The Reading List

A book is opened that hadn’t been touched for some years and out falls an old reading list. Here is a select sample, in no particular order,

1. Levi-Strauss, C. 1986. The Raw and the Cooked
2. Bourdieu, P. 1977. Outline of a Theory of Practice
3. Trautman, T.R. 1981. Dravidian Kinship
4. Taussig, M. 1980. The Devil and Commodity Fetishism in South America
5. Saussure, F.D. 1966. Course in General Linguistics
6. Focault, M. 1971. The Archaeology of Knowledge
7. Barthes. 1967. Elements of Semiology
8. Evans-Pritchard, E.E. 1956. Nuer Religion
9. Beteille, A. 1977. Inequality among Men
10. Braithwaite, R. B. 1953. Scientific Explanation: A Study of the Functions of Theory, Probability   and Law in Science

The first thought that crosses ones mind is: wow! Did one really read all these books? Then comes the second even more amazing thought: All in the span of 7 days!  The third is a quiet little thought that sneaks in and out of ones head even before one can fully get hold of it. The fourth is almost redundant and not worth pointing out. The fifth is what one might address here.

Carefully considering all the evidence and taking into account the present state of affairs one is almost certain that these books were read. Quite simply because they had to be read. It was mandatory. No
matter what Prof. Uberoi said during the only lecture one remembers from that point in time, despite being volunteers, by virtue of choosing to join the course and then further on choosing to attend the
lectures, when it came to the reading list one had to complete it before the next tutorial; that dreaded event when a handful of us, like the proverbial three blind mice, ran after the farmer’s wife, so
to speak. What followed was in accordance with the theory, probability and law of science or mythology or proverb. The only difference being that we didn’t get to run around much and the farmer’s wife, though her knife was quite sharp, didn’t manage to cut off our tails. Everything about that exercise seems to be so dispassionate and far removed that one can safely declare one has no memories about it. But that wouldn’t be quite truthful, would it?

How did one do it? One may have been a volunteer but that was simply a manner of speaking. The reading list wasn’t voluntary. One had no right over choosing what to read and when to read it. The books were prescribed and were to be read within a certain (insanely inadequate) time limit. Sometimes it felt that even the sentences, the words that people walking up and down the corridors uttered, were also prescribed. There was a formula and the one who followed the prescription was sure to master it.

So, how did one do it? Nothing is impossible, in the world of speed reading at least. Anne Jones took 47 minutes 1 second to read 759 pages of Harry Potter And The Deathly Hallows. No mention is made of whether her pleasure of being the first to finish the book equaled the pleasure (she had 47 minutes before) of having another Harry Potter book to read. Well, speed-reading can be put to other mundane uses too. But the sixth and final question still remains: did one enjoy reading these books?

Caterpillars

I am appalled by your apathy. When Professor Das delivered this statement, we were sitting in the verdant lawns of Delhi University on a pleasant October morning. That itself will give you a fair idea about how long ago it was. For can they sit outside in verdant green lawns (are there any left?) in Delhi anymore? Is October pleasant? However in this case the setting was perfect and to give Professor Das due credit thoughtful too. Even at 9:00 AM not many possess the moral fiber to be pert and snappy especially when discussing ‘The Elements of Semiology’. Barthes at any time of the day requires a certain kind of aptitude. In us it was clearly lacking, regardless of the hour, even with the added knowledge that this will “come in the exams”. The setting though kept us alert, and occupied otherwise.
 

The cause for the comment was the fact that being diligent scholars we had carefully read to the last page, even the last alphabet exactly the portion that had been prescribed for the current tutorial, the introduction and first few chapters, not a page more, though in hindsight probably a few pages less. So when in the discussion the good Professor started talking about the ‘non-prescribed’ portion, the blank expression on our face was a pretty accurate sign of how clueless we were. And so the Professor with her crisp accent, and that certain tone because of which quite frankly everyone was a bit terrified of her, delivered the fateful line.

Unlike her, Professor Baviskar probably had very accurate information regarding our mindset. She always ended the announcement of the reading list with the words, “And don’t just read the underlined sentences. Make an effort to at least read complete paragraphs.” But then she too not so long ago had attended similar tutorials, even borrowed the same books from the library, and knowing that certain streak in her, probably with a twinkle in the eye even underlined the least important passages.

However it’s the words of Professor Das that became immortal. In the days since that tutorial I have whispered them many a times, in many different circumstances. I don’t know about the other four in the tutorial group but for me they have become a connotation. My limited reading of Barthes is probably flawed but these words and the circumstances they were uttered in have come to signify something much greater than a tutorial discussion many moons ago. That belief that it’s necessary to only know enough to “pass the exam” or get a promotion or achieve a certain level of success in life. That inability, widespread and on constant display, to read. That lack of curiosity to look beyond that, which concerns us. Aren’t these all manifestations of reading only prescribed portions, without making an effort to even glance at the next page? Epitomizing the appallingly apathetic culture of clearing exams without any concern for acquiring knowledge. Chasing lifestyles without any empathy for life. Of living in cocoons blind to everything else beyond. 

Postscript: Caterpillars aren’t blind. They have six pairs of simple eyes (ocelli) that can detect changes in light intensity, but cannot form an image.

After writing this post through a strange combination of Google searches (lets just say it’s something I do) I suddenly came upon this: “The caterpillars in distress, starved, shelter-less, chilled with cold at night, cling obstinately to the silk ribbon covered hundreds of times, because they lack the rudimentary glimmers of reason which would advise them to abandon it.” (The Life of the Caterpillar by J. Henri Fabre, 1916)

A sparrow, a vulture and an evening in Delhi

It is Delhi. Probably end August, maybe September. They are sitting on a stone bench close to a Champa (Frangipani) tree. The tree still has a few post monsoon blooms. They watch the girls, go in and go out. It will soon be dusk. And the main gates will close bringing to end all interactions with the other world. The world inside however, will awaken in the glow of the yellow light bulbs surrounded by the buzz of countless insects.

To keep the interaction alive in the dying minutes, he asks, “Which is your favourite bird?” For they are of that age when favourites matter and likes and dislikes don’t simply point to inherent contradictions. Without hesitation, for she is only seventeen, she replies, “Sparrows.” He is a tad disappointed, even a bit uncertain that maybe his question wasn’t taken seriously. For it is important to get accurate, honest answers to such questions otherwise how will he ever comprehend her? He is only eighteen. He continues, “Ah! That’s not fair. Why sparrows? Why not eagles or bats? My favourite are the vultures.” She only reiterates that she indeed does like sparrows the best of all. Both discuss their choices a bit more in the hope that the other appreciates the reason for the preceding why. And also in the hope that maybe their minds can meet at some convenient point.

In the decades to follow they will realize that their choices weren’t as far apart as they had thought sitting on the stone bench close to the Champa tree. And that both sparrows and vultures, in the years to come, just like the innocence of their interactions, will tether on the brink of extinction in India. And most importantly, they will realize that there are no differences, no matter how far and wide apart, that time and the mere act of continued living can't reconcile. Even obliterate altogether.

Misadventures in Social Work

We graduated with dreams and tools collected over seventeen years of learning and unlearning ready to plant new seeds, germinate fresh ideas. We took our shiny new tool box and ventured forth confidently to tackle the weeds choking our national landscape. We chose our area of work and were promptly termed “social workers”. We believed a few tugs here and a few pulls there and we’d have cleared some of the mess, at least a small part of it. For we didn’t have illusions of grandeur, we just wanted to do good work. But there were some hidden pests we hadn’t contended for.

First we encountered them in the city of tinsel dreams where an institute produces a fixed quota of social workers annually. But not before subjecting them to intense scrutiny, pre-judging them because of the “fancy colleges” they got their social science degree from and berating them for harboring dreams of working for the UN and other national policy institutes. To think we naively believed that was a noble aspiration. No, social work meant being selfless, working for no ulterior motive, more like becoming a nun or an ascetic. Here we thought it was a profession just like being a doctor or a teacher. So we felt ashamed, so very ashamed.

Then we joined organizations called NGO’s where for no ulterior motive, for we weren’t even getting paid, we picked up our as yet unopened tool box and looked to do some work. But at every step we were rebuked, laughed at for our naivety, and scoffed at for attempting to change things. You think change can happen so fast. No, organizations don’t work that way. There’s a structure, a chain of command, and an authority. We should have known for we’d cleared a paper worth hundred marks on structure and function of ‘Organizations’. So we felt ashamed, so very ashamed.

One day when we had typed a hundred letters and a million pamphlets on how to do this and how to do that, we met an old man, a member of that fast vanishing tribe called the ‘midnight’s children’. He looked at us with our plans and proposals and laughed. ‘This is not social work,’ he said wiping his tears. 'Social work was what we did digging the ‘so and so canal’ as fifteen year olds when Jawaharlal Nehru asked us to’. We quietly walked out of the room before he could quote the ‘ask not what your country’ thing for we were ashamed, so very ashamed.

With deflated spirits and getting heavier to lug around tool box we went for another meeting. The gentleman with graying hair sitting behind a cluttered desk on a swirling chair with a printed towel at the headrest smiled a beguiling smile. He looked at us and said, 'so how much money do you make or will you make or hope to make? For aren’t all NGO’s corrupt? Isn’t everyone in it to make money?' And other such clichés we’d heard many times about almost every profession including the very noble one that the gentleman himself belonged to. But we mumbled something about being a part of society and corruption being endemic to a people not to a particular profession but our voices petered off for we felt ashamed, so very ashamed.

Penniless, devoid of ulterior motive even ambition itself, working for what, to achieve what, we didn’t know but we made one last try. In a premier institute named after the above-mentioned Prime Minister we organized debates and discussion with our fellow kind, on issues that we felt were thought provoking or at least irksome for the generation that would inherit the future. All in the hope that maybe there is hope. But for most part they listened with a barely perceptible semblance of patience. One could almost swear they gave us a fair hearing because of our gender but the cynical questions, the doubts and reservations expressed at the end pointed towards something else. In course of their education they had learned something that we had somehow missed probably because we had been blinded by our enthusiasm. So we felt ashamed, so very ashamed.

We looked at our once shiny tools getting rusted and blunt. We shook our heads. The unfathomable shame, the insurmountable guilt, the sense of inadequacy made apparent by every single person we had met for the last five years made us despondent. Some of us shook it off like a bad dream and took that scholarship from that University in the US, others started making assessment reports for those very businesses that would destroy the very thing they had fought to conserve. While the more sensitive ones among us can be found typing pamphlets and letters while battling their sense of shame. All because we naively thought social work was simply a profession.

The Red Rose

It is probably some year at the end of the last century. Evening, a pleasant Delhi evening. The kind we often had before Delhi became this ugly, smoke filled, bellowing monster devouring all pleasantness from life. She, you and me are walking back from Kamla Nagar after the usual stroll to "kill" time.

A creature comes upon us bearing a red rose. Or is it a gigantic cauliflower. While he tries to offer it to me she berates him, in her inimitable fashion. It is a long, extremely eloquent diatribe. Flustered and frustrated he blurts out, “I don’t understand your British language.” And throws the flower and goes away. It is a red rose. We collapse beneath the burden of our irrepressible laughter.

How young we were. How unimaginably cruel we were. And how completely, unquestionably happy.

(For Bulbul and Nidhi, hope the latter still holds true.)