I arrived in Chennai at six in the morning, half an hour before schedule, to the city waking up to the chirps of birds and bawls of the morning vendors. The ochre glow of the dawn had started trickling through the sky. The new CMBT bus stand was a remarkable improvement than my memories of the old Madras Bus stand. It was more spacious and better organised; the sign-boards were all well marked both in Tamil and English. And far importantly, the area was lot cleaner. So Chennai was learning its ways.
The lack of civic sense in Chennai was an unfortunate, and perhaps unintended consequence of the Dravidian movement. The movement started after the Indian Independence and gained further momentum both socially as well as in political circles. But in essence, it was a class struggle - where in the oppressed lower classes as they called themselves revolted against the upper classes of the region. By the midsixties when the power equations changed, populations of lower classes had become averse to the idea of purity (dearer to the upper Brahminical class) and had developed a sense of antagonism towards any social activity that imposed an idea of cleanliness. The upper classes on the other hand became increasingly alienated and withdrew into their own circle of cleanliness.
Between the classes and their struggles, sadly and for no one’s fault, the civic sense of the people went down the famous open drain of Chennai. Naturally, Madras, and to an extent Tamil Nadu in general developed a notorious reputation of lacking in cleanliness, of even being dirty.
It was only in the capitalist nineties, with the power balance somewhat settled, people started making concerted efforts to bring in the awareness of cleanliness in the city. One such successful initiative was Exnora which, as I learnt had become widely popular and well established now.
I could see the results of these innovative endeavours as I travelled to Mylapore in an autorickshaw from the Bus station. The roads were cleaner, without the usual Madras stink, even the civic spaces appeared well maintained by Indian Standards. Chennai was undoubtedly catching up.
I felt hungry and a friend suggested over the phone a particular eating-place suitable for that time of the morning. The rickshaw driver dropped me off at a small hotel of the same name, after repeatedly assuring me that it was indeed the place I sought. As I had suspected it wasn’t.
I found myself in a sort of a junction where two big roads with their flowing traffic intersected. Signboards overhead announced the directions to various localities of the city. There was a small newspaper stall at the corner bustling with people. And behind me was a signboard that announced a wedding- the names of bride and groom designed in jasmines and roses. I was appreciating the work that had gone into the placard when someone asked me if I belonged to the bride or the groom side? For a brief moment I considered crashing into the wedding but later decided against it. I explained to the gentleman that I was only a visitor in my first hour in the city , just checking the flower work. My Tamil , with years of disuse was rusty and sounded very different to what I had thought I wanted to say. But, I guess the man got what I said.
Now I wanted to find out where exactly I was. I noticed a middle-aged man who had gotten down from the car and was making his way to the newspaper stall. He wore a cream T shirt, a white shorts (presumably of early morning round of Badminton) and sported a full bristly Indian moustache which I hadn’t seen for a while. I asked him what place it was? I thought I heard him say Lust Corner which needless to add got me excited. But I had to confirm what I thought I had heard:
Lust corner?
No, No, No, LUZ corner, he replied frantically as he walked on nodding his head in a forceful disapproval as though it was no just against me but against an entire generation who had achieved puberty on MTV.
I thanked him.
So there I was, desperately looking for an auto, in a LUZ corner of the Brits , within a Chennai of Indians.
I left Hampi on a Volvo 9400, a symbol of the liberalization that transformed the landscape of South India. Sturdy and elegant, it stood out in an otherwise unremarkable bus station. What Volvo did to Road Transport system of South India is a bit of unsung story. Before Volvo started its operations in 2001, access by land to any place in India less than a metro was, owing to either the condition of the roads or the efficiency of the decrepit road transport system, a pain - in all possible sense of the word. But soon after Volvo was introduced, the world shrunk into a miniature playground. Suddenly, even the farthest tip of Kerala or the hills of Tirupati was just a night away and without any painkillers. Instead you got a refreshing bottle of mineral water.
The Interior of the 9400 was modified, with seats and overhead cabins converted into a series of berths of twos and ones on either side of the aisle. This was new. Though it reduced the number of passengers, the idea, I thought was not all bad. Like in the days of the notorious Leyland Panthers there was no misery to pack oneself in half a box of seatspace with a snoring Bengali seated beside. On a Volvo with new arrangement, one could lie down in a mini enclosure of his own.
I located my mini-bunk at the far end of the bus and snuggled in. It wasn't as comfortable as it looked at first, but it was worth every penny than that of business class British Airways. I experimented with a few possibilities before aligning myself in the most comfortable of positions. I considered taking down some of the dictations made in the day, but the jaunts of the ruins all morning in the scorching sun had left my being totally exhausted. So instead, I lazily switched on the iPod and laid there gazing through the window.
It was an experience watching the world at such an unique elevation from this sort of midprone gaze. The world looked like a space hidden in an oyster handshake between the land and the sky. The smooth moving Volvo made it a slow silent disney animation of a sort.
The road was flanked by a series of trees planted by the department of forest; they ran one after another, equidistant and almost identical with concentric circles painted around their torsos; they looked almost endless and were only interrupted by settlements, shops or small villages . Beyond them, spead all across was vast hinterland - there was no grass, no fields, no weeds, no vegetation - nothing. Except for a faint hint of distant hills the whole region looked glabrous and widowed. The earth was parched and the sky forsaken. Night started falling at its own pace.
Old glories notwithstanding it is surprising to see how the region so desolate, with no real spectacular attraction in a post modern sense, continues to attract so many visitors from all over the world.
As I wondered about such things of the day, the volvo went past a million things beside the road : creaky old cars, a large herd of cattle returning home, huts springing up here and there with dimgrey smoke rising lazily through their narrow chimneys - perhaps a supper being cooked?, vendors on their rickety cycles, a train of trucks parked roadside for a break , women carrying water, a congregation of men sharing a joke with their tea in small tea stall. The montage rolled past like an Eisenstein's cut.
One by one I let all the thoughts they evoked wash over me. I wondered how it was to be one of them, to be so content, so assured when being so very aware that they are so oblivious. It was inexplicable. I must have pondered a while because I did not notice that we had stopped. A crowd had gathered into a mini road block as one of the trucks had run into a tree. The driver had been taken to a nearest hospital. The incident must have been a few hours old and a small crowd around it seemed settled with all their speculations. The driver was suspected to be driving under the influence. After everyone on the bus had satisfied their curiosity, we slowly made our way.
I went back to my window and found the sky changing its character. The distant hills had vanished and the air was filled with anticipation. Suddenly, as though attending a call, clouds of all form and shape started hovering in from all directions. The temperature dropped and light faded in a few minutes.
It was so sudden, it was magical. I watched it with a sense of awe.
The ipod started playing amelie soundtrack. And as if to match the crescendo of Yann Tarsien's notes conveyed through the tiny white tubes to my ears, the sky built up its symphony note by note to its highest pitch, and then gracefully like an opera singer climaxing her note into silence, it all went still for a moment. Just a fraction of a moment later, it opened up pouring the most furious rain I had seen for a while that hastened to meet the dry earth as fast as it could. It was incredible.
The world in one space of a ipod song had transformed from nothing to marvelous. Through the rear window I could see rain splashing the wet road as it trailed off into an eternity. As I gazed at that road, I thought this could have been anywhere: Texas, Kenya, France. But it wasn't. It was a remote corner somewhere in south India. It occurred to me, in a world when ipods are named for the time duration in which they can be rebuilt , here was a place where a great empire was just once, now forgotten, unclaimed in time. But then what is the worth of anything when you think of time in terms of A Brahman who’s breath is a billions of years?
The rain stopped after a good while; through the sealed window, I could almost smell the ozone of the rained earth. It smelt like how it exactly did when I was a six year old - marvelous.
That is elsewhere. And this is India. In India, one can casually a throw an allegation at her most sanctum sanctorum and get away with it . It is okay.
Consider these:
Consider the other religion Hinduism which is replete with every possible abstraction a human mind is capable of. The last one of such abstractions came after the industrial revolution. It is a story of Bengali Man called Narendra. He is now referred as a divine soul Swami Vivekanda. You can notice the fading photograph of his handsome face in small town sweetshops. There are schools, public parks and organisations dedicated to his name. Yet, after a long and tiring day, all a Hindu can remember about this divine sage – is that he swam a few miles of an ocean and he represented India in a conference in Chicago in 1891, where, he was applauded and sent home. (That was just America bemused by a funnily dressed Indian speaking English in late 19th century). For a few years Hindus obsessed after him, worshipped him, after which his divinity was forgotten. This story is just around 100 years old, the more farther you go the more fantastic they become.
A communist party of India believes nuclear treaty with America is harmful for the nation. But it refuses to explain to the very nation why or how the treaty is potentially harmful. It doesn't wish to engage in a debate, and declines any suggestion of a discussion. A belief that it held without evidence is transformed into an opinion and a political stance.
+++
In Mangalore I watched a Indian blockbuster they called Chak De. Apparently it was a huge hit and had revived a nation’s idea of pride and patriotism. It was lauded by all Indians of all class and customs- from Bay Area to Southall to Chandni Chowk as a very sensible and intelligent portrayal of Indianess. Chak De was even adopted as the slogan of the sporting teams representing the nation.
+++
Like anywhere in the world, any question of intelligence is inevitably related to that of identity. But Indian identity, from bits of what we have seen is a simile of its own, for its insurmountable complexity and intrigue. It is fluid and elusive. It is in its belongingness and its absurdity. The state government of Kerala, a southern state in India half of whose population can easily find a Sharjah in the Middle East than a Chandigarh in northern India wanted to recognise the achievement of Abhinav Bindra, a chap from Chandigarh who had won a gold medal for the country in the recently concluded Olympics. So The State of Kerala decided to confer its own gold medal on an Olympic gold medal winner. This is the Indian idea of belongingness.
+++
Indian idea of intelligence is perhaps most special in that it is compounded by its own ignorance. Of the world and itself. To Indians Intelligence is not a faculty of judgement but of information. The more one knows, the more intelligent he is. Thousands of university students in Bangalore and Delhi pursue Quizzing. It is a game of collecting information and remembering it. But there is no interest in anything that involves judgement. Some even speak of it is as a career. An Indian can tell you a remote trivia about American History but he doesn’t have an opinion on say, Kashmir. It takes many a years into his third decade in his life to realise that Trivial Pursuit is game of 16-18 year olds.
Such notion of intelligence is best seen on Indian blogosphere, where the most intelligent of the nation, apparently hang about. It is here, you can dissect out their idea of intelligence and their confusion about their identity. This confusion is a direct result of the synthesis of the past and the future floating and ricocheting in the Indian present .
What do you do?
Or where are you from?
These were the second and third Indian questions in a new introduction. The rest of the talk revolved around this and called itself a conversation. These days the Indian identity has moved on from the concept of vocation to a label:
After such personal agitations and imagined activisms comes favourites.
We all are our favourite authors or our favourite movies.
An Indian blogger in Delhi will exchange thoughts with an Indian blogger in Hyderabad on the French poet Rimbaud. And without any perspective or judgement on his life they talk about Rimbaud as if he was a local Kalidas about whom they have no clue. They both insist on impeccable English grammar without which they can’t comprehend each other if speaking their respective tongues. Two days later both of them shall be seen talking about the Turkish poet Cavafy. Next week it is someone fresh say, Darwish. What Indians of the past did to gods for centuries, Indians of now are doing it to poets and writers. It comes natural.
Their identities lie in their relentless assimilation of the exotic and irrelevant interests which has no meaning to their lives. It is a self imposed struggle against oneself. If someone challenges them, they will respond by distilling their beings and projecting it as an abstraction - poetry is universal which is the new version of God is in everyone. Others typically engage in why and why not arguments? Some others respond by getting into details- rhyme, meter etc. After all these charade they will return to eat their Dhal Chawal Aloo Sabjis. To them these are not interests or pursuits of men, these are the men themselves. To them like their ancestors before, it is hard to distinguish a myth from a reality, an interest from an identity.
This, imagined, self-imposed strife, is the modern Indian idea of intelligence.
+++
The concept of Literature is more interesting. There is no shared lineage or history of national literature. In fact the very idea of those are at a distant safety. I personally believe it is absurd for a nation as big and as diverse as India to think of National Literature. There was some promise of vernacular literature, which never took off in the 20th century. Mostly because it was perpetually cursed by the Indian way of looking which was always religious and mythical, until 20th century when it turned mostly political and reformatory - to address social stigmas and such issues. It was focussed and limited. Barring a few works from Kerala, it could not transcend to reach out for anything. Except for ancient sanskrit dramas and the stories, there is nothing autonomous and worth enriching to be found there. The novel in India is less than hundred years old. There has been an odd voice here and there. There is no experimentation or innovation. For the mind primed in religious tomes, it tries to get back to them through the novel; stories about large families, grandeur, weddings, and other rubblish when India was importing wheat from USA. So all that remains of an never existent Indian novel now is, what was left in india all these centuries: a formula, fakery and lies. Earlier it was written by brahmins, now by journalists in Delhi and Mumbai. Naturally therefore, all that literature implies for an modern young Indian is a potpourri of exotic favourites. The one who has read the most distant and the most obscure is the most respected. It is a rule to be followed and not a judgement.
Committees are formed to discuss writing. A communion gathers on a Sunday evening on a terrace in Delhi or a living room in Hyderabad. They read out for each other - sonnets imagined in cubicles, villanelles written for the sake of writing villanelles, short stories without any perspective or relevance. Someone might correct a transitive verb or a wrong tense. As politely and as vaguely as they are naturally given to. They commend and critique each other. Samosas and pakoras are passed around. They discuss - form, characterization structure etc of a Murakami writing about 60s Japan or a Winterson writing about lesbianism in Manchester.
In the next meeting they will consider the works of a Jhumpa Lahiri living in LA or a Kiran Desai hiding in a Himalayan cottage who has written about them - their lives, how all of them think, feel and behave. They would admire a character, the prose, the craft. Some might not. It doesn't matter.
End of it all they go home feeling intelligent and sublime. This is the ritual. This is the Indian idea of reading books, of literature. Just like a few hundred years ago when Indians used to gather in a temple and read together Hanuman Chaleesa which had no meaning to their lives but the communion gave them strength and consolation to forget their own insignificance in the world. It is another rehash.
+++
For a nation that has internalised the myth of a cycle, understandably it is difficult to distinguish what is past and what is future, more so when you cant see yourself which way you are looking. This is the fundamental tragedy of India. Sixty years after existence, better of her citizens - from Shabana Azmi to Sania Mirza to Anindita Sengupta haven’t been able to grasp the concept of the state.
There are comical understandings of words like marginalised, civilization and literature. The idea of growth both in its consciousness and activity is zilch. Amidst all the celebrated vibrancy and diversity there is this underrunning monotony. India’s new found status is only that of one facet - economic. A market of one billion must account for something in a post-modern world. Apart from economic, rest is drowned in a huge static muddled pool. As a friend who had visited India recently for the first time observed - there is no independent thought. Contrary to what you might be told, this is no renaissance Italy or Industrial Britain.
Simply because :Nothing is learnt, therefore nothing is applied.
My interest to investigate India arises from my need to understand my own position and history in the world. It is understandable to be dismissive or indifferent. It is easy to get lost in the marvels of the post modern world. But such a life , however grand it may be, I know shall eventually amount to nothing. I know I am an Indian and there is little sense in disowning that. But I had to know so much of myself that is not Indian, despite being an Indian. This is my motivation, because somewhere in there must lie my own identity. In this aspect, the last twelve years have been fruitful . This quest has found me many answers to questions I have long pondered over. I have been able to explain aspects inexplicable a few years back. I do realise that, in a sense it is brutal to be so honest , so antagonistic , so negative but I need the perspective to evaluate without bias - the world and myself. To see it and see it right. Nothing for me as a human is more important.
Getting back to Shabana Azmi : I hadnt seen much of her, but having seen her two interviews I dont have much to say of her. As a 20 year old brit so eloquently described her on youtube: she is a great lol. As per her comments, at the worst, a couple of months later, if she manages to rattle a few , a group of totally aimless Hindu youth would pelt a few stones at her portico window and the country would be in uproar. Young reporters would start another wave of screaming and howling into the microphone. Indian bloggers from all over the world would exchange thoughts on the meaning of tolerance and secularism in India. Page 3 celebrities - models, one time novelists, university professors rooted in 60s with no idea of Indian history or perspective would discuss in an air conditioned studio in New Delhi on a Sunday evening, screaming over each other.
Give the country a week more and everything shall be forgotten. Business resumes as usual. Bloggers move on to booker lists and movie reviews. And soon the entire country would start looking forward for the Australian cricket team to land.
Further update on Mrs Azmi: Here is a latest forward. A sort of reluctant defensive Indian version of an explanative apology from Mrs Azmi. Hiding behind the self proclaiemd label of moderate muslim, she conflates it all typically like an Indian, bringing past history and other issues like Dalits to Female infanticide. Such a shame she calls herself a social activist who fights against discrimination. So who wants to be in the choir?
For someone else seeing from outside, a nation as vast and as populous as India not having managed to hit a gold in an Olympics event after all these years even by accident might occur as a bit strange. But for us, it would be anything but natural. So my first reaction, as often as in such cases, was that of cynicism- it must be pure chance. But his demeanor, made me curious about him.
Abhinav Bindra - How dare you having a laugh at Indian media?
But above all , Abhinav's Gold, in its most charming implication is the proof for the utter joke that is the Indian media, which is made of thousands of thoughtdistorted-menopausal writers/editors (Tehelka running a cover story that Tibetans are hyper articulate) along with dozens of 20 something reporters screaming into the microphone while counting days to drown their stress in a gulp of Bloody Mary at a Goan Beach resort. It is then of no surprise that none of sports editorial/reporting team of any newspaper or TV channel had an iota of a hint (forget confidence in their own judgement) that Bindra was likely to end up in the top three if not the top.
It is only natural that they make up for it now. Suddenly with their new-found judgement sports editors who couldn't predict this a few months back would wax a ghazal; what the gold means to the long term future of Indian sports! Just like how they deified Ishaant Sharma into a Glen McGrath when all he did was to bowl one extraordinary spell in a cricket match a few months back. Where is the poor fellow now? Add to that flowery eulogies and Didnt-I-tell-you congratulations from every Ram, Sham, Ghansam : from popular Parker Pen Salesmen like Amitabh Bacchan to I dont know - Ram Vilas Paswan?
But Media is just a part of a nation. It is unfair to hold any Media anywhere solely responsible for something so inherent in its water supply. India is but, a land of deities. For a population of a billion and growing, even thirty million odd gods would never be enough. For in India, God is not a person, a force, or a consciousness; he is only an act – like killing an evil demon or rescuing the helpless lady or winning an award or hitting a match winning century. He is only -- an avatar-- to be celebrated, to be revered and to be consigned to the realm of supernatural, before, as if all of it didn't really matter, moving onto the next available one.
As a weed smoking Sadhu in the Himalayas once famously wrote in an Upanishad – Rock on!
+++
A list reproduced ( not in the naughty sense) from Wikipedia about the awards Bindra has been showered with after his Beijing Gold.
Rs. 1 crore cash prize by State Government of Punjab.[17]
Rs. 2 lakh cash prize by Shiromani Gurdwara Prabandhak Committee[citation needed]
Rs. 25 lakh cash prize by the Board of Control for Cricket in India[18]
Rs. 15 lakh cash prize by Steel Ministry of India[19]
A free lifetime railway pass by the Railway Ministry of India[20]
Rs. 10 lakh cash prize by Chief Minister of Maharashtra state[21]
Rs. 5 lakh cash prize by State Government of Orissa[citation needed]
Rs. 1.5 Crore by L N Mittal, Arcelor Mittal
Rs. 10 lakh cash prize by the State Government of Karnataka[22]
Rs. 11 lakh cash prize by the State Government of Bihar. The Patna Indoor Stadium will be renamed after Abhinav Bindra.[17]
Rs. 1 lakh cash prize by the State Government of Chhattisgarh[17]
Rs. 25 lakh cash prize by the State Government of Haryana.[17]
Rs. 5 lakh cash prize by M. Karunanidhi, the chief minister of Tamil Nadu[23]
A Gold medal by the State Government of Kerala.[24]
This list as we all know is never going to be complete. Not even if Maharashtra Electricity Board awards Free electricity for the rest of his Life, Not even if the State of Bengal announces him 2500 acres of land, Not even if Russia makes him a AB-47....
Interestingly, amidst all hosannas, Wiki also notes that the Bindra business has a turn over of Rs 300 Crores INR.
Having gone through the above list, I thought it was only natural, and without any intention to dampen the thunder of the boy that I share the following; Here is a superficial list of compensation for casualities of the major Bomb Blasts In India over last year:
1. Bangalore Blasts July 25 2008: 1 Lakh, Govt of Karnataka, 1 Lakh , Govt of India
2. Ahmedabad Blasts 26 July 2008 : 5 Lakhs Govt of Gujurat, 3.5 Lakhs, Govt of India
3. Jaipur Blasts 13 May 2008: ? Govt of Rajasthan , 1 Lakh Govt of India
4. Hyderabad Twin Blasts 25 August 2007: 5 Lakhs Govt of Andhra Pradesh, ? Govt of India
5. Hyderabad Mosque Blast 18 May 2007 : 6 Lakhs, + a Govt job to the nearest relative Govt of Andhra Pradesh, ? Govt of India.
Surely when a nation yearns for a hero more than the lives for whom he is a hero, it must be Oh, Herr Brecht, truly unhappy.
Ugra Narasimha, at Hampi, India.
Going to the Match, LS LowryA conversation in a post-modern party on sunday that drifted into the civil rights movement made me realise that it was the very day of the Jallianwala Bagh Massacre . ( 13/04) Though history would count it as one of the most heinous atrocities a single man would ever be capable of, it also brought forth one of the greatest gifts of India and Indians to mankind - how a non-violent, concerted effort for a just cause can defeat the most tyrannical of the oppression, something which wasnt built upon later at Sharpeville or Bloody Sunday.
A quick technorati search revealed no blogs either on the 89th anniversary or in memorium of the unique event, so thought I'll just post here an old jotting from my travelogue of the first impressions of Amritsar.
+++
Punjab generally is vast and green owing to many river beds that cut through the land. In fact the name Punjab means land of five rivers. Travelling all across Punjab to get to Wagah on the Pakistan border left us little time in Amritsar; so we weren’t able to cover it as much as we would have liked to. Also, when we got to Amritsar, the night was growing and the city too busy for our drained souls.
The cities in Punjab were largely unremarkable-clumsy and congested lacking any coherence in planning; But I suppose the most salient feature of Punjab are the people. They were well built, strong and notably loud even in the most inane of the conversations. And when they laughed, it was a hearty guffaw invariably accompanied with the shrugging of shoulders. A sight really. It wouldn’t take long to notice that these people lived by their heart than the mind.
We reached Amritsar quite late; the traffic was haphazardly scary- everyone drove with no concern for others, and I mean everyone. From a bicycle to a large truck. The pedestrians walked the roads as if they were reserved for leisurely promenades. It was only normal that I managed to see a few notorious collisions or would be collisions leading on to skirmishes. In terms of the city proper-the urban structures were mostly charmless, but I would have to say they made up for it in history.
Amritsar housed the renowned Golden Temple, the sacred worship place of the Sikhs- the dominant population of Punjab. The Golden Temple, glowing under the moon, looked all glorious. It was situated in the middle of a sacred tank flanked by a wide pavement of marble stone on which the visitors went around before entering the temple. The temple in itself was simple and soulful. There were no elaborate rituals seen in Hindu temples or no darkly boring protocols of the Church. The pilgrims queued for their turn to spend a few minutes in the sanctum sanctorum and left with a lightened heart. I am always amazed to see the power of belief and religion in a place of worship; The whole ambience was elevating, and the whole experience memorable.
Belief, is the Élan vital of human consciousness.
Just a few yards away from the temple there was the noted public park, The Jallianawalla Bagh. As it is well known, it is one of the sadly significant premises in the Indian independence movement. It was here that General Reginald Dyer intent on crushing the growing momentum of the Indian Independence movement open fired on a peaceful gathering, which included children and women. With the ground enclosed by tall walls and the exit gates blocked it turned into a carnage with more than a thousand dead and many a thousand injured. It was a great shame to the British governance, as every single of its planks was broken and principle violated. General Dyer was eventually dismissed from the service.
Unlucky for me, it was too late when we visited and the public ground was closed. I had to be content with a peek through the gate and a snap. As I observed earlier the public place is symbolic in many ways- it exposed the imperfections of the British but more importantly it united splinters and shards of areas into one single nation. In my eyes it deserved to be nothing short of a national monument that had to be preserved and charged for a visit*.
And here it was, uncared, unprotected surrounded by carts, vendors and other medium scale businesses. The surrounding walls looked like bombed ghettos out of world war movie, and as usual there was a liberal quantity of litter all around. It was all appalling. Though disappointed in many ways I promised myself to visit again when it was open. I wanted to see and feel it in daylight.
Amritsar is also noted, perhaps not that widely, for another significant event. It was here that the 34th session of the Indian National Congress was held in 1919. Following JallianaWala Bagh, the Congress chose Amritsar as the venue.
It was in this historic session that one of the most important speeches was made by MK Gandhi, that led to the decimation of the surviving factions which encouraged violence against the British and thus prepared the ground for one of the most remarkable struggles in human history- Non Violent Disobedience. The Story goes something like this--
The Amritsar Congress chaired by Motilal Nehru had drafted the resolution in two parts- one condemning the Jallianawala Bagh massacre and the other condemning the violence that was resorted to by the Indian crowd. But with an indignant nation that it was at the time, fresh with the memories of the massacre and the British repression that followed, many didnt take a liking for the latter half. As a result, the second part of the resolution was defeated by a large margin. Gandhi however, in the interest of the struggle was insistent to reconsider the motion. This led onto severe protests and cracks within the party and imaginably in the nation that was being put together.
It is reported that the next day, a stubborn Gandhi, ill and running a high temperature had to be helped on to the dais, where he spoke sitting. The speech was delivered with such deep fervour that at the end of the speech, the resolution was reconsidered, voted and accepted without any major opposition. It was a complete Volteface. If you look back the speech sounds simple but under the circumstances it was admirable. It was unique, like nothing seen or heard before. No doubt it was appealing, for it was the voice of the true Indian conscience; India was spoken as one nation, one entity higher than its rulers.
I often think that , if he had not spoken that day, the struggle would have been factionalised with no single goal or plan thus incorrigibly weakening it from within. It was this speech that laid the foundation for the great struggle, and in turn led onto one of the most remarkable campaigns in human history culminating in its first absolute victory eleven years later in the famous Dandi salt march in 1930. An empire was brought to knees without a single shot being fired. It had never happened before and as any sane man would agree, very unlikely to happen ever after.
In Amritsar, with that speech , Gandhi had chosen to deal with his opposition by reason and dialogue thus calmly imposing his will over a very restless crowd and succesfully changing their minds. It was here also, that General Dyer had fired a three-o-three at peaceful men, women and children to display his power. So it wouldnt be unfair to say that it was here that Indians had won their first battle against their rulers. In essence, it was in Amritsar that India had become independent in mind.
I asked around if anyone knew about the venue of the famous Congress session. And I wasnt all that surprised to hear a bold no for an answer.
PS- KM Munshi's Pilgrimage to Freedom, published by Bharatiya Vidya Bhavan, gives a good account of the Amritsar Congress session 1919 and Gandhi's speech.
* I say this because the event was not only unique in its response but per se it had the most casualities in human history in a single venue outside a war zone. Though the British sources at that time acknowledged about 400 deaths and 1000 wounded , it is generally accepted that 1500 odd people lost their lives and 2000 were wounded. All because one man lost his head.
It is interesting to note that the casualities of this man-made tragedy are more than that of much popularized natural disaster of sinking of the Titanic . There are more than a dozen movies and innumerable references on Titanic but not a single film , either by India or from outside on the Amritsar Massacre. That perhaps is food for thought for a certain Aamir Khan before Bollywood tries to capitalize on the fervour of the centenary of the event in the next decade.
