MRIDULA GARG - Tolerance and Dissent are Anathema to Us // The night I was arrested (2010)
I am amazed when Indians glibly claim that tolerance,
pluralism and unity in diversity have always been the hallmark of our nation.
Pluralism and diversity I would grant, but tolerance? We need to get real. We
have always been a most intolerant people.
Yes, we are ready to celebrate festivals of all religions –
Holi, Eid, Christmas and the birthdays of all and sundry. But that’s because we
love festivals; the more, louder and vulgar in their ostentation, the better.
We are also highly superstitious. So we are as ready to gift a goat for
sacrifice to a Muslim fakir as to feed cows, crows, dogs etc or wear
astrological stones at the behest of a Hindu tantric.
But as soon as it comes to dissent, we are highly
intolerant. Let me cite two instances, one from the public and the other from
the private domain. Mahatma Gandhi, the epitome of tolerance, when faced
with active dissent, was intolerant enough to condemn the re-election of
Subhas Chandra Bose as Congress president in 1939 when he defeated Pattabhi
Sitaramayya, the candidate favoured by Gandhi. When Gandhi said he would
give up his ‘four anna membership’ of Congress if Bose became president, some
members of the working committee resigned, forcing an anguished Bose to quit.
(NB: Gandhi had already given up 4 anna membership in 1934. Refer Narayan Desai, My Life is My Message, vol 3, p 231)
(NB: Gandhi had already given up 4 anna membership in 1934. Refer Narayan Desai, My Life is My Message, vol 3, p 231)
Now, a personal experience. Khushwant Singh, one of the most
liberal of writers, railed against me in public and in his columns, when we
were together in Germany in 1993 during a literary event for being a vegetarian
– which he considered idiotic – and for writing in Hindi, which he declared was
a poor language. He got angrier when I told him that I was not a total vegetarian
but chose to be one when abroad because I did not eat red meat and was
selective about sea food, so did not want to embarrass my hosts by refusing
what they might serve.
The animosity peaked at a dinner where I
found just one carrot and a boiled potato on my plate, as if to
mock my vegetarianism, while Khushwant Singh’s had bread, rice and other
oddments in addition to his meat dish. I quietly picked up his plate,
put the meat on to my mine, and then exchanged plates. I proceeded
to eat, saying I was a vegetarian and not a vegetable freak. They quickly
replenished his plate with side dishes. Poor male chauvinists; their fun was
totally ruined.
But the same Khushwant Singh praised my stories in
writing andpublicly acknowledged in Berlin itself that I was a better reader of
my text than he was, though I read in Hindi, poor enough to have only one word
for mouse and rat. It prompted one German youth to remark that he believed
there were no rats in India… barring one or two! Upon that, Khushwant Singh
told me curtly that we had to leave immediately as he was tired. The organisers
said, he could go, but as there was a separate car for me, would I please stay.
Yet he went on to recommend my novel Chittacobra in English
translation for publication by Penguin India, to which he was an adviser. That
it was not published is another matter for which he could not be blamed. My
point is that even a magnanimous man like Khushwant Singh, like many Indians,
could turn nasty and do petty things when faced by dissent and defiance, more
so by a woman.
I had a taste of this when I was arrested for writing Chittacobra.
Not a single writer of Hindi, not even the ones most vocal about intolerance
now, raised any objection. In fact, some even fanned the case against me –
and simply because I had dared to offer dissent to their idea of morality!
As for arts and literature, if the state does not ban a book
or movie, self-appointed moral custodians burn it or force its closure. If the
state does not arrest an author or artist, there are goons who are ready to
harass or even kill him. The pity is that if and when dissent is shown by
people, it is quickly centralised and non-conformity or dissent with that
particular concept of dissent is not tolerated. This was amply demonstrated at
the recent much touted ‘Pratirodh’ meeting organised by some writers,
artists, historians, filmmakers, ‘rationalists’ etc, where a few speakers had
been selected beforehand. No one else present got a chance to murmur a
spontaneous dissent to the established pratirodh (dissent).
Dissent is anathema in our everyday life too. In Europe
everyone loves a lover, in India, the opposite is true. I am not talking of
khap panchayats or religious fundamentalists but ordinary people. The moment a
young man or woman falls in love, even if not with someone from a different
caste, religion or geographical area, the elders protest because the very idea
of love spells dissent with custom and tradition or status quo. When they say
you are too young to know what is good for you, what they mean is, how dare you
show dissent with accepted canons of ennui in marriage?
We are tolerant of everything which has always been there:
of crime, corruption, pollution, filth, bad roads, atrocious public transport,
mismanagement and bad governance. We routinely rail against them but don’t
bother to make them election issues, to offer dissent or force political
parties to dissent with an accepted but revolting way of life.
Mridula Garg is a Hindi writer and Sahitya Akademi award
winner
In the context of Mumbai University's withdrawal of
Rohington Mistry's book Such A Long Journey from its syllabus, another
well-known author recalls the travails that followed the publication of her
novel, Chittacobra.
There was a knock on my door around 9.30, one evening in
June of 1980. My husband was out of town, the servant on leave and two teenage
sons expected back any moment from the movies. I was alone getting dinner
ready. The knock was followed by an impatient ring. Must be the boys, I thought
and went to the door, leaving the vegetables simmering on the gas.
Two grown men stood outside. Not my boys. Surprised by the
sudden late night callers, I was about to inform them of my husband's
unavailability; when one of them rasped,
“Mridula Garg!”
“Yes.”
“You wrote this book?” he asked waving my novel Chittcobra at
me.
“Why, yes,” I exclaimed quite elated to have my book flashed
at me by total strangers. Ah, the ego of a writer!
“Police,” said he waving something else now. His identity
card, it turned out to be. “We are here to arrest you.”
“What?”
“Arrest,” he repeated; then translated it into Hindi for my
benefit. “Giraftar.”
“I know what arrest means,” I said testily, “But what for?”
“The book.” He waved it at me again. “Pages 110-112 are
obscene.”
“They most certainly are not!” I said so vehemently that he
amended his statement to,
“Legally actionable under The Obscenity Act (U/S 292
IPC)”.
Fat lot of difference that made! Obscene, my book! That too, Chittcobra!
read more:
