Militarism is an Eternal Flame

Source: https://cdn.editorji.com/V2dOka2MIo.jpg

Last week, the Amar Jawan Jyoti was extinguished after lending its flame in December 2021 to India's new National War Memorial. 

There are many points of view on this, broadly divided along predictable political lines.

To me, this underscores a change that has been creeping in on us, as a society, for many years. Simply put: We have now gone from remembering the unknown soldier--my son, your brother, her father, his uncle--who died in a war someone else decided to wage. The soldier, usually male, may have enlisted for any reason, making a commitment to take or give a life in the line of duty. We recognise that this is a sacrifice anyway, and we recognise that families suffer losses in the name of this duty. 

Tombs to unknown soldiers, around the world, recognise the courage and sacrifice of the individual soldier. They mark what Rupert Brooke wrote about in "The Soldier":

If I should die, think only this of me:
      That there’s some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
      In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
      Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam;
A body of England’s, breathing English air,
      Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
      A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
            Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
      And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
            In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

We justify this dying and killing in the name of nations--"imagined communities," to use their most elegant definition--fictions we write ourselves for a host of reasons. Married to the legal entity of the state, the romantic ideal of a community of affect and aspiration becomes mired in the reality of monopolies of violence and turf-battles within and without states. Just as the individual soldier loses their name and identity in these battles and must be commemorated anonymously, so does their memory become subordinate to that of war itself.

It is telling that we have moved our commemorative flame from the tomb of the otherwise forgotten soldier to a monument that immortalises war. War is both a tragic, traumatic, human-made disaster as well as a lofty venture, ennobled by rhetoric and aggrandized by ceremony. 

When states build war memorials, they celebrate themselves in their rawest expressions of power. They remind us of the resources they can command to wreak destruction. They remind us that once they fought and won--because which loser builds a monument to loss, right?--and that they can do so again. As the soldier is lost in the war, they are lost in these statist celebrations. 

And while, when we revisit and rewrite history, the category of "unknown soldier" might expand to include many outside the state forces who also give their lives for a larger good (albeit still defined by others), official War Memorials are very clear about who the good guys were, and who, the bad. 

I have been commenting for several years about the metamorphoses of our Independence and Republic Day celebrations. Where we would have folk dances, and skits about social reformers and freedom-fighters, it is now all about the military and the police. There seems to be nothing left for India to celebrate except the valour of soldiers (which is real but perhaps we should also ask, to what end?). In skits, speeches, songs and dances, we are always the virtuous "us" vis-a-vis undefined but obvious enemies. As we become more militaristic in our celebrations and assertions, ironically, our identity is defined less by who we are than who we are not. 

The Amar Jawan Jyoti, which said to the deceased soldiers and their families, "Sorry, we decided and you died but we are so grateful to you for this sacrifice," is now replaced by "Behold, the grandeur and triumphs of this state!" This is who we now are. This is who we are choosing to be. 

Sunshine and a multi-coloured crayon!

Another New Year, another resolution. The most important nursery rhyme we learn (in English) may well be 'Insy Winsy Spider,' what life seems to be nothing but an endless series of climbing up walls, sliding off and trying again. I am not sure what the spider's goal was but as I grow older, the doing itself has become my goal. Just to be writing. Writing what, who will read, is it good? I actually don't care. But this is like those fifteen minutes that you get to soak your feet in a tub of hot water with salt or something fancier--wonderful in the moment. 

Year-end lists, new year resolutions--been there, done that. I might actually have nothing left/ new/ useful/ interesting to say. 

So let me capture this moment in words, just for the fun of it. A lovely morning sunlight, with the glimmer of a threat--"Shall I remind you of summer?"--in the glint of this light. All quiet on the Kamalabai Street front. My messy desk, left with all the residue of last year that I had no energy to actually tidy up. This reminds me of the mess I would leave behind were I to die this minute, this week, this year. Too much stuff, too much stuff. The baggage of a lifetime lived in hard work and anticipation. I spy three gifts on the table. A mobile stand, new, gifted by a new entrant into the family. A mug, designed in the 'ethnic cuteness' style, faded now on the outside but bright as ever inside--maybe like my spirit? A violet acrylic jar, a little visitor gift by a poet friend, repository of unpoetic but essential pendrives, of which I own many. I also have two tubes of hand-lotion--something else that I buy freely. I still spend more money on small things than large ones--the legacy of a lifetime of financial uncertainty. New diaries, old bills. Cables, cables, chargers, chargers. Three mugs full of pens. Because the aspiration to write--many words in many colours--will not die. 

When I die, just burn the material stuff with me. It is not worth the bother of sorting and filing. We are just dust and ashes, after all, and all our profound thoughts, turbulent passions, heartbroken fatigue and tickytackystuff are just waste material. Like this empty dabba that once held mints, or this sample 'activating essence' (activating what?), or this 'Refreshing Tissue' from some long-forgotten flight. 

There are also some nice little things here. A box of copper-coloured ("rose gold") binder clips that improve every printed text. A lovely multi-coloured crayon (another gift) I still haven't tried but that I realise must become the image that goes with this post. In the photo I just took, it separates the gloomy from the bright, brings colour and the promise of time spent creatively into this New Year weekend. Perfect! 

There has not been a day without writing in my life--email, cards, tweets, posts, brochures, prospectuses, articles, talks, pep-talks--but when I say that I need to write, I mean this. This feet-in-a-tub-of-water feeling of just sitting down and writing what I want, and away with the world. This is, once more, my promise to myself this new year, for which my uncleared desk might well be a metaphor, given all its tired, painful baggage. May we all find sunshine and multi-coloured crayon this year! And now, I must remove my feet from this tub-of-writing-water and hit the publish button so that I might play with the crayon! 

Beyond the #facepalm! A single post with all my #IWD articles

Writing that International Women's Day article or blogpost is a March ritual that I look forward to--though I am not sure why. Over the years, I have now written a few and instead of tweeting them all out one by one and annoying you, decided to build an archive post. I will just keep adding them here and sharing this one instead!

The first media article I did was at the invitation of Prayaag Akbar ten years ago. It was the centenary of the observance.

100 years later: We've come far, but have a long way to go, The Sunday Guardian, March 22, 2011. 

Before that, on this blog: DON'T celebrate Women's Day..., March 8, 2007.

Seven myths to dump on this International Women's Day, The PSW Weblog, March 2012. (Compiled for someone at the Deccan Chronicle but I am not sure they used it.)

This International Women's Day, make a promise towards gender equality, DNA, March 8, 2015.

How to observe International Women's Day: Do's and Don'ts, DNA, March 5, 2016. 

Women, global norms and local rights, The New Indian Express, March 6, 2020.

International Women's Day isn't a day for sales or roses, Mint Lounge, March 8, 2021.

Show me your compassionate heart. And you will find me there.

(A short story for a long lament.)

I have stepped out to get some ilaneer (tender coconut water). On the bench by the vendor’s cart, sits a very despondent man. I think that maybe he is thirsty but the ilaneer is too expensive so I ask the vendor to give him one, my treat. The vendor shakes his head. “He has been like this for a long time. He won’t speak. He won’t buy a coconut. He just sits there, spreading gloom and sorrow around my cart.”

I wonder what great grief fills this sad man. I take the second coconut in my hand, sit next to him and say, “Brother, take a sip and tell me what ails you.”

He sits silent and immobile and then, maybe sensing my determination to stay, lifts his head to look at me. In his eyes, I see the troubles of the world. Sick people, hungry people, old people all alone, children left orphaned. His eyes fill my heart with an immeasurable sorrow too.

I persist, “Tell me what ails you.”

“Can you not see?” he asks. “Is your heart made of stone?”

“See what?” I ask, full of pop psychology wisdom about making him articulate his feelings. Again, I extend the coconut towards him. He smiles and takes it from me as if to please me, saying, “This compassion you show to me, can you not find it in your heart for what you see in the world?”

I still do not understand. I see him, the vendor, the coconuts, the beach around us and the sea. What does he think I see? I look in his eyes, which carry the world in them, and say, “What do you want me to see?”

They fill with tears now. “Willfully blind. It is more important to you that I see YOU as compassionate than that you should let yourself live and act with empathy and compassion, that you should actually see.”

“Brother, tell me who you are, where you are from and why you grieve so.”

“I am Rama of Ayodhya. I have lived in your heart since time immemorial but you still do not recognize me? Humans are quite amazing!” A flash of temper and irony on that beautiful, serene face full of sorrow.

“Oh.”

And then, “Oh my god.” He chuckles, “So you say! But have you learnt nothing from me and my life?”

Apparently not.

“You seem to remember me as a martial hero. But think about what in my stories fills your heart with love and what fills you with doubt, and you will understand what makes me sad today.”

Rama looking at the moon in a plate of water. Rama as a diligent student. Rama’s bond with his family, especially his brothers. Rama lifting the bow and marrying Sita. Rama trying to please his stepmother. Rama’s gentleness with the people of Ayodhya. Rama and Sita living in harmony with the creatures of the forest. Rama’s friendships. Rama’s yearning to learn. Rama’s willingness to give appreciation. Rama’s insistence of giving refuge. Rama’s sense of right and wrong. Things we love.

Things that make us question his perfection. His absolute sense of right and wrong, valuing abstract norms above fairness and justice. His treating Sita as an instrument of his adherence to external standards. His departure from absolute standards to expedient ones in the killing of Vali. His summary justice for perceived transgressions that kept him from seeing Shambuka as human.

I look into Rama’s eyes again and past the surging spring of tears, I see this world and what we have made of it with our choices. Choices that implicitly or explicitly label some as less than human, less than worthy and simply existing as instrumental to our own goals. I look away. I cannot look him in the eyes any more.

“Guilt is useless,” he tells me. “Find compassion, find empathy and then put them to work.”

I still cannot face him. I am slowly crumbling inside.

The vendor observes. “Useless fellow! Everyday he sits here, looking sad, and then when someone sits down to talk to him, he makes them also cry. With two people weeping mournfully near my stall, how can I sell anything? Useless fellow!”

Rama smiles. “I agree I am useless,” he says. “If you ignore the few things I am useful for and focus on the truly useless aspects of my presence—where I was born, where I walked, what I ate—then my existence has been a waste.”

“I don’t need a memorial to my birthplace and palace because if I live, it is in your heart and conscience. And if I do not live there and animate those, I do not deserve all this fuss. If you have learnt from me to ignore the pain of your fellow humans, to deny the destruction of this beautiful world and to indulge in bricks-and-mortar vanity projects and ritual mumbo-jumbo, then you have learnt nothing from me. The temple, the ritual—none of this pleases this Rama.”

“Show me you have a heart. Show me your priorities are correct. Show me that you can listen to the truth and learn from those who are wise. Show me that you are secure enough for others to be free. Show me that your attachment to power is not stronger than your attachment to humanity. Then my existence will be meaningful.”

I find my voice. “But Rama, have you seen the temple design? Do you know that people are already arriving for the ceremony that marks the beginning of the construction? Do you know how spectacular and special it is going to be?”

I see cold fury in Rama’s beautiful eyes. “Is that so? Well, be there, be happy. I will not be there.”

“But it’s your temple. You have to be there.”

“You have understood nothing. I will not be where there is no compassion, no love, no dharma.”

“Where will you be?”

“I will be in Kashmir. I will be in Palestine. I will be in Syria. I will be in the homes of villagers struggling with hunger and debt. I will be with those who cannot access the temples I value—schools, hospitals, langars. I will be in the sleepless nights of the workers who came home, but have no work and do not know where to go next. I will be holding the hands of old people who are alone, wondering when this pandemic will end. I will watch over women who do not sleep, fearful of rape. I will be playing with children who find the little pockets of joy in the middle of a time when adult worries seem endless. I will be in the jails where the disease reinforces the will of the state to silence dissenters. I will be everywhere there is war, suffering and injustice. If you spare a thought everyday for my people, I will be in your heart. But I will not be at the ritual or the site in Ayodhya. Know this for sure.”

The sun has set. In the darkness, I can see just his luminous eyes, full of tears that blur the world as he has shown it to me. I take those compassionate eyes into my heart and I leave.