25 Feb

Censored Verses- The JLF Conundrum

Posted by pragyatiwari in Indian Culture & Society, Indian Writing, Media, Politics and Culture. Tagged: , , .

“We are having to step down in a fight against freedom of expression..we have been pushed against the wall,” said Sanjoy Roy, producer of the Jaipur Literature Festival (JLF) before he broke down on stage. For a couple of seconds an unexpected hush fell over the sprawling, bustling lawns packed to capacity until the audience stood up en masse and applauded respectfully unable still to comprehend what went on behind the scenes of what Tina Brown, editor of The Daily Beast and Newsweek, called the “world’s greatest literary show”.

 

Radical Muslim organisations that had earlier lobbied to keep Salman Rushdie away from the festival (held from the 20th to the 24th of January 2012) were back to protest against a live video interview of the author that was scheduled to go up on the final day of the festival. After an entire day of efforts by the organisers negotiations fell through. A handful of self-proclaimed representatives of Indian Muslims claimed their people had infiltrated the entire venue and hundreds of others were marching on it, threatening violent protest. They would not allow Rushdie to speak, even virtually. It is widely believed that these groups were backed by the ruling political party in Rajasthan and at the centre in a bid to appease India’s largest minority ahead of polls in its most populated state- Uttar Pradesh.

 

There is no other way to explain this furor over the writer’s visit, who as a person of Indian origin does not need a visa to enter and has been in the country several times since his book Satanic Verses was banned in 1988. In fact in 2007, he was a part of this very festival, in this very city. Interestingly the last assembly elections in UP were also held in 2007 but no one seemed to care back then. While this change could also in part be ascribed to the regular changes in political climate, one major reason behind it is that five years ago it would have been impossible to imagine that a literature festival could be used by India’s oldest, most prominent political party to secure a vote bank.

 

Five years ago JLF was merely a modest offshoot of a larger cultural heritage festival organized in Jaipur. In 2008 it broke away with writers William Dalrymple and Namita Gokhale as its directors and event manager Sanjoy Roy as its producer- starting its journey to become the largest festival in the Asia Pacific. Last year approximately 60,000 people attended the festival and evidently the crowds were larger this year. Consequently, its budget has gone up five-fold in the last five years- from roughly Rs 1 Crore in 2008 to Rs 5 Crores in 2012. The organisers who finally broke even in 2010 were back in the red in 2011 because they failed to envisage this rate of growth.

 

The growth is not limited to numbers and figures. JLF has hosted some of the biggest international academics, writers and journalists of our times- several Booker, Pulitzer and Nobel winners and an equally stellar selection of writers from the Indian regional languages. While Gokhale and Dalrymple’s enviable network and access to writers is crucial in procuring this line-up, Dalrymple believes that the charms of the historical city of Jaipur and its balmy winter help. Simply put, this festival has clearly hit the zeitgeist. Presumably, the unique opportunity it offers to interact with such a vast and diverse array of readers from a country that is not only phenomenally growing in publishing but also an increasingly important political and economic player on the world stage, is a curiosity in itself. From the beginning, JLF has mirrored the growth story of India- the prodigiousness and the pitfalls, but with time it is becoming a microcosm of India in more ways than that.

 

 

The avowed egalitarian, democratic principles of the festival- no payment to authors to attend, no reserved seating or green rooms for celebrities and free entry for all worked beautifully in the initial years. In the enforced intimacy and quaint majesty of the venue, Diggi Palace, anybody could strike up a conversation with Orhan Pamuk, J. M. Coetzee or Wole Soyinka, share a table with Julia Roberts, Oprah Winfrey or Gulzar or watch sessions from front row seats while politicians and film stars struggled to find a place to stand. Last year a security guard tried to stop a rickshaw driver from coming in. When Roy intervened the man told him “I heard there are stories here. I sleep on the street across. I will never be able to send my son to school or buy him a book. I thought if I came here and he heard a story, it would change his life.” “That he crossed the gates of the haveli makes us a successful festival,” says Roy, clearly moved by the incident.

 

But when you open the gates to everyone, you must let the chaff in with the grain. Veteran attendees often get nostalgic about the olden days when you could lie on a charpoy under a tree until you were covered in falling flowers, overhearing poets reciting their verses in a tent close by and listen to sufi singers perform in the evening without getting your bottom pinched. Slowly, with a swell in the crowds, segregation has begun to make backdoor in-roads. The dining areas are now separate, authors have their own lounge and those who can afford it, spend their leisure at the chic bar on the premises. The organisers have intentionally limited the sponsorship they accept from the state to avoid undue influence. But the state is never easy to keep out. The increased security concerns this year saw an unprecedented number of cops and checks on the venue and when things got hectic and chaotic the bias of the security apparatus against those who look like the rickshaw driver Roy once welcomed, became increasingly obvious.

 

In the end, JLF, for all its idealistic pursuits is as vulnerable to prejudices as the idea of India is to the mindsets of its people. During multiple overlapping sessions when Dalit writers from Punjab or scholars of oral literary tradition from Rajasthan are pitted against Indian English writers like Vikram Seth, Chetan Bhagat or Kiran Desai, a larger segment is likely to choose the latter. And much like anywhere else in India, nothing quite pulls the crowds like Bollywood celebrities.

 

 

Limiting state sponsorship comes with its own set of problems- the need to fall back on private patronage. The increasing heft of privatization and globalization in new India is reflected in JLF’s need to bring in corporate funding. Last year the festival drew flak for taking money from allegedly tainted corporations like Rio Tinto and Shell. This year the organisers admitted to being a little more careful in accepting aid but were reluctant to get drawn too far out into the colour of money debate. Gokhale feels that since none of the sponsors are allowed to dictate the content of the festival there is hardly any cause for worry. “The best we can do is take money from them and use it for a good cause,” says Dalrymple amused at having got Merrill Lynch to sponsor a debate on Che Guevara.

 

But the critics are not necessarily convinced. A lot of them wonder if the dignity of a platform that strives to articulate the human condition is not compromised by the crassness of branding and marketing that accompanies sponsorship. It is a valid concern but the good and evil of corporatization is a reality that cannot and should no longer be filtered. It necessitates engagement- with it and despite it. The autocracies of corporations and the dissent of liberal voices have existed in isolation from each other for far too long. Bringing them into the same space cannot absolve corporations if we don’t allow it, but it can begin a process of dialogue that is long overdue.

 

The coming together of many different Indian realities has been a conscious objective of the festival’s programming. This year the festival included sessions on philosophical debate in ancient India, fashion and self-image, Anna Hazare’s fast against corruption, Indian military history, violent mystics, protest literature, the poetic vision of the Guru Granth Sahib, the chutneyfication of English, the future of writing in Hindi, the dreams and despair of the Indian megapolis, representing slum dwellers, Indian gay writing, literature on gardening, the importance of myth in complex social and political attitudes, India’s Buddhist heritage, tiger conservation, political cinema, the art of screenplay writing, survival strategies in the time of the twitterati and the evolving realities of India. But the physical space of the festival does not always accommodate the clashing realities of this country as easily as its programming.

 

Like the economist Joan Robinson said of India, for a lot of what you can rightly say about JLF, the opposite is also true. The endless parties, both on and off-venue, the schmoozing, the gossip, the socialites and the fashionistas are not easy to reconcile with the amplified intellectual output of the sessions. Those who are awe-struck by the editor of New Yorker, David Remnick, do not look upon fans of Amish Tripathi kindly. Schoolchildren from the upper-class boarding school of Mayo and the local municipal schools don’t blend easily, nor do retired middle class couples with tiffin boxes and Delhi’s overly stylised, high-end fashion designers. But they are all a part of the contemporary Indian narrative brought together by a celebration of words.

 

In the first session of the first day Michael Ondaatje invoked the words of John Berger- “Never again will a single story be told as if it is the only one.” The festival epitomizes this maxim, at times consciously, at others unwittingly. But like India, JLF is greater than the sum of its parts. Part of its idea will always remain elusive, miraculous even. After the success of JLF, a large number of literature festivals have come up but none of them have been able to establish an identity as distinct as that of JLF.

 

Even the darkly funny chaos that ensues from interactions between disparate lives confined in an unlikely space is material for a few precious stories to dine out on- an audience member asking Hanif Kureishi if his circumcision hurt, a festival volunteer confusing Arvind Krishna Mehrotra with Roddy Doyle, a cow mooing to interrupt Remnick’s pregnant pause during a session on American presidential politics and a little girl asking Shekhar Kapur who he is after taking his autograph.

 

An inexplicable festivity brought on by colours, conversations, anticipation, wine, lights, words, ideas and music pervades the venue for five days. Perhaps it was this energy that partly inspired Hari Kunzru, Amitava Kumar, Jeet Thayil and Ruchir Joshi to read from the Satanic Verses as protest against the forced absence of Rushdie. The thrill of the audience at the authors’ impromptus act of defiance was palpably electric. Through social media news of the rebellion spread fast and the organisers began to feel the heat from the authorities within hours. All four authors were advised to leave without establishing whether the ban on the import of the book precluded reading from it. Their participation was sacrificed so that over 250 other writers could still have their say.

 

The festival was confirming to the democratic principle of the greatest good for the greatest number, even when it debatably should not have. If JLF has grown large enough for politicians to think it can influence electoral politics, maybe the collective clout of its affirmed liberal attendees could have been used to challenge the worsening state of censorship of art and literature by state and non-state actors. Maybe concepts that were debated on the panel on censorship organized by JLF could have been put to test and practice by the festival. Maybe the organisers should have defied both authorities and radical groups and allowed the reading of Satanic Verses and Rushdie’s videoconference. But while it is easy to imagine a different end, it is hard not to empathise with the practical quandary of the organisers in the face of threats of violence.

 

“We are very, very sad..we feel hurt, disgraced,” said Roy before he made a teary exit from the stage. Six complaints have been filed in various police stations against the organisers and the authors who read from the banned text by members of the country’s largest political parties- the Congress and the BJP. If JLF is indeed becoming a microcosm of India, as it appears to be, the writing on the wall is not heartening. As Roy made his helpless speech thousands of liberal minds stood there disappointed, defeated in their own bastion by a handful of irrational bigots.

 

But what comes across as an overt defeat was also a covert victory. While the coercion of Rushdie is regrettable, it has revitalized the debate on censorship in an unprecedented way. Rushdie could not have been more at JLF were he actually present there. The resentment at his absence represented more than the adulation for the writer- it became a symbol of the fight for the ideal of the freedom of expression enshrined in the constitution. An ad-hoc panel came on in place of the cancelled video conference with Rushdie and built an evocative, compelling case against this kind of censorship, even inviting the radical leaders at the venue for an open debate.

 

Extremists may have come in the way of a session by Rushdie but elsewhere in the festival two Kashmiris spoke fearlessly about their illegal detention in Tihar jail, an exiled Sri Lankan writer accused India of being complicit in the genocide of Tamilians in 2009 and reporters and activists debated the clash of democratic aspirations with Maoist ideology.

Fatima Bhutto and Ayesha Jalal made sharp observations on Indo-Pak relations and the military and political class of Pakistan. The myths and realities of the Arab Spring, the disappointment of Obama, the future of Myanmar and the hardships of the Palestinian struggle were also up for discussion. Meanwhile, Richard Dawkins repeatedly denied the existence of God and denounced the trap of religion. Even as the unruly hardliners were creating a ruckus near the reception of the venue, Tom Stoppard was speaking to his enraptured audience about the creative process and his dogged inclination towards literary-ness. As long as the promise of knowledge encased in his words prevails, JLF will sustain. So will India.

 

Originally Appears in The Dawn Herald.

 

16 Feb

Jaipur Literature Festival- The Making Of A Legend

Posted by pragyatiwari in Indian Culture & Society, Indian Writing. Tagged: , , , , , .

As a kid in kindergarten I thought festivals were a uniquely Indian phenomenon. Christmas in the west is part of what they call the holiday season. Diwali for us marks the festival season. It is this difference in turn of phrase that misled me. My love for literature grew from such early reverence for words. But with the passage of time, my ideas about what is ‘Indian’ predictably became more complicated. I think of this in context of India’s largest literary event that has entrenched itself in my annual calendar like the festivals I grew up with- the Jaipur Literature Festival (JLF).

 

The word festival evokes deities, community and gaiety. JLF incorporates aspects of all three, literally or otherwise. But like with traditional festivals, to discover its true meaning one must go back to its origins.

 

The festival came together organically over time as did its core team- directors Namita Gokhale and William Dalrymple, and producer Sanjoy Roy. In 2002 Namita Gokhale had organized an event supported by the ICCR with Indian writers from home and the diaspora- At Home In The World, at Neemrana, Rajasthan. In some ways this was a rough prototype of JLF. But despite its terrific success there were neither funds nor support from the state to make this an annual feature.

 

Meanwhile William Dalrymple, who would run into Indian authors at lit-meets abroad, had been feeling for a while that they needed a regular platform in their own country. In 2004 when he was invited to read at the cultural festival of the Jaipur Virasat Foundation he saw an opportunity. “It was an impromptus reading at a backroom in the Jaipur University. 10 odd people attended, half of them were Japanese tourists who seemed to have got lost,” he recounts. But undeterred, he convinced the foundation to include a literary segment in the annual fest. Gokhale came on board for the work she had done with At Home In The World. For the first couple of years it was a very modest part of a large cultural festival scattered all over the city. Their first international author was Hari Kunzru who Dalrymple lured in to see Jaipur when he was on a stop-over in India, en route to New Zealand to see his girlfriend. In 2007 the participation of Salman Rushdie got them a larger audience. There was now a sense that this podium was ready to come into its own.

 

In 2008, due to various logistical reasons, it broke away from its parent festival and became the DSC Jaipur Literature Festival. It was at this stage that Sanjoy Roy joined directors Dalrymple and Gokhale as its producer. They started small- 65 authors, roughly 7000 people in attendance and with no guaranteed monetary resources- an uncertain future. But H.S. Narula whose company, DSC sponsored the first edition was already certain about the extent of success this venture was to achieve. In 2009 he bought the naming rights for the next three years with a right to first refusal for seven more years for Rs. 20 lakhs, a sum that would seem to be a pittance now.

 

As predicted by Narula, the festival continued to grow. But it was the rate of growth that was startling. Every year, the number of people in attendance nearly doubled, bringing the approximate numbers to a staggering 60,000 last year- making it the largest festival in the Asia Pacific. While this number might not be much in the context of India’s population, no other literary festival in the world has expanded at this rate. Owing to the burgeoning crowds and increase in the number of authors participating from 65 to the roughly 260 expected this year, the budget of the festival has gone up from Rs 1 crore in 2008 to Rs 5 crores. With amplified media coverage the brand value of the festival keeps going up, attracting more sponsors but the ratio of sponsorship to the rise in budget is still not wholly satisfactory. In 2010 the festival finally broke even, only to go back into the red in 2011 because the organisers simply could not predict the numbers that would show up.

 

This year the size of the venue is being considerably increased and music events in the evening are being ticketed at a modest price in an attempt to discourage riff-raff and allay safety concerns. Last year it was found that fake delegate passes (a number them bearing Roy’s name) were available locally. All passes handed out on registration this year are being bar-coded. The organisers are also for the first time buying elements of the infrastructure that they had so far been renting out, making a greater investment in the future of the festival. But the future is unchartered territory. “There is no existing business model for the festival but if it has to sustain it must become a financially successful enterprise,” says Roy.

 

Dalrymple, Roy and Gokhale think that the growth might plateau in a couple of years. But they all agree that changes in management are in order. Gokhale sees institutionalization as a viable option. But the consolidation of the festival as a separate identity might also throw up difficulties of establishing ownership and dealing with red tape. And red tape is a familiar dread for the organisers. Arranging for visas and getting political clearance to invite speakers from countries on various ‘watchlists’ is a formidable task.

 

Wary of state interference the organisers get up to 90% of their sponsorship from private bodies. But with unexpected hype comes unexpected scrutiny. Last year the festival was criticized for associating with a number of allegedly tainted corporates, drawing maximum flak for accepting sponsorship from Shell and Rio Tinto. This year, all three members of the core group admit to have mutually decided to pay closer attention to where the money comes from. But they are also clear that their collective conscience and instinct will have the final say on where these lines are drawn. Gokhale explains that since none of the sponsors are allowed to dictate the content of the festival there is hardly any cause for worry. Dalrymple does not want to get drawn too far into the colour of money debate either. “The best we can do is take money from them and use it for a good cause,” he says chuckling over having got Merrill Lynch to sponsor a debate on Che Guevara.

 

It is this clarity of purpose and strength of spirit that has made JLF what it is. But deconstructing its mind-boggling success is a complex proposition. Unlike most other festivals, both its directors are practicing writers enviably networked with writers all over the world. Wherever they travel they are in Gokhale’s words always looking “through the Jaipur lens.” Dalrymple keeps a look out for international authors who perform well on stage during the numerous book festivals and tours he attends. He has managed to rope in some of the greatest names in literature, academia and journalism, including a number of Nobel, Booker and Pulitzer winners, as well as introduce international stars who are lesser-known in India to a new readership. He tries to deviate from the usual emphasis on the Anglo-American voice and include English writers from other countries. There is an attempt to balance women and men, fiction and non-fiction and mix up the sessions to facilitate conversations across countries and communities- avoid “White on white,” as Dalrymple puts it.

Conversation or “samvad” is at the heart of our efforts,” says Gokhale. She is passionate about her charge of bringing in an equal number of writers from Indian regional languages- the underrepresented and unsung chroniclers of the plural realities of India.

 

JLF has a strong infusion of wide-ranging local and global political debate- from the conflicts in Iraq and Afghanistan to Dalit issues. But in the midst of it all there is likely to be a small session on the most unexpected quirky topic like the adventures of Florence Nightingale and Flaubert in Egypt in the 1850s. Unlike most other festivals the focus in Jaipur is not simply on new releases. The breadth of subjects can be baffling. An amused Gokhale remembers how in 2010 there were simultaneous sessions on Dalit writing, Sanskrit and the life of the Queen of Burma.

 

The wealth of the authors who attend is enviable. Dalrymple claims that most of those he asks accept even though unlike festivals like Hay, none of the authors at Jaipur are paid to attend. He credits the charms of Rajasthan in January. The romance of the historical city is enhanced by the venue, Diggi Palace. Its manicured lawns, 200-year-old haveli, arched pillars, frescoes, water fountains, fairy lights and peacocks are irresistibly charming. But Gokhale misses the parrots that would dart in and out of the venues during sessions. They don’t come anymore- it is too crowded.

 

The crowds are mostly attributed to the fact that all sessions are free for everybody. They have considered charging admission fees but dismissed the idea because it would interfere with the basic values of the festival. JLF aspires to be a festival where anyone can come and be treated equally. Its democratic and egalitarian values are sacrosanct for Gokhale, Dalrymple and Roy. There are no green rooms for authors and no reserved seating for VIP’s- Nobel laureates, ministers or sponsors. Last year a rickshaw driver was stopped at the gates by a security guard. When Roy intervened he said, “I heard there are stories here. I sleep on the street across. I will never be able to send my son to school or buy him a book. I thought if I came here and he heard a story, it would change his life.” “That he crossed the gates of the haveli makes us a successful festival,” says Roy, clearly moved by the incident.

 

JLF has often been dismissed as a “white” or elitist shindig. But one look at the demographic of attendees proves otherwise. There are retired couples with sandwiches, hordes of school children sometimes all the way from Assam and ordinary readers from all over India in the same space as film stars, socialites, journalists and dignitaries. There are also musicians. The evening music sessions are perhaps the most underrated part of this extravaganza that the organisers often liken to the great Indian wedding. The careful selection of performers has led to it being named one of the five best music festivals in India by The Guardian.

 

Another welcome outcome of JLF is the facilitation of business. Trade has never been one of its aims but last year the official bookshop sold 40 lakhs worth of books. In addition the publicity generated by the festival continues to encourage sales long after it is over. Every year more and more publishers and agents from across the globe attend JLF and literary hopefuls roam the grounds with manuscripts and ideas hoping to catch their attention.

 

The success of JLF has spawned literature festivals all over the sub-continent but none of them have been able to create a distinct identity so far. There is a growing sense of cynicism about the trend and it remains to be seen if it has a future at all. But if the buzz for its upcoming 5th edition is anything to go by, JLF has little to worry about for now.

 

The festival is greater than the sum of its parts. The sense of electric energy in the precincts of Diggi for those five days is as unmistakable as it is inexplicable. Gokhale uses the Hindi word “rom-harsh” to describe it but any attempt to entirely encapsulate it in words is futile. Ironic for a literature fest. But then JLF is about toasting ironies and reveling in chaos. It is different things to different people. It is a fete. It is about faith. It is about our country, that made books before the birth of many civilizations. It is about this country’s appetite for reinvention. And in all of this, it is a true Indian festival.

Originally Appears in The Hindu

16 Feb

When The Wandering Falcon Came To Delhi

Posted by pragyatiwari in Indian Writing, Politics and Culture. Tagged: , , , , , .

There is this world among the many worlds of Delhi- the world of book events- you show up for a reading followed by a conversation between the author and some other prominent member of the fraternity. Afterwards you drink wine and exchange news with everyone you know there. And you know everyone there. The scale of some of these events would make you think books actually sell. But the greater riddle for those of us who show up is this- Why do we show up? To see friends, to socialise and occasionally to celebrate books, perhaps- their very existence irrespective of quality; to register our support for words and stories bound by charming jackets; to toast these objects of desire in a simulated bubble where they shine on undeterred. Debatable as their meaning might be, for most part these events are mere rituals. On the 21st of December, however, for a brief moment I was made to see that they could be more than that.

And the man who made that apparent was not even physically present in the room.

The Shakti Bhatt first book award went to The Wandering Falcon by Pakistani novelist Jamil Ahmad this year. The shortlist was arguably more competitive than it has ever been but Ahmad’s win made for a great story. After all it is not everyday that a 79 year old wins a coveted first book prize. Posted in Baluchistan in the 1950’s, Ahmad spent more than two decades in the tough terrain as a political agent. In the 1970’s he began making notes on what he saw of the tribes in the region- their way of life and the conflicts of their customs with the modern world. The notes soon took the shape of a collection of interconnected short stories but it was not until three decades later that they were published. In 2008 Ahmad’s brother suggested he send his manuscript to a short story competition in Pakistan. The organisers of the competition forwarded it to a leading publishing house in India and from there on it effortlessly found its way to international acclaim. The book is memorable and there is little that I have to add to the great reviews it has already accrued. What moves me about this story, however, is the man behind the book.

There is a strong case to be made for knowing authors only through their work, especially when you happen to like the work in question, for more often than not you are likely to be disappointed otherwise. Ahmad allayed this apprehension the minute he was visible on a projected screen over Skype. Poised and dignified, he spoke with exemplary humility and absolutely no pretensions. His wife came up a couple of times in good humour but other than that the conversation centered on the tribesmen he had written about. In a private conversation with the moderator, Nilanjana Roy, earlier he had said that he did not care so much for literary success as it is regularly defined but he does wish he could take the book back to the people he has written about and see what they make of it.

Despite serving in the most hostile of places, Ahmad never lobbied for a transfer out of the tribal areas of the north-west frontier province. He was happy to live among the tribes. He built strong bonds with them, he worried for them, he was angry for what was being done to them, and (as Jeet Thayil, writer and one of the principal organisers of the evening shared with the audience), he defied Zia-ul-Haq’s orders where he felt that was necessary to protect them. As a result of this defiance he was forced to resign from his job.

Telling a story you believe in, not for a career or an audience, but simply because you love what you are writing about, is what one might call the purest act of writing. And this was no ordinary love either. It was capable of accommodating all that was not fair and simple about his characters- it was capable of accepting them and showing them for what they are without giving in to the urge to defend them.

Everything you like or dislike about the book comes from Ahmad himself. It is an old-fashioned narrative about the loss of olden times. Ahmad is of a piece with lost time too- a time when English writing in south Asia wasn’t a fashionable enterprise. If his central character, torbaaz recedes into the background of the book for a large part it is because Ahmad believes that “a human being is like a twig carried by a strong current. It is only for brief moments and infrequently that he bobs to the surface but is then swiftly swept into the depth of the stream of life”.

If his book honours the past that was destroyed in the forging of nation states, so does he. As an 8 year old boy in 1941 Ahmad studied at St Columba’s in Delhi, the capital city of undivided India. He donated his prize money to this school founded by the congregation of Irish Christian Brothers that he left in 1944. Br. Lobo, the current principal and alumnus of the school was at the event to accept the cheque and thank the writer.

Some of the grimmest news from Pakistan comes from the region he writes about, but rarely does anyone talk about the people who inhabit its reality- people who cannot be defined by borders, religion or ideology. Ahmad refused to publish his account as non-fiction in order to try and tell the truth that lies beyond the arguments of fact. He humanizes a political conflict because he is interested in people. On hearing about having won the prize Ahmad asked to read a story written by Shakti Bhatt- an editor and writer who died at the age of 27 and whose name the award is instituted in. No other recipient of the award has done this in the past.

Rarely does grace in life and literature add up like this. Of course there could be more to the equation than I could see in one evening. But like Ahmad said while reminiscing about his days in Delhi, he was happy to know the city only as it existed in his memory even though he was aware that “the landmarks must have all changed. There must be houses on both sides of the ridge and the water of the Jamuna must be polluted.” I am grateful for an evening when I saw a gentleman who embodies the virtues of his writing; a writer who has written his one true book. Ahmad exudes the compassion that illuminates his work and the complexities of a public life have not taken away from that. Witnessing this was recalling Van Gogh’s naïve dream-“In the end we shall have had enough of cynicism and skepticism and humbug and we shall want to live more musically.”

 

Originally appears in Kafila

26 Dec

love in the time of sitcoms

Posted by pragyatiwari in Indian Cinema or Bollywood, Indian Culture & Society. Tagged: , , , , .

PRAGYA TIWARI

ABBAS TYREWALA’s directorial debut Jaane Tu… Ya Jaane Na was precisely what his second outing is not — fresh and self-respecting. Love stories have all been told before, but there is no such thing as telling enough of them. This makes a filmmaker’s job easier — all he has to do is innovate the premise and set a tone that will sustain evenly through plot twists. Tyrewala fails on both fronts. The premise is a cut-paste job from You’ve Got Mail and Notting Hill, with sprinkles from other cult romcoms.

Given that his target audience is the generation that grew up on these films, the exercise is so daft, it is baffling. The tone amateurly mimics the genre of American sitcom that has Friends and How I Met Your Mother to its credit. The coolth and wryness is so surface, the film loses all trace of it by the time it unravels into its dramatic climax. And even the drama is superficial. There is an odd moment of sparkling dialogue between friends, but when the characters themselves are not substantially drawn they can’t really have much to say. In the same way, you cannot embellish a film with dry irony and soul-stirring emotion if the plot is not meaty enough to allow you to feed it.

John Abraham plays Sid, a stuttering geek who volunteers to work nights for a suicide helpline. Mishka (Pakhi) calls in for help and the two of them develop a virtual relationship that runs parallel to their relationship in real life. Not until the very end do the twain meet. A slight take on the superhero genre would have been bright if Tyrewala had allowed it to remain subtle. But there is nothing subtle about this story, which is why it is unable to properly contemplate its central idea — love. Sid and Mishka’s relationship is entirely based on him ‘saving’ her. One is not sure what she brings to his life in turn. Both their exes are ridiculously clichéd caricatures.

One way to talk about love is to move us to mush till we believe in improbable magic. Another is to hold up a mirror to a stark reality. But, not one moment between the protagonists has the possibility of poetry or fairytales. Nor is there a robust commentary on the contemporary urban difficulties of engagement. The riddles of love remain more elusive than Sid’s final stunt over the Tower Bridge. They beg sincerity — which Jhootha Hi Sahi denies them. When even AR Rahman’s music is found lacking in honesty, you know for sure that the film is a literal fulfillment of its title’s prophecy.

First published in Tehelka Magazine, Vol 7, Issue 44, Dated November 06, 2010

http://www.tehelka.com/story_main47.asp?filename=hub061110thetake.asp

26 Dec

The No.1 Ladies Full Of Agency

Posted by pragyatiwari in Hollywood.

SEX AND the City 2 is the bedrock of two baffling outcomes — invigorating the sleepy critic’s tongue with fresh vitriol and firmly entrenching the phenomenon of critic-proof blockbusters. Two years after her marriage to Mr Big, Carrie returns in the sequel with her pack of 40-plus friends in various states of midlife crisis. A thin layer of their marriage, parenthood and work issues is laid out before they are transported to Abu Dhabi to reenact the days of being single, which only series fans are missing more than the characters. So they drink, shop, talk and get all giddy-headed. The little there is of plot and conflict is frothy enough to dissolve in their perpetual glasses of champagne. The screenplay is underwritten — but if you give in, you might see it has the disposition of the holiday its characters take. The film is so easy it doesn’t even make you laugh out loud. Nor cry. All you have to do is lounge around in the comfort you share with these characters that have sauntered back into your life from a brilliant television series of yore. There is nothing this film takes seriously, least of all itself. It is in this context that the most acerbic charges leveled against it implode. And you are left marveling at the commitment of the sort of hyperdefensive postcolonial politics that will creep its way up even a slight evening of cocktails. Especially if there is the Middle East in the mix. One is not sure a film that ends with Carrie and her friends resorting to the burqa to catch a flight on time, was intended to voice any neo-feminist sentiments to begin with. But if that were true, here is a bunch pop-culture icons that travel into the country of the oppressed women and let them save their American selves for a change. In the spirit of irreverence there is a joke about eating French fries through the hijab. But no, they are not lampooning the Arabs anymore than they are lampooning themselves. If anything, they are debunking stereotypes of the victimised Muslim woman by wondering, however flippantly, if she is subject to less prejudice in the post-lib West. It’s not great cinema. But since when does that have anything to do with fun?

From Tehelka Magazine, Vol 7, Issue 25, Dated June 26, 2010

26 Dec

THE DEFICIT OF IMAGINATION

Posted by pragyatiwari in Indian Cinema or Bollywood, Indian Culture & Society. Tagged: , , , , .

PRAGYA TIWARI

THE LAST TIME Mani Ratnam directed a tragedy was Dil Se — a brilliant ode to love framed by Santosh Sivan’s breathtaking shots and underscored by Gulzar and AR Rahman’s sheer magic. Years later in Raavan, empty, pretty frames and wafting strains by the same geniuses play out in search of the director who could give them life. Inverting the prism of Ramayana to understand the viewpoint of the disenfranchised, Ratnam tells the story of Beera who kidnaps Ragini, the wife of a cop named Dev. The cat and mouse chase that ensues is a lazy literal adaptation — horribly enacted, staidly written and entirely forgettable.

But what makes this travesty unforgiveable is that it teased us with the promise of political allegory. Reports claimed Ratnam’s Raavan was modelled on Naxal leader Kobad Ghandy and the film was about to make a strong statement about the poverty wars. Instead Beera turned out to be a Veerappan style lord of armed masses — who could be anything from tribals to dacoits. Scattered between throwaway dialogue is a line or two about exploitation and caste prejudice, but the film establishes neither. The State is represented solely by the police force and Beera is motivated wholly by love, confused impulse and personal vendetta, caricaturing the complexities of the people caught in this most terrible of civil wars. While Gulzar’s provocative lyrics accuse Delhi of cruel disregard, Ratnam ironically pays as little heed to the problems of the masses as the accursed Centre. The focus of the film is the anti-hero who is curiously all good and just. But turning Ravan into Ram does not break a stereotype to open debate, only institutes another.

It is not clear whether Ratnam intended to express sympathy with Maoists and failed but if he did, the only political comment to be derived lies in that aborted intent. So far, his films have decried terrorism in every form. This turn could have acknowledged unprecedented State terror. Ratnam plays with morality, but remains reverential to the philosophy that keeps the real stakeholders out of the frame.

This article first appeared in Tehelka Magazine, Vol 7, Issue 26, Dated July 3, 2010

26 Dec

That land that forgot Mahatma

Posted by pragyatiwari in Documentary Cinema.

FILM: THE SALT STORIES
DIRECTOR: LALIT VACHANI

FILMMAKER LALIT Vachani makes a journey from Sabarmati to Dandi tracing the route Gandhi followed on his salt march in 1930. But to uncover that grand heritage, he must first plough through recent legacies — Godhra, its aftermath and a development policy that condemns the poor.

 Under the iconic Ellis Bridge, an old man wails into the camera begging his slum hutment be allowed to remain. In Dabhan, the guest house Gandhi rested in is now rented out for weddings — to the upper castes only, because “lowcaste people behave like animals”, explains the caretaker. In Surat, where Bapu held his meeting on salt tax, middle-class citizens run a Gandhi laughing club. None of them have heard about the meeting. In Dharasana, where the battle against the tax was won, an ageing Dayabhai is one of the only remaining salt farmers. He earns Rs. 42 for 100 kg. In Dandi, the government is illegally acquiring lands of farmers to build a five-star hotel. The roads that link these sites are strewn with abandoned, bolted temples to the man who shunned deification.

Vachani finds himself arguing with people who justify the carnage of Muslims in stopover dhabas. This is Modi’s Gujarat — culturally and politically crass, as if trying to undo Gandhi’s vision and life with a vengeance. Vachani’s camera offers no hope, but it finds solace in what has not been undone — yet. In Napa, a Muslim majority village, there is perfect communal harmony. A woman at a tea stall talks about talking to Gandhi in her dreams and a 102-year-old Gandhian recalls the march with great zeal. Three days later, he died all alone, Vachani says. All the stories end with similar hopelessness and Modi is jubilant in the state again — his brainwashed supporters brandishing his masks, oblivious of the irony of their portrait in it.

Vachani’s frames are emphatic but honest. The process of filming is a part of the narrative, layering it with its own complexities, but the structure and scheme of the film are clean and clear, so that the heart of the story remains in focus. Gandhi’s last moments play out as we witness the real death of Bapu — the death of his ideas.

This article was first published in Tehelka Magazine, Vol 7, Issue 41, Dated October 16, 2010 

http://www.tehelka.com/story_main47.asp?filename=Cr161010Inthedoc.asp

10 Dec

The Radia Tapes TV Debates

Posted by pragyatiwari in Indian Culture & Society, Media, Politics and Culture. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , , .

Post the Second World War, most battles have been fought out through the media – be they corporate, territorial or political. Over the past few weeks, the Indian media has been in the thick of a trickier conflict than it is used to hosting: the people versus itself. The problem is, it is supposed to represent both sides.

Since Open and Outlook made public the transcripts and tapes of tapped phone conversations between political and corporate lobbyist Niira Radia and the who’s who of power corridors, there has been mass outrage on social media, cornering mainstream media to tackle the issue head-on. The tapes reveal fixing and power brokering in connection with cabinet formation, the 2G spectrum scam and the tussle for natural resources between the Ambani brothers. Even though a large number of the tapes released have prominent journalists engaging with Radia, in the scheme of frauds playing out, their role, at most, is peripheral. The debate, however, has been focused on them—Barkha Dutt, Vir Sanghvi and Prabhu Chawla in particular. The media is the only estate the masses see as an extension of themselves and trust to take on a mighty, corrupt and apathetic political class. So this disproportionate outrage is understandable but the media, has been caught unawares. It has no fix on how to manage this outrage, and obvious discomfort has been the leitmotif of its efforts to address the issue.

There have been only three big television debates so far, and all three were delayed responses, given the cycle of 24/7 news channels. The most talked about of these was hosted by NDTV. Manu Joseph, editor, Open Magazine, Sanjay Baru, editor, Business Standard, Swapan Dasgupta, senior journalist, and Dileep Padgaonkar, ex-editor, Times of India were called on to question Barkha Dutt, who has become the unwitting face of the controversy, on her involvement. The debate was conducted from an attempted moral high ground, with NDTV declaring it was the only channel opening itself up to questioning from all the media houses implicated and giving Joseph a chance to be a part of this, even though Open did not ask for Dutt’s response before carrying the transcripts. Dutt, however, was clearly not prepared to meet this standard and remained bitter and combative through the show. She later defended her aggravation saying that it was a natural response to the smear campaign against her and one cannot grudge her that. But if she had decided to take on a show like this, perhaps she should have come better prepared to leave emotion out of it and present her case calmly.

Dutt had some important points to make about the interpretation of the material, but they were largely lost because of her constant attacks on Joseph. At several points, she took on a condescending and dismissive tone, challenging Joseph’s understanding of political journalism. She shouted at him for not getting in touch with her before publishing the material and insinuated a conspiracy behind Open not carrying the transcripts of Prabhu Chawla’s conversations with Radia. Hitting out against a hoarding put out in Delhi she said, “I am selling your magazine for you.” Joseph’s response to that – ‘You are pretty’ – was perhaps sexist, even ‘misogynist’ as Dutt labelled it, but the tone for the conversation had already been set by then.

Joseph was not given the space to make his points during the show. He repeatedly asked her just one question: Why didn’t she see the involvement of Radia, who was also representing Ratan Tata and Mukesh Ambani, two of the biggest players in the telecom sector, in lobbying for the appointment of the telecom minister as a story in itself – first in 2009, when this was playing out, and then in 2010, when the scam carried out by A. Raja, (the candidate Radia was pushing), surfaced. Dutt’s simple answer, ‘What is a story to you may not seem like one to me’, can be extended to the 2009 issue, but does not quite explain the connection not being brought up when she was reporting the scam in 2010. Joseph chose to answer the question of whether the manner in which the transcripts were published was ‘good’ journalism through a column posted subsequently on the Open website. But while he put up a soundly argued defence of the choice, he laced the piece with sharp jibes at Dutt, beginning with ‘Everything Barkha Dutt says can be downsized by 750 words’. Taking the petty nature of argumentation, bridled by personal egos, further after both parties had had time to reflect was an unfortunate decision.

The other panelists on the show asked Dutt why she claimed to have acted as a mediator between the Congress and the DMK when she says she didn’t and why was she approached to do so at all. The questioning was tepid because they accepted her explanation without further argument. The essential problem with their conversation was that it was reduced to a debate between journalism as it is taught in schools and practised on the ground. Their questions came from an ideological standpoint that seemed unnatural for them to take- given that they have spent longer than Dutt understanding how the innards of high-profile journalism really work. One is curious about the bases on which Dutt chose these high priests to question her. On the one hand, social media was abuzz with skeptics claiming they are her friends and will help her whitewash the allegations; on another, it seemed unfair that journalists who can easily be questioned on their own professional standards over a number of issues are being afforded a space to grandstand over Dutt’s misery.

Karan Thapar’s show on CNN IBN with Baru, N. Ram, editor, The Hindu, Dilip Cherian, lobbyist and communications consultant, and Joseph had the same air of sitting in judgment. Thapar did invite the accused journalists to be a part of the proceedings but they declined. He asked the panelists if they ‘believed’ Dutt and Sanghvi’s explanations and the proceedings were reduced to an improvised courtroom analysing their conduct- a ‘them’ versus Open and Outlook argument. N. Ram, who was also a part of the Headlines Today debate (with M.J. Akbar, Chawla, Sanghvi, Cherian and Hartosh Singh Bal, political editor, Open), in particular, pronounced definitive summary judgments against Sanghvi and Dutt, without explaining his stand clearly. He used the phrase ‘my verdict’ with no irony whatsoever and expressed gratification that no one else seemed to be buying Dutt and Sanghvi’s explanations either. He went ahead and suggested that they should be sacked, asking the Indian media to raise its bar to match that of the BBC, Financial Times and New York Times. In the same vein, he declared that Chawla had no charges to answer and was innocent. Chawla, who could not decipher this clearly on live TV, reacted by accusing N. Ram of advising the Sri Lankan government.

By the end of it, the debates were playing out like farces – half-hearted attempts by mainstream media to clock coverage on the issue and save face rather than actually wade through the morass that the tapes have uncovered. But in order to wade through that morass, they would have had to bare the actual machinations of the media as part of the establishment today. It is for the same reason that Sanghvi, Dutt and Chawla’s explanations did not convince us. They were all forced to mince words that would have gone to the root of what mainstream media really is today. What they actually seemed to be saying is this: we are no more guilty than our peers and colleagues, we are only walking the lines constantly re-drawn by a fraternity trying to catch up with the proliferated existence and importance of their medium. Words like ‘corruption’ and ‘quid pro quo’ were thrown around a number of times in these shows, but the point at which we need to start debating these tapes is to define what these words mean in today’s context.

The case against Dutt is the weakest of all. She is neither negotiating how she will carry a story nor asking for an opportunity to lobby for the DMK. She has also been the most willing to take questions on the issue from all quarters, despite her loss of poise in the debate. And her explanations warrant benefit of doubt. As she pointed out on the show, the mobs outraged against her keep shifting the goalposts, without a clear sight of what she is being accused of. But she is far from acquittal in public perception. The select quarters of the media that are responding to the crisis by ‘introspecting’ are doing so by either skirting the question of culpability or assuming the accused are guilty. According to reports, Rajdeep Sardesai was attacked by a majority of speakers in an Editor’s Guild open conference last week for supporting Dutt’s case even indirectly.

In an environment charged with loud rhetoric, the only way to afford these journalists a fair trial is by treating the tapes first and foremost as sociological documentation rather than hard evidence. And then by beginning to ask some very fundamental questions. For instance: is a journalist only corrupt if she is found guilty of accepting a material reward for her services to Radia? Is lying to a source corruption? Is shafting elements of a story to retain favour with a source for many a story to come corruption? Are you a corrupt journalist if you prioritize bagging a great story over safeguarding the interests of humanity or a nation? Are you a corrupt journalist if you are posing as one? And is a corrupt journalist an altogether different beast from a cynical, news-hungry, political journalist, as Dutt insinuated herself to be in a moment of wry introspection?

There are other questions too. What role does the audience have in shaping the ethics of these journalists? Are we willing to pay for news that corporations wont subsidize? Are we willing to be more judicious in how we reward our channels with the TRPs that sustain them?

Until every side in this conflict is willing to deal with these questions and their aftermath, the real debate over the Radia tapes will not be televised. It is also time to hold the shock and awe. How long can the journalist evade being a target while hosting wars on her medium. How long can the audience expect to be privy to increasingly gory battlefields without being prepared to accept that everyone on it has to eventually pick a side.

Pragya Tiwari

19 Jul

Not Without Our Farmers- I Want My Father Back Review

Posted by pragyatiwari in Uncategorized. Tagged: , , , , , , .

“GLOBALISATION IS nothing but the ultimate takeover of the planet’s resources by a few companies, whereby the freedom of the species and human beings will be killed by them,” sums up Suma Josson’s film, I Want My Father Back, after taking us through Vidarbha’s agrarian crisis and the resultant suicides. It is in the extremity of this view that it sets itself up as propaganda. Visuals that act as mere illustrations to the spoken narrative only augment the public service feel of this film. The problem with ignoring the aesthetic demands of the medium is that it greatly reduces the documentary’s potential to appeal to more than the mind — to actually move you.

As a journalistic exercise, the film is thorough, carefully sifting through all the aspects of the crisis from its singular position of the State as a homicidal conspirator and Washington ally in exterminating small farmers through its deliberate policies. The Green Revolution has favoured agents of globalisation over small farmers. Mono-cropping, abolition of mandis and Bt cotton seeds are wrecking agrarian economy, bio-diversity and animal and human health. Corruption at all levels is reducing the farmer to a loan junkie, condemned to fatal poverty. While few can argue against the failures of the policies in question, not providing a counterpoint to the State as a pure demon with an insatiable murder wish dilutes the credibility of a sound argument.

Thorough as the research may be, the success of narrative journalism lies in the arrangement of the evidence and its potential to engage with the reader. This film leaves you at sea with its relentless onslaught of information and opinion, to fish for points you can take home.

The problem of Vidarbha links up with Naxalism and the future of the country in every way. When you let a farmer die, you let the songs and life of the soil die slowly too. And nature, unlike man will not take deliberate termination lying down. Those who live in and around Vidarbha are protesting and crying before killing themselves. None of their pleas are picked up by the mainstream media. And in that context this film, for all its shortcomings, is incalculably precious.

(As it appears in Tehelka)

19 Jul

Fields of Death- Review of Harvest of Grief

Posted by pragyatiwari in Uncategorized. Tagged: , , , .

In popular imagination, Punjab is the land of agrarian abundance, picked for its fertile promise by the harbingers of the Green Revolution. And to date it provides for the bulk of India’s food needs. But within a decade of the revolution, seeds of agrarian crisis had begun to sprout in the land of promise. Anwar Jamal brings forth the yield from the darker side of Punjab’s paradox in his Harvest Of Grief.

Like the film points out, the Indian farmer has always been struggling with debt. What differentiates this climate of death is the cumulative nature of this debt coupled with receding opportunities for him to be able to pay up. At the heart of shrinking opportunities are the policies of the Revolution that are challenging the existence of small farmers in the absence of laws to protect them from utter desolation. But the politics of the state is committed to these policies in a way that makes it impossible for critical feedback to be integrated into their rigid implementation.

And there cannot be feedback more critical than the incidence of 40 to 80 suicides per village in certain areas. Jamal’s camera takes us into the living spaces of the dead, baring the catastrophic consequences for the families of the deceased through artful frames that canvas their testimony as well their silence. His eye is intrusive but never vulgar, like the tool of an artist chipping only to carve meaning. He distills the grief of his subjects offering us bitter fruits of their helpless plight, humanizing what is otherwise mere numbers on a broadsheet. The choice of accompanying folk music etches the plea of the forsaken as only their own songs can. The film focuses on this emotional core, contextualizing it with the essential theory of the problem but steering clear of the pitfalls of didactics.

The central force of Jamal’s visual document is directed towards the state machinery that is rigging figures to deny the suicides and their cause, depriving Punjab of the little relief the centre provides to other affected rural areas in the country. In a moment of entrenched irony, as relatives of one of the hundreds of farmers who have leaped into an irrigation canal, wait to recover his body, this central force becomes overwhelming. The state might remain impenetrable to desperate petitions but there is hope in the filmmaker’s impassioned attempt to move us enough to want to make a difference to our own people.

(As it appears in Tehelka)

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