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Showing posts with label Caste and Religion. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Caste and Religion. Show all posts

10 June 2020

Where’s our George Floyd?

Suhas Palshikar
Will there be a George Floyd moment in India’s public life? Surely, it is not merely about outrage over an act of injustice. It is about comprehending the urgency of aligning with the victim; it is about realising systemic bias against the marginalised; it is about crossing the threshold of “we” and “them”. Above all, it is a moment of citizen initiative. Of late, India seems to have lost that urge to consistently relate to injustice as an assault on democracy.

For the past two months, all media is abuzz with images of the suffering of migrant workers. Two things about this suffering have been striking. There was no public outcry over this human tragedy and the victims themselves chose to mostly suffer in silence. They may have grumbled, or cursed under their breath, but our democracy does not seem to have encouraged them to really assert or demand their rights. Not just migrants, minorities too have been subjected to the untold misery of being excluded from the idea of the public. And more routinely, women, rural poor, Dalits and Adivasis have been objects of humiliation.

This begs the question: How does India’s democracy afford to victimise large sections and manage to ensure that victims will remain docile? This docility of India’s democracy needs to become a subject of introspection and examination. Three sets of answers can be imagined — answers that are generic about democracy; answers that are historical about the nature of the Indian state and answers that take us to the contemporary moment.

The practice of democracy has the notorious tendency to become paradoxical. It begins in the name of the “demos” but goes on to construct the demos rather narrowly; oftentimes, sections of the population manage to ensconce themselves as “the people”, they count as the public, their ideas masquerade as the people’s ideas. This inevitably produces a layered citizenry. Democracy also starts off by investing agency in the individuals but sooner or later divests them of that agency as interference by the ignorant. Democracy inspires ideas of rights but allows the taming of rights for purposes of order. In short, it is these tensions between the elite and the masses, between active citizens and obedient citizens, between rights and order, that mark the life of democracies. This is not merely about the distance between theory and practice, between concept and its concrete life. It is about imagining that the course of democracy is predetermined. Democratic politics needs to be carved out with effort, rather than believing that adopting formal democracy automatically ensures vibrant democratic practice.

The approach of the Indian state to citizen participation has always been based on arrogance. It is also informed by overemphasis on the rhetoric of law and order. The former leads the state to believe that citizens are not, and should not be, active agents. This means that citizens must wait for leaders to mobilise them and guide and supervise their actions. Similarly, citizens must depend on the largesse of the state in deciding what is good for them. This gives rise to the syndrome of government as caretaker/parent and leaders as political chaperons. The Indian state also privileges the idea of law and order. If a parental state negates the idea that people have agency, the emphasis on law and order legitimises that negation. Thus, the discourse of rights and individual dignity becomes permissible only if it is subservient to the statist idea of “order”.

Legislative imagination, judicial interpretation and public perception are all stacked against the idea of the citizen as protestor. In contrast to the legacy of the freedom movement, democracy and popular participation are seen, both theoretically and legally, as inconsistent with, and often even opposed to, an orderly society. Whether it be the AK Gopalan case (1950) or the many legal monuments against individual liberty such as the currently infamous UAPA, the emphasis has been twofold: That the state knows, the state is right, the state must be privileged, and that citizen action is suspect, potentially disruptive and liable to punishment.

It is in the backdrop of this subdued rights discourse and de-legitimised agency of the people that the current moment has unfolded wherein criticism is almost seditious, claiming rights for marginalised sections can be termed as waging war against the state and empathising with victims of social injustice is ridiculed or forbidden. The current regime has converted the penchant for sub-democratic state action into a fearsome art.

Since we are discussing this in the month of June, one cannot but forget the somewhat amateurish takeover of the entire state apparatus by the government in 1975. A much more concerted and systematic mechanism of silencing citizens is underway today. But it is not the repressive aspect of the state apparatus unleashed on protesting citizens that adequately answers why citizens choose to remain quiet in moments of acute injustice to “someone else”.

This might appear ironic, but in spite of a comparatively higher degree of repression, the lack of popular protest is more because of the success of the regime in constructing and popularising a narrative that not just delegitimises but simply denies the existence of suffering, injustice and victimhood. This is the narrative of subverting reality into its opposite.

In this world of alternative reality, the victim is the offender (as in case of Muslims), suffering is sacrifice if not ill-informed exaggeration (as in the case of migrants’ plight) and marginalisation or exclusion are outcomes of past politics (as in the case of Dalits or Adivasis). This narrative posits two contrasting social camps. One is the nation. It represents unity, progress and a possible millennium. All else is fragmentary and divisive. So any voice speaking of a particular group’s suffering becomes a hurdle in the march of the nation; any coalition of the marginalised by definition assumes an anti-national tenor.

Such is the power of the narrative that the facts of suffering, humiliation or injustice lose their evocative potential; they cease to scandalise, they are unable to evoke a moral response. Democracy can thus afford the co-existence of multiple injustices and a quiet citizenry when such narratives are able to reconstruct facts and convince the masses of the validity of that reconstruction. The silence today is a result of the popular acceptance of reconstructed reality and adherence to an alternative morality.

When US president Donald Trump says that George Floyd “is looking down” and saying (decline in unemployment) “is a great thing… happening to our country”, he represents the subversion of the fate of Floyd, he is rewriting the grammar of democracy. Not the killing of Floyd but the small decline of unemployment is the significant fact of the moment; Floyd would not be angry at his murderer, he would be angry at the economy; what needs to be fixed therefore, is not institutional bias against a community but the dishonour caused by the protests.

A careful reading of this response should tell us that India is truly living in its own Floyd moment.

The writer, based in Pune, taught political science and is currently chief editor of Studies in Indian Politics

18 January 2020

Man of destiny

Ramachandra Guha

In December 2018, I was having lunch with an entrepreneur-friend who works closely with the Central government. The Bharatiya Janata Party had just lost state elections in Madhya Pradesh, Rajasthan and Chhattisgarh, putting three chief ministers out of office and out of work. I suggested to the entrepreneur that when the prime minister won re-election the following May (as he was already very likely to do), he should induct these now jobless politicians of his party into the Union government. These politicians were not without controversy; at the same time, all were capable administrators, and all brought something solid to the table. Vasundhara Raje was arrogant and entitled, but with her interest in art and culture would make a decent tourism minister. Shivraj Singh Chauhan had the stain of Vyapam around his administration, but even his critics conceded that his policies had helped improve the lives of Madhya Pradesh’s farmers. Surely he could be an effective Union minister for agriculture and rural development in Narendra Modi’s second cabinet? Raman Singh’s government in Chhattisgarh was guilty of serious human rights violations; at the same time, it had distributed subsidized food to the poor far more effectively than had most other states. Would he not make a useful addition to the second Union cabinet too?

My BJP-leaning friend agreed with me. Even during its first term the Modi government had not exactly been talent-rich. Of the few experienced ministers it had, Manohar Parrikar, Sushma Swaraj and Arun Jaitley were all visibly ailing. Inducting people like these three former chief ministers into the Union cabinet would surely make the execution of the government’s programmes more effective.

In the event, Narendra Modi did not bring this trio into his cabinet after he won re-election. At the same time, ministerships were given to politicians whose talent lay chiefly (if not exclusively) in demonizing political opponents and religious minorities. To make matters worse, the loss of Jaitley, Swaraj and Parrikar had been compounded by the flight of first-rate professional talent from the Central government. In the prime minister’s first term he had the benefit of the full-time advice of at least four top-flight economists — Raghuram Rajan, Arvind Subramanian, Urjit Patel and Arvind Panagariya. By 2019, all had left government, to be replaced by people who lacked the professional credibility the earlier quartet did. To make matters worse still, in Modi’s first term as prime minister he had some high-quality civil servants in both the finance ministry and the Prime Minister’s Office, individuals with experience and wisdom who were unafraid to speak their mind. By the time Modi was sworn in afresh in May 2019, these people had left government as well.

There is a pattern here. It seems that Modi cannot work closely or for long periods with people of independent standing, whether these be civil servants, economists, or other politicians within his own party. There could be at least three reasons for this. First, the prime minister is by temperament a loner, with no friends and family, an entirely self-made man who has never really learnt to build relations of reciprocity. Second, he is an autodidact, entirely self-taught, who is suspicious of people with degrees from prestigious universities (hence his famous, or rather notorious, remark that he would always choose ‘hard work’ over ‘Harvard’). Third, he is a narcissist, whose world revolves largely — if not entirely — around himself. He is the BJP, he is the Government, he is the Union Cabinet, and he is India. There is no Team Modi — for there can only be a Brand Modi.
As an economic analyst who has advised many governments once told me, if anyone wishes to work with the current prime minister he or she has to observe this rule: ‘Total obsequiousness, no credit’. There is but one exception to this rule — the present home minister. When Modi was chief minister of Gujarat, Amit Shah at one time held as many as 12 portfolios (notably, though, without holding full cabinet rank). When Modi became the BJP’s prime ministerial candidate in 2013, he insisted that Shah take charge of the key state of Uttar Pradesh, and help with the overall campaign as well. After the general elections were won, Shah, with Modi’s blessings, became BJP party president, a post he held all through the government’s first term in office. After the prime minister’s re-election in May 2019, Shah joined the cabinet as home minister, while continuing to be party president. In the months since he has become visible and more prominent still — as in the ubiquitous coupling of his name with the prime minister as the Jugalbandi of Indian politics, and in his piloting of major legislation in Parliament.

In their years together in Gujarat, Amit Shah worked largely in the shadows of his Saheb. He was seen as someone who listened to His Master’s Voice and carried out His Master’s Orders. Between 2013 and 2019, Shah’s role was to win state and national elections for Modi and the BJP; by raising money, choosing candidates, designing electoral strategy, placing booths on the ground. Since May 2019, however, he is no longer Modi’s loyal apprentice, nor even Modi’s principal political strategist at election time. He is now his co-equal in government; indeed the driver of the most consequential policies of the government.

The policy decisions of Modi’s time in office that have caused the most damage to the country are demonetization and the passing of the Citizenship (Amendment) Act. The first was undertaken against the expert advice of a governor of the Reserve Bank of India; the second was pushed through by the home minister. The economy still hasn’t recovered from the abrupt and arbitrary withdrawal of high currency notes, while the CAA has sharply polarized Indian society within weeks of its passing through Parliament. Both decisions were taken, as it were, out of the blue; the situation or context did not remotely demand them. Anyone with a clear head about the country and its future should have understood this. The prime minister did not or could not.

Entrepreneurs and civil servants who have worked with Modi tell me that he sees himself as a Man of Destiny, as someone who will transform India in a more thoroughgoing manner than any previous prime minister. It may well be that — given our fractious and self-serving Opposition — Narendra Modi will win a third term as prime minister, and thus come to have as long a tenure in the post as Jawaharlal Nehru and Indira Gandhi once did. But already, a mere six months into his second term, one senses that his legacy will be even more mixed than theirs, more decisively titled towards the negative side of the balance sheet. He inherited a strong economy, and had a citizenry willing to take him at his word that he represented them all. With two electoral mandates behind him, Modi could have taken India to the next level; economically, politically, socially. Instead, he has blown it all away. Our economy is more fragile and vulnerable than it was in May 2014. Our society is more fearful and divided. Our institutions are more compromised and corroded.

If Narendra Modi will never be seen by future generations of Indians in the sort of shining light he had once hoped for, one reason, of course, is his inability to shake off his sectarian past. For all that smooth talk of being for Everyone and especially for Development, he has outed himself as being — in keeping with his RSS past and cast — merely a Hindutva majoritarian. But a second reason surely is the narcissism of his personality. Had the prime minister thought to take individuals of ability into his cabinet, had he thought to listen more attentively to expert advice in economics, law, science, defence, and foreign affairs, he would have been in a better place today. And so would India.

17 January 2020

Four years after Rohith Vemula died, the public university is still riddled with crises old and new

Satish Deshpande
Public memory is notoriously short. Many may have already forgotten the name Rohith Vemula, the spontaneous surge of anguished emotion that it provoked across the nation and beyond, or the poignant clarity with which it illuminated the impasses of Indian higher education. The fourth anniversary of Rohith Vemula’s institutionally-enabled suicide may thus be an apt occasion to reflect on the sobering fact that, today, the critical injuries inflicted on our public universities are not those caused by lathis in uniform or iron rods in masks.

Three of these wounds are less visible but far more serious and long lasting in their effects. As his short life and moving last testament show, Rohith would have felt the pain of each one of them directly and acutely.

The first injury is the deliberate diminishing of the public university as an instrument of social justice. In a huge country like ours where enduring inequalities have deepened greatly in recent decades, public higher education seemed to offer the hope of rapid mobility at least to the top rungs of the have-nots. This became a real possibility only in this century, when a critical mass of college-eligible students from the underprivileged majority emerged for the first time in the history of our republic. Given the frantic pace at which enrolment in Indian higher education has expanded in the last two decades, it seemed that this hope was about to be converted into reality.

But as research from around the world on the recent “massification” of higher education now suggests, nowhere has this really happened. The proliferation of institutions came at the cost of highly uneven quality. The dominant groups managed to retain their disproportionate access to the better institutions, thus ensuring that higher education did not become an equalising force. For a brief while, it seemed that a strong reservation policy would enable India to evade the global trend, as the social composition of the student bodies in our elite institutions changed dramatically.

However, the combined effect of two countervailing forces seems to have postponed a positive outcome. The first is exactly what Rohith Vemula was struggling against — the subtle, informal ways in which dominant prejudices work to ensure that access in principle does not lead to inclusion in practice. The other force is the state itself, which is undoing with one hand what it is doing with the other. This is seen in the effective dilution of reservation policy as a tool of social justice by extending it to the economically backward, and in the recurrent efforts to reduce grants and raise fees. The latter policy seems particularly ill-considered because global evidence shows that, compared to the total expenditure, student fees form only a small proportion of revenues in a public university. This implies that attempts to reduce the consumer surplus accruing to affluent students do more harm than good.

The second and oldest of the grievous wounds suffered by our public universities is the crippling of their ability to promote free and rigorous thinking. It is easy to overlook the necessary relationship between the two. Rigour can only be attained through unrestrained criticism, and such criticism obviously requires freedom as its own precondition. Only when this basic need is met can students hope to soar “from the shadows to the stars”, as Rohith wrote.

The erosion of autonomy began well before the current regime. Much of it was ceded by academics rather than snatched by bureaucrats or politicians. There is an added irony in the fact that, over the past decade or so, the state has met (at least partially) the longstanding demand of academics for raising outlays on higher education, but has simultaneously taken over control of the academy.

Today this control extends far beyond the financial and statutory oversight legitimately expected of the state. The added twist provided by the current government is the overt and covert pressure that it is exerting on courses and syllabi in the social sciences and humanities to make them conform to its ideological expectations.

The third and most serious injury suffered by public universities is the newest and least visible. It is caused by the Modi regime’s ceaseless efforts to turn public opinion against universities, intellectuals, and more generally, against reasoned debate. This appears to be part of a wider global trend towards authoritarian right-wing regimes with a fondness for “alternative facts”. The Indian version is particularly potent and is helped by the jobs crisis which undermines utilitarian respect for higher education.

Criticism of the present risks making the past seem unduly rosy. Dark chapters in the history of higher education have been contributed by every political party, as the record of universities in our states amply demonstrates. Nor can it be denied that academics themselves have often played — and continue to play — stellar roles in these tragedies and farces. But even the accumulated disappointments of this tarnished past cannot match the depths to which the present regime has descended in denigrating every variety of rational, evidence-based debate.

Sometimes it seems nothing has changed in the four years since Rohith left us. Exactly the same tactics that were used against him and his comrades are being used today in several universities: Those opposed to the regime in power are first attacked and then indicted as the perpetrators. The whole drama is enacted by blatantly biased authorities and applauded by a viciously partisan media.

At other times, it seems that everything has changed. “My birth is my fatal accident”, wrote Rohith. His cry is echoed today by the many millions facing the prospect of endless punishment for the crime of having been born in one community rather than another.

“Never was a man treated as a mind”, Rohith also wrote, eerily echoing the present. As institutions devoted to the life of the mind, universities must somehow survive these times when a mind has become the most incriminating thing that a person can possess. It is only fitting that students are our best hope of survival for it is their minds that are at stake.

This article first appeared in the print edition of Indian Express on January 17, 2020 under the title ‘Where the mind is with fear’. The writer teaches sociology at Delhi University.

12 January 2020

The warp and weft of religious liberty

Suhrith Parthasarathy and Gautam Bhatia
In December 2014, the Supreme Court of India placed a temporary ban on madesnana, a 500-year-old ritual performed at the Kukke Subramanya Temple in Karnataka. The practice involves persons, in particular those from Scheduled Castes and Scheduled Tribes, rolling over plantain leaves left behind with food half eaten by Brahmins, in the belief that doing so would cleanse their skin of impurities.

Initially, in 2012, at the behest of a group of progressive-minded petitioners, including the seer of the Nidumamidi Math, a division bench of the Karnataka High Court put a halt to the ritual, but allowed it to continue in a modified form. Devotees could now voluntarily choose to roll over leaves containing prasada, that is offering made to the deity, so long as the food was not “tasted or partially eaten by the members of any community”. But this order was lifted two years later by another division bench of the High Court, which found little wrong with madesnana in its supposedly “original” form. The practice, the court said, did not, on its face, violate any law. What is more, in the judges’ belief, a proscription of the ritual until a final ruling was delivered would both hurt the sentiments of devotees and impinge on their constitutionally guaranteed right to freedom of religion.
What is at stake
It is cases such as this and many more, including the practice of female genital mutilation and the rights of Parsi women to enter fire temples, which are at stake when a nine-judge bench of the Supreme Court begins hearing arguments on questions concerning the relationship between the right to freedom of religion and the rights of individuals to dignity and equality. The establishment of the Bench emanated out of an order of reference made on review petitions filed against the Sabarimala judgment. But when the Bench assembles today, its remit will involve a rather more abstract exercise: to answer a series of wide-ranging questions and to expound the scope and extent of the Constitution’s religious liberty clauses. In answering these questions, the Court will be faced with a difficult question of balance. Within the Constitution of India, there are two impulses that may, at times, come into conflict with one another. The first impulse recognises that India is a pluralist and diverse nation, where groups and communities — whether religious or cultural — have always played an important role in society. Following up on this impulse, the Constitution recognises both the freedom of religion as an individual right (Article 25), as well as the right of religious denominations to manage their own affairs in matters of religion (Article 26). The second impulse, on the other hand, recognises that while community can be a source of solidarity at the best of times, it can also be a terrain of oppression and exclusion. The Constitution, therefore, expressly provides for the possibility that there may be times when members of religious and cultural communities may need to be protected from authoritarian and oppressive social practices. Thus, both Articles 25 and 26 are subject to public order, morality, and health; and further, Article 25 is also subject to other fundamental rights guaranteed by the Constitution, and to the state’s power to bring in social reform laws.

These two impulses, and their expression in various provisions of the Constitution, speak to an observation made by Alladi Krishnaswami Iyer, one of the foremost drafters of the Constitution: that in our country, religion and social life are inextricably linked. As the madesnana example shows us, religious proscriptions often spill over into broader society, and religious and social status often reinforce each other. A classic example, of course, is that of the practice of “untouchability”, which the Constitution explicitly prohibits. Another is the practice of “excommunication”, a practice prevalent among certain communities, where the head of the community has the power to expel recalcitrant members, and exclude them entirely from any form of interaction with their former friends or families.
Finding the middle ground
How then do we strike a balance between respecting the autonomy of cultural and religious communities and also ensuring that individual rights are not entirely sacrificed at the altar of the community? Over the years, the Supreme Court has attempted to do so by carving out a jurisprudence that virtually allows it to sit in theological judgment over different practices. It has done this by recognising that it is only those practices that are “essential” to religion that enjoy constitutional protection. Any other ritual is seen as secular and amenable to the state’s interference.

This doctrine of essential practices has invariably seen the Court play the role of a moral arbiter. It invoked it, for example, to rule, in 2004, that the performance of the Tandava dance was not an essential tenet of the religious faith of the Ananda Margis, even though the followers of the religion conscientiously believed it to be so. Similarly, the Court, especially during the tenure of Chief Justice of India P.B. Gajendragadkar, struck down a number of rituals across religions on the grounds that those practices were embodiments of superstition as opposed to faith. But was the Court at all competent to make this distinction? Many scholars have argued that it was not: the idea of a secular Court sits uneasily with investigations into the nature of religious practice. In response, the Court has often stated that the “essential religious practices” test is indeed the only way it can reconcile the two impulses of respecting religious autonomy and enforcing individual rights.
The anti-exclusion principle

For these reasons, one option before the nine-judge Bench would simply be to affirm existing jurisprudence, as it stands, and has been incrementally developed over the years. That would certainly not be an unacceptable position to take.

There are, however, other ways. One way, for example, would be to ask whether the effect of the disputed religious practice is to cause harm to individual rights. Madesnana, for example, is a clear violation of human dignity. A few years ago, the Bombay High Court found (similarly) that the exclusion of women from the inner sanctum of the Haji Ali Dargah was an indefensible violation of equality. The enquiry, thus, is not whether the practice is truly religious, but whether its effect is to subordinate, exclude, or otherwise send a signal that one set of members is entitled to lesser respect and concern than others. Interestingly, in the Sabarimala case — out of which this reference arose — both the concurring opinion of Justice D.Y. Chandrachud and the dissenting opinion of Justice Indu Malhotra agreed that this ought to be the test; their disagreement was limited to whether, in the specific case of the Sabarimala temple, the practice, on its facts, was exclusionary or not.

An articulation of the anti-exclusion principle would also take into account an important truth. In many religious communities, norms and practices are shaped and imposed from above, by community leaders, and then enforced with the force of social sanction. Dissenters are then faced with an impossible choice: either comply with discriminatory practices, or make a painful (and often unsustainable) exit from the community. It is here that the Constitution can help by ensuring that the oppressed and excluded among communities can call upon the Court for aid, and by ensuring that powerful communities are not exempt from guaranteeing the basic norms of fairness, equality, and freedom to all their members.

When the hearings begin today, therefore, the nine-judge Bench will face a difficult and delicate task of constitutional interpretation. Much will ride upon its decision: the rights of women in particular (a group that has long been at the receiving end of discriminatory practices) and of many other vulnerable groups in general but also, the constitutional vision of ensuring a life of dignity and equality to all, both in the public sphere and in the sphere of community.

Gautam Bhatia is a Delhi-based lawyer. Suhrith Parthasarathy is an advocate practising at the Madras High Court

8 December 2019

On Ambedkar’s death anniversary, his legacy can help counter Hindutva forces

D. Raja
On December 6, 1956, B R Ambedkar attained immortality. Jawaharlal Nehru said that, “B R Ambedkar deserves to be remembered always by us because of his fight against social injustice. The great service that he had rendered in framing the constitution of India”.
On December 6, 1992, the Babri Mosque in Ayodhya was demolished. The demolition was a clear break from what our national liberation movement and Constitution stood for. Hindus and Muslims fought shoulder-to-shoulder against imperialists. The seeds of distrust and disharmony were sown in those days resulted in Partition. Even after that horrific event, India, its leaders, its Constitution and above all the common people chose tolerance, plurality and secularism as the binders of society. The demolition was yet another vulgar attempt to paint Muslims as the “outside enemy”. It was the execution of the plan of the legatees of M S Golwalkar and K B Hedgewar — to cast India in the mould of a Hindu theocratic state. On December 6, it was not just a historical structure that was mutilated. History itself was mutilated, the wounds of which are still raw in the collective conscience of the oppressed of this country. It was an attempt to obliterate the legacy of Ambedkar, Periyar, Phule and Birsa Munda, who fought for justice and equality.
Since their inception, the RSS and other Hindutva forces have maintained a commitment to the hierarchical division of society on the lines of religion and caste, informed by Manu’s sense of purity and pollution. It was no accident that the day they chose for the demolition was associated with one of the tallest crusaders against the caste system and hierarchy. December 6 marks the Mahaparinirvan of Babasaheb Bhimrao Ambedkar. Even as the students of Babasaheb, the oppressed of this country are marching to ensure justice and equality, Hindutva forces are pushing the nation onto the path of exclusion and hierarchy. At the symbolic level, the right-wing forces attempted to invisibilise Ambedkar’s legacy by remembering December 6 as “Shaurya Diwas” to mark the violence and violation by Kar Sevaks.
The Sangh stands in opposition to the modern, secular ideas upheld by Ambedkar. Having experienced the barbarity of Hinduism, Ambedkar was firm in his resolve that though he might have been born a Hindu he will never die as one. As the ultimate rebellion against brahmanical violence, Ambedkar rejected Hinduism and embraced Buddhism. For him, the function of religion was the moral upliftment of an individual. For the Sangh, it has always been political mobilisation against the “other”.
Observing December 6, to remember Ambedkar’s vision, is particularly important in these times. The deeply problematic decision of the Supreme Court in the Ayodhya title dispute has emboldened Hindutva forces. Despite the posturing by the RSS and its ilk to recast Ambedkar as one of them, it is clear that the only interest the right-wing forces have is to polarise the society and draw political-electoral gains. Co-option is their preferred methodology. But the mere garlanding of Babasaheb’s statues is not fooling anyone. Each time portions about Ambedkar are deleted from the school textbooks, the true face of the brahmanical forces is exposed.
Ambedkar’s increasing relevance in India gives hope to everyone who dreams of a society free of hierarchies, a society based on equality and dignity. His legacy and relevance is also an undying challenge to the reactionary and divisive forces that seek to perpetrate hierarchy and humiliation. It is time we recognise the power structures of caste, patriarchy, religious majoritarianism and thwart their attempts at distorting Ambedkar’s legacy.
The demolition of Babri masjid is a dark blot on the social and constitutional history of India. The champions of that act are now at the helm, threatening everything Ambedkar stood for. As citizens of a secular republic, it is imperative that we understand the enormity of December 6 and draw hope for the collective fight to ensure equality and dignity for all.
The writer is general secretary, CPI.

ജം​ഗി​​ൾരാ​ജി​ലെ വേ​ട്ട​ക്കാ​ർ

Madhyamam Editorial
ര​ണ്ട​ര വ​ർ​ഷം മു​മ്പാ​ണ്​ ഉ​ത്ത​ർപ്ര​ദേ​ശി​ലെ ഉ​ന്നാ​വ്​ ജി​ല്ല​യി​ൽ 17കാ​രി കൂ​ട്ട​ബ​ലാ​ത്സം​ഗ​ത്തി​നി​ര​യാ​യ വാ​ർ​ത്ത പു​റ​ത്തു​വ​ന്ന​ത്. ഏ​റെ കോ​ളി​ള​ക്കം സൃ​ഷ്​​ടി​ച്ച ഈ ​കേ​സി​ലെ പ്ര​തി​ക​ളി​ലൊ​രാ​ൾ ബി.​ജെ.​പി​യു​ടെ നി​യ​മ​സ​ഭാം​ഗ​മാ​യി​രു​ന്ന കു​ൽ​ദീ​പ്​ സി​ങ്​ സെ​ങ്കാ​ർ ആ​യി​രു​ന്നു. ചില ദേ​ശീ​യ മാ​ധ്യ​മ​ങ്ങ​ളും മ​നു​ഷ്യാ​വ​കാ​ശ സം​ഘ​ട​ന​ക​ളും ഏ​റ്റെ​ടു​ത്ത​തോ​ടെ വ​ലി​യ ച​ർ​ച്ച​യും വി​വാ​ദ​വു​മാ​യ ഈ ​കേ​സ്​ വി​ചാ​ര​ണ​കോ​ട​തി​യി​ൽ എ​ത്തു​ന്ന​തി​നുമു​മ്പുത​ന്നെ, ഇ​ര​യു​ടെ പി​താ​വ്​ പൊ​ലീ​സ്​ ക​സ്​​റ്റ​ഡി​യി​ൽ മ​ർദനമേറ്റു​ മരിച്ചു. ആ ​പെ​ൺ​കു​ട്ടി​യെ വാ​ഹ​ന​മി​ടി​ച്ച്​ കൊ​ല​പ്പെ​ടു​ത്താ​നും ശ്ര​മ​മു​ണ്ടാ​യി.

ര​ണ്ടു സം​ഭ​വ​ങ്ങ​ൾ​ക്കുപി​ന്നി​ലും കു​ൽ​ദീ​പ്​ സെ​ങ്കാ​റി​ന്​ പ​ങ്കു​ണ്ടാ​യി​രു​ന്നു​വെ​ന്ന്​ തെ​ളി​ഞ്ഞി​ട്ടും കേ​സി​െ​ൻ​റ വി​ചാ​ര​ണ നേ​രാം​വി​ധം മു​ന്നോ​ട്ടു​പോ​കാ​ൻ പ​ര​മോ​ന്ന​ത നീ​തി​പീ​ഠ​ത്തി​ന്​ നേ​രി​ട്ട്​ ഇ​ട​പെ​ടേ​ണ്ട അ​വ​സ്​​ഥ​യു​ണ്ടാ​യി. വി​ചാ​ര​ണ പൂ​ർ​ത്തി​യാ​യി വി​ധി​ക്കാ​യി രാ​ജ്യം കാ​തോ​ർ​ത്തി​രി​ക്കു​േ​മ്പാ​ൾ, ഉ​ന്നാ​വി​ൽ​നി​ന്ന്​ വീ​ണ്ടും മ​റ്റൊ​രു വാ​ർ​ത്ത കേ​ൾ​ക്കു​ന്നു. ജി​ല്ല​യി​ലെ സി​ന്ധു​പൂ​രി​ൽ ബ​ലാ​ത്സം​ഗ​ത്തി​ന്​ ഇ​ര​യാ​യ പെ​ൺ​കു​ട്ടി​യെ ജാ​മ്യ​ത്തി​ലി​റ​ങ്ങി​യ പ്ര​തി​ക​ൾ തീ​കൊ​ളു​ത്തി അ​പാ​യ​പ്പെ​ടു​ത്തി​യി​രി​ക്കു​ക​യാ​ണ്. ക​ഴി​ഞ്ഞ​ദി​വ​സം കോ​ട​തി​​യി​ലേ​ക്ക്​ പോ​കു​ന്ന​തി​നി​ടെ പെ​ൺ​കു​ട്ടി​യെ മ​ർ​ദി​ച്ച​്​ അവ​ശ​യാ​ക്കി​യ​ശേ​ഷം തീ​കൊ​ളു​ത്തു​ക​യാ​യി​രു​ന്നു​വ​ത്രെ. യോ​ഗി ആ​ദി​ത്യ​നാഥി​െ​ൻ​റ യു.​പി​യി​ൽ ഇ​തി​ലൊ​ന്നും വ​ലി​യ പു​തു​മ​യി​ല്ല. ഇ​ക്ക​ഴി​ഞ്ഞ ജൂ​ലൈ 17നാ​ണ്​ കി​ഴ​ക്ക​ൻ യു.​പി​യി​ലെ സോ​ൻ​ഭ​ദ്ര​യി​ൽ പ​ത്ത് ആ​ദി​വാ​സി ക​ർ​ഷ​ക​രെ ഗ്രാ​മ​മു​ഖ്യ​െ​ൻ​റ നേ​തൃ​ത്വ​ത്തി​ലെ​ത്തി​യ ഗു​ണ്ടാ​സം​ഘം വെ​ടി​വെ​ച്ചു​കൊ​ന്ന​ത്.

ഈ ​സം​ഭ​വ​ങ്ങ​ളു​ടെ​യൊ​ക്കെ മ​റ്റൊ​രു മു​ഖം ത​ന്നെ​യാ​ണ്​ തെ​ല​ങ്കാ​ന​യി​ലും ക​ണ്ട​ത്. വെ​റ്റ​റിന​റി ഡോ​ക്​​ട​റെ കൂ​ട്ട​ബ​ലാ​ത്സം​ഗം ചെ​യ്​​ത​ശേ​ഷം കൊ​ല​പ്പെ​ടു​ത്തി​യ കേ​സി​ലെ നാ​ലു പ്ര​തി​ക​ളെ​യും പൊ​ലീ​സ്​ വെ​ടി​വെ​ച്ചുകൊ
​ന്നി​രി​ക്കുക​യാ​ണ്. വെ​ള്ളി​യാ​ഴ്​​ച പു​ല​ർ​ച്ച, തെ​ളി​വെ​ടു​പ്പി​നി​ടെ ര​ക്ഷ​പ്പെ​ടാ​ൻ ശ്ര​മി​ച്ച പ്ര​തി​ക​ൾ​ക്കു​നേ​രെ സ്വയം​ര​ക്ഷാ​ർ​ഥം നി​റ​യൊ​ഴി​ക്കു​ക​യാ​യി​രു​ന്നു​വെ​ന്ന പൊ​ലീ​സ്​ ഭാ​ഷ്യ​ത്തി​ൽ ദു​രൂ​ഹ​ത​യു​ള്ള​തി​നാ​ൽ സം​ഭ​വ​ത്തി​ൽ ദേ​ശീ​യ മ​നു​ഷ്യാ​വ​കാ​ശ ക​മീ​ഷ​ൻ സ്വ​മേ​ധ​യാ കേ​സെ​ടു​ത്തി​രി​ക്കു​ന്നു.

ന​മ്മു​ടെ രാ​ജ്യ​ത്ത്​ കാ​ല​ങ്ങ​ളാ​യി അ​ര​ങ്ങേ​റി​ക്കൊ​ണ്ടി​രി​ക്കു​ന്ന ‘എ​ക്​​സ്​​ട്രാ ജു​ഡീ​ഷ്യ​ൽ കൊ​ല​പാ​ത​ക’പ​ര​മ്പ​ര​ക​ളി​ൽ ഏ​റ്റ​വും ഒ​ടു​വി​ല​ത്തേ​ത്​ മാ​ത്ര​മാ​ണി​ത്. ‘തീ​വ്ര​വാ​ദി’, ‘മാ​വോ​വാ​ദി’ ബ​ന്ധ​വും മ​റ്റും ആ​രോ​പി​ച്ച്​ വി​ചാ​ര​ണ​ത്ത​ട​വു​കാ​രും അ​ല്ലാ​ത്ത​വ​രു​മാ​യി എ​​ത്ര​യോ പേ​ർ ഇ​വി​ടെ വ്യാ​ജ ഏ​റ്റു​മു​ട്ട​ലു​ക​ളി​ൽ കൊ​ല്ല​പ്പെ​ട്ടി​ട്ടു​ണ്ട്. ക​ഴി​ഞ്ഞ ര​ണ്ടുവ​ർ​ഷ​ത്തി​നി​ടെ യു.​പി​യി​ൽ മാ​​ത്രം ഇ​ത്ത​ര​ത്തി​ൽ കൊ​ല്ല​പ്പെ​ട്ട​ത്​ 70ല​ധി​കം ആ​ളു​ക​ളാ​ണ്. അ​ധി​കാ​രവ​ർ​ഗ​ത്തി​ന്​ അ​ഹി​ത​ക​ര​മാ​യ രീ​തി​യി​ൽ ആ​കാ​ശ​ത്തേ​ക്കു മു​ഷ്​​ടി ഉ​യ​ർ​ത്തു​ന്ന​വ​രെ​ല്ലാം കൊ​ല്ല​പ്പെ​ടേ​ണ്ട​വ​രാ​ണെ​ന്ന ഭ​ര​ണ​കൂ​ട യു​ക്​​തി​യാ​ണ്​ പല ഏ​റ്റു​മു​ട്ട​ലു​ക​ൾ​ക്കും പി​ന്നി​ൽ പ്രവർത്തിച്ചത്​. എ​ന്നാ​ൽ, ഹൈ​ദ​രാ​ബാ​ദ്​ സം​ഭ​വ​ത്തി​ൽ കാ​ര്യ​ങ്ങ​ൾ അ​ൽ​പം വ്യ​ത്യ​സ്​​ത​മാ​കു​ന്നു​ണ്ട്. കേ​സി​ൽ നാ​ലു​ പ്ര​തി​ക​ളെ​യും പി​ടി​കൂ​ടി​യി​ട്ടു​ണ്ടാ​യി​രു​ന്നു.

പ്ര​തി​ക​ളെ കൂ​ടു​ത​ൽ ദി​വ​സം ക​സ്​​റ്റ​ഡി​യി​ൽ വാ​ങ്ങി കൂ​ടു​ത​ൽ തെ​ളി​വു​ക​ൾ ശേ​ഖ​രി​ച്ച്​ നി​യ​മം അ​നു​ശാ​സി​ക്കു​ന്ന പ​ര​മാ​വ​ധി ശി​ക്ഷ അ​വ​ർ​ക്ക്​ വാ​ങ്ങി​ക്കൊ​ടു​ക്കാനു​ള്ള എല്ലാ സാ​ഹ​ച​ര്യ​ങ്ങ​ളു​മുണ്ടായിരുന്നു.​ ഇ​ര​ക്കു​വേ​ണ്ടി ശ​ബ്​​ദ​മു​യ​ർ​ത്തി​യ മു​ഴു​വ​ൻ ആ​ളു​ക​ളും ആ​ഗ്ര​ഹി​ച്ച​തും അ​തു​ത​ന്നെ​യാ​യി​രു​ന്നു. എ​ന്നി​ട്ടും, ഒ​രൊ​റ്റ നി​മി​ഷ​ത്തി​ൽ ആ ​പ്ര​തീ​ക്ഷ​ക​ളെ​യും പ്രാ​ർ​ഥ​ന​ക​ളെ​യും ത​ല്ലി​ക്കെ​ടു​ത്തി പൊ​ലീ​സ്​ ക​മീ​ഷ​ണ​ർ വി.​സി. സ​ജ്ജ​നാ​റു​ടെ നേ​തൃ​ത്വ​ത്തി​ലു​ള്ള പൊ​ലീ​സ്​ സം​ഘം പ്ര​തി​ക​ൾ​ക്കു​നേ​രെ വെ​ടി​യു​തി​ർ​ത്ത​ു. എ​ന്താ​യി​രു​ന്നു അ​വ​രു​ടെ ഉ​ദ്ദേ​ശ്യ​മെ​ന്ന്​ വ്യ​ക്​​ത​മ​ല്ല. സ്വ​യം​ര​ക്ഷാ​ർ​ഥ​മാ​യി​രു​ന്നു​വെ​ങ്കി​ൽ അ​ത്​ ഗു​രു​ത​ര സു​ര​ക്ഷാ വീ​ഴ്​​ച​യാ​യി​ട്ടാ​ണ്​ പ​രി​ഗ​ണി​ക്കേ​ണ്ട​ത്. ഇ​നി, അ​വ​ർ​ക്ക്​ മ​റ്റു പ​ല ല​ക്ഷ്യ​ങ്ങ​ളും ഉ​ണ്ടാ​യി​രു​ന്നോ എ​ന്ന​തും അ​ന്വേ​ഷി​ക്ക​പ്പെ​ടേ​ണ്ട​താ​ണ്. ഏ​താ​യാ​ലും, ജ​നാ​ധി​പ​ത്യം മു​ന്നോ​ട്ടു​വെ​ക്കു​ന്ന നി​യ​മവാ​ഴ്​​ച​യു​ടെ വ​ഴി​ക​ളി​ൽ​നി​ന്നുമാ​റി പൊ​ലീ​സ്​പ​ട സ്വ​ന്തം നി​ല​യി​ൽ നി​യ​മം ന​ട​പ്പാ​ക്കി​യ​തോ​ടെ നീ​തിനി​ഷേ​ധി​ക്ക​പ്പെ​ട്ട​ത്​ ഇ​ര​ക്കുത​ന്നെ​യാ​ണ്.

ന​മ്മു​ടെ രാ​ജ്യം ഇ​ന്ന്​ അ​ക​പ്പെ​ട്ടി​രി​ക്കു​ന്ന ജം​ഗി​ൾരാ​ജി​ലെ ‘സ്വാ​ഭാ​വി​ക നീ​തി​നി​ർ​വ​ഹ​ണ’​ത്തെ​യും ഈ ​സം​ഭ​വം കൃ​ത്യ​മാ​യി പ്ര​തി​ഫ​ലി​പ്പി​ക്കു​ന്നു​ണ്ട്. ജ​നാ​ധി​പ​ത്യ​ത്തി​െ​ൻ​റ മൗ​ലി​ക​ശി​ല​ക​ളി​ൽ​പെ​ടു​ന്ന ജു​ഡീ​ഷ്യ​റി​യെ​യും നി​യ​മ​വാ​ഴ്​​ച​​യെ​യും മാ​റ്റി​നി​ർ​ത്തു​േ​മ്പാ​ഴാ​ണ്​ ‘ജം​ഗി​ൾ രാ​ജ്​’ എ​ന്ന അ​വ​സ്​​ഥ സം​ജാ​ത​മാ​വു​ക. അ​വി​ടെ വി​ചാ​ര​ണ ചെ​യ്യു​ന്ന​തും നീ​തി​നി​ർ​വ​ഹ​ണം ന​ട​പ്പാ​ക്കു​ന്ന​തു​മെ​ല്ലാം വേ​ട്ട​ക്കാ​ർ​ത​ന്നെ​യാ​കും. ഒ​രു ഫാ​ഷി​സ്​​റ്റ്​ ഭ​ര​ണ​കൂ​ടം യ​ഥാ​ർ​ഥ​ത്തി​ൽ ആ​ഗ്ര​ഹി​ക്കു​ന്ന​തും അ​ത്ത​ര​മൊ​രു ‘വ്യ​വ​സ്​​ഥ’​യാ​ണ്. കാ​ര​ണം, വി​മ​ത​ശ​ബ​്​ദങ്ങ​ളെ ഉ​ന്മൂ​ല​നം ചെ​യ്​​ത്​ മു​ന്നോ​ട്ടു​ള്ള അ​വ​രു​ടെ പ്ര​യാ​ണ​ത്തി​ന്​ അ​താ​ണ്​ ന​ല്ല​ത്. രാ​ജ്യ​ത്തി​െ​ൻ​റ പ​ല ഭാ​ഗ​ങ്ങ​ളി​ൽ​നി​ന്നാ​യി കേ​ട്ടു​കൊ​ണ്ടി​രി​ക്കു​ന്ന ആ​ൾ​ക്കൂ​ട്ടാ​ക്ര​മ​ണ​ങ്ങ​ള​ട​ക്കം വി​ര​ൽ​ചൂണ്ടു​ന്ന​ത്​ ഇ​തി​ലേ​ക്കാ​ണ്.

ചി​ല സ​ന്ദ​ർ​ഭ​ങ്ങ​ളി​ലെ​ങ്കി​ലും ന​മ്മു​ടെ പൊ​തു​ബോ​ധം ഇ​ത്ത​രം ‘ഉ​ന്മാ​ദ ആ​ൾ​ക്കൂട്ട’​ത്തി​ന്​ പി​റ​കെ പോ​കു​ന്ന​തു കാ​ണാം. ഹൈ​ദ​രാ​ബാ​ദ്​ സം​ഭ​വ​ത്തി​ൽ ആ​ഹ്ലാ​ദം പ്ര​ക​ടി​പ്പി​ക്കു​ന്ന​വ​ർ ഒ​ര​ർ​ഥ​ത്തി​ൽ ഈ ​ആ​ൾ​ക്കൂട്ട​ത്തെ പ്ര​തി​നി​ധാനംചെയ്യു​ന്നി​ല്ലേ? തോ​ക്കി​ൻ​കു​ഴ​ലി​ലൂ​ടെ​യു​ള്ള ഈ ‘​നീ​തി​നി​ർ​വ​ഹ​ണ’​മാ​ണ്​ രാ​ജ്യം ആ​ഗ്ര​ഹി​ക്കു​ന്ന പ​രി​ഹാ​ര​മെ​ന്നാ​ണോ ആ ​ആ​ഹ്ലാ​ദ​നൃ​ത്ത​ങ്ങ​ളി​ൽ​നി​ന്നും മാ​യാ​വ​തി​യെ​പ്പോ​ലു​ള്ള​വ​രു​ടെ പ്ര​സ്​​താ​വ​ന​ക​ളി​ൽ​നി​ന്നും മ​ന​സ്സിലാ​ക്കേ​ണ്ട​ത്​? അ​താ​ണ്​ പ​രി​ഹാ​ര​മെ​ങ്കി​ൽ, ‘ഏ​റ്റു​മു​ട്ട​ൽ കൊ​ല​പാ​ത​ക’​ങ്ങ​ളു​ടെ എ​ണ്ണം പി​ന്നെ​യും പെ​രു​കു​ക​യാ​ണ്​ ചെ​യ്യു​ക. ഇ​ര​യു​ടെ ബ​ന്ധു​ക്ക​ളു​ടെ​യും മ​റ്റും വൈ​കാ​രി​ക​ാവ​സ്​​ഥ ഈ ​സ​ന്ദ​ർ​ഭ​ത്തി​ൽ മ​റ​ക്കു​ന്നി​ല്ല; പ്രതികൾ കൊ​ല്ല​പ്പെ​ടേ​ണ്ട​വ​രാ​ണ്​ എ​ന്ന അ​വ​രു​ടെ വാ​ക്കു​ക​ളി​ൽ സ​ർ​വ​രോ​ഷ​വും പ്ര​ക​ട​വു​മാ​ണ്.

എ​ന്നാ​ൽ, ഈ ​വൈ​കാ​രി​കാ​വസ്​​ഥ​ക്ക​പ്പു​റ​മു​ള്ള ചി​ല യാ​ഥാ​ർ​ഥ്യ​ങ്ങ​ൾ ക​ണ​ക്കി​ലെ​ടു​ക്കു​േ​മ്പാ​ൾ ഈ ​കൊ​ല​പാ​ത​ക​ങ്ങ​ളെ അ​പ​ല​പി​ക്കാ​​നേ നി​ർ​വാ​വ​ഹ​മു​ള്ളൂ. അ​തേ​സ​മ​യം, രാ​ജ്യ​ത്ത്​ ര​ജി​സ്​​റ്റ​ർ ചെ​യ്യ​പ്പെ​ടു​ന്ന ബ​ലാ​ത്സം​ഗ​കേ​സു​ക​ളി​ലൊ​ന്നും കൃ​ത്യ​മാ​യ വി​ചാ​ര​ണ ന​ട​ക്കു​ന്നി​ല്ലെ​ന്ന വ​സ്​​തു​ത​യും പ​രി​ഗ​ണി​ക്ക​ണം. ഇ​ത്ത​രം കേ​സി​ല​ക​പ്പെ​ട്ടാ​ലും ശി​ക്ഷി​ക്ക​പ്പെ​ടി​ല്ല എ​ന്ന ​പൊ​തു​ബോ​ധം ഇവിടെ നിലനിൽക്കുന്നുണ്ട്​. ജ​ന​ങ്ങ​ൾ​ക്ക്​ നീ​തി​യി​ലും നി​യ​മ​ത്തി​ലു​മു​ള്ള വി​ശ്വാ​സം ന​ഷ്​​ട​പ്പെ​ടു​ന്ന​തി​ലേ​ക്കാ​ണ്​ ഇ​ത്​ ന​യി​ക്കു​ക. അ​തി​വേ​ഗ വി​ചാ​ര​ണ കോ​ട​തി​ക​ൾ സ്​​ഥാ​പി​ച്ചും മ​റ്റും ഈ ​ന്യൂ​ന​ത പ​രി​ഹ​രി​ക്കു​ക​യാ​ണ്​ നി​യ​മ​വാ​ഴ്​​ച​യി​ലു​ള്ള വി​ശ്വാ​സം തി​രി​ച്ചു​പി​ടി​ക്കാ​ന​ും അ​തു​വ​ഴി ജം​ഗി​ൾരാ​ജി​ൽ​നി​ന്ന്​ ക​രകയറാ​നു​മു​ള്ള മാ​ർ​ഗം.

24 December 2016

An equal music, a beautiful society

Ananya Vajpeyi
A recent event in Delhi brought together two Indian winners of the 2016 Ramon Magsaysay Award, Bezwada Wilson and T.M. Krishna, in a wide-ranging conversation about freedom of expression, nationalism and inequality, issues of pressing concern. Both were outspoken against a growing majoritarianism, and passionate about building an egalitarian and just society through their respective fields. Wilson, 50, national convener of the Safai Karmachari Andolan, is a campaigner against manual scavenging; and Krishna, 40, is a prominent exponent of Carnatic music and a public intellectual.

The two men share a commitment to free speech and equal citizenship, to addressing entrenched forms of exclusion, discrimination and violence based on caste, to democratic rights and the Indian Constitution. They come from absolutely unrelated areas of engagement, and from personal backgrounds that are far apart, but what is remarkable is how they converge in their social activism as well as their shared ability to communicate clearly and forcefully with large audiences. The Magsaysay Award jury was astute indeed in recognising the laudable public spiritedness of both Wilson and Krishna, and their common concern with the problem of caste.

The annihilation of caste
Manual scavenging — including the removal, carrying and disposal by hand of human excrement, and the physical cleaning of latrines, sewers and septic tanks, a task invariably assigned to Dalits (including men, women and children) — has been targeted for eradication since Gandhi came back to India a hundred years ago. It was the Mahatma who began to insist, in the face of tremendous resistance, that all his family members and associates, regardless of caste, class and gender, clean toilets themselves. An Act of Parliament in 1993 officially banned the employment of manual scavengers and the construction of dry latrines. And yet it continues today, perpetuating the most extreme forms of indignity and oppression, causing disease and death, reducing life expectancy, and making the occupation of thousands of Indian citizens a living hell.
Wilson has been campaigning to put an end to this abominable practice for close to thirty years. The turning point for him was around 1990-91, the birth centenary of Dr. B.R. Ambedkar (1891-1956), that brought the life and work of the great Dalit leader back into the mainstream of national consciousness and forced the government of the day to implement the Mandal Commission Report, expanding the scope of affirmative action against caste-based social inequality. How can India proceed with its ambitious economic and political agendas for growth, change and prosperity, Wilson asks, when such an archaic form of caste discrimination, a kind of slavery and a form of torture, continues to exist and to ruin countless Dalit lives?

Krishna comes at caste from the direction of the arts, particularly Carnatic music, for almost a century now the preserve of elite urban Brahmin men — whether as composers, singers, musicians, accompanists or listeners — in Chennai and other artistic capitals of southern India. He has been arguing that what is now considered Carnatic classical music and what is now called Bharatanatyam classical dance were both originally the provenance of women, especially temple dancers and courtesans, and of non-Brahmin “holding communities” like the Isai Vellalars. These groups were sidelined and their art forms taken over by socially dominant Brahmin practitioners and patrons, who cleansed the music and dance of their vernacular, erotic, demotic and popular character, and reinvented them as classical, religious, refined and urbane. The temple courtyard and the noisy village square gave way to the kutcheri and the sophisticated concert hall as performance spaces, which closed their doors to ordinary people.

In 2015 Krishna announced his decision to stop performing in the December concert season — in the Tamil month of Margazhi — of Chennai, even though he has been the star of this vaunted annual cultural event from a young age. He now organises a new winter-time music festival in the small fishing village of Urur-Olcott Kuppam in Chennai, teaches music and performs free concerts at corporation schools, trains girls and women in Carnatic vocal and instrumental music, and extends the ambit of his pedagogic outreach to tribal, rural and marginalised communities. He has also expanded the repertoire of music that he himself sings, including modern Hindustani and Bengali forms. Most recently he has made joint appearances with the Jogappas, a transgender community of devotional folk performers, associated with the goddess Yellamma, from northern Karnataka and contiguous parts of the Deccan (Andhra and Maharashtra), unimaginable in the hallowed halls of classical music for the Carnatic orthodoxy.
 
 Self-purification and self-respect
Krishna and Wilson — together, as a pair — remind one of the late D.R. Nagaraj’s insightful formulation of “self-purification” and “self-respect” as the two modalities of a moral resistance to caste, especially untouchability, flowing from Gandhi and Ambedkar, respectively. According to Nagaraj, the caste Hindu and especially the Brahmin self must purify or purge itself of its impulse to exclude or hurt the untouchable, while the Dalit self must assert its intrinsic worth and inalienable dignity even in the face of relentless discrimination.

Krishna, constantly aware of and critical about his own birth, training, conditioning and privilege, has been advocating strenuously that Carnatic music “de-Brahminise” itself, undertake some “social re-engineering” as an act of self-purification to render itself less unequal and more inclusive. The arts are after all a microcosm of society, reflecting and even amplifying its inequalities. Wilson meanwhile states unequivocally that if the Constitution guarantees the self-respect of Dalits, then an abhorrent demeaning practice like manual scavenging simply cannot be allowed to persist in today’s India.

But what is more striking than this obvious dialectic of self-purification and self-respect, which can be traced back to Gandhian and Ambedkarite stances on caste, is how both Krishna and Wilson in their own ways struggle to actualise what Ambedkar called “social endosmosis”. This is the natural flow and exchange of ideas, values, practices, knowledge and energies between and across groups that Ambedkar lamented could not occur in the rigidly stratified and segregated Hindu social order. The traditional caste system controls social reproduction through strict endogamy, and places nearly insurmountable taboos on cohabitation, commensality and other forms of conviviality and commerce between different castes.

Ambedkar and ‘social endosmosis
Untouchability may have been outlawed through Article 17 of the Indian Constitution, but that is only the most extreme way to keep human beings and fellow citizens apart. In fact, Indians of different castes even today seldom eat together, live together, inter-marry or in other ways participate in each other’s life-worlds across the invisible yet impenetrable barriers of caste. As Krishna has shown, in a manner that is all the more effective for being so blunt, we can’t even sing together, an indicator of how little we hear the speech, the pain, the yearnings, the silences of others.

No aspect of life in India from the exalted heavens of the classical arts to the most mundane pits of bodily waste can escape the totalitarian structure of caste: this was Ambedkar’s rage against varnaashramadharma, the total society. From music to excreta, everything is segregated, violating the basic principle of equal citizenship. Having Krishna and Wilson come together on a common platform exemplifies what Nagaraj characterised as the necessity for modern Indians to address, simultaneously, “the beauty and the horror” of caste. “My journey began from the question of beauty,” Krishna said. “What is beauty?” For a moment this seems like a strange way to begin thinking about the cultural politics of Carnatic music, or indeed any other art form, but it turns out to be an enormously productive line of inquiry. As Wilson points out, an equal society is the most beautiful thing that human beings could make.

Why can’t scientists, planners and bureaucrats come up with a way to end forever the scourge of manual scavenging, Wilson demands, not just a moral and political alternative but a technological and policy solution? Krishna’s path has been more challenging to interpret as a radical move in the politics of aesthetics. In systematically educating himself and us about the actual historical origins and forgotten trajectories of Carnatic music; in abandoning the highest prosceniums for unexplored spaces and unexpected audiences; in opening himself to the sounds and rhythms of every kind of community populating the hum and hubbub of India; in learning to listen and unlearning how he was taught to sing, he has indisputably transformed himself as an artiste.

Articulate to a fault, Krishna reflects, writes, lectures and teaches continuously about what he is doing. But even if he were not to talk about it explicitly, any sensitive listener can hear in Krishna’s voice as it continues to evolve, over the past couple of years especially, a note of compassion, empathy and sweetness that deepens immeasurably the musical experience for singer and audience alike. This is not just amazing virtuosity, which he has had from the very beginning. It is, rather, the sound of virtue itself, the profoundly moving melody of an ethical music. Is there only suffering for the Dalit condemned to manual scavenging, Wilson was asked. “The fight for justice is itself the greatest happiness,” he answered.

Ananya Vajpeyi is a Fellow at the CSDS, New Delhi.

30 March 2016

Nationalism, then and now

K.N. PANIKKAR
A WELCOME consequence of the recent despicable incident of slapping sedition charges on the students of Jawaharlal Nehru University (JNU) is the widespread discussion it generated on the complex and multilayered character of Indian nationalism. I am not referring to the “shouting sessions” in the visual media, aired in the name of debate and news analysis, but to the efforts by students and teachers of several universities in the country to explore the meaning of nationalism and its changing contours. The notable and innovative of them were a series of sit-ins organised by the teachers and students of JNU in which scholars of different disciplines raised searching and provocative questions on nationalism. 

Understandable because that is what a university is meant for. An academic venture it certainly was, but it was also a unique form of protest against the highhandedness of the state in the name of nationalism. What triggered this novel form of protest was the denigration and demonisation of JNU as an institution and its students in general as anti-nationals, terrorists and anarchists whose activities are nothing short of sedition. That even after about 70 years of independence from colonial rule, wrested after a popular and protracted struggle for civil liberties, it is rather ironical that the independent state should invoke the same laws which the colonial rulers had used to suppress dissent and deny freedom of expression. It is not fortuitous, though. It is occasioned by the communal right-wing takeover of the government of India by the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) and the consequent resurgence of Hindu religious fundamentalism directed by the Rashtriya Swayamsewak Sangh (RSS) and its affiliates.

The concept of nationalism
When the national movement was entering its mass phase in the 1920s, the different possibilities inherent in nationalism had come under critical scrutiny. The dialogue between Rabindranath Tagore and Gandhi, in the wake of the violence that erupted during the course of the non-cooperation movement, is a pointer towards the anxieties and apprehensions aroused by aggressive nationalism. While the latter emphasised the emancipatory potential of nationalism, the former drew attention to the aggressive possibilities inherent in it. A little later, Jawaharlal Nehru tried to explore the historical roots of nationalism in his highly acclaimed work, The Discovery of India, which is worth a read for every Indian. Except for these two instances, there was no notable attempt in this direction. 

The other participants in the anti-colonial struggle did not carry forward the debate, possibly because nationalism had already become an influential sentiment by that time. There could be other intellectual and political reasons. For instance, was it because there were not many who could match the intellectual ability of these three? Was it also because patriotism was conflated with nationalism in popular imagination? The state was seen as an alien imposition and the nation, on the other hand, was considered a given by history. The intellectual engagement was more with the virtues of composite nationalism and its historical trajectory rather than with the possible pitfalls of nationalism.

I may digress a little bit into Chinese history by way of contrast. The Chinese, who had faced an equally complex situation, adopted a more pragmatic path. After the nationalist revolution of 1911, with the warlords emerging as centres of power in different parts of China, the authority of the state had declined and multiple centres of power had emerged. The nation lacked cohesiveness and there was nothing tangible to bind the people together. When Sun Yat-sen, the leader of the nationalist revolution, invoked the metaphor of loose sand to describe the Chinese situation, he was trying to indicate the unity and diversity of the country and its fragmented polity and the need to construct unity from diversity. In order to achieve that, Sun Yat-sen believed that the consciousness of being a nation had to be imbibed in the popular mind. Towards that end he undertook a journey across the country, reminiscent of the journey Gandhi undertook after his return from South Africa, although for entirely different reasons. 

Gandhi’s was a journey of discovery, whereas Sun Yat-sen’s was an attempt to bring the disparate elements of the nation within the cultural-political logic of nationalism. But there was similarity in one aspect: both shared the conviction that they can realise their goals only if they identified with the masses. In Lord Attenborough’s celebrated movie on Gandhi, there is a frame which shows Gandhi discarding his upper cloth, which is a symbolic representation of establishing his identity with the common man. Sun Yat-sen could not make any such identity and hence his nationalist project went awry. Gandhi, on the other hand, not only empathised with the poor, but strove hard to approximate his lifestyle with that of the common man. It was this identification with the masses which enabled him to galvanise the nation to effect a transition from colonial rule to an independent India. In the amazing story of this transition lies the spirit of the making of modern nationalism of India.

Nation and nationalism
It is arguable that India as a nation did not exist before nationalism, even though efforts are afoot to establish its antiquity tracing back to the Indus Valley Civilisation. Earlier, the claim had stopped with the Vedic times; with the new-found confidence imparted by Narendra Modi, the origin of Hindus has been pushed back at least by a millennium. Even if the claim is true, as Ernest Gellner remarked, “nations do not create nationalism; it is the other way round: nationalism creates nations”. Further, “Nationalism is not the awakening of nations to self-consciousness: it invents nations where they do not exist,” says Benedict Anderson. 

The invention of the nation is contingent upon the ability to imagine a political community on the basis of perceived common interests. In India this commonness was engendered by the controlled conditions created by colonial modernity. In contrast, the Hindu nationalists trace nationalism to the Vedic times. They are reading history in the reverse and thus celebrating presentism. The shining example of this distortion is the Hindi serial on the life of Asoka, who swears by Akhand Bharat every day.

There were several empires and kingdoms in India in the past—the Maurya, the Chera, the Pandya, the Chalukya, the Mughal, the Bahmani, and so on—but there were no nations or nationalisms. These kingdoms could at best generate dynastic patriotism, which is a medieval virtue. This does not mean that the spirit of nationalism did not draw upon the past. It did to a good measure from history, culture, politics and geography. The appeal to the past had two strands—secular and religious. Anti-colonial nationalism derived its credo from the secular tradition, which privileged the universalist trend in the Indian socio-religious thought. Therefore Asoka and Akbar on the one hand and Ram Mohan Roy and Vivekananda on the other became part of the nationalist pantheon.

The spirit of nationalism is difficult to define. Its inspiration lies in a variety of sources. Territorial patriotism, cultural identity and political tradition contribute to its making. But it is as much a result of structural changes in society as the rise of new classes and new technologies. As such, nationalism has different trajectories of manifestation in different countries. In Europe, it made its appearance through the formation of nation-states, whereas in India it is a product of the struggle against colonialism. 

It was anti-colonialism that brought the people of India together on a common platform. The Indian National Congress at the time of its formation described itself as a platform for the coming together of the people of India. The conditions for the “coming together” were indeed occasioned by colonial rule, but Indian nationalism was not a dispensation of colonialism. Its emergence was not because of but in spite of colonialism. It was not a movement which was purely oppositional, but one which addressed the tasks of nation-building.

Apart from being a modern phenomenon, nationalism was also a modernising phenomenon. Its ideological legacy was liberalism, rooted in the Enlightenment values of humanism, rationalism and universalism. That is why the early national awakening in India was accompanied by a critique of social and religious practices which were not in sync with modernity. 

The invocation of the practices of the past as represented in the religious texts was part of the strategy of reform and not an attempt to resurrect tradition. The approach to tradition was critical, innovative and instrumentalist. 

A defining feature of anti-colonial nationalism, both in its ideological articulation and political practice, was secularism. It recognised the multicultural and multireligious character of Indian society and stood for non-discrimination on the basis of caste, creed or religion. The universalist and humanist traditions, as expressed in the Hindu religious scriptures and the teachings of 19th century reformers and the mutuality developed among the people through religious-social interaction, led to the notion of secular-liberal democracy. Liberalism was its political creed. 

Throughout the national liberation struggle, its perspectives and practices were informed by the principles of liberalism, except among the revolutionary nationalists and the communists. 

Even while fighting the British, the Indian nationalists remained great admirers of British liberalism as it provided a space for dissent and discussion. Both before and after Independence, attempts were made to institutionalise a political system based on fundamental civic rights like freedom of speech and expression. It promoted a sense of cosmopolitanism which served as a check on nationalism going overboard. The Indian Constitution, of which B.R. Ambedkar was the main architect, was conceived as an instrument embodying the democratic-secular-liberal principles. The Constitution, in fact, contains the essence of Indian nationalism.

Weaknesses of nationalism
In a highly differentiated society like that of India, the ideal is never the real. There were far too many fissures in society which impinged upon the political project of national liberation. The most glaring of them was the non-inclusiveness of the marginalised. The notion that nationalism was the expression of an overarching contradiction between the people of India and colonialism may well be right. But the “people” is an aggregative category which consists of an array of social and political groups with conflicting interests. When the interest of any group is seen to be compromised, nationalism suffers a setback. 

Although the national movement took cognisance of social differentiations, no solution was found to resolve the internal contradictions. As a result, the marginalised sections of society, like the Adivasis, Dalits, minorities and women, were not adequately incorporated into the mainstream anti-colonial nationalism. Gandhi tried to overcome this through various strategies like persuasion, remonstration and outright disapproval and by launching a constructive programme. But their grievances could not be resolved within the limits of nationalist politics because its focus was on the binary contradiction between people and colonialism. The internal contradictions were not overlooked but were subordinated to the demands of primary contradictions. 

Those who focussed on internal contradictions—caste, class and gender—and sought to recover the rights of the oppressed and the marginalised in society opted out of the nationalist mainstream. The critical attitude of “Periyar” E.V. Ramasamy and B.R. Ambedkar towards the national movement was mainly guided by this perspective. Raising the question of the limitations of anti-colonial nationalism, Periyar rhetorically and famously asked: Is the Brahmins’ rule swarajya for the paraya? Is the cat’s rule swarajya for the rat? Is the landlord’s rule swarajya for the peasant? Is the owner’s rule swarajya for the worker? 

Unfortunately these questions still remain relevant. Nevertheless, it foregrounded the all-important question as to whose interest nationalism represented.

The question of the place of minorities also generated strain within the movement. The story of the national movement was not of an uninterrupted joyous journey to the secular goal. On the contrary, the progress of the national movement was offset by the simultaneous growth of religious communitarian consciousnesses, among both Hindus and Muslims. The roots of this separateness can be traced to the community-based religious reform movements in the 19th century. The early movements like the Brahmo Samaj and the Prarthana Samaj were universalist in their outlook. But later movements like the Arya Samaj tilted towards revivalism. Their penchant for cultural defence against colonialism earned them a social base. They played a powerful role, particularly in north India, in generating religious solidarity among Hindus. 

Simultaneously, the Wahhabi and Aligarh movements helped the formation of Muslim religious consciousness. Based on this foundation, a religious view of the nation gained ground with the formation of political parties with religious association, like the Muslim League in 1905 and the Hindu Mahasabha in 1914. However, the national movement tried to distance itself from religious identity, but it did not entirely succeed in making the dissociation real. An undercurrent of religious identity persisted throughout the national movement, among both Muslims and Hindus. Was it a result of the inability to demarcate the cultural from the religious? Indian nationalism placed rather unwarranted faith on cultural synthesis, whereas cultural differences based on religion continued to be powerful. That colonialism contributed to the widening of the gulf is a different matter.

The Indian nation which emerged from the anti-colonial struggle was a fractured one, torn asunder by internal contradictions of religion, caste and class. Yet, anti-colonial nationalism did not compromise with religious fundamentalism which enabled India to emerge as a secular democratic republic, despite Partition and the formation of Pakistan. This success, though partial, can be attributed to the secular democratic character of nationalism that the anti-colonial struggle advocated and practised.

Rise of religious nationalism
At the same time, the religious element became an integral part of the political discourse. As a result, a new narrative of nationalism emerged—the narrative of religious nationalism. Although the Islamic state of Pakistan was formed in 1947, it took a long time for Hindu communalism to make its presence felt in independent India. The RSS, which was formed in 1925, had a fairly chequered career. It not only did not take part in the anti-colonial movement, but chose to collaborate with colonialism. This unpatriotic stand accounts for its initial unpopularity. The assassination of Gandhi by Nathuram Godse, who had links with the RSS, made it a political outcast. Until the imposition of the Emergency, the RSS was not able to make much headway. What gave it a fillip and helped it to enter the mainstream was the Emergency. The Emergency was not only an assault on Indian democracy; it also opened the way for the future success of communal forces.

The post-Emergency situation greatly helped the Jana Sangh (the earlier incarnation of the BJP) to wriggle out of its political isolation and untouchability. It also earned political legitimacy by being part of a formation created in opposition to the Emergency. The main beneficiary of this access to state power was the RSS. It used this opportunity to the hilt to spread its influence to areas to which it had no access earlier, like Dalits, Adivasis and the backward castes. That provided the springboard to launch the future offensive. 

The waning of the liberal forces and the decline of the Left helped it to achieve its objective, namely the capture of state power. Consequently, today the RSS controls almost all apparatuses of the state. Although the BJP is technically the ruling party, the real power is vested with the RSS. Narendra Modi is a figurehead who acts at the behest of the RSS. It appears that a convenient arrangement has been worked out between the political and cultural sectors: the political leaders are given enough space and freedom to practise their right-wing ideas and the cultural mafia is let loose to pursue its divisive activities intended to bolster the cause of Hindu Rashtra.

The liberal-democratic-secular nationalism is under considerable strain today and it is being replaced through state intervention by an alternative discourse of nationalism based on religious identity. Such a possibility has been created by the sustained and silent grass-roots level work done by the hydra-headed RSS. During the last 50 years, the RSS has spread its net very wide by sponsoring a variety of outfits which can intervene in almost all aspects of social life. Posturing itself as a cultural organisation, it has managed to mark its presence on all important occasions in urban localities and villages. By doing so, it has succeeded in creating goodwill at the grass-roots level which comes in handy during the time of elections. Given this social reach, it is not easy to dislodge the RSS from power.

The cause of the BJP is also helped by certain structural changes in society during the last two decades owing to the neoliberal policies pursued by the government. One of the consequences of this policy has been the growth of a large crisis-ridden middle class. Its crisis has been mainly cultural, as it found it difficult to reconcile its new-found modernity with the inherited cultural backwardness. It sought the resolution of this conflict in the obscurantism and superstitions propagated by the Hindu fundamentalist organisations.

Narendra Modi’s hollow and meaningless rhetoric and the promises to turn the country into a heaven appeals to the vanity of this frustrated class. Modi has assigned to the corporates, both national and international, the privilege of presiding over this transformation of India into a religious state. 

The combination of corporatism with religious fundamentalism ensures the RSS both material support and ideological inspiration.

Towards authoritarianism
The RSS, which controls most apparatuses of the state, is in the process of replacing the liberal-secular-anti-colonial nationalism with aggressive Hindu religious nationalism, which in the vocabulary of communalism is cultural nationalism. 

It gives the impression that there is a disjunction between cultural nationalism and secular nationalism. In fact, it is a false dichotomy. Cultural nationalism is very much a part of secular nationalism. The problem is the way culture is conceived. 

To the RSS, Indian culture is Hindu culture as defined by Vinayak Damodar Savarkar in Hindutva and M.S. Golwalkar in Bunch of Thoughts. Based on these sources, the Sangh Parivar has been trying to forefront a concept of nationalism which is anachronistic. It is essentially anchored on what Meera Nanda calls the “fabrication of heritage through a domestication of the past”.

With scant regard to the historical experience of the people of India, it tries to freeze history to an imagined glorious period in which Bharat Varsha excelled the world, in science, technology, philosophy and what not. It is intended to give a false sense of pride in the past. It shrouds history in myth and science in saffron. 

What we are witnessing is a transition from liberal secular nationalism to a religious fundamentalist nationalism. The future emerging out of this is rather frightening. 

Reminiscent of Golwalkar’s demonisation of Muslims and communists as enemies of the nation, all those who raise voices of dissent are being targeted as anti-national. Kanhaiya Kumar, the student leader of JNU, is the latest example. He is unlikely to be the last. He was arrested for sedition for raising slogan for azadi from deprivation and oppression and kept in jail for nearly three weeks. Similar incidents are taking place in other universities and cultural institutions all over the country. They are not widely known because they are less publicised by the media.

In the universities of Banaras, Lucknow, Delhi, Rajasthan, Pune and so on students are being victimised for their political views. The vice-chancellor of Aligarh Muslim University was insulted in the presence of his colleagues, and Amit Sengupta, a widely respected intellectual teaching in the Indian Institute of Mass Communication, has been shunted out of Delhi for expressing critical views on the suicide of Rohith Vemula. The Sangh Parivar seems to be searching for anti-nationalists in every nook and corner of the country. Amit Shah, the BJP president, discovered recently that JNU had taken an anti-national stand at the time of the Babri Masjid demolition. A climate of intolerance and intimidation has come to prevail in the country.

There is enough indication that the Indian state is moving towards authoritarianism. It is pointed out that most of the characteristics of fascism listed by Umberto Eco are already present in India. It may as well be. Nevertheless it is not yet a fascist state. The characterisation is important because our reading of the phenomenon determines the nature of resistance. Fascism will not allow citizens to assemble in a public space, to voice their opposition to the state. But the emerging fascist tendencies are unmistakable—authoritarianism, religious hatred, violence and presentism. Yet, there is still some manoeuvring space. It is possibly because the state machinery has not been fully hegemonised or coerced into submission. In this context, the Army, the police and the judiciary, though apparatuses of the state but expected to function impartially in a democracy, have a crucial role to play. The police are easily susceptible to the pressure of the government, as demonstrated by the chief of the Delhi Police in dealing with the students of JNU. 

The heterogeneous character of the armed forces with an independent command structure and multi-ethnic composition, and an impartial and independent judiciary are the possible bulwarks against an authoritarian takeover.What is happening in India today is a deliberate attempt to transform the character of the Indian nation and Indian nationalism from democratic-secular-liberal to religious-fundamentalist. Those who oppose this project in order to safeguard the liberal-democratic character of the nation are termed anti-nationalists and charged with sedition. The success or failure of this communal agenda will largely depend upon the resistance from civil society. How civil society responds to this challenge is a matter of great consequence to the nation.

In these trying times, there are two sections of society the people look upon to lead the way for defending civil rights—the intellectuals and the media. It is a good augury that a fairly large section of intellectuals have come out in strength to oppose the attack on the freedom of expression and the saffronisation of institutions. They have been able to sense the direction in which the Indian state is moving. At the same time, the overwhelming majority have chosen to remain silent. This is true of the media also. While a section of the media has been critical, the others have been either “objective” or clearly partisan. Some have even chosen to be the flag-bearers and brand ambassadors of the government.

Long back, Rabindranath Tagore cautioned us that “nationalism is a great menace”. The time has come to ask the question whether we are living in a time when nationalism has actually become a great menace.

18 March 2016

Love in the time of manufactured pride and prejudice

P. V. Srividya
A two-tier police cover shields Kausalya from prying eyes at the Coimbatore Medical College Hospital. It wasn’t so just days ago — on March 13, men in uniform were nowhere to be seen when a group of mercenaries pounced on the 19-year-old Thevar girl and her 22-year-old Dalit husband V. Shankar in broad daylight on a crowded street in Udumalpet. Suffering severe head injuries and left in a pool of blood by the attackers, Kausalya miraculously beat back death, but Shankar succumbed en route to the hospital. A cold-blooded “honour killing”, fortuitously captured on the CCTV camera of a departmental store. 

About 13 kilometres from Udumalpet, the streets of Shankar’s hometown Komaralingam are sedate as the police do the rounds in the walled little town. Shankar’s family has found support from the local community cutting across caste. But there is no hatred, no sign of a caste backlash; only the raw pain of loss. 

Kausalya met Shankar, two years her senior, at a private engineering college in Pollachi. The two soon fell in love. In July 2015, when Kausalya’s family, from the dominant Thevar community, caught a whiff of the goings-on, they immediately started making arrangements for her marriage even though she was only in her second year at college. Kausalya had been betrothed as a child to her maternal uncle Pandi, now an absconding co-accused in the murder. Fearing that she would be forced into marriage with Pandi, Shankar and Kausalya eloped and married in a temple the same month.

The couple at their wedding
A week after her marriage, Kausalya’s grandfather arranged to have her kidnapped, but was forced to produce her before the police after Shankar lodged a complaint. The eight months that followed the marriage were marked by frequent threats, unsolicited visits by members of Kausalya’s family to force a pay-off and get their daughter to return. Even a fortnight before the fatal attack on her husband, Kausalya had reportedly sensed they were being followed and watched. 

When the couple had faced open threats from her family within the premises of the All Women’s Police Station in Udumalpet in the aftermath of their marriage, the police had suggested that the couple be sent to some safe place until the dust settled. For her part, Kausalya was prepared to face the opposition from her family through the legal route; never did she anticipate this brutality. 

On Friday, Shankar, who was to complete his mechanical engineering degree this month, came home with news of a job offer during a campus interview. He was all set to join the company in Chennai once his semester exams got over. His first aspiration was to get Kausalya to resume her studies, which she had discontinued after marriage to take up a job at a neighbourhood tile dealer’s. With things finally looking up, the couple went out to shop for clothes on Sunday in time for Kausalya’s birthday, March 14. 

The Dalit as the common Other
The emergence of the Dalit as the “Other” among the intermediate castes was first witnessed in late 2012, in the wake of caste riots in Dharmapuri triggered by an inter-caste marriage between a Vanniyar girl and a Dalit boy in November that year.
The elopement and marriage of Divya and Ilavarasan sparked violence against Dalits after the girl’s father committed suicide. But activists viewed the Dharmapuri riots as more of a laboratory that played out the masculine-caste anxiety fanned by caste-based groups that finally culminated in the murder of Ilavarasan in July 2013. 

In the months preceding the incident, the Pattali Makkal Katchi (PMK), representing Vanniyars, a community that has Most Backward Class status, called upon Vanniyar men to guard “their Vanniyar women” from the “virile Dalit men”. One second-rung leader went as far as to ask Vanniyar men to “chop off the hands of any Dalit man who dared to touch a Vanniyar woman”. Then, the PMK mobilised leading caste outfits representing dominant castes that traditionally wielded socio-economic-political clout in the southern and western parts of the State. The bloc found common cause in its anxiety over Dalit assertion. The image of the upwardly mobile Dalit youth attired in “jeans, tee shirts and fancy sunglasses”, “tricking” caste Hindu girls into love and eventual deceit was constructed. 

The trope finds strong resonance in the hounding of inter-caste couples. The Kongunadu Makkal Desiya Katchi (KMDK), a caste outfit-turned-political party in 2013, has come to articulate this male anxiety and caste supremacy with chilling conviction in its public meetings. “Women are given mobile phones and taught computers. Then why wouldn’t they fall in love and go astray,” bellowed a KMDK leader, to cheers from the audience, recently.
The party draws its support base from the Kongu Vellala Gounders, the traditionally landed class who maintained linkages with the ruling class on the one hand and drew exploitative labour from Dalits, largely Arunthathiyars, in the industrial Coimbatore region. 

These self-styled boundary-setters have only got brazen over time. In 2012, an Arunthathiyar boy from Coimbatore filed a habeas corpus before the Madras High Court when his caste Hindu wife, who he had married four months earlier, did not return home. The girl was kidnapped by her parents and held captive. “I was held against my will in a farmhouse in Erode for over 15 days. There were these two young men, bearing affiliation to Kongu Makkal Katchi (sic), who held me against my will with the support of my parents. When my parents almost gave in, the men advised my parents not to yield and beat me up in their presence. This was their way of intimidating girls into submission,” says Aparna (name changed), the wife in question. 

In northern Tamil Nadu, the Vanniyars are led by the PMK; in the western region, the Kongu Vellalars are led by the KMDK; and in southern Tamil Nadu, Thevars and Nadars now need this tacit bond to counter the Dalits dispersed across the State. These caste outfits at once openly shame the men for their inability to regulate women and call for disciplining and punishing those who transgress the caste boundaries. This tacit understanding among intermediate castes to countervailing political power across the geographies of the State by targeting the Dalit as the common ‘Other’ is stark. 

Rendering the woman invisible
An English daily dubbed the honour killing as a case of a Dalit boy’s life snuffed out, for daring to “clinch” his “upper-caste muse”. It is this idea of “clinching the woman” (caste Hindu or Dalit), and the linked male anxiety, that has eroded the possibility of exploring inter-caste unions holding out an emancipatory potential for woman.
The patriarchal set-up of the marital home; the transfer of women as commodities from one caste to another; and the discourse that foregrounds the Dalit male vis-à-vis the caste Hindu male — both vying for the caste Hindu woman and the Dalit woman — has rendered women invisible, even as their sexuality is made the site of conflict. Competitive caste assertion through competing masculinities has eroded the possibility of exploring women’s autonomy through their choice of love. 

Karl Marx considered shame to be revolution of a kind: “Shame is a kind of anger which is turned inward. And if a whole nation really experienced a sense of shame, it would be like a lion crouching, ready to spring.” The solidarity with the Dalit cause in the State’s political space hinged on an understanding of shame over the past wrongs meted out, though it had its own fault lines. The 2012 mobilisation of caste outfits led by the PMK against Dalit assertion is a watershed for one reason — for its telling absence of shame. The contagion has only spread — within hours of the honour killing and the circulation of the CCTV footage, a caste orgy erupted on social media, with self-styled youth vanguards of the Thevar community celebrating the killing of V. Shankar. How the winds of change change. 

srividya.pv@thehindu.co.in