Hindutva's Orwellian Agenda

Control over the past is “more terrifying than mere torture and death,” writes George Orwell ([1949] 2006, p.28) in his dystopian novel, Nineteen-Eighty Four.

Orwell in this novel ridiculed all the ‘totalitarian nightmares’ for manipulating history. He particularly derided the ruling Party’s slogan: 

Who controls the past controls the future: 

Who controls the present controls the past.

“The monopolistic nation states and ‘powers that be’ do not like plurality as it threatens the uniform worldview they want citizens/subjects to hold. Totalitarian regimes were the worst culprits in this regard”. (Yadav, 2002)

According to Heywood (2007, p.217), “totalitarianism is an all-encompassing system of political rule that is typically established by pervasive ideological manipulation (italics mine) and open terror and brutality.”

Nineteen Eighty-Four (first published in 1949) tells the story about Oceania, a society ruled by the oligarchic dictatorship of the Party. Life in the Oceanian province of Airstrip One is a world of perpetual war, pervasive government surveillance, and incessant public mind control. This is accomplished with a political system named English Socialism (Ingsoc), which is administered by privileged Inner Party elite. Yet they too are subordinated to the totalitarian cult of personality of Big Brother, the deified Party leader. The protagonist, Winston Smith, is a member of the Outer Party who works for the Ministry of Truth, which is responsible for propaganda and historical revisionism. His job is to re-write past newspaper articles so that the historical record is congruent with the current party ideology.

This novel popularised the adjective Orwellian, which refers to “official deception, secret surveillance, and manipulation of the past (italics mine) in service to a totalitarian or manipulative political agenda” (see Wikipedia, Nineteen-Eighty Four).

Orwell writes “The mutability of the past is the central tenet of Ingsoc. Past events, it is argued, have no objective existence, but survive only in written records and in human memories. The past is whatever the records and the memories agree upon. And since the Party is in full control of all records and in equally full control of the minds of its members, it follows that the past is whatever the Party chooses to make it”. (Orwell, op.cit., p.181)

“[B]y far the more important reason for the readjustment of the past is the need to safeguard the infallibility of the Party. It is not merely that speeches, statistics, and records of every kind must be constantly brought up to date in order to show that the predictions of the Party were in all cases right. It is also that no change in doctrine or in political alignment can ever be admitted. For to change one's mind, or even one's policy, is a confession of weakness”. (Ibid., pp.180-181)

Various regimes have adopted this technique of manipulation of history to strengthen their hold on the subjects.

So, Napoleon entrusted the administration of history writing to his Minister of Police. He is also reported to have told this minister that the past be treated in such a manner that anyone who reads that history heaves a sigh of relief on reaching 'our rule' (Gooch,1956 cited in Yadav, 2002).

Similarly, Hitler declared that the more urgent goal of history lay not in the 'objective presentation' of facts but in instilling national pride and in recalling the growth of the united nation due to the efforts of German heroes like Charlemagne, Luther and Bismarck topped by Hitler himself. Consequently, Hitler also erased the French Revolution from the curriculum to prevent the German students from turning into democrats (Southgate, 1996 cited in Yadav, 2002).

Ideologically motivated history was also the norm in USSR. For example, in late 1920s the role of Trotsky was eliminated from narratives of the Great October Revolution, a historical manipulation satirized by George Orwell in his famous novella Animal Farm (1945). This was the result of his questioning the Stalin regime - whether the policy of the Soviet socialist rule was a dictatorship of the proletariat or a dictatorship over them? (Stern, 1970 cited in Yadav, 2002)

The educational establishment in India under the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP)-led coalition rule from 1998-2004 also set out on a similar agenda of manipulating history.

---

This is the introductory chapter of my dissertation submitted at Asian College of Journalism. The whole document can be read here - 

http://www.scribd.com/fullscreen/87359157?access_key=key-1sojlhccdpulsjhursb4

You can read George Orwell's  Nineteen-Eighty Four here - http://orwell.ru/library/novels/1984/english/en_p_1

Image Courtesy:
http://www.extremetech.com

क्या तेरा है, क्या मेरा है?

An attempt to present a poem through an audio-visual medium.

Images Courtesy:

Various sources. Kindly bring any copyright violations to notice.

My second published article

I might be away from blogging but my freelancing assignments are giving me a chance to update the blog. Here is my second published article in the Op-Ed section of The Tribune, Chandigarh-Delhi.

You can read the article on the newspaper's website - http://www.tribuneindia.com/2011/20110517/edit.htm#7

Image Courtesy:

My mobile phone and The Tribune

My Hinduism

I am an atheist; I have lost interest in offering prayers or visiting temples. However, being atheist doesn’t make me a non-Hindu. I don’t see Hinduism as a religion but as a way of life, the Indian way of life.

Historically, for foreigners the Hindus were those who resided beyond the river Indus. They were the citizens of Hindustan.

Hinduism is an eternal cultural revolution. It is known for its openness and has always adapted itself since the Vedic ages. New influences, ideologies and cultures have arrived from outside and many new have taken birth within this region but Hinduism has always embraced them and coexisted with them. 

When the Vedic way of life or Brahmanism was threatened by the liberal ideologies of Buddhism and Jainism, it adapted itself and rejuvenated within some centuries. It sustained the rule of Islamic rulers in the medieval ages and even forced Islam to adapt itself to the Hindu way of life.

There is no scope of so called fundamentalism in Hinduism as Hinduism never propagated any fundamentals. Stop confusing Hinduism with the ancient Vedic religion and look at it with an open mind. I believe in this brand of Hinduism.

So when people talk about reviving the old glory of Hinduism, they are just fighting a personal battle with vested interests. Hinduism is forward looking and not backward looking.

It was this backward looking tendency that made some maniacs destroy one place of worship to erect another in 1992 to correct an alleged wrong committed in 1528. Because of this one act, India has bled again and again in the last two decades. The covert actions of Pakistan are not as much responsible for the Islamic brand of terrorism as these politically motivated acts of violence which are claimed to be spontaneous outbursts of the population.

And now, those who want to turn a blind eye to a new brand of Militant Hindu Nationalism or don’t want to see it as a big threat are just giving into the wishes of these backward looking ideologues who want to tarnish my faith, my Hinduism.

In the Image:

A confluence of rivers. Just like it, Hinduism is a confluence of various ideologies, cultures and traditions.

Image Courtesy:

http://gallery.nen.gov.uk (original)

The Threat Quotient

Since long I have been thinking about returning to serious blogging and last week an issue did come up which presented that opportunity. However, thanks to my laziness, I kept procrastinating but finally I am here dishing out my humble views on the issue which has created a slight furor in the political arena though the rising onion prices has relegated it to the back burner. Nonetheless, it is an issue which will keep returning and haunting this country.

Wikileaks which was turning out to be an embarrassment for the American government reached the Indian shores with the news that the Yuvraaj Rahul Gandhi thinks that Militant Hindu Nationalism is a bigger threat to India than the terrorism being perpetrated by militant outfits like LeT.

Do I agree?

Well, Yuvraaj ji, though I hate Dynastic politics and hence I am no big fan of yours, still I agree with this statement of yours because I tend to think objectively.

First of all, Rahul never said that Islamic Terrorism is not a threat to India. In absolute terms it definitely is and one should note that during the above mentioned candid admission of Rahul to the US Ambassador, he had also admitted that there is evidence of some support for LeT among certain elements in India's indigenous Muslim community too. Maybe, this statement lost its importance in the entire furor created by the other big statement.

According to Rahul, it is on relative terms that Militant Hindu Nationalism becomes a larger threat to India. But then one will argue, can we quantify the threat while talking about terrorism, whichever hue or colour it might be having, here ofcourse green versus saffron.

Definitely, you can’t. Terrorism in any form is equally threatening. So why do I say Rahul is right?

It’s important to look at the overall consequences of the actions perpetrated by Militant Hindu Nationalists and the situation arising from such violent polarization of the society. It is this situation that poses a bigger threat and that’s what Rahul meant when he spoke those words.

How am I so sure if this is what he meant?

Well, because I hold the same views and hence, somehow I can gauge the sentiments behind the statement.

Opposition keeps accusing Congress of indulging in Muslim appeasement. However, the fact remains that appeasement never leads to actual upliftment of the community being appeased. Hence, the situation of Muslim community remains as abysmal as it was. Findings of Sachar Committee Report substantiate this fact. 

Ofcourse, the community feels cheated by both the sides, those who allegedly appease and those who accuse them of doing that. In such a scenario, certain sections within the community are definitely going astray. However, to catch hold of these sections is not that difficult for the simple reason that they are a minority within a minority and those responsible for catching them largely come from the majority community.

Then why they don’t get caught is a different story linked to the so called minority appeasement by those in power. Anyway, without going off topic, I must tell you why I brought this up.

Now think of the terrorist activities being committed by those who comprise a minority within the majority, i.e., Militant Hindu Nationalists. Here sympathies of those responsible to catch them might hinder them from doing their duty. I am by no means questioning the honest police officials but then there are black sheep in their ranks and frankly, many of them as we all know.

What happened in Gujarat is known to all. You may keep on prolonging the investigations but the horrendous stories that came out couldn’t be someone’s figment of imagination.

Hence automatically, militant activities being committed by those sections which come from the majority community become bigger threat.

The polarization it creates is even bigger as now the minority community tends to feel even more insecure and hence, those from amongst them supporting groups from across the border increase in proportion.

The situation can only worsen from here.

It is this situation being created by the Militant Hindu Nationalism that is posing the biggest threat to India. The terrorism from across the border can be tackled by the mere patriotic conscience against it but that being bred in the name of religion within the country by the majority community may go out of hand.

So to sum it up, Militant Hindu Nationalism is a bigger threat to India’s integrity than the Islamic Terrorism being perpetrated from across the border. Period.

Off the Topic Reflection:

In a class some days ago, I was discussing similar issues with the students. There was one student who kept negating my stand on little being done for Muslim community and threat from Militant Hindu Nationalism. To some extent it was irksome but overall he was a very intelligent and responsive student. While taking the attendance, I realised he was a Muslim. 

Before leaving the class, one student asked me that what is the biggest example of secularism in India?

Though, I just replied that it is the fundamental right to freedom; I actually wanted to say, see how I, a Hindu is accusing the successive governments of doing little for the Muslim community and talking about threat from Militant Hindu Nationalism and this student, a Muslim is constantly negating me.

Militant Hindu Nationalism is the biggest threat to this very secular fabric of my nation.

In the Image:

A news report about Malegaon Blasts (2008). The investigations led to the unmasking of the ugly Militant Hindu Nationalism.

Image Courtesy:

www.dnaindia.com (original)

Wish

	This post was voted as the best from amongst the 70 entries for Blog-a-Ton 12 and won me the Gold Blog-a-Tonic of the Month aka  GOLD BATOM award. Click here to see the results page.
	This post got selected for BlogAdda's Tangy Tuesday Picks. Click here to see the BlogAdda page.

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 12; the twelfth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

“Oye Vijay bhai, Come fast. She’ll be in the verandah anytime now.”

Saying this customary line and banging my door hard, Arun, my neighbouring roomie rushed up through the staircase to join the other guys. As always, I rubbed my eyes, took a big yawn, got up slightly, scratched my pot belly, shedding some body hair in the process and suddenly realizing what the ruckus was all about, sprung up instantaneously. Ignoring the fact that I was in my underwear and was all sweaty due to the Delhi heat, which made sleeping at nights, a hellish experience; I too ran up to join all my fellow P.G.’s.

“Hey, you hirsute, how many times we’ve told you to cover yourself before you come,” yelled Abhinav as I barged into the roof.

“Shut up. I don’t have to mind myself in front of a bunch of gays,” I retorted, pushing him aside to take a strategic position along the railing.

“Weren’t you supposed to get a pair of binoculars from home,” I impulsively asked Rajesh who had just returned from Hyderabad.

“Yeah yeah, Narendra is repairing it and getting it in a while. Don’t get on my nerves,” snapped Rajesh, focusing his eyes towards her terrace in absence of the binoculars.

This was our daily routine, the first thing we did every morning. We, the future of India, the enlightened ones who had taken upon themselves to pull the jittery administrative system of the nation, we the aspiring civil servants, but in short, just a bunch of wannabes.

She used to come to her terrace every morning to do some yoga and aerobics. Her bungalow was a couple of lanes across. However, as both the places where we stayed were the tallest amongst the neighboring ones, we had an eagle’s eye view from our roof.

We all had gathered in the national capital from different parts of the country, some came from the plush plains of Punjab and others from the arid deserts of Rajasthan, some from the coconut coasts of Kerala and others from the mineral rich inlands of Chhattisgarh, some from the sugarcane fields of Maharashtra and others from the spicy land of Andhra Pradesh, all with the same dream in their eyes, to pursue the common ambition of joining the guild of extraordinary not-so-gentlemen.

In an otherwise hectic routine, bird watching was a great respite and since a couple of weeks, we had laid our eyes on this beautiful bird. Frankly, from this distance, it wasn’t easy to recognize her but her milky white complexion and petite physique could not be missed in the small and tight outfits she wore.

For a person like me who fell in love on every snap of the fingers, it took no time to fall in this pit once again. Yes, I loved her. In case you want to correct me and tell me sympathetically that ‘my boy, it was just lust’; let me assure you, in that case according to me, the hormonal attraction between the male and the female can be nothing but lust and the karmic connection of the hearts and the souls is all crap.

While not studying, I used to spend all the time just thinking about her. Her image that kept coming back and made me yearn for her was the one when on an evening, I had seen her grabbing some stuff from the terrace as it had started raining. It was pretty windy too and she struggled as her skirt fluttered, exposing much for a nerd like me to go out-of-control.

I wanted her badly. How I wished to clear my examination soon and barge into her house and ask her to marry me. I know, you must be thinking what a maniac I am. You must also be concerned at the sorry state of affairs that people like me can end up running the country. Well, don’t think that much. Even I knew that I am just fantasizing. But somehow deep within, I wanted at least some fantasies of mine to come true. After all, there was no harm in wishful thinking.

Many such days passed adoring her and the nights, beating the heat in her memories. With no access to television or internet, I had nothing better to do. Finally, the inevitable happened. Our preparatory course got over. Some of us decided to stay back while some like me had already planned to move back to our respective cities to prepare further. So with a heavy heart, for one final time, I woke up early to capture her in my eyes for eternity. The same afternoon, I took a bus destined for my city, Chandigarh.

*

Once back, I was engulfed in serious studies and by sheer hardwork, after just a couple of attempts, I cleared the examinations. I ranked decent enough to make it to the elitist services of the all – The Indian Administrative Services.

Suddenly there was a sea-change in the attitude of people around us. For some time, it was difficult to adapt to the change but soon, I started getting used to it.

As I shifted to Mussoorie for my training, my mother started hunting for brides. Already, I had crossed the average age at which most of my cousins had settled down. However, I was in no hurry.

As time progressed, we started receiving proposals for matrimonial alliance from unknown nooks and corners. The marriage market in India works on the simple economic principle of demand and supply. As the supply of the rare breed like me was low, the demand tended to be pretty high.

I had heard of a man who had topped civil services some years ago and went on to marry the then Union Finance Minister's grand daughter. In doing so he had dumped his girl friend who had been with him since college days, living with him in Delhi whole throughout his preparation and caring for him like a dedicated wife.

When I had heard this story from one of my fellow trainee at LBSNAA in Mussoorie, I had cursed that man. However, today I had started finding some logic in what he had done. Power corrupts, they say and it had definitely started corrupting me. Within two years, I had rejected 25 girls, that is on average more than one every month. Add to it, dozens of proposals that had been rejected at the first filtration level itself, which is by my mother, father or sister. 

If not for my newly acquired elite status, these girls would have just spitted on my face on the mere prospect of spending an hour with me and their rich fathers would have hanged me in full public view on hearing about such preposterous proposal. But today, I was the one who was rejecting them and I surely liked it.

Every time I went to see a girl in some lavish 5-star hotel or a sprawling mansion, I could hear a song playing in the background – 'I've got the power'. The parameters on which I evaluated them weren’t their beauty or intelligence but the status of their fathers and their ability to pull the strings at the centre to help me in my deputations, transfers and promotions.

Initially, I had wondered how these groom hunting scavengers came to know about me, till Arun had made an unbelievable revelation.

“Don’t you remember, after your training got over at Mussoorie, all of you were given an information booklet containing your contact details?” he asked me.

“Yeah, so what?” I had answered, puzzled by the odd question.

“So my dear friend, you don’t know that while you guys were just around 100 or so, the booklets printed were nearly 5000. Now don’t ask me where the spare copies go,” he had revealed as I saw a halo appearing around his small head.

This was a rumor or a fact, I didn’t know but it definitely had some logic to it.

Arun, who got through the civil services in the very first attempt had joined the bride hunting game a year earlier than me. Given his modest upbringing and ordinary looks, any girl would have been a prize catch for him. But now with the IRS tag, his demand had gone up by leagues.

"Are you a virgin," he had asked one girl, daughter of a wealthy businessman.

"Yaar, she was just too unbelievingly hot, that I had to confirm," he had later told me embarrassingly.

"Are you?" was what the girl had replied with a mischievous smile on her face.

Poor Arun was neatly trapped by this question. Both the answers would have embarrassed him in front of her; a yes meant he was a big looser, which he definitely was, and a no meant, he was a big hypocrite, which again he was to some extent. 

They ended up marrying and upon returning from the honeymoon, Arun proudly declared to me that she was teaching him all the moves.

*

It was a pleasant Delhi morning, a rare weather in the capital, when my mother declared that we have to go for yet another rendezvous with some prospective in-laws for me.

As most of the times, I enquired nothing about the girl but just her father. Though his credentials didn't sound so great, there was no harm in having a lavish lunch at his expense.

"Arre, this place must be pretty close to where you stayed while your preparation," my father exclaimed as we approached the area.

"Chalo, it's nice. I might give a courtesy call to Colonel Uncle," I said referring to the person at whose place I used to stay as a PG.

"It seems pretty close," my mother said as we passed the lane leading to Colonel Uncle's bungalow.

We took the next to next right and soon the driver honked in front of a massive gate.

"We've reached sahib," said the driver as I for a moment went blank.

As the gates to the mansion opened, I could just stare in amazement. For four months, I had loitered in front of these gates hoping to take a view inside. Finally, they were being opened for me, the gates to the abode where my dream girl resided.

I couldn't believe what was happening. The atheist in me suddenly seemed crumbling and I gave a sigh, 'Oh, Lord!'

We were welcomed by a horde of servants who led us to the door where the owner of the mansion was waiting for us.

“Hello, Mr. Arora. Welcome to my humble cottage,” he said extending his hands to greet my father, choosing that stale line from innumerable Bollywood movies but without any trace of humility to be found in it.

Soon we were seated in the drawing room which was big enough to accommodate my whole house back in Chandigarh.

I waited impatiently for what was next in store for me.

As I picked a glass of water, I heard a clatter of high heels and turned to my left to see a woman approaching through the lobby. I wore my spectacles to see clearly and was amazed at what I saw.

It was her, my dream girl approaching me with a huge smile on her face. I was seeing her after five long years and she definitely looked a little elder than what I had imagined her to be. Afterall, the distance between our homes had never allowed me to see her clearly and considerable time had elapsed in between.

However, she was undoubtedly angelic, someone from out of this world. Her long hair were left loose and I could smell their fragrance, sitting many yards away. Her body was toned just the way it used to be though she wore a little too much than what I was used to see her in.

“Here comes my dear wife,” announced my prospective father-in-law.

Suddenly, I felt floor slipping under my feet. I just could not imagine what I just heard. However, coming out of my dream and thinking logically, it all made sense. She by no means looked like a prospective bride.

I just kept staring at her as she came and greeted us and sat just across to me.

Soon, their daughter too joined us and my parents started talking to her, asking her about her likes and dislikes and everything possible under the sky.

“She is just 19 right. Isn’t she a little too young?” my mother asked my dream girl.

“Well, Mrs. Arora, when I got married, I was just 17. It’s a common thing in our families. The younger the bride, it’s easier for her to adapt to the new environment. Otherwise, my daughter has been good at studies. She’ll be completing her B.A. this year,” she replied with a charming smile on her face.

We sat there for about couple of hours, had lunch and had some discussions with her husband, the guy whom I envied the most today. Mere sitting in front of her was making me go crazy. I felt that same urge, I used to feel back in those days. Today sitting so close, I felt, as if I could just see her through. I could feel butterflies in my stomach on this very imagination. I wished everyone else just disappeared leaving two of us alone in this trance.

All this while, I was just lost in my own thoughts. I preferred not to have any tete-a-tete with the young girl who was also sitting there somehow uninterested, preparing herself to be slaughtered in this impersonal pact between a businessman and an administrative official.

Soon it was the time to leave and after exchanging some pleasantries, we were on our way back.

“So Beta, did you like the girl,” asked my father expectantly.

“Don’t you think she looks a bit too young for him,” commented my mother still not fully convinced.

“Maybe, I am a bit young for her,” I murmured, lost in my own thoughts.

“What?” asked my mother puzzled.

“Nothing. I mean yes, I liked the girl. I want her to be my bride,” I replied, deep inside wishing for an unthinkable as my parents gave a final sigh of relief.

***

Disclaimer
This is a work of fiction based on some ugly truths of our society. However, I have used the names of all the good friends I had made in New Delhi when I stayed there for half a year, preparing for civil services. 

Off-the-topic Reflections
I got the idea for writing this short story while travelling back from New Delhi after attending the Blog-a-Ton Anniversary Celebrations Meet. As I could not dilute the idea, I decided to write the story before doing any other writing. Because of it, I missed writing about the Meet on my blog. I'll take this opportunity to thank Richa for making all the arrangements for the meet in such an organised manner. I must also thank Geetanjali and Himanshu for the roles they played in organising the event. And not to forget all the fellow bloggers who attended the meet; thanks a lot.
While we were enjoying in Delhi, Rashi and Siddhesh organised the meets in Mumbai and Pune. I must thank both of them and all those who attended the meet for making this day so special for me and all the blog-a-tonics. I must also mention and thank Venky who did an update on Pune Meet.
Long Live BAT!!!

Image Courtesy:
http://media.photobucket.com (original)

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Escape

This post was voted as the best from amongst the 60 entries for Blog-a-Ton 10 and won me the Blog-a-Tonic of the Month aka BATOM award. Click here to see the results page.

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 10; the tenth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

There was not a single speck of doubt in his mind. He looked sideways and then clutched his son, close to his heart. “It is the time to escape.”

 

*

“So you are Jayaprakash, haan?”

“Ji Sahib.”

“Listen carefully. You will get a daily wage of Rs. 165 throughout this project. You are required to work for a 10 hour shift. When there is more pressure, you may have to put in more hours. There will be no compensation for the same. I believe Mani Ram has told you about the commission and all.”

“Ji Sahib.”

“So you are alone or with your family.”

“Sahib, my wife and son are also accompanying me.”

“So what about your wife? Won’t she be working.”

“No, Sahib. She is not keeping well.”

“Ok. Ok. You can put up in one of the vacant kholi there. Any questions?”

“Sahib, is there any provision for education of our children.”

“Not yet but I believe some local NGO will soon start conducting some classes. Chalo now hurry up. Put your thumb impression here.”

“Sahib, can I have the pen. I’ll sign instead.”

“Oh, signature! Fine. Have it.”

*

Jayaprakash was just another migrant labourer from the state of Bihar toiling in the sun and mud of the Punjab plains. Born under the shadow of Emergency, he had been fondly named after the great socialist leader Jayaprakash Narayan who led a student’s movement in his home state. His father, a marginal farmer had always dreamt of his son becoming as famous as JP but their circumstances never allowed their dreams to get better of their fate.

The seeds of Green Revolution bore fruit in the states of Punjab and Haryana while their state remained in darkness. Lured by the prosperity in this region, Jayaprakash too emigrated with a bunch of his friends at a young age of 15. For some years he kept moving from one village to another working on the fields of others, earning enough for his own subsistence and managing to send some money back home for his ailing father, ageing mother and younger siblings.

Soon, Punjab also saw a boom in real estate with new housing societies and malls being set up. It promised more money and Jayaprakash decided to break his agrarian roots.

Meanwhile he got married to Vimala, a coy girl from his village. Having remained away from his family for too long, the very idea of having a family filled him with hope. God blessed them with a son in the fourth year of their marriage. He had planned it that way to accumulate enough resources for proper rearing of his child. They named him Rahul. 

Working in the dust and sand, Vimala developed some serious allergies and had an attack of asthma. It wasn’t possible for her to work at construction sites. This added additional pressure on his resources. However, he was determined to provide his son what his father could not afford when he was young. This was only possible if he could dedicate all his resources to just Rahul and his ailing wife. So, he underwent vasectomy.

*

His son had now turned six and Jayaprakash was on a lookout for some work near the capital city which could ensure better medical and educational facilities for his family. It was around this time that he heard about a Metro project coming up in Chandigarh. Getting work at a government project always ensured mandated minimum wages and lesser exploitation. 

However, Mani Ram, the middle man made it clear to him that he’ll have to part away with nearly 20% of his daily wage to enlist his name amongst the workers. Moreover, he had to work for more hours than the stipulated time of 8 hours as by doing this, the contractor could enrol fake workers while getting the extra work done by the existing ones. However, it was a good bargain and Jayaprakash along with his family, moved to the City Beautiful.

*

“Papa, this fountain is so beautiful.”

“You sit here and enjoy beta. I’ll get bhel puri for you.”

It was Saturday evening and Jayaprakash had brought his son to the Sector 17 Plaza, the heart of the city. Presently, he was working at the hub station of the Chandigarh Metro which was being constructed nearby. They had been in the city for over six months and by now Rahul had joined a make-shift school being run by a local NGO for the worker’s children. College-going students used to teach the children in evenings and weekends and by now Rahul was able to rattle A to Z in one go. Today Rahul had come first in his class test and as promised, his father had brought him to the Saturday Carnival in the Plaza.

“Hey, Rahul don’t lean over the railing that much. See what I have got for you.”

“Ice cream and popcorn! Wow, I love you papa.”

It had cost him nearly third of his daily wage but he wasn’t complaining. Afterall, even they had the right to enjoy the luxuries of the richest city of India.

*

“Vimala, I’ll get a little late today. We might have to work through the night because this is the busiest area of the city and work needs to be completed before the morning traffic starts.”

“Take care of yourself. Don’t over exert, haan.”

“Yeah, I’ll take care. You too take your medicines on time and make sure Rahul doesn’t loiter around with the neighbouring kids. He should study for his test.”

Vimala was recovering well. The Government Hospital was in close proximity and she was undergoing a regular treatment. Their decision to shift to the capital city was bearing fruits. 

*

It was around two at night when Vimala heard some frantic knocks at the jittery door. She sprung up and hurried to open it.

“Vimala, there has been an accident at the construction site. The crane operator felt asleep and the chain snapped, throwing the heavy girder on the labourers working there.”

“Oh, my God. Where is Rahul’s father? He is safe na?”

“Come on. Hurry up. That’s why I’ve come here. Even he got injured in the accident. We have to go to the hospital.”

Leaving Rahul in custody of her neighbour, Vimala rushed to the hospital with his husband’s co-worker.

*

The accident proved fatal for five workers while Jayaprakash escaped  the death. However, he could not escape misfortune as his leg got amputated. All of a sudden all his dreams came crashing down. From being the breadwinner of the family, he was reduced to a dependant. Vimala had to take up his role despite her own ailments.

Government had announced Rs. 1,00,000 for the gravely injured and Rs. 5,00,000 for the kins of those who expired. Without a leg and nagging pain in the back, even Jayaprakash felt like a corpse but he could only get a fifth of the amount. However, even that money was hard to come. The Metro Corporation told him to approach the Secretariat who in turn sent him back from where he had started. Despite his dozens of visits to both the departments, he could not get his compensation.

All his savings were dwindling fast. Even Vimala could not go to work daily due to her own health problems which had once again become acute. It was not even possible to move back to the village without getting the compensation. With the help of the local trade union, he was able to extract Rs. 20000 from the Metro Corporation after obliging some officials. Now atleast he could send Vimala and Rahul back to the village with this money, without any concern of his brothers or their wife’s treating them as a burden. He decided to stay back and wait for the pending amount.

But before he could arrange for their travel, Vimala had another asthma attack.

She couldn’t even breathe her last.

Jayaprakash was devasted. It felt as if someone had also severed his other limbs. He was left alone to care for their young son. 

What could he do?

*

It was First of May and the first section of Metro was ready. It was being inaugurated by the Punjab Governor who also acted as city’s Chief Administrator. Various dignitaries were to travel in the first run of the train from Sector 17 Hub Station to the metro station located at Chandigarh Railway Station on the outskirts of the city. However, one compartment was to be occupied by some selected labourers who had made this day possible. Even Jayaprakash was selected for it.

He was confident that he could meet the Governer at the inauguration and tell him about his plight. He wanted to get his compensation as soon as possible and move back to his village where he could start some small business and ensure that Rahul doesn’t get into any bad company. He was still too young but keeping a tap on him was becoming difficult in the absence of Vimala.

*

“Today is a momentous day in the history of this city. The city of Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru’s dreams, has added another feather to its cap. To keep this city cleaner and greener, we now have our own Metro Rail network which will definitely help in decreasing the carbon footprint of the city.”

Everyone applauded as the Chief Administrator continued with his inaugural speech.

“Today also happens to be the Labour Day. We are proud of hundreds of workers who assembled from various parts of this region and made it possible for the city to achieve this feat in record time. Some of them are here with us who will accompany us in the inaugural run of the Metro train. However, I am really sorry that I’ll have to take your leave due to some emergency.”

Jayaprakash wanted to meet the Governer earnestly. He saw it as his last chance to get his due. He limped through the crowd but was stopped midway by the security personnel.

“Please, let me go.”

“Arre are you mad or what? Don’t you see, he is leaving now. Go from here.”

Jayaprakash walked back dejected hanging on to his clutches. His son was waiting for him near the railing looking at the expanse of the underground station with amazed eyes. Soon, they were told to move towards the platform. They saw the escalator for the first time. Too afraid to step onto it, they proceeded towards the staircase. However, an official seeing Jayaprakash’s condition, told him to use the elevator.

As he along with his son, reached the platform, they were separated from their group. He looked at the beautiful interiors of the station and admired them for the first time since he had arrived. All this was the result of hardwork, the sweat and the blood of thousands of men like him. However, their fate was written; to build such marvels and then proceed to the next destination. They were not supposed to reside in the sprawling buildings they built or travel on the massive bridges they constructed. They were wanderers, moving from one place to another, selling their labour, getting exploited in return and accepting their fait accompli. 

He wanted to escape from this vicious circle. He couldn’t allow his son to become slave to this fate.

He quickly hurried towards the end of the platform. Elevator, being present a little away from where all the hullaballoo was, no one noticed them. He descended onto the track along with Rahul.

“Papa, where are we going?”

“Beta, wait. I want to show you this tunnel. From within the train, we won’t be able to see it.”

He limped across the tunnel along with his son. Rahul was pleased that his father had planned this surprise detour for him. As they reached the other end of the tunnel from where the train was supposed to experience its first rays of sun, Jayaprakash moved off the track onto the narrow platform. There he waited anxiously. There was not a single speck of doubt in his mind. He knew what he was doing was best for him and his son.

He could hear the noise of the approaching train. He looked sideways and then into the innocent eyes of his son. He clutched him close to his heart, blocking his vision and getting the warmth of parenthood for one last time.

“Beta, it is the time to escape.”

***

Image Courtesy:
http://i.cnn.net

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Religion

Red Rivers of Blood have gushed since ages on this Earth, Edging past the corpses of Men, who had a different Birth. Land, Wealth or Women, never led to such Serious Fights, Instigated none to such extent, to ignore the Human Rights. Gates of Heaven, it Promises, will open for those who Abide, In God’s Name they fight, with no remorse in their Red Eyes. Opium of Masses it is, exclaim hapless learned now and then, Nonetheless, it has its tight grip on millions of Mango Men.

---

As Roshmi commented in my previous post, the poet in me is resurfacing. Well here, I present to you an ACROSTIC after my raw attempts at Cinquain, Mirror Cinquain and Haiku, other peculiar forms of poetry.

Wikipedia defines it as,

An acrostic is a poem or other form of writing in which the first letter, syllable or word of each line, paragraph or other recurring feature in the text spells out a word or a message.

It is a pretty popular form of writing having been employed by great literary geniuses like Edgar Alan Poe and Lewis Carrol amongst others. I got introduced to it recently by a new Blog-a-Tonic, Nishali Chand.

I hope you liked it. However, more importantly, I'll not like to dilute the message in this poem with this literary gibberish. 

Can any kind of violence be justified in the name of religion?

Image Coutesy:

http://theviewspaper.net (edited)

Jihad

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Nov 26, 2009 – Early Hours

He had been trying to sleep unsuccessfully for many hours and just ended up turning from one side to another on his rotten charpai. It was not that he was accustomed to better comforts, having slept on this same bed since eternity. It was something else that was making him uncomfortable - those sounds that kept resonating in his head trying to tear it apart. One word that kept repeating itself in a constant loop behind this loud rattling of the local cleric, sent shivers down his spine – ‘Jihad’, he had said.

His eyes were wide open as he watched the old fan, hanging on the worn off ceiling, turn ceremoniously, pretending to send down cool gushes of air though the only thing it produced was a deafening clutter. But tonight that clutter failed to reach his ears, rather mind, as it was already preoccupied with the words he had heard last evening.

‘We have kept quiet for so long that they think we will take all their rubbish without uttering a word. When I see a young baby at the circumcision ceremony, I feel ashamed of myself. How is this personal hygiene of any use to him when the whole environment around him is so unclean? What future are we giving him? 

‘We, cowards who have born each insult and each wound inflicted upon us like good for nothing bastards. We have to give our children a future where they are not afraid of the tyrants. We have to make them proud of us. If in children we see the Almighty; then for these children, in His name, we need Jihad.’

That last word that Maulvi Sahab had said so forcefully in that small dingy room kept echoing in his mind since then. Three men were assembled there as Maulvi gave them further instructions.

Just as his eyes closed and he felt his mind getting a bit lighter, the alarm rang. He got up in a flash. But realising that he is too tired because of a sleepless night, he reclined back against the wall which felt moist due to the constant seepage.

He was half awake and half asleep when he heard the cantor calling through the loudspeaker of the nearby mosque – “Allah hu Akbar.....”

“Shit,” he said and sprung up instantaneously. There was no time to take a bath, so he quickly washed his hands, mouth, nose, arms, face, ears, forehead, hair and feet, thrice in the prescribed order and jumped onto the mat, facing west. While he performed the holy ritual, he remembered how his Abbu used to say that namaz should be rendered in a clean environment. Standing in this dilapidated room, he asked Allah for forgiveness.

*

‘We are still awaiting justice in Gujarat while their Chief Minister, the man behind all this, is winning elections and making merry. One year ago, our brothers from Pakistan took upon themselves to avenge the insult we have been facing all these years. We have to show that even we can stand up against the injustice and oppression inflicted upon us. 

‘We have planned this meticulously and finally it is the time to execute it. This will be our first anniversary gift for our enemies. Let them see that for each mujahedeen we lose in this war, ten more will take birth to avenge his death.’

It had been one year since the dreaded terrorist attack in Mumbai. He remembered what hue and cry it had created. No one cared when countless Indians died here and there but this time those who died were either special Indians or firangis. Even the Union Home Minister who had successfully clung to his chair despite the number of bomb blasts that had occurred last year across the length and the breadth of the country, had to finally yield. Such was the power of these special Indians and their firangi guests.

Maulvi had chosen this day to execute a sinister plot. Now, even he had a role to play.

“Should I? Shouldn’t I?” the ambivalence was killing him.

As his table clock ticked its way towards the destined time, he remembered the words of his Abbu, ‘Jihad is a struggle to improve one's self and society. It is as much about fighting injustice and oppression as about spreading or defending Islam.’

He knew he had to do it.

**

Nov 26, 2009 – 0700 hours

Time was running out, so he decided not to prepare the breakfast and instead, grab a vada pav on his way. As he moved down the rickety staircase of his chawl, he saw some children idling around. ‘They should be getting ready for their school at this hour,’ he thought. But then reminded himself sceptically, ‘What talim could those four walls of a sarkari school provide them, without any teacher!’

He continued moving along the dirty lanes, cautious not to step onto any heap of garbage. As he reached the barricades, he looked back at his abode; a ghetto was what people called it. Located on the suburbs of the city, this was one place where most of the people like him landed up after leaving their hometowns. He had come from the Azamgarh district of Uttar Pradesh, made infamous in the recent past by the arrests, encounters and killings of many alleged mujahedeen who hailed from there.

Today the barricades were not blocking the way as was the usual case. In any other housing society of the city, a beautiful arch would have adorned the entrance but here the local police had been kind enough to save the money of the dwellers by putting up barricades and a police post instead. It wasn’t clear whether these protected the homogeneous insiders against any violent excursions of the outsiders or to keep a tap on the movement of the insiders themselves.

In financial terms, he could have managed a better accommodation at a better place but in this city, there were also some other unspoken yet clearly audible factors which decided who could live where.

‘We are made to live like dogs on our own land. The glorious days of Delhi Sultanate and Mughal Empire are gone. These infidels think that they can stomp us at their will. They have the support of our own disoriented brothers like the DGP of Maharashtra Police, who wag their tails in front of them. 

‘It’s the time to make them aware that the dogs also bite. With the blessings of the Almighty behind us, tomorrow is the day when we will finally initiate our jihad.’

**

Nov 26, 2009 – 0900 hours

Immersed in his thoughts and the words of the cleric, he didn’t realise, when the local train reached  the Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus, one of the busiest station of Mumbai as well as India. He hardly had 30 seconds to unboard the train. Somehow, struggling his way through the microcosm of humanity, he just managed to jump off, as the train trudged further. ‘How can I behave so irresponsibly at such a time,’ he cursed himself.

As he stepped on to the platform, the images from the past year flashed in front his eyes. It had been one of the eight places that came under attack that night. Around 50 of the total 170 casualties or so were reported from here. But no one cared to give airtime to the Indians who died here except flashing the shots of Ajmal Kasab and his accomplice entering it.

They were busier reporting about Taj, Oberoi and Nariman House where the special Indians and firangis resided. He remembered the blood spilled floor of the passenger hall, images of which were made available by a local lensman who hid himself in a stationary train compartment.

‘Soon there will be similar blood and silence of death not far away from here if everything goes according to the plans of Maulvi Sahab,’ he thought.

*

He left the station hurriedly for his destination, about 2 kilometres away. He headed south, swiftly along the Dadabhai Naoroji Road and then got off it, moving along variously named streets and margs until he reached the Shahid Bhagat Singh Road. ‘Next, will you even start naming public toilets when nothing else is left to commemorate your leaders,’ he sighed.

He had just started tiring a bit due to the sleepless night, empty stomach and a brisk walk to top it all, when he saw a sprawling building on his left. It was one of the surviving remnants of the British Raj, like many other buildings and edifices around here including CST which he had left just twenty minutes ago. That station used to be Victoria Terminus until 1996 when some Hindu zealots forced a name change. ‘The bloody name game,’ he cursed.

Now he faced this heritage building, a beautiful specimen of the Indian Gothic style of Architecture, looking at the beautiful sculpture of Neptune that adorned the pediment at its top. The blue basalt used in the facing with differently coloured natural stones detailing it, imparted an incredible polychromatic effect.

This building, originally conceived to commemorate the visit of Duke of Edinburgh in 1870 was finally inaugurated six years hence as the residence for Royal Alfred Sailors. Later in 1928, it was acquired by the British Government and became the seat of the Bombay Legislative Council in late 1930’s. However, since quarter of a decade, it was housing something else after the Legislative Assembly moved to the new Council Hall in 1982.

He stood there acknowledging its beauty as he had done every time, he passed by. But today, he was not just going to pass by but enter this building. Finally, the time had come. So with thumping heart, he took some indecisive steps towards the entrance of Maharashtra State Police Headquarters.

**

Nov 26, 2009 – 1600 hours

There was hustle and bustle in the hall as the media persons tried to grab a strategic position. The conference table lying on the raised platform was being decorated with colourful mikes from all the possible English, Hindi and other regional news channels. Even some foreign correspondents were present. After all, this was the first media briefing since the major event that had happened earlier in the day.

As all seemed set, the Police Commissioner stepped in amongst flashing cameras and the buzzing noise of the media persons. It had been a busy day for him but he looked as fresh as ever. He was one man who never allowed the city and its (mis) happenings take a toll on him. As he sat on the central chair of the conference table with his subordinates flanking him on the sides, he motioned everyone to maintain silence.

“In the morning as I reached my office in Dadar West, I got a call from the Maharashtra State Police Headquarters. I urgently rushed there. A person had arrived, claiming to have information about a planned bomb blast to take place at Regal Cinema nearby, later in the day. Upon arriving, I took the charge. He claimed that he had heard a cleric having the final discussions with some men in one of the kholis of his chawl.

“We moved swiftly on the basis of the lead given by him and within a couple of hours had arrested all of them without spilling any blood in the process. Luckily for us, they were amateurish in their approach, not having any links with the organised terrorist groups as per our initial investigations. Nonetheless, if they had succeeded in their plans, it could have led to major loss of life and property.”

“Where is this informer?” demanded the reporters in a cacophonic chorus.

“He is with us right now.” and with that Police Commissioner gestured towards a subordinate standing at the back entrance of the hall. Soon a man with his face clad in a black mask entered the hall. He looked around and took some wavering steps towards the vacant seat of the conference table.

He had just moved some paces when the hall got filled with reverberations of hundreds of hands clapping together, hailing the hero who had just arrived. His remaining steps were beaming with confidence.

“What gave you the courage to do this?” asked the Reuters correspondent, as he took his chair.

He paused and looked around nervously through the small parting in his mask. He suddenly felt the comforting hand of the Police Commissioner on his left arm and then a pat on his back.

“Well, when the bullets flow out of a terrorist’s barrel or splinters blast off from the bomb, they don’t know whether they’ll be piercing a Hindu’s or a Muslim’s flesh. The blood that flows is that of a human being and with each such wound inflicted, my country cries further.

“My Abbu used to say that Jihad is a struggle to improve one’s self and society. Today, our society is rotting due to this unwanted hatred and we are losing our self to an unholy war. It’s time we wake up and realise that an eye for an eye is not the solution. We all are in this together and have to sit down to sort out any differences which exist. What I did today was what any responsible citizen would have done.”

As he stood up and got ready to leave securely as motioned by the Police Commissioner, he added calmly looking around at the gaping media persons, “For my Allah and for my Country, this is my Jihad.”

***

Note:

• The definition of Jihad (as given by the protagonist's father) is a non-verbatim adaptation of the definition given by the scholar John Esposito.
• Pro Deo et Patria is the Latin phrase translated to ‘For God and Country’ in English. It is the motto of my beloved school – St. John’s High, an Irish Christian Missionary school.

Disclaimer:

This work of fiction is not intended to malign any individual or community. The readers are requested to extract the positive message out of it rather than searching for any negativity within the words and expressions used.

Image Courtesy:

http://farm4.static.flickr.com (edited)

If I were a baby again

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 4; the fourth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

Yesterday, we had a great time. Some students from a nearby college came to our place with lots of sweets and goodies. They played with us, sang with us, danced with us and for those few moments, lost in this invisible force of communion, we all forgot our realities and got lifted to some other world.

They also made us write an essay on a very peculiar topic – ‘If I were a baby again’. Well, we had half an hour at our disposal and I thought and thought while others scribbled through their sheet of paper. Then finally with time running out, I gave words to that one thought that has lingered in my mind since the time I’ve started realising my existence in this vast ocean of humanity.

Oh! In the zeal to draw the premises for telling you that I won the first prize in this competition, I just forgot to introduce myself.

Hi, I am Kabir. As the great saint from whom I borrow my name, I have no religion. Well, how can I have one when I don’t even know who my parents are. I live in an orphanage with dozens of children just like me. We are one large family having no consanguineal bond joining us. The only bond that joins us is of similar circumstances and fate.

I am 11 years old, sort of the mean age between the new borns who join us every six months or so and the 20 to 21 years old bhaiyas and didis who leave this sanctuary to perch into the real world. But teacher ma often says that I am too mature and my brain too sharp for my age. That’s how I got my name when I was 5.

Well, if God takes away something, he is kind enough to compensate it in one form or the other, I’ve heard. I am lame; I mean crippled. Oh sorry, I am being politically incorrect, right! Thank God I got a sanctuary in this orphanage or out in the streets, people would have indeed called me a lame in the best condescending manner possible. Well, with time my ailment has got transformed from being a physical handicap to a physical disability to a physical challenge and lately I have heard people like me being addressed as differently-abled.

Whatever you call me, my fate remains the same.

Just like the group of students who visited us yesterday to celebrate the upcoming Children’s Day, there are many people who drop by to spend time with us. At times, it feels nice but then it turns too monotonous, especially around the festive seasons when just every second person in the town wants to get rid of his or her sins by doing some community service. What better way than spending some time with the unfortunate kids living in the orphanage around the corner.

So in comes one group of visitors after the other. The ones we detest the most are the Mantriji kinds who visited us during Diwali. I don’t even remember if he held any toddler or talked to us unless there was a photographer from the local newspaper around.

Even when the students from nearby colleges come, there are always those aloof kinds within them who prefer to remain on the periphery. I recently learnt that these poor chaps have to visit us to get some extra-curricular certificates that act as brownie points for their further admissions. Well, it’s good if we can be of any help to such thankless lot.

Sometimes, it feels as if we are the exhibits at a museum or even worse, inmates of a zoo. While in a museum people gasp in wonder and appreciate the exhibits, the zoo inmates often get mocked at. We lie somewhere in between.

Well, there are also some very kind visitors like Toffee wale Babaji who always treats us with nice candies on weekends, Doctor Uncle who never misses his monthly visit for our free health checkup including medicines and treatments and then these college students who came yesterday and made us feel like their younger siblings.

World is full of such duality, the good and the bad but I feel the whole mankind lies somewhere in between.

We all share the similar joys and apprehensions here. We are a one big family as I said but sometimes we long for our own little family where we might be the focal point of everyone's attention. Some are lucky enough to realise this wish as there are many childless parents who are not averse to adopt a child of an unknown lineage.

However, I recently read about test tube babies on the internet. Well, a local socialite was kind enough to donate two computers with internet connection amidst flashing camera lights the other day. I realise biological science and its advancements are being unfair to us. Why play with God's power to create a new life when there are so many of us, living in these overcrowded sanctuaries longing for a new life ourselves.

Whenever, there’s some prospective adopter around, we try to behave our best, hoping to be the lucky one; though we won't ever admit it. Frankly, we all live in a dilemma.

Will we ever be happy after leaving all our brothers and sisters?

For that matter, are we really happy here?

There are some who just try too hard, transforming from their naughty self to diabetes-inducing sweet innocence. We call them seducers. I doubt if other than a handful of us, any kid knows its actual meaning. But none of us ever miss a chance to use it to abuse each other after yet another failed attempt at seduction. I believe some bhaiya invented this abuse long ago and it just kept passing on since then.

Well, even I used to try my luck earlier but soon realised, no one wants to adopt a liability.

Oh! See, how I started babbling once again. Enough about me and my life!

You must be wondering, what did I write in that essay that bagged me the first prize, right? Well, I am surprised I won it at the first place as I thought I stood no chance. While others wrote long fairy tale like passages, I just wrote a single line; as I told you earlier, giving words to the thought which has and will linger in my mind always.

If I were a baby again, I wish my parents won’t abandon me this time!

Image Courtesy:
http://www.thecolor.com (edited)

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Wither Hindi? Part-II

This series of posts got selected for BlogAdda's Spicy Saturday Picks. Click here to read a mini-review of this series by the BlogAdda team.

This is the second part of a two part series. The first part was published on the occasion of the Hindi Diwas three days ago. Click here to read it before proceeding.

Before, I take up the main theme of this post, I must share an important piece of information that I inadvertently missed in the previous one. Talking of Constitutional or legal categories of Indian languages, beyond the Official and the Scheduled languages, The Government of India declared a new category - Classical Languages - in 2004. Since then, Tamil(2004), Sanskrit(2005), Telugu and Kannada(2008) have joined the elite group.

The eligibility criteria pertains to the antiquity and originality of the language and a rich body of ancient texts, amongst others. However, inclusion of Telugu and Kannada in 2008 started a new political row epicentred in Kerala, upon Malayalam's exclusion. In short, such irrational categorisation has done nothing good for the languages but only given a chance to political parties to rake up the sentiments of the general public, reminding us the Anti-Hindi agitations of the 1960's.

Such problems stem from the fact that despite initial rejection by the Dhar Commission (1948) and JVP Committee (Nehru, Patel and Sitaramayya, 1949); Government of India was forced to follow the linguistic reorganisation of states after the popular agitation and the death of Potti Sriramulu, for carving out Andhra Pradesh out of Tamil Nadu in 1953. Following this development, States Reorganisation Commission was appointed which upheld the language as the basis of reorganisation of states in 1955. Rest is history.

Hence, somehow other socio-economic or political grievances of the states also get mixed up with the language as well as ethnicity issues, creating an unhealthy concoction for the appetite of the Indian federal structure.

Recently, Union Human Resources and Development Minister, Mr. Kapil Sibal started a new debate by calling for compulsory teaching of Hindi in all the Indian schools and hence, create it as the link language between the different linguistic regions of the country.

As such there is nothing new about it as it is in consonance with the provisions under Article 351 of the Indian Constitution discussed in the previous post. You may recall that according to this article, it is the duty of the Union Government to develop Hindi as the medium of expression for all the elements of the composite culture of India, i.e. develop it as a pan-Indian language or a link language in other words.

Moreover, Hindi has been an integral part of the Three language formula evolved by the Union Government in consultations with the states and enunciated in the National Policy Resolution of 1968 and National Policy on Education of 1986, though implemented variedly by the state governments.

According to Mr. Sibal,

Now the lingua franca is English for professionals. When we become producers of knowledge then we can set our language as the lingua franca.

Mr. Sibal is the alumni (infact, belonged to the very first batch) of my school, a prestigious Christian missionary school of this region. He studied in that school when my father used to attend a government school. So, in short, he is generationally one step ahead of my family. It is not difficult to guess what kind of education he must have provided to his children and how proficient they must be in the language that Mr. Sibal desires to make the link language. I might be totally wrong in my assertion about the proficiency of his children but the question I am asking here is, why such hypocrisy?

Secondly, why do we want Hindi to be the link language at the first place? Moreover, will it be fruitful to make such a try?

According to Mr. Sibal,

We should ensure greater emphasis on Hindi. All children are not fluent in Hindi as they are in their mother tongues. Hindi is necessary for students to integrate with the rest of the country. The same students integrate with the rest of world through English.

Well, today I find myself highly integrated with the people around the country. My blog survives thanks to the visitors from places like Madras, Calcutta, Bangalore and Bombay (sorry, Chennai, Kolkatta, Bengaluru and Mumbai, it should read!) and I am sure many of them do not understand Hindi properly. It is English that is binding us. So why should we reserve English for only global integration? Why cannot it be a source of national integration as well?

What is the point in denying our history? British ruled us and gave us English. We cannot deny that it is this English which has made us globally competitive.

English is accused of being elitist. Yes, it is. Who is stopping the Government to make it reach all the sections of Indian society. Mr. Sibal plans to teach Hindi in every school. Is it feasible? Efforts required for making a good Hindi teacher available in a primary school of rural Tamil Nadu or Kerala will be more tedious than making a good English teacher available there. Kindly correct me if I am wrong in this assertion.

Further, talking of the integration with the different regions of the country, the specific region which is having the maximum need for it is the North East. States like Nagaland, Meghalaya and Arunachal Pradesh have stuck to English as their only official language. So why not promote English as the medium for both official and cultural exchanges with such regions?

English education will have the added advantage of making the students more competitive in this era of globalisation. In this respect, idea of English as a pan-Indian language though revolutionary, holds more logic than Hindi.

But is this suggestion really revolutionary? On the ground level, it is English that is being used for communication between a Hindi and a non-Hindi speaking population during cultural exchanges. This is not just limited to the so-called educated elites like us but even to the non-English as well as lesser educated sections who use simple broken English when it comes to crossing the language barrier in a foreign state. Why not promote and improve the standards of English in the Indian schools of all hues and colours rather than aspiring to do the same with Hindi?

Moreover, constitutionally too, English is the official medium of communication between the Union (or Hindi speaking states) and the non-Hindi speaking states under the provisions of the Article 346. English is also the language used in the Supreme Courts, High Courts and for Acts and Bills under the provisions of the Article 348. So why should we emphasise on Hindi as the link language when it comes to the Article 351?

For that matter, coming back to a question raised earlier, that what is the logic behind developing Hindi as the pan-Indian language? As has been elaborated in the previous post, such an idea has failed miserably all these years thanks to the disinterest (rather protest) shown by the various linguistic regions and the importance of English as the global language.

Does Hindi qualify to be the link language because it is spoken by the majority of Indian population (41% according to the 2001 census)? As already elaborated, the actual pure form of Hindi is only spoken in certain areas of the Hindi belt. Infact, the official Hindi used by the Government and taught in the schools, better known as Khari boli (or Khari dialect) is limited to the Western Uttar Pradesh region, originally a rural language, developed only after 18^th century.

Within UP itself, there are various dialects of Hindi other than Khariboli which include Brajbhasa, Awadhi, Bhojpuri, Bahgeli and Bundeli. Infact, a person like me cannot understand Bhojpuri or other dialects which are part of Hindi as per the 41% figure mentioned above.

When, there is so much variation within just one state, you may figure out the variations in the complete Hindi Belt including regions like Rajasthan, Haryana, Himachal Pradesh, Jammu, Jharkhand, Madhya Pradesh, Chhatisgarh, Bihar, Uttarakhand, Chandigarh and New Delhi. This will also open the eyes of those non-Hindi speaking Indians who see the complete Hindi belt as a single unit bounded by a single language.

Moreover, asserting a majority language (Hindi) upon others is against the basic tenets of democracy. Some may call it as the false pride of the minorities but then that doesn't change the ground reality that there is resentment against it (valid in some cases, politically motivated in others) and hence, problems in its acceptance.

Such resentment is not just limited to the overt manifestations like the Anti-Hindi agitations in Tamil Nadu, back in 1950-60's which actually played an important role in bringing DMK to power; but also in the recent times can be seen in the form of Maharashtra Governments decision to extend Marathi as a compulsory subject in all the schools of the state, including the ones affiliated to ICSE and CBSE from 2007-08, basically expressing disapproval to the imposition of Hindi on its natives.

However, as shown above, the official Hindi (khariboli) is infact a minority language like all the other languages and dialects; so the resentment is bound to increase.

However, there is no denying the fact that we do need a pan-Indian language. As already elaborated above, English seems a better option for the same. There is no need for making any official pronouncement for the same as it is infact developing as a link language on its own. Yes, officially the stand on Hindi can be given up and in fact it should be allowed to get 'adulterated' in the different regions.

There is no point in making Mumbai out of Bombay or Kolkatta out of Calcutta as you may try to run away from the British legacy but it will keep haunting you. Its better to accept the truth and in this particular case of languages, the truth comes with the added advantage that

• it will have higher acceptance by the various linguistic groups, and
• it will make us globally more competitive.

Lastly, Mr. Kapil Sibal should concentrate on some concrete educational reforms at the basic primary level rather than taking the easier route of superficial reforms in the form of doing away with the Board exams (read Mou's brilliant post with regards to it) or proposing Hindi as the link language just like the Reservation policy (read my take on Reservations) of his predecessor.

The Right to Education though getting the status of a fundamental right under Aricle 21A, back in 2002 by the 86th Constitutional Amendment Act and finally, after intense debate and opposition, its provisions (for free and compulsory education to all the children of the age of 6 to 14 years) being passed by the Parliament and getting the Presidential assent a couple of weeks back on Sep 3, 2009; will face a lot of hurdles when it comes to the implementation stage. The energies of Union HRD Ministry should be concentrated here. Moreover, talking of higher education, even the proposed Bill for the opening of our frontiers for the Foreign Universities, may look promising but has a lot of scope for going wrong. Let us keep all these issues for some other day.

P.S.
This is to clarify my stand on a particular aspect about which I have received a couple of comments - I have no where claimed that English should be our National Language. Infact, I have specifically mentioned - There is no need for making any official pronouncement. There is difference between pan-Indian language and National language; former is by the virtue of its feasibility and convenience while latter is by virtue of its declaration by the Government. India should have no National language.

This was the concluding part of the series 'Wither Hindi?'. I must thank Pra, Roshmi and others whose comments to my previous post helped me in developing this post further. Leave your honest opinions on the same in the comments section.

Off-the-topic Reflections

• Do not miss my latest movie review and recommendation of Resurrecting the Champ on the adjoining side bar under The recent Movie I Liked upon Reflecting widget
  
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