Post Ayodhya Verdict: Intellectuals v/s the Common Man

In the recent times, no other court verdict has evoked as much expectancy, apprehension and uncertainty, on   a nation-wide scale, as the Ayodhya verdict has. It was as though the entire nation was waiting, with bated breath, for the final pronouncement of the Lucknow bench of Allahabad High Court to come.

It was literally like a game of skittles, all of which could have easily collapsed in a single stroke, with all the secularists and the communalists landing into an indivisible heap. Although the stakes were alarmingly high, the prognostications about its probable consequences were, expectedly, as low as could possibly be.

From the politicians of all hues (with their uncharacteristic tight-lipped statements) to the journalists of whatever variety (with their characteristic ambivalence), from the intellectual hawks (forever ready with their sound-bites) to the socialite doves (with their typical ‘I-told-you-so’ attitude), from the dyed-in-the wool thinkers (who never tire of their equivocations and/or facile prescriptions) to a man-in-the-street (who always, always has to bear the brunt of it all), almost everyone was equally nervous.

No wonder, on the eve of the judgment, several TV channels ran a regular and sustained ‘Save India’ campaign. It was as though everyone was sending up a silent prayer: ‘Oh God! Let this moment of ‘crisis’ blow over, sooner than later. And let the spirit of India triumph, one last time!’         

At 4 pm on September 30, our nation virtually came to a standstill. While some organizations in UP, apprehending trouble, had already declared a holiday, others in UP and elsewhere allowed their employees to proceed home at 3 pm, hoping that a major communal conflagration might flare up in wake of this judgment.

Whether inside their homes, offices or shops, people had sat glued to their TV sets, waiting for our ‘dome’ of communal volatility to do its worst, and finally bring down the crumbling walls of secularism for good. It was as though everyone was waiting for the fault lines of Indian brand of secularism to be redrawn, irretrievably. 

Then slowly the details of the much-awaited judgment began to trickle in. And the judgment, as we all are beginning to realize already, has been a historic one, in so many different ways. It is historic because it has gone far beyond the insistent demands of our collective paranoia or schizophrenia. It is historic because it transcends the self-imposed limitations of our text-book notions of secularism and/or communalism. It is historic because it refuses to walk either into the trap of ‘majoritarianism’ or that of ‘minoritarianism.’

It is historic because it supersedes our all normal (or should I say, abnormal?) expectations and apprehensions, articulated as well as unarticulated. It is historic because it has been delivered by a bench of judges, who apparently raised themselves above the petty considerations of group, communal, religious identity and/or markers, and chose to speak in a language of mutual respect and sharing, reiterating our faith in the spirit of commonality, co-operation and solidarity that defines a certain India; India of common man’s aspirations.

In our history of post-Independence India, if it is anyone who has consistently and systematically been ignored in all our political, executive and legal decisions/discourses, it is the common man. We have presumably created this entire edifice for the benefit of the common man and yet when it comes to the crunch, we invariably take decisions adversarial to his cause and his well-being.

Over the years, this common man has increasingly become a ‘mute spectator’ of the ‘absurd drama’ our politicians, bureaucrats, media-men and legal luminaries often collectively stage for his entertainment. It is this common man who is always the first to die when the communal fires rage or the terrorists go on a rampage, despite his unshakeable faith and belief in the common brotherhood of man. It is this common man who often greets his Muslim neighbors on Id, his Hindu friends on Diwali, his Sikh relatives on Nanak‘s birthday and his Christian brothers on Christmas.

Yes, ask him, and he’ll tell you that for him development is an issue, politics isn’t; employment is an issue, employment schemes floated from time to time aren’t; poverty is an issue, religious identity is not; hunger is an issue, temple or masjid are not. Most of the time, it is this common man who goes about chasing prices, rising inflation rates and unrelenting hunger with his habitual doggedness and undying faith in God or destiny.

Most of the time, he is so befuddled by the political rhetoric of his leaders that he hardly makes any sense of it, only sometimes chuckles over its illogic. Most of the time, he remains no more than an invisible mark on our consciousness, our conscience and/or existence. Only rarely does he stare out of R. K. Laxman’s cartoons or Amir Khan’s Peepli Live, forces us to think about him, temporarily becomes real and then gets lost in the din and noise of life, all over again.     

Unfortunately, this common man has not only always remained a silent victim of all decision-making processes, but has consistently puzzled over the divisive rhetoric of his political leaders, the ambivalence of the media-men, and the deft hair-splitting of our ideologues and intellectuals.        

What makes this judgment truly historic and unique is that it has not only taken cognizance of this common man, but has also, very loudly and categorically, voiced his aspirations and expectations, that too, in the language he best understands; i.e. the language of commonality, mutuality and brotherhood.

No wonder, this judgment has left most of our politicians in a state of numbing shock and atrophy. For the first time perhaps, this ‘class’ finds itself on the back foot, completely outscored by the sagacity of the judgment, unable to trot off its well-rehearsed opinions. For the first time, all of them are at their wit’s end, struggling to find how to make the right noises and yet make capital out of the situation.

The right-thinking journalists are apparently relieved, but the mischievous ones are back to their games of representational politics; first using ‘divisive’ headlines, and then defending their indefensible positions through carefully crafted maneuvers.

Ironically, the main opposition to this judgment has come from the most unexpected quarters, our intellectuals who are forever ready with their rag-tag tool-box to do a quick surgical operation on any problem of national/international interest. These are our own version of ‘armchair intellectuals’ who often thrive on the state patronage, and yet never tire of reminding us of their anti-establishment stance.

They are ones who are often guilty of Orwellian ‘double think’ and ‘double speak’ and yet claim to speak from the high moral ground, they would have us believe, never shifts or alters when it alteration finds. They are the ones who enjoy all the perks and privileges because of their proximity to the ruling establishment, yet posit themselves as the champions of everyone’s freedom of expression, including their own.

Interestingly, they are the ones who often give legitimacy to the illegitimate government policies, schemes and ideology (that often run counter to the interests of the common man) and yet when something as momentous as this judgment comes, without a demur, appoint themselves as our interlocutors, too. 

If there is any single ‘class’ in India that is really disappointed, nay dejected, over the Ayodhya verdict, it is this ‘chattering class’ of the so-called intellectuals. Someone has gone on the record saying, it is not a court verdict, but a ‘panchayat ka faisla.’ Someone else is critical of it because the verdict is based not upon history, but the slippery notions of faith. Some others are of the view that the judges have sacrificed reason for emotion, and the principles of justice in favor of judicial and/or political expediency. Some have even gone to the extent of saying that it is simply an endorsement of the out-of-court settlement Shankaracharya had proposed long ago.  

So on and so forth. There are as many theories on the verdict as are the ideologies our intellectuals often subscribe to. It is as though each one of them is speaking from within his own solitary-cell, his own prison-house of thought, language and ideology. Surprisingly, the differences in the opinions of our opinion-makers are only superficial in nature, as beyond the surface, all of them are speaking in the same ‘divisive language’ we often associate with the politicians (to learn and to gain legitimacy for which our politicians invariably turn to our intellectuals), the language that helps their own cause but is detrimental to the cause of the common man.

Let us not turn to interlocutors (read intellectuals) for the final comment on this much awaited, much controversial judgment. It is significant that Post Ayodhya verdict there have been no communal riots; and that the common man is now stubbornly refusing to be ensnared into the vicious and wily machinations of the political rhetoric. The least our chattering classes could do was to read the triumph of the common man in this judgment, and leave him alone, not always talk down to him and say in characteristic haughty manner, ‘Well, we always knew what was good for you!’   

Our intellectuals, with their divisive rhetoric, have already done much harm to our country. Let the commonsensical perception and wisdom of the common man now hold sway and reign supreme over us. Perhaps, no other time was more auspicious for reiterating this position than the Gandhi Jayanti we have celebrated very recently. 

By Rana Nayar

This Teacher’s Day: To Paul, With Love

Teacher’s Day is usually just another day in the life of a teacher. Often, it comes and goes (unnoticed!), especially for an anonymous teacher like me. But this time round, I have decided that it is not going to be a tepid, run-of-the-mill affair.  

This time, I don’t want to listen to all the platitudes and sermons that everyone (who is not a teacher and doesn’t understand what teaching is all about) loves to dole out to our tribe from the pulpit, telling us to do this, that and the other. This time, I don’t even want to listen to the homilies that our fraternity members (certainly, the more articulate ones) tend to give us on how we alone can save the nation when everyone else is hell-bent upon destroying it, becoming ‘surreal’ in our effort to approximate to their ideal.

This time, I don’t want to listen to the cherub-faced, government school-children, who, in all their innocence and coerced reverence, sing hosannas to their teachers (most of whom are rarely ever found in the class-rooms or schools except when such tiresome annual rituals are performed). This time, I don’t want to spend my time reading accounts of all those who have finally made it (somehow!) to the enviable list of the national awardees among us. This time, I don’t want to do any of those things that I have routinely done over the years, without much profit.

This time, I would like to celebrate Teacher’s Day by remembering one of my former teachers, who belongs to a rare tribe, now fast becoming an extinct species in our country, at least. A teacher gets all kinds of students and often doesn’t know where they might land up, either because of or in spite of his/her training. But over the years, I have come to realize that (while all others may acknowledge this) no student understands the contribution of his/her teacher better than the one who chooses to follow in his/her footsteps. To put it differently, only the student who chooses to become a teacher ultimately understands how and in what different ways his teachers have contributed to his personal growth, moral, intellectual, even spiritual.  

Until I came into M.A. (English) and through it, developed life-long association with this remarkably awesome teacher, I did not even know how and in what invisible ways a good teacher could have possibly impacted his student’s life. Today, after thirty years, when I sometimes catch myself in the act of using language with the kind of ‘sensitivity’ he taught us, or using gestures in the way in which he sometimes used them or act as an interlocutor, trying to teach a lesson or two in peaceful co-existence to a group of agitated, warring students, my thoughts invariably return to Dr. Paul L. Love. 

Yes, that is his name. Rarely ever do we come across men who become living embodiments of their name, but Dr. Love was a happy exception to this norm. True to his name, he was and continues to be a fountainhead of ‘love,’ a quality, I discovered much later, must be a sine qua non for any teacher, regardless of the grade or the age-group s/he teaches. Dr. Love had chosen to teach thousands of miles away from home (otherwise a citizen of US, he had chosen to teach in the backwaters of Punjab, at Baring Union Christian College, located in a small town of Batala). He could have easily opted for a much better location or an institution, only if he had so desired. I’m emphasizing this because I know that often our government teachers (in schools as well as colleges) simply baulk at the idea of being posted in a village or a remote area. Dr. Love came to India in 1960s, when the Indian Home Ministry had not as yet put an embargo on the missionaries to come and work in the minority institutions scattered across the country.

Yes, he was a ‘missionary’ and continues to be one. But his missionary zeal was not necessarily born out of his affiliation with the Church to which he belonged, but was a durable quality of his mind and being, something that is so rare among the teachers today. The first piece of information we received, on entering the college, was that our department had acquired new furniture. As we went around, we were quite impressed with the brand new tables and chairs and other pieces of furniture that adorned the department. Much later we were to learn that it had all been bought by Paul Love, that too, out of his pocket. Agreed, his salary in the late 1970s (when I went to do M.A. there) was Rs. 20, 000/- (approx.) as he was paid in US dollars, convertible in Indian currency. Yet, it required some selflessness and a great deal of thoughtfulness to shell out money from one’s pocket, just because a teacher wanted his students to study in the right ambience.

Paul Love’s munificence for his students only began there; and perhaps, ended nowhere. Every year, before the start of the new session, he would make a special trip to Amritsar (as Batala had no decent bookstore, then) and bring back 40 sets of text books for M.A. I. & II. Every year, BUC would admit 20 students to its M.A. programme and so, on an average, it meant buying 40 sets, all in Penguin editions. Even in those days of socialism, each Penguin edition cost no less than Rs. 70/- and on an average, a bunch of 20 to 25 text books were prescribed, each year. Quick calculations would tell you that Paul Love spent almost one hundred thousand on our text-books alone, again from his pocket, which he passed on to each one of us, as a gift of his love, all at a heavily subsidized rate of Rs. 150/- In our days of commercialization, this may sound like a fairy tale, too distant and too unreal, but Paul gave us no lectures on why to read text books and why not to read ‘guides.’ Without much fuss, he went about making this unforgettable magnanimous gesture, creating in his students a culture that was as ‘different’ as he was.

It was our first year in Batala. Having studied under a typical Indian system, we had grown up to believe that a good teacher is one who teaches ‘everything’ that he either knows or must know on the subject. Let’s accept that our system does create a hopeless dependency-syndrome in most of us, making regular ‘crammers’ and ‘rote-learners’ out of us. For the first time perhaps, it was Paul Love who awakened in most of us the need and desire to question, to know and interrogate. You just couldn’t go to his class without having read the allotted portion of the text, and if you did, he could spot you from a hundred mile. And when you agonized over his question, trying to dodge, speculate or approximate, he would break into his characteristic smile and say, “Well, my dear, I think, you are quite close to it. Just try hard enough, and you’ll almost be there.” None of his students ever heard him say, “You don’t even know this,” the regular snub some of the best among the teachers use, often unwittingly, snuffing out the very seeds of curiosity in their pupils.

With him, learning was always an adventure, an exploration of new worlds and new horizons. In fact, while he would be teaching, we never ever felt we were being ‘taught;’ it was as though we were either cracking a riddle, puzzling over the mysteries of life, language or literature or travelling into the far-off, distant lands of imagination. He opened up meanings we could not imagine and he led us through the intricate labyrinths of life and literature, with the ease of a gentle guide, who has been there and seen or known it all. He used to teach us Chaucer. Before the first term exam, he had repeatedly warned us that we must not ever use such worn-out, archaic expressions as “Chaucer was the father of English poetry.” But inflexible and resistant to change as we always were, practically everyone in the class started his/her answer with, what else, but that very expression. When our scripts were returned, on the top of each script, in red-pen, there was the same remark, “It seems you know the entire genealogy of English poetry, Please tell me, who was the ‘grand’ and the ‘great grandfather’ of English poetry.” There couldn’t have been a more painstaking and a gentler way of driving a point home. Needless to say, every time I teach Chaucer to a new class, I start off by narrating this anecdote.

Paul was and still is so gentle that he can’t even hurt a fly, let alone full grown human beings. A bunch of die-hard imps that we were, we always put his patience and gentle manners to a severe test. When it came to breaking the rules inside the class or outside, some of us really had a way with it. But in my two-year long stay at Baring, not even once did I or any of my batch-mates ever see Paul lose his temper. Being a strict-disciplinarian and moderate in temper, he always showed remarkable poise and equanimity. Human enough to feel irritated or even angry, he would never give himself over to an open display of his feelings. All of us have a memory of a red-faced Paul, sitting in his room, hacking away at the keys of his Remington typewriter, all in an effort to burn out his bottled up rage. He had a way of imploding, not exploding; and not even once did he make any of his students’ a victim of his bad temper. One may wonder, if people with such remarkable self-control do exist in our age of instant-explosion and instant-gratification. An arch of his eyebrow, or a puckered forehead, or a refusal to speak to the one he was angry with was enough to send us all into tizzy, speculating, “Paul ko gussa kyon aya hai?” Such was the impact of his quiet authority he never asserted or ever felt the need to assert.  

At BUC, it was compulsory for every M.A. student to attend library period in the afternoons. Every afternoon at 3 o’clock (Sundays & Saturdays included), we had to report in the library, as Paul would be waiting there, his characteristic enigmatic smile in place. And if anyone broke the rule, he would walk across all the way to the hostel, knock at your door, drag you out of your afternoon siesta, and walk back to the library, with you sulking close behind. If someone was found sleeping behind the façade of his carrel, Paul would sneak up to him, and his hand resting on the edge of the carrel, drool away in his unfailing sugary tone, “Oh, my dear, I think, you could do with a cup of coffee. That sure will help you stay awake.” Thereafter, even the habitual snoozers, forgetting their snooze, would start peeling their eyes, pretending to peck a word or two of Shakespeare or Keats.

Yes, Paul ruled over the minds and hearts of his students, but not with authority, simply authority of love. He gave himself so generously that sometimes we wondered, was it right on his part to give so much of himself away? Thirty years later, each time, I enter my class, Paul walks in with me. Thirty years later, each time, I meet my friends or batch-mates, all our conversations not only begin and end with Paul, but are also punctuated with references to him. Thirty years later, I have finally been able to gather strength to bow down to my legendary teacher, a living legend, and pay a small tribute to his courage and conviction to love and create minds that would spread his message of no, not just touching lives, but transforming them unalterably.

Paul, your slowly receding figure, as you pedalled away to your adopted home daily, not very far from the department, is etched neatly in my mind. Your sincerity haunts me; your simplicity gnaws at my heart; and your generosity of spirit still overawes me.

Sometimes, I think, Paul, only if we had more such teachers as you, this world would certainly not be as bereft of LOVE as it often appears, today.  

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Prof. Rana Nayar is Chairperson, Department of English & Cultural Studies, Panjab University, Chandigarh. E-mail: rananayar@gmail.com

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PS: Most of us only draw salary, some of us teach, some others (a microscopic minority) go far beyond their calling and change lives. Dr. Paul L Love is one such teacher, who has silently touched and transformed so many lives that it is perhaps difficult to keep count. He didn't believe in self-empowerment, but empowerment of his students. He worked and continues to work selflessly, without the expectation of any reward or gratitude. He molded individuals and built healthy institutions/institutional practices. Today, how many teachers can claim this about themselves? He will continue to live inside the hearts and minds of all his students, as long as they live. What we all owe to this man is perhaps beyond the ken of words...May his tribe, if it exists somewhere, flourish! ...RANA NAYAR    

             

If we have no machines, must we perish?

                                                                                                                

I have always wondered why in India we have not been able to use science to empower the weak and the oppressed. More so, after I had seen a carpenter in England hack away on a raw piece of wood, single-handed; doing practically everything from sawing to chopping to slicing it off, even shaping it into objects of common use.

Quite simply, an ordinary worker in the West is equipped with all kinds of small handy machines that make his life hassle-free. All he needs is a bagful of simple machine tools to complete his routine chores, which for an average Indian workman, would make life burdensome, even miserable.

So, when a couple of years ago, Chandigarh Administration decided to convert local dhobi ghats into state-of-the-art washing marts, I was among those who had stood by and applauded quite generously. I felt that Chandigarh administration was not only people friendly, but was also making a genuine bid to soften up the tough, hard life of a neglected section of society.

Like other people in our society, who work with their hands, dhobis have to work under the most inhospitable conditions to make a living. Well, I thought, science was finally knocking at their door, giving them an open invitation to revolutionize their lives, only if they so desired.

During this period, I visited the dhobi ghat on several occasions. Every time, I saw the place buzzing with activity, as dhobis, young and old, ran around cheerily, loading dirty piles into the machines, switching them on, setting a program and then waiting for the washing cycle to complete itself.

On each of these occasions, I was impressed seeing their faces glow with a rare pride, and their immersion in work, total. It was as if they were born to work on these ‘machines,’ no strangers to this new found ‘mechanization.’ 

The other day, when I visited this dhobi ghat, again, after a gap of a year or more, I was quite shocked to see the place look deserted, almost gloomy. In the sultry afternoon heat, I could only spot a solitary young dhobi, going about his work, desultorily. He was busy drying up a pile of clothes he had manually washed.

Surprised, when I asked him the reason, he informed how the washing mart had closed down, and how things were now pretty much back to square one. On probing further, he revealed that the dhobis had run into trouble with the ‘authorities.’ 

Apart from charging them hefty rent, the ‘authorities’ insisted that they pay the exorbitant electricity bills of the Administration-owned machines, too. Stung by the blatant injustice of it all, I had expected him to turn plaintive and launch forth into a litany of complaints. On the contrary, he simply wound up the conversation, saying, “We are negotiating with the Administration. I’m sure, something positive would come off it.” In the face of an apparently provocative situation, I had found the young man’s composure, calmness and unnerving self-confidence almost unsettling.   

Puzzling over the response of the young dhobi, as I walked back home, it was as if someone whispered in my ears, “To heck with the machines. Science or no science – we, the poor and the neglected have our pride and dignity, too, and know how to preserve our ‘positive outlook.’

By Rana Nayar

Let’s not play such ‘Spoil-Sports’!

“You know, things were going just right, but this ‘media’ has queered the pitch!” Mr. Suresh Kalmadi was recently overheard, confiding to a close friend. “It’s all your fault. Why do you give them so much of freedom?” pat came the reply.

“Freedom? If we had our way, we’d gag them all and dump them in some stinking backyard. That’s where they really belong. Don’t they?” The Chairman of OC was now getting a little edgy. Sensing the pain behind his words, the friend offered a quick-fix reassurance, “You are right, they do stink. That’s because they are always out to raise a stink. And often enough, it’s over such trivial things.” “Trivial. Yes, that’s the word. I tell you, they have no sense of priorities.” It was as though the Chairman had found his voice, all over again.

“Yes, they always lose the big picture, and start swatting the flies. Trust them to do that!” The friend knew the magic of his words had begun to work on the Chairman. So, he picked up a little courage, “Can’t they see that country’s prestige is at stake? You tell me, what is more important, the Commonwealth Games or a few hundred crores? And how does it matter, if money changes hands. It’s our money, and it’ll remain with us. And once it comes into circulation, via London or Sydney, won’t it ultimately boost our own economy?”

“I wish, there were more patriots like you. That is the real rub. Patriotism is at a discount these days. I see a foreign hand here. All these news channels, I suspect, are on the pay rolls of a foreign agency. And this time, it’s not the Pakistanis, but the Chinese who are behind it. They put up such a spectacular show during the Olympics last year, and now that we were going headlong into our preparations for the Commonwealth Games, they felt threatened. They knew we’d outdo them. It’s plain and simple jealousy. Look at the way they have pulled all the plugs.” Having analyzed the situation threadbare, the Chairman now appeared more confident, even calmer.    

“I think, this is what you should have stated in your press conference. Why did you brandish that letter from the High Commissioner? That really put you in a tight spot. Don’t you think so?” The friend was trying to be sympathetic.

“Don’t talk about that! It’s all cooked up. That fellow Arnab has gone off the rocker. What does he think he is! Super Prime Minister or what? When our PM is not asking any questions, who is he?” The Chairman’s voice had a harsh, grating tone to it.     

“You are right. Arnab is the real spoil-sport! He doesn’t know what sportsman spirit is all about. After all, such things do happen, don’t they? It’s all in the game, no?” The friend was now downright obsequious. 

“To tell you very honestly, I often miss those golden years of license raj and Official Secrecy Act. Things were much simpler then. No prying eyes, no hidden cameras, no nosey journalists and no such bloody nonsense. ” The Chairman was almost bleary-eyed with nostalgia.

“Why the hell did you have to go in for things like ‘liberalization’ and RTI? It was perhaps Chanakya who once said, ‘Politics is the art of concealment.’” This time, the friend was not too sure.

“We, in the government and bureaucracy, have been ruing the day we decided to open things up. I think, the fissures have become so wide that all our ‘slips’ are showing.” The Chairman had unexpectedly turned reflective. 

I think, the Chairman has a point. After all, isn’t he our torch-bearer? It’s that Arnab fellow who needs a reality check. Doesn’t he know that our politicians have been playing hookey (not hockey) with us and our future, ever since they got the reins of our destiny in 1947?

Only, this time round, they have won all the medals (in corruption) much before the games could actually begin? Hurray!

 By Rana Nayar

Education is....and is not.....

Education is not literacy.
Education is not ruthless competition.
Education is not mindless chase of high percentages.
Education is certainly not a certificate for employability.
Education is opening a window in a dark wall.
Education is opening doors in a closed room.
Education is allowing free winds to swish through our minds.
Education is blossoming of the mind.
Education is awakening of the spirit. 
Education is discovering who you are.
Education is discovering the world around you. 
Education is stepping out of yourself.
Education is developing understanding with compassion.
Education is showing emotion to those we do not know.
Education is wiping the tears of those we do not know.
Education is really a way of communicating with self, man, family, society and God.
Education is not what you get in school, college or university but in the lab of life.
Education is an unending experiment.

Well, let us not tear each other apart

I thought we no longer lived in the jungle, we do
I thought we were no longer animals, we are
I thought we only tore apart arguments, I was wrong
I thought we only tore apart dead conventions, I was wrong
We love to tear each other apart, I must say 
We love to paw our way into each other's flesh, I must say
We love to claw our way into each other's heart, I must say
Only if we knew that pawing and clawing is not exactly love
Onlly if we knew that love is not a piece of mutton or carrion flesh
Only if we knew that love is our only chance of becoming human
Only if we knew that love is our only way of transcending beastliness
Only if we knew that love is our only option of being close to God.