Becoming Indian: The Unfinished Revolution of Culture and Identity

by Pavan K. Varma

  7

  Within the Global Village: Asymmetry and Co-option

  Montek Singh Ahluwalia is a well-known man in India. A product of St Stephen’s College and Oxford, his command of English is perfect. He enjoys the reputation of being a world-class economist and, as the executive head of India’s apex planning body, holds the rank of a cabinet minister. In 2005, he came to London to deliver the 27th Nehru Memorial Lecture. The hall was packed with leading members of the Indian community, economists and representatives of the corporate world. There was pin-drop silence as Lord Romsey, the grandson of India’s last viceroy, Lord Mountbatten, and the chairperson of the Nehru Memorial Trust, stood up to introduce the distinguished speaker. But there was a problem. Lord Romsey could not get the pronunciation of Ahluwalia right. Every time he tried his tongue tripped. Some members of the audience found it funny, as did, I got the distinct impression, Lord Romsey himself. Mr Ahluwalia, in his smart tie and suit, stood sheepishly on stage. Finally the Lord just gave up and by way of explanation said: ‘I knew I wouldn’t get it right.’

  Why couldn’t Lord Romsey get Mr Ahluwalia’s name right? Should the question even be asked? After all, Indian names are notoriously difficult and complex. Perhaps Romsey Sahib could have practiced a little more. Ah-lu-wa-lia. If he had broken it up in that manner he may have succeeded. But if he did not, it was no great matter. Montek Singh, he knew, would be most forgiving. He was ‘one of us’, really, speaking English with the right accent, part of the old blazer-and-college network. And there was no worry that he would ever pronounce Romsey wrong. Not only because—in this instance—Romsey was perhaps an easier name to pronounce, but also because it was expected that an Indian with the right education would not make such a mistake. He would call Warwick Warrick and not War-wick as its phonetic spelling would warrant. He would take pride in knowing that Yorkshire must be pronounced as Yorksher and never as Yorkshire, and that Edinburgh is actually Edin-borough. He would also accept as perfectly natural the fact that educated British people, who claim to know India, need not reciprocate. There is no need for them to be embarrassed when they routinely mispronounce the names of Indian cities, or festivals, or their Indian friends and colleagues. Or when they drop the tricky ‘Mahatma’ and still end up mispronouncing Gandhi as Gandi, and spelling it as Ghandi.

  The empires of the past may have receded, but in the field of culture the new, emerging shoreline does not provide a level playing field. Not everybody has access to it. In our new, ‘globalized’ world, a few nations set the rules for the rest to follow, and the momentum of the past, combined with new strengths, still works against diversity and pluralism. This is not political rhetoric. The fact of a dominant cultural establishment is obvious and verifiable. An overwhelming majority of educated people in the world wear a suit and tie or other forms of western apparel, mothballing their traditional dress only for ceremonial or boutique occasions. Most people in the world hear about what is going on in the world through CNN or BBC because no alternative source of news comes close to their global reach. The majority in every country believe that the only civilized way to eat is with knife, fork and spoon. Almost everywhere, the urban young know more about the icons of Hollywood than about those of their own history and folklore. And of course most people in the world speak, or aspire to speak, English or French, giving their own languages second-class status or, worse, allowing them to languish. In India, for instance, knowledge of English has created a new caste system. Middle-class prosperity and the possibility of decent employment are linked to knowledge of English, and it is immediately presumed that those who speak the language well are somehow more ‘modern’, cosmopolitan and progressive than those who don’t.

  It is true that absolutely level playing fields are a myth. A degree of inequality is inherent in the evolution of the human race. But people have to be aware of the fact of that inequality. Its manifestations have to be understood, and a balance sheet has to be drawn up to see what is lost and what is gained in its working. No global cultural audit has ever taken place, nor, perhaps, is it easy to have one. There are too many intangibles, too many emotions below the surface, and too much happening much too fast and in multiple and imperceptible ways, for people to always know when the line has been crossed between loss and gain, choice and imposition, appreciation and condescension, interaction and co-option.

  Inequalities thrive in the field of culture because dominant cultures consider their domination normal, even morally good and uplifting, and have the means to project this message globally. Those at the receiving end are either passively co-opted or are ill equipped to provide a rejoinder. In this unequal transaction, the past and the present merge. The consequence of Empire provides the foundation for the erstwhile colonial powers to perpetuate, in a hundred subtle ways, the inequalities of the past in a present where their position has been strengthened exponentially by the new power of wealth and technology.

  The manner in which this inequality operates requires very careful observation, because it can happen without either side noticing or acknowledging its existence. For instance, in an unequal cultural transaction, there is a ‘deference’ factor. If a representative of the dominant culture cracks a joke, you laugh a little more, to convey that you have understood; if you crack a joke and he laughs, you are overappreciative. If he mispronounces your name, or of your town, or of your cultural icons, you display understanding; if you mispronounce any of his, it is a sign of cultural backwardness, of not knowing what should be known. If he shows knowledge about your culture and history, it is an achievement, which you applaud; if you know about his culture and history, it is only what is expected of you. If you wear your native dress, it is a curiosity, which may be appreciated but is not expected to be emulated, except for purposes of exotica; if you wear what he wears, it is a sign of your belonging to the global mainstream. You must be familiar with what he reads, the magazines, the newspapers, and the latest books that are part of his world; he, on the other hand, may not even remember what is the language that you speak, and is not expected to, either. And of course you are forgiving if he asks, as I have often been asked in London: ‘Do you speak Hindu?’

  Everything that is precious to you must belong to one of two poles: exotica or specialized study. Everything precious to him must be part of your normal education. He has the right to caricature you, even when no malice is intended. If you do the same to him, it borders on the indecorous. If he likes your cuisine you are grateful and you even—gratefully or graciously—accept his curiosity about your dietary habits and about the way you eat. But he would be very surprised if you did not know everything about his cuisine and eating habits.

  Empires metamorphose; they do not die the moment direct rule ceases. In fact, the heady milieu of equality and freedom in the aftermath of colonial rule provides the ideal conditions for them to perpetuate themselves, quietly but surely and almost with the approval of those they ruled. There is no need for physical conquest. No intimidation is required. The colonial project just finds newer—and seemingly benevolent—forms. In the post-colonial bonhomie, best seen in international conclaves when leaders of formerly colonized countries rub shoulders with those who once ruled them, the subtext of inequality is easily camouflaged. It is the result of genuine political ingenuity on the part of the former Empire. A good example is the ceremonial iconography of the Commonwealth, an organization created by the British by co-opting their former colonies. At Commonwealth summits, prime ministers and presidents of the former Empire assemble dutifully and take their assigned places. The British sovereign, Her Majesty the Queen, who is the head of the organization, arrives to fanfare, last; the pre-assembled leaders, representing in some cases—like India—vastly bigger countries than the UK, rise to greet the royal eminence. When the opening plenary ends, they rise again, allowing their erstwhile sovereign to leave first. Only then are they free to find their way out. Perhaps if you ignore its foundational premise, the Commonwealth could be de
scribed as a benevolent organization. It has probably done more good than harm, and helped nations move beyond the acrimonies of the past. Her Majesty the Queen is herself a loved figure and deserving of the respect that she is shown. But as I watched this ceremonial unfold at the one Commonwealth summit I attended in Edinburgh in 1997, I could not but wonder why my prime minister, who represented the will of a billion free people, acquiesced so effortlessly in an act of open deference in a conclave supposed to be of equals.

  It is naïve to believe that globalization works to the equal benefit of all, or that it is free of hierarchies. The past and the present cannot be separated in watertight compartments. Those who once ruled the world cannot overnight reinvent themselves. Nor can the once colonized. Political freedom is only one element of emancipation. The assertion of political equality comes easily; economic discrepancies can be quantified and fought; but cultural inequity, even though pervasive, is often subtle and uncontested. Its manifestations can be substantive—and we shall discuss these—or seemingly trivial. For instance, most Indian newspapers in August 2008 carried a list of the ten ‘Most Elegant Women Ever’. The selection was made by Lucie Smith, an ‘elegance expert’ and former headmistress of a British etiquette school. The ten who made it to her list were: Princess Diana, Sophia Loren, Grace Kelly, Audrey Hepburn, Marilyn Monroe, Catherine Zeta Jones, Ava Gardner, Jacqueline Onassis, Greta Garbo and Carla Bruni. Perhaps it was a coincidence that all the selectees were white; perhaps it was a further coincidence that all were from Europe and America, and nobody was found elegant enough from Asia or Africa or any other part of the world. But that is only one part of the story. Indian papers—and I am sure papers across Asia, Africa and elsewhere—reproduced this absurd selection without comment, not even a half-humorous query.

  A year earlier, GQ Magazine had published a list of the ten most stylish men of the past fifty years. It comprised John F. Kennedy, Jack Nicholson, Sean Connery, Paul Newman, Robert Redford, Al Pacino, Tom Brady (the quarterback of the New England Patriots, I discovered after some research), Michael Jordan, Muhammad Ali and Johnny Depp. The magazine’s style editor, Adam Rapaport, explained at length the criterion for the selection. ‘This is the list [of men] that men would want to be,’ he wrote. ‘Style goes beyond clothes. It is about how you carry yourself—and there has to be some weight to the guy, some integrity, some gravitas. Everyone in this list had to have a genuine sense of personal style.’ Quite obviously a great deal of thought had gone into making the selection. But again, no one qualified from anywhere outside the standard catchment area of the United States and Europe. The story, released by Reuters, was carried by almost every paper in India, again without comment. On a rare occasion, the odd Indian film star—after his or her talent has been vindicated by a supporting role in a Hollywood production—may be included in such a list. Inevitably, then, there is great self-congratulatory noise in our country. No one seems to be offended by the condescension.

  Newspapers and magazines are run by people who wish to maximize circulation. They have a target audience and they cater to its interests. Any region of the world that is not a part of this focus does not matter, or matters only peripherally. But the interesting thing is that notwithstanding this limited canvas, western newspapers claim to speak for the world (in the case of the United States, they speak for the universe). They do so because they know that even though their knowledge of the humanity that is excluded from their narrow world view is negligible, the knowledge among the excluded about their world is substantial. This basic asymmetry is evident in a great many interactions. Mike Leigh, the well-known British film and television director, was to be in conversation at the Nehru Centre in London with film historian and teacher Clyde Jeavens on the occasion of the Satyajit Ray Memorial Lecture in November 2004. Jaishree Misra came running to me before the event to double check if I knew the correct pronunciation for both names. I knew Leigh was for some reason pronounced Lee, but Jeavens, she told me, was not Jeevans, but Jevans. While I took care of my pronunciation, I was surprised to note that Clyde, otherwise a perfect gentleman, could not pronounce Satyajit correctly. And the articulate Leigh confessed that he could never get the word Kanchenjunga, the title of one of Ray’s best-known films, right. He pronounced it in the Spanish way. After the talk I asked Mike if he was familiar with some of the more talented Indian film directors since Ray. He said that he knew of them, but if I were to ask which ones, he could not say because he could never remember their names. He wasn’t in the least embarrassed as he made this confession.

  Sunil Dutt and Ismail Merchant died on the same day, 25 May 2005. The death of Sunil Dutt, among the great icons of Indian cinema, was a huge story in the Indian media, and Ismail Merchant’s passing away also deservedly made it to the front pages. In the British newspapers, however, there was not a word on Dutt, while there were lengthy obituaries on Merchant. Perhaps this is understandable, since Merchant had lived in the west and produced films—except the one he directed late in life—specifically for western audiences. However, if a British actor of the stature of Sunil Dutt had died, and if the British newspapers and television channels had been as full of the news, I can guarantee that the Indian press would have automatically carried the story on its front pages, without anyone stopping to think why this was necessary. This is what cultural asymmetry is about—asymmetry created by colonialism and sustained, now, by globalization.

  These are random examples, and some would argue that such asymmetries do not matter. After all, Bollywood is doing increasingly well in the UK and the USA and Indian films and film actors have a growing following abroad. While this may be so, the question still needs to be asked: Why does so much ignorance and indifference persist in spite of this new recognition? More importantly, why don’t those against whom this asymmetry operates resent it? Do we even notice that it exists? Or—and this is most likely—are we just grateful for the notice we have recently managed to get? The issue here is not of mechanical reciprocity. It is simply about not accepting marginalization in the world of our former colonizers while they occupy a disproportionate space in ours.

  It is true that ignorance is not malice. There may be no intention to hurt or to humiliate. Insensitive and objectionable things may be said and done by people who are otherwise sympathetic to your world and would be shocked if they were accused of hostility or bias. But the fact that the perpetrators of an act are ignorant does not lessen the insult. And there is never any excuse, at the level of cultural interaction, for ignorance. In the spring of 2008 I hosted a dinner for Sir Martine Davidson, the CEO of the British Council, who was visiting Delhi. Several well-known artists, writers, educationists and musicians were present. Among them was the legendary Ustad Amjad Ali Khan, whose wizardry on the sarod is renowned not only in India but internationally. Davidson met Amjad Bhai warmly. They exchanged pleasantries. Then, with well-meaning curiosity, Davidson asked: ‘So what do you play?’ There was stunned silence, and I hastened to divert the guest elsewhere. Davidson did not, I’m convinced, mean to be insulting. But the fact that the head of Britain’s premier body for cultural relations—whose motto is to ‘Learn, Share, Connect Worldwide’—did not know who Ustad Amjad Ali Khan was, in spite of being fully aware that he would be meeting with a select group of people of eminence in the field of culture (the guest list had been given in advance to the local British Council office), was appalling. What else but his culture’s absolute conviction of its inherent superiority could have given him the confidence to walk in without having made the slightest effort to educate himself, and then to ask, without apology, the question that he asked?

  I recall another instance of this nature, but in a totally different context. Renuka and I had gone to the influential Royal Geographic Society (RGS) in Kensington to hear our good friend William Dalrymple speak on his book—still in the writing—on the last Mughal Emperor, Bahadur Shah Zafar, and the revolt of 1857 in Delhi. The hall was packed to capacity as Dalrymple entered the
room. He was wearing a huge, unironed grey bandgala suit, with the buttons open, and a crumpled white shirt that spilled out of his trousers. William has changed greatly since I first met him in 1989. I was working then at the Foreign Office in Delhi, dealing with foreign correspondents, and he came to see me for accreditation as a journalist. He was very young then, the author of the bestselling book In Xanadu, which hardly anybody had read in India. He was working on his next book—this one on Delhi—The City of Djinns, and he and his charming wife Olivia had rented a barsati in Golf Links. He had no children then, was not balding, had not become rotund and, although a fairly well-known writer, wasn’t anywhere as successful as he is today. As he walked up to the podium at the RGS that day in London, I noticed a huge backdrop announcing his name and the subject of his lecture. To my surprise and horror, Zafar was incorrectly spelt as Zafa. It was an egregious error, and boldly displayed for everyone to see—I’m sure William saw it (though he didn’t mention it then or later). But no one in the British audience seemed to notice. I talked to many people and they hadn’t. In fact, one of them said to me: ‘But that is how we pronounce it.’ And that excused everything. For the British, an Indian name spelt wrongly was not something that brought into question their education or breeding or their cultural standing. But if an Indian giving a talk on an English monarch or governor general had misspelt his name—Elizabeth as Elzbeth or Hardinge as Harding—there would have been little tolerance in a British audience and—here lies the irony—no tolerance at all in an audience of the English-educated elite of India.