The expatriate's angst

“I’d rather be called a terrorist than an Indian.” This comment was made a while ago following reports of some Pakistanis pretending to be Indians to avoid being targeted by intelligence agencies. Nothing bothers young Pakistanis more than being identified as Indian. Yet there is barely any social isolation between them overseas. However, militancy has resulted in an awareness of differences. While it is true that many more Indians are in prominent positions and have greater political clout, the fact is that despite all the profiling no American establishment will alienate Pakistan for tactical reasons. The ordinary expat’s level of distancing from the homeland is evident in the overarching need to assert fealty. The prototype Pakistani goes into apoplectic fits of apologia the moment one of them transgresses from the path. More than anything else, it is seen as a betrayal of the land of pure opportunity.

Therefore, while there is often some level of intellectual empathy with the McCabbie and McSilicon Valley wallahs and given that according to a private survey 96 per cent of Pakistanis have a low opinion of America, it would be natural that expats would not feel differently. It is not the four per cent who take a flight into Disneyland and stay back for the rollercoaster ride. And the one who strays does not suddenly appear in the US on a Waziristan-sanctioned visa. He has been there, digging into Shalimar biryani, downloading Coke Studio episodes.

The general anger towards Islam has affected the Pakistani diaspora. But has it affected the Americans? Mark Steyn wrote recently in the National Review: “Were America even mildly ‘Islamophobic’, it would have curtailed Muslim immigration, or at least subjected immigrants from Pakistan, Yemen, and a handful of other hotbeds to an additional level of screening. Instead, Muslim immigration to the west has accelerated in the last nine years … An ‘Islamophobic’ America might have pondered whether the more extreme elements of self-segregation were compatible with participation in a pluralist society. Instead, President Obama makes fawning speeches boasting that he supports the rights of women to be ‘covered’ — rather than the rights of the ever lengthening numbers of European and North American Muslim women beaten, brutalised and murdered for not wanting to be covered.”

Is one to assume that the US is masochistic or perhaps using a strategy to invite a little doom to feel morally sanctioned to conduct greater devastating strikes? President Obama’s opinion on the hijab is a patronising gesture. Does the US constitution not have provisions to protect women who have been brutalised for not wearing the veil?

The problem is that this is being posited against the educated professional who turns wayward. It is a disingenuous comparison. It could, in certain instances, be a genuine feeling of disgust with the system. Hispanics feel it, blacks feel it and it would be unusual if immigrants from Pakistan did not. When a South Korean student went on a shooting rampage at the Virginia Tech campus, did all Koreans fear getting profiled? Were they condemned to contrition?

If we set aside an act and its ostensible motive, this could be a potent analogy for frustration, the need to draw attention to oneself where the cause becomes a mere medium. Unfortunately, no one is willing to discuss why crimes are not seen as crimes anymore and are all branded terrorist acts. The Pakistani expat with no such history is forced to identify with branches that are tagged as roots.

It also raises the question about how by seeking a greater plan we, and the American establishment in particular, are losing all respect for and anger towards individualism. The militancy of the mainstream can swallow one whole.

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Published in The Express Tribune, June 29th, 2010.

A model's death

Is a model’s suicide any different from other suicides? Until Page 3 became a standard feature, one recognised models only by their faces and bodies; many remained fairly unknown unless they were interviewed in women’s magazines.

There is a romanticisation of the stress levels. Today’s papers reported the suicide of model Viveka Babajee. She hanged herself from a ceiling fan; the reason was depression, partly due to a failed relationship. She came to India from Mauritius and was immediately engulfed in the world of glamour. Together with her professional skills, she, like several others, became an asset at society parties.

The film Fashion, despite its stereotypes, has depicted the life of the industry rather well. The clamour to be a part of it is huge. There was the case of Gitanjali who was found in the streets of Delhi, drugged, disheveled and in urgent need of medical and mental care. The media took to her – it was a great story. Madhur Bhandarkar used bits of her life in the film, but what is most striking is the hierarchy. It exists in every profession, but especially in one where vanity is the selling point.

They all seem to have an ‘attitude’. Attitude is arrogance teamed with a readiness to do anything. It is a generalisation, but happens to be the unfortunate truth. The stepping stones are designers, photographers, agents and business houses. The latter stay behind the scenes but are probably the most exploitative.

There is the sequence in the movie where some new girls are asked to attend a party because it helps grab eyeballs. This is what we see on Page 3, where unknown faces become names. It isn’t that they lack merit in their field. Someone has to model those products. They get instant fame and very few fall apart. Doing drugs is not considered a major problem.

Viveka was smart enough to realise she could not model forever, so she became an event manager and in fact had returned to Mauritius. Why did she come back to Mumbai? Because, in all likelihood, the country where she was from has no such culture of celebrity. It does not splash pictures only because you are dressed in certain clothes or you are invited to a party. The real high is fame on a pair of legs.

I found it curious that someone she met a week ago said she looked composed and not depressed. That is what they are paid for. Viveka must have had other problems and probably hid them from the world because the same celebrity that brings you in the forefront for baring forces you to not expose yourself.

She chose to die.

Sunday ka Funda

"For when they see the people swarm into the streets, and daily wet to the skin with rain, and yet cannot persuade them to go out of the rain, they do keep themselves within their houses, seeing they cannot remedy the folly of the people."

- Thomas More



Image: A Japanese invention

The swami moves from sex to kerosene

This seems like such a convenient way to purge yourself. Swami Nithyananda involved in a sex scandal was released on bail. He decided to indulge in a purification ritual, the pancha tapasya near fire. His spokesperson said he would also pray for world peace. That is generous. But, how did the courts allow such public purification? He has not been exonerated and if the cases are proved against him he would be sentenced to prison. The manner in which he has been going about his penance, it would seem that he is above the law and still has a following.

Just when his purification was happening, it was found that there is another fiery scandal:

Self-styled godman Swami Nithyananda has courted fresh trouble for allegedly using kerosene meant for poor families during his meditation for ‘penance’ and may face a seven year jail term if convicted. Nithyananda, out on bail after staying in jail for 53 days on rape charge, resorted to the ‘pancha tapasya’ in his Bidadi ashram. Over180 litres of kerosene was seized from there.

Had it not been about poor families, this would have been comical. He has his fans who could have sponsored his purification. I am not sure how sitting before a fire will alter things. If he is seeking to purify himself, does this not amount to some sort of acceptance of culpability? Will he gain sympathy from the public? Will his devotees feel better? Does it help him?

There is a place for rituals for those who indulge in them with true intent and as a private act.

From the looks of it, he appears pretty cocky about the way the case has gone and his current situation. There aren’t too many precedents of such people serving their full terms. We are a nation that believes in what we cannot easily understand. Mumbo-jumbo is a panacea and people like Nityananda work along these lines.

I hope he at least realises that kerosene is a rationed item and many people in this country do not have unlimited access to it.

Obviously, the guy has moved on from being swinger to swindler.

Reclaiming Tagore

It’s happened again. After the get back Gandhi’s stuff that I discussed here, we are crying about Rabindranath Tagore’s paintings being auctioned by Sotheby’s. The 12 works fetched £1.6 million (about Rs 11 crore). They were owned by the Dartington Hall Trust in England.

I do not understand how activists who have been urging the government to intervene kept quiet all this while. Besides, how did those paintings get to be with the Trust?

In 1939, Tagore presented the paintings to a close friend, Leonard Elmhirst, who had worked as his private secretary both at Santiniketan and overseas, whose Dartington Hall Trust has been the proud owner of them since.

They plan to expand their artistic endeavours to charity work in the field and it will help many new artists.

The buyers do not belong to a consortium we are told and have made individual purchases. A report states:

An Indian diplomat familiar with the matter expressed fears of the set being “cannibalised’’.

We have scant respect for art and many of our museums are in terrible condition. Some years ago Tagore’s Santiniketan was no better and his books were not even available there. Is the big deal about heritage value or about the big money and how we rate our greats according to it?

Individual connoisseurs have often shown more respect and if the work is displayed for snob value then so be it. What do you think these precious art galleries are upto? They sell art as investment, anyway.

This business about reclaiming what is ours - a contemporary form of swadeshi - is getting to be a pain. If it could be ours in England with a Trust for over 70 years, then it can be ours for however long it exists. An expat Indian who has purchased one painting is being looked upon as a shining white hope who will bring it back to India. Art is not property. You can bring it back to India and pickle it for all you want but if you do not appreciate art, then it is worthless. If you do not know how to encourage people with creative talent, it is worthless. If art belongs to a coterie, then it is worthless.

Tagore will be rather happy that his works went for six times the estimated price. He was high maintenance and rather liked the regality of status.

Comedy of 'menners'

Every once in a while we are introduced to a new species of male. It gives us women something to look forward to, at least theoretically. In practical terms it is the same old caveman in different togs.

So, when I read about how the Alpha male is turning into the Omega man, it sounded Greek to me. But it crosses cultures. This character sleeps in late, lives with his parents, does not bring home the moolah every month, but is happy. Happiness means:

On a typical day, he wears tatty clothes, plays computer games and “works on his music”. He does his washing and cooks his meals, and is usually single.

Why this obsession with types of men? Earlier we had the metrosexual guy who shaved every part of his body that had hair; for some weird reason that also made him sensitive. I guess it’s because of the razor.

Then we have nice guys who are not rakes; they help with cooking, cleaning and occasionally even making love. Nice.

Between the Bad and the Good, there is a wide range and women are left wondering at the amazing array that is on offer. Sometimes, we get so lucky that we can even take one ‘on approval’ basis, test a sampling and then return to the shelf.

Why am I pissed off, then? Because it is all about men. I am an Omega woman – I lounge in tatty clothes, I don’t play computer games, but I potter around trying to create designs, I sing into the microphone and have been ‘working on music’ by creating tunes for my cell phone, I don’t even cook, but for the occasional tossing and turning of things in the pan; I do a bit of cleaning; I am single.

I am mostly happy – with myself. That is darn Omega. Here comes a small problem. I also am focused about what comes after the doodle; the times I write I am committed to deadlines that I love meeting; I have an opinion and it comes on strong; I have a keen sense of dress that I put to use when I want to; I like to get the best for myself. That makes me Alpha.

There must be many women who have qualities of both but no one discusses us. No one is interested in whether we shave or not, whether we are working on music or creating noise, and if we are not dressed up it is assumed to be because we are supposed to be wearing aprons, even if nothing else to go with it.

I am not getting into a gender war simply because there is a bunch of guys out there trying so hard to give us a choice when we know already that beneath the ho-hum of variety all we hope to find is a man who can light a fire and watch candle-wax melt. And he can do it in Greek if he wants to.

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I have no problem with football. Men need something to kick around. However, this silly obsession of the Indian media and therefore the public is unfathomable. We are not playing in the World Cup. Do you hear me?

No! I know that football is played in this country but, except for Kolkatans and their Mohan Bagan and Mohammedan Sporting, no one gives a damn about these teams. Yet, when some Messi starts messing and Ronaldo goes rolling, you hear the same old screams. The build-up started early and everyone from Bollywood actors to other sports stars to industrialists was asked about their favourites.

It is quite amusing to see some of them plan parties or decide to gather at a bar or coffee shop at a fancy hotel where large screens show the men in action. It has become a huge business. I once had the horrible experience of going out with some people visiting from overseas; we got a table quite close to this mammoth television. No conversation was possible and even worse we had to watch the idiotic women in the ‘fan’ groups letting out little screeches of delight holding their glasses of strawberry daiquiris. They were not there for the sport; they were there to hang on to the men they accompanied or who happened to be around.

All of these men come dressed in Friday clothes, and that becomes occasion for the Page 3 photographers to capture them at their casual best, never mind that they are very carefully casual.

I am rooting for the little boys who will be kicking a large rubber ball in the puddles of my city now that monsoon is here.

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End note:

Did this blog not talk about ads using bushmen? So, today on the Ideas page in a slot called Snap Judgement, we had this picture and writeup:

In Poor Taste

It is disgraceful that some TV commercials with racist undertones have recently surfaced. The advertisements in question poke fun at African people, who are depicted as backward. Humour cannot be a defence for racism. Our ad-makers would do well to steer clear of such politically incorrect commentary and give vent to their creativity in a more responsible manner.

Yes, of course. But the Times of India did not take names. Because if it did, then how will their Response Departments go soliciting ads, how will their TV channel air those ads and how will stories connected to such ads be woven around the consumer ideal?

This is not restricted to one media group, I might add.

Feet in a trance

“How can we know the dancer from the dance?” – W.B.Yeats

There are some marvelous moments when even the dance cannot be separated from the viewers. It isn’t merely about watching but partaking.

This one is from one of my favourite Satyajit Ray films where you demarcate debauchery and good taste at your own peril. This is what life is about – chandeliers that light up the room or crash as glass shards to pierce souls.

Roshan Kumari in 'Jalsaghar'