Becoming Indian: The Unfinished Revolution of Culture and Identity

by Pavan K. Varma

  On a recent visit to Jordan for a seminar, I listened attentively to an Egyptian speak about the tradition of dance. He spoke about the difference in body movements between east and west, and how societies differ in their acceptance of body movements. In the government-run handicrafts shop outside the conference venue, a sign proclaimed that the aim of the Jordanian government was to preserve ‘Jordanian culture’. However, as an instant reminder that this laudable goal is easier stated than achieved, was a private gift shop right next door that called itself ‘Indiana Jones’. Even small shops were labelled ‘supermarket’ in the American style. The owner of one such shop had recently returned from the USA, and had a noticeable American accent. He spoke to me about how he had nurtured his dream to open a supermarket in Amman just like the ones he used to frequent in Chicago. For all visible purposes he seemed to have succeeded admirably, but in the toilet at the back of the shop the steel jugs with their curved handles next to each toilet seat, so typical of the Muslim world, made clear that his Americanization had its limitations.

  ‘When will you Indians learn to be like the rest of the world?’ This was a question thrown at the well-known Indian fashion designer Ritu Kumar by one of her western clients. Many of Ritu’s creations, in deference to the tradition of the sari or the ghagra-choli, had provisions for an exposed midriff. This exasperated her client for it was a deviation from the standard western suit or dress. In the circumstances, the question was not about Ritu’s ability to change, but about when all Indians would.

  The pressures to homogenize should never be underestimated, and a viable choice can only be made if one is aware of what these pressures are, what motivates them, what is lost if one succumbs, and what can be gained if one adapts. The single greatest worry today is that in an aggressively globalizing world people may not be able to make such informed choices. Sahana Pradhan, the former foreign minister of Nepal, whom I met in 2007, spoke to me about the rich and varied folk traditions of her country. In one particular part of the country, she said, children not yet ten could sing a folk song for almost every occasion in a Nepali’s life, but in most other parts of Nepal, things were changing at an alarming pace. The seventy-four-year-old minister was no obscurantist wallowing in futile nostalgia. She was a member of the country’s Communist Party, had a master’s degree in economics, and had been a teacher in a university for most of her life. Yet, talking about the fast eroding folk traditions of her country she became very emotional. I could sense the sadness and helplessness as she spoke. ‘Now the first thing children learn in Nepal is Baa Baa Black Sheep,’ she ended abruptly, and fell silent.

  If children in Nepal, or in India, or in Africa, or in Central Asia, or anywhere else in the world, learn English nursery rhymes it may be good for them, but if they do so at the cost of their own cultural roots, then it is not an equal or desirable transaction. The difference between loss and gain is blurred for those at the receiving end of the supposed imperatives of our new market-driven age. No serious balance sheet is ever drawn up in the rush to become more accepted, more successful, more a part of a commercially integrated world—whose seductions are insistently and endlessly advertised. For those on the edge of poverty, as so many people in the world still are, this lack of awareness and discrimination and vigilance is perhaps excusable, but the educated and relatively well off have no excuse. To be like them, to be accepted by them, to win accolades from them, is a pervasive motivation for those on the other side of the cultural divide. The merits are rarely debated; the loss is rarely noticed; and the gains are glorified.

  When Aravind Adiga won the Booker Prize in October 2008 for his novel The White Tiger, there was euphoria in the Indian media. The normally balanced and staid Hindu made it the lead headline on the front page. All the papers had pictures of Adiga receiving the award in a tuxedo complete with bow tie. (If an Englishman is given one of our awards, would we insist that he wear a shervani or a bandgala?) Some papers carried editorials on the ‘great’ victory. The President and the prime minister sent congratulatory messages—which has never happened, in living memory, when a writer has won the Sahitya Akademi Award or the Jnanpith Award. There was very little said on the intrinsic quality of the novel. It mattered to nobody that Adiga’s depiction of his country as ‘a place of brutal injustice and sordid corruption’—as the Guardian summarized it—could perhaps be extreme or one-sided or too glib. The point is not about Adiga being critical. Criticism is something India can take in its stride, and needs to take into account. But most Indians merely exulted at the fact that the book had won an international award, with almost no attempt at independent evaluation. The irony of it all is that the merits of the book, and the reasons for its selection, were widely discussed in the UK. While many papers wrote in its praise, the Guardian thought that it was ‘fundamentally an outsider’s view and a superficial one’; the Daily Telegraph dismissed it as the ‘first draft of a Bollywood screenplay’ where ‘every character is a cliché’. In India, 99 per cent of the mainstream media only repeated what the British jury for the award had said of the book. Only Manjula Padmanabhan, in the Outlook, gave the book a damningly negative review, but that was before the Booker.

  Something similar happened with Slumdog Millionaire. When the film won the BAFTA award in Britain for best picture, it had not even been officially released in India. Even though most Indians had not seen the film, and could not, therefore, judge it on merit, the media was near euphoric at this achievement. After the film won the Oscar in February 2009, all sense of proportion was lost. We went hysterical. Banner headlines announced the ‘victory’; editorials waxed eloquent about how India had finally made it to the ‘big league’; for days television channels carried only this as the lead story; panel discussions debated the recognition of Indian talent globally. Very few paused to debate the merits of the film or, even more importantly, recall that this was not an Indian film at all. The producer of the film was British, and it had been entered for the awards as a British film. In fact, Lord Meghnad Desai put it bluntly in a public forum that the film could win the Oscar only because it was made by a British film director (just as The White Tiger could qualify for and win the Booker because it had been published by a British publisher).

  True, some Indians, who were part of the film’s team, won Oscars: A.R. Rahman for the music; Gulzar for the lyrics; and Resul Pookutty for the editing. However, most people would agree that although Rahman is, indeed, a brilliant musician, his score for Slumdog Millionaire is far from his best. Similarly, Gulzar’s genius as a poet is hardly reflected in ‘Jai Ho’, the song that won him the Oscar. The film itself was entertaining, but not extraordinary. In parts its storyline was naïve, and in many places the depiction of India and its realities was clearly influenced by western stereotypes. Yet, such was the euphoria generated by the Oscar, that criticizing the film meant being unpatriotic. Even worse, many commentators equated any attempt at an objective critique of the film with an outdated oversensitivity to the depiction of India’s poverty. (This was also the frequent response to criticism of The White Tiger. The parallels are revealing. As perhaps is the fact that the film and novel, similar in theme and treatment, received western awards and acclaim within a few months of each other. The last time this happened was when Sushmita Sen was chosen Miss Universe and Aishwarya Rai Miss World in the same year, 1994, a time when India was opening up its markets to the west. Perhaps the honeymoon is now over and in 2008–09 a different message needed to be sent to an economically resurgent India that is challenging the dominance of western nations.)

  Bluntly put, the fact of foreign recognition, be it the Oscar or the Booker, is enough to transport Indians into a self-congratulatory trance that suspends the ability for any independent application of mind on the merits of such a recognition. In the case of Adiga, the foreign endorsement of our storytelling skills—in English—was far more important than any serious debate on the novel’s literary quality or the substance of the author’s thesis.
Winning the Booker was like being recognized where it mattered, of being vindicated in the right quarters, of having glamorously arrived. But what about the departure lounge left behind? A leading Indian publisher pointed out in an interview that if an author gets the prestigious Sahitya Akademi Award in India, it makes a difference in sales of perhaps ten copies! In the case of the Crossword Prize—India’s modest answer to the Booker—there may be an additional sale of 1000 copies. But with the Booker sales go up exponentially—anything from 50,000 to 150,000 copies. Booker-winning novels with any India connection leap out of shelves, bought by customers eager to read what the English have recognized. Interestingly, Slumdog Millionaire did not do well commercially in India. No matter. The fact that a film shot in India, with an Indian theme, was liked and awarded in the west was enough reason to celebrate.

  Foreign endorsements are very important to us Indians. When the question of giving titles to loyal Indians was being discussed in the British Parliament in 1876, Disraeli argued that Indians attach enormous value to such distinctions. Stafford Northcote, an MP who also participated in the debate, said that ‘what to us may appear exceedingly trumpery and trivial distinctions, are in their eyes of the greatest importance’.10 The Booker and the Oscar do, of course, carry considerable prestige, but that prestige is magnified a hundredfold in India. Without a doubt, if an Englishman who wrote a simplistic book not only savagely critical of British society but also one that got several basic facts wrong was to receive India’s most prominent literary prize, the reaction in the UK would be circumspect, to say the least. Similarly, if a film made by a British director about the French, for instance, was to get the Oscar, the French would not celebrate the award without discussing at very great length the merits of the film. A nation with a cultural heritage as substantial as ours must have the self-respect, dignity and objectivity to display a sense of balance towards foreign recognition. We cannot be swept away by it.

  Ultimately, Indians need to work to give their own awards the kind of prestige the Booker or the Oscars enjoy. This will, of course, take time, but in the interim we should be far more intelligent about the value of the recognitions they bestow, and the politics behind them. After all, how important or objective or desirable can the Nobel Prize for Peace be if Mahatma Gandhi, the greatest messiah of non-violence the world has seen for centuries, never got it? His name was nominated several times but Sweden did not want to annoy Britain. After 1947, Nehru was nominated as many as eleven times, but he too never got it, while Henry Kissinger, adviser to Richard Nixon who used napalm bombs in Vietnam, did. Rabindranath Tagore’s Nobel for literature made every Indian proud, and his stock among his compatriots went up greatly after this recognition; but there is obviously something amiss if since then French writers have received the same prize fourteen times, American writers ten times, British writers nine times, and no Indian has. Except Naipaul—Indian by descent, British by choice—who made a career of being critical about India, and after 9/11 endeared himself to the west by being even more critical about the Islamic world.

  One unmistakable symptom of co-option is the exaggerated importance given to the slightest criticism or approval emanating from the West. The first produces howls of protest, the second unwarranted jubilation. Countries which are confident about themselves need to develop a greater sense of equilibrium, but they can only do this if they first reappropriate, in authentic terms, their own cultural space. Mike Leigh, whom I have referred to before, said something quite remarkable that evening at the Nehru Centre. Clyde Jeavans was saying that Mike’s films dealt overwhelmingly with quintessentially British subjects, and the way of life of ordinary British people, and Mike simply said in response: ‘The greatest sin you can commit is not to be a part of the territory to which you belong.’ When one is confidently a part of that territory, it shows. I recently spent a wonderful, intellectually enriching afternoon with the well-known art aficionado and historian Rajiv Sethi. We met first at his office at the Planning Commission, and then at the Asian Heritage Foundation which he runs in New Delhi. I have known Rajiv well for some years, and have followed his career with interest. He comes from a very Anglicized background, but his lifelong mission has been to rediscover and help preserve the indigenous artistic traditions of India. To this end he has travelled extensively in the Indian countryside, trying to prop up artisans who are on the verge of giving up on generations of artistic excellence, whether in painting or sculpture or metal work or pottery or weaving. What I find interesting is that the nature of his calling has changed Rajiv: I have never seen him dressed in anything other than a chooridar and kurta; and he spoke to me that afternoon, as on most other occasions, in fluent Hindi. The very process of rediscovering his natural heritage has led him to acquire visible Indian attributes without reducing his ability to be a global citizen. Had he chosen a different vocation he would have remained, I have not the slightest doubt, what he was initially ordained to be by the nature of his background: an affable ‘brown sahib’, Indian by citizenship but in most other ways co-opted into the global village.

  No culture or nation or society can today insulate itself from external influences, nor should it try. But that is precisely the reason why it is essential to judiciously evaluate the onslaught. Homogenization, most notably in the cultural field, is the sub-text of globalization. If we cannot judge what to borrow and how much, we become mimics and condemn ourselves to confusion and caricature. Globalization encourages those susceptible to its seductions to either become what they cannot authentically be, or reconfigure themselves as stereotypes that are ‘amusing’ to the co-opting forces—which are the dominant cultures of the west. A recent trend, for example, is for Indians to project their difference by being ‘cute’. It is summed up in that curious phrase: ‘We are like that only.’ Of course we are like that only—by which, I suppose, we mean that we are unique—but this is because we have been shaped by a distinctive and ancient culture, and not because of trivialities such as the way we speak English, or break queues, or travel boisterously, or honk on the road, or accept ‘baksheesh’, or have loud and lavish weddings—all things that people outside, especially in the west, define us by.

  During the colonial period, the natives would consciously behave in a manner that confirmed the stereotypical views that their rulers had of them. For instance, one pervasive myth perpetuated by the colonial rulers was that their subjects were like children needing to be guided. It is a matter of historical record—and the journals and letters of many British officials bring this out clearly—that servants and subordinates would behave like cretins in order to conform to that image. The circumstances have changed greatly since, but the pressure to ‘perform’ is something we still need to fight. Strong, independent cultures anywhere will throw up ‘peculiarities’ of everyday behaviour. But it would be an insult to the deeper impulses of that culture to magnify those peculiarities and make a virtue of them in order to win the approbation of the outsider.

  The courage to be oneself, with dignity and self-awareness, and without lapsing into chauvinism, xenophobia or blind traditionalism, is the particular challenge of our world today. The dominant voices in a globalizing world encourage the belief that cultures need not command the loyalties of the past, and that it is perfectly possible for individuals to cherry-pick their way through the many different cultures of an equal and eclectic—indeed, perfect—world. This romanticized notion of a nomadic lifestyle has its appeal, especially for the small minority that is genuinely born in the interstices of several cultures and fetishizes airport lounges as the democratic, metropolitan villages of the new world. (They shut their eyes when they visit the toilets, of course, or when a ‘profiled’ Asian or Muslim is asked to ‘step aside’ at security.) But for most of mankind this runs, as Bhikhu Parekh argues, ‘the risk of becoming shallow and fragile. Lacking historical depth and traditions, it cannot inspire and guide choices, fails to provide a moral compass and stability, and encourages the habit of hop
ping from culture to culture to avoid the rigour and discipline of any one of them. It is a culture of quotations, a babble of discordant voices, and not a culture in any meaningful sense of the term.’11 Parekh also rightly demolishes the myth that ‘all boundaries are reactionary and crippling and their transgressions a symbol of creativity and freedom. Boundaries structure our lives, give us a sense of rootedness and identity, and provide a point of reference. Even when we rebel against them, we know what we are rebelling against and why.’12

  There is no contradiction between being culturally rooted and being a global citizen. On the contrary, only those who are so rooted win genuine respect. Photocopies are not respected, they are merely a convenience. An Indian intellectual who is as proficient in his mother tongue as he is in English will be valued for having a voice of his own. An Indian woman who wears a sari is a brand ambassador of a refined culture even if she can also carry off a western dress. If India’s urban young knew of Krishna’s sringara rasa, reflected so passionately in his love for Radha, they might look less absurd mimicking the rituals of Valentine’s Day and perhaps also defend more confidently their right to celebrate it. If the talented students of the Shakespeare Society of St Stephen’s College studied the theory of aesthetics and theatre propounded in Bharata’s Natyashastra, their productions would appear more authentic and less derivative. If the humanities departments of our universities were less neglected and more capable of original thinking—which was once the hallmark of Indian culture—they would contribute to a better image of India, giving strength and context to the achievements of our engineers and doctors in the west. If, as Justice Markandey Katju of the Supreme Court recently pointed out, our lawyers were familiar with the Mimansa principles of judicial interpretation in addition to the work of western jurists like Maxwell and Craies, they would probably enhance their own worth in the eyes of their global compatriots.13