http://www.newsline.com.pk/html/impressions.html
Impressions
Indian Spring
- By Sairah Irshad Khan
Heartland and soul, Mussalmans, rural landscapes, Phoolan Devi, Kumbh – Indian impressions in a Pakistani eye…
At the beginning of time there existed a mountain inhabited by devtas (gods) and asurs (wicked mortal creatures). During the battle for supremacy that raged between the divine entities and the inglorious ones, myriad substances emerged from the recesses of the mountain, one of the last being amrit – immortality granting ambrosia. The asurs, though devious machinations, acquired the kumbh – the earthern vessel – wherein was stored the amrit, and fled. To retrieve the divine nectar, the devtas conjured up a beautiful damsel, who managed to trick the asurs and repossess the kumbh. When they pursued her, she turned into a bird and took flight. In the course of the journey, droplets of amrit fell – at Ujjain, Nasik, and Hardwar. At Prayag, the ancient/new name for Allahabad – the bird rested and laid down her vessel. Thus were immortalised these cities as holy sites, from where man could cross over from one side of life to another – metaphorically bridge the divide between evil and good, mortality and immortality. Or so the myth or one of its many versions, goes.
Thereafter, one of the most sacred of Hindu festivals, the Kumbh mela has been celebrated every three years in each site in rotation, with its climax at Prayag – the teerth raj or site from where one crosses over from one bank of life to another.
There is of course the sociological parallel.
The area near the sangam, or confluence of the Ganga and Yumuna at Pryag has historically been the crossover point (‘tappan’ in contemporary Hindi) from one bank of the river to the other. Its mythological significance apart, this site was the logical spot to ford the river on account of the shallowness of its flow here. Thus it gradually became the centre of the area’s trading zone and an increasingly important congregation site. This in turn led to an exchange of ideas, discourse, dissemination of information. And so, the reference in ancent Hindu scriptures, to the ‘third river’ flowing alongside the Ganga- Yumuna, the mythical Saraswati – the stream of knowledge. (Saraswati translates into knowledge in Hindi).
The cornerstone of the Kumbh consists of pilgrims immersing themselves in the Ganges – itself considered a deity – particularly at the sangam (confluence), ostensibly an act of self-purification and penance before the journey across to the other side. Certain days are considered especially auspicious for the nahans (dips) – and these fall in intervals through the 44-day Kumbh ceremony. Most calculations in Indian mythology – as in astronomy – are lunar based. Not so the Kumbh, which sets its calendar by the sun. Hence the major nahans prescribed for pilgrims beginning on the day the sun starts moving northwards – north being more auspicious than south (the original north – south divide perhaps?).
So what were seven of us Pakistanis, six of us Muslims, six of us women, doing at what the Guinness Book of Records acknowledges as the largest assembly of human beings on earth – the Mahakumbh mela, 100 million pilgrims in 44 days, 30 million at one time on the amavasya – the ‘big dip.’
This was the question we were repeatedly asked from the moment we arrived in Delhi. And what I had imagined was to be a visual/educational/spiritual exercise, increasingly turned into an academic one.
At the dinner hosted for us by Ashwini Minna – the proprietor/publisher of the Punjab Kesri publications, what we had been told was to be a small informal gathering turned out to be a congregation of Delhi’s glitterati (actors/performers, electronic media stars), literati (editors/authors) and a sprinkling of attractive young women who expressed keen interest in our trip to the Kumbh. We realised why later. Splashed over the pages of several national papers in the following few days, were stories about ‘the Pakistani seven’ headed for Kumbh, liberally sprinkled with interview style “quotes” – all of which I’m sure were authentic, but not, as far as we knew, intended for print. While there was no doubting the warmth of the welcome we had been accorded, I couldn’t help but conjure up the reaction back home if news were to travel across the border and into the ears of the bearded brigade that six Muslims were bound for a religious festival that for the Hindus in terms of significance, equals the Hajj.
There was time enough to ponder on this as I ventured forth on my own at the crack of dawn the following day to the heart of UP on a ‘voyage of discovery’ of the proverbial ‘other’ India – its rural backwaters and the backbone of its economy. It helped immensely, of course, that what would otherwise have undoubtedly been a virtually impossible undertaking had been meticulously organised by our host in India – Saleem Shervani – the very Muslim member of Parliament from the Hindu majority constituency of Budaun.
The three-and-a-half hour long drive actually felt like deja vu. For years I have been compelled for reasons too tedious so recount, to trek from Multan to Layyah, and the sights and sounds could have been the same. Along the way, just as in the Punjab, are scattered villages with dung-caked mud homes, pump-driven wells, ragged urchins with sun-streaked hair, fields of mustard, sugar cane and wheat. The similarity was almost disorienting – was I actually at home? But then, emblazoned on virtually every vehicle that plyed the road was the Tata logo, and, at intervals of every few hundred yards, swinging from the trees and crossing the road, were groups of monkeys. And amid them, peacocks. And then, the ubiquitous clusters of pigs – all sizes, colours, everywhere. I was in India after all.
The ‘organised’ tour began in Neoli, the sugar factory/complex/family home owned by the Shervanis for three generations. Gathered here was the clan for a family wedding – and I had my first taste of authentic Muslim UP culture. There is, of course, the language – chaste, beautiful Urdu – in which most of the conversation was carried out – never mind how anglicised the speaker. There was the food – largely meat-based on account of the Muslim nature of the gathering, but Mughlai seekh kebabs, mutton qorma, pulao with a difference which all but melted in the mouth. And there was a healthy mix of intelligent discourse and anecdotal humour that encompassed the generations present and visitors alike.
The culture difference may have been intangible, but it was omnipresent. Most clearly manifest, ironically, in what was conspicuous by its absence – the overt, in your face trappings of affluent living that determine the lifestyles of the rich and famous at home. Here understatement and lihaaz seemed to be the cardinal rules.
My initiation into the UP heartland began with a small village called Saheswan, and onwards to Bhavanipur, Rasoolpur Kalan, Mujaria Chowki and endless others that lay in between. Some had largely Muslim-dominated populations, others Hindu-dominated, lower-caste Yadav populations, and yet others a mix of both. I saw mosques nestling alongside temples, heard the azaan loud and clear even in the sparsely Muslim-populated areas. Endless well fed cows roamed freely amidst gaggles of rag tag pre-school urchins, as older children went to the schools present in every village I visited – some of them rudimentary makeshift arrangements consisting essentially of taat and teacher out in open fields. Of course there was garbage, muddy lanes and overflowing gutters. And yes, a pitiful lack of hygiene. Also, ironically, while an impressive network of electricity cables crisscrosses even the most remote villages, there is a huge scarcity of power – hence, for the most part, no electricity.
These were the tangibles. What remains etched in the mind at a more subliminal level, however, is the existence of infrastructure, both political and civic, even in the poorest of the villages. There is a system, with a locally elected chief at the helm, who is accountable to his electorate for the provision of their needs and the fulfillment of their rights. As we stopped, in village after village, Saleem Shervani was swamped by locals bearing parchis with lists of demands: a 10 kilometre pucca road had been laid, now 10 additional kilometres were required. The sewage system needed an overhaul. Electricity generation. Where was the clinic that had been promised? Those expressing the demands were a different breed from the villagers at home whose only recourse is their feudal lord. These were savvy citizens of the state, Hindu and Muslim alike, who knew what their rights were and no obsequious Uriah Heep grovelling for them.
In these little hamlets, there was no visible sign of the ugly spectre of communalism – a living, breathing entity in some of the urban centres of the country. Here, if there was a battle cry, it was roti, kapra aur makan. There was also no visible sign of the abject poverty that stares one in the face in cities like Bombay, Calcutta, even old Delhi.
Interestingly, while I was told that women are active participants in election campaigns and at the ballot, and those I spoke to endorsed this – in all the villages I visited I noticed they remained largely in the background, some in both Yadav and Muslim homes, in semi-purdah.
I wondered aloud if they fared as abysmally in the male-female equation here, as they do at home. I was told things were changing rapidly, women like their male counterparts had increasingly been empowered by awareness. Reflecting on this, a larger picture began to emerge – that of the Indian woman, in fact the many faces of the Indian woman. Here exists a definite sorority. The socialites and charity circuit supremos aside, there is a huge and burgeoning group of women’s rights activists, engaged across the country in development and human rights work that directly affects the lives of their rural sisters. This is a breed of woman apart – she has always existed at the very core of the Indian entity. She is almost rabidly understated, (no makeup, undyed hair, only khadi and silver will do). She is highly educated and fiercely articulates her beliefs – substantially reinforced with statistics, jargon, and sometimes '60s feminist dogma. She is mobile, willing to venture into the heartland and assorted local and international workshop venues alike. Essentially she is Indian. And she is committed to the cause – like her mother, even her grandmother before her. And through her committment, she is changing the face of the Indian woman behind the veil.
She is, of course, helped immeasurably by some amazing women in the media, print and electronic alike, in the performing arts, in politics, who ensure that the Indian woman’s concerns are projected at various levels. This other woman, in fact, among the many I met, struck the deepest chord within. She is bright, beautiful and proud of it, independent, and secure in her identity as the ‘new Indian woman.’ She is embodied in individuals like television personality Nalini Singh – actress/environmental activist/photographer – Nafisa Ali, theatre actress Sita Raina and MLA from Delhi, Kiran Choudhry, with all of whom, I instinctively sensed, even at a first brief meeting, a potential for bonding, and in doctor/ actress/ activist Maya Alagh, my family in India.
And then there is Phoolan Devi. I was warned by my friends, who arranged the meeting with her, that she was "temperamental,"to “be careful” about the questions I asked her. The former bandit queen, current elected member of the Rajya Sabha from Mirzapur, has reportedly never actually admitted killing the two dozen men whose murders she has been accused of. Interestingly, the Indian government reneged on the pledge made to her when she offered herself for arrest – that once she served a stipulated jail term, all charges against her would be dropped. She spent over 12 years in prison, but the cases against her continue.
Now here she was, in the flesh, looking for all the world like a matronly, middle-aged housewife. A few years ago I had seen Shekhar Kapur’s brilliant, albeit violently and sexually graphic Bandit Queen and cried for Phoolan. I told her as much – and it broke the ice. Contrary to reports, Phoolan readily conceded that the film was an entirely true rendition of her story. Her objection to it, she maintained, stemmed from her apprehension that if shown in India the particularly explicit sex scenes in the film could adversely affect her unmarried sisters “chances” of getting married." And while there were no outright confessions of culpability in the murder of the dacoit gang who had been her tormentors, she denied nothing either. Phoolan spoke of the “rage” that was “like a knife twisting within” – but it had been greatly assuaged, she acknowledged, by the murder only a few days earlier of one of her rapists who had escaped her revenge all those years ago. Ironically, despite the nightmare she has been subjected to at the hands of men, Phoolan maintains women are a woman’s worst enemy. “Look at how mothers-in-law treat their daughters-in-law – considering they were once in the same situation themselves,” she says.
Later that night we ‘trained’ it to Allahabad – and the Kumbh. Nothwithstanding the hype, Indian trains are not all they’re made out to be. A 12-hour run between Delhi and our destination in an antiquated box car dispelled any romantic notions I may have harboured about rail travel.
Nonetheless, there we were in the sleepy little city of Allahabad, where, but for a few new buildings, time seems to have stopped somewhere in the '40s. Old colonial buildings – the Allahabad High Court, the beautiful church, the Nehru ancestral house turned museum, mingled with modest, cantonment-like houses. Only the statues of political luminaries erected at various squares reminded one of the historical significance of Allahabad.
It was thus all the more astounding then that this seemingly laid-back town of 10 lakhs could rustle up the reserves to accommodate 100 million visiting pilgrims.
In fact, it did a remarkable job. The huge sums expended by the government – 125 crore rupees by some estimates – on what someone labelled “the biggest marketing gimmick of the century” went towards 60 thousand sweepers working round the clock at the Kumbh site, 20 makeshift bridges constructed with pontoons across the river, electricity cables and connections spanning the length and breadth of the mammoth mela area, PCOS, hospitals, and hundreds of tented living quarters for pilgrims who had travelled from around the country – and the world – to attend the ceremony. For the rich and famous – Demi Moore, Richard Gere, Sharon Stone, Madonna and the ilk – there were state of the art villages, replete with fibreglass living quarters and running hot and cold water, set up by entrepreneurial corporations – some of which resulted in interesting litigation. Groups of sadhus from various akharas (sects) across the country have traditionally set up camp at specific sites along the river bank. This time the locals leased out their land for a healthy remuneration to companies – and the sadhus went to court!
Eventually, although some companies had to pull out, and some celebrities stayed home and sulked, everyone was accommodated. And the sight was staggering. As we drove along to the Allahabad fort – a Moghul structure converted into a strictly out-of-bounds army garrison, we were struck by the sea of humanity plowing its way to, or from, the river. Amazingly, there was no jostling, no pushing, little garbage, and although this must surely have been an assembly of among the most wretched of the earth, no begging. Making our way down to the bank on steps constructed from thousands of sandbags piled together, another visually staggering spectacle emerged: men, women, children, infants, the old and infirm, every hue and shade of humanity it seemed, vending their way in a myriad vessels of every conceivable description to their final destination – the sangam.
We boarded an old-fashioned boat and began our journey. We had been told the actual point of confluence was visible to the naked eye. As the fast-moving, shallower Ganges merged with the sluggish, deeper Jumna, the divide marked by colour, was distinct. And finally, as we glided towards the area cordoned off for the nahan, there they were, a sea of believers, rich and poor alike, in various states of unabashed undress, defying gravity, age and the freezing cold water, performing their ultimate act of faith. This was Kumbh, the great equaliser.
Interestingly, heartwarmingly, our cameras and obvious ‘alienness’ attracted little more than curious stares – and those too fleeting ones.
The site of the tented village proved another glorious sight. One section of the area was lined by the tents erected by the akharas – there being 14 main ones. Among the colourful Iskon – and others were the incredible naga Sadhus – the naked fakirs whose only covering is a fine film of ash over the body to protect them from sometimes sub-zero temperatures. It was not only their nudity or their dreadlocks that set them apart – not even their militancy manifest in the swords they carried, the tridents they wielded or the dangerous, almost threatening gleam in their eyes. It was the objects – locks, wristwatches, bands – they had attached to their genitals! Which led one to wonder why, since they have taken every conceivable vow of abstinence, including celibacy – and have, as part of their discipline, undergone the painful procedure of having the muscles in their privates crushed – they would want to draw attention to that very organ!
The bizarre apart, the congregation of fakirs swathed in saffron, in sindoor red, in togas and loincloths, shaven, turbanned, with Rapunzel-long locks, engaged in rituals that sometimes defied the imagination – and the assemblies of the faithful – their followers – equally diverse in race, colour and attire – presented an awesome picture. Add to it the sound of bhajans reverberating across the area and the sight of a glorious sunset, and one was transported into the realm of the surreal.
This feeling was strongly reinforced the following day at the aarti ceremony. This is a kind of closure of the Kumbh, comprising an act of worship by fire at the bank of the river, itself the deity being worshipped. This time round, we were transported on a carpeted barge from one bank of the river to the other. Against a setting sun we witnessed the magnificent spectacle of a group of young saffron-clad-boys lined up along the river with the sadhu in the centre, lighting the unusual silver diya-embedded braziers placed before them. The flicker of light on the faces of the faithful congregated here, the reflection in the water, the chant of the prayers offered, interspersed with soulfully rendered bhajans, made for poetry in motion. The ceremony ended with lit earthen diyas being set adrift in the river, which seemed to set the water aflame. It was as though on our return journey, by the light of a full moon, with the diyas bobbing alongside in the water, we were tripping the light fantastic.
Apart from the undeniable spiritually uplifting element of the exercise, the thought that lingered long afterwards was the warmth we had encountered at every step of the way. Here we were, Pakistanis and Muslims, readily announcing both, being treated like the most welcome of guests, invited to not only watch, but participate in what were the most sacred of Hindu rites, at their holiest of religious ceremonies.
At the risk of sounding supercilious, it was almost as if there was an element of gratitude in the attitude. A Muslim Indian explained why. “Traditionally, the Indian Muslim has displayed a visible arrogance towards the Hindu faith. He has mocked his deities, shunned his beliefs and adopted the high moral ground in relation to the Hindu lifestyle. If this is the Indian Muslim, who has coexisted with the Hindu forever, it is presumed, naturally, that the Muslim from the Islamic Republic of Pakistan will be far more intolerant. The arrival of seven Pakistanis for the Kumbh and their obvious respect for Hindu customs, has therefore, made for a pleasant surprise. And this really is how we can build bridges, gulf the divide.”
Certainly, the divide between the two countries, and between the Indian Muslim and the Indian Hindu, exists. With every interracial marriage the urban, lower middle-class Muslim draws yet another protective net around his family and his faith. Hindutva has, meanwhile, taken its toll. I noticed even among members of India’s elite intelligentsia, a growing Hindu nationalism. And yes the majority of India’s Muslims live on the fringes. One case in point. Of the six thousand or thereabouts executives in Citibank, India, not one Muslim figures. Similarly, there are few prominent Muslim personalities in the media, in politics. Literacy figures for the Muslim populace are abysmal.
But the community, undeniably marginalised by design to an extent, has done little to further its own cause. There is a resistance to education, to family planning, to even healthy integration. In several Muslim dominated areas, there exists an all-pervasive ghetto mentality.
And yet, increasingly, there are fewer and fewer looks over the shoulder in Pakistan’s direction. Said an Indian Muslim businessman with a Pakistani wife and a large branch of his family on our side of the border, “There used to be a time when Pakistanis would visit their relatives in India and speak of the quality of life they enjoyed in Pakistan as first-class citizens. The Indian Muslim would then bemoan his lot, and wonder whether he’d taken the right decision at Partition. But over the years, things changed. Between the Middle East, India’s economic boom, their own initiative, the Muslims have done better. Then along come the ‘mohajirs’ from Pakistan with their tales of oppression and injustice, and suddenly the Indian Muslim thinks, ‘we’re not so badly off after all.’” He added that Kashmir has created another problem for the Indian Muslim. “Always hard-pressed to prove his loyalty to his country, every time the Kashmir issue flares up, the loyalties of Muslims in India come under suspicion. Recently, I heard a group of Indian Muslims discussing the situation, and one of them turned around and said the Pakistanis are not interested in Muslims – only Kashmir. If they were, they’d worry about what happens to the huge Muslim community in India every time they instigate trouble in Kashmir.”
And Kashmir is something that a Pakistani finds next to impossible to discuss with an Indian at even a purely academic level. On this issue, at least, there is a national consensus: it is and will remain an integral part of the Indian union.
Indo-Pak dialogue, however, is the buzzword everywhere. This “urgent need for communication” was expressed even by hardliners like Dr. Karan Singh, the erstwhile Dogra Maharajah of Kashir. And while Pakistan’s graph had plummetted drastically post-Kargil, with the army seen as the villain of the piece, Musharraf’s recent overtures in the direction of dialogue are viewed favourably.
But mine was not a political expedition. The last day in Delhi was spent scouring the galleries. There can be no dispute: Indian art has come of age – with Bengali artists at the vanguard. So have the prices, of course, with senior artists fetching 10 lakh rupees and more, and relative unknowns commanding figures near the lakh range. With the conversion rate as it is, Indian art is expensive business.
Finally, there was MF Hussain at the Wadhera Gallery, auctioning a painting for the Gujrat earthquake relief fund. This was a dapper suited and shod Hussain at his most charming – truly, maverick and all aside – a work of art himself. The painting sold for 10 lakhs.
Back home, as the dust from the trip began to settle, the impressions, till then hazy disconnects, began to form a pattern. Now I know with certainty. The past is another country: this was not the India of my mother; it is, like Pakistan, even in its agelessness, an ever-changing, new frontier