Darling of a Pigmy Size: Parenting, Child Care and Child-at-Risk
Aryak Guha The Image-Event “A two and a half year old boy banging his head on the floor whenever he sees his mother is a very disturbing scene, but that is precisely what Abhigyan Bhattacharya used to do, forcing the Norwegian authorities to take him and his sister Aishwarya into their custody.” Thus starts an article published in The Hindustan Times (27th April, 2012, e-paper), a newspaper owned by the largest mass media conglomerate in India[1], reporting on the recent controversy surrounding Abhigyan and Aishwarya Bhattacharya. The Norway-based Child Welfare Services (called Barnevernet, afterwards CWS) had taken these kids, ‘minors’ of 2.5/3 and 6 months/1 year[s] (variously reported in newspapers) respectively, into custody in May 2011 citing lack of proper care by their biological parents. National media waxed hysteric on this sensitive issue – call it a ‘scandal’ or heart-rending tale – turned into a daily melodrama with images of distressed, tearful parents and grandparents transmitted ‘live’ or printed on front pages, not to mention the bonny faces of the siblings themselves. Many of these, significantly, were ‘file‘ photographs showing the smiling kids, mostly the son, in the arms of either of the parents (again, more often the father). The high visibility of the whole affair reached a climax of sorts when the then premier citizen of India, Ms. Pratibha Patil, a lawyer and a women’s rights activist herself[2], ‘personally’ stepped in to persuade the Norwegian state authorities to restore the custody of the siblings to their parents. The siblings’ paternal grandparents had personally urged Ms. Patil to look into the matter following what then appeared to be a diplomatic cul-de-sac between two embassies even after repeated requests from Indian authorities including Mr. S. M. Krishna, the Cabinet Minister of External Affairs (reportedly at the exhortation of Mamata Banerjee). The grandpa, appearing on a television channel with tears trickling down his eyes, urged all Indian nationals to provide support in the forlorn quest for his grandchildren, to hold them in his arms again, for nothing less would satisfy his pensive heart – in a manner reminiscent of Subhash Ghai-style lachrymose family saga. Going by the amount of desperate outcries of ‘family-nation(-al)’ citizenry against the ‘brutal’ measures of Norwegian authorities (the profusion with which age-old, stereotypical images of Nordic or Viking warlike barbarians were invoked to collapse with modern charges of racism is for anyone to see), the tears coming from a Hindu Brahmin senior citizen did strike an emotional chord after all, sympathies were duly ‘channelized’, and public pressure piled up to pose a national crisis. So much for tyranny of public emotion on display in the age of reality TV. High-level bureaucratic intervention and constant media glare over what could (or should, as some thought) have been a ‘personal’ affair was assisted by the fact that the NRI Bhattacharya couple, the father a geo-physicist and mother a homemaker, later accused each other of threat to (and even actual) physical assault and launched police diaries/FIRs, drawing in their respective parents in turn. The (paternal) uncle of the kids, chosen by the father as the kids’ rightful guardian in the face of allegation against the biological parents’ incompetence to provide fit benchmarks of rearing, added to the controversy by (apparently) declaring the kids’ then foster-parents (also ethnically Indian) as better candidates (than himself, a kin and doctor by profession) in the matter of parental care. By that point in time, print and electronic media in the two concerned countries (and outside) were being flooded with opinions on both sides of India/Norway and biological/foster parenthood – not to speak of ‘good/bad’ and implied ‘East/West‘ divide that often accompany such passionate public debates – or any permutation of these binaries. The common-sense ‘theory’ of cultural relativism, a familiar but important consideration in these matters – often favoring the parent/-country in this case as a prima facie look at English-language newspaper reports, editorials/op-eds, and exchanges in various blogs available in public domain would confirm[3] – was advanced by Anurup Bhattacharya (the father in question) when he was quoted by various newspapers as saying that the Norwegian authorities enforced their decision ostensibly since the parents fed the siblings by hand (with a probable hint at breast-feeding) and shared bed with them at night, by all means common practices in India/West Bengal. There was a particularly fervent article supporting the Indian case, by then a national cause, on Kafila. The bio-note at the end of this article described the author as “a lawyer and a mother” (with an oblique emphasis) and ended by urging Delhites to join a protest march in front of the Norwegian embassy. An open letter with a similar import has also been published in The Hindu on the last Independence Day, signed by several women dignitaries including ex-MPs and ex-Chairpersons of National Commission for Women. Both of these articles argue, if predictably, along certain Feminist lines placing (somewhat alarmingly) the immediate onus of child-rearing on the mother – here turned into a victim[4]. The latter is directed at two journalists reporting on the incident, accusing them of deliberate misrepresentation of the mother’s plight – not only hinting at having forsaken the nation-state but belied the most powerful imaginary of them all, the mother (or the act of ‘mothering’). For everyone familiar with the late 19th century Hindu cultural resurgence gaining necessary historical/historicist legitimacy in the context of anti-colonial struggle, this moral plea directs us toward a bad infinity. The ‘Nature’ of Nurture Parenting/Parenthood in an age of sperm, egg or womb donation and single or same-sex parents has become a jumbled affair on the whole. Things in India are, however, not so baffling – the transition of ‘joint’ family to nuclear units is pretty much the last important thing to have happened to the formally educated, white collar middle class. Hence, multiple models of parenting – social/communal (erstwhile joint family), legal (adoption), biological and moral – rarely appear exclusive of each other although single parent is an
The Pathan
A.K. Hangal, from Karachi Central Jail He was unusually thin and frail for a Pathan. Perhaps he mistook me for a fellow Pathan because of my attire and he stopped near my cell to speak to me. I was in solitary confinement then because of some ‘crime’ committed by me according to jail rules. “What have you been charged with?” “Murder,” he replied. “Whose murder?” “Have you heard about the murders in Preedy Street, inside a gurdwara?” Preedy Street was a neighbouring locality, near my home at Karachi. Was he the man who had…? I composed myself. “Yes, yes, I know about the murders. So?” I asked. “I committed those.” It was shocking indeed to come to face to face with the man responsible for those murders in my locality. Yet I was aware of the other side of the whole situation. He must have been hired by the unscrupulous businessmen who wanted to occupy the shops who wanted to occupy the streets, after making the owners flee in panic during the tense communal atmosphere prevailing at that time. I wanted to make him see his position clearly. “If that is the case, then I think you should not be in jail.” “What do you mean?” he responded incredulously. “First they incite you to murder people of the community,” I went on, “for the sake of their business, while they themselves sit and drink with members of the same community in their gymkhanas and clubs. You are a victim of their plot. But don’t worry, you will be released soon.” “What makes you say that? I have killed innocent people. I will definitely be punished.” “This is politics, my dear man. You are a tool in a bigger game.” “But I have not understood you.” He looked genuinely puzzled. I went on to explain to him in simple language the politics of the Congress, the League, the British and the Princely rulers. He had never heard these things before. But he seemed to understand and it made an impression on him. He became curious about my identity. “Who are you?” he asked. “What’s your name?” “A K Hangal. I am a prisoner too, but a political prisoner.” “What is your full name?” “A K Hangal,” I repeated. “What is A K? What does it mean?” I was being evasive. “I don’t know what it means. My parents kept it that way.” To reveal my Hindu identity, I thought, would not be wise. “You won’t mind if I tell you?” But then I said it anyway. “Well, the fact is, I am a Hindu.” “A Hindu? I don’t believe it.” “I am a Hindu. My full name is Avtar Kishen Hangal.” “But I have never met a Hindu like you.” “I am a Hindu, but I am also a Communist.” “What is a Commu-neest?” “Have you seen processions of workers, with red flags, shouting slogans, demanding higher wages? They are Communists, and I am one of them. The Party we belong to is the Communist Party of Pakistan.” “Oo…”, he exclaimed in his Pathani way, “now I get it.” I gave him the address of the Party and trade union office in Karachi and asked him to go there after his release. They should explain more to him, I told him. As he finished talking, the dreaded warder appeared in the passage, and we parted. This happened on the second day of our imprisonment, when we were beaten by the same warder, and kept in solitary confinement. ————————————————————- adminhumanitiesunderground.org
Adda at Barda’s Shop
Amitranjan Basu [1] When I stood at the main gate of National Library and looked ahead, I got a jolt! Where did Barda[2]’s shop go? I crossed the road and came near the gate of the Zoo and discovered that really Barda’s shop is gone! A high footpath has gone toward the Zeerut Bridge and along the footpath bus stands have come up with small tea kiosks for the bus workers but Barda’s shop has simply vanished! Just can’t remember who among us had discovered this shop first. When we were finishing our schools in 1970-71, our adda brewed up in and around this inn. Barda’s shop was rather large and longish. In two rows there were about fourteen or fifteen tables with white marble tops. These tables rocked with this heavy marble tops on decade old weak legs with four darkish chairs that bore several marks of repair. Some of the chairs sheltered bugs. The road side wall was half-open and the shop was roofed with corrugated tin sheets. A paan-cigarette shop was evolved on the road side wall and the bridge-facing wall had the kitchen, in front of which the manager’s chair was placed. The manager– Barda– sat on this chair behind a shabby showcase with an Anandabazar Patrika in his hand. We used to sit on a table that faced the gate of the zoo where the shop had a small door and adjacent to that was a small banyan tree. The shop did not have any fans. Yellowish bulbs hung from the ceiling. As a whole the shop had such a characteristic look that most of the zoo visitors – who were from a humble background– liked to come and take their seats. Initially, it was Sudhansu, Nirmal and me who started the adda and Sanju joined us soon followed by Sunil, Bijay, Hiren, Kirshnaswamy and Swapan. Barring Sudhansu and Hiren, the rest of us stayed within the boundaries of National Library. The colonial name of the place is Belvedere Estate. Sudhansu was a childhood friend who stayed in the staff quarters of Birla House and Hiren stayed in the staff quarters for zoo employees, who joined us during the first year of my college. Another group from Belvedere, slightly elder to us, used to come to this shop. From this other group , few would join this adda regularly. But none other than Kanuda and Sudhansu’s elder brother Bishtu were actively engaged with the life at Belvedere. Raju-da, Nepu-da and Kamal-da – came to Belvedere after finishing their college. To me they were the first educated unemployed youth seen from close quarters. In spite of being ‘dadas’, they were liberal enough to allow us to smoke in front them and we could discuss anything under the sun with them. At times we used to join both the tables and carry on chatting over endless cups of tea. Sometimes they used to include us in their drinking party. Another group, elder than this one, had their adda in the Ureyer Dokaan (Oriya guy’s Shop) near Anderson House (now Bhabani Bhaban). For a long time, we dared not smoke in front of them. Life at Belvedere seems a time travel to me! Sirajuddoula, after capturing Calcutta from the British, named this area Alinagar. During the time of Mirzafar it was renamed as Alipore. I have read that the grandson of Aurangzeb built the first phase of the buildings. After fourteen years, Surman, a diplomat from England bought this house with the gardens from Mughal Emperor Farrukhshayar (1713-1719) and transformed into his summer palace and named it “Belvedere House.” However, Surman’s house was also put into auction and the revenue minister of Bengal Nawab, Suza Khan bought it in one lakh twenty thousand rupees. Next buyer was Warren Hastings, who bought it in sixty thousand sikkas, and after becoming the Governor General of Bengal he made it into his pleasure palace. Browsing the map of Calcutta of 1794 one can see that, a long stretch from today’s race course to Judges’ Court there is only one house engulfed by trees and the Adiganga. The Belvedere House with a huge garden full of various kinds of trees and a crescent-shaped lake formed the Belvedere Estate. In postcolonial times this house became the National Library and quarters and government employees started arriving in ones and twos. By the end of fifties of the last century a new community started emerging. People from different states settled in their temporary houses at Belvedere Estate. This Belvedere of our childhood was a space of immense curiosity and excitement. In those days gas-lights illuminated Alipore and Baker Road. The house itself had such lights in beautiful decorated stands over the railings of the wide and long staircases, both in front and on the rear side. There were also wonderful marble sculptures of European kinds that decorated the staircase. If you were standing on the top of the frontal staircase it would seem that you were standing in front of a huge water coloured landscape of a plush green, sprawling field with a gigantic Sundari tree at the corner with the crescent shaped lake embracing it from the back. What kind of tree was not there in the garden? While playing over the branches of the big banyan tree we felt that this must be bigger than the famous banyan tree at the Botanical Garden! When dusky evenings would come down by the gas-lights over the Belvedere House – it took us instantly to colonial times. In this ghostly mystic environment the stories of the spirits of sahibs and memsahibs told by the elderly guards and staff seemed all too real! Playground, Children’s Library, aimlessly loitering in the garden in a holiday afternoon, visiting the zoo whenever some new animals or birds came, or scaling the boundary walls of Agri-Horticultural Society garden to see different kinds of beautiful flowers around – all these had made our community life special. It was neither a typical
Justice in a Landscape of Trees
Rajarshi Dasgupta Homeward Bound How does a call for justice appear? When is such a call thought justified? Standing at the crossroads of 1947, as colonial rule came to end in south Asia, the Indian Left had coined a slogan: yeh azaadi jhoota hai, this freedom is lie. But the reasons did not seem very clear to them. Sixty years after, writing in support of a nuclear treaty with the US opposed by the Left, the editor of an English daily recalls how the nation was let down at the very moment of independence. Why, we may even like to think of it as a crime, throwing our hard-earned nationhood into question, is that what you call justice? The point is that such moves are always difficult to justify as they pass through the nation state towards a wider field of ethics, coming to it in response to the violence and injustice that underlie our nations. Thanks to a rich body of scholarship on the partition and refugees, today we have come to recognize the enormous carnivorous sacrifice that made India, Pakistan, Bangladesh, possible.But perhaps we have never really understood how displacement has made the very ground of the citizen subject unstable and shifting in south Asia, turning freedom into a violent force of individuation and justice already into an object of loss. It is here that an exercise of moral freedom runs into conflict with juridical propriety, where the everyday subject of experience is unplugged from the abstract citizen. In order to grasp this uncommon thread of moral freedom, we must listen to the narratives of displaced without the rush to formulate them into a rights discourse, which cannot afford to pay that singular attention required of justice in this case. My paper contends that there is a terrain of justice and moral freedom, pressing for critical recognition in the ideas of home in refugee discourses, which cannot be assembled in a talk of pure logic, but enjoys the felicity of a poetic narration. We can observe here certain forms of subjectivation of the displaced, where one need not construct the reality as it is framed in law, but as it ought to be, framed ethically, overriding the law. We shall see how this implies an escape from present – a flight into the past, as well as, a return to the responsibility of future. In this way, such exercise comes to involve a back and forth movement of thought, holding the current state of affairs against an imagined horizon of infinity, in order to judge the truth, as it were, in other times and places. The texts selected here chiefly illustrate the making of this different awareness of time and place, where moral freedom does not mean ensuring entitlements, but the performance of certain critical modes of subjectivity. In a way, this stages a trial of the modern subject on the margins of the global capital that is producing new ways of thinking about oneself today. Perhaps, it is impossible to keep in mind the historical contingencies of our freedom and respond to the query of why that freedom was untrue or inauthentic to some of us. As recent debates in political theory indicate, there is a danger in underestimating the reality of nation state in south Asia, divided on religious grounds, bordering unfriendly governments, territorially binding on people, rent apart with a seal of finality. Yet, there are overlapping surplus of disturbing memories, as there is a daily traffic across the borders of commerce and human relations, and adamant claims to belong elsewhere rather than the permissible place, which practically spells a gnawing disquiet for the region’s law and order. The displacement needed to carve up the nations and citizen subjects seems to have produced a call for justice at the very heart of the question – where should one belong, regardless of our lawful habitations, as a free subject. The examples we will look into here deal with this very theme of belongingness: how the subject of displacement needs to belong and wants to recreate a home, despite its impossibility in the strict sense of the fact. I hope the analysis will give us a clear idea of an impossible homeward bound-ness, performed through narratives that carry the sense of justice in a way that cannot be legally enforced but invested obliquely, ethically and aesthetically, although not without a sense of irony. Here we may see the ideas of home in the shifting invocations of a territory – an ancestral village very often, sometimes a keenly contested terrain of politics and history, as well as, where I will focus, at times, an elemental, enigmatic site of nature. Rather than a culturally particular location, we need to think of morphologies here, in keeping with what geographers treat as a conceptual space, we may call these invocations a theoretical landscape. Of course, there would be proper names to such places in some discourse, for a historian like Dipesh Chakrabarty, talking about this particular revisited village, or a poet like Jibanananda Das, meditating on the flora of that specific district in undivided Bengal. But we are not exactly interested in the physical-geographical locus of stated individuals in this paper. Instead, we think that despite the names of such places in memory one cannot be restricted to a solitary archive only, which holds the census and administrative data about a place. There is a sense here of other kinds of archives that record and relate differently to the sense impressions and ways of representation in the testimonies we are about to judge. The paper suggests that in keeping the interpretive possibility of such landscapes open to universal implication, we take up a difficult and challenging labour of reading. And that is the only way to understand the political aspect of what leading scholars are happy to knock down as aesthetic parley rather than engaging reality. There is no doubt that the morphology of landscapes often involve a glossing over