In the Jaipur Tamasha, India Lost

I began 2012 with a personal resolution that I would try to not write about India for the next few weeks. The reason is simple: my relationship with my country is a dysfunctional, obsessive one. Like an addict, I try to wean myself off it but with the first whiff, I am back neck-deep, flailing, drowning, furiously and hopelessly in love, clinging to it even while it continues to humiliate, abuse and batter me. Yes, India is my first, only and forever abusive lover! No surprises then, the Jaipur Literature Festival tamasha managed to blow my new year's resolution to smithereens even before the first month is out.

Any way, here goes....

There are many aspects to the complete tamasha that has unfolded in Jaipur, and I do mean apply the word with all its colourful, gloriously populist, condescendingly elite connotations.  Like Waiting for Godot, the catalyst for the tamasha has remained off-stage, and for those of us who believe in creative freedom and the rule of law, or love words and stories, Salman Rushdie's absence is a tragedy.

The tamasha  was manufactured primarily by Rajasthan's state government (led by that ever shining bastion of liberal thought, the Congress party), ably abetted by the party machinery and embedded corporate media, and benignly watched over by Her Highness Lady Sphinx and her two heir-lings. Between them, they  manufactured reports of a threat to Rushdie's life: apparently, as the now-discredited story goes, Mumbai underworld had taken out a supari on the writer's life and three gunmen were on their way. Rushdie was thus convinced to cancel his visit.  A point to note here is crucial: at this point, the state government had actually not raised the legal issue of his presence at the festival but merely used security as a barely credible cover for its decision.  The state also managed to compound its idiocy by finally disallowing even a video-conference with the writer, again on 'security' grounds although, in all fairness, they could have kept all those policewallas who had been called to provide security to Oprah around.

Of course, various other parties including the BJP, with eyes on the UP assembly elections prize, jumped on the bandwagon. Not surprisingly, today, with much ipso facto courage, Sheila Dixit, Arun Jaitley and various others are inviting Rushdie to various other parts of India, especially Delhi, presumably to offend cosmopolitan Dilliwalas in ways those rustic Rajasthanis couldn't bear or have tea with HH Lady Sphinx who shall say more nothing!

On to the second act: the festival started and four writers showed the courage of their convictions and read out from The Satanic Verses, only to find themselves muzzled not by the state government but cowardly organisers. And yes, it is necessary to point out that the organisers of the festival could have taken a far stronger stance which would be backed by Indian law: there is nothing as far as I can find, and although I am no lawyer, I have checked with colleagues in the profession, that bars anyone from reading out excerpts from the work, or indeed the entire novel in entirety. The same organisers then expanded their role by issuing a stern press release and making utterly ridiculous statements about how the four writers had read the excerpts without the permission or knowledge of the organisers. Really? Now writers must clear the content of their presentations a priori with literary festivals? So much for freedom of speech then!

On the sidelines, or perhaps it ought to be the chorus line, of the tamasha of course, there has been much hand-wringing by various Indian literati in various media.  The usual faces and names have written blog posts and editorials, done rounds of television studios, and made grandiose statements that can only be distinguished by the degrees of hypocrisy and feigned passion. However, in the clamour, a basic point has been lost: freedom of speech is a cherished quality for any civilised society and even more crucial for a democracy but it is threatened as much by a cowardly state, and an unthinking mob, as it is by the hypocrisy of its apparently loyal defenders. 

For decades, India's liberal elite has tried to run with the hare and hunt with the hounds (yes, had to throw in a hunting analogy, just for my UK readers).  They have selectively chosen their causes and battles on the issue of freedom of speech, rallying behind their own social peers and off-springs and always from the comfort of their plush homes, while silencing those they feel are beneath them.  After all, it was Khushwant Singh who advised Penguin India against publishing Rushdie's novel in the first instance. It was a Congress government, backed by all the diamond-dripping and khadi-wearing socialites who banned the import of the novel into the country. And it is the same elite that has stifled any reasoned, nuanced debate about freedom of speech in the country, choosing to turn even this basic precept into a tool for gaining political advantage!

Much of our media and intelligentsia are so closely tied to the country's political establishment that they have forsaken any ability to take a stance that may be intellectually rigorous and ethically sound (here, the organisers of the festival are a good example: to maintain their position as embedded cultural elite in Delhi, they must bow to their political patrons).

And yes, let me be very clear,  it is critical that we in India discuss freedom of speech in an open and nuanced manner. Since the mainstream media has forsaken its role in the process or at least given up any ambitions of making a complex case, it is up to the citizens ourselves.

Even the most absolutist supporters of freedom of speech realise that there are reasonable limits. There are some clear cut instances that are self-evident: shouting fire in a crowded theatre is one such example. We may even argue that reporting on army's gun positions during a war (as happened during Kargil) is another case for  limiting freedom of speech, although this already takes us towards the slippery slope and national interest alone, and especially determined by the state, cannot be the sole determinant of the issue. Here we go more into the area of ethics and personal responsibility that are matter for another post, although sadly, in current times, much is said of rights and very little of responsibilities.

However, the situation gets very muddy when it comes to art. A point made consistently by various sides has been that Rushdie's novel "offends sentiments" of a particular religious community. Similar cases have been made about Tasleema Nasreen (although I found the quality of writing more offensive than the content in that case!), Rohinton Mistry who apparently offended all of Mumbai, A.K Ramanujam who offended Hindus by studying the many versions of Ramayana and lauding the ancient Indic tradition of multiplicity.  Then of course there is the case of the much lauded MF Hussain who apparently offended Hindus with his paintings to become a martyr of free speech, and yet wilted at the sign of first Muslim protests to cravenly withdraw his film Meenaxi from theatres.  And lest we forget, Bollywood songs have managed to offend shoemakers and paan-sellers as well!

As the cases above demonstrate, there is no dearth of people willing to take offence, and only logical way forward is for the state to first take a clear and principle stand on freedom of speech.  The state must not begin to determine - either in practice or theory - which of the many offended groups must take precedence, although this arbitrary policy has yielded a great deal of political capital all around in the past 60+ years.

However, beyond the state, the onus for taking a clear and principled stand also falls on the nation's intelligentsia, artists and opinionmakers.  This means established writers, artists, critics and scholars need to speak out for the right to free expression for all, based on a principled stance, and not only when they find a convenient situation or in favour of those they agree with.  Unfortunately, at the moment, they function more as collaborators and enablers of the state in stifling freedom of expression!

And finally, there is the citizenry. In general, the discussions and blogs have been frank, intelligent, innovative. Discussions both on and off line have demonstrated that political parties in the country may be in for a big surprise as increasing numbers of citizens are stepping away from the politics of offence.  Again, I have noticed the difference in opinion between the self-avowed representative and leaders of Indian Muslims and Muslim citizenry itself: many leaders are in for a total shock in not too distant future!

At the same time, I must say I have been deeply disappointed by some of the discussions on this topic on-line, even though I am the first to admit that using on-line engagement is a flawed form of sampling a population. There is a mirror reflection of Islamist fringe to be found amongst the fringes of the self-professed Hindutva supporters. I found their ignorance of their own traditions and texts disappointing, but was horrified by their brash refusal to actually bother learning anything about their heritage. If their hubristic "right to remain ignorant" is any indication of those who take offence, then I sincerely hope this post offends them deeply.

But more than anything else, I am terribly saddened that in the tamashaa that unfolded in Jaipur, there was only one loser: India. I hope in these times of competitive offence taking, somebody other than me takes offence at that!

Full disclosure: perhaps some of my critique of the hypocrisy of India's liberal cultural elite may appear harsh but I have had first hand experience of them over the years. My favourite moment however involves a top editor who wrote me an email breaking the publication contract for a novel which she deemed too controversial. Many of the same names who regularly and hysterically defend free speech told me' off the record' - when the book did come out - that they could not review it for the same reasons. To all of them, don't worry, the book has done very well in India and abroad, in spite of you and despite zero controversy.

Making Myself at Home in the Chateau de Lavigny

Odd Memories of the Family

I suppose I should be thankful to my family that I find myself feeling very quickly at home at Lavigny. The chateau’s completely arbitrary combination of high art, antiques and kitsch reminds me of my parents’ home where random plastic souvenirs rub shoulders with whimsically personal art from Latin America, extraordinary wood and copper works from Africa and just stuff we seemed to have inherited from some eccentric ancestor.

Through out my stay, I feel a constant sense of homesickness, mingled with nostalgia and familiarity. The emotions come in waves: I want to run right back home in the evenings; my morning cup of tea, taken always on the steps of the French windows to the garden, is oddly comforting; working in the living room is a favourite, partly because it makes me feel like a child again.

Perhaps I am most off-kilter in my assigned bedroom, originally that of Jane Rowohlt herself. This is vast, all in pale pistachio and peach and gold; a wide swathe of frills and lace and silks, so hyper-feminine that it unnerves me. Then I figure out, typical desi-style, or perhaps like that urchin my mother had often accused me of becoming, that I can sit on the floor to work, with the low platform for the bed serving as my own little seat. In making myself at home, I throw off the silken covers, pile up the lacy pillows on the sofa, and drag the heavy down duvet down to the floor. Each tiny gesture of making myself at home feels vaguely like a desecration, like a secret intrusion into someone else’s bedroom, but I plough ahead regardless.

The bedroom leads to the dressing-room, a room lined entirely with built in, lit closets. Apparently, they were once filled with numbered haute couture dresses by Yves Saint Laurent; my handful of t-shirts seems just a bit bedraggled and desolate in their depths.

There is a desk against the window, nominally designating it as my work space. But the boudoir chair in the corner reminds me that even this manageable space is really meant for a woman far more glamorous than me, that it is really the domain of a woman who is an artist of the body instead of the mind. It is a slightly mysterious place, reminding me inexorably of my mother and the teak panelled, mirrored dressing room I always associate with her.

The space is simultaneously unfamiliar and comforting, and on long days, I find myself sitting at the desk not to work but to stare out the window and daydream. Perhaps for the same reason, I have strange dreams, often about my mother. Joyous dreams, including one where we are caught in a rain-storm. My mother has always been supremely elegant, and thus slightly intimidating. Enjoying being caught in the rain seems a bit beneath her. And yet she does so, with abandon and laughter in my dream.

The bathroom is what feels most familiar in the suite. It is huge like the ones in old Himalayan bungalows where I grew up, and equally draughty. I keep expecting the separate toilet to have a hidden door to allow waste removal in the mornings. It is not nearly as simple as the ones I remember from my childhood: one wall is lined with grand built-in mirrors, with golden ornate fittings, a faucet shaped like a golden swan’s neck in the bathtub. I find myself wishing my sister could have a go at this wonderful space! I remember that when we moved into a house full of bathtubs many years ago, she was only six and yet she was the one who enjoyed it most, like some amphibious being finally finding her own element.

The entire chateau feels terrifically feminine, which is why I am not immediately reminded of the men in my life. The items that I know my brother would appreciate with his finely honed sense of the social ridiculous are the animal-shaped knife-rests at dinner. Slightly deformed, oddly expressioned, barely recognizable pig, rabbit, dachshund, ram, squirrel and fox rotate through the table over the days. These are items almost forgotten in our ruder, more casual era but provide a touch of magical silliness to the table, and one can never be sure if one ought to take them seriously or as a ridiculous bourgeois conceit.

It is the garden that reminds me of my father. When I walk on the vast lawn, apparently emerald and well-groomed, I still see the weeds that need removing. Often I am tempted to find myself a little seat and set myself to cleaning up the lawns, as we do at home. Sometimes I find myself looking over my shoulder, slightly bemused, convinced that he is lavishing care on the roses, the lavender, the hibiscus even as I type away on the laptop. Exactly like at home!

But even indoors, there are little things that I know my father would appreciate: the Chinese peg tables with detachable tray tops; a hidden music room with an extraordinary LP collection and a strangely anachronistic sound system; a wine cellar that must truly hold enough for the best of parties. My father always gets a mischievous, wild glint in his eyes, a wide happy grin, when he finds a place or person or thing that amuses him. I can imagine him enjoying an entire house dedicated to secrets and amusement and parties.

Finally, it is these links to my family that help me feel at home at Lavigny: the fantasy that I am once again in another of the strangely decorated houses that my family would occupy with each move. That I am a child again, moving into yet another ‘diplomatic residence,’ once again with the familiar, weird and wonderful mix of luxury and kitsch, whimsy and formality. And that is really what gets me through my weeks at Lavigny (what my sister very aptly qualified as “voluntary house-arrest”): an imaginary half-sense that one day soon, we will just rip off all we don’t like from the walls and table-tops to store it in the garage or the attic, and make this space our own. After all, haven’t we done it over and over again?