fighter who has a rival named Sohrab. After a series of skirmishes, Rostam mortally wounds Sohrab. In the conversation the two of them have after the battle, as Sohrab is dying, it becomes clear that Sohrab is in fact Rostam's long-lost son. Here's the paragraph quoted in the novel:

If thou art indeed my father, then hast thou stained thy sword in the life-blood of thy son. And thou didst it of thine obstinancy. For I sought to turn thee unto love, and I implored of thee thy name, for I thought to behold in thee the tokens recounted of my mother. But I appealed unto thy heart in vain, and now is the time gone for meeting...


Ah yes, fathers, sons, and a scene of primeval violence. It's the kind of thing that only really happens in heatbreaking medieval epics and melodramatic Hindi films, but it gets me every time. It's important in the beginning of the novel -- as the protagonist feels neglected by his father -- and it becomes important again at the end, in an interesting way. If you don't stop to notice the connection, you might miss it.

(Incidentally, check out illustrations from different early manuscripts of the Shahnamah at the Shahnama Project at SOAS. Beautiful... And here is a translation of just the Rostam and Sohrab chapter of the Shahnamah).

The other thing I like in The Kite Runner is the way Hosseini goes easy on the ethnography. You don't hear long lectures on Burqas, or Pashtun marriage rituals, or inter-ethnic rivalries in Afghan society. There is a little on each of the above in the novel -- you might learn a couple of things about relations between Pashtuns and Hazaras -- and that's undoubtedly part of its appeal for some people. But Hosseini doesn't hit the reader over the head with it, the way Asne Seierstad does in The Bookseller of Kabul -- the "other" book on Afghanistan everyone is talking about.

(On the other hand, Seierstad's book is an explicitly feminist account of how Afghani customs are oppressive to women. This is something Hosseini's book doesn't really get into much. His next book, he says, will deal with gender issues in Afghan culture much more directly.)

Hosseini avoids excessive explanation and historical context; perhaps he realized while writing it in 2001-2002 that many readers coming to his book would already know the story of the exile of King Zahir Shah in 1973, of the Soviet invasion and the devastating civil war that followed, and the rise of the Taliban (see Wikipedia for a brief primer on modern Afghani history).

With the ethnography and historical explanation at a minimum, Hosseini is free to jump right into the story.

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

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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.