Nehru - a revisit.

Jawahar Lal Nehru- a revisit

I’m making a clear disclosure at the beginning of this writing: this is not a view of Jawahar Lal Nehru, India’s first prime minister from a myopic field of Kashmiri political scene or conflict per se. The world unfortunately, as we view, does not run around Kashmir. Pandit Nehru had its flaws but in the current fad of running him down, I find it imperative for us to look back at JLN in a comprehensive manner.

On a personal level, which is from where I would like to begin, my love affair with Nehruvian ideas was passed onto me by Abba -- my late grandfather. A liberal-Nehruvian- socialist whose crucial injunctions in my growing up years had a profound effect on how I saw the world around me.

Pandit Nehru has many critics and rightly so. He was no saint. He erred. One of the biggest blots on his political sleeve is the dismissal of an elected communist government in Kerala in 1959. The precedence for devisive politics in free India was set during his times. History commits ironies. In numbers.

Pandit Nehru was regarded as coming of aristocratic lineage, and often many parliamentarians like Ram Manohar Lohia, who coined the term ‘Ghoongi  Gudia‘ for his daughter Mrs Gandhi, and whose sole fame in life remained in running down Pandit Nehru, once shouted in the parliament, ‘The Nehrus claim to be aristocratic, I can prove that the Prime Minister’s grandfather was a chaprasi in Mughal Court. Jawahar Lal Nehru in his typical atoned manner retorted back, ‘I’m glad the Hon’ble Member has at last accepted what I have been trying to tell him for so many years- that I am a man of the people!’ And that he certainly was.

Here was man who after completing his education in Trinity College Cambridge England returned to India. The seat of power was something that young Jawahar had no need to work hard for, after all his father Moti Lal Nehru was a top Congress leader. However, Pandit Nehru not only shunned the privilege aristocracy, but also the Saville Row suits and Victorian crockery, replaced dutifully with Khadi and handmade earthen pots at Anand Bhavan, Nehru’s mansion at Allahabad, a house which before his arrival glittered under garden parties and overflowing scotch. He convinced his father MotiLal Nehru to walk on his path. Over next two decades JNL embarked on a journey that was nothing less than as an act of ‘self-making’, and ‘nation building’ capping in his book The Discovery of India, which he wrote while in prison. JLN made himself an Indian by travelling across the length and breadth of India, appalled at the poverty of his countrymen, their helplessness, their misery;  in turn replaying in his mind the India of his dreams that we envisioned along with his dramatic journey, sometimes looking pensively at a far downtrodden village through the window of his train. One of his long-time aide V.K Menon thought JLN was a radical activist, happy fighting for a cause; more than a politician. It was these principles of khadi, satyagraha, swadesh which he learned from his mentor MK Gandhi that laid the foundation stone of India’s freedom struggle.

Pandit Nehru all his life was non-communal. His disdain for religion was well known. In the aftermath of gory partition killings, a horrified Nehru wrote, ‘There is a limit to brutality and that limit has been crossed. As long as I am alive India will not become a Hindu State. The very idea of a theocratic state is not only medieval but also stupid.’ Nehru resolved to preserve the secular credentials of India all his life. Once his Marxist friend Andre Malraux, the famous French novelist who fought in Spanish civil war asked him what his greatest challenge is since Independence, Nehru replied, ‘Creating a secular state in a religious country.’ The present call for cow vigilantism is not new. The demand stood always by right wing Hindu party Bhartiya Jan Sangh. But Nehru withstood to the pressure. He rejected all demands for a ban on cow slaughter saying he would rather resign than give in to this futile, silly and ridiculous demand. The India of 21^st century Modi has come a long way- not necessarily in the right direction!

Nehru very tactfully played the card of non-alignment at the zenith of cold war, refusing to be a part of any bloc. Henry Kissinger writes in his book World Order- ‘The essence of this strategy was that it allowed India to draw support from both Cold War camps- securing military aid through Soviet bloc, while courting American development assistance and moral support. It was a wise course for an emerging nation. Rather than being a poor secondary ally, as a free agent India could exercise a much wider reaching influence.’ The policy paid its dividends during the ’71 war, when Pakistan as an American ally, was kept waiting for the elusive 7^th fleet. As history goes, the American military aid never arrived and Pakistan lost its east forever. The repercussion of Bangladesh war is to this day felt, especially in Kashmir. 

Levying the blame of dynasty politics and nepotism on Nehru has become a national pastime for Indians. The facts however are contrary to it. There is no evidence to prove that Nehru was grooming his daughter to succeed him as prime minister. In fact well before his death he drafted back Lal Bahadur Shastri into government and was very clear with his deteriorating health that he should be his worthy successor. Indira Gandhi once regretfully said, ‘My father never spoke to me about government affairs. Never.’ As a patriarch Nehru was keen to keep her influence only till Teen Murti affairs. Perhaps, he had a fatherly sense of her authoritarian way of leading, which he disapproved.  Something which almost brought down the Indian democracy in ’75 emergency.

The demolition of Babri Masjid in 1992 and ensuing communal violence perhaps tainted India’s secular credentials beyond repair, rocking its secular foundations and liberal Nehruvian ideas, however, if one goes few decades back, a similar tragedy was averted in 1951, when India was barely finding its feet, in Somnath, when Nehru disapproved of the temple’s reconstruction, well aware of the anteposition it could set, and in very plain terms calling it dangerous revivalism of Hinduism. He ultimately agreed to it but ensured that money for reconstruction would not come from government exchequer. He was clear that state must not meddle in religious affairs.

There is no absolutely no doubt that Jawahar Lal Nehru was twentieth centuries greatest statesman, who dared to dream that the newly born Indian state, in its midnight tryst with destiny, touches the highest democratic standards of the world. Did he succeed or fail? 70 years are too less to judge it yet. 

Ode To Sadhana

A year into our marriage, when my wife was in Kashmir recuperating after the birth of our son, she calls me one evening. She sounded little fitful. When I asked her the reason, she retorted that she saw a dream where an older woman was living with me in our flat. Taken aback I told her I have made a collage of some of my favorite pictures of Sadhana the actress, and put it up on one of our walls in the hallway. The dream was true in some ways.

Fact is, I’m not just a fan of Sadhana, in that sense. I do believe with good conviction that I’m in love with her. And it’s not the love of a fan towards an actress. It’s something more. Something else.  Al Pacino says his favorite actress is Julie Christie- Lara from Doctor Zhivago fame, because she is the most poetic actress. Same can be said about  Sadhana. She owned a face where invariably one would turn out couple of lines in ode of her beauty, her subtlety, her femininity. On her mannerism which were her signet. She is at her enchantress best as a belle in songs like Abhi na jao chod kar, where in childlike affection she has a tete-a-tete with Dev Anand. The lyrical prose of the song accentuating the entire mood. I don’t think this song could have been picturized on any other actress. Or Lag jaa gaale from Woh kaun thi.

In an age when movies in Hindi film industry were largely about social issues and aftermath of industrial revolution, and very less emphasis was on fashion;  Sadhana was a sort of an aberrant. She was nothing less than a fashion icon in her Audrey Hepburn inspired fringe- which was known in India as Sadhana cut. What better proof of her sense of style that the tight churidar and mojris she wore in Yash Chopra’s Waqt are still in vogue. If you happen to have a look at family albums of 60s and 70s, Sadhana imprint is all over on girls and ladies of the times.

There is a very famous incident that occurred on the set of her first film, in which she had a small supporting role. She asked the film’s star Sheila Ramani for autograph. Ramani scribbled ‘One day I will come for your autograph.’ It was hard to ignore Sadhana’s star potential from very early on in her career.

Regarding her famous fringe, there is an interesting anecdote. It was her to-be husband R.K Nayyar, she fondly called as Rummy, who advised to cover her broad forehead. Those days Audrey Hepburn’s Roman Holiday with Gregory Peck, had just released. She was promptly sent to a Chinese hairdresser and thus the famous Sadhana fringe was born.

Being a trend setter that she was, the tight fusion churidars was her  idea to her costume designer Banu Athiya. One day during the filming of Waqt when Yash Chopra saw her wearing a sleeveless, gold embroidered kurti, churidar and mojris he immediately gave a thumbs up to the chic look, stating that it was exactly the look he wanted for his heroine. That costume can be seen in ‘hum jab simat ke apki bahon mai agaye’ song, which is shot in Srinagar’s Lalit Grand Palace’s grandeur gardens.

Sadhana brand had reached to such levels that even her burkas, that she wore in Mere Mehboob, set off a veiled trend in India back then.

She had a successful marriage with her first director R.K Nayyar. A marriage that ended only when R.K Nayyar died suddenly in 1995. A week before his death he called his wife and in some premonition asked her to take care of herself after he is gone. Sadhana told him what if she dies first. R.K Nayyar replied, ‘phir do arthiyan uthegi. I will not be able to survive without you.’

Sadhana died at the age of 74, on 25th December 2015, leaving behind a legacy which is hard to fill.

Europe- Travelogue- Part I, Italy.

                                                        

There is a thing about European cities. A certain sound. I observed it in almost all cities that I visited on my backpacking trip. An echo that rebounds from stunning arty architectural structures. The imprint of renaissance arts is felt almost all over Europe.

 I began my trip from Rome; after a stopover at Frankfurt- the gateway to Europe. Frankfurt is a sprawling airport; endless. Almost all major flights from Asia, passing over to US, Scandinavian and Canada, stop at Frankfurt. Changing my flight at Frankfurt, after I had a cup of hot cappuccino- I absolutely adore the smell at airport cafes, it just fills my senses of upcoming adventures; I was on board to Rome. It is said Rome is always sunny in its azure skies. The breathtakingly blue skies welcomed me too as I hit Rome early in the morning. I checked into my Air BnB accommodation, choosing a place near Roma Centrale- Rome’s major train and metro station. From here the Colosseum and Roman Forum were on walking distance. My first places to visit in Rome.


 The construction of Colosseum began in AD 72 and was inaugurated in AD 80 by Emperor Titus, with a hundred days of festivities. For about 5 centuries on the occasion of anniversaries and military victories, the emperors spent vast resources on staging magnificent spectacles for citizens. The Gladiator combats were banned in the 5th century but combats with wild animals are recorded as late as till 12th century. It is quite remarkable to envisage what must have been the scene during the days of its pomp. Now what was lying before my eyes was a mural sketch of that era. I tried breathing some of its air. Tried imagining myself as one of the spectators back then, cheering the Gladiators. I met an old local Roman, who was aimlessly walking around the Forum. We got talking.


 He was a tour guide. What he told me was fascinating. In the days of its glory in Colosseum, the spectacle used to begin early in the morning. During the lunch interval, executions and besties took place; the condemned, naked and unarmed, faced wild beasts, which would eventually tear them to pieces. During the interval there were performances by jugglers, magicians and acrobats. Finally Gladiator combats (munera) were held in the afternoon. The participants in these combats were usually prisoners of war, slaves and some free men seeking fame and fortune. The games were often financed by politicians who hoped to curry favor with public, but the intellectuals saw these spectacles as a means of swaying public from real issues and as a cause of spiritual decadence.   

I sometimes think a city chooses me, rather than I choosing it. It is no accident that propels people like me to Rome. Rome is the cradle of previous births. You can read here on the walls where Raphael and da Vinci lived. Rome was existing since 700 years, when its most famous emperor Augustus took throne in 27 BC. According to a legend Rome was founded by twins Romulus and Remus, raised by a she-wolf. Over the centuries, Rome’s wealth had drawn people across the empire, creating a population of around 1 million, one of the largest urban population in the pre-industrial world. Yet the physical appearance of the city belied the military and political might of its ruling class. Rome was an urban sprawl grown without long term planning.

Under Augustus however there began a gradual development into a city worthy of world empire. The Rome of today has huge etch of the Augustus era.

The Roman Forum, the civic centre of the greatest city is an accretion of centuries of buildings. Laying in the shadow of the Capitoline hill, the Forum is flanked by basilicas (great halls for judicial business), political buildings and temples.

I loved walking on the streets of Rome. There is a sense of serenity in this ancient city that is not hard to miss. While modernity has its imprints, but Rome largely has retained its flavour. I spent my days in Rome visiting museums, bookstores, Vatican city, eating tasty crisp pizzas on many of its open restaurants; stopping over a corner bend and getting absolutely lost in the street music played by nearby musician: flutes, saxophone, guitar. Rome is delightful in that sense. A treasure for someone like me who loves lazing around aimlessly. I found many of my tribe in this city. Rome also is famous for stately gorgeous Piazzas (city centres). One of the most famous being Piazza Navona. There were artists all around, musicians, travellers, revellers. Rome accepts everything and gives you back a part of its own soul. I carry it along with me, now, always.

Rest of my backpacking trip in Italy included Napoli and Pompeii in south and Florence in north. For Napoli and Pompeii, I took a super-fast Trenitalia train from Rome. Napoli is a shoddy city more than anything; over populous, with residential building stacked over one another, hardly any air to breathe. There are tiny labyrinth lanes, with clothes left for drying from almost all windows. However, my reason to be in south Italy was to visit Pompeii, a major city during the glory of Roman empire.

From Napoli, Pompeii is an hour’s drive. The end of this great city in AD 69 was so sudden that it probably has no equal in history. The volcanic eruption on Mount Vesuvius, surrounding this city, completely destroyed it. The surprised Pompeiians had little idea what hit them, as the volcanic crystals showered on them for 2 days with the ash covering the city later. Perhaps, a reason why most of the city could be excavated; the volcanic molten preventing decay. There are charred bread crumbs, onions, other vegetables that were excavated by the archaeologists!

From one of the shops at the main Stabiana, coins were found in the baker’s oven. The owner perhaps had left them there, after the eruption, in hope of return. It took me over five hours to see the ruins of this once magnificent city; giving me endless memories to savor. I visited what is world’s first known Amphi theatre at Pompeii. The theatre held gladiator games with a capacity of twenty thousand people. Pink Floyd played here in 1974. There is a small memorabilia built in memory of that concert. Hair on my forearms prickled when I walked through the dark gallery; walls playing Echoes.

“Overhead the albatross hangs motionless upon the air

And deep beneath the rolling waves in labyrinths of coral caves

The echo of a distant tide

Comes willowing across the sand

And everything is green and submarine.”

What is most remarkable about Pompeii is how the structures, at least most of the main casa’s- belonging to wealthy Pompeiians, have retained their glory. Murals on walls inside the houses are still visible. I walked inside these houses, feeling the walls with my hands. There was one very distinct memory that stayed with me. After being dead like a tired horse, I dropped my backpack and leaned against a wall, in one of the Pompeiian houses. It was a two storied cassa- with a beautiful garden in the centre. I must have stayed silent for a long long time, breathing the Pompeiian air. Few leaves flickered under a mild breeze coming from the Amalfi coast. A cricket bird chirped. It was the sort of moment for which in the hindsight when I lookback, I feel my purpose of life is achieved. Traveling across as a solo traveller, sitting here in a remote south Italian city, in ruins, with absolutely no one that I know- in complete wilderness of my thoughts. Alone. Yet connected to the larger purpose. It is the understanding of the difference between journey and goal; the awareness of the truth that the goal of life is the living of it. I was woken up by a fellow traveller, who perhaps saw me sitting quietly in a corner. He quipped in a rather hush manner, ‘mate, its beautiful here.’

My next stop in Italy was Florence — a quaint little city in North Italy. I checked into a hostel here. Hostels are cheap and allow you to mix with travellers of different countries. In my case I couldn’t have asked for more; they had an all-weather swimming pool and sauna bath. My tired limbs cried for it. Of course, my reason to be in Florence was to see the Michelangelo museum, where his most famous art work David stood. David is Michelangelo's most famous and celebrated art work. He began work on it in 1501 AD. Scholars believe that David is here represented after his victory over Goliath, the sling on David's shoulder is used to bring Goliath down. Thus emphasizing that David did not use any brute force, but his intelligence and innocence, to gain victory. It took Michelangelo four years to make David, grinding it from a slab of marble. When completed, the art work was carried on a carriage throughout the city, with people marvelling at it, finally finding its place at a central Piazza in the heart of Florence, where it stood for many many years. He had his critics though. It is said when Michelangelo was finishing David, the town mayor came to have a look. Michelangelo had put a canvas around David, so that no one could watch him work. The canvas scaffolding gave away and the Mayor had a look at David. Putting up the show of the art connoisseur, Mayor pointed out the nose was too thick, though from his vantage point it was impossible to judge the thickness of nose! Ever the smart he was, Michelangelo climbed up the scaffold, grabbing a hammer and pretended at chiseling the nose. ‘How’s it now Mr Mayor,’ he shouted from the top. He had not touched the sculpture, of course. “Now, it’s much better,” exclaimed the mayor. “Now you’ve put life into it.” The stupidity of some critics has stayed along years.

I went back to my room. Had another round of swim and slept early. Next day morning, I had to catch my train to Zurich. I was traveling to the land of Yash Chopra!

Jaffna Street- book review.

Jaffna Street is essentially unsettling. Not because it talks about the horrors that war brings upon its causalities, but because it is neither a testimony nor a polemic. It’s very easy and convenient to take sides, when you talk about conflicts; but that’s not what literature is meant for. To tell stories as they are require a certain amount of grasp at things; on the ground. Khalid not only had his ears to the ground, being born and brought up in downtown Srinagar, what substantially was the hot seat of an armed revolution that began in late ’89, but he also his heart in place. Jaffna Street is written with tremendous panache. It’s like the famous designer from Italy Enrico Coveri taking to word-smithery. Detailing is to the point, editing crisp, without really dragging ever.

From the political evolution of the 1980s generation coming of age and seeking to lay their claim on the 1931  ethno-religious political project, their flights across the LoC into the arms training camps and their encounters with idealistic  long forgotten pioneers of the insurgency. From the story of a survivor of the Jammu pogrom in 1947 to the unknown  political face of Meerakh Shah, the celebrated mystic,  From the travails of an NC worker who suffers bereavement in state inflicted violence and in the end dies a violent death, the  bakra diehard Fayaz whose life is totally altered because of his devotion to the Mirwaiz family and its politics,  Khalid suffers no biases,everything is exhaustively dealt upon even the long dead prophesier of Safakadal whose utterances still provoke messianic undercurrents in that area.

The part about the student gangs and professional gangsters, existing in the 70s and 80s of Srinagar, seemed to me like watching Sergio Leone’s epic gangster movie Once Upon a Time in America. The brazen use of knuckledusters, shootings, substance abuse and the introduction of word Mandrax in our daily vernacular. The fierce rivalry between the Gaw Kadal- Batmalyun gang on one side and the Dalgate gang on other, throws up characters like the eccentric James Wood’s Max in the movie did. ‘M’ as he is referred in anomaly in the book, fits the bill perfectly. Fond of extravagance, gadgets and high life, M treads on a path full of danger. Growing up in a marginalized family, in a city-side ghetto, M rises up on ladder of crime, carving a niche amongst wise guys. If M is ambitious and boisterous, then there is a De Niro like Noodles Mac too- the old gang leader of the City Side boys gang, who though later on, given an opportunity, after stint in insurgency and prison refused to dabble in politics, admonishing the loathed separatist politics. Mac in his days may have been ruthless with his Kukri and chains, but he carries a conscience. There was a certain air about those guys, of that generation. Men of honour. It is something any downtowner can tell you. I’d my share of my cousins too, from this generation; driving their Yamaha’s, adorning their walls with George Michael posters, sporting aviators, wooing girls. For me they were John Rambo clones. How I wished to be like them, like any fan would.

There are moments where the book absolutely lights up. Story of Nazir Gaash, the Marxist of Safa Kadal remains my favorite part of the book. The part is dealt with tremendous maturity by the author. A nonconformist, Nazir Gaash’s self searching forays early in his life takes him to Buddhism. Unable to satiate his existential crisis, Gaash’s intellectual pursuits, piqued by a curious mind, take him to the world of Marx and Western philosophy. The author mentions how his own intellectual growth took shape on Gaash’s shopfront, appropriately named Edible Link, where he would often engage in the world of ideas. The city could still bear a nihilist son. But all this changed at the throes of the war. People like Gaash wisely kept to themselves, for the bullet had no respect for ideas. His sphere of Sartre and Kant was somehow washed down Jhelum.

It must have been around 2ish in the morning, when I was reading Gaash’s story. I closed the book on my chest and kept gazing at the chandelier on top of my head. I don’t know for how long was in this state. The abject absurdity of life and a long abyss that we look through occupied my mind, with Gaash’s convictions and intellectual odysseys at the back of it. I don’t know what beckoned my wife. She woke up from her sleep, turned the lights on at the corner of our hall, where I’ve my library and where I usually read. She jolted me. It was quite a moment, in the introspection of a man and the world he saw largely at. Lost in the oblivion. The existential desertion. And the larger futility of life.

The story of Ijaz,  son of a artisan, fondly called Ija: a well behaved, soft spoken boy, is very poignant. Though it’s short but it pierces one like a bullet. Buoyed by the calls for arms revolution, Ijaz like host of others disappeared in the summer of 1990. He had joined a group that was going to cross the LOC for arms training. Contaminated water had made Ijaz sick. Dehydrated and feverish he couldn’t continue with the rest of the guys and was abandoned in the forest. Ijaz didn’t die of enemy bullets. He was a consumption of war. A mere statistics in the end. A number. And that’s the misery and the truth of a war. Khalid has narrated it, as it is, which is not only brave but also a far cry from the beaten victim card played by us.

Khalid has spoken a language unknown to those who read about Kashmir conflict. He is not only brazenly honest but also bitter. Bitter at the mediocrity surrounding us, which we unfortunately and shamelessly celebrate too often.

A quarter and a century ago, writer David Bellos says he was talking to a French friend 
about paucity of literary material on the Algerian War, accusing France of voluntary 
amnesia. He reached to his shelf, pulled down a tattered paperback, and said without any 
words: There was a literature of the Algerian War, and here it is. The book was Daniel 
Anselme’s La Permission. Jaffna Street is right up there.

The review appeared in two leading daily's.

http://www.kashmirtimes.in/newsdet.aspx?q=65649

http://www.greaterkashmir.com/news/op-ed/neither-a-testimony-nor-a-polemic/246307.html