Humanising the Inhuman: Of ISIS and a Rapist

After the news, what we look for is the people who make the news or are affected by it. Human interest stories have always been attractive to the readers as well as to those who have a stake in the news. The latter because they know that although facts cannot be fudged opinions certainly can be. There is also a strong need to dispute the prevailing discourse on the 'newsy'.

Satire is a handy and potent tool to make a point. However, is all satire successful in doing what it is supposed to — expose clay feet and demonise the devils?

Comics and cartoons in response to the ISIS in the Middle East media are now seen as a weapon against the terror group. One can understand the need for such a release of frustration and anger. But do they really manage to reach home?

Let us take a few examples.

The Looney Tunes-style cartoon depicts a hapless young ISIS militant struggling to carry out simple tasks; first dropping a rocket launcher on to the foot of his commander before accidentally shooting him when he holds his weapon the wrong way round while firing towards an Iraq military checkpoint.

This works as nervous laughter for the audience, but the reality is not about fumbling. The mistaken killing of the commander, in fact, consolidates the martyrdom that is so desired.

They mock the jihadists' radical ideas and portrays the group as obsessed with a literal interpretation of 7th Century Islam that makes their lives needlessly difficult. One producer said, "These people are not a true representation of Islam and so by mocking them. It is a way to show we are against them."

A group such as the ISIS is not dependent on what people think, but how it can market its own ideology. Nobody knows what really happened in the 7th century. If people want to oppose the ISIS, then they must do so for reasons of their social and political terrorism. They are using modern technology, so mocking them about the past sounds disingenuous. Besides, there is a problem when a people feel desperate about distancing themselves for what they get associated with by default from societies that are prejudiced against them. It only serves to highlight a moral dilemma that isn't even there.

Even the sickening videos of mass shootings conducted by ISIS have become comedic fodder. Palestinian television channel al-Falastiniya aired a skit showing militants shooting Muslim civilians for their lack of piety, while simultaneously reminiscing about partying and meeting beautiful women while training.

I find this particularly disgusting. In trying to draw attention to the hypocrisy, it only conforms to a stereotype that the ISIS and other fanatic elements might find enchanting. It conveys that the rewards are a result of the killings. What sense does it make when such vile characters exist only for such fruits of labour? Also, rather unfortunately, the subliminal message is that lack of extreme piety deserves an extreme punishment. The victims are as much grist for the satire mill here as the predators.

When a Jordanian Christian approaches, the two militants begin fighting each other over who gets to shoot him - each wanting the 'blessing' for himself. Terrified, the man suffers a fatal heart attack, leaving the militants devastated.

What do you learn from this? That a person marked has to die. Anyway.

Of course, all is not bleak. This skit by the 'Ktir Salbe Show' hits the right spot. Even though it falls in the disingenuous trap about the past, it manages to make a potential victim proactive and in charge:

A taxi driver picks up a jihadi who rejects listening to radio because it didn't exist in the earliest days of Islam.

The driver offers to turn on the air conditioning, but that too is rejected. The jihadist then criticizes the put-upon driver for answering his mobile phone.

Fed up, the driver finally asks: 'Were there taxi cabs in the earliest days?'.

'No, 1,000 times no!' the passenger answers. The driver responds by kicking the jihadist out of his car and telling him to wait for a passing camel instead.

* * *

The other sort of behind the news stories are all about humanising, including the villains. This is appealing because it is about penance and reformation. We like to judge and to forgive.

When I read this article on the young man who was one of the rapists in the Delhi gangrape I was confused. Several criminals serve sentences or are sent to correctional facilities (as this one is), but nobody wants to trace their progress. This man's story is bound to be humanised because he is a crucial part of the bigger story that was on primetime for months. That one was milked and through him will continue to be milked.

As a juvenile — and whether we like it or not, he was tried as one — he is serving time in a reform centre. The job of such a place is to rehabilitate him. One can understand the anger against him, but every day people are let off by the courts, if at all they are reported, for similar crimes. We remain silent, if not unaware. Besides, even those who get sentenced for a few years will ultimately be out and one does not know whether a jail term has given them a lesson that would have changed them.

The media is always looking for angles and twists not to make people aware, but to tug at them. By telling us that a criminal is having it better after arrest we are fed what we already know. I also found the piece disorienting for reasons other than humanising. It makes our correctional facilities sound like Doon School prototypes or something out of a Karan Johar film. And the guy who knew no English has titled his painting "The Princess".

Something else bothered me:

There is “no trace of anger” in him, says psychologist Shuchi Goel, who works with him and has conducted an art-based therapy session. “He is certainly putting an extra effort to become acceptable to others,” she said. “He takes a lot of pride in his paintings.”

Without an explanation to back the statement, what exactly does lack of anger in him mean? Who should he be angry with — his victim, his accomplices who are sentenced to death, or himself?

For those of us who believe that justice should not be a hammer but a chisel, this sort of pop analysis defeats the purpose by pandering to the gallery version of the humane.

© Farzana Versey

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Images: Daily Mail, Washington Post

Human interest exhibits

Rediscovering the North East or Riding the Bandwagon?

It feels terrible to admit it. When I saw this photograph in the paper today, my instant reaction was, “Oh, so they had to have someone from the North East even to show rains in Mumbai.” As it turned out, I was wrong. These were described as “tourists”.

My immediate reaction tells us something, aside from the fact that people from the Oriental regions too may be mistaken for those in the North East, is that the media is going over the top to portray and project everything possible about the region. It is like dusting something from the attic and placing it on the mantelpiece. There is no attempt at trying to even examine it closely, explore its history, and look at the cracks it has suffered when it was consigned to the dark corner.

Today, we have seen how damaging stories can be. The term “chinki” that many people use for the Chinese or those with slanted eyes is being put to the test of a politically correct grinder. People of Sikkim look like that. Nepalis do. And what about those in Darjeeling who have been demanding Gorkhaland? Why is no one interested in that? Why are we suddenly concerned about what they are called? Have we never made such errors of judgment based on physical appearance?

This sort of quick-fix concern tourism does nothing for the people, educates no one, and enlightens little. Armed with a map, the “seven sisters” are not even given distinct identities that they fought for amongst themselves. Have people already forgotten the ULFA that targeted tea plantation owners, mainly Marwaris from Kolkata? Disaffection with Bangladeshis is not new, but it is not the only problem. (Read Don't Blame the Immigrant)

Film director Kalpana Lajmi, who was the late filmmaker, singer, poet, political activist Bhupen Hazarika’s longtime partner, was interviewed recently by The Times of India about the violence in the North East. She lived there for long periods. Why did she never speak before about the problems that range from “they’re often dismissed off as ‘chinkis’” to “it came as a shock to me when I realized the magnitude of the issues only after violence spilled over at Azad Maidan (Mumbai)”?

She makes dangerous simplistic statements that are no better than the rumour-mongers:

“Friends in Assam say that they have lived in harmony with the Muslims, and that the quarrel is between the Bodos and the immigrant who have outnumbered them. I tell them it is a communal issue as it is a fight between the Muslims and non-Muslims. How can you even call them Bangladeshi if they have lived in India for over 50 years?”

Has she read anything about the history? She is reaching such conclusions because that is what some people in the media and some political parties are doing. It is so conniving that she, sitting in Mumbai now, is talking about communalism. Did she not feel victimised when she was there? Did Bhupenda ever tell her any such thing?

And with as much alacrity as she effectively grants Bangladeshis local status, she contradicts it:

“There is also a feeling that one day a Bangladeshi immigrant may take over as the chief minister of a northeastern state.”

Whose feelings is she referring to? Has she gone there on an assignment recently? When she lived there, did she worry about this? If as she suggests a Bangladeshi who has lived there for 50 years is not a Bangladeshi, then is she implying that someone who has crossed over years later, maybe even recently, will contest elections and become the chief minister? Not only is her surmise ridiculous, she reduces the people of the North East, who have, despite the centre’s callous casual attitude towards them, never cowed down.

So dumb is the discourse that the interviewer asks her, “Are you planning to do anything to bring peace back in the region?” Her reply:

“I am planning to ask CM Tarun Gogoi to request artistes like Shabana Azmi, Javed Akhtar and Mahesh Bhatt to make the people feel at home. There is a need to make them understand that violence is not the solution. There is a need to get leaders and NGOs with no political ambitions to come forward. There is a need to decide once again the cut-off date for newer immigrants. But I still feel it is a deep-rooted problem as one cannot differentiate between the local and the immigrant.”

Yet, she has this crystal ball or third eye that tells her some immigrant can become chief minister. She believes that her chosen gang will bring peace, forgetting that two of them are in politics and politically sharp.

I do not know for how long this party with the North East will last. It is being played out in the most absurd manner and doing nothing for the states. We have already discovered the snowball effect of an ‘exodus’.

Political parties will make a killing of it during the elections. Will the people benefit?

MC Mary Kom, the boxer from Manipur who won the Olympic medal, apologised for not getting more than a bronze. She was feted for her gesture. This infuriates me. How many golds and silvers have we got?

Now Bollywood has jumped on the bandwagon. Sanjay Leela Bhansali wants to make on her life. It is an amazing life, no doubt, but this is not the first time she has participated in an international competition. It is understandable that she sees it positively. As she told the BBC:

“This film will help bridge the gap between people of the Indian mainland and those from the north-eastern states.”

The North East ought to be seen as much as mainland as Maharashtra or Delhi. Giving her example is like making an example of her, to be always on test, to struggle and to to triumph. Success is the barometer for acceptance.

This and the whole human interest angle to her story is part of the patronising attitude we have towards the North East. It started with politicians, it buffered ethnic strife, and now it has reached the pearly gates of our elite intellectuals with the memory span of a few minutes.

(c) Farzana Versey

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Two of my earlier pieces:

Manipur's fate and the North East States
Will Gorkhaland become a reality? 

The CIA Chicks?

Would you like to sell your story to help promote war? Do you believe that troops marching into terrain that has abused women would truly help them?

The CIA plans to use women to market the war.

“Afghan women could serve as ideal messengers in humanizing” the mission for Europe, according to the CIA analysis, posted on WikiLeaks, a whistleblower website. Afghan women could express “their aspirations for the future, and their fears of a Taliban victory”.

Isn’t there a difference between humanising and being humane? True, many of these women have suffered, but how will a war solve their problems, their social status, their gender roles, their subjugation? Who will help them realise their dreams once the war is over and there are many left dead, including their fathers, their husbands, their sons? What if they want a future that includes family?

The analysis, dated March 11, says “outreach initiatives that create media opportunities for Afghan women to share their stories with French, German, and other European women could help to overcome pervasive scepticism among women in Western Europe”.

This is too conniving. You get women under Taliban rule (from where will they get real women or will they be westernised spokespersons?) to talk to women in the west and convince them that a war is essential. This is blackmail that is planned by one set of patriarchy to subvert another. Both kinds of women are being used.

Even if the Taliban loses, we already know the cost of such wars – in economic as well as psychological terms. The woman in the west perhaps understands that besides those being sent off to fight a futile war, the immense tragedy is of bringing back a baggage of guilt.

Those plotting such efforts simply reveal another dimension of machismo. This isn’t much different than keeping women in an intellectual harem and expecting them to send off the men to slay the lions while they wait for them to return, bloodied and victorious.

Neither woman gains anything. The memorandum is subtitled, “Why Counting on Apathy Might Not Be Enough.” The PR exercise is itself apathy, using a tragedy as a soap opera.

Jade Goody and the big questions

Ok! Magazine has carried a tribute issue to Jade Goody. Terms like "In Loving Memory" and "Jade Goody 1981-2009" appear on its cover. Jade Goody is not yet dead, but she has sold the rights of her death being made into a reality show to make some money to ensure the future of her children. Her family has not objected to this story.

The debates have been swaying from one end to the other.

It is a difficult to have a problem with her choice because although this sort of precedent isn’t there, it is quite common for even the richest in Hollywood to sell rights to their wedding photographs or the first pictures of their babies. They make loads of money and flaunt their charitable intentions. With the kind of money they already possess, they can feed some village in Africa or adopt some babies. But, no, this gives an excuse to use their own lives.

Jade Goody is only following these august footsteps.

However, in doing so, the emphasis is on what the magazine calls "a celebration of Jade's amazing life". Resorting to hyperbole is a part of the ethos of such journalism, but has the media been highlighting the problems about cervical cancer? Has anyone started a campaign to educate young women about getting themselves screened for it? Has Jade Goody herself made statements to that effect?

The amazing story is that a woman got catapulted to national fame in Britain because of her racist remarks. She was the punk spunk. I am sorry if this sounds insensitive, but she is merely carrying on that legacy.

She is going to die a natural death, as in it is probably inevitable. Isn’t it important for the media to highlight cases where young people are fighting for the right to die? They don’t want the cameras; they merely want the opportunity to control their lives in the face of devastating suffering.

The ethics of euthanasia are important to discuss; in some ways Jade’s life in the open waiting for death amounts to mercy killing. Maybe, if she was in a cocooned environment she could live longer or die more peacefully whenever that is to happen.

Isn’t this a concern of the medical fraternity? Of human rights organisations? Even the media, which is playing along…but is that its job?

One only hopes for peace for the lady and one hopes she feels at peace every moment of the day and night when she is being scrutinised beneath a microscope. Wish she had chosen a more human way to go…

- - -

The picture is from another cover of Ok! magazine when she got married after her treatment and selling the rights to that as well.

News meeows - 16

One month to the day that she was widowed in Lahore, Asha Patil landed in Mumbai. “I’m very happy to be back. I’ll meet my parents. The Pakistani government has helped me a lot, so have the Indian authorities,” she said.

Patil will soon return to Pakistan to embark on the ‘umrah’, a pilgrimage to Mecca, which is being sponsored by the PML(N) government of the Punjab province. She has also secured a share in her husband’s property and the promise of a Pakistani citizenship.

This is news. The Pakistani government has on earlier occasions reacted with much suspicion about such cross border alliances and now when her husband and first child are dead, they are offering her all possible help. It couldn’t merely be her acceptance of Islam or the promise to make her son (she is expecting a baby and it is assumed it will be a boy) into a ‘Hafiz-e-Koran’, one who memorises the Holy Book in its entirety.

I do understand that she may have attachment to the place where her spouse and child are buried, but I do not understand a political party getting into the act to ensure her personal beliefs and desires are fulfilled.

How many Pakistani women can claim rights over property? How many single women are assisted in their attempts to undertake a pilgrimage? How many women are given the assurance that the government will step in if they are harassed by their in-laws?

I find the case getting curiouser and curiouser.

- - -

Criticising the UP police once again for their alleged irresponsible handling of the Aarushi murder case, Union minister for women and child development Renuka Choudhary said that the family should sue the police. “The family should sue the state police and those responsible for bungling the case must be suspended,’’ she said.

This isn’t mere concern about how the case was handled and the character assassination of Aarushi’s father Dr. Rajesh Talwar. It is about party politics.

This is a way to make the Mayawati government accountable.

It is true the police was most shabby in how they went about getting evidence, but why did the Talwars not mention their compounder Krishna’s name right then? Now he is the prime suspect. The question also remains as to where the parents were when the murder took place and how soon did they inform the police.

And just for the information of the minister, it wasn’t merely the cops who tarnished Aarushi’s name; the media went haywire. There was no need to report all that and no need to show all those teachers and students certifying the girl’s reputation. All this only draws attention to something that may be untrue but gives enough scope for rumours.

- - -

A Las Vegas man who devised a “Men on a Mission” calendar that features shirtless Mormon missionaries is facing a disciplinary hearing and possible excommunication because of his “conduct unbecoming a member of the church.”

“I wondered what would happen if we took that perfect Disneyland image that the church spends millions of dollars cultivating each year and shook it up a little bit,” Hardy said.

Interestingly, the ‘models’ have not faced any action. I have no clue as to why they did it, but is it possible more people will go to church now?

Our sadhus go nude often, of course they are doing some sort of bhakti. Mullahs will not do this sort of thing publicly, though Osama (no mullah but at least a wannabe) baring his torso would make a greater impact in all those videos he sends to Al Jazeera.

The labours of May Day

Psalm of those who go forth before daylight

The policeman buys shoes slow and careful; the teamster buys gloves slow and careful; they take care of their feet and hands; they live on their feet and hands.

The milkman never argues; he works alone and no one speaks to him; the city is asleep when he is on the job; he puts a bottle on six hundred porches and calls it a day's work; he climbs two hundred wooden stairways; two horses are company for him; he never argues.

The rolling-mill men and the sheet-steel men are brothers of cinders; they empty cinders out of their shoes after the day's work; they ask their wives to fix burnt holes in the knees of their trousers; their necks and ears are covered with a smut; they scour their necks and ears; they are brothers of cinders.

Carl Sandburg

- - -

The concept of labour invariably involves adults. When I do mention children working in the streets, I am accused of romanticising child labour; I and many others do know the reality is different in many parts of our subcontinent.

Several years ago I was asked to present a paper on Human Rights and the Child at a seminar organised by the Indian chapter of Amnesty International. I must admit that I did not think I was qualified; the organisers thought differently. I typed out the manuscript interspersing facts with opinion. It was a pretty clear-cut and sharp picture I recreated.

That morning I made my way to the University Campus; the other speakers were all somebodies, in that they had done extensive work in the areas they were to speak on – law, trade unions, academics; I was the only novice, so to say. The one advantage I had was that many in the room had read me…and disliked me!

Copies of our papers were distributed to the panellists. Mine was the only one that did not have footnotes.

I was to speak in the afternoon session. There was a break for lunch and some people came up with their dessert plates to tell me they had gone through my paper. This was rather unfair. Reading it was then a mere formality; they were already armed with queries. It was a bit queasy.

I did the ahem-ahem authoritative cough routine and decided to alter the beginning: “By the time you finished your lunch X number of children have died”. At least one smirk was wiped out.

What surprised me was the nature of questioning: “Your paper is very good, but why have you not provided solutions?”

No one else was asked this and no one had provided solutions. Which is why trade unions exist and there are constant battles for wages, working conditions and a lot else.

Did I have a reply for them? I merely said I had no answers but I asked the right questions.

And I believe...

"He saw that men who worked hard, and earned their scanty bread with lives of labour, were cheerful and happy; and that to the most ignorant, the sweet face of Nature was a never-failing source of cheerfulness and joy. He saw those who had been delicately nurtured, and tenderly brought up, cheerful under privations, and superior to suffering, that would have crushed many of a rougher grain, because they bore within their own bosoms the materials of happiness, contentment, and peace. He saw that women, the tenderest and most fragile of all God's creatures, were the oftenest superior to sorrow, adversity, and distress; and he saw that it was because they bore, in their own hearts, an inexhaustible well-spring of affection and devotion. Above all, he saw that men like himself, who snarled at the mirth and cheerfulness of others, were the foulest weeds on the fair surface of the earth; and setting all the good of the world against the evil, he came to the conclusion that it was a very decent and respectable sort of world after all."

- Charles Dickens, The Pickwick Papers

- - -

Image: This picture I took in Varanasi.

On and off - 3

Not on…

The Taj Mahal Hotel in Mumbai turned away an 82-year-old woman because she was wearing slippers. The report says:

“Manjamma who lives in Davangere in Karnataka is in Mumbai visiting her grand daughter who is an engineer and lives in Vashi. On an excursion to Gateway of India Manjamma, who was accompanied by her daughter, her doctor son-in-law and another grand daughter who is also a doctor, expressed a desire to visit the Taj. Manjamma told her family of how her own mother had sipped coffee at the Taj and described to her the beauty of the hotel.”

I am really angry and am glad that Mumbai Mirror took this up. Usually only when the fancy unshod by choice M.F.Husain is refused entry into a club it becomes news. These are two different things. A club can by right make any rules it so desires. Hotels cannot. As long as a patron is paying, there ought to be no problem.

Foreigners enter the hotel wearing soiled sandals and dirty shorts and no one stops them. And trust me, quite a few are only sitting in the lobby. Or using the facilities. This applies to well-dressed locals who make use of the loo or just to get the cool air-conditioning air as respite from their walk or shopping.

I am afraid the hotel cannot make rules where it will not allow people to walk in with slippers. Slippers qualify as footwear. Yes, if it is a formal restaurant, then I would understand. But please, how many wearing Jimmy Choos (and yes, we do have those) know how to conduct themselves?

It is disappointing that the family is straining to emphasise they are educated. Education has nothing to do with it. Unlettered film stars and underworld dons get into these places quite easily. As do politicians. Imagine what a heart-warming story it would have been had Manjamma gone to the coffee shop and recreated her experience and her mother’s and compared them.

On…

A news item from Japan:

“Welcome to Butlers Cafe, princess,” says a Western man in a trim suit as he places a sparkling tiara on a woman’s head.

In a nation where many girls grow up on Western fairy tales, Tokyo’s Butlers Cafe is tapping into the popular fantasy that they will grow up to meet their Prince Charming.

Just stepping over the threshold, Japanese woman can forget for a few hours that they are in Shibuya, one of the capital’s most crowded areas, and enter a world where a handsome man rushes to the tinkle of her bell, goes down one knee and asks "Yes, my princess?"

I don’t agree with the Western fairytale part, but let us be realistic. Many women do not have these luxuries and having travelled to Japan I do know about their Western obsession. We all read fairytales; some of us start believing in them. A little fantasy does not hurt.

We all know that when women grow up the Prince becomes an Emperor without clothes. That ain’t too bad, but where is the titillation?

Bambai, meri jaan

Will there be trouble in Mumbai? That was the query being asked around. I did not know. I can only recall moments that are trouble-free…

One evening we were trying to find a spot to park near Shanmukhananda Hall where we were attending a Jagjit Singh concert. There just wasn’t any space. Suddenly, out of nowhere, this kid, about 13 years old, appeared and raced ahead guiding us. He made us take a loop, but finally managed to get a slot, held back the cars behind with tact and charm. I realised that I had no change. My cousin said she had chillar. (We had dropped the others who were with us at the entrance to save them the trudge.) He deserved at least ten bucks. She managed to find enough. But the lad protested.

“Bees rupaiya rate hai (The rate is 20 rupees),” he said with complete confidence.

“Rate? Yeh pay-and-park nahin hai…udhar se idhar hi tau laaye ho…(What rate? This isn't a pay-and-park slot, you just brought us from there)...” I said without much conviction.

“Nahin, eik kaam karo…aate time mein de dena…(No, but you can give me the money on your return)...”

“Haan, haan theek hai…(All right)...” I said, feeling a mix of guilt and irritation.

After the show, we were walking to the car and, hoisted at the split level, we heard a voice, “Main idhar hoon.(I am here.)” Ah, he sounded so chirpy at almost 11 pm. How did he keep track of the cars he helped to park? There were other boys – how did they divide their work? It seemed that they had fine-tuned the operation. I began thinking about him… Had he had his meal? Where would he sleep? I told him how congested the place had become and impossible to park.

He said nonchalantly, “Fikar nahin karne ka, apun hai na yeh fit karne ka waastey.(Don't worry, I am here to fit everything)”

I gave him the money.

And like a chivalrous gentleman he opened the door for me.

Do you still want to know why I love Mumbai?

On and off - 1

Not on…

One kid dies in India every 15 seconds

25% of children dying worldwide before the 20th day after their birth are from India

33% of the world’s underweight children under age five live in India

India accounts for 43% of the world’s infants born with a low birth weight

These are the latest statistics from ‘The State of the World’s Children-2008’ report by UNICEF.

You can bet that none of these will be considered issues to be dealt with. Our government and political parties are still thinking of what we should do with Taslima Nasreen, spy satellites, and the Left wondering how Left it ought to be.

In 15 seconds I could not even type this, and to think a baby died already?

On…

She was bent over. The moment she came out of the dentist’s room she gave me her new-denture smile. “Today I went in first!” she said in Gujarati.

“Ah, you remember?” I replied in the same language hesitantly.

I had been there a week ago and was taken in first.

She pointed to her head, “This still works well.”

“And I thought there was something special about me that you could still recall.”

“Haan, te bhi…that too!”

It was the most marvellous cackle I had heard in a while, and from a 93-year-old, I later discovered.

My dentist said, “Look, she has made your day.”

Yes, a brief glimpse, a remembrance, a reconnection…enough of life to sink your teeth into.

Kabhi tanhaiyon mein yun...

...hamari yaad aayegi?

Like many people who enjoy old film songs, the name Mubarak Begum will not be unfamiliar.

What is familiar is the story of people who are not smart enough being left by the roadside. A Mirror report says that she is living on Rs 700 a month pension she gets from the government; her two sons drive taxis and have their own families to look after.

It is also the story of the caucus that has always existed in most so-called glamorous professions. It is mentioned that she was a far better singer than Suraiyya. I have no doubt it. Suraiyya was just about okay for the kind of songs you hum when you are either falling asleep or trying to get someone to sleep…and do not throw the numbers from Mirza Ghalib at me. Here the words were enough and I should imagine the intent was to read out the verses in tarannum. I hope so…there were no high octaves, no mudkis. Suraiyya's was a dull voice.

But she was a sharp businesswoman. She lived well and continued until the end to stay in her large house at Marine Drive, and is said to have left behind lots of wealth and jewellery which became the cause of dispute.

Mubarak Begum did not know how to manage these things, perhaps. Besides, she did not have the advantage of being a singer-actress.

Also, the report does quote her as saying, “I was a victim of politics. There were a couple of singers who appropriated all singing contracts for themselves and ruined not only my career but of several others like Vani Jairam and Suman Kalyanpur. I refused to bootlick as I had a lot of self-respect. That's what cost me my career.”

This is true and, not just these seniors, even those who came in later had to face these problems. Sulakshana Pandit who wanted to sing songs filmed on her had to beg for it; Hemlata had to be content with some songs for Ravindra Jain; and Anuradha Paudwal managed to survive because of Gulshan Kumar and his music label.

In fact, had it not been for the new music directors, the caucus would have remained. However brilliant some singers are, there is always room for experimentation. After all, the divas stated by emulating those who were there before them. I am glad that A. R. Rehman does not fall prey to names, although he does get excited about the stars. Fine, as long as we get to hear a Chitra or a Mahalakshmi Iyer, I can live with it.

Mubarak Begum’s situation makes one wonder why nothing is done to protect the interests of these people. We have trade unions for mill workers, canteen employees, unskilled labour, doctors, teachers…what about those who are still giving us joy with their lilting voices?

- - -

Picture shows Mubarak Begum on the left with her daughter Shafaque Bano: Mirror

Two actors and their 'blind' powergames

Michelle, her body twisted with helpless longing, asks her teacher, “Will you kiss me, please?” His age does not matter to her. He is the only man who she has known at such proximity, the one who has taught her – a blind, deaf, mute girl – to understand words by feeling them on her hands and through those tortured breaths that throw up disjointed sounds when fingers touch her mouth.

Her life may be the colour of a moonless night, as Sanjay Leela Bhansali has shown so brilliantly in the film Black, but within her the storms have shades and layers that she is trying to grope with. “Will you kiss me, please?” she pleads with the one man who understands her suffocation. He turns his face away only to return his gaze and see her bundled up in the chair, knowing that no man will give her physical love ever. He holds her and gently brushes his lips against hers. Next morning he disappears. As she says later, “He gave me the respect of a woman, but felt too ashamed of his act…”

She internalises her gratitude, tapping away on a Braille typewriter, a sound she does not hear, and smiles with lips that she herself cannot see. She can only feel the denial, the weight of holding back…

This was my opinion on the film that I had written about. My views were based on hands-on experience with people with disability. As I wrote then…

During a demonstration on one White Cane Day, I had joined the group. The local corporator and another politician asked some of us to come along to Jogger’s park. It was around 8 pm and dark. While the rest of the lot were huddled in conversation, Arpan Singh and I decided to take a stroll on the mud-track. I was wearing heels so I had to tread carefully. To Arpan all walking places were the same, and darkness and light made no difference.

Suddenly, he stretched out his arm and touched a leaf. “There is so much greenery here,” he said. In the dark I, the sighted, could not see any greens. “It is wet,” his voice trailed off as he ran his hands over the foliage. We reached the low wall and sat for a while. He was swaying gently as one would to the music of the swelling tides as he inhaled the scent of flowers of the night. I did not wish to interrupt his reverie, but when his face broke into a smile, I told him that the waves and the fragrance were indeed overpowering and soothing.

“No,” he said. “I have been thinking about those wet leaves.”

The touch of night-dew had not left him.

- - -

It is disturbing to see Aamir Khan and Amitabh Bachchan battling it out about the sensitivities of such cellulouid portrayal. Both are smart businessmen, and Aamir has a film based on children and their needs due for release, his first directorial venture. It is disgusting to rake this issue up now only to tell us that he is sensitive. And just in case they don’t know most people with disabilities are treated in a horrible manner.

Here is what the two actors have to say about the film…

Aamir Khan: “I didn't like the film. I found it very insensitive, it sends out very wrong signals. It was extremely manipulative…Most importantly, it was about a child who had these problems, an alcoholic person comes and says you have to leave her alone with me for forty days, and he slaps her around. I don't know of any parent who'd agree to that. Black reminded me of The Taming Of The Shrew, and I found that very disturbing. It was a film about 'I can teach a bear how to dance’.''

Amitabh Bachchan, who won a National Award for his work in Black:''If Aamir is unhappy with this, let him demonstrate otherwise. I would be keen and anxious to educate myself on any prospective change that he might introduce to cinema. With due respect, all the films that he features in and that I have had the great pleasure in watching, have all adhered to the very qualities that he dislikes in Black. From using the distinct handicap, or to be politically correct, challenged condition, of a crippled human in his cricket team in Lagaan, to the 'sensitivities' of a blind girl in Fanaa.”

Leave Lakshmi Alone

Maverick: Leave Lakshmi Alone
by Farzana Versey
The Asian Age, Op-ed, Nov. 13, 2007

Who is Lakshmi? No. The right question would be: What is Lakshmi? She is an item number. Born with eight limbs, the two-year-old has just undergone a successful surgery that has given her two legs and two arms, like normal people.

We are noticing our doctors with newfound respect, as we must. This is a time to celebrate.

It is also a time to ask whether Lakshmi’s miracle surgery will cure our society of looking at physical disability differently.

I am scared that this little girl will become a mere 'case study'.

With Lakshmi getting prime-time space, Indians will adopt her, pray for her health and we will be transformed into this wonderful village of sentimental people. Where are our emotions and sentiments when children walk around like zombies with bloated hungry stomachs, who die before they are born, who have their limbs cut off, incidentally by helpful doctors to facilitate the beggar racket?

There is a tele-serial on air now called Amber Dhara. It is about conjoined twins and is a heart-warming story about their trials. The problem is the pressure on triumph. Why do we put such a premium on success? One is not suggesting that those who are not born with their body parts in a certain way ought not to dream. But does not success for them turn into a pantomime, playing to the gallery? Aren’t they too seen as animals in a zoo when they go about transforming mud into gold? Do we realise that forget respect, even acceptance for them comes only after they realise those dreams when millions of so-called normal people can go about as failures?

Let us not see isolated examples as the norm. It is Lakshmi’s good fortune she could make the journey to a reputed hospital. How many of our wonderful doctors would go to the villages and tend to many such children who die from ordinary diseases? Isn’t there a romanticisation regarding the strangeness of this child’s body? Isn’t her display against basic norms of decency?

If it is to applaud our skilled surgeons, then can we not do so whenever they perform a difficult operation on a less unusual case? For, how many hydra-limbed kids are there in our country or even the world?

Lakshmi may end up being given a cheque by the government, blessings will be sent by politicians. When will they do something basic like have proper railings, special traffic signals and ramps for the disabled?

I cringe when I see Lakshmi’s old clips on TV, laughing, unaware that she is as good or bad as a circus artiste. Don’t drown us with images of X-Rays and the delicate nature of the surgery. Of how 36 doctors worked on her. These feel-good stories push all the dirt under the carpet.

For a while I used to teach at an institute for the blind. Yes, the institute uses the word blind, so let us not get silly about political correctness. I realised how ignorant I was. The first day I tried playing 'concerned citizen'. Adjusting the microphone I started talking. I heard a voice loud and clear, "Ma’am, we are blind, not deaf!"

I got the message. Slowly, I was brought down to earth. "What are your qualifications?" one asked. And he was right. He was more educated. His disadvantage was that he was not educated in English, and he could not see.

They also made me realise that a chi-chi non-regional accent was not going to help them. "Ma’am, you speak like English lady. This won’t help us, we will become telephone operators in some government office."

I dropped the idea of telling them how to enunciate and where to emphasise syllables. I felt no pity, but it hurt me to think that if they could argue and discuss major world events and have opinions, then why were they denied what I got as a matter of course?

These are fairly self-sufficient people. There is the larger world where I have seen moments of despair. K was a music teacher whose services were suspended because he was alleged to be homosexual and was exploiting the other blind students at the hostel.

A former colleague of his was shocked, "They discovered his homosexuality after 22 years?" I was told that this accusation is often used as a trump card to harass them if they do not toe the official line, which might include little things like not touching the walls and soiling them. They argue, "We cannot see, so sometimes we do take the support of walls. What can we do about it?"

Compare this with the attitude towards the famous disabled. Firdaus Kanga, who suffers from a debilitating neurological condition that has paralysed most of his body, is gay. He wrote about his experiences in his first book and his second. I had sounded a note of caution at the time, saying that of all those who were praising his work how many were doing it out of sympathy and how many due to its literary merit? And would he himself be able to come out of the trap and go beyond his handicap?

Not everyone has that choice. Lakshmi is not public property. She will have a private life and not as charmed a one as she is now getting. Therefore, must we use a personal tribulation as "time-pass" and in turn transform an unlikely candidate into a heroine? We are just vultures trying to satiate our miracle mania.

It takes a village...

I recall visiting this hamlet in Mahad years ago on assignment. It was with a group of people who had adopted that village. We reached around late afternoon and were taken to the circuit house for lunch. Then we went to a small guest house.

I spent a sleepless night. Dogs were barking a little distance away, the lady I was sharing the room with was wheezing from asthma; I had never met anyone who suffered from asthma until then…and I was worried sick that something would happen and I would get hauled up to the police station.

New to the profession, this was my first real village experience, and all my ideas about the gaon ki gori (the village belle) walking around with a matka (pot) perched on the hip were brought crashing down.

Next day we set out to see the work being done - what they made, how it was sold. I realised they had flourished because, although financed by outsiders, they were empowering themselves. People tend to be more comfortable with their own and that is what I keep harping on: the best way to bring about change is to use ‘key workers’ trained from within the community.

On the last night we went to the interiors. Our group had torches. We came into an opening and saw lanterns flickering; the smell of kerosene emitted from them. Women were sitting with rice in straw trays open at one end; they'd hoist it up so that when it came down the heavier pits would be visible. Then they’d pick them out and throw them. A little away, large vessels heated on wooden stilts held brown watery dal. We sat there talking even as some sang folk songs; they did not stop work even as they spoke.

They run a community kitchen to save on firewood. After the food is cooked and eaten and they have cleaned up, the lights are dimmed and they sleep in utter darkness.

Why am I recalling this today? I had recalled it a few days ago when I wrote about my bed lamp. I realised with some discomfort that the colour of the walls that I adore so are almost the shade of a villager’s hut. They did not even have basic electricity. And here I was romanticising about the play of light and shadow.

How do I deal with the conflict of what I possess and what others don’t?

- - -

This picture is only a representative sample; it was taken in a village in Bhuj, Kutchh on a non-working trip.

Michael and me

Wonder how I forgot to put this up. It was published in November 2006.

An Iraqi in India
By Farzana Versey
Counterpunch

Michael Fathallah is dead, but then there are so many dead Iraqis. So, why do I remember him? I am sorry this is not the right thing to say at such a wrong time, but I just cannot forgive him for having made me drink coffee that tasted like something out of a sewer.

He had gazed at me intently and stated, "You like it! It is our specialty." Since it was not a question, I was hoping no answer was required. I shook my head weakly as I fidgeted with the chipped cup that had no handle. To make matters worse, he brought out a whole bunch of bananas, saying, "Eat!" I assured him all this was not necessary. "Oh, we Iraqis like to pamper our guests." Like this?

I began to think about how I should do it. Ought I to just peel the fruit and start chomping on it, or must I do the ladylike thing and break off one-inch bits and pop them delicately in my mouth? My host was getting impatient. "Ok, ok, never mind, but these are good for your stomach."

Although I was born a Muslim, as an Indian my affiliation with the religion was far removed from the Arabian Nights adventure one was supposed to look forward to in the afterlife. As a matter of fact, the so-called Arab identity was completely alien.

The only Arabs one encountered were tourists who consolidated the stereotype with their white kaftan costumes and veils holding prayer beads in their hands even as they scoured the streets for knick-knacks. Soon, the shops started stocking up on colorful sequined scarves and trinkets that might appeal to their sensibilities. Despite the money, one noticed that they weren't quite treated with the same respect as even the Caucasian backpackers.

It was during one such story I was doing, about the influx of Arabs, that I got to see the amazing variety of people. Not all of them were sheikhs who arrogantly threw the windows in their rooms in five-star hotels wide open to let in the rain and then offered to pay for the soiled carpets. Many lived in small hotels in nondescript localities; they'd huddle together in corridors, mostly awaiting the fate of a sick relative they had admitted into a hospital. India was a cheap and good option for medical treatment.

A chance conversation had led me to discover the Arabs that had made their homes in Mumbai.

That is how I met Michael one afternoon at his apartment in a lane infested with shady characters -- pimps, prostitutes, drug peddlers. I was ushered into a large airy room that seemed to have no furniture. I sat on a low rickety stool and he made himself comfortable on what could have been a cot but was covered entirely with newspapers. He was dressed in pinstriped pajamas -- the kind prisoners wear, and a long shirt. He was completely unselfconscious and I soon found myself liking this encounter. Besides, I was getting rid of my pre-conceived notions about Arabs.

He was a practicing Roman Catholic and clarified: "All Arabs are not Muslim." But he supported Iraqi laws and found the interference of the West, even in matters of laws like execution, disgusting. "Who are they to decide?" he asked.

He had come to what was then called Bombay towards the end of 1917 with a shipload of books and had seen "history written and re-written". Since education in his country was not upto his father's standards, he got himself admitted to St. Mary's School, a respected missionary-run educational institution that even today is considered among the better schools. After his studies, he returned home to Basra and worked as a bank manager. But in 1942, he made the trip back to Bombay to help his brother-in-law with his business and stayed on until his death.

He would spend his time at the Arab School, which would transform into a club in the evenings, and he'd pore over the crumpled old newspapers from Iraq. The events were probably stale, but they kept him in touch with a part of his country. Culturally, did he still feel close to the Arabs? "Of course, I have lived amongst them -- a gallant, valiant, hospitable people."

It wrenched his heart to watch what happened before his eyes in his adopted home. Sleazy action being replayed night after night -- apartments that went under the guise of guest houses from where the Arab tourists trooped out in the early hours of the morning, even as they were fleeced of their money and belongings by hustlers.

Michael was extremely protective of the reputation of his people. So, what kept him in Bombay? "For those of us who don't have unlimited wealth, this is the best place. I can also walk around anywhere in my long night shirt." He picked up a banana and started eating it.

There were no curtains and a gentle breeze was blowing in from the open balcony. He beckoned me to join him outside. We watched the street below and the hotel across from where silly grins greeted us. He took the fruit peel and threw it on the pavement below. "Look, I have become one of you," he declared.

As he escorted me to the door, he said, "Come again, please. I can only offer you the best coffee in the world."

I found myself smiling. I don't know when the bitter taste on my tongue had disappeared.

She said ‘hi!’ to disability?

Today is World Disability Day and I remember her most. I thought I had lost what I had written, but it is impossible to lose her…

She looked like a child. “Hiiiiii!” I could hear her greet the doctor when he went to meet her outside. The door to his consulting room was ajar. I could see her, a toothless smile and sparkling eyes. I had to wait until I got some reports, so I sat on the sofa near her. A cheery “Hiiii” greeted me too. I responded. Her mother helped the girl get up and walk towards the room. I could hear her screams, the doctor and her mother pacifying her. When she was done, she came out and greeted me with another “Hi!!” Her mother bent down to help her wear her shoes.

The assistant was asked to escort them to the door. The doc looked quite shaken. This was no child. She was in her late teens. He was an old family friend. He said, “She was a beautiful girl at one time, completely normal, lovely long hair, at all our functions she sang and performed the Bharat Natyam…this was one person I was keen to watch, to see what she would grow to be, such talent.”

Then one day high fever struck followed by convulsions. She lost her teeth, her sight and most of her neurological functions. She has regressed.

I did feel sorry for her. Not because she has regressed (I have seen worse sorts of regression), but because she has to start anew. She was not born this way; she has to take those tiny steps, utter words with care and live looking like a child. But guess what? She is coping. I could hear her stop the doctor with a, “One minute”, if he was hurting her. She could not see anyone, but she could sense human presence and acknowledge it. How many of us have the grace to do that?

And despite it all, no one could take away her smile. Just writing this makes my lips curve upwards. I feel like saying “Hi!”…hi to those reading this, hi to people I have hurt, hi to anyone I have not understood or who has not understood me, hi to those who are willing to wait, hi to those who want to go, hi to the painful memories, hi to precious moments that have come and will come again…and a silly giggly-wiggly hi to me.

Saddam in Kerala

Read this...an interesting story in today's TOI.

- - -
GREAT DICTATOR
Saddam’s Palakkad connection
The Sunday Times, Nov 26

When the news of Saddam Hussein’s capture in a dark hole exploded towards the end of 2003, and humiliating images of his bearded deranged face, and of his jaws opening for medical inspection, were beamed on television, another old man far away felt something turn inside his stomach. Seventy-one-year-old P Sivasankaran Nair, for long in the peace of Palakkad in Kerala, rubbed his chest to console himself.

Nair was the chief cook at the Basra International Airport between 1982 and 1987, once a heady place where Saddam Hussein used to come for elaborate dinners. During that tenure, Nair’s path had crossed the dictator’s when he made a Tamil snack called bonda, a type of batata vada. Nair remembers that Saddam was so enamoured with the bonda that he asked animated questions about it.

Long before that meeting, Nair had considered Saddam a profitable god. “I educated my children, married off my daughter and constructed a house with his money. To be honest, I’m indebted to him for all the comforts that I enjoy today,” Nair says. He lives in a traditional house, that has a cosy purposeful austerity about it, in Kalpati, a Tamil Brahmin village.

His gratitude is so immense that when he opened a provisions store in 1989, upon his return from Iraq, he named it Saddam Stores. He sent some pictures of the shop to Saddam Hussein along with a letter in English —

Dear Supreme Leader,
I’d worked in your country for five years. I came back to Kerala some two years back. To keep myself busy, today, I opened a small shop at my village. It’s my honour to name the shop after your Supreme Name. Whatever I’m today, it’s because of the salary you paid me. By your blessings, my family is leading a comfortable life. Welfare be with you always.
With profound love and regards,
P S Nair

The letter not only reached Saddam, it also impressed him so much that he released the pictures of Nair’s shop and the flattering epistle to the local media with a statement in Arabic —
“So many people come and work in Iraq. But it took one Nair from a distant land to express his gratitude. It’s not religion that matters. But the bond of human love. I’m touched by Nair’s gesture. This is what I call loyalty. This is what I expect from every Iraqi. Insha Allah.”

Nair’s friends in Iraq sent him the clippings. The story didn’t end there. Saddam Hussein sent a personal emissary, Muther Ali, to India who met Nair. And the message was conveyed to Nair that Saddam wanted him to return to Iraq. But, when Nair cited age-related problems which forced him to remain at home, Saddam welcomed his children to join him at his palace. Unfortunately, none of them were of employable age then. Eldest son Suresh was studying in the tenth standard, second son Murali was in the eighth and Pusha, the youngest child, was in the fifth.

“Saddam conveyed that I was the most loyal citizen of Iraq and the country’s doors would always remain open to me. Ali presented a gold watch and Rs 16,000 in cash,” Nair says, producing the watch from his cupboard’s locker. The timepiece carries Saddam’s picture on the dial.

Nair has removed the watch’s battery to save it from the tedium of being in a working condition. “I’m praying for his welfare. Daily, I do archana in his name at the Shiva temple here. I’m certain he will come out unscathed,” Nair says, throwing his hands towards the heavens.

When he is confronted with the question why he worships a man who is believed to have killed thousands, Nair flashes an angry look. “Who says…?” he thunders. “It’s the US which is harping on this. I don’t believe a bit of it. Kuwait deserved to be invaded because it didn’t pay what was due to Iraq. Then the killing of Kurds...you should understand Iraq was a military regime. It had its own laws. People who violated the laws also knew the punishment they faced.”

Nair ends his political observations with the conclusion, “It’s Bush who should be hanged.” TNN