This story first appeared in TheQuint

This India inspired collection could have opened floodgates for a genuinely high moment in fashion history

In 1947, six months before India got independence from British colonial rule, Christian Dior unleashed another kind of revolution with his first collection later christened the ‘New Look’. A long and full skirt, rounded shoulders, and a cinched waist. The newness of this look was an act of rebellion against the war-time necessities—economic and ergonomic—namely straight skirts with knee-length hems, night robes et al. For the next seven years, Christian decided to define and redefine this primary idea of his sartorial vision.

Now, vision is something that was conspicuous by absence in Dior’s latest show in Mumbai. This essay is not a critique of the spectacle that Dior conjured at the iconic Gateway of India but a lament for fashion and design. When a hyped moment fails to deliver, when it comes from a style revolutionary that brought us characteristic draped necklines and fitted waistlines, or the “Zig Zag”, or even the self-fabric-covered buttons, it hurts particularly bad.

Link to original story

This story first appeared in TheQuint

All myths of origin are suspect, and those who believe them to be the Truth are nothing but naive, to put it mildly.

Salman Rushdie’s Victory City is more than a novel.

It is a life-affirming totem. It is the triumph of the storyteller: Rushdie himself and all others who have defied or succumbed to death to serve the cause of storytelling.

Victory City has come with a chip on its shoulder—Rushdie’s first novel after a near-fatal stabbing in a New York event. It will be an arduous task to delink the symbolism of publishing this novel from its literary merit. The book, let this be recorded, stands tall as one of Rushdie’s finest works.

Link to original story

This story first appeared in The Quint

Who was Lata Mangeshkar wary of hurting—family, friends, fans, or her own self?

Lata Mangeshkar, the nightingale. Lata Mangeshkar, the Elizabeth-like Virgin Queen. Lata Mangeshkar, the Aai and the Tai.

‘Love and longing’ is the leitmotif for Lata Mangeshkar’s oeuvre. And because she lived and worked in a country where television sets were worshipped before the broadcast of the Ramayana would start, the actors playing Ram, Sita and Lakshman or Shri Krishna in tableaus would be revered as deities, the line between the art and the artist faded ever more quickly.

And then there was the Lata—flesh, blood, and passion—that remained an enigma to us.

We moulded Lata Mangeshkar the way we wanted her to be: a soothing, ephemeral—almost divine—presence in our lives that would be tarnished by the slightest hint of sensuality in her persona. It is no wonder that Asha Bhonsle and Lata Mangeshkar offered the musical-moral duality: the former singing all the cabaret and ‘naughty’ songs.

Lata Mangeshkar: The Unsexed Artist?

The one cabaret song that Lata agreed to sing was “Aa jaane jaan…” for Laxmikant Pyarelal in the 1969 film Inteqam. The song was picturised on Helen and oozes the unique Lataesque longing—she was the queen of the Vipralambha (separation) in shringara rasa—with no overt references to the physiology of desire. Jiya jale came much later in her career, when she had already claimed a deified position in the Indian music industry.

That’s the Lata everyone admired and respected, and she, too, appeared to perpetuate this image of herself as an unsexed artist.

The fact that she stayed unmarried—as opposed to her sister Asha Bhonsle’s tempestuous experiments with marriage—bolstered Lata’s dichotomous image as the woman who sang about love and longing without knowing anything about the same.

Lata Mangeshkar and Raj Singh Dungarpur: Why Do We Know So Little?

There have always been, however, murmurs about her relationship with Raj Singh Dungarpur, former president of Board of Control for Cricket in India. The internet is awash, at least since the news of her passing broke, with stories about how Lata could not become the ‘Princess of Dungarpur’ by not marrying Raj, the youngest son of the ruler of the Dungarpur princely state in Rajasthan.

Lata had acknowledged Raj as one of her close friends in interviews. Neither, however, ever commented on the nature and extent of this friendship. No biographer of Lata, too, dwelt on the subject.

Nasreen Munni Kabir, author of Lata Mangeshkar…In Her Own Voice shares, “We never discussed Raj Singh Dungarpur. Of course, I had met him. I never asked him about Lata Mangeshkar either.”

Did the author feel the need to self-censor or was under any pressure to take this approach?

Nasreen rejects the idea. “I was working on her life story and this aspect of her life was of little interest to me. I felt, and continue to feel, that private lives of public figures ought to remain private. We in India have a tendency to sensationalise everything.”

The closest she came to ask Lata about the ‘rumours’ was by way of the following question:

It is rumoured you have a permanent gallery reserved for you at Lord’s ‘…where she enjoys watching her favourite game.’ Is it true?

No! It’s not true. [laughs] I sit in the stands like any other cricket fan.

Another biographer of Lata Mangeshkar, Yatindra Mishra, chose to broach the subject. “I asked Lata ji about Raj Singh Dungarpur. She said that he was a close family friend. It was not appropriate to then take the conversation forward only on the basis of unconfirmed reports published here and there,” he says.

Lata, Raj, Cricket, Royalty, And More… 

Mangeshkar was a big fan of cricket and knew the sport well. So well that it was irksome to her that Sharmila Tagore, wife of Tiger Pataudi didn’t bother to know the details of the sport. Tagore said in her tribute to Mangeshkar, ‘‘She was a person who knew her cricket. She was fond of Tiger and once told me that being the wife of Indian captain, I should be updating myself more on the game”.

The singer’s younger brother, Hridaynath Mangeshkar, and Raj Singh Dungarpur were good friends. Cricket brought the two men together—the entire Mangeshkar family has been deeply fond of the sport—and paved the way for a life-long relationship between a prince and a singer.

Raj Singh’s niece, Rajyashree Kumari, wrote in her memoir, The Place of Clouds, that the reason that he could not get married to Lata Mangeshkar was the disapproval of his father and other family members. How could an artist become a part of the royal family?

She writes about the relationship in her book:

On meeting Lata, there sprang up an attraction between them and a relationship was forged that was to last almost till the day that he died in 2009. My mother and Danta aunt were of the opinion that a personable young prince such as their youngest brother should in fact make a suitable match with a Rajput princess or at least a girl from an aristocratic family, so naturally they were not too approving of his relationship with Lata. I have a recollection that at some point when we were little children, Lata Mangeshkar was invited to old Bikaner House in Bombay and I strongly suspect (but cannot confirm) that she was asked to leave their brother alone so that he might make a suitable match. Despite that, Raj Singh refused to give up his relationship with Lata and despite regular rumours and gossip that he had secretly married her; he firmly assured me that that was definitely not the case.

And then a little later:

On the day of the main lunch on 19 December, which was his birthday, he gave a little speech: somewhere hidden within the anodyne comments there was a little grenade that he lobbed at his unsuspecting sisters, when he happened to mention that when he was a young man he was denied the marriage of his choice and now in later years the younger generation were getting married out of the Rajput community and the family had changed the goal posts and accepted these marriages without protest. I think his sisters were quite taken aback by this full frontal attack but put up a brave face at least in public, but I believe many tears were shed later in private.

Was Lata a Victim of Societal Pressures or a Rebel?

Other members of the Dungarpur clan, however, contradict this story. On condition of anonymity, a member shares, “The story of Maharwal Laxman Singhji, (Senior Dungarpur) disagreeing violently is a bit of creative imagination. It is true that they would have preferred a daughter-in-law from amongst the clan but Raj Singhji was too much of his own man to worry about such fixations beyond a point”.

It is to be noted that the senior Dungarpur, too, had married a couple of times and Raj Singh was the youngest son from the second marriage.

The family member adds, “Raj Singhji was not the titular heir-apparent of Dungarpur state. Hence, this was not in that classical sense a ‘be-izzati’ case. Lata and Raj Singhji met fairly late in life, by those times’ standards, and the supposed domination of the father, in any case would have ceased. Laxman Singhji Dungarpur died in 1989 and nothing really stopped the two from formalising things, if they really wanted to”.

Another family member, requesting to stay anonymous, shares, “The only societal thing to hold back the two would have been the slant of getting married ‘that late in life’. She was six-seven years elder to him, maybe that was the reason! I think, it was the convenience of living their lives contentedly without having to answer too many questions that prompted the status quo”.

This family member adds, “It was a mature and adult relationship at play…that needed to avoid fuss and tantrums in that stage of life. Some elders in my family acknowledged, ‘she didn’t need his money, and he didn’t need her fame’. He was a gentleman as only he could be and she could sing as only she could, and this made a lovely arrangement of trust and happiness”.

Lata is said to have gone to Dungarpur when Raj died in 2009 but his family members deny the reports. However, she is connected to the place by her involvement in the modernisation of the local government hospital there.

Who Was Lata Mangeshkar Wary of Hurting—Family, Friends, Fans, or Her Own Self?

Raj Singh had guardedly revealed some details about their relationship in some interviews in his autumn years but they were rarely the highlights.

Aseem Chhabra, a noted film festival curator and author, says, “I got to know about their relationship only the day Lata ji passed away. It is largely owing to the fact that I spent a large part of the 70s and 80s in the US. There was no social media then. No 24/7 dedicated paparazzi”.

The fact that the general public did not care for the private life of Lata Mangeshkar tells us more about the persona that she had carefully created: hard-working, ambitious, fastidious, fiercely territorial, and all that single women are supposed to be.

That makes them more acceptable and worthy of edification. One may never be able to know what Mangeshkar felt about Dungarpur or a life in matrimony running parallel to her singing career.

Nasreen Munni Kabir quotes her as saying:

“I used to write a diary for years. I wrote some stories and songs in Hindi. Then one day I decided there was no point and I tore it all up and threw it away. I never wanted to write an autobiography because I believe you have to be totally honest when you write. And it would hurt too many people. What’s the point in hurting people? My life and my experiences are so personal to me. Why write? It’s all so personal. There’s no need to tell the world.”

Who was Lata wary of hurting with her honesty?

Perhaps it was us, the people, who did not allow her the space beyond our ears.

Link to original story

This story first appeared in The Quint

Unlike other times, people might not forget how and when they grieved. And that is what the “system” is afraid of.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Neruda has worked almost always. Except now. It should not be a surprise. These days nothing works: government portals, telephone numbers of hospitals, minister saheb’s sifaarish, expensive drugs bought from life-saving black-marketeers, or even faulty oxygen concentrators.

A city heaves a collective sigh of grief. Yet, it is inured to grief. While everyone appears to be grieving, nobody is grieving. There is something else to be done instead of grieving. Another life to be saved, or another loved one to be cremated.

We Need to Talk About to Grief

Many of us, including the highest level of political leadership of the country, seemed upset when our grief coloured the pages of international publications. We felt belittled when “vultures” feasted on our grief. The same people are silent today when dead bodies are being torn apart by hungry birds and animals because they can’t be cremated or buried. Impoverished family members can’t muster resources or social cache to afford a dignified farewell; Ganga, the ultimate purifier, is accorded that duty. In such scenarios, whither grief?

Yet, we need to talk about it. And many of us are doing so. In the face of impending doom, patients are recording their last battle in images, video clips, or words. Once they bid goodbye, family members are putting out these vignettes as a form of collective mourning. Because personal, ritualistic grieving is denied to them, this novel form of bidding farewell is bringing bereaved families close to each other. On social media, there is a somber wake in progress, punctuating a constant stream of messages seeking help for those who are still alive.

Game of Numbers and Grief

Grief cannot be quantified, other things can. A lot of attention has been paid to the Spanish Flu pandemic of 1918-19 that claimed a substantial part of India’s population. Yet, when official records are accessed, a gaping hole is found with respect of people who perished.

History is repeating itself in ways more than one. Some deaths are deemed lesser than the others. In rural Uttar Pradesh, a village saw fifteen deaths in the last ten days. Oddly, almost everyone died, officially at least, of heart attack. There seems to be another epidemic in the offing, if official records are to be believed.

It is interesting how bereaved families also do not want to acknowledge that the tragedy has reached their doorsteps, too. It is something still out there, impacting other people in faraway lands.
Anecdotally speaking, “Fridge ka thanda paani” seems to be another mysterious killer. Sore throat, fever, heaviness in chest, shortness of breath, weakness, death.
Perhaps, this is the only way to cope with grief for some. The reality might raise questions: personal and institutional. If we do not acknowledge something, it cannot impact us even if it does.

We need the things-are-not-that-bad intoxicant to deal with grief. Who knows, even the State needs it, too!

Memory and Grief

Funny thing, memory. The gaps in national histories are filled by individual, personal memory. When the State does not want these holes filled, it wants to falsify any personal memory project. It’s not allowed to be a part of India’s memory that when the capital city was gasping for oxygen, the construction of our new polis was ongoing in full swing. Photography and videography are now prohibited at the Central Vista construction site.

Funny thing, memory. While India is topping the charts in COVID-19 deaths and daily cases, we are reminded about “positivity”. This attempt at erasure of our grief is perhaps the State’s own coping mechanism, since it has failed on every single parameter. We shall be encouraged to remember only positivity. Not positive cases.

Funny thing, memory. Each time a new obituary is written, the older one gets relegated to background. There are crowds everywhere: in hospitals, at vaccination centres, at free-food stalls, and even in our grieving hearts. We promise to remember everything and everyone. We promise that when “all this is over”, we’ll grieve properly. Till then, memory and spectating the present jostle for space.

The “System” is Afraid of Grief

“Am I the government? Why am I forced to do their job?”
“Are we doing enough?”
“What is the point of it all? We cannot make any difference?”
“Every life I cannot save is weighing down my conscience.”

All expressions of grief that will take a long, very long, perhaps even a lifetime to subside.

And that is what the State, the government, or wait…the “system” is afraid of. Unlike other times, perhaps people would not forget how and when they grieved. Maybe that’s why all the red-herrings—from ludicrous COVID-19 treatments to pointless announcements—come our way.

What if people do not forget how they grieved?
What if people do not forget how they were not allowed to grieve?

Milan Kundera says, “The struggle of man against power is the struggle of memory against forgetting”.

After all, the real ‘long covid’ is nothing but grief, in all its manifestations in tears, blood, and sweat. And the memory of this grief.

Link to original story

This story first appeared in TheQuint

What Uttarakhand CM Rawat has done is this: establish some women to be worthy of sneer, jeer, and violence.

Link to original story

This story first appeared in The Quint

An eyewitness account of how a peaceful protest turned violent at Delhi’s Red Fort on 26 January 2021. 

The biggest lesson from yesterday’s unprecedented scenes at Red Fort is that no journalist should take her phone battery for granted.

And this is where my phone battery died. But that’s what happens when you turn a holiday into work day on a whim. #RedFort #RepublicDay #FarmersProstests #TractorRally pic.twitter.com/2uiAKjo0Uy

— I Am A Nishtha Gautam (@TedhiLakeer) January 26, 2021

The Road to Red Fort

1:30 pm: I step out of my house around 1:30 pm to walk down to the Ring Road from where the protest chants are getting louder. What is meant to be a curious stroll to witness the ‘Tractor Rally’ by protesting farmers will turn into a trek to Red Fort to watch violence unfold at one of the most iconic monuments of Delhi.

Standing opposite Metcalfe House on Ring Road, I witness an unending procession of tractors, cars, SUVs and bikes. Not to mention cycles and walking protestors. For an hour or so, the sloganeering, the songs, and vehicular noise drowns any other experience on the road. The din shakes the sleepy neighbourhood of Civil Lines awake. What is remarkable about the processions is that there is absolutely no problem on the roads. The traffic is largely streamlined. I see organisers making way for an ambulance.

Walking with some protestors, I learn that all of them are coming from Singhu Border and the plan is to go to Red Fort to assert their presence by unfurling Nishan Sahib, the holy flag of Khalsa panth.

I keep chuckling at the naïveté of these proclamations but there is a context.

A centuries-The biggest lesson from yesterday’s unprecedented scenes at Red Fort is that no journalist should take her phone battery for granted.old dream of sikhi was perhaps going to be realised on 26 January 2020—to bring Dilli Darbar to its knees. Except, there is no darbar in Delhi anymore and the Mughal fort is not a seat of power.

I speak to Sikh and non-Sikh protestors of all ages from Amritsar, Jalandhar, Kurukshetra, Delhi, Jalaun and almost everyone echoes the same sentiments: We are marching to Red Fort to show the country what government friendly media does not want anyone to see. We are not just a handful of protesting farmers; the dissent against controversial farm laws is widespread.

Ladakhis, Tibetans Standing in Solidarity, While A Bengali Baba Sits and Supports

2:00 pm : I walk past the Monastery Market and found hordes of Tibetans and Ladakhis standing in solidarity and cheering the protestors on. There were families with little children perched on parents’ shoulders. I asked a bunch the most jaded question in a reporter’s repertoire: How are you feeling? They reply, “Achha lag raha hai”. (We are feeling good looking at the protest.) One man adds, “Bina khaane ke kaise rahega?” (How can we live without food?) A big thumbs up to the tractor rally.

Young men Tenzin, Norbu, and Sospel draw my attention by shouting “Sat Sri Akal” and “Support, Support”. They told me enthusiastically that they were from UT Ladakh.

This bunch of Ladakhi young men tells me why they are supporting the farmer rally. #TractorsRally #tractorParade pic.twitter.com/wWZViao53S

— I Am A Nishtha Gautam (@TedhiLakeer) January 26, 2021

A little ahead, a bunch of people—including children— from Uttarakhand are waving and shouting at the procession. “We are supporting because we are farmers, too,” Dayal Singh informs me.

A ‘Bengali Baba’ with his tent on the road divider is keen to talk. Jagtar Singh from Amritsar, this ‘Bengali baba’ is happy about the protests and cautions that if farmers’ don’t get their due, we’ll die of hunger. His chela, Pankaj Singh, nods in agreement.

Reaching Red Fort

2:30 pm : At Red Fort, there are rows of DTC buses on police duty and a constant stream of protestor influx. Farmers from Singhu borders have reached Red Fort. It’s one straight road, after all. Some of them want to go inside Red Fort others are happy with circling the area. Entering the Red Fort grounds, I see a carpet of police personnel sitting and waiting. Men and women in khaki ready with their batons but casually lounging.

I can see several Nishan Sahibs on the railings of the platform from where the Prime Minister of India makes his Independence Day speech every year. The tri-colour stands giant and glorious above.

For one flag hoisted by a bunch of churlish protestors at Red Fort, there were thousands of tricolours being waved and respectfully carried by the same protesting crowd.

I walk towards Lahori Gate, bracing myself for impending claustrophobia. The narrow entry to Red Fort cannot handle this volume of protestors. Once inside, there is some breathing space, despite a parked police-duty bus. The stairwell, however, is crammed with people, mostly young men. There is a protestor standing with a banner welcoming the outstation farmers to Delhi. I spot a Nihang Sikh standing precariously at a high parapet. On the opposite ramparts, a young man is trying to climb the wall. It is surreal. At this moment I realise I do not have my press ID. I don’t have a single penny in my pocket, either.

When It All Started at Red Fort

3:00 pm : Some trouble is beginning to brew. There is a scuffle right behind me. A young man is being lambasted by another. Minor fisticuffs. It appears that more youngsters want to climb up the walls of Red Fort to reach the flagstaff. Elderly protestors are telling hot-headed youth that it isn’t right. “Ye hamara national jhanda hai. Iss ko chhoona bhi nahi chahiye. Hamara kaam ho gaya hai bas yahaan aakar.” (This is our national flag, it shouldn’t be disrespected. We have achieved our goal by reaching Red Fort.)

One youngster says, “Hum khoon chadhane aaye hain”. (We are here to make a blood offering.) An elderly gent shouted, “Baahar jaake chadha khoon” (Offer your blood outside) and let some chaste Punjabi expletives out.

Police personnel enter Lahori Gate in anticipation and stand at one side. This sight unsettles the protestors perched on the platform and there is commotion on the stairwell. A stampede, if nothing worse, looks impending. I squeeze out and observe from the parapet near Lahori Gate. I catch a glimpse of a handful of police personnel on the platform. And a flurry of protestors exiting from Lahori Gate.

Some youngsters run outside to tell people about police lathicharge. I run towards the police tents and seek comfort in the company of fellow members of the media. “Let’s pray things don’t turn ugly here,” a video journalist from Kannur says to me.

Police personnel start charging towards Lahori gate and that’s when the confrontation started. Protestors outside are beating up police personnel in retaliation for the ‘lathicharge’ inside. The parapet I was earlier standing on becomes the site of clashes.

Tractors come charging towards the crowds. I retreat towards the main road where some Delhi Police personnel are standing. I ask, “What is happening here?” and pat come the reply “Nothing much”. I ask about what orders they have. “We have no orders. We are waiting”.

Signs of First Blood

3:15 pm : I spot an injured cop being escorted out by a group of protesters. His head was hit and blood was streaming down his face. I fumble to take my phone out but he’s quickly taken away. From the main road I attempt to record a piece to camera but it is interrupted by a protestor who threatens me in Haryanwi, “Don’t bring us bad name by showing only this police constable”. I talk to him and my phone battery dies. Other protestors whisk him away and apologise to me.

I walk away from Red Fort as farmers keep coming from Singhu Border and Ghazipur. Oblivious of the scenes inside, most of them circle Red Fort and head back. I hear some shots—they seem distant. Perhaps from ITO. My colleagues from ITO have been reporting disturbing scenes of clashes between Delhi Police and protestors.

I want to reach home to file an eyewitness blog quickly but there is no internet at home. My neighbours have no internet either. I go to a friend’s house in Mukherjee Nagar—after multiple detours—to send photos and video clips to my colleagues at desk.

At night, I receive a drone video showing details of the police-protestor clashes at Red Fort.

Link to original story

This story first appeared in The Quint

A Delhi household tested positive for COVID-19 & exposed them to gaps in government’s policy to deal with pandemic.

Link to original story

This story first appeared in The Quint

Social justice does not take place in silos, nor does it come about by merely doing a ‘privilege check’.

“So you put the burden on me to raise it as my issue?”

P responded to my WhatsApp text yesterday as I urged her to write a think piece on the Hathras rape case. Before making this request, a professional hazard, we were discussing long distance running, strength training, different fitness apps and gears etc.

P and I grew up in towns sitting adjacent to Hathras. When we were colleagues at an A-list Delhi University college, we’d spend some afternoons discussing what that milieu was and how we survived it. Yesterday, we both figured that we only had rage, blind rage, over what was done to the Hathras victim, first by the rapists, and subsequently by the police.

“I can’t write it myself…But somebody needs to raise the question ki bhai kab tak chalega ye sab?” – I had texted, to which P had responded with the curt statement above.

I deserved it. I was trying to play too safe, perhaps, by doing the politically correct thing.

P cleared the clouds in my head with her subsequent messages:

“ … you need to figure out a way of articulating it as your issue then na…, ”and, “Maybe you could start with this conversation?”

Do We Really Need To Bicker About Who Gets to Speak For Whom?

Who is afraid of ‘appropriation’? Or of ‘hijacking’ the ‘issue’? Or even of ‘making it about themselves’? In all likelihood, all these concerns are the last things on the mind of an individual or a community suffering physical, structural, cultural, sexual or psychological violence. And, mostly, brass tacks are more useful than air quotes. The unfashionably material issues of food, water, access (to education, employment, justice…everything), nutrition et al.

Can the subaltern speak without an ally? Of course. Should the subaltern march alone just because the ally can possibly make it all about herself? Now, that is a trick question. More provocatively, can only a Dalit woman legitimately outrage about the Hathras rape case ? Is rape only a women’s issue?

Ought privilege become a guilt trap that, ironically, also encourages indifference and, worse, laziness? When cruelty can be public — all engulfing — why shouldn’t the outrage against it be all-encompassing?

It has been established that identity-based motivations are often behind incidents of sexual assault. Does our response have to be identity-based, too? If yes, will it not bolster public cruelty which scholar Michelle Rodino-Colocino defines as “the deliberate infliction of physical, and secondarily emotional, pain upon a weaker person or group by stronger ones in order to achieve some end, tangible or intangible”?

Can ‘Dalit Issues’ Only Be Taken Up By Fellow Dalits?

Coming back to the specific issue of rape, it is fallacious to categorise this as only a crime against women, and thus conveniently shove it in a bag labeled ‘women’s issues’. It is, in fact, a national security issue and needs to be treated as such. Rape as an instrument of oppression attempts to destabilise one half of the population, plus some bonus gains coming in from the other half. Why should the burden of proof, outrage, and even advocacy fall upon the shoulders of only the victim individuals and communities?

The fact that Uttar Pradesh had to wait for a Dalit woman to assume the CM’s role to see a significant rise in the number of reported rapes, says how this debate of “my issue, your issue” does more damage than good. When Mayawati assumed power in UP, she had instructed all the police station to record every single rape accusation brought there by a Dalit woman. When she lost power, the number of rapes reported by Dalit women fell from 375 cases in 2011 to 285 in 2012 (NCRB 2014).

This small statistical entry is enough to serve as an indictment, ironically, of the limits of exclusionary representative politics. Damned is the society that cannot care for those who are not ‘people like us’.

Each one of us bears responsibility to create an enabling environment for the members of each marginalised community to feel secure and not desperately clutch at the straws of ghettoisation. Social justice does not take place in silos, nor does it come about by merely doing a ‘privilege check’. Put this privilege to work, shall we?

No Hierarchy Of Empathy Needed, Please

And now there is this minor problem of the Constitution and the rights it grants to all the people of this country. No crystal-gazing is required to figure that constitutional rights are not the panacea for social ills. Public power trumps constitutional rights; violence and discrimination are seen as legitimate expressions of privilege. We need to turn this concept upside down. Privilege ought to manifest itself differently: through empathy and honesty.

Let’s talk about ‘agency’, too. For powerful people, even ‘lack of agency’ works in their favour. Scholar Susan Ehrlich explains that the “grammar of non-agency” paints powerful perpetrators with an “aura of non-responsibility”, turning them into victims of forces beyond their own control. Remember Mulayam Singh Yadav’s “Boys make mistakes” statement?

Most law enforcement personnel perceive victimhood through the lens of caste, class, religious background, and gender norms when it comes to crimes like rape. Those who are committed to social justice need not do the same.

The concept of intersectionality is supposed to bring an added layer of empathy but we don’t need a hierarchy of ally action.

As Carrie A Rentschler succinctly articulates, “A rape culture condones physical and emotional terrorism as the norm.” ‘Terrorism’ is not the ‘issue’ or ‘problem’ of one individual or community – it affects an entire nation and subsequently the world.

Link to original story

This story first appeared in The Quint

Social justice does not take place in silos, nor does it come about by merely doing a ‘privilege check’.

“So you put the burden on me to raise it as my issue?”

P responded to my WhatsApp text yesterday as I urged her to write a think piece on the Hathras rape case. Before making this request, a professional hazard, we were discussing long distance running, strength training, different fitness apps and gears etc.

P and I grew up in towns sitting adjacent to Hathras. When we were colleagues at an A-list Delhi University college, we’d spend some afternoons discussing what that milieu was and how we survived it. Yesterday, we both figured that we only had rage, blind rage, over what was done to the Hathras victim, first by the rapists, and subsequently by the police.

“I can’t write it myself…But somebody needs to raise the question ki bhai kab tak chalega ye sab?” – I had texted, to which P had responded with the curt statement above.

I deserved it. I was trying to play too safe, perhaps, by doing the politically correct thing.

P cleared the clouds in my head with her subsequent messages:

“ … you need to figure out a way of articulating it as your issue then na…, ”and, “Maybe you could start with this conversation?”

Do We Really Need To Bicker About Who Gets to Speak For Whom?

Who is afraid of ‘appropriation’? Or of ‘hijacking’ the ‘issue’? Or even of ‘making it about themselves’? In all likelihood, all these concerns are the last things on the mind of an individual or a community suffering physical, structural, cultural, sexual or psychological violence. And, mostly, brass tacks are more useful than air quotes. The unfashionably material issues of food, water, access (to education, employment, justice…everything), nutrition et al.

Can the subaltern speak without an ally? Of course. Should the subaltern march alone just because the ally can possibly make it all about herself? Now, that is a trick question. More provocatively, can only a Dalit woman legitimately outrage about the Hathras rape case ? Is rape only a women’s issue?

Ought privilege become a guilt trap that, ironically, also encourages indifference and, worse, laziness? When cruelty can be public — all engulfing — why shouldn’t the outrage against it be all-encompassing?

It has been established that identity-based motivations are often behind incidents of sexual assault. Does our response have to be identity-based, too? If yes, will it not bolster public cruelty which scholar Michelle Rodino-Colocino defines as “the deliberate infliction of physical, and secondarily emotional, pain upon a weaker person or group by stronger ones in order to achieve some end, tangible or intangible”?

Can ‘Dalit Issues’ Only Be Taken Up By Fellow Dalits?

Coming back to the specific issue of rape, it is fallacious to categorise this as only a crime against women, and thus conveniently shove it in a bag labeled ‘women’s issues’. It is, in fact, a national security issue and needs to be treated as such. Rape as an instrument of oppression attempts to destabilise one half of the population, plus some bonus gains coming in from the other half. Why should the burden of proof, outrage, and even advocacy fall upon the shoulders of only the victim individuals and communities?

The fact that Uttar Pradesh had to wait for a Dalit woman to assume the CM’s role to see a significant rise in the number of reported rapes, says how this debate of “my issue, your issue” does more damage than good. When Mayawati assumed power in UP, she had instructed all the police station to record every single rape accusation brought there by a Dalit woman. When she lost power, the number of rapes reported by Dalit women fell from 375 cases in 2011 to 285 in 2012 (NCRB 2014).

This small statistical entry is enough to serve as an indictment, ironically, of the limits of exclusionary representative politics. Damned is the society that cannot care for those who are not ‘people like us’.

Each one of us bears responsibility to create an enabling environment for the members of each marginalised community to feel secure and not desperately clutch at the straws of ghettoisation. Social justice does not take place in silos, nor does it come about by merely doing a ‘privilege check’. Put this privilege to work, shall we?

No Hierarchy Of Empathy Needed, Please

And now there is this minor problem of the Constitution and the rights it grants to all the people of this country. No crystal-gazing is required to figure that constitutional rights are not the panacea for social ills. Public power trumps constitutional rights; violence and discrimination are seen as legitimate expressions of privilege. We need to turn this concept upside down. Privilege ought to manifest itself differently: through empathy and honesty.

Let’s talk about ‘agency’, too. For powerful people, even ‘lack of agency’ works in their favour. Scholar Susan Ehrlich explains that the “grammar of non-agency” paints powerful perpetrators with an “aura of non-responsibility”, turning them into victims of forces beyond their own control. Remember Mulayam Singh Yadav’s “Boys make mistakes” statement?

Most law enforcement personnel perceive victimhood through the lens of caste, class, religious background, and gender norms when it comes to crimes like rape. Those who are committed to social justice need not do the same.

The concept of intersectionality is supposed to bring an added layer of empathy but we don’t need a hierarchy of ally action.

As Carrie A Rentschler succinctly articulates, “A rape culture condones physical and emotional terrorism as the norm.” ‘Terrorism’ is not the ‘issue’ or ‘problem’ of one individual or community – it affects an entire nation and subsequently the world.

Link to original story