International applause: truth and realities

PAVAN K. VARMA

back to issue

IF there is one absolutely recognizable trait of a once colonized people, it is the manner in which they respond to foreign praise. Even the slightest applause from ‘abroad’ – read from the West – leads to euphoria. Conversely, even a hint of criticism from the same quarter causes a level of indignation, indeed outrage, totally out of sync with the provocation. This uncontrolled swing of the pendulum is characteristic of a people who have lost their own cultural anchorage and must depend on outside appraisal for the maintenance of self-worth and self-esteem.

The British were the world’s most successful colonizers because their aim was not only the physical subjugation of their subjects; they sought to colonize their minds, and succeeded beyond their wildest expectations. As rulers they built an ideological edifice to justify their rule. Its foundations were that the natives belonged to an inferior culture which almost nothing could redeem. By contrast the rulers came from an accomplished Anglican civilization – progressive, rational, scientific and modern. Such a civilization was essential to ‘uplift’ the natives from the cesspools of superstition and prejudice in which they were hopelessly trapped; therefore, the perpetuation of British rule was in the interest of the natives themselves.

 

Few Indians realize or care to know that apart from a few decades at the very beginning of British rule, when people like William Jones and the Asiatic Society sought to ‘discover’ native culture with a genuine semblance of respect, the entire colonial period was one of a consistent and emphatic critique of everything Indian and, in particular our culture and civilization. Such a critique was only to be expected by a foreign ruling power. However, the real tragedy of this relent-less and arbitrary contempt was that it was, in very great measure, internalized by the natives themselves.

In fact, the educated were even more susceptible to this one-sided dismissal, for they were exposed to a biased school and college curriculum and accepted it as the truth, either out of timidity or passivity, or because they were more concerned about passing exams in order to qualify to become the kind of clerical intermediaries that Lord Macaulay had so clearly and prophetically sought to create.

1947 brought an end to colonial rule. The Union Jack came down and the tricolour went up. It marked the end of a political phase and in some ways also an economic one. However, the cultural consequences of more than two centuries of hostile indoctrination would not evaporate overnight. A middle class and elite Indian segment continued to look up to the West as the repository of a superior civilization, and conversely, continued to view their culture as backward, ritualistic, antiquarian and obscure. Certainly, there was much in Indian culture that could benefit from critical interrogation. But the devaluation of one’s own in favour of the outsider was not based on such an objective appraisal. It was a reflex, created through decades of subtle indoctrination that put the civilizational achievements of the British on a pedestal. An entire generation, largely adrift from its own cultural roots, was bereft of the intellectual tools, except through tokenism or chauvinism, to assert the relevance and the validity of their own cultural heritage and civilization.

 

Language provides the most telling illustration of this process. The linguistic heritage of India goes back over 5000 years. Six hundred years before the birth of Christ, Panini wrote his lexicon on the rules of grammar, the Ashtadhyayi, which remained a standard reference work for all serious grammarians until recent times. The Indian Constitution lists 22 languages, all of which have evolved for over two millennia, and have a rich vocabulary, established rules of grammar, and works of great depth and beauty.

English was compulsorily introduced by the British as a symbol of their culture, and Macaulay’s infamous Minute of 1835 leaves no scope for ambivalence about the reasons why this was done. Even then, many among the Britishers themselves questioned the wisdom of imposing a foreign language on a country with such a rich linguistic heritage. However, once the decision was taken, it quickly became the language for aspiring Indians for quick upward mobility. Over time English acquired a disproportionate space in the linguistic space of the country, putting in the shadow all other Indian languages.

The dominance of English continued after 1947, although the framers of our Constitution did make a brave attempt to articulate the need for a national language. In part, the continuation of English as the de facto language of the state was a foregone conclusion, because it had become the language of first choice for the elite at the helm of power – be it in the bureaucracy, the corporate world, the armed forces and even the most influential in the political class. Undoubtedly, there was also an expedient purpose behind its perpetuation. As a foreign language it overarched indigenous linguistic divides; and, as a global language, it provided a window to the world that none of the Indian languages could then offer.

 

However, in the specific context of this essay, the real issue about English was not its utilitarian value. The real issue is that English became the language of the elite, the language of aspiration and of social status. This led to people being judged for their ability to speak it with fluency and with a certain accent, and condemned if unable to. A certain prabhuta, power and status, came to be attached to it, and this mindset was a direct consequence of colonial rule.

By contrast, a certain heenta or inferiority came to be attached to the speaking and learning of our own languages. Indians would rather speak and write English badly than claim that their mother tongue is their first language. In fact, so adrift did so many of them become from their linguistic moorings that they could not, even if they wished to, make that claim. Today, if you ask a middle class person in Delhi a question in Hindi, it is more likely than not that he will respond in English, lest you think he is placed so low down in the social ladder so as not to know English.

The question about international applause, and our reaction to it, has to be seen in this context. Rabindranath Tagore wrote his immortal poetry in Bengali, but for most Indians he received real literary distinction only after he won the Nobel prize for literature in 1914. Satyajit Ray made beautifully sensitive films, but he achieved cinematic glory in India only when his talents were recognized abroad. Ravi Shankar was a musical genius but he was recognized as such by the bulk of his compatriots only after the Beatles thought he was one.

When people are conditioned to undervalue themselves they seek endorsements from outside, and those that come from the West are particularly important. Such endorsements provide much needed psychological reassurance of merit. They are a cause for celebration because they provide ‘uncontestable’ proof of excellence. After all, if those who claimed that they are superior to you, and have made you believe that this is really so, recognize you for your talents then nothing more needs to be adduced in the matter.

 

While Tagore’s Nobel prize is still regarded as an enduring literary milestone, it does not seem to be of much consequence to most Indians that no Indian has since 1914 been considered worthy of this prize. Frenchmen, for instance, have won the Nobel as many as fourteen times since then, but no Indian, except V.S. Naipaul, who is of Indian origin. It is perhaps not a coincidence that Naipaul made a living of being critical of his Indian roots, and more recently, further endeared himself to arbiters in the West, by being critical of Islam.

In fact, so mesmerized are we by such international plaudits that we rarely pause to understand the transparent politics often operating behind such awards. Mahatma Gandhi, the undisputed messiah of peace and non-violence in the last century, never won the Nobel Prize for Peace, because this would have annoyed the British. Similarly, Pandit Nehru was nominated for the same prize on more than a dozen occasions, but he too did not find favour with the judges; however, Kissinger, who was Richard Nixon’s adviser when he was napalming defenceless Vietnamese, did.

Aravind Adiga’s Booker Prize for 2008 provides the most recent example of the manner in which we respond to western recognition. The day the award was announced a near hysteria gripped our media. Next day, Adiga’s win made front page headlines. However, strangely, our newspapers only quoted extracts from what the Booker jury had to say about the merits of his book. There was almost no independent appraisal of its literary merits or any discussion on its contents, which happened to be exceptionally critical of most things in India.

By contrast, the book was extensively reviewed in the British press. It received some praise, but also a great deal of flak. The reviews were noteworthy for their in-depth discussion on the issues raised by the book, the style of Adiga’s writing, and the reasons why it did or did not deserve the Booker. In India, however, there was only euphoria. The fact that one of us had been found fit to get one of the West’s most coveted prize was reason enough to celebrate. There was no need for any evaluation of our own. We were quite prepared to suspend judgement in lieu of the recognition bestowed upon us.

 

The discussion here is not about Adiga. He could become an important literary voice globally, and we wish him well on this score. The question is about our reaction to the Booker, as though it connotes an end in itself, and as if the legatees of a civilization that go back to the dawn of time have no other recourse but to uncritically become euphoric merely because recognition comes our way from the West.

The contrast with how we react to our own awards is pathetic. Those who receive the Sahitya Akademi award are lucky to find a mention in the inside pages of newspapers, and only in those which are willing to sacrifice coveted advertisement space for such inconsequential matters. If a random survey of the educated in a metropolis is done, hardly anyone will know who won the Bharatiya Gnanpith Award the last time. Sitakant Mahapatra, the soft-spoken and sensitive poet from Orissa, told me that even after he won the Gnanpith he managed to sell less than a thousand copies of the book for which he was given that award!

 

These are matters about which we as Indians need to seriously introspect. People who have a valid claim to call themselves cultured cannot afford to become caricatures. And this is exactly what we do become when we react in this giddy and uncritical way to foreign acclaim. Of course, there is nothing wrong in recognition of talent abroad. But we need to have a greater sense of balance, scrutiny and equilibrium in our responses. The ability to make an independent application of mind is one of the key elements of a confident and mature nation. A society that is able to judiciously evaluate such endorsements is far more likely to win the respect of the world.

A case in point is Slumdog Millionaire. When the film won the BAFTA awards, it had not even been officially released in India, which means that except for those who had access to pirated copies, Indians had not seen the film. Even so, the fact of the award was enough for the media to go berserk. Subsequently, when the film was declared the best film at the Oscars, and A.R. Rahman and Gulzar got the Oscars too, it was almost as if India had won the freedom struggle again!

Behind the banner headlines was a curious lack of interrogation; the very few attempts to analyze the film were drowned out by the almost childish delight that a British film on an Indian theme had made it at the Oscars, and that some Indians who worked in it had won too, even if their music or lyrics were far from being anywhere close to their best, and the rehash of the original story itself was in many places both weak and unconvincing.

 

One obvious danger of this kind of Pavlovian response is that we begin to mould our creative output in categories that are more likely to win western approbation. A great deal of writing in English is frankly structured for a foreign audience, dishing out exotica that will appeal to such an audience, or churning out explanations to even commonplace things in the Indian context just because they would then be understood in London or New York or Paris. No writer of any worth in any of these cities writes keeping an Indian audience in mind. This slavish susceptibility to recognition from foreign shores stilts the creativity of even the talented, and a great deal of mediocrity and mimicry are the unfortunate consequence.

Even more unfortunately, many exceptionally talented Indian writers who write in our own languages are considered inferior or below par simply because they have not won, or been shortlisted to win, such international acclaim. Their intrinsic merit has little or no value in the eyes of their own people in the absence of such recognition. A V.S. Naipaul or Salman Rushdie can glibly announce that except for the handful of successful Indians writing in English, nothing worthwhile is happening in Indian literature. And the real tragedy is that most Indians, mesmerized by the outsider’s appraisal, and consequently indifferent to most things that are not included in that appraisal, are willing to let such preposterous claims go unchallenged.

 

One thing is clear: something needs to be done quite radically to change this state of affairs. First, we need a change in mindset. The legacy of colonialism, and its colonization of our minds, has to be calmly analyzed and understood. Nothing will change if we do not begin by confronting our own state of mind, and dismantling, without anger or xenophobia, the legacies of the past. If we can do this, we will begin to acquire the maturity and ballast to react to external praise or criticism with greater equanimity. This equanimity will nurture the ability to apply our mind to such matters and not respond predictably and superficially, as a conditioned reflex.

The next step must be to develop our abilities to know the canvas of our own creativity, without being influenced by externally determined choices. An Adiga may write well, but surely we have writers of as much if not more talent in Hindi or Malayalam or Bengali or Marathi or in any of our own languages. Our educated elite must claim to have some knowledge of our indigenous talents before being swept off its feet by what others have to say in the matter. For this, something we need to do as a matter of utmost priority is to set up a first class institute of trained and talented translators. The government should consider this to be in the national interest, for only then will Indians come to know what other Indians are writing, without the intermediary, selective and limited intervention of publishers from abroad.

If we are able to do this, the next thing is to give weightage and prestige to our own awards. The kind of sarkari odour that clings to most of our literary prizes, and the unfortunate lobbying that goes on quite visibly behind the scenes, devalues both the awards and our literary genius. Awards for the best work in fiction, poetry, non-fiction and translation, must be given by a truly respected pan-Indian jury. That jury should have access, through high quality translations, to the best works in all the major Indian languages, shortlisted by eminent panels at regional levels. The government must be a facilitator in this process, not the conductor. Media projection, on the lines maybe of the Sa Re Ga Ma music contest on commercial television, should be built in, as also prize money that is attractive.

In the next stage a category could be created for prizes for the best works in foreign languages, and this could also create a platform for the best in writing from other parts of the world, often ignored by awards dominated by English and French. Only when we are in a position to honour our own literary creativity adequately will we be able to insulate ourselves from the unbalanced and uncritical euphoria we display to plaudits from abroad.

 

As legatees of a remarkable civilization, in many ways unmatched for its antiquity, continuity, diversity, refinement and capacity for assimilation, we must behave with the cultural maturity that should be its natural consequence. Unfortunately, we are still far away from such behaviour. A super power that aspires to sit on the high table of the world cannot do so only on the strength of its economic statistics, military strength or size of population. Cultural confidence must be on display too, and that can never happen unless we stop the predictably knee-jerk reaction so far in evidence to criticism or praise from outside, and learn the equilibrium and discrimination that comes from the ability to apply our own minds.

top