The Food for the Path

This piece of writing is for all those youths who have left their home once, not knowing when he/she would come back to the warmth of home.

You could be a conformist or a rebel. You may be leaving home with the parents’ consent or you may be rebelling and quitting the life you had till now. Whatever be the case, your mother gives you a packet of food. She blesses you with a few drops of internal tears and a packet of food. Mother knows well that you would get your food from the food stalls out there in the unknown streets, she is sure that you would not go hungry as you are capable enough to find your food. Still she packs that one meal for you. Not necessarily a full meal, may be a few snacks; a packet of a few familiar fragrances and colors.

Journeys are mutual invasions; you think you invade a new land, tame it and make it yours. But the place of your landing invades you in turn and it invades your tongue, eyes, skin, nose and ears. The new land with its curious affinities re-inscribes you as a new person. The taste of your mother’s food become a memory; the moment you think about it, as if in a magical conjuration, it spreads a feast before you, a feast of sights and smells. A feast of deep memories, a feast of protected days that would never come back. They call it growing up. And you refuse to grow up and you want to go back to that day, the very same day, when you left your home first with a packet of food, specially prepared for you by your mother.

In Malayalam, the packet of food that you take along when you set out on a journey is called ‘padheyam’ or ‘vazhicchoru’ or ‘pothichoru’. These words have a smell; smell of a banana leaf made flexible on fire, the smell of unconditional love. When you translate these words into English, like poetry in translation, the smell goes away. All those three words mean, ‘Packed food for the Path.’

In a train compartment, within the cocoon of loneliness that you have woven around you with your fears, desires, aspirations and the wetness of the inexplicable sadness, you open this packet of food. Each grain of rice tells you a story of your growth- from a toddler to a rebellious youth. The grains have now changed their colors. The green vegetable stains them green, the red vegetable makes it red, the coconut chutney gives it a pink sheen and the pickle, the preserved spring of a mango orchard sings a cradle song for you. You drink from the pet bottle; this water still carries the fire of your home kitchen, even if it is cold by now. You may buy branded bottled water from now onwards and you remember how you refused to take this water along. This is a landscape; a landscape that you passed just now without knowing that you have crossed it.

For me, the experience of padheyam is like a full moon night seen through the windows of a moving train. The bright face of the moon follows you. It shines the tips of the trees and the edges of the iron grill of the window that holds you back from your unreasonable desire to jump out from a moving train. Journeys induce you with a sense of death chosen at will. Then you see the moon, the ethereal scenes of a ghostly landscape and you suppress the desire to die. You think about life and the happy moments you spent back in home. You look at the food and the full face of the moon. You want that packet of food remain with you forever, the same way you want the moon shine in your life forever.

I am sure, one day you will go back to the safety hands of your parents, especially those of your mother. If you are a man, your wife would say, ‘grow up you mama’s boy.’ If you are a woman, you find a confidante in her. You wonder how you have grown into her and she into you. You look at the old photographs in your family album and find yourself in the photographs of your parents taken when they were young.

It is then you realize how meaningful the rebellion is. All your life you rebelled to become your father and mother. You negated them only to become what they already been. One day you also would pack food for your son or daughter and be sure they would come back one day, after all those journeys and they would agree with you on this point: All rebellions are about going back to the roots, to become one with the roots. The fruit knows the root. Fruit is the fulfilled desires of the roots.

When you become a fruit, you become the padheyam also. You bring it back to your parents. If they are still around, you open it for them and if they are not there, you go to the sea shore and spread it out there.

They say, the dead souls come as crows and eat your offerings laid out with prayer and tears at the sea shore.

Where is the Artist Community’s initiative to Help Terror Victims?

I look at the words of my artist friend MSC Satya Sai. It is an e-mail that he sent to the Taj Public Service Welfare Trust, which was formed under the leadership of the Taj Group Chairman, Ratan Tata. The trust is meant for extending help to the Mumbai terror victims. The statement sent out by the trust says that it would ‘continue to discharge its mandate in the coming years, specifically covering relief to victims of sudden acts of violence, natural disasters, and other tragic events that inflict damage to life and property.’

A noble gesture from one of the most reliable industrial houses in India- The TATA Group. No doubt about it.
Satya writes to the trust (I don’t know whether it is ethical to reveal his words for my blog readers. But I take liberty of doing it as he is my good friend), “I am a Delhi based artist, originally from Hyderabad. With present market crunch, having few rupees in my account I may not donate the amount of money which I desire to but want to donate one of my paintings worth more than One lakh which can be auctioned and get more than its original price money for the Taj relief fund.”
I don’t doubt the intention of my young friend either. He really means it. He has the guts to tell the Taj Group that he is an artist, a struggler of sorts, but still wants to help the victims with whatever means available at his disposal.
But if I were a contemporary visual artist in India, I would not have given any kind of support to this trust. Please ask me why.
I would not have given any support to this trust because I expect my community and fraternity of artists to come forward to form a trust and execute its mandate in helping the affected in terror attacks. I want this artists’ trust to help not only those affected within the Taj Hotel premises, but all those faceless people who got affected in the Mumabi Railway stations while the terrorists struck.
Why should we always wait for someone like Ratan Tata or Aziz Premji or Narayana Murthy to come forward to establish trusts to support the public in India? What is our artists’ community/fraternity doing?
In one of my recent posts after the Mumbai terror attack, I had written about the failure of Indian contemporary art in reaching out to the common public. Now, I think, it is the right opportunity for the artists’ community to say, ‘we do care’.
I remember when Chandramohan’s works were attacked at the Fine Arts Faculty, Baroda during the final display in May 2007, the first war cry coming from the Chemould Gallery, Mumbai, in the form of an email. It said, all the artists should congregate in the gallery, make a resolution and take action against the right wing fundamentalists who attacked the works of art in Baroda. Next day, they gathered at the steps of Jehangir Art Gallery, Mumbai, made public speeches and later they traveled to Baroda by road to form a human chain in order to re-establish their solidarity with the somewhat nebulous artists’ community.
But when the terrorists struck Mumbai, this community is not seen anywhere. They are not asked any question by the media. Forget that media, most often it is crap. My friend in Mumbai informed me that one of the respected television channels in India, NDTV aired a program in which the celebrities were called to ask what did they feel about Mumbai episode and what was the song that they would prefer to dedicate to the nation? After their comments, a song of their liking was aired, to start with some nationalistic songs, then the usual Bollywood stuff.
Sickening, isn’t it?
More sickening is the attitude of those people (many from artists’ fraternity too) who go around, send sentimental text messages and emails. Tragedy transforms into comedy when some of the text messages languish between a sense of trauma and an intentional joke. Again, sickening it is when people go around and organize candle light vigils.
My artist friend in Delhi tells me, “Candle light vigil sucks. It is a photo opportunity for many and an outing for others.”
There are people who take this candle light vigils very seriously and they will never appear in newspapers and television. Here fashion industry leaders and parallel movie actors and NGO leaders call for candle light vigils. And next day, their pictures appear in front page of the newspapers.
A friend of mine sent me an SMS asking me to light a candle on one of the window sills at my home to remember the departed souls in Mumbai terror. I just deleted the SMS without any remorse. Reason: I don’t believe in candle light vigils. Number two, I don’t have window sill at home. Number three, I hate that feel good factor after doing something symbolic like this.
I am ready to accept that I am impotent and powerless.
In 2002-03 during my stay in London, I went through so many documentaries made on 9/11. The documentaries were made from different perspectives. Some dealt with the heroic action of the New York Fire Fighting Department. Some dealt with the police force. Some dealt with the lives of people who came out of the twin infernos. Some dealt with lives of the relatives of the dead people.
Nowhere, yes nowhere, I could see people calling out for candle light vigils. Instead, I saw a number of passers by stopping at the pictures of the missing people, even a few months after the terror attacks, placing a flower, a souvenir, an amulet, a book, or a sandwich, or a candle before them. They were not acting out for television cameras. They were the common people in the US, paying tribute to all those who lost their lives on 9/11.
Symbolic help does not help really. Where has Chandramohan gone? Did the artists’ fraternity that created human chain of solidarity later on ever think of this young artist who received all the ire of the rightwing fundamentalists?
Artists do not have any union. Galleries also don’t have any union. Apparently, Indian art scene has a peculiar dynamics. But when an issue that affects the general interest of the gallerists, they do discuss, merge, collaborate and participate in actions. Art Funds, Artists Pension Funds, Performance Art Festival etc are the best examples from the recent past to show how the galleries could come together and work towards a common goal.
But why they are silent now? Why they are not mobilizing public opinion through bringing all the artists in one platform?
Why do we wait for Ratan Tata to come and organize artists and galleries?
That is the importance of being Ratan Tata. The family of Tata did not reinvest all its money into profit making. They established cultural forums, museums, research institutes, publications and participated in the making of India as a modern nation. Tata Group is one of the biggest collectors of Indian modern art.
I am told that one of the prominent young gallerists in Mumbai walked into Taj Hotel a few years back and found out an immense collection of modern art in its rooms and halls. He identified several pivotal works in the collection. Nobody knows what happened to that collection after the fire and brimstones lashed out against the Taj Hotel.
Ratan Tata must be knowing and he must be worried also.
But the artists’ community does not worry. It has not even issued a joint statement yet.
Now tell me, why should I wait for Ratan Tata to tell me that we all should act? Why can’t my community take the initiative?
Is it because the artists’ community find the financial losses incurred thanks to market recession is more tragic than the terror attacks in Mumbai?
Now, you may ask me, why can’t I take the initiative to form an action group of artists?
I have already told you, I am impotent and powerless.
Let my community members also accept that they are impotent.
Until then, I am distinct and I belong elsewhere.

Glimpses from the God’s Own Country

At the Eranakulam bus station, to catch a bus to Kottayam, I wait. It is early morning. I have this urge to say that I stand there ‘alone’ in an island of silence. But it is not true. There are people around me, both natives and visitors.

I wistfully look at these Malayali women with their curly hairs still wet in early morning bath. It is a beautiful sight, quite refreshing. They are all geared up to face the breaking day. I look for the Malayali men wearing dhotis. No, dhoti has become a rare sight here. Trousers have replaced the stereotypical white dhoti. I remember the men in South Korea and Singapore. There ordinary workers and laborers also wear three piece suits, complete with a neck tie. It is an interesting sight to see the men in three piece suits squatting in streets, smoking cheap cigarettes.

In Eranakulam, I don’t see trouser clad men squatting and smoking. A blanket ban on smoking is in place and people seem to obey the government order unlike in Delhi, where I live.

I hear someone speaking in Hindi. There are so many tourists and North Indian dwellers in this city. I remember all those newly married couple whom I saw in the flight while coming to the city. Eranakulam and Kochi are honeymoon destinations too.

There is one good thing about traveling in a flight, which is filled with honeymoon couples. They will not disturb you. They don’t even need two seats. They make two seats into one and create a private world of their own by opening both the tray tables. A clanging of bangles here, a rustling of silk here, a muffled laughter there and few stolen kisses here. And you are either left to enjoy all these secretly or to indulge in your own activities; day dreaming, dozing, reading- in that order or the other way round.

If you are extra observant, you may study the mehndi patterns on these girls’ hands and legs. I study them carefully because there are a lot around me in the flight. And I imagine all of them as exotic reptiles in heat. I am sure this skin is going to be shed in a few weeks’ time.

Why all these walking murals look so fragile and helpless, I ask myself. Till a day before their marriage, they were running around like bold tigresses, negotiating the curves and squaring the circles of an urban jungle. But during honeymoon days they look so threatened and insecure. They are happy only when they speak to someone back home (could be parents, relatives, siblings or friends) over mobile phones.

I see some honeymoon couple at this bus stand. I feel lonely. I call my friend, who is a later riser. He picks up phone and asks my whereabouts. “I feel like marooned in an island,” I tell him and to excite his interest I tell him about the honeymoon couples.

“Honeymoon couples choose this city these days because there is a belief that honeymooning in Kochi would bring them sons,” my friend sounds serious and I laugh off.

“Seriously man, people come here to have sons,” he insists. Now I have to believe it. I am learning a contemporary myth of the God’s own country. I imagine a host of couples landing in this land looking forward to have sons- India’s perennial preference for male children to continue the family legacy.

Eranakulam has a lot of temples and churches. Kerala is God’s own country not because it is blessed with a heavenly nature but it has given abode to all the thirty three crore population of Hindu gods and all those saints invented and enrolled by Christianity. Mosques too are abundant but then there is only one god there. There is no wonder if people believe that they will be blessed with sons if they honeymoon here.

Suddenly I remember how myself and my wife decided to have a child almost ten years back and look, we were staying in a hotel in Eranakulam! We did not know about this myth then. We did our best but nothing happened. We got our son in Delhi, after many years and we had forgotten the meaning of honeymoon by then. Under the sweltering August weather in Delhi, honeymoon is the last thing you remember.

I locate my bus. Buses have different faces. Some of them smile, some of them grin, some others show their empty gums, some look deeply drawn in thoughts and some look injured and insulted. My bus looks pensive with downcast eyes. It is an Ashok Leyland make.

Most of the Road Transport Corporation buses are red in color. If there is a single yellow stripe like girdle around its body, it is an ordinary bus. If it has a wave like yellow patch around it, it is a fast passenger. If it is predominantly yellow and less red, it is a super fast and if it is green, it is an express. There were light blue buses- they were deluxe coaches, but not seen too many. For information sake, if the board is written in black it is an ordinary bus and if it is in red, it is a fast passenger.

My bus is a fast passenger. Nobody is seen inside the bus. I walk up to the enquiry counter and wait for someone to take my query. There are several drivers and conductors sitting inside the room, chatting- must be politics. Someone comes to the counter and does not show any inclination to answer my question. Anger seethes in me.

I had fought with several transport bus workers in Kerala. They have a strong union and most of the time they just don’t care. Once a conductor refused to give me a balance of three rupees. I insisted that I should get it back. I had a severe verbal exchange with him. I went to the complaint cell, showed my ticket and placed my demand for three rupees. The authority there looked at the ticket and then looked at my angry face.

“Ah…you can get your money back. But this bus does not belong to this depot. Please go and submit it to the depot where it belongs,” he told me.

The bus belonged to a depot, which is two districts away from where I stood. I should travel four hours in the same bus to claim my three rupees! That’s what trade union does to people. They become so strong and they start thinking that the buses are run for keeping the employees fed. They just don’t care. I threw the ticket at his face and walked off. I felt impotent till I caught up with a mainstream flick, in which Mohanlal (a leading actor in Malayalam film industry) thrashed up all the villains including some bureaucrats. Yes, that’s how, we Indians regain our virility. Our dignity is three inches in flaccid stage and while watching a movie it is seven inches. The government overworks to keep us in three inches format.

“That bus leaves at 8.00 am,” finally he tells me with no warmth or human connection. There is enough time.

I walk around and see a book stall. I browse through the journals kept in neat rows. So many of them. When I left Kerala almost sixteen years back, these many journals were not there. I look at them. They have all kinds of names- from intellectual stuff to soft porn types. I pick up an intellectual type magazine (not because I am an intellectual but just to know what Kerala intellectuals think about these days), browse through the contents that fail to excite me. I keep it back.

People read so much in Kerala. It is an argumentative society. All these journals today analyze Mumbai terror incident giving their ‘exclusive’ stories. It is an alert society- perhaps too alert that has rendered it numb and reactionary.

I decide not to buy any magazine because I think I could spend my quality time looking at the passing landscape and scenes, from a moving bus window. It is more informative and exciting than reading that intellectual pulp.

I should take a leak because the Transport Department does not care even if your bladder bursts while in the bus.

I look around for a washroom. I see a typical temple architecture on my right. I think, look, here another temple. But to my shock I find it is a public toilet. Imagine- a public toilet made in the form of a temple!

While in the bus I see so many temple structures- all houses of the neo-rich. Yes, simulated temple architecture in mortar and brick as wood is rare and costlier. Kerala is filled with this sickening sight of temple architecture incorporated into house building. Right from Nedumbasseri Airport to the local toddy shops. They all have the same architectural archetype for reference.

Something is terribly wrong with this society. A society lives on debates unmindfully splurges on what it actively negates in polemics. They don’t understand that they piss and shit in sanctum sanctorum, the ones they severely want to protect.

God has finally left this country, it seems. Architects of vulgarity have taken over.

Looking for a Hero

“I always wanted to become a soldier. But then I got into another comfortable living here in JNU (Jawaharlal Nehru University). Now I seriously think that I should join the army.’- a student tells the Hindustan Times.

“We should appreciate the Jawans (soldiers). They have given away their lives for protecting us.”- an artist friend to me over Google chat.

The elite commando force, NSG, the National Security Guards, became the darling of the Indian people, once they gunned down the terrorists in Mumbai and captured one of them alive. People gave them flowers and got their autographs. Newspapers flashed their pictures- them rejoicing after the ‘war’, them in family situations, them in the act of rescuing a wounded child at Taj Hotel, Mumbai.

I remember the picture of this unknown NSG Commando smiling at us with a red rose in his hand. Suddenly I remember something uncanny: the picture of an unidentified university student waving his hands before the armored vehicles rolling in front of Tiananmen Square, China.

I remember the pictures of angry mobs and angry family members of those army personals who laid down their lives at the Kargil Hills. Then we screamed, ‘we are wasting precious lives on an unwanted war.’

Today, friends send me pictures of protesting crowds all over India, holding placards that congratulate the brave deeds of the NSG Commandos.

I cannot get over this Mumbai Terror episode. I write about it again and again.

I am happy at least finally our NSG Commandos have been brought into some use. Otherwise, they have been accompanying the useless politicians of India, guarding their lives from the ‘people’ of India. I have seen so many of them sitting wearily in the open Maruti Gypsies, in full combat attire. I always wonder why any one of them never raises his weapon against these politicians.

They will not do it because they are trained to work for a cause- that is protecting whatever they are assigned to protect. They are not machines, but trained human beings.

I congratulate them. Like any other Indian who watched television channels, I too got goose pimples when I saw them being air dropped at the top of Taj and Nariman House. I wanted to become one of them. My empathetic relationship with war heroes.

I don’t feel any surprise when I listen to an intelligent woman artist praising commando action nor do I get shocks when I hear someone in JNU expressing his wish to join the army. It is all about empathy.

It is all about a country, which is looking for the Heroes. Our heroes have been dead and gone. The young generation has expressed its revulsion for the stereotypical Indian politician. Now what India needs is a hero. This country has been desperately looking for a hero for sometime. Mumbai Terror episode has given us a new set of heroes- the NSG Commandos. Could they be our real heroes for long?

Don’t call me a traitor or a deviant. Let me tell you, in the Mumbai episode, the NSG Commandos are not the real heroes. They are the ‘heroes’ who finally go back to home and hearth, or they are the heroes who go back to their loved ones. Then as the narratives say, ‘they live happily ever after’ because we don’t come to know what happened to their lives. We need a happy ending.

But the other narrative goes on- the narrative of the real heroes, whom people want to emulate. In the Mumbai episode, the real hero is the captured terrorist. Newspapers tell his name and he is referred as Kasav. (I can go to google and look for his real name. But I don’t want to do that)

Why do I call him a real hero? The reason is that people, after the adrenaline rush, recognize one thing- this guy stood for what he believed right. He is not an underworld don. Nor is he a professional pirate. He is a trained soldier of Allah, or he is made to believe that he is one. Like the NSG Commandos, he is also on a mission and he obeys only one command- the command of his terrorist sect, which trained him and made him believe that after attacking a place like Mumbai he would go back to his country, if not he would reach the heavenly abode. Any person with commonsense can understand that there is not even a remote chance of him going back. But he believed that he would go back to the heavenly abode of Allah. He told this to his interrogators without feeling any remorse or regret of his act.

Here is Kasav, a fourth standard drop out, who now speaks ‘excellent English, has a good knowledge of computer and software, trained in handling sophisticated arms and ammunitions, well versed in Geo-Mapping systems and satellite communication systems’, who has become the face of the terror. His face was flashed all over the world. Newspapers made logos out of his face- a logo of terror.

India, a country with millions of school drop outs, has all the potential to produce millions of Kasavs. I don’t mean that they all would go and attack Pakistan. But they would become local heroes by joining local terror camps- to terrorize their own people. Or they would become heroes by helping the people around them. To become local heroes, they should believe in something. They need an anchor. Extreme ideologies are always comfortable anchors for directionless people. The majority of Indian youth with no direction from political system would look at extreme ideologies, whether it be Maoists, Hindu, Muslim, Left or Right, that offer a heavenly abode.

If the Indian youth, irrespective of their intellectual abilities or educational backgrounds or cultural positioning, want to emulate the NSG Commandos, that shows they need a disciplined anchor. The NSG director has already said that it is an elite force, so it cannot open shops in all the parts of the country. Then would you like to join army? No, it is not as glamorous as the NSG. What about Police? Oh, it is a corrupt force. So NSG, NSG, NSG. If not, anything that would give us a direction, an anchor and a disciplined practice to transcend our selves (Read it as reaching the heavenly abode).

With a failed political system, Indian youth is ready to launch themselves into a new course- the course of extreme ideologies. Either they would consume more or when they fail to do that they would become local Kasavs.

Am I sounding too negative?

Let me take an example from Bollywood. In the film ‘Fanaa’, Amir Khan is shown as a terrorist, first working as a ‘drop out’ guide in Delhi, then as a top class business man elsewhere, then as a top ranking official in Indian army. He gets himself conscripted in the Indian Army, works hard to climb in ranks- all for reaching his aim, sabotage the country. Finally he is shot dead by his own wife.

The film was a huge hit when it was released. Why, because we identified with the man with a mission and anchor in life. He could do anything to achieve his goal. He was a Kasav.

We like Heroes with a mission. And we like more anti-heroes with a mission.

We forget those soldiers who raped Manorama in Manipur. We forget those soldiers vandalized the lives of Kashmiri people in yester years. We want to become NSG Commandos.

And we will forget NSG Commandos also.

This admiration is just an adrenaline rush. We will pardon our politicians. May be we will elect more egalitarian politicians in future.

But we will forget the heroes who go back to their families.

We will remember those who subverted our thinking with daring, missionary zeal and anchor.

I don’t want to become a Kasav nor do I want to become an NSG Commando because I have found my anchor in myself.

I stop my car and bike before the stop line at the read lights. I am not in a rush to reach anywhere because the journey itself is my destination.

(Illustration- Kasav in action at Mumbai CST)

Failure of Indian Contemporary Art during the Times of Terror

One week has passed since the terrorists’ attack in Mumbai. Like any other citizen in this country, everyday I watch television news and read newspapers to keep myself updated about the Mumbai incident. They say, Mumbai is getting back on its feet. Mumbai is picking up pieces to put once again back to the jigsaw puzzle, which is otherwise called life. And in Delhi people conduct candle light vigils. It takes no time to convert a tragedy into theatrics, death into spectacle. Perhaps, every tragedy has got an aspect of theatricality embedded in it. Even a death occurred in privacy and silence has got an unrevealed spectacle in it.

As an individual working in the field of fine arts, my interest, all these days, has been in locating the reactions of our contemporary artists, especially those residing in Mumbai. For me, Mumbai artists are very special people. They live in the financial capital of India. They react to the global incidents more vehemently than the artists living in other parts of India. They are much sought after people not only in the financial market but also in the entertainment market. Their opinions are religiously sought on social issues including fashion and life style. Their opinions hold a lot of weight. They may not be born Mumbaikars. But they are Mumbaikars by choice, if not by fate.

During the days of terror, I reached out to the artists’ fraternity in Mumbai through emails, sms, chats and telephone calls. “I was there at Taj, couple of hours before the incident,” someone mumbled. “Thank God, we are saved,” someone heaved. “We should congratulate our commandos,” someone thumped. “Fine…but,” someone stopped in apprehension. “Things are okay. But how long?” someone expressed the doubt. Individual reactions vary in such situations but they all seemed to be shaken.

For the artists’ fraternity, ‘Mumbai terror’ is the second terrorist attack in three months. The first attack came in the form of market slump. That came through the stock exchange tickers showing continuous falling. The second one came through the sea route, heavily loaded with arms and ammunition. When the market collapsed, the artists were asked by the media, ‘What do you feel?’, ‘Do you think it is going to last?’, ‘What exactly happened?’ ‘Could you suggest a solution to come out of this?’ ‘Was this market just a bubble, if it could just burst like that?’ ‘How are you going to face it?’ ‘What kind of correction are you proposing?’ And the artists did give intelligent and sensitive answers.

I surfed all the television channels, browsed through all the newspapers just to see one reporter asking similar questions to the artists in India. Leave that, why all the artists, at least the artists who live in Mumbai. I thought I might have missed some news item, some newspapers, where artists appeared to comment on the terror situation in Mumbai. So I called several of my friends to do a quick research for me. All of them came back with one answer: ‘None is asked.’

I would be distorting the fact if I say artists did not feature in news items during the days of calamity. Delhi based senior artist, Anjolie Ela Menon was contacted because her son was in Mumbai on that fateful day. Iloosh Alluwaliah, a Delhi based artist was contacted by the newspapers because she had her first ‘solo show’ in Taj, Mumbai, several years back. She is shocked because ‘she decided to have her solo show in Taj as she came to know that Amrita Sherghil had her solo show in Taj, Mumbai in 1940s.’ In Mumbai, one artist was contacted by the media. I forgot her name, but my friend told me that she was an interior designer and ‘artist’. Well….

I don’t want to criticize our artists because I know that they are not silent on this issue. Unfortunately, they were/are not asked to express their opinions regarding the Mumbai incident. This provokes me to ask some questions to myself. What is contemporary art for the general public? Does the general public consider art as an integral part of their lives? Why do the media contact only politicians, film actors, tele-serial actors, social activists, dancers, singers, film directors, theatre personalities, designers, architects especially when it comes to the incidents like Mumbai Terror? If media represent the pulse of the society, what does the erasure of artists’ voice mean at this point of time? Why did the same media that went gaga over the market success of the artists choose to keep a selective silence on their presence during the Mumbai incident? Does it show the failure of Indian contemporary art in reaching out to the public?

I raised my doubts to a couple of very important Indian contemporary artists. One of them told me by quoting David Sylvester, “the moment art talks more about money than aesthetics, just be sure it has lost all its value as art. It no longer caters to the public. Even if it talks about public issues, the public just does not want it to talk about its issues. Perhaps, art is the last thing people are bothered about.” The second one said, “Our artists have been painting, sculpting, installing, photographing, video-graphing public life and its problems for long time. During the moments of crisis, if people are not remembering it, I should say, the art has failed to remain in their minds as things that evoke powerful responses. It is surprising to see that not a single artist was asked to react on the Mumbai incident by the media, nor did they discuss any contemporary work of art that almost dealt with the issues of war and terrorism.”

Has contemporary art failed completely? If I go by the Mumbai incident, I would say, it has failed. It has failed in its mission to be there in the public mind. If art is all about making ruptures in jaded thinking process, if art is all about generating alternative thinking, if art is all about providing spiritual and philosophical solace, if art is all about reaching out to people and being one with them, if art is all about politics, our contemporary art has failed to be all these.

Let me take the example of the show titled ‘WAR’ curated by Shaheen Merali at Bodhi Art Gallery, Mumbai. Bodhi is located at Kalaghoda, which is a few minutes away from Colaba where all these unfortunate incidents took place. This show with national and international artists, was all about terrorism and war. Not a single television or newspaper reporter referred to this show as a discursive platform where the Indian artists brought in their thoughts about war and terrorism. The reporters were ‘filling in’ us with the references from the Bollywood flicks that made use of ‘terrorism’ as a theme. They did not forget to mention ‘Shootout at Lokhandwala’ but they absolutely forgot to mention the WAR show. Does that mean Shootout at Lokhandwala could reach out to people and the WAR show could reach out only to a few interested parties and party hoppers?

In Mumbai we have an important artist, T.V.Santhosh. This man of very few words has been consistently working on the issue of war and terror for the last six years. His works have been internationally discussed for their thematic gravity. T.V.Santhosh’s name is always taken up for discussing the art market’s ups and downs. When his works fetch higher prices in international auctions, the media go crazy discussing his ‘value’. But when the actual terror struck Mumbai, he was not asked for a single comment. I have not seen his name anywhere in the newspapers. I have not seen his interviews in television channels during or after this calamity.

I can take any number of names who have articulated the issues of war and terror- Atul Dodiya to Baiju Parthan. Bose Krishnamachari to Pradeep Mishra. Jitish Kallat to Amar Kanwar. Shilpa Gupta to Tejal Shah. Why these artists were not asked once, what do they feel about the whole situation? Have their art failed in reaching out? Or the market has done such an overwork to take the works away from people?

Do the media discuss art and artists only when they have market value? Now the market is down. Has the media’s aversion for interviewing artists at this moment been dictated by the market factors? If so, shall we say art has become just money. Only money nothing else?

I am not a person to answer these questions. I am not implicating artists also for this. But one thing I am sure- art, whether it is shown in Mumbai, Delhi or in any international venue, is not touching the core of people’s life in India. People just don’t care about art. They may care more about the rising and falling in property values, they may care about the failing political system, they may care about the low standards of a movie by just not going for it (and assuring it a box office dud), they may care about the education system, they may care about the prices of vehicles. But they just don’t care about art.

If they need to care…they should be brought into it. Mumbai incident shows that Indian contemporary art is an insular world, manipulated by twenty, played out by two hundred, followed by two thousand and cursorily looked at by maximum a twenty thousand people. Man, that is a pretty silly number considering the two billion population of this country.

What should be done (by the artists)? As Lenin said, the artists should make a very clear stance on their alliance- whether they belong to the people or to the market.

Being in market is not a problem. But becoming a market in oneself is.

Theodore Adorno said, there is no poetry after Auschwitz.

I say, there cannot be same kind of contemporary art from Mumbai after 26/11.

After a few months, if some Mumbai artist comes up with a work of art that refers back to the 26/11 incident, mark my words, he/she will be the biggest joker of the century.


(Illustration is a painting by the Delhi based artist, Manjunath Kamath)

The Last SMS

“Mom
Bye
Mum
Bai
Bomb
Ay(i)”

Finding that Muslim Friend in You

Dear Najeeb,

How are you? And where are you? Last year when I went to my village, I asked our friends about you. One of them told me you were in Dubai for a long time and once you got a chance to travel to England with your boss, you gave him a slip. Now they say you are well settled in London, doing a good job and earning a lot. Good. You were always a smart ass. I still remember the kind of pleasure you used to get by slapping at my bare thighs with your hard palms. You see, now I have shed all those fat. I am no longer your ‘elephant’. It is funny to remember all those things we did during our school days. We have grown old my dear friend, with graying moustache and hair. What about you?

After these many years, I wonder why I write you this letter. Yes, I know why I do this. These days, everyone is afraid of Muslims. You know the reason also. They say Muslims are terrorists. Now, Mumbai is attacked by the Lashkar-e-Tyebba terrorists. Even if Mumbai is attacked by the terrorists, as usual we find an emblematic enemy in Muslims. They say, Muslims breed like anything and one day they are going to destroy all other people. I am fed up of this kind of thinking. I don’t want to argue with people because people are always a majority and your voice will sink in their arguments. I am not a politician because I have other things to do in my life. I am not a policy maker because individuals like me are always out of the policy making bodies. But I think, I have some partial solution for this lopsided thinking of the people.

The solution is simple. Just search for your Muslim friend. Or just find out that Muslim friend who resides in you.

In our childhood days, you must be remembering, we grew up without knowing whether you were a Muslim, a Christian or a Hindu. Even if we went home during the lunch breaks, we all cherished the free meal served from the school kitchen. Do you remember the seal on those sacks of wheat and oil tins? They had the American flag etched on them. We never thought we were having subsidized American food. Then during intervals we ran to the ‘kaakka’s’ (the older Muslim brother) shop where he sold sweets and pickles. For five paise we used to get one piece of pickle and a lot of water free. Don’t you still remember the sweetness of water when you drink it after chewing the pickled berries?

I never thought you were a Muslim. But I envied you for the first time and I too wanted to become a Muslim, do you know when? Don’t laugh at me. I became jealous of you when you had your sunnat (circumcision). You got two weeks leave from school. When I came to see you, you were lying on a mattress spread on the floor with a white cotton cloth hung like a tent from your groins. I could see you giving me a smile with a tinge of pain in it. Your umma (mother) and other women of the household were sitting around you, singing songs and feeding you with the best of sweets. They made me to sit near them and gave me a lot of sweets.

Back in school, you showed me your stuff, now without the foreskin. It looked pale red. Do you remember, how gleefully we did the pissing game after that. Mine with the adjustable end and yours without that. We drew our names on the clay wall behind the school building with our urine jet and we waited to see the clay sucking in our urine and leaving a faint mark of our names there. Oh….now again I was jealous of you, during those Thursday evenings, when you guys had the Arab lessons. You never allowed me to touch your Arab text book. It was too sacred for you. You showed off how you read it from right to left. What an achievement. I wished to study Arab then and there. But it’s okay. You compensated for it by inviting me and other friends during the Ramadan days when used to do fasting. In the evening, along with you, we too had the wonderful dinner that your Umma cooked for all of us.

I remember, I used to get up by the ‘Allahu Akbar’ calling from the mosque which was a few paces behind my house. At the same time I used to listen to this ‘Venkateswara Suprabhatam’ sung by the legendary M.S.Subbalakshmi, coming out of a loud speaker of the nearest temple. My days were marked by this jugalbandi of Allahu Akbar and Venkateswara Suprabhatam. In the evening, my grandmother waited for the Mullah to give the namaz call so that she could light the lamps in the small temple at our courtyard. I had never seen her going and looking at the clock. She religiously lit the lamps before all those Hindu gods when the Mullah prayed to Allah.

On Fridays, my friend, those were all good Fridays, we got two hours of lunch break. From 12 to 2. You went to the mosque to finish an early prayer and came back to the school ground. Actually, we never noticed that the long interval was for facilitating namaz. For us it was a value added time to chase butterflies in the school ground, ogle at the elderly girls standing at first floor of the building and pester the old women who sold pickled items along the boundary wall of the school. I still don’t understand, why as village kids we had this perennial liking for pickled things? These pickled items used to level all gender imbalances for both the boys and girls liked these alike. Don’t you remember the loud speaker of the school, which only played out Vandemataram, Janaganaman and the marching tune, during these Friday lunch break played out one popular song? The school had one LP record, which had only one song. And all those five years we spent there, every Friday we listened this one song. Man…those were days of utter happiness.

Did you ever raise objection in singing Vandemataram or Janaganamana? I am sure, you never, because we never thought that those were meant for indoctrinating us with Hindutva. For us they were daily dose of nationalism, which we consumed happily. Often, if I am not wrong, we looked at those girls standing in other lines and sang very loudly so that their untrained eyes would waver and meet our gaze at some point. They would then lower their eyes. What a sight it was man. Then who said, you were a Muslim. Who said our friends Shaji, Salim, Sabu (there were two Sabus), Naushad, Rabi, Reji, Rahmatullah, Shamnad and all were Muslims? Had we ever looked at each other as Muslims and Hindus? Have we ever fought on religious lines? The maximum insult that came out of our innocence was this: You are a murian (your tip is chopped). But you gave me the befitting answer: Your dad is bald. We never thought of our religions when we exchanged these funny insults because we courted the same girls, we flirted with the same teachers, we spent endless hours for the same set of girls coming from their tuition homes.

We celebrated all the festivals together. We could go to any home and could ask for food. If there is a marriage in the neighborhood, we all worked there as volunteers. The junction next to my house was called Pakistan Junction because the majority of the Muslim community lived that side of the village. But it was at this junction I learned the basics of Islam. During the Ramadan days, the traveling story tellers and theatre people used to come and perform there. In childhood, I could recite the story of Mohammad Nabi Sellallahu Alaiva Sellam in verse. We all sang these songs together.

When I remember the marriages in our village, I blush man. Do you remember Shainuba? Yes, my girl friend during the school final. As you know, she got married when I was in my degree first year. Girls get married earlier. She was not in love with me anymore but I think I was. She came to invite me and my family for her marriage. As you know, Muslim marriages have this heavenly biriyani cooked for the feast. I crossed the fence and went to her home to attend her marriage. Marriage was over and the guests were called to feast. As I was shy I could not get into the crowd. I went back crestfallen. I lost a girl and the biriyani too. Later in the evening I was sleeping out of sadness (now I think I was sad for that Biriyani part), my mother called me out, ‘Get up, biriyani came.’ There is a custom in our village, if any feast is there, that should be shared with the neighbours. Shainuba’s umma had brought our share. The moment I heard the word ‘biriyani’ I jumped up from the bed. My mother looked at me with some expression in her eyes, which put me into utter shame.

When my mother was admitted to a hospital for removing her uterus, I met a nurse called Meharunnisa. Obviously she was a Muslim. But I never thought of her as a Muslim. I fell in love with her instantly. And I wrote a lyrical poem dedicated to her: “Meharunnisa, meharunnisa, for how long should I wait.” Such a pedestrian lyrics. But I tuned it and sung it for her. With a laughter that resounded spilling of pearls on a marble floor, she received the poem, read it aloud for my mother who was under her care. I don’t know where Meharunnisa is now.

What happened to all of us Najeeb? Last time, I went to Pakistan Junction to buy a packet of cigarette, I found a group of boys staring at me. They were having clear Muslim identities. I smiled at them. Some elders knew me. They talked to me. I saw a group of your girls walking down the road with scarves and purdahs covering them. I don’t know when all these changes started taking place. Did you notice these things whenever you came back to home last? Didn’t you get disturbed by the sight?

It is time for all of us to seek each other. Wherever we are we should reach out to each other and should get back to our innocence. So that next time, if I you confront me with a gun in your hand, I would laugh and say, ‘You are a murian’. If I confront you with a trident, you would laugh and say, ‘Your dad is bald’.

Then both of us will go to your Umma’s kitchen and eat those sweet meats she made for us.

If I look at your biwi with my funny eyes, don’t slap my thighs with your hard palms. I have shed all those fat, man.