Dust and Rock

(1)

As she looked out of the window, she couldn’t help reflect bow secluded this place was. This was a new thing that was happening with her lately – wherever she went, she would look at it and feel a sense of emptiness. Anwesha had read that it was never done for a detective – and one with as specific skill set and as high a reputation to maintain as she – to dwell on the poetic when it was time to work. And yet she felt her mind often slip towards languid reminiscing.

As she shook her head violently to get back in the game, she wondered whether it would be a permanent condition for her, and this secluded place near the southern fringes of the city with its colonial demeanour and austere ambience was certainly not helping. The museum of the Archaeological Survey of India was perhaps the least visited public building in the world, Anwesha found herself wondering if many even knew of the existence of this institution. Finding it would have been difficult even for her had it not been for Google Maps and the college trip she had taken long back, such a long time ago……

As Anwesha sensed her mind start to tip back into the foggy security of reminiscent musings, she shook her head again. This won’t do! She had to be prepared and ready for whatever lay ahead – and going by the tone of the Director General of the ASI – the matter was very grave indeed. Although the DG who was on an official visit to the city from Delhi hadn’t given her any details of the incident, he had sounded worried and – again Anwesha wondered if she had imagined it – scared. It was that second impression that lay behind Anwesha Parui –DCDD (retired) Kolkata Police – sitting in the Director General’s office in this dreary May afternoon.

A small clicking noise shook Anwesha out of the stream of idle reveries. She looked at the man who had entered through the door, sizing him up in a few moments. “Strong chin, decisive; creases on forehead, sharp eyes, man of learning; Lines around the mouth, used to giving orders, sarcastic in nature, arrogant.” Quick assessments like these were part of Anwesha’s specific skill set that had allowed her to survive through many dangerous situations in the past.

The man had extended his right arm forward. “It’s a pleasure to meet you Miss Parui, I only wish it weren’t under such difficult circumstances,” he smiled a rather trying smile. “Not overly friendly, not used to attend social circles and matter-of-fact, seeing as how he got to business immediately”, thought Anwesha as she took his hand and shook it. She wondered how this no-nonsense man had found his way to the highest post in one of the country’s most important and revered institutions, especially when promotions in public service seemed increasingly falling dependent on nepotistic bargains.

Of course, one of the perks of being an ex-cop was that she could do some nepotistic manipulations of her own to get the information she needed and she had done just that in this case. The internet was a strange place. While it afforded reams upon reams of digital paper to celebrity marriages it could spare only fifteen lines to document the life of the man who was working day and night ti save and safeguard India’s history and natural heritage. So she had done her homework on Ananth Chopra, the Director General of the Archeological Survey of India, before coming here. What she had seen in those few moments had matched the reports she had gleaned from her former colleagues. So what she really wondered was that what had got this steadfast, arrogant, yet dynamic man so much on edge?

THE BOOK CONTROVERSY: THE HINDUS AND BEYOND

The recent events which have arisen concerning Indologist Wendy Doniger's book "The Hindus: An Alternative History" have divided India and presumably the world into two clear halves. One group are the right-wing activists who have filed a suit in court against the author and the publishers in a bid to safeguard the Sanatan principles of the religion. The other group comprises academics, scholars and presumably the educated youth as well- all rallying against the recent decision by the publishers to withdraw the book from India and destroy all remaining copies.

Following these events on television and elsewhere and also listening to the debates arranged in this regard in popular media, I was appalled at the sheer disregard for the genuine problem that marked both sides in this controversy. This incident had all the makings of a genuine tragedy-both parties were right and both were wrong, and none were ready to agree to disagree. The right-wings were adamant that the authoress had hurt sentiments of crores of Hindus and questioned her right of writing a book on Hindus-a religious group to which she did not belong. The academics were quick to retort, not with the academic logic that one would expect of them, but with base expressions condemning Indian laws and polity. The authoress herself surpasses all others in the blaming spree by uncouthly mocking her opponent in her blog post.

The real problem that plagues us in this respect is the attitude we should have towards books and their writers in cases when they offend or seem to offend our sensibilities. People will remember the treatment meted out to Taslima Nasreen and to Salman Rushdie, the more famous of the many writers who have been victimised on account of what they had been writing. Some would also draw parallels between those incidents and the present controversy, and rightly so. Others might even go as far as to link these episodes with book-burning sessions in Nazi Germany. In short, the controversy will continue.

The point of view that must be exercised in this regard is not one that will fuel the controversy, but one that will be capable of putting an end to it for present, and hopefully, for all time. As ambitious as that may sound, the only solution to a genuine tragedy is the sacrifice of one's ego. In the present tragedy, both Wendy Donniger and the "activists" (if they are so happy with the name, who am I to grudge?) come out as extremely egotistical. If books are to survive,and free thought is to prevail, then ego must be sacrificed. Whether you are right or wrong, if you stand your ground and criticise and ridicule everyone for what they have (or might) say against you, then  you have no chance of success with your book. On the other side, if you are not allowing others to read a book simply because it did not meet your needs or expectations, you are making the basic flaw of generalisation by assuming that every man and woman is different from others. You must recognise that everyone has a choice to be either good or bad (or grey for that matter) and everyone has a right to make that choice. To summarise, the opposing parties are actually two sides of the same coin and  the trick is to separate the coin, not enforcement of law, but engagement of law.

Authors and authoresses have in the past, and they will continue in the future, to express disdain with regard to established standards. Some of these disdainful remarks may be made out of spite, others out of genuine feeling and a bid to alter and improve the present conditions. It is up to the readers, to the common educated mass and every man for himself and every woman for herself to decide whether such books are to be read or condemned, but never to be banned. The Emperor of Literature, Bankimchandra Chatterjee was hugely condemned in his own life time by people belonging to his own religion as well by Muslims and Christians. He had written several essays on Hindusim and had, just like Donniger, earnt the ire of his fellow Hindus; he had written several novels such as "Anandamath" and had earnt the ire of Muslims; he had called the Christian faith as professed by the missionaries "A demonic affair" and had received a fair share of their spite as well. Iswarchandra Vidyasagar was attacked by the right-wings of his days because he had written books propagating widow remarriage and condemning polygamy. But, if the books had been banned in those days, would India ever had been a democracy? The writings of the 19th century reformers and thinkers not only gave a foundation to logical argument in India but also formed in its native society the outlook that lookouts can change.

This isn't to make out that Donniger  is a great like the 19th century stalwarts, but say what if she was? What if she was the first in a new line of social scientists or thinkers, ushering in a new era of renaissance? What was prevalent in the 14th century cannot be accepted now. Had Galilieo been burnt at the stake, we would still have been thinking that the world ends somewhere. Had Copernicus been silenced, we would still have been content with the knowledge that we are the centre of the universe. The main problem, as I said above, with new discoveries or new thoughts is that they break the social homeostasis; they challenge existing notions and open issues which were held as settled (albeit doubtfully) to debate. They question our assumptions and show us that we don't know quite as much as we thought we did. In short, they hurt our ego, they show us how small or insignificant we truly are to truth an knowledge. This embarrasses man and man does not take kindly to embarrasment. He seeks revenge, and the easiest way of revenge is to ban all that which challenge his ego.

That is all there is to it. Ego and pride are the progenetors of prejudice. That is the reason why this is bigger than a single book and a single controversy, this is about the things which will come long after this controversy dies down. It's about everything that is yet to be banned that hurts man's foolish ego.It's about everything that's beyond the "Hindus". We might continue blaming and continue protest marches against banning of this book and the next one in line, but as long as we don't kill our egos, everything we do will crumble like a house of cards.

                                            BETTER SENSE                  

Amrita was shattered.

18 in Chemistry! She checked the results on the screen of her laptop again- hoping intensely that it was something in her eyes. Her eyes were perfect; it was 18 out of 100 that she had got in her favourite subject. If one were to experience shock. Despair, fear and grief at the same time then that was what Amrita was having. One couldn’t blame her though, these exams were so important for her! They were supposed to be a gateway to higher studies in one of the most reputed universities of Canada.

Amrita wanted to be a Geologist. Ever since she had to leave India at the age of 14 years and accompany her parents to the country of Maple Syrup, she had set her eyes on that field of study. Even in school, she neglected English and that “indomitably stupid” French to study books on the physical sciences in the library. As she graduated and was admitted in college she chose to do her bachelor’s degree in Geology. Her goal had never seen closer to being achieved.   She was in her final year at college and 18! She was devastated. Her dad would be shattered.

Her dad! The thought of her dad made tears well up those beautiful eyes which boys at school and men at college had so been used to complimenting. Her dad was very understanding, thought Amrita, but she was doubtful as his reaction on this. If she were at school, she would have been afraid of him and perhaps would have even hated him for a few days for scolding her. But she wasn’t a school-kid anymore. She didn’t hate her dad but was afraid of him being hurt. He had always stood by his daughter; but then again there was a limit to everyman’s patience. Amrita felt as though she had committed a great sin.

                                                     ****************************

Debojit Mazumdar was a mixture of opposites. Standing at five feet seven and having a lean frame, he was jovial towards life but extremely serious towards how its business was to be conducted. He was seated with his wife in the living room and discussing about which university would be better for their daughter. Aware that she wanted to do her masters in Geology, they had already shortlisted around twenty names. They were at present debating on whether they should arrange for the loan now or after one month when Amrita came downstairs. Her father beamed.

“There’s my Skinny Champ!” he said, joking at how thin she looked. “Your Mom and I have already listed some universities for your masters, we are so responsible you see” he continued jokingly.

Amrita didn’t say anything. She didn’t smile. Her father’s enthusiasm regarding her exams had worsened her condition. Trying to hold back her tears, she gave held up the printout of her result.

“What is this?” He looked quizzed as he took the paper from her. Obviously, he didn’t know anything about when the results were due. As he opened the folded results and began to read, Amrita couldn’t dare to look at his face. She knew what the reaction going on there was. Her father’s jovial face was no longer existent and in all probability the red hue on his cheeks had turned black. Tears were almost bursting her eyes now.

“What is this?” Debojit Mazumdar’s voice sounded like a whisper. Amrita looked up with great difficulty, trying her best to hide her tears by wearing her glasses before raising her head, but the drops of salty water on that beautiful face were simply unmistakeable.

“18 in Chemistry? You got 18?”

No answer. Amrita didn’t have any answer. She had got 18 in Chemistry, the answer was an yes. But how could she say that to her father? Amrita felt as if she were standing in the fire of hell burning for her sins with her God looking down from above with tears in His eyes.

“How?” He asked.

Debojit’s face was reddened with anger. Or was it disappointment? He was not sure. He  was not sure of anything other than that he wanted to yell out loud at that skinny girl in tee standing in front of him. His mind was racing, but where he did not know. The horse was not heeding the bridles of its jockey. His better sense proclaimed that ought to treat his daughter better, but anger is not the conductor of better sense.

“Besides”, the horse raced on, “She doesn’t deserve it; she doesn’t deserve better judgement, she has thrown herself here. I have supported her all these years, I don’t care anymore. She chose the ditch, let her lie in it.”

As the waves of self-justification flooded the shores, Debojit threw the printout towards his daughter. It fell short of her and on the floor space between the two of them. Amrita could well understand that her father was in a rage. She had been prepared for this. She knew she deserved it. But she wasn’t prepared for what followed.

“Let me make this clear. I am not going to finance your education anymore, nor am I going to be a guarantor for your loans. As far as I am concerned, you should start financing yourself.”

Amrita looked up. What was her dad saying? Stop financing? If he stopped financing her education, how could she carry on her studies? One debacle in academics and this was the outcome? She knew this couldn’t happen by any stretch of imagination. Yet, something her eyes told her it was happening-in reality.

Amrita was shattered to bits.

                                                  ****************************

Debojit was in his study. Seated in his high-backed chair, he was looking outside the window.

His mind was disturbed. The waves of self-justification had passed leaving the logical plain devastated to represent the after-effects of a tsunami. He was sure of what to do and what he had done, but not of whether they were the correct steps. His steps were becoming lofty, he thought. For the first time in his life, Debojit Mazumdar was doubtful of himself. Better sense was speaking softly.

“But what else could I have done?” he asked himself, urging the waves to drown him again.

“There is a limit to a man’s endurance.” But the waves did not seem to have the same force as before, for a small voice said in his head, “But what about a father’s endurance?”

As he continued to look out of the window, he caught sight of a spider’s web on the wall just above the window. It was quite a large web and Debojit remembered that he had been meaning to dust it off for quite some time. He felt lazy to do it just now and simply lounged in his chair observing the spiders.

There were a lot of small spiders in the web. Debojit thought how many. He couldn’t count. He guessed there were about twenty of them. Although he wasn’t very fond of spiders, Debojit thought that the little ones looked cute, squirming all over the web. There was also a large spider in the web, looking over the activities of the little spiders. One of their parents, reflected Debojit.

The large spider was contemplating the movements of the small spiders with extreme stillness. It was almost as if it was afraid of the little spiders knowing that she was there. Then-suddenly-it darted towards the small ones and without warning took several of them in its pincered mouth. Debojit watched in horror as the parent sucked the life out of its children to fulfil its own thirst.

He couldn’t bear it anymore. He closed his eyes and clutched the leather bound arms of his chair. The horrific scene was being replayed in his mind and he desperately wanted to get rid of it. How could a mother or father devour their own children? How horrendous!

“That’s what spiders do,” said a small voice, “but you think it horrible. That shows you are not a spider.”

 Debojit’s mind was calm now. No, he was not a spider and wouldn’t act like one. He rose and made his way to his cell phone.

                                                   ***************************

“Miss Amrita Mazumdar? I am speaking on behalf of Barclay’s Bank”, spoke the person on the other side.

“Yes?” said Amrita. Now what? This was the bank where her dad had an account. Her nerves were failing her. Nowadays, she jumped at the slightest hint of a problem.

“Your education loan of $ 4, 00,000 has been sanctioned. Could you come down to the bank tomorrow and sign the documents?”

Amrita was stunned. Education loan? She hadn’t applied for it! Then who did? And more importantly, who was the guarantor?

“Uhm ok....”, began Amrita hesitatingly,” but could you tell me who is the guarantor?”

“Debojit Mazumdar”, replied the man from the bank in an astonished tone.

                      THE STRINGS OF A VIOLA

When going to Scottish Church College, Deepro saw the man for the second time today. He had the look typical of the Bengali bard they call Tagore- long hair combed beautifully and a beard that was long enough to reach the middle of his chest. He wore a men's salwar and aligari pyjamas. He attracted the attention of many like our ostensible Chartered Accountant; but that was more for the viola he held in his hand than for the looks he had. Now most people in this region of the world fail to distinguish between the violin and its smaller counterpart. They are too bothered with arranging for the soaps they scrub on their bodies and feeding their minds with the sops on tv to burden themselves with such menial tasks.

But Deepro knew. He immediately recognised the viola in the hands of the old man. Then the man began to play. First on D-minor then on F-major and then...no, CA Deepro Bhattacharyya was not a student of music or literature or any of those things they call the fine arts; yet he felt as if the tune being played was the tune he had been searching for his whole life. He didn't know what it was or how to play it or anything else... yet as he moved on and as the tune became fainter and fainter, he felt as if it would be worth his whole life to learn that beautiful piece.

                                                                  *******

Deepro has made it a habit now to go stand before Scottish Church College everyday and listen to the old man play his viola. Deepro used to arrive at the scene at 10.55 in the morning and the old man used to come 5 minutes later. He used to play for a complete two hours-till the first shift of the college was over- and then went away without a word to his sole audience. This routine hasn't changed in the last four months.

After a few days Deepro saw that the man was writing poetry in Bengali. Even from a distance the man's handwriting was exquisite-a treat for the eyes. The viola lay on one side on the street while its master penned his thoughts in words rather than in music. Usually he didn't mix poetry with music other than on days when-as Deepro felt-his heart pleased so.

Deepro had read some of the man's poetry by picking up the sheets that he had completed writing from his side. It had made no sense to him and neither did he want to discern the sense. He wanted to use the opportunity to talk to the man. Strangely, the maestro always remained strangely oblivious to his sole audience.

Yes, Deepro was his sole audience. The students of Scottish were as uninterested about this man as he was to them. Some of them turned to look as he played his viola, but never stood through the whole performance. Brilliance has its own demands!

But Deepro remained where he was. It was his daily pilgrimage to see the man and hear his viola or simply take in the beautiful form of those words he wrote, the meanings of which he didn't understand. Deepro was  the proprietor of large firm of chartered accountants and cost accountants. Yet this young man in his early thirties wasn't satisfied. As he sat on a granite bench near the old man who was playing his viola, Deepro was transported backwards.

 What had he done so far? What had he-CA CS CMA Deepro Bhattacharyya- achieved in life so far?

Amazingly, the answer that Deepro had for these questions didn't please him. Let's face it, he had been nothing more than a slave to others, a humbug and a stooge. He had neither the time nor the encouragement to do what he wished in his life. He doesn't even have it now. Actually, he didn't have the guts. He kiilled  his own personality. A puppet to the wishes of his family and the peers of his colleagues, he had refrained from doing anything that would make him happy. He remembered that in school he was praised for his writing. People said he had a talent which was uncanny. Yet he had killed his talent. And for what! A bagful of degrees. He was more concerned with hat people would say than what he himself thought. No, he never had the guts. He didn't have an identity.

For the first time in many years Deepro cried. He cried like hell and heaven were one. He cried as if he had lost everything. Indeed he had.

                                                                      ********

That day Deepro bought a diary on his way home. It wasn't one of those cheap executive diaries that everyone used  but  was beautifully bound in brown leather with "Diary" printed on top in golden lettering. When he reached home, Deepro sat at his desk, opened the diary and wrote on the first page, "I have made all knowledge my province". He turned the page and wrote on top "The Man of Scottish".

For the first time in his life CA CS CMA Deepro Bhattacharyya was playing the strings of a viola. 

                                                    THOUGHT-TERRORISM

In the wake of recent events at a certain literary meet in a certain city on the west coast of the ancient kingdom of King Bharat, it is quite natural that the lay person might contemplate on what is meant by the expression of thought-terrorism. In times when guns and tanks define peace, progress and other deliberations, it is but natural that a similar notion of the word “terrorism” is taken for granted as to encompass all possible meanings of the term. It is of essence now, however that we come out of this ”scotma” and try to gauge the true damaging factor of Thought-terrorism.

It might be questioned what is this thought-terrorism that is being written and spoken about in current media. The answer is, as is the case with most difficult questions, exceedingly simple. Thought-terrorism refers to severe intolerance among classes that would even lead some members of the more obsessed class to take steps to murder or otherwise harass their opposition for its views, regardless of whether such views are right or wrong.

The main difference between other variants of intolerance and this particular breed lies in the fact that it seeks to curb free thought in its crib and does not hesitate to defend its own ideas, however obstinate or out of date, by all means which the human imagination is capable of calling to its grasp -including banning of books, articles, arrests and convictions. In contrast with militant terrorism, it does not seek to kill by the millions but selects a few individuals who have had the misfortune of incurring its wrath. However, this difference is soon fading in keeping with the phrase “All wars have small beginnings”.

The examples of thought-terrorism are not rare in the world or in its brief history. The most compelling instance is perhaps of the crucified Christ, the first victim of thought-terrorism in the Common Era. In the medieval ages thought-terrorism was the daily work of the papal autocracy and had the complete sanction of the ruling king and his state. Illuminated individuals who brought public new ideas of heliocentricity and equal rights of man and called for the abolition of the Church’s interference in matters outside the purview of religion were burnt at the stake as heretics. Some more fortunate ones (those who had the double virtue of being both renowned priest and scientist) escaped the stake but were forced to renounce their claims.

The same spirit of exceptional mercy however, is not exercised in modern times. The first half of the 20^th century has seen bonfires with books being burnt instead of logs in Germany and this ceremony being presided by the country’s Fuhrer. It has also been witness to copies of Mein Kampf being burnt in the USA and has seen an exhibition of Hitler’s paintings being banned in Austria in the 1990s. In India, the “Vernacular Press Act” is too well documented in history to be out of common knowledge as a glaring instance of thought-terrorism.

The 21^st Century bought forward new ideas of implementing this atrocity and had either the power or the fear of the state for its support. It is not unknown how many renowned artists, authors, sculptors and even musicians have been forced into exile around the world for fear for their own lives. Even longer is the list of those who have been threatened with death for some claim or other task that they might have exhibited in their work. Dan Brown, Sir Salman Rushdie, MF Hussain and Taslima Nasreen are some examples. In recent years, the instances of thought-terrorism have increased in India with the banning of books containing controversial claims about private and public activities of several national leaders in addition to arrests of renowned authors like Arundhati Roy and laymen alike for expressing their thoughts against any particular group or sect (including the activities of the government).

It can be thus understood that the phenomenon of thought-terrorism is not limited within the boundaries of any particular region and neither is it the monopoly of a certain group, religion or peoples. It might be dormant in one country at this particular moment in time and very active in another, but this should not be looked upon as the triumph of one country or one particular race of peoples over this disease. It is to be understood if not eliminated permanently, it will resurface and ruin the balance of life that is the aim of human civilisation; as has been seen in the USA in 2009 when a retired army general had organised a Koran burning session at Ground Zero. Hence, the true germ is not to be sought in either the east or the west, but within ourselves.

The modern world claims to be democratic but sadly is autocratic in nature and authoritarian in practise. Be it the largest democracy or the smallest commune, it is not devoid of thought-terrorism in either blatant or dormant practise. The real problem lies not in governments but in the people. The people of this world are segregated from birth in groups of various capacities. The conflict between these groups is not as inevitable as one would believe. The illusion that is created in human minds that people cannot belong to more than one group without sacrificing their loyalties and ties with the other one is the root of thought-terrorism and iconoclastic behaviour. For example, a person may, without conflict, be a Hindu, a male, a scholar of Mohammedan texts, a heterosexual, a supporter of homosexual rights, a Brahmin and a worker for upliftment of socially backward classes.

In reality, every single person belongs to several groups on the basis of gender, profession, language, science, morals, politics, etc and all these groups are intertwined and interrelated. The illusion of group supremacy has caused endless conflicts culminating into two world wars; it must now be given a peaceful burial. The realisation that every human being has multiple identities and cannot be member of any one group exclusively is the thought that will prevent the spread of thought-terrorism in human minds and will set the path for a rational world less imprisoned by illusion.

In conclusion, it would be apt to quote an insightful one-liner of Rousseau:

“I might not agree with what you say, but I shall defend to my death your right to say it”

That is true disillusionment.