Second, irrespective of the location of the discoveries and inventions, the methods of reasoning used in science and mathematics give them some independence of local geography and cultural history. There are, of course, important issues of local knowledge and of the varying perspectives regarding what is or is not important, but there is still much that is shared in methods of argument, demonstration, and the scrutiny of evidence. The term ‘Western science’ is misleading in this respect also.
Third, our decisions about the kind of future we have, need not be parasitic on the type of past we have experienced. Even if there were no Asian or Indian component in the evolution of contemporary mathematics and science (this is not the case, but even if it had been true), its importance in contemporary India need not be any less for that reason. Rabindranath Tagore expresses the tyranny of being bound to the past in his amusing yet profoundly serious story of Kartar Bhoot (The Ghost of the Leader).
There is a similar issue, to which I referred earlier, on the role of ‘modernity’ in contemporary India. The contemporary attacks on modernity (especially on a ‘modernity’ that is seen as coming to India from the West) draws greatly on the literature on ‘postmodernism’ and other related approaches, which have been quite influential in Western literary and cultural circles (and later on in India too). There is perhaps something of interest in this dual role of the West (the colonial metropolis supplying ideas and ammunition to post-colonial intellectuals to attack the influence of the colonial metropolis), but of course there is no contradiction there. What it does suggest, however, is that mere identification of Western connections of an idea could not be enough to damn it.
The ‘critics’ of ‘modernism’ often share with the self conscious ‘advocates’ of ‘modernism’ the belief that being ‘modern’ is a well-defined concept—the only dividing point being whether you are ‘in favour’ of modernism, or ‘against’ it. But in the light of what I have already tried to say, that type of identification is not at all easy, given the historical roots—often very long roots—of recent thoughts and intellectual development, and given the mixture of origins in the genesis of ideas and techniques that are typically taken to characterize modernism.
The point to make here is not that modern things are good, or that there are no reasons to doubt the wisdom of many developments that are justified in the name of a needed modernity. There are good grounds to reject both claims. The real issue is that there is no escape from the necessity to scrutinize and assess ideas, norms, and proposals no matter whether they are seen as promodern or anti-modern. For example, if we have to decide what policies to support in education, health care or social security, the modernity or non-modernity of any proposal would be neither here nor there. The relevant question is how these policies would affect the lives of people, and that inquiry is not the same as the investigation of the modernity or non-modernity of the policies in question.
Similarly, if faced with communal tensions in contemporary India, we suggest that there is much to be gained from reading the tolerant poems of Kabir, or studying the political priorities of Akbar, in contrast with, say, the intolerant approach of an Aurangzeb, that discrimination has to be done in terms of the ‘worth’ of their respective positions, and not on the basis of some claim that Kabir or Akbar was ‘more modern’ or ‘less modern’ than Aurangzeb. Modernity is not only a befuddling notion, it is also basically irrelevant as a pointer of merit or not demerit in assessing contemporary priorities.
What about the specialness of ‘Asian values’ on which so much is now being said by the authorities in a number of east Asian countries? These arguments, used in Singapore, Malaysia, and even China, appeal to the differences between ‘Asian’ and ‘Western’ values to dispute the importance of human rights and press freedoms in Asian countries. The resistance to Western hegemony—a perfectly respectable cause in itself—takes the form, under this interpretation, of justifying suppression of journalistic freedoms and the violations of elementary political and civil rights on grounds of alleged unimportance of these freedoms in the hierarchy of what are claimed to be ‘Asian values’.
There are two basic problems with this mode of reasoning. First, even if it were shown that freedoms of this kind have had less importance in the Asian thoughts and traditions than in the West, that would still be an unconvincing way of justifying the violation of these freedoms in Asia. To see the conflict over human rights as a battle between Western liberalism, on one side, and Asian reluctance on the other, is to cast the debate in a form that distracts attention from the central question: what would make sense in contemporary Asia? The history of ideas—in Asia and in the West—is not decisive in settling this issue. To cast the debate in terms of a historical confrontation between the West and Asia is to mis specify the primary battleground: what makes sense for Asians ‘here and now’?
Second, it is by no means clear that historically there has been systematically greater importance attached to freedom and tolerance in the West than in Asia. Certainly, individual liberty, in its contemporary form, is a relatively new notion both in Asia and in the West, and while the West did get to these ideas rather earlier (through developments such as the Renaissance, the European Enlightenment, the Industrial Revolution, and so on), the divergence is relatively recent. In answer to the question, ‘at what date, in what circumstances, the notion of individual liberty…first became explicit in the West’, Isaiah Berlin has noted: ‘I have found no convincing evidence of any clear formulation of it in the ancient world.’ (‘Four Essays on Liberty’, Oxford, 1969).
In the reading of the Western tradition that sees it as the natural habitat of individual freedom and political democracy, there is a substantial tendency to extrapolate ‘backwards’ from the present. Values that European Enlightenment and other relatively recent developments have made common and widespread can scarcely be seen as part of the long run Western heritage—experienced in the West over millennia. There have, of course, been championing of freedom and tolerance in specific contexts in the Western classical tradition, but much the same can be said of many parts of the Asian tradition as well—not least in this country, with the articulations associated for example with Ashoka’s inscriptions, Shudraka’s drama, Akbar’s pronouncements, or Kabir’s poetry—to name just a few examples.
It is true that the tolerance has not been advocated ‘by’ all, nor ‘for’ everyone in the Asian traditions, but again much the same can be said about Western traditions as well. There is little evidence that Plato or St Augustine were more tolerant and less authoritarian than Confucius. While Aristotle certainly did write on the importance of freedom, women and slaves were excluded from the domain of this concern. The claim that the basic ideas underlying freedom and tolerance have been central to Western culture and are somehow alien to Asia is, I believe, entirely rejectable.
The allegedly sharp contrast between Western and Asian traditions on the subject of freedom and tolerance is based on very poor historiography. The authoritarian argument based on the special nature of Asian values is particularly dubious. This supplements the more basic argument presented earlier that even if it had been the case that Asian values are indeed more authoritarian that would not have been ground enough to reject tolerance and liberties in ‘contemporary’ Asia.
The discussion on Asian values draws attention to an important issue underlying attempts at generalizations about cultural contrasts between the West and the East, or between Europe and India, and so on. There are many differences between Europe and India, but there are sharp differences within India itself. And there are also great differences between different parts of the Indian intellectual and historical traditions. One of the things that goes deeply wrong with grand contrasts between ‘our culture’ and ‘their culture’ is the tremendous variety ‘within’ each of these cultures. My old teacher Joan Robinson used to say: ‘Whatever you can rightly say about India, the opposite is also true.’ It is not that cultural differences are o
f no importance, but the contrasts do not come in the tailor-made form of some immense contrast between, say, the West and India, with relative homogeneity inside each.
The problem is, of course, even larger when there are attempts at generalization about ‘Asian’ values. Asia is where about 60 percent of the world’s entire population live. There are no quintessential values that apply to this immensely large and heterogeneous population, which separate them out as a group from people in the rest of the world. Those who have written on the importance of cultural divisions have been right to point to them, and yet the attempt to see these divisions in the over aggregated form of East-West contrasts hides more than it reveals.
The contrasts between Asia and Europe do not work, nor the alleged dichotomies that appeal to Indian specialness. Indeed, generalizations even about an individual religious community within India (such as the Hindus or the Muslims) or about a language group (such as the Bengalis or Biharis or Tamils) can be very deeply misleading. Depending on the context, there may be more significant similarity between groups of people in different parts of the country who come from the same class, have the same political convictions, or pursue the same profession or work, and that similarity can hold across national boundaries as well. People can be classified in terms of many different criteria, and the recent tendency to emphasize some contrasts (say, of religion or community), while overlooking others, has ignored important distinctions even as it has capitalized on others.
To conclude, the difficulties of communication across cultures are real, as are the normative issues raised by the importance of cultural differences. But these recognitions do not lead us to accept the standard distinctions between ‘our culture’ and ‘their culture’. Nor do they give us reason to overlook the demands of practical reason and of political and social relevance in contemporary India, in favour of faithfulness to some alleged historical contrasts. I have tried to show that the contrasts are often not quite as they are depicted, and the lessons to be drawn are hardly the ones that the vigorous champions of ‘our culture’ claim them to be.
There is much to be learned in all this from Satyajit Ray’s appreciation of cultural divides along with his pursuit of communication and assimilation across these divides. He never fashioned his creation to cater to what the West may expect from India, but nor did he refuse to enjoy and learn from what other cultures offer. And when it came to the recognition of cultural diversity ‘within’ India, Ray’s delicate portrayal of the variety of people that make us what we are cannot be outmatched. While reflecting on what to focus on in his films, he put the problem beautifully:
‘What should you put in your films? What can you leave out? Would you leave the city behind and go to the village where cows graze in the endless fields and the shepherd plays the flute? You can make a film here that would be pure and fresh and have the delicate rhythm of a boatman’s song. Or would you rather go back in time—way back to the epics, where the gods and the demons took sides in the great battle where brother killed brother and Lord Krishna revivified a desolate prince with the words of the “Gita”? One could do exciting things here, using the great mimetic tradition of the Kathakali, as the Japanese use their Noh and Kabuki.
Or would you rather stay where you are, right in the present, in the heart of this monstrous, teeming, bewildering city, and try to orchestrate its dizzying contrasts of sight and sound and milieu?’
These differences—the ‘dizzying contrasts’—are very different from what can be found in the laboured generalizations about ‘our culture’, and the vigorous pleas, increasingly vocal, to keep ‘our culture’, ‘our modernity’ distinctly unique and immune from the influence of ‘their culture’. In our heterogeneity and in our openness lies our pride, not our disgrace. Satyajit Ray taught us this, and that lesson is of profound importance for India. It is also of importance for Asia and indeed the world.
Renunciation (New Delhi, May 2004)
SONIA GANDHI (1945–)
In the elections to the Lok Sabha in 2004, Sonia Gandhi, as the President of the Congress, had led the campaign. The results, which put the Congress in a position to form the government, surprised most people including Sonia Gandhi herself. She was unanimously elected leader of the Congress Parliamentary Party and the prime ministership was for her asking. Stunning everyone, she announced in this speech, that she would not be Prime Minister. Her use of the phrase ‘inner voice’ was deliberate and telling. It was previously used by Mahatma Gandhi to describe decisions that he made for deeply personal, even non-negotiable, reasons. Sonia Gandhi, her admirers said, had cast herself as a renunciant. Cynics said, she had taken power without responsibility.
Friends, throughout these past six years that I have been in politics, one thing has been clear to me. And that is, as I have often stated, that the post of Prime Minister is not my aim.
I was always certain that if ever I found myself in the position that I am in today, I would follow my own inner voice. Today, that voice tells me I must humbly decline this post.
You have unanimously elected me your leader. In doing so, you have reposed your faith in me. It is this faith that has placed me under tremendous pressure to reconsider my decision. Yet, I must abide by the principles, which have guided me all along.
Power in itself has never attracted me, nor has position been my goal.
My aim has always been to defend the secular foundation of our nation and the poor of our country—the creed sacred to Indiraji and Rajivji.
We have moved forward a significant step towards this goal. We have waged a successful battle. But we have not won the war. That is a long and arduous struggle, and I will continue it with full determination.
But I appeal to you to understand the force of my conviction. I request you to accept my decision and to recognize that I will not reverse it.
Our foremost responsibility at this critical time is to provide India with a secular government that is strong and stable.
Friends, you have given me your generous support; you have struggled against all odds with me. As one of you and as President of the Congress party, I pledge myself to work with you and for the country. My resolve will in fact be all the more firm, to fight for our principles, for our vision, and for our ideals.
On Jinnah (Karachi, June 2005)
L.K. ADVANI (1927–)
One of the first places L.K. Advani visited when he went to Karachi was Jinnah’s tomb. There he recalled Jinnah’s opening speech to the Pakistan Constituent Assembly in August 1947 and the secular vision it had upheld. He said that his attention had been drawn to Jinnah’s speech by Swami Ranganathananda, the head of Ramkrishna Mission. The speech proved to be infamous. Advani’s praise of Jinnah’s speech won for him the ire of the Sangh Parivar which had always held Jinnah to be guilty of partitioning India. There was also the view that Advani was trying to position himself as a secularist who could be the leader of all Indians and not just of Hindus.
It is always a matter of pleasure when one goes abroad and gets an opportunity to interact with the intellectual elite of that country. But when the country one is visiting is Pakistan, and when the interaction with intellectuals is happening in a city which is one’s birthplace, how can that experience be described? ‘Pleasure’? ‘Great pleasure’? ‘Delight’?
I find these words trite on this occasion. The truth is that, I have no words to adequately capture the feelings that have welled up in me at this meeting in Karachi, which I have been able to visit only for the second time since I left it nearly six decades ago.
Karachi has changed beyond recognition, not only since I left in 1947, but also since I last came here in 1978. The city has of course become immensely more populous—its population in 1947 was a mere 4 lakh; today, I am told, it is nearly 1.4 crore. But Karachi has also become more developed and prosperous.
I compliment the people of Karachi for this achievement and hope that not only Karachi but the whole of Pakistan continues to travel rapid
ly on the path to prosperity and all-round development.
Friends, barring the dinner engagement later in the evening, this function happens to mark the conclusion of my weeklong visit to Pakistan. My visit had three parts. The first part, comprising two days in Islamabad, was largely political. The second leg, which meant two days in Lahore, was part political and part religious-cultural, since it included visits to the ancient Katas Raj temples and to the Nankana Sahib Gurdwara.
But the last part in Karachi, again of two days, is purely sentimental. Before leaving for Pakistan, I had stated that the primary aim of my visit was to contribute, in my own humble way, to the ongoing peace process between India and Pakistan through my meetings with the leadership of Pakistan and also with representatives of various political parties and civil society organizations in this country. But I had added that the visit is also a kind of ‘return-to-the-roots’ for me and members of my family, who are coming to Pakistan for the first time.
My visit to the school where I studied, to the house where I lived (although it does not now stand in its original shape), to the Sindh Assembly building where I met legislators belonging to the Pakistan People’s Party (PPP), the reception and cultural programme organized by the Hindu Panchayat, and the lunch reception hosted by the Chief Minister of Sindh—all these will remain indelible memories in me.
I have many deeply engraved memories of the first twenty years of my life that I lived in Karachi. I shall recall here only one of them, because the person with which that memory is associated, and the philosophy that I learnt from him in Karachi, have a reverential place in my life.
The Great Speeches of Modern India Page 47