Racial Bias – A constructed narrative or an ugly reality?

The recent attacks on Indian students in Australia have refocused attention of world media and politics to the complex issue of shrinking geographic boundaries and coerced intermingling of cultures and ‘races’.

We are still debating whether the attacks in the Land of the Kangaroos are racial in nature or not. Yes, most seem more opportunistic than planned combat against an entire people, but the obvious racial overtones cannot be undermined. Having said that, we also need to factor in that what we see is through the eyes of media, that is not always unbiased. The pattern in which facts are strung together make a story. Indians were attacked – Indian students who were soft targets were attacked. Indian corporate honchos and business tycoons were not.

These so called racial attacks actually pose a much larger problem for the Australian government than mere intolerance for our gold ol’ desis – it is a problem of accelerated crime rate that needs to be checked sooner than later for its own good.

Here, I wish to zoom out from the pressing current to a more panoramic view that cuts across history and continents. Before I get lost in the maze of my warped mind, trying to write as fast as I think and change opinions (:)), just one clarification – whatever I write is within the basic premise that I abhor any kind of bias – be it on the basis of race, color, origin or gender and I strongly feel that such behavior should be dealt with in the firmest manner possible with the most stringent of punishments given to ensure nobody ever dares to repeat the act.

History is replete with narratives of hatred within people – Let’s face it, we, human beings, homo homo sapiens, are a biased lot with umpteen prejudices. Caste, creed, religion, country, economic background – we are a divided people. There cannot be a more ironic phrase than Unity in Diversity. We are constantly in the Us versus Other comparison mode.
The Other is the Australian aboriginal whose existence was systematically wiped out from his motherland, the Other is the Red Indian who was pushed to the periphery of his own American continent, the Other is the Jew who got caught in the Nazi era, the Other is the African who was forced to subservience thanks to the theory of the white man’s burden.

To observe how racial stereotyping works in a fanatical society, we needn’t go very far. India, the singular form is so deceptive, the many Indias, we inhabit is a glaring example of a xenophobic social order.
We cry hoarse when frustrated mobs in Australia beat up our students, when overwhelmed with the financial downturn in Europe, the government sends permanent residents packing back home and when a distraught American economy explores ways to cut down on Indian immigrants.
But, we forget that in our own country when we fight over the superiority of the Aryans over the Dravidians, when we label the north eastern student in our University campus in Delhi a ‘chinky’, when we beat up a dalit for drinking water from the landlord’s well, when we equate Islam with terrorism, and in our post colonial obsession with ‘all that is white is right’, post ads for a gori (fair) girl in the matrimonial sections of the newspaper, we are being racist. This kind of racial slur is even more dangerous because it goes unnoticed most of the times.

I have always wondered what could be the reason for such extreme abhorrence between two people who have never known each other. Before I get into that, I want to answer the question I set out with. Is racial bias a constructed narrative or an ugly reality? Racial bias IS an ugly reality. There cannot be a second opinion to that. However, it is a much larger issue than media folk-lore. Media constructs narratives that sell to its advantage. That paradigm limits our understanding of issues of race and culture in the context of rapid globalization and the resulting mélange.

So what makes an ordinary person like you and me detest another human being who we have never met.

• The Economics of it – With economies world over crashing and the dismal scene at the job market, it irks me if I, being a native citizen of the country, am sacked while an immigrant with the same skill set and half the age of my total experience is hired for the much talked about “cost advantage’. Yes, I am talking about “outsourcing”. I forget that the decision has not been made by the actual guy who has taken over my position but both of us are victims of the larger game, involving disgusting amount of money, played by citizens of my own country. Someone in my country is making a lot of by having a worker from a different country work here or back home at almost half the wages if not lower. It is still ‘yes to Bangalore and no to Buffalo’. And thus, I make a Frankenstein of this guy who is the epicenter of all my anger.

• Cultural Differences – And I don’t just mean Cricket vs. Football, Brad Pit vs. SRK. There are subtle differences between different cultures and we need to be sensitive to these. People argue that there is a conflict between asserting your individual identity vs. becoming one of them. Well, to me it is a choice between ghettoization and cultural integration. There are positives in each culture and if you have had the opportunity of closely interacting with another ethnicity, I see no harm is assimilating the best of both the worlds.

• Stereotyping – Just because your Indian neighbor creates a ruckus every night post 9 PM, every Indian is not like that. Similarly, if the lady at Walmart cannot calculate the change you must get for the 100 dollar bill you paid for groceries worth $87 without using a calculator, not all Americans suck at math!

• Inherent Superiority and Inferiority complexes – All that is white is not always right. Like my gender does not make me a good or a bad driver, my color should not be a basis for my acceptability in any society.

• Black sheep on both sides – And finally, there are the occasional buggers in all cultures, races, countries. You need to take in your stride the desis who embarrass you by blaring the dard-e-disco number on their car stereo at the crossing and shouting loudly at each other in their native tongue in the elevators, just like you need to ignore the firang who knits his brows together at the mere sight of you.

To conclude on a lighter note, here's one of my favorite quotes that aptly summarizes my stance:

“A group of white South Africans recently killed a black lawyer because he was black. That was wrong. They should have killed him because he was a lawyer.”
- A. Whitney Brown

Dom Moraes

I have been snooping around the house a bit and happened to chance upon my sister-in-law's stash. Thanks Aps! I was able to lay my hands on quite a few good books and have displaced these from their intended location to my room, I promise I'll put them back :).

Have been fond of poetry for a long long time now and so I picked the Collected Poems by Dom Moraes first. I must admit that I have not read the poet before and don't even recall his name as being even remotely familiar. And since Vish had atleast heard of the poet (he couldn't recall the poems, thank god!), I had to swallow his snide remark that expressed his concern on the kind of literature I have been into. Hmmm. Okay. Everyone has their moments of enlightenment. I owe him one now :)

Back to Dom Moraes. Born in Bombay, educated in Oxford, Moraes is one of the select few celebrated English poets that India has ever produced. This particular collection comprises select verses from his large body of work over a period of almost five decades. I read through almost all in no particular order (obviously can't read poetry like a novel - beginning to end).

Maybe I didn't give him too much time and thought but my first reaction was wow, the poems are technically sound, beautifully crafted, characterized with apt and unique imagery and interconnection of themes, but very few poems left the deep impression a good composition leaves on you. Some poems, especially, used loud images rather than subtle cues, the focus seemed on the physical power and enthrallment rather than on discerning emotional involvement. Maybe, I am being a little hasty in writing him off and I need to read him atleast once more and with greater care. After all, everybody deserves a second chance.

However, like I said, Moraes does come across as an elegant craftsman, an experienced artist who commands the readers' interest. Here are some verses that I particularly liked:

Aspects of a City
On a defensible hill, by a river,
The foot rested, the bronze hammer
Tested for the fault in the rock.
Tapped up by one concise stroke,
Shape detached itself, visible,
Chisels scraped, details clarified.
Brushes made colours separate.
The blind man, an unnecessary lamp
Raised, commanded the camp to see.
Women's whispers, imprints of war,
Deathmasks, the prescience of blood.
In the living rock, the first shape.
From the first shape the final form.
In the storm's eye the city stood.

All languages is its own history,
Scarred with eponymous heroes,
Heartsick dictators, martyred tribes,
Gods desecrated on their altars.
The sound of an ancient trumpet,
Summons to war, in the vowels.
The clashed consonants echo
Hammer on rock, blade on blade.
All language is its own landscape.
Where single cities can be made.
If it is reductible to a word,
Each one must find his own.
It is the destiny of a dynasty
To form a language from a language.

Once
It happens to you once and only once.
You stare into yourself for many years,
a childhood habit, followed ever since,
and then by accident the face appears
you recognize but have not ever known.

Delicate features of an ancient race,
a classic beauty chiselled from dark stone,
call back the memory of another place
you were acquainted with in other times.

From your exhausted mind the memory climbs
as after a thrown stone the water clears:
the world made flesh, her body of deep bronze
held in your arms after too many years.
It happens to you once and only once.

Typed with One Finger
Travel with me on the long road
into loneliness, where the hours
offer pardons to those still afraid.
Bursts of white and blue flowers
will surprise you in summer, with
denials of what is called death.
When I am not there in the maze
where the long road ends, think
of the clumsy stutter of my limp
behind you always, hindering you,
trying to help you all my days.

Every word that I wrote was true
this way or that, meant to praise
whatever was worth it on earth.
When my thumb, slowly flexed,
erased vexed lines from your brow,
it did more than my typing finger
achieved in those seasons, for that,
over the endless miles of paper,
scratched in marks like crowfeet.
As so there were always reasons
how are lives became complete.
For me the main one was I loved you.

Endlösung der Judenfrage - Holocaust

The worst gang wars of all time – Nazis against the Jews in the 1930s and 1940s under the rule of Führer, as Adolf Hitler was known - is a testimony to the most abysmal depths to which the human race can ebb. Genocide of approximately six million European Jews and systematic annihilation of millions of people in other groups including ethnic Poles, the Romani, Soviets, and political and religious opponents as part of a program of deliberate state-sponsored extermination planned and executed by the SS (Schutzstaffel) army in Germany is what every human being, irrespective of religious, political and national boundaries, should be ashamed of.

And this is the context of the book I just finished reading - Holocaust by Gerald Green, based on the critically acclaimed NBC-TV series by the same name.

Through the fictional accounts of two men caught on the extreme spectrum of this catastrophe – Erik Dorf, officer in the Nazi Army, swept up in a frenzy of murderous rage and Rudi Weiss, a Berlinian Jew, the anguished victim, the author traces the bloody trail from Berlin to Warsaw to Russia to Czechoslovakia to Prague to Israel, unfolding the searing and contrasting saga of the two interlocked German families.

Green spares no gory detail – the destruction of European Jewry, the confabulations of the architects of Hitler's Final Solution, the slaughter at Babi Yar, the impoverished ghettos, the death trains used to export Jews, the concentration camps, the gas chambers, the Warsaw Ghetto uprising and finally, the liberation of Auschwitz. He chronicles how euphemistic phrases such as Endlösung der Judenfrage (German for ‘the final solution to the Jewish question’), resettlement of Jews, autonomous Jewish territories, among others, were used as means to one end – mass obliteration of a whole race. Add to this, the complete apathy by religious and humanitarian institutions, governments and media organizations across the world.

If Holocaust is a story of extreme hatred, it is also a mesmerizing tale of passionate love. It captures the heroism and courage of the some few who fought to live and died with dignity. In its dismal setting of unparalleled monstrous deeds, it strives to keeps alive the hope in the spirit of human relationships.

The narrative brings alive the sadness beyond tears of the lives of the millions perished for no apparent logical reason, and though there is a sense of survival and triumph towards the end, one realizes that it comes at too exorbitant a price and with too many scars that even the waves o f time may not be able to alleviate.

The unceremonious exit of our visitor…

Self invited guests who barge unannounced at home on weekends are bad enough, and if they choose to stay longer than is absolutely necessary, hell tends to break loose. And this is precisely what happened at our place last evening.

This particular visitor slipped unnoticed into our house, presumably in the wee hours of the morning. As soon as my mother-in-law spotted it in the puja area, a high alert was sounded with orders for all bedroom doors to remain closed till further instructions; severe restrictions were imposed on movement between rooms, almost like a mini curfew.

An exordium to the visitant: A critter from the reptilian species, dry and scaly skin, clawed feet, long tail, and slimy and obnoxious, to put it very mildly.
If my feelings for this being are that of disgust and abhorrence, my hubby’s border on paranoia. While I do my regular shrieks and just curse the damn thing and pray that it goes away, Vish simply cannot tolerate the sight of a lizard. If he sees it, he needs to make it go away. Period. Nothing more, nothing less. And though I totally lack the spirit and passion required for this kind of an operation, Vish finds ample support in his mom. Thank God, I say. Keep me out of this.

Only if words could help me re-create those crazy 30 odd minutes! Nevertheless, I try.

Both mother and son braced themselves for an armed combat with Mr. L (L for ‘lizard’ and Mr. coz Vish insisted on referring to it as “him/he”). Amma equipped herself with a broom and Vish was loaded with Hit spray (used for cockroaches etc.). They both then entered the puja area with the deadliest of intentions, and I was like this curious amateur journalist sans any camera or notepad, reporting from Ground Zero. My peace-loving father-in-law refused to participate in the war without an ample cause and remained locked in his room.

Vish mercilessly sprayed the foul smelling Hit all around, behind the idols and pictures to bring the enemy out in the open, and Mr. L graced us with his scummy presence. What an unfair battle it was. Here was our six inches adversary unarmed and in a state of shock faced with two adult human beings girded with mortal weapons. Panic-stricken, Mr. L tried hiding, but all in vain. The mother-son duo was indefatigable and soon brought Mr. L on the ground with a big thud. The poor guy tried to find a foot-hold but only slithered. After almost half-an-hour of broom stick battering, unpleasant aerosols and loud war-like cries, our soldiers, with a never-before vengeance, threw Mr. L out of the house.

You should’ve seen the triumphant smiles of my MIL and hubby. They were on top of the world. As if the whole episode wasn’t funny enough, their victorious back slapping made me literally roll on the floor in a wild laughter.
Apparently, this has been the fate of all lizards that have been unfortunate enough to be seen by Vish, and to be fair, I’ll admit he is a little less fierce on the intolerable guests.

The latest flu in town - IPL

Not that I hold anything in particular against one of the most celebrated cultural legacies that we have bequeathed from the British imperials – Cricket; however, I fail to fathom the feverish popularity of this colonial game.

The game assumes epidemic proportions during the World Cups, Indian Premium League (IPL) series and, these days, any match that India is playing in.
Deserted streets, cold food waiting at the dining table, selective hearing disorder in especially the men folk, joyous applaud interspersed with sighs of disappointment, the rambunctious bursting of crackers, irrespective of the hour of night or day, at a win, and the fanatic violence at a loss – ohh how I hate it all, this obsession with a game of bat and ball. (Wow, that rhymes; I always knew the first step towards poetry is misery.)

Ok, let’s talk about the latest manifestation of this malady – IPL. ‘Cricket for cricket’s sake’, they say – balderdash! The who’s who of the bollywood fraternity, the liquor baron, the Ambani’s, the ‘whoever’ with that extra buck, bid for players as if they were horses or something.
The millions pumped in by the otherwise broke sponsors (and no, I don’t specifically mean Citi), the deluge of ads, the not-so-bad cheerleaders (alas, South Africa seems to be outside the ruthless control of the Ram Sena) who seem to cheer the crowds and not the players, the pathetic expression of SRK after every match, the irritating interviews of Priety Zinta where she shows her support for the “boys”, the Shetty sisters giggling in corner, the Kingfisher with the mermaid (Katrina), the boy-cut Mandira Bedi, the MTV VJ compering for Set Max – tell me what is not unbearable about this game.

Everywhere – at home, office, the local grocery store – people are speculating, betting, hoping, praying – Chennai Super Kings, Kolkata Knight Riders, Delhi Darevils, Royal Challengers Banagalore, Rajasthan Royals, Punjab Kings, Mumbai Indian, Deccan Challengers – how does it matter who wins? They do not really represent the state they are playing for. They are a part of the team cos they were bought for so many millions and they are raking even more because everybody is so emotionally involved in this game of moolah.

The politics of the country – the impending General Elections - have all been pushed to the periphery of our consciousness – relegated to the space of the media. We are not sure, and frankly, care a damn as to who the next prime minister will be. Mention IPL, and our brows knit together in deep concern - we sincerely deliberate – Chennai doesn’t seem to have a chance, close call between Deccan and Delhi, Punjab’s not far behind, Mumbai can still bounce back, is Kolkata still in the series?

Nothing unites us or divides us like Cricket does. And it is precisely this despotism that the sport enjoys that exasperates me thoroughly. Relish the game as you please, don’t revere it.

I need a break!

The last two three weeks have been frenetic. As if extended work hours (from eight hours to nine hours a day), thanks to my organization's paranoia over recession, was not enough to frazzle me, now work spills over to holidays and weekends!

Have been toiling away every holiday (Tamil New year, the impromptu bandh by the Tamil Nadu govt.) and weekend for the last three weeks. Add to that 3 hours of traveling everyday - the perfect recipe for an exasperated and weary being faintly resembling me.
Often my mind feels numb and it takes long to focus on something outside my long list of to-dos.

The only extended family, relatives and friends I am in touch with are those that are on Orkut and Facebook. For some small mercies, since I am always at the comp, I steal some time here and there to log on to these social networking sites. Gone are the days of those never-ending phone calls with endless banter and gossip and the aimless surfing of channels on the idiot box. I am totally out of touch!

Believe me, I am not a cribber at work and till a couple of months back, I have seldom had Monday morning blues. In the true earnestness of being a Monday's child (yes, was born on a Monday!), all through school, college and work, I have been that one-off cheerful kid, enthusiastically and meticulously engaged with preparation for the coming week every Sunday evening.

But this year has been so frenzied that all my patience and perseverance has been put to test. I swear to god I need a break to recuperate from the damage of having overworked and to rejuvenate my spirits so that I can atleast endeavor to think from a new perspective.

A Princess I Don’t Envy

Having grown up on an extravagant indulgence of fairytale romances with princesses in distress and knights in shining armor, I have always envied the lives of the royalty across geographies and cultures – the Victorian splendor, the Mughal opulence, the Arabic excesses.

I have read legendary tales of birds in gilded cages but I always felt that in any given period in history, I would rather be a wealthy queen with no freedom than a woman who has to struggle. My argument goes like this - a Victorian princess must have been much more blithe and contented than a woman from, say, the bourgeoisie. Going by that logic, till yesterday, I’d not mind being an Arabic heiress with plenitude and luxury at my beck and call. Ignorance is bliss, they say and I agree. On my mother-in-law’s recommendation, I decided to spend my weekend reading “Princess: A True Story of Life Behind the Veil in Saudi Arabia” by the American writer, Jean Sasson. The book has been classified as the top 500 books written on women.

The story is a non-fictional heart wrenching autobiography of a princess that takes its readers to the forbidden realms of the royal house in Saudi. The princess, unfortunately, has an indomitable spirit and great courage, both causes of grave threat to a patriarchal society that sees women as only objects of possession. The men in her life – her brother, her father, her husband rule her life and do everything possible to annihilate her chutzpah. Much as the tale is about the harassed weaker sex whose only sin is the missing male organ, it is also a tale of the decadence of the male community who continue to live in the barbarism of the dark ages.

The powerful indictment of Sultana, the pseudonym of the central character of the narrative, made me shudder in first, disbelief, then anger and frustration. The thought of a contemporary undergoing such an arduous and torturous life in this age – yes, Sultana is still living, if her existence can be passed off as that, is abominable. This is not a prehistoric saga but a 21st Century extraordinary account of the ordinary lives of women in a part of the same world that we inhabit. I am inevitably forced to compare our lives. Is my equal status to my husband something I should feel privileged about? Should I be grateful to my dad for having educated me? Am I honored that the society I live in considers polygyny a crime?

A profound sadness shrouds the book, leaving little room for hope even though the Princess tries every trick from open defiance to subtle manipulation. The story ends as it begins, the closest men in her life visiting the mosque, leaving her alone behind. There is this helplessness that is so intricately woven with the unfolding of events that no reader can escape the despair the reading of the book brings. I have little courage to read the other two books as part of the trilogy – Princess Sultana’s Daughters and Princess Sultana’s Circle.
Equality of men and women is debatable in any society, but this blatant denial of basic human rights to women, and relegating them to a status worse than that of animals and slaves, is very disturbing, to say the least.