Proto: Laura Spinney

The greatest achievement of this book is the crunching of a vast - multi-continental, multi-millennial - journey into less than 300 pages without being too dense.

Of course, it doesn’t mean that it is too easy either. Keeping track of the evolution of the mother language of what more than half the world speaks can never be easy.

Yet, Spinney succeeds somewhat, balancing information with insight quite well.

And what an epic journey it has been.

Take for instance one minor example of how words travel and evolve. This example is not from Proto alone, but cherrypicked from multiple sources, just to emphasise a point:

The idea of wheel/cycle/rotation:

An ancient obscure tongue split into proto-Indo-European and proto-Anatolian, according to one theory. Speakers of this mother language did not know of the wheel. So they had no word for it.

But by the time of the Proto-Anatolian-speaking Hittites, there was a word for the wheel: "hurkis"

Proto-Indo-European speakers called it "roteh" and "Queqlos/kwekwelos".

Apparently, the root of “hurkis” is different from that of “roteh” and “Queqlos/kwekwelos”, because by then they had become different languages — and people.

Roteh: returning periodically to the same point -- became rotate in the west. Periodically changing weather became "Rutu/Ritu". Menstrual cycles in Marathi and Malayalam: Ritu.

Queqlos/kwekwelos: This became cycle in the west. In Marathi and Kannada, the round shape of murukku made them call it "chakli".

Proto-Anatolian "Hurkis": apparently not part of Proto-Indo-European - still managed to enter Indian vocabulary as "charkha" and "chakra".

It is all so beautifully random and yet logical.

This somehow connects me to the idea of entropy in quantum physics. It basically means that matter is constantly decaying or degenerating into smaller, simpler matter or units, while giving out heat. Entropy is THE ONLY evidence of time according to many scientists.

Is the evolution of languages a similar process — if the standardisation brought out by the modern nation state or the smaller administrative units don’t create hurdles?

Like I have mentioned before, if there is no Kerala state, there is every possibility that “Kasargodan” and “Thironthari” could potentially be new languages in a few centuries or even less. I am almost sure that is exactly what happened to Kannada and Tamizh.

And for the North Indian “proud” Aryan nationalist, the book has got just one thing to say: “Go to Ukraine”!

STFU at least in foreign countries, dear Malayali male!

Torquay beach in Devon, UK -- which is less than a mile from where we now live and over 8,000 km from the nearest Kerala district -- is in frolick mode, with a fair making the seafront all the more lovely and lively.

Gayathri, my niece Meenakshi, and Rudra are soaking it all in like so many other kids who are enjoying the last few days of their school summer vacation. 

It isn't sunset yet, but they are walking back home, chirping, giggling, and gossipping uncontrollably. (And they are so much better at it than we ever were as kids!)

A car zooms by. A loud voice calls out in Malayalam: "Veettil podi" ("Go home, girl/woman". This is a typical male signal to women/girls to pipe it down and coop back into domesticity.)

My little ones -- all of 16, 15, and 14, precisely -- are stunned.

But Gayathri still manages to shout back: "Poda patti!" (Get lost, bitch!). 

Again, there is not a coconut tree in sight. Not a mundu-wearing Ammavan. No, this is not Kerala.

A few minutes later, before the three could recover from their first experience of public harassment, another car whizzes by. This time it is all catcalls and whistles at them, so it could not be ascertained they were Malayalis.

By the time they arrived home, the girls' sense of fury and shock was so thick that the mutton biriyani we made yesterday probably had chunks of it along with the meat.

Athayathu Utthama...we know we Indian/Malayali males are toxic. We have proved it time and again, especially in recent weeks. 

You don't have to prove it across seven seas and in the backwaters of other countries. Stop embarrassing us and dump your macho meanness behind in the Indian/Kerala shit hole before traveling overseas. 

Sick fucks!

Smile, dear Jeeves!

I have now slowly begun to make sense of the non-filmy, real-life British sense of humour. Three instances from the recent past:

Sometime in December 2023...

A bus to "Paignton" arrives. As I board it, my Indian/Malayali insecure self is turned on.

Me to the driver: "Does this one go to the 'Paignton Bus Station'? (Abbey bhootni ke, Paignton dekh ke chadha kaahe ko?)

Driver, a faint smile breaking out: "If you insist..."

I go hide behind a seat.

...

Sometime in January...

Gayathri and I get chatty with a cab driver. Now, imagine him as the Jeeves type -- mid-40s, balding, chin up, and stone-faced.

"Are you from around Paignton?"

"Born and bred in Paignton, sir. Never left town. Though my wife is the other kind."

"Ah ok. Difficult imagining you as a couple. One who never left town, the other who never saw Paignton till marriage."

"Not much to complain about, sir. We have a good relationship. Especially financially."

"How is that?"

"I earn, she spends."

....

Last week, on a bus...

A couple walks in with a handsome black labrador. Settles somewhere in the back seat of the lower deck of the double-decker.

A little later, another couple walks in with a breed that looks like a smaller version of a boxer. Active chap, this brown dog. Sits across the aisle from me.

Still later, a lady in her 40s walks in with a beagle-like breed. The driver has a brief chat with this one -- the lady, I mean.

She walks up to the boxer-like dog's owners and speaks (Here, imagine the voice of Bernadette of the Big Bang Theory): "Darling, could you take your pet to the upper deck. The driver says only one per deck. I would have gone up, but mine's broken its leg. I am sorry."

The boxer-like dog is taken up without any fuss. Then an elderly lady reminds the Bernadette-like one: "But there's another one behind, my love."

The lady with a Bernadette-like voice takes a peek at the back of the bus, nods with a smile and screeches, but politely: "I know, but what could be done? Anyway, they are better behaved than most people on a bus. Drivers should start throwing bones at people boarding, you know? Who knows, they could be trained, too!"

Go, garbage, Goa!

The garbage disposal system in Paignton is even more complicated -- and involves a steeper penalty (£1,000) if done wrongly – than in Swansea. There are four different types that garbage-generators need to segregate before disposal in 3-4 separate bins.

But then, why should that matter to the garbage collector’s Kerala-Goa plans this winter?

We haven’t been able to lose the rubbish since moving into Paignton. The house was filling up. Today, finally, I was ready to clear it all after days of confusion over the time and day of collection.

So, I was up at 5.30am at -2 degrees, having readied cardboard cartons – the local council’s new bins haven’t yet arrived and the old ones are a mess. Here I was waiting for the 6am collection truck that finally arrived only at 7 am, with a bunch of three men and a woman – all jolly and friendly.

I walk up to inform them of my situation without waste-bins. They brush aside my concerns and ask me to get all the garbage I want.

As I get the first carton down, one of the four asks me, “Are you from India?”

Trying to hold on to the plastic covers flowing out, I answer hurriedly in the affirmative. As I turn around to get the next one, he asks, “Which part?”

“Kerala…” and I hurry back. “Oh, Kerala…great…” I hear from behind.

On arrival with the next box – aluminium foil, food wrappers, milk cartons etc – he says, “I’m going there, mate. End of the month.” Meanwhile, the freezing sea breeze is killing me. But I’m amused, nevertheless.

“Nice. Been there before?”

“Nope. But heard a lot and am really excited…”

I smile. And return for the next carton -- and also to get away from the bite even if only for a few seconds.

This time it is thermocol, bubble-wrap, and the like. Light, but large, and even more unwieldy in the breeze…Gayathri’s trying to pick and collect whatever I’m dropping or what’s flying away…

But the man is irrepressible. “This is my schedule…first stop, Condolim,” he pulls out his smartphone to show me.

I’m trying to keep a straight face from behind the bubble wrapper that’s fluttering into my eye.

“Condolim isn’t in Kerala. That’s Goa. But it’s the same region, climate, and topography,” I manage to say with a smile.

His colleague then comes over to cheerfully explain what I need to do with my valuables the next time, which is the next weekend. He helpfully hands me labels for the bins that will arrive from the council shortly. “You’ll have to manage the plastic covers on your own the next time. There’s a public utility around…”

“How far is Condolim from Kerala? You been there?”

I am now strung. What or whom should I focus on? Garbage man explaining garbage, garbage man looking for tourist guide, garbage woman jumping on a cardboard box to flatten it, or the garbage-flutterer breeze…

Luckily, the explanation is done easier – so is the flattening. And I can’t do much about the breeze anyway. The tourist guide slips into me. I give him a brief of what to expect, talking about tropical heat and humidity in -2.

“Dad there’s one more…” Gayathri calls out. Oh, the food waste…

I head back again for the smallest cover and return quickly. “I’m looking forward to the warm sun…the beaches.”

“You have fun…”

Garbage man-going-Goa finally bids farewell because, before Goa there is more garbage. Two weeks more of garbage.

The truck, with its disco lights going crazy non-stop and bringing images from Koyi kahe, Kehta rahe to my mind, moves on.

Go, garbage, Goa!

I was returning from Aylesbury yesterday after having spent some time with my sisters Lakshmi Menon and Srilatha Menon and brother-in-law Harish Nair. I took a train from Paddington to Swansea. A minute into the journey a man and his little girl came and sat beside me. I was reading Art Buchwald — the article was on the Iraq war.

The man suddenly asked me what the book was about. I answered. He didn't let up. He asked me about Art...and then went on to suggest the podcast "Empire". Heaped praise on Dalrymple.

I gave up and shut my book to engage with him.

Turns out, Asim Vane is a Kashmiri -- Gilgit native -- from Lahore. A doctor who immigrated to the UK seven years ago and now works as a GP here. His wife's an anesthesiologist and he has another, elder, daughter.

He became visibly happier on realising I'm from India. Quickly slipped into Urdu. Very charming fellow in his 30s or early 40s.

Asim had moved to the UK for the sake of his daughters after seeing the conditions in his country deteriorate. As expected, he asked me about my move. I only said, "Humme zyada fark nahi hai, Asim." Didn't bother to elaborate.

Before stepping off at Cardiff, we exchanged contact numbers, hoping to keep in touch.

Interestingly, only two weeks ago, while returning from Leeds, I got into a taxi and was whistling "Ye raat bheegi bheegi..." when the taxi driver -- Gilgit native, again -- asked me politely if I could sing the song instead of whistling. I did. He was so thankful. Before driving away, he said: "Aap se milke bohut sukoon mila..."

I mentioned this to Asim...and he simply said: "You never know...we Kashmiris are separated only by a few degrees...he could be related to me."

The Malayali in me felt that familiar surge of endorphin at that moment.

:D

"Teff...I'm deaf, too"

Sometime in early July…

“Hello! May I join you at this table if it’s alright?”

The elderly but spry man approached me, looking to sit in the chair opposite mine at the Swansea city library. I welcomed him, and we immediately hit it off.

The Englishman-turned-honorary Welshman’s friendly demeanour was warm and welcoming, like those of so many other elderly persons I regularly meet at the library nowadays.

“I’m quite deaf…” he often said, reminding me to speak slightly louder than usual even though we met in a library. I thought of informing him about my own defective auditory problem but skipped it for now. His 85 years and my 43 weren't really comparable.

Like any good Englishman, he rarely missed a quip on the weather. Sometimes I’d, too, go faux British with a “Great day, eh?” if only to amuse him. He’d look out of the library window with stretched arms and a happy smile.

Around the fourth or fifth time we met, I walked away after the usual pleasantries, then turned around and walked back to him to finally ask: “Hey, I keep forgetting this…what is your name?”

He was lost as my voice hadn't reached him. I repeated my question, only slightly louder. He smiled, put his hand to his pinna, and said, “Teff…”

….

Over the next few months, we greeted and politely enquired about each other’s well-being and weekends, before passing the day’s edition of The Telegraph. I would often do a slightly louder-than-usual, "Hello Teff..." for his benefit.

We bantered; Teff briefly narrated his 85-year history as an Englishman in Wales, a banker, and an average British Joe. On my part, I fed—often twice over, given his hearing problem—his curiosity about India and my job as a journalist.

Teff is chubby but looks at least two decades younger than his age. A Tory voter, he is also a practitioner of Tai Chi and meditates regularly. He was widowed 25 years ago. He then made a girlfriend with whom he lived in his home of eight decades till she, too, died two years ago. Now he lives alone and is enjoying it.

“I am not going to be around forever, so I’m giving these last few days of mine my everything,” Teff said.

Two weeks ago, I told him that I needed someone to give me the British view on current affairs. Two days after he promised to look around, he offered his own service.

I was glad. I couldn’t have asked for a more experienced and enthusiastic Briton. So that was fixed. The first two and most obvious subjects for starters: The average Briton’s relationship with the monarchy and next year’s national election. Yesterday, over a cup of mocha, we had a good insightful hour-long discussion on these subjects.

After wrapping it up, I told him we should next go with “Israel-Palestine” and Britain's controversial “High-Speed Rail”. He put his hand to the ear and said, “Sorry…?” Teff then suggested I email him the subjects so that he could come prepared.

“Sure, gimme your ID.”

He wrote it down: davidmaddox****@gmail.com

I looked at him, perplexed. “David Maddox?”

Teff put his finger to his pinna again and said, “Eh? Sorry…Deaf”

I sighed, nodded, and mumbled: “So am I Teff, I mean David…So am I!”

All reac

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We are chatting a lot with nothing much to say

 

“Mazha undo avide?” (Malayalam for "Is it raining there?")

This question, asked without any genuine interest or reason, is a filler in most Malayali telephonic exchanges. It changes slightly with seasons: mazha replaced by choodu (heat), thanuppu (cold) and what not. A recent favourite is "Entha corona vishesham avide?” (What’s the latest on corona there?)

Others in the genre are “Pinne enthokkeya?” and “vere enthundu”, both meaning “What else?”, evoking the anodyne “Ingane ponu” (Going on as usual) response.

The moment these questions are asked, you know the dialogue has emptied out and could end anytime now. They indicate boredom and some level of impatience.

In recent times, these questions have begun to spring up much earlier than usual. Calls and video chats are, thus, getting shorter on average. The reason: The frequency of calls (to the same person) has increased, thanks to technology and cheaper data charges.

In the mid-1990s, mom used to call us on the landline from Kuwait once a month. Today, living in Thane, I often chat with people in Kuwait, London, Bahrain, and Kerala simultaneously -- every day.

Result: There is only so much you have got to say to individuals. Most of it has already been conveyed over WhatsApp. Calling over the phone is now more of a boring formality (A video chat may still carry some flavour, with its novelty yet to wear off).

The ease of communication has led to a paucity of content, thanks to mindless overuse.

Besides, it is also killing nostalgia. Fewer memories are being formed and retained as precious. Because there is no real separation, the glue that builds memories.

Take a class of school students, for instance. Till some 20 years ago, graduating meant most classmates are unlikely to meet for a long time and some never again. That gave our brain space to build an aura around old chums, switch on the mind’s sepia mode after a while, and indulge in the mythification of our pasts (Trust me. Most great things from our past were never really that great. We puffed them up to feel good about ourselves).

That doesn’t happen anymore. We are all only a message/call away -- often annoyingly enough. Chat groups have absolutely destroyed the process of nostalgia creation. Worse, they have even destroyed the treasures of the pre-internet generations’ mindscapes by pooling the old-timers back into reality.

So today, we chat, we don’t converse. We share random info, philosophical memes, and reactions (sometimes extreme and mostly miscommunicated) with each other -- and quickly forget. We don’t take time to internalise.

What we need is less chatting and more shared real experiences. Only those will revive conversations -- and nostalgia.

"The UK is busted": Wales Independence March, Swansea

 

Thousands of natives of Wales, along with their supporters from outside the country, marched cheerfully today (May 20) in the bay town of Swansea, demanding independence from the United Kingdom.  

A police official deployed to the march reckoned at least 3,000 people participated in the march that proceeded along the arterial roads of the town centre before congregating in the open ground near the Swansea Waterfront Museum.

The march saw cheery participants from at least three different political parties, including the Communist Party and the Wales Green Party. It was, dominated by Plaid Cymru—the Party of Wales. The event was organised by YesCymru, a non-party political campaign for an independent Wales. 

"This is a call for the UK government to take notice," said Clement Louis, a member of Plaid Cymru. "There is growing awareness of the neglect of Wales...Over half the people here today, at least, don't speak Welsh. They have sympathy...," said the 73-year-old retired English language teacher.    

The key issues that, according to the marchers, have fueled the demand for Welsh independence include the general "contempt" the central government allegedly has for their country, the economic neglect it has suffered over the years, and the steady effacing of the Welsh language.

The marchers also seemed to espouse, alongside the Welsh identity, a bouquet of causes, from trans rights to "Black Lives Matter" to "Tory racism". Britain's Conservative Party seemed to have evoked much snark in the marchers, some of whom carried placards ridiculing the ruling outfit.

Why Wales feels neglected

"The United Kingdom is busted. We keep trying to resuscitate it. I don't see any way out of it, except for breaking it up and starting again, really," travel writer Mike Parker, a native of  England himself, told me at the end of the march. 

"It (Wales) is only ever an afterthought. The UK is such a centralized economy...the country is so skewed towards its southeast corner. London is this great planet that eats up all the resources. It is so disproportionate, and that's why I say we need to rebalance," said Parker, author of Rough Guide to Wales.

A pamphlet issued by the marchers today asserted that Wales needed "a change of direction", with policies that will help its economy recover, provide good jobs for people and raise living standards. 

Another leaflet, emphasising why the country needed independence from the UK, focused specifically on the "Great Train Robbery." This was an allusion to the great rail project planned to connect Manchester, Birmingham, and London, but designated an "England and Wales" endeavour. The notice claimed Wales had been shortchanged by £5 billion. 

It also alleged that Wales had some of the highest energy bills in the UK, with some parts of the country "clocking in at £120 a year more than" the cheapest region in England.  

While most participants of the March that I spoke to did not venture to set a time horizon for their efforts to fructify, some, like Parker, felt a lot of change could happen over the next decade. However, a poll of more than 1,000 people in the month of March reportedly showed an all-time low of 18% support for Wales to be an independent country if a referendum "was held tomorrow". 

Nevertheless, participation in today's march indicates that the urge for independence, even if relatively slim, is alive and kicking just under the skin.

Orphaned: SL Bhyrappa

(English translation of Tabbali Neenade Makane -- "Son, You've Been Orphaned" -- from Kannada)

Outstanding. Powerful. Absolutely heartwrenching. The novel is so powerful, it moved even me, an ardent beef fan.

Ok, let's say "almost moved me".

Because the book is also perhaps the best work of bigotry -- even outright racism -- that I have read among Indian works of fiction. And I am worried that Hindutva will see it as a tool in India 2023.

The story's primary themes are straight from Hindutva's playbook: the cow is our mother and Indian-versus-western civilisation. And underpinning it are older ideas: The village Brahmin is noble, he is the guide, and that others must follow him--and traditions—without asking questions.

Bhyrappa, however, unwittingly exposes the Brahmin, too. Be it birth in the family, death, local issues, or politics, it is always the Brahmin who gains materially. Question that "daana", and get savaged.

The following is an example of such casteism which sticks out despite Bhyrappa's best efforts to put the Brahmin on the pedestal. It is clearly an extension of the blindly favoured and quoted "Karmanye Vaadhikaraste...":

Gomootraanaacharet snaanam vrittim kuryaasca gorasaih

 Gobhirvarceccha bhuktaasu bhunjeetaatha govratii

(Bathing in the cow’s urine, earning livelihood using only the nourishment the cow provides in the form of milk, curd and others, always walking behind the cow, and eating only after the cow has finished eating.)

This was the lifestyle prescribed for one who had taken a sacred vow to serve the cow all his life. This was what Gowda (cowherd) had learnt when he was still a very young boy. In fact, it was this Jois who had taught him this mantra and explained its meaning. Gowda was unfailingly practising this sacred vow in accordance with the tradition handed down to him by his lineage, to the best of his abilities...

So crudely is the caste system alluded to in the book that you immediately wonder why non-Brahmin Hindus of India have not risen up yet in outrage and thrown the system into the sea.

And that's when you come to this line—"In fact, it was this Jois (Brahmin) who had taught him this mantra and explained its meaning"—and arrive at the obvious conclusion that the priestly class has been benevolently brainwashing us, all along, too.

Girish Karnad and BV Karanth watered down the powerful rubbish in the book considerably for the movie. If you haven't yet watched "Tabbaliyu Neenade Makane" in Kannada or "Godhuli" in Hindi, do not waste one minute.

The book translation itself is rudimentary. Perhaps that added to its charm. I could imagine the translator Sandeep Balakrishna thinking in Kannada and writing in English.

What stands out beyond the ideological wrestling in the book is the legend of Punyakoti, the foundation of Bhyrappa's story.

"Satyave Bhagavantavenda Punyakotiya Katheyidu..."

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ptohZQYc-1U

Translation: "This is the story of Punyakoti the cow who said is god."

Only, the imputation is misplaced by Bhyrappa.

Pride and warmth

Today, for the first time since I arrived in Swansea and began exploring the town on foot, I saw the lights switched on at the Church of St Mary behind my apartment building.

I walked in to find the service being offered, but with only around 5-6 elderly folks in attendance. I sat down on one of the chairs and watched and listened. Some choir singing, some sermons, and some chat happening in my own mind.

 

The aural effect in general was soothing and I slowly settled on my own mind's voice. It kept shifting rapidly from one matter to another: my dear Bijoy, my Pullara, Gayathri and Rudra, what if I fail in my venture, will it affect my family, or merely my pride...

I sensed someone's presence. I opened my eyes to find an elderly lady, ambling up to me using a walker and carrying some church literature. "Just in case you need them..." she smiled. I accepted the copy of the New Testament, a book of choir songs, and something else in Welsh. I thanked her.

She returned to her seat some five rows ahead and I to my thoughts.

...it would only be my pride, I concluded. That was the mild pain wrenching my heart. More than Bijoy, more than family, more than Pullara. There was no escaping my self-centeredness...

The service ended presently. The church organ fell silent and the choir group dispersed. I woke up from my reverie, and traced my steps out of the church when I heard an "Excuse me!"

I turned around to see the priest walking up to me.

"We haven't met before, have we?"

"No father (I'm not even sure if that's the term used in the Anglican Church.) I am new to the country."

"Well, welcome then! I am John. Please visit us whenever you can."

"I will do that. Although I am afraid I am not a Christian."

"That's alright. Are you a Muslim?"

"No, Hindu."

"Oh, a Hindu...from India...I know great Hindus. Gandhi, Nehru..."

I smile. "I'm glad. Have you been to India?"

"No, unfortunately. Not yet. Hope to hear about your country from you sometime whenever you have the time. So do visit us."

"I shall surely do that. I will get my daughters, too, to meet you."

"Oh that will be great. Good luck..."

I stepped out. It was drizzling. It was cold. I was, somehow, warm. Despite that edgy pride.

Gayathri's Revenge -- and Compassion

(July 11, 2015)

PTA meeting with Gayathri's teachers.

After the basic academics, we moved on to discuss her general behaviour. They  had no complaints, except for one occasion a few days ago when she picked up another kid's lunchbox and threw it outside the window for no apparent reason. The boy's parents had spoken to the teachers about the missing item.

So, after the meeting, Ramya and I asked Gayathri why she did what she did. Our daughter revealed that this was the guy who had been throwing her pencil and rubber outside the window frequently. She stayed patient for a few days. When his pranks didn't stop, she acted.

So I chided her, saying she should have told the teachers or us about the boy. I sought to strike a mild emotional chord by reminding her that the poor boy must have gone hungry that day.

Ramya and I were amused and mildly stunned by her reply:

"I shared my food with him that day."

Karuppar Koottam and Brahminisation of gods and arts

The Karuppar Koottam row in Tamizh Nadu may well have been manufactured by Hindutva to split Tamizh society, but it doesn't take away from the fact that the group's video was right on dot (even if juvenile).

Those who won't be fooled by random allegations will easily see that the presenter's short video was not ridiculing the deity Murugan himself. He was ridiculing the Brahminical takeover of an ancient tribal god and the local culture he spawned. Such usurpation is also on with other grassroot icons, including Ayyappa, in southern India (The north, of course, succumbed centuries ago).  

By attacking the partly Sanskritised Kanda Shasti Kavasam, a modern (19th century) yet lilting creation by one Devaraja Swamikal, the presenter was aiming at the heart of Brahminism, which has, for centuries, used music and art to hijack and reimagine local icons and legends. 

High-brow classical music and artforms themselves are often the "refined" (sanskrit) versions of folk arts (prakrit). They were usurped and then ringfenced against the original proponents themselves through ritualism, strategic systematising, and brazen mythification. 

Check out how Tyagaraja has nearly turned into "god" for many Carnatic musicians. Remember how MS Subbulakshmi, daughter of a Devadasi, became the MS Subbulakshmi that we know of today only after the Brahminical establishment desperately usurped her in form and spirit (she herself gave in, too, says rebel musician TM Krishna).  

These very arts were then used as the primary vehicle of spreading Brahminism—something like taking over PoW's arms, bringing in the Rowlatt Act, and then attacking the other unarmed enemy soldiers.

Today, they know they have the resources and muscle power of Hindutva. So beware, non-Brahminical Tamizh Nadu and Kerala. They are preparing for their next siege. They are coming for you.

Ego, Ambition And The Genesis Of Partition

(Thursday, September 2, 2010)

They ask, ‘What are the sacrifices of Mr Jinnah and the Muslim League?’ It is true I have not been to jail. Never mind. I am a bad person. But I ask you, ‘Who made sacrifices in 1921? Mr Gandhi ascends the gaddi (throne) of leadership on our skulls’.

--Mohammed Ali Jinnah at a Muslim League meet in Peshawar on November 24, 1945. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I guess it has got something to do with being an Indian. The logic behind the subcontinent’s partition in 1947 has always flummoxed me. For anyone who has a reasonable understanding of Pakistan’s founding, the main argument that fuelled it comes across as merely an exercise in rabble rousing. What is more, by now even respected sections of the Pakistani media and civil society have completely trashed the bogus ‘two-nation theory’, and instead are looking for a wholly new basis of nationhood.

So, it has been my endeavour for a while now to identify that one point in time that marked the fertilisation of the idea of Pakistan. And here it is.

Simply put, there would have been no Pakistan without Jinnah. But my search for that one vital event that led Pakistan’s founder astray from mainstream India, led me to a slightly different conclusion: Without Pakistan, there would have been no Jinnah.

Though this was known in an abstract way, a comment that Jinnah made, perhaps in an unguarded moment, condensed the whole issue into that one all-important point.

Addressing a charged Muslim League crowd, he said: “They ask, ‘What are the sacrifices of Mr Jinnah and the Muslim League?’ It is true I have not been to jail. Never mind. I am a bad person. But I ask you, ‘Who made sacrifices in 1921? Mr. Gandhi ascends the gaddi (throne) of leadership on our skulls’.

In a nut shell, Jinnah had spelt out his primary grouse.

The story goes back a long time though, to the 1910s and 20s -- an era when the Congress’s most popular leaders, the Bombay triumvirate of Pherozeshah Mehta, Dadabhai Naoroji and Gopalkrishna Gokhle, were fading. The Congress itself was still a party of the elite and with membership largely confined to the urban centres of Kolkata, Mumbai, Chennai and Pune.

Gandhi was, of course, reasonably well-known world over by then. Besides he had also maintained working relations with the Congress. But he was not really in the Indian picture, let alone dominating it, till his return from South Africa in 1915.

Being a trusted lieutenant of Gokhale and heir to the Mehta-Naoroji-Gokhale line of thought, it seemed only a matter of time before the dashing Mohammed Ali Jinnah took over the reins of the Congress’s national leadership. With a thriving legal practice, stunning looks, a sophisticated mind and an inescapable elitist aura, Jinnah was popular among the who’s who of the Congress. Also, he was an ardent believer in his predecessor’s constitutional methods of negotiations and litigation to seek an increased role for Indians in governance.

In short, he was the next national leader. Or at least Jinnah believed so and was preparing for the formal ascent. Then, December 28, 1920 hit him. And hit him hard.

On that day, at the Congress’s Nagpur plenary session, Gandhi moved the historic non-cooperation resolution -- a new and revolutionary brand of protest. Jinnah, an out and out believer in maintaining the British connection, was loath to do anything unconstitutional or mass-based.

But he didn’t realise the extent to which Gandhi, in the five years since his arrival, had touched India’s grassroots. His unconventional message, put in simple language, had stirred the masses.

At Nagpur, when Jinnah arose to speak against the resolution, he began his address with “Mr. Gandhi…” Instantly, the conferences erupted into catcalls, hoots and angry “No. Mahatma Gandhi”! While he stood his ground and continued with “Mr. Gandhi”, an utterly humiliated Jinnah painfully realised that Gandhi had stolen a march over him – ‘stepping on his skull’.

Unwanted, his dream of national leadership in ruins, Jinnah left Nagpur by the very next train. Soon, the hopeless barrister quit Congress forever. In early 1921 he withdrew completely from the political stage, which till the other day he thought naturally belonged to him, to concentrate on his flourishing legal practice.

However, he had his pound of flesh 27 years later – in Pakistan.

It is tragic that despite being an ardent believer in Hindu-Muslim unity, a secular patriot and a brilliant tactician, his ego and ambition led Jinnah, in his desire for revenge and power, to trick an entire people.

It shows why, till his very end, Jinnah was not sure what exactly Pakistan meant or stood for. He just needed his turf. There is evidence that till as late as April 1947 he was ready to compromise on Pakistan and agree to a united India -- as long he was given that turf and acknowledged as a leader of consequence.

Jinnah was first blinded by his inability to gauge the national mood in 1920 and then, most importantly, by his ambition. For the latter, Pakistan was the sole balm, and posterity’s bane.

History's little drops of poison

(The Global Chanakya-Pullaratimes

Friday, May 15, 2009)

Communalism has been alive and kicking in India ever since the arrival of the Europeans... India has been invaded by several armies through millennia... but these invasions were rarely viewed through the religious lens... Invasions by Muslim chieftains like Chengiz Khan, Mahmoud of Ghazni and others were just part of life during those ages...

Because, within India too Hindu kings invaded each other regularly, and plundered and looted each others' wealth. So those rampages by Muslim armies were not given the communal hue by natives... They were just another set of looters and invaders.

But things changed with the arrival of the Europeans, and if I may add, the accompanying Christian missionaries. The reason why I think so is simple. The Europeans arrived with the idea trade and then graduated to creating captive markets and raw material sources. This later acquired hues of racism, brought about by the brutal use of gun powder to subjugate the natives.

The moment the Indo-European relationship inculcated identity issues, there arose the need to in racial comparison and subsequently the need to show the White as superior... Thus began a systematic and diabolical programme of reinforcing identities along with generous doses of inferiority complexes and insecurities (Kipling's "White Man's Burden" et al.).

In the Indian context, this process was accompanied by the need to split the society into smaller parts so that each could be handled sperately. Religion was the easiest available social unit that could be seprated into meaningful entities. "Divide and Rule" was born.

This is not to say that Muslims did not carry the sense of superiority or Hindus were devoid of it. The imposition of Jaziya by most Muslim kings proves otherwise. But almost always they were minimal measures to split the society. And almost always the goal was to bring about a harmony in -- be it by the Mughals or Tipu Sultan or various artistes (Ghalib, Faiz, Khusrau, Kabir et al)... they all sought to evolve a syncretic culture...

Like almost everything in this country, the Indian polity has inherited divide and rule in unhealthy measures too.

After the British policies led to the country's dismemberment in 1947, India took a more courageous, long-sighted and sane path as compared to Pakistan. Yet, despite Nehru's unflenching, dedicated and visionary approach towards democracy, secularism and liberalism, the one misake he committed was not breeding leadership in the Congress--perhaps the one and only bastion of the ideals of India's founding fathers.

Lack of leadership--the Nehruvian variety--led the way to his daughter Indira getting into his saddle. Though cast in the same secular, patriotic dye as her father, Indira lacked his democratic vlaues. She shunned criticism, destroyed opposition, sought ultimate control.

It is not surpising that the deterioration of the Congress into a bootlicking party, decaying of the process of appointment of Congress chief mininsters in the states, seeping of corruption into the Indian judiciary etc coincide in their timing with Indira's rise.

While this was happening to the Congress and its spirit, it was the communal forces that were gaining. 1975 could be considered the watershed year for Indian secularism when Indira, with the Congress's deterioration into an autocratic entity, succumbed to the temptaions of emergency and within two years the rightwing, cobbling up a rag tag coalition with the Congress rebels, for the first time made their presence felt in Indian politics.

Ever since it has been a cat and mouse game of who outmaneuvres the other in religious pandering, often nuanced, often not. The rise of Bhindrenwale in Punjab, the devastating effects of the Shah Bano case, the attempted counterbalancing move of opening up the Babri Masjid for the rabid Hindus etc have acted like individual drops of poison.

The populist version of the Hindu righwing's ideals--The Ramayana and the Mahabharata--were "benevolently", and inadvertantly if you please, transmitted via airwaves by the Congress on Doordarshan! But what has exacerbated the communal atmosphere of India are the global changes.

With the unleashing of LPG forces, Indians, as any other nationals, got sucked into the churning of identities that accompanied LPG in 1991 (actually mid 1980s). With an already heavy plate of various communal "starters", the "maincourse" of globalisation simply overawed India.

And, as in the case of almost all other nationals, many Indians began to find refuge in their traditional identities. Hindus being the overwheming majority in India did the biggest damage by getting on to this bandwagon of hardening identities.

Today every aspect of history is looked at by many Indians as a religious issue.

J N Dixit once rightly said, "India is secular because of its Hindus."

If majority Hindus cease to be genuinely secular in future, we can say goodbye to India as we know it.

I may have omitted several issues and for that reason whatever I have written may sometimes feel disjointed or illogical and even biased... Its purely my understand, which itself is, I hope, still evolving...