The reasons why an actor accepts a role change from time to time? Most times it’s a matter of appetite and newness. Sometimes it is the lure of working with an exciting director. Or even, in more cases than I imagined, the lure of a large acting fee. (Something I have never had a chance to wrestle with my conscience about, as nobody has ever offered me a large acting fee. I get offered large smiles instead.) More seriously, when I was considering the role of Sid in Shaurya the prime reason I accepted was because of the two questions it posed, one direct – are Muslim soldiers in Kashmir looked upon with any kind of prejudice by their contemporaries and superiors? The other, indirect – what remedial measures did the army and other institutions have in place to counter the anti-secular agenda?

The story had been written by the film’s director, Samar Khan, a Muslim himself, who for reasons of indiscipline had been asked to leave the National Defence Academy (NDA) five days before he would have completed its three-year course. By his own admission his lifestyle and the one imposed by the NDA were mutually abrasive. What is most significant are the years Samar spent there – 1991 to 1994. Years that ‘bookend’ Ayodhya 1992, the anti-Muslim riots in Bombay and the subsequent bomb blasts by Muslim members of the underworld.

For a man who was 120 hours away from becoming a gentleman cadet at the Indian Military Academy (IMA), Samar holds no bitterness against the institution. On the contrary, he loves the army, its regimen, its code, its very raison d’être. But he believes civilian India with its growing prejudices silently infiltrates the best of institutions in the only way infiltration can – through a few individuals. Here he is emphatic the infiltration was neither devised nor was it excessively malevolent. "Post-Babri Masjid it was terribly difficult being a Muslim. These individuals expected you to hate Hindus or at the very least were fairly convinced you harboured feelings of resentment against them. Did they hate Muslims in turn? I don’t think so. Were they now a little guarded around their Muslim colleagues at the NDA? Possibly. Were they simply more aware of a classmate’s ‘Muslimhood’? Definitely."

Shaurya is about a Muslim army captain brought to trial for shooting his superior, Major Rathore, at point-blank range while on a night raid in Kashmir. An army lawyer defends this seemingly hopeless case only to find that the major was one of his commanding officer, Brigadier Pratap’s band of communal-minded protégés out to purge the country of all Muslims. The trial is successfully fought and the captain acquitted with honour.

Discussions on the film with a few senior members of the army at different points of time have elicited a fairly unanimous response. One, there is no way religious prejudice in an officer would go unnoticed till he achieved brigadier status. In all cases a communal mind-set is spotted and corrected at a more junior level. Two, there are definitely communal elements in the army but it is always the individual and never the institution. It is correlated to the rise of communalism in civilian India. Three, and most interestingly, the wives of the four officers of colonel rank who I was speaking to on one occasion unanimously agreed that the anti-Muslim sentiment in the army was far higher than their husbands claimed.

It is a matter of sadness to me that in the movie the argument for hatred seems as – if not more – attractive than the argument for peace and non-discrimination. (This is an entirely personal opinion, I might add.) I wonder if in making for an engrossing, entertaining climax Samar has not short-changed his emotional reason for writing this story. Did he too unwittingly succumb to the belief that hatred and violence are more riveting in cinema than peace and love?

While all conclusions based on this random, minuscule sampling must be severely discounted, the unanimity on all three points is certainly interesting. On another occasion I raised the issue of being a Muslim jawan or junior officer in Kashmir with a major-general who had served in the region. He was absolutely sure a discriminatory attitude existed. Not sharing his cynicism, a host of his juniors strenuously countered his argument. Both sides sounded pretty convincing.

As interesting as the rise of the communal mind-set in civilian India and its repercussions on our institutions founded on the principles of secularism is, equally significant for me is how this mind-set is handled by the institutions concerned. Few civilians know that court martials in the army don’t necessarily have to be closed trials. The commanding officer on the case can decide to make it a public trial.

Looking beyond the army there is absolutely no doubt that our civil and administrative services are subtly yet definitely fractured along communal and/or political lines. Having experienced blatant non-cooperation from civil servants who are sympathetic to the cause of right-wing Hindutva, I asked a few members of the civil services how this could be countered and the startling answer was forget about countering, this trend was being further fostered by alumni of the services meeting new inductees in their colleges to subtly spread the communal doctrine. This was corroborated by a few Dalit trainees who claimed they suffered discrimination during training.

So what do our institutions do about this? The only thing they can. Reiterate the theory of secularism as laid down in the Constitution. A theory that today seems naïve in its assumptions. That people hear but don’t listen to. That seems utopian, pedantic and far removed from reality. Ironical, because the beauty of secularism is that it is so easy to fall in love with because practising it makes one feel open, free of fear, strong.

But perhaps the most important point to make is that in today’s India a vibrant secular movement has to start from civil society. Just as the doctrine of any religious fundamentalism, be it Christian, Islamic or Hindu, rises from civil society and spreads its tentacles into established institutions, so should the principles of secularism. I believe the country is too far gone down the communal river to think that the passive, ‘kind-uncle’ secularism of the past is going to be the bulwark against communalism. It’s time we developed an aggressive secular agenda. One that makes a convincing argument to establish why religious non-discrimination is an energising, even profitable proposition. One which convinces people to practise certain directives on a day-to-day basis. This is what our institutions will be happy, even relieved, to borrow, to effectively neutralise the spread of hatred.

Coming back to Shaurya. It is a matter of sadness to me that in the movie the argument for hatred seems as – if not more – attractive than the argument for peace and non-discrimination. (This is an entirely personal opinion, I might add.) I wonder if in making for an engrossing, entertaining climax Samar has not short-changed his emotional reason for writing this story. Did he too unwittingly succumb to the belief that hatred and violence are more riveting in cinema than peace and love?

Archived from Communalism Combat, September 2008. Year 15, No.134, Cover Story 3
 

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It’s hard to believe but a year has gone by since the terrible devastation wreaked by the tsunami on December 26 last year. It certainly does not seem to be that long since I made my first trip to the Andaman and Nicobar Islands, islands I knew next to nothing about but now know better than most parts of the world. Personally, the past twelve months have in many ways defined what relief and rehabilitation work entails for an Indian citizen committed to helping in the process.

Contrary to popular belief, the little recognition that an Indie actor enjoys worked not to my advantage but to my disadvantage when I first arrived in Port Blair. To say I was not made to feel welcome by some officers in the government administration would be an understatement. For some reason, the reaction of government officials involved in the thick of emergency relief operations to my presence there was clearly a negative, cynical one.

Any notions that I was being a little paranoid or giving myself too much importance were swiftly erased when one civil servant, who I shall not name, came right out and said it. "Why are you here?" he asked belligerently over the phone when I finally managed to get through to his understandably busy mobile number. Before I could answer, he continued. "What do you think you can achieve here? You think you can do more than the government? How much money will you bring here? You know we are going to get sanctions worth hundreds of crores from the government? Why don’t you write down a list of things you will undertake to carry out, sign it and send it to me so I can place it on record."

I gently tried to make him understand that I had no idea what I could offer to do as I had no idea what was needed. The answer was prompt. "No problem, ask me and I will tell you everything that is needed, then you make your list and submit it." "But," I continued as patiently as before, "I will need to travel to the other islands, make a first-hand appraisal of what the islanders need and then prepare a proposal to collect funds from prospective donors on the mainland. When one is making an appeal for money, funders are most interested in what you have seen on the ground…" "What is the need for that? I have seen it on the ground," (which he clearly had not – it would have been humanly and logistically impossible for him to have done that in a week, let alone in the two days that had transpired after the tsunami), "I will tell you all you need to know."

I hung up and stood in silence, shocked. Amitav Ghosh, the writer and friend who had travelled with me (and has since written a lucid, poignant piece on the aftermath of the tragedy) said, "You are going to find it very difficult here. Why don’t you go to South India and work there?"

To appreciate the true meaning behind Amitav’s words you need to understand how things operate in the union territory. Historically, the islands have been heavily controlled by the government to safeguard tribal and defence interests. And though the present administration under the lieutenant governor, Ram Kapse, is taking steps to promote tourism, the tribal laws of the land stand strictly and justifiably in place. So, unlike any other part of mainland India, even something as basic as travel to the Nicobar Islands (largely tribal) is only possible if the government issues you a (time-bound) tribal pass for a few days. If you factor in the distances (by ship to Car Nicobar? – anything up to two days; by helicopter? – an hour and a quarter) and the attendant expenses (it takes three flights totalling almost seven hours – a flight to London takes eight – to get to Camorta in the Nancowrie group of islands; the difference is that a flight to London costs less), then you understand that while there were once over a hundred NGOs operating on the ground in Nagapattinam, it has never gone beyond twenty in the Andamans. Hence Amitav’s words.

But that’s the beauty of India. When the odds seem stacked against you, you can use the almost-friendly chaos that is inherent in this country to go ahead and do your thing. You just have to do it quietly. The gentler you cast the stone into the pond, the larger the stone you can throw in. And you have to do it insistently. Refuse to stop turning up, refuse to stop offering your services, refuse to be shamed and sooner or later the most cynical civil servant will throw his or her hands up in defeat. Which is exactly what happened. Gradually, friendships were struck, travel permits were issued, official accommodation (where there was no other) was made available.

Today the scenario is vastly different. I will not go into the hard details of the various rehabilitation efforts made by both government and NGOs in the past twelve months in this piece but I assure you I will shed light on some extremely dedicated initiatives I have seen on those islands in articles to follow. Suffice to say that the present civil administration under the active, idea-rich and accessible chief secretary, DS Negi, has been unfussily cooperative. And although the work the group of NGOs that I work with and I have done is really negligible in the larger scheme of things, it is work done with stubbornness and dedication. So this month when I return to the islands on December 25, I will stand at the same spot where I put the phone down after speaking to the hubris-filled civil servant and smile. He has since been transferred. And I am still there.

The post Footprints in the sand appeared first on SabrangIndia.

Contrary to popular belief, the little recognition that an Indie actor enjoys worked not to my advantage but to my disadvantage when I first arrived in Port Blair. To say I was not made to feel welcome by some officers in the government administration would be an understatement. For some reason, the reaction of government officials involved in the thick of emergency relief operations to my presence there was clearly a negative, cynical one.

Any notions that I was being a little paranoid or giving myself too much importance were swiftly erased when one civil servant, who I shall not name, came right out and said it. "Why are you here?" he asked belligerently over the phone when I finally managed to get through to his understandably busy mobile number. Before I could answer, he continued. "What do you think you can achieve here? You think you can do more than the government? How much money will you bring here? You know we are going to get sanctions worth hundreds of crores from the government? Why don’t you write down a list of things you will undertake to carry out, sign it and send it to me so I can place it on record."

I gently tried to make him understand that I had no idea what I could offer to do as I had no idea what was needed. The answer was prompt. "No problem, ask me and I will tell you everything that is needed, then you make your list and submit it." "But," I continued as patiently as before, "I will need to travel to the other islands, make a first-hand appraisal of what the islanders need and then prepare a proposal to collect funds from prospective donors on the mainland. When one is making an appeal for money, funders are most interested in what you have seen on the ground…" "What is the need for that? I have seen it on the ground," (which he clearly had not – it would have been humanly and logistically impossible for him to have done that in a week, let alone in the two days that had transpired after the tsunami), "I will tell you all you need to know."

I hung up and stood in silence, shocked. Amitav Ghosh, the writer and friend who had travelled with me (and has since written a lucid, poignant piece on the aftermath of the tragedy) said, "You are going to find it very difficult here. Why don’t you go to South India and work there?"

To appreciate the true meaning behind Amitav’s words you need to understand how things operate in the union territory. Historically, the islands have been heavily controlled by the government to safeguard tribal and defence interests. And though the present administration under the lieutenant governor, Ram Kapse, is taking steps to promote tourism, the tribal laws of the land stand strictly and justifiably in place. So, unlike any other part of mainland India, even something as basic as travel to the Nicobar Islands (largely tribal) is only possible if the government issues you a (time-bound) tribal pass for a few days. If you factor in the distances (by ship to Car Nicobar? – anything up to two days; by helicopter? – an hour and a quarter) and the attendant expenses (it takes three flights totalling almost seven hours – a flight to London takes eight – to get to Camorta in the Nancowrie group of islands; the difference is that a flight to London costs less), then you understand that while there were once over a hundred NGOs operating on the ground in Nagapattinam, it has never gone beyond twenty in the Andamans. Hence Amitav’s words.

But that’s the beauty of India. When the odds seem stacked against you, you can use the almost-friendly chaos that is inherent in this country to go ahead and do your thing. You just have to do it quietly. The gentler you cast the stone into the pond, the larger the stone you can throw in. And you have to do it insistently. Refuse to stop turning up, refuse to stop offering your services, refuse to be shamed and sooner or later the most cynical civil servant will throw his or her hands up in defeat. Which is exactly what happened. Gradually, friendships were struck, travel permits were issued, official accommodation (where there was no other) was made available.

Today the scenario is vastly different. I will not go into the hard details of the various rehabilitation efforts made by both government and NGOs in the past twelve months in this piece but I assure you I will shed light on some extremely dedicated initiatives I have seen on those islands in articles to follow. Suffice to say that the present civil administration under the active, idea-rich and accessible chief secretary, DS Negi, has been unfussily cooperative. And although the work the group of NGOs that I work with and I have done is really negligible in the larger scheme of things, it is work done with stubbornness and dedication. So this month when I return to the islands on December 25, I will stand at the same spot where I put the phone down after speaking to the hubris-filled civil servant and smile. He has since been transferred. And I am still there.

Archived from Communalism Combat, December 2005 Year 12  No.113, Guest Column

The post Footprints in the sand appeared first on SabrangIndia.

In a post-9/11 world, where the secular space shrinks every day (ask Brit-Asian males in London), the very definition of secularism needs to be constantly refreshed and contemporised. As Amartya Sen writes in The Argumentative Indian, "Indeed, there are two principal approaches to secularism, focusing respectively on (1) neutrality between different religions, and (2) prohibition of religious associations in state activities. Indian secularism has tended to emphasise neutrality in particular, rather than prohibition in general". Therefore "the secular demand that the state be ‘equidistant’ from different religions…" Mr Sen goes on to indicate the advantages of the neutrality aspect of secularism rather than the prohibition of all religious associations. I could not agree more. The former interpretation has an inclusive, humanist exposition of the issue rather than the absolutist, ‘take-no-prisoners’ position of the latter. The point of examination in this piece is not whether India’s implementation of its secular ideals has reflected this neutrality. The answer to that question is painful in its unambiguity.

Successive governments have failed spectacularly. Whether it is Shah Bano, Babri Masjid or the state-sponsored pogrom in Gujarat, at crucial, defining moments of the secular character of this nation, we have made choices more suited to an intolerant, biased, opportunistic state. And while these outrages must propel, must compel us to fight the hypocrisy of our political masters, equally I find my attention of late being drawn to a gentler though deeply insidious form of bigotry in our polity. I refer to the daily, almost unconscious use of Hindu religious symbolism and practices in forums where religion should have no entry.

Consider the arti done on foreign dignitaries when they visit the country. The lamp-lighting ceremony at government-sponsored cultural festivals. Advertising films selling motorcycles to the chant of Hindu scriptures. The breaking of a coconut when a new film is started. Admirable symbols of tradition, piety, sanctity, but clearly, religious symbols. More specifically, religious symbols of one religion, the religion of the majority. I recollect visiting a Bombay college owned and run by Hindus where I was greeted with an arti ceremony. At the conclusion of the lecture I had been invited to deliver, I asked the college principal what connection a Hindu ceremony had with an address on gender equality. Bemused, she replied that it was the Indian way of showing respect to a guest. Is it the Indian way? Will I expect a similar welcome if I go to a college run by Christian missionaries? More probably, will it be a Christian version of the arti? What then, when I visit Aligarh Muslim University?

My growing concern is not with the use of ceremony to mark an occasion. It is the use of religious symbolism. Occasionally when I have raised the point I have had Hindus say I am making too much of the issue. That these symbols have now taken on a pan-Indian significance. That they capture the ceremony of a moment most appropriately. That they are accepted and practised not as Hindu traditions but as Indian traditions. A soothing, tempting position, but not entirely correct. If I do not ever see a Muslim family conduct a grihapravesh ceremony as they enter their new home (probably in a Muslim neighbourhood they have been ghettoised into, in places like Narendra Modi’s Gujarat), why then does a paint commercial use this ceremony in their latest television advertisement? This is where it all gets worrying. Looked at any which way, consciously or otherwise, a Hindu-dominated advertising agency is selling the idea to a Hindu-dominated paint company that is selling a product to a Hindu-dominated country. As one-fifth of your market with their belief in other religious persuasions, notwithstanding atheists and agnostics, watches – helpless, unmoved or even resentful.

If indeed this country professes to practice a secularism that is founded on the theory of neutrality or equal distance from all religions, then surely it should follow that either we remove the use of Hindu traditions to mark non-religious gatherings or ensure all religions find equal expression in all forums. The latter option will result in a political correctness that promises chaos, not all of it without humour. Bewildered dignitaries will find themselves accorded the traditional Zoroastrian greeting at one five-star hotel and a Buddhist welcome at another. Government functions will automatically expand by a couple of hours as they start with a reading from religious scriptures of all different faiths. The latest advertising commercial will feature a Sikh couple racing to bless their new car through an Ardas at their neighbourhood gurdwara.

Clearly the case for removing religion from the non-religious sphere is a strong one. Any step to erase feelings of alienation that Indians who are not Hindus might feel both within and without this country is a step towards peace, not to mention prosperity. Why cannot children tell us about their dreams for India at the inauguration of a cultural festival? Why cannot dignitaries be invited to have tea with their designated hospitality staff as a welcome gesture? Why cannot we see a TV spot about a couple marking their 25th anniversary, not by a recreation of their Hindu wedding, but by donating to their favourite charity? Underlying all of this will be the quiet belief that religion has no place in the public sphere. It will require the correct interpretation and implementation of our Constitution to firmly steer the nation away from this sense of divisiveness so deep-seated that questions that should be asked lie unspoken. But make no mistake about this. One hundred and fifty million Indians watch in resignation every day as a car maker uses Karva Chauth to sell its latest luxury model. Whether this incredibly regressive ritual should be used at all is matter for another article altogether.

Archived from Communalism Combat, November 2005 Year 12    No.112, Guest Column 1

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