Indian Identity

by Sudhir Kakar

  ‘Although my children and grandchildren are quite obedient, I feel they get tired of taking care of me to such an extent. Sometimes I think I am a major burden on them because of my lack of sight. If only I could have this [cataract] surgery, I would be more independent. My mother here, who is probably 90 years old, is still fit and healthy, and people say she is my daughter and not my mother in the way she looks after me. She brings me my food, takes me to the bathroom, bathes me, and sees to all my comforts. Even at this age, she is active and alert. When my daughter-in-law goes off to her mother’s house, she does all the cooking by herself.

  ‘I had more say in family matters when I had my eyes. My children were also younger. I was strong, worked hard, and people looked up to me to make all the major household discisions Now I feel dependent, a burden on the family. They still respect me and are concerned about my needs and wishes. I, too, feel it is their life now and they should be allowed to do what they want to. Therefore unless someone asks my opinion I try not to force my views on others.’

  The deference paid to Badli Pershad is not only perfunctory but extends to issues vital for the family’s welfare. His sister and his sons want him to sell the house and move out of Pardiwada since their sense of security has diminished precipitately after the last riot. In the past, Badli Pershad had resisted the demand although he is now resigned to the move: ‘This house carries memories of my youth, my wife, my children, and the good times that we spent together. Given a choice, I would not like to leave this house till I die. But under the circumstances, where we cannot hope for security or peace, I am forced to think of selling. The reason I have not done so is because the buyers are mainly Muslim who are offering very low prices for such a good house.’

  Pardis and the Modern World

  Badli Pershad’s younger son, the 40-year-old Rajesh, is bitter that he could not find the job he feels his college education entitled him to. It is with a sense of aggrieved humiliation that he drives an auto-rickshaw to earn a living, in addition to helping out with the family’s vegetable and fruit business. He has a baffled feeling of betrayal, of unkept promises, although he would be unable to say what the promises were or who made them. He blames the changing times, as do many of his friends, for this feeling of nagging dissatisfaction. Rajesh mourns the passing of an earlier era when the world was a simpler and kinder place and the bonds between the Pardis much stronger than they are today. “In Hyderabad, our jaat [a word denoting both a caste and a community] was once the best in the mango and grape business. No other jaat could even touch us. Now we compete against each other. We have become the best in the infighting business. Everyone is running after wealth, looking out only for himself. We were happier when we were together.

  ‘In olden days after you earned 20,000 rupees, you relaxed. There was enough to eat for six months and after that we’d see. We went back to the village, lazed about, talked day and night. Now no one’s desires are ever satisfied. Everyone wants more—bigger house, better food, more this, more that. It is good that a person thinks “I must progress, I must raise myself”. But this raising is done by pushing someone else down. We were happier when we earned less but lived in friendship and love.

  ‘Even the nature of our business has changed. Nowadays, it is all just calculation. Earlier, we would go into an orchard and estimate the yield of trees and come to an agreement with the owner. Most of the time the fruit would be more than the estimate and one made a little extra money. Then came these packing boxes. We do not buy the fruit on the trees any more but get it in exactly weighed boxes. You have to deal with agents, contractors, truck owners, each one measuring, weighing, calculating. There is no more of walking around in orchards in fresh air, looking up at the trees, and estimating the yield.’

  Of course, a part of Rajesh’s mourning for the ‘good old days’ may well be the normal expression of what Christopher Bollas calls a ‘generational consciousness’ as it gives place to the consciousness of a new generation.4 Rajesh’s nostalgic ruminations are thus also occasioned by the waning of a youthful vitality which made the world come alive at a particular time of his life. The inner feeling of the dimming of life for a whole generation then gets expressed in a sense of loss which is attributed to changes in the modernizing outside world. Many of us pass down this consciousness of loss to our young, although it is not strictly their own, and which most of them thankfully succeed in renouncing sooner or later. On the other hand, the raising of a generation’s consciousness occurs precisely because of severe dislocations such as the process of modernization. Without a crisis of this historical magnitude, the demarcation between the consciousness of a preceding and a succeeding generation is not so marked; the change is not big enough to become a subject of reflection.

  Rajesh’s elder brother, the 45-year-old Satish, although sharing some of his brother’s feelings of bitterness and disappointment—he too could not get a job in spite of his education—would confront the dislocations of modernity more actively. He is a passionate advocate of change in the community’s attitudes and values. A small, intense man, whose sense of his own dignity is in constant conflict with an anxious desire to please, Satish would make the next generation a vehicle for his hopes rather than weigh it down with despair.

  ‘You know our business is such that we cannot earn a lot of money to buy property or have savings. It is a hand-to-mouth existence. Our most valuable property is our children. So we are very careful about how we bring them up and what they will make of their lives. That is why we not only want to feed and clothe them properly but also give them the best education we can. We do not want our children to get into bad habits. Therefore I have bought a black-and-white television so that if they want to watch a film they can do it at home. Otherwise once the children are in their teens it is easy for them to fall into bad company and spoil their lives. But I know that not everyone in our community feels like this. They think that children are there for the financial support of the parents in their old age, and this is why they want to make them study and find a good job. Not for the children’s sake but their own. We [indicates his wife] are not selfish like that. It is our duty to bring up the children as good people and if they feel like taking care of us in our old age then it is our good luck.

  ‘Our people have certain fixed festivals like Bonal, Holi, and Dussehra which we have celebrated since the time of our ancestors. But now, seeing other Hindus celebrate so many festivals, our people also want to celebrate them. Festivals like Ganesh, Diwali, Ugadi are nothing but occasions for wasteful expenditure. In the name of the festival it becomes compulsory to buy new clothes, prepare good food, spend money on useless things like crackers and decorations. It is the spirit of sacredness and not the show that is important. Unfortunately, these days show and the amount of noise one can make seem to have become a sign of one’s importance. And sometimes although the menfolk may not be interested in celebrating all the rituals of a festival, they may have to do so because of their wives. I am lucky that my wife shares my ideas. Many of my friends complain that they are unable to meet these expenses but have to undertake them to please their wives. These women have no thoughts of their own. They want to do everything other women do I am very particular that blind customs and useless rituals are discarded.

  ‘Another custom I would like to change is the burial of dead bodies. I feel it is better to cremate than bury the dead. This is because space is becoming a major problem these days. Our ancestral village of Jalpalli is now only full of graves. The sad part is that these graves do not get respectful treatment from those who are alive. After a few years, the land is dug up and used for construction. Therefore I feel it is better to finish off once and for all so that there is neither a problem of space nor disrespect to the dead. Moreover, many times some of my Hindu friends have questioned me about this practice. They ask why despite being Hindus we bury the dead like Muslims. I feel very embarrassed. Now it is a mixed situation. Some families have started cremating th
eir dead and some continue to bury them. This kind of behaviour makes you the laughing-stock of others, especially these Muslims. They are always on the lookout for our customs that are odd. This is the main difference between their religion and ours. They have fixed rules which no one can flout.

  ‘The other thing I would like to change is our custom of marriage between members of one family. Earlier, people followed it because it ensured that all family members lived in one place. Now there is no need for such a custom because there is so much overcrowding. I feel that one must send our daughters to different families and get girls from new families because it will help us establish new relationships.’

  Satish’s main strategy in dealing with the dislocations caused by rapid change seems to be aimed at reducing the isolation—of the family by integrating it into a network of other families, and of the community by bringing it closer to the customs and usage of a Hindu ‘mainstream’. He exemplifies the spirit of agency among the Pardis, both individual and collective. In their vigorous pursuit of community self-interest which manipulates all the levers that can influence decision-making in a modern democratic state—from preparing detailed, petitioning briefs for the bureaucracy to persistent lobbying of their elected representatives—the Pardis are by no means mere passive victims of the modernizing process.

  The Night of Long Knives

  The 35-year-old, plump and cheerful Lalita, Badli Pershad’s eldest daughter-in-law, remembers that particular Saturday evening well. It must have been 7:30, and they were all gathered around the television set listening to the local news which comes on during the intermission of the Saturday movie. (It was Swami Ayappa, a religious-mythological film in the classification of Indian movies). The riots had started in another part of the walled city that morning and a curfew had been in force since five in the evening. The news announcer informed them that the curfew would be lifted for one hour the next morning so that people could go out and buy essentials such as milk and medicines. Suddenly, they heard a crowd’s deep growl of ‘Allah-u-Akbar!’, ‘Kill! Kill!’ and panicky answering shouts of ‘The Mussulmans have come!’ Lalita knew what to do. It was the third time since her marriage that Pardiwada had been involved in a Hindu-Muslim riot. It always happened at night. The women and older children went downstairs and started collecting stones for the men to throw at the Muslim mob. Children’s school bags were emptied to serve as pouches for the stony ammunition, sarees and bedsheets were taken out and tied around the men’s foreheads to prevent serious head injuries. The women could not see much whenever they looked out into the alley. There were ‘hundreds’ of Muslims with swords and spears, their faces covered with pieces of cloth so that only their eyes were visible. Prema, the 33-years-old daughter-in-law of Laloo Bai, Badli Pershad’s sister, is certain that the attacking Muslims were not outsiders. They knew which houses belonged to the Hindus and in fact would call out the owners’ names. Perhaps there were a few goondas from outside but ‘the whole thing was planned by our Mussulmans here.’ Prema’s mother’s brother was killed that evening as was her sister-in-law Kalavati, who had run out in panic to get back her four-year-old son who had slipped out of the house to see all the excitement happening outside. Both the mother and son were chopped down by sword blows before they could get back.

  Kamla Bai, Badli Pershad’s ‘cousin’ (I have given up the effort to chart more precise relationships), who lives some houses away at the outskirts of Pardiwada, had a narrow escape. Her family had just eaten and was rearranging itself before the television set when the Muslims broke into the house. She ran out with her children, pleading with the men to spare their lives. One Hindu was killed in front of her but Kamla Bai was allowed to pass through unharmed. She hid in a neighbour’s house. The ration shop and the vegetable shop next to her house were looted and set on fire. ‘One of my neighbours has four children who are not normal in the head. They killed her with a sword. Her head was literally in two pieces. One of the woman’s relatives came out to help. They caught hold of her and asked her where her husband was. When she refused to tell, they cut off her arms and legs. She died. They broke into Ratnaram’s house and killed him. His young daughter Krishnavati hid herself behind an almirah to save herself. They dragged her outside and killed her. They did not even spare old women.’

  The attack on Pardiwada, which left 24 people dead, ended around eleven at night when the police arrived. The Pardis were not sure whether it was the police or a new Muslim mob disguised in police uniforms. ‘Pelt them with stones,’ was the general consensus on the action to be taken. ‘The police would not be scared but the Muslims would run away.’ More men and women now started to come out, and the alleys of Pardiwada, eerily lighted by magenta-tinged smouldering fires, began to fill with the sounds of women wailing and weeping as corpses of close relatives were discovered and mourned.

  Rajesh, Badli Pershad’s youngest son, was standing under a tree next to the Hanuman temple. Because of the curfew he had been playing cards with his friends, Nambre and Anto, the whole afternoon. He had just come out for a pee when he saw a group of Muslims running toward the temple with swords and tins of kerosene. Rajesh hid behind the tree, glad that he was shirtless and only wearing underwear and was thus less easy to spot in the dark. As he watched the Muslims throw lighted kerosene rags into the temple and run by to attack the house that he had just left, his only thought was that he would have died like his friends if he had not come out to ease his bladder.

  For Rajesh, the Muslim attack on Pardiwada was not entirely unexpected. His Muslim friends, a couple of whom he had known since childhood, had been warning him of just such an eventuality. ‘We are very worried about you,’ they would say as they drank tea in a hotel. ‘You are staying there, your wife and children are there. You should leave.’ One day before the attack, a Muslim friend told Rajesh to go away for a few days. ‘Why are you after my life?’ Rajesh replied in some irritation. ‘Whatever happens, will happen.’ Rajesh had reported the Muslim warnings to the community elders such as Dalyan Singh, the unofficial leader of the Shakkergunj Pardis. The police had made all arrangements for their safety, Rajesh was told, and Dalyan Singh pointed to the three policemen who had been assigned to Pardiwada and with whom he was playing cards.

  Running back from the temple, Rajesh met a distraught Dalyan Singh on the way. ‘The Muslims have attacked from all sides,’ Dalyan Singh said. ‘I am trying to find the policemen.’ Many Pardi men had come out. They tried to stop the attackers from entering the heart of Pardiwada by directing a barrage of stones at whichever corner a Muslim breakthrough seemed imminent. ‘The men of our community are brave. We were unarmed and still did not run away from their swords and spears.’ Later at night, as soon as Muslims began withdrawing from the heart of Pardiwada, Rajesh rushed to his sister’s house located at the outskirts. The door was closed from inside. Rajesh banged on the door, shouted and screamed, but there was no response. “It is all over,” I thought. “They are all dead. Everyone has been killed.” I went up to the police inspector. They were picking up a corpse. “My sister, and her family are dead,” I said. Then I saw them coming out of a neighbour’s house who is a Muslim. “We are here,” they said. The Muslim family had given them shelter, saved their lives.’

  When the police finally arrived, Rajesh was active in helping them identify the dead bodies and gather together the injured for further transport to the hospital. This was when he saw two men bring in a seriously wounded Dalyan Singh. He had been stabbed by Jafar, the men said. Jafar was the leader of the area’s Muslims and a friend of Dalyan Singh. The two had worked closely in the past, liaising with the city administration in keeping the relations between the Hindus and Muslims peaceful whenever there was communal tension in the city. (Later, it was discovered that the assassin was not Jafar but another man accompanying him.) At this time someone informed Rajesh that his ‘uncle’ had been killed and the body taken to Osmania hospital.

  The police jeep took a long time in com
ing, and Rajesh offered to take some of the seriously wounded to the hospital in his auto-rickshaw. He could then also claim his uncle’s body and bring it back. As he drove ot of Pardiwada around one in the morning, his adrenaline-fuelled courage evaporated. He had to pass through Muslim areas where groups of men roamed the dark streets in shadowy, menacing packs. ‘I will surely die tonight,’ Rajesh thought, or rather felt, in his terror. But as the headlight of the rickshaw bore down on the men, they scattered into the bylanes. They had taken it to be a police motorcycle, and Rajesh, soon cottoning on, heightened the impression by driving at full throttle while roaring threats and abuse like a real police inspector.

  Osmania hospital, named after the last Nizam of Hyderabad, famed for both his wealth and his reluctance to spend it, was in total choas. the harried doctors and staff were unable to cope with the stream of injured and dead descending on them from all over the city. Rajesh unloaded his grisly cargo on the floor of the admissions hall and hurried from one corridor to another searching for his uncle’s body in the piles of corpses that were haphazardly stacked outside the wards. He did not find his uncle’s body but became instrumental in saving the life of his niece, Pushpa. In one of the mounds of corpses, he saw a hand moving. As he tugged at the hand and pulled out the body, he saw it was Pushpa, who was still alive although unconscious with a severe head injury. A passing doctor was successfully importuned and cajoled into arranging for surgery, and Pushpa was saved.

  Rajesh returned to Pardiwada to find the Pardis preparing to move out of their homes. ‘I was against such a step and vehemently protested. To evacuate is to run away. It was a question of our self-respect. It would always stand as a shameful black mark against our community. But rumours were going around, “The Muslims have attacked here; they have attacked there.” People were getting very frightened. Then Juggu and Suraj pehlwans appeared on the scene. “We have brought trucks,” they said. “The basti must be vacated immediately.” I was still unhappy but followed their instructions. My brother refused to leave. I was very angry. If everyone else was leaving what was the need for him to stay? I asked the police to help and they forced him to come with us. The trucks brought us to Gandhi Bhawan.’