Humanities Underground

Catastrophe: Corpse of a Tree

Rana Roy   Our world is going through a crisis, caused by power and the will to overpower. Power to overpower nature works in tandem with the wish to overpower humans and creatures alike. People are in great danger;  similarly nature too. Instead of afforestation we have begun to believe in deforestation. Purely for our own convenience. We do understand that brutality against humans, other creatures and nature gives birth to more horrifying moments but we fail to understand that fulfilling our immediate motives, standing against and competing with nature, brings wrath to the world. Catastrophe is an event causing sudden damage or suffering; a disaster, which reveals itself through the following frames.                     adminhumanitiesunderground.org

Jaaware’s Destitute

Prasanta Chakravarty In his book Practicing Caste, on Touching and Not Touching Aniket Jaaware takes caste as an instance in order to transport us elsewhere.We are not yet born, he says. So, he wants us to travel with him to the island of Hokkaido, and especially to Fukushima, and take a little pause with the ainu, an outcaste group which lies at the bottom of the traditional Japanese society. We could also go to Yemen and learn the language of the al-akhdam, who harbor negrito features on their cultured bodies.  Jaaware wants us to see that there are other worlds too, with similar sets of primary and primal distinctions based on questions of pure being. In this our primary condition we are everywhere the same, making segments and boundaries of living all the time and trying to obliterate our common creaturely state. This is the condition of living. In our variegated living, humans shall continue to live as one in bringing others close or keeping them at bay depending on some inexplicable and unknown equations that they will invent (or have invented already) from within their chosen sect. Caste is an instance. Destitution is the state of being. Aniket Jaaware was wracking his brain and soul about the destitute, immersing himself as one more creature in the throes of destitution. He wanted to deliberately forget (his term is oublierring, from French oublier and English err) not just the hitherto deliberated upon history and sociology of caste studies but more importantly, the language of certainty and sociability which is also the language of our present ethical conundrum about destitution. The real problem to him was the condition of intellectual destitution—that we do not know where to go with our creaturely sense of fallenness, humiliation and abandonment. To bring rumination down to touching and not touching, therefore, is to break down a seemingly insurmountable problem into the basics and try addressing it afresh. And therefore, Hokkaido and Yemen. These are not geographical places to him, but insignia for a huge inchoate and unknown future, the elsewhere where the destitute of the world can say: just us, instead of getting into the infinite spiral of identity and victimhood. Only internalizing such a realization can perhaps open up the realm of freedom.   There is Nothing Called Society There are several intimate cuts among ourselves; we will interact with some people and not with other animals and abject bodies. This is how groups, clans and segments work. Samaj is not society—there are divisions and hierarchies. These are real striations. Consequently, there are only forms of sociability (love or hate at first sight) in our living interactions. Beings interacting in sociability are deeply and phenomenologically bound to each other, though such bindings are invented through interactions. Sometimes these differential bonds turn ephemeral and transcendental and leave certain traces when some member(s) decide to quit a loyal sect or group—through exile, voluntary or otherwise, and through death. In ordinary circumstances we have sociable encounters with our alterity—with those who are from other segments but live within the communal space. Jaaware calls this the state of pathologically nonchalant non-sociability. Even civility seems to be too abstract for any exchanges to happen among individuals here. Others with whom we interact are rather obstacles to be overtaken or circumvented. The destitute are produced in this manner as obstacles. The destitute are not adversaries or competitors. They are simply not like us. Our parks and clubs, washrooms and corridors, gymnasiums and bazaars—all are made into kosher territories so that certain creatures can be hounded and pulverized. Being-in-the-world means that such a form of sociability has to be reinvented in and through every single encounter. This manner of interaction is customary. The fragility of this customary mode of sociability directly leads to violent and demanding impositions and maniacal postulations against the destitute enemy, the unknown person(s) whom we know as the interactive other. Jaaware gives the example of a performance artist who goes up to strangers and does ‘pleasant’ or ‘unpleasant’ things: “touching them, jumping up and down in joy in front of them, picking a speck of dirt from their cheek (grandma’s spit), carrying a portable toilet and sitting on it in public with pants down, standing half-naked with just a jacket on in front of a painting, grabbing and eating food from someone else’s plate at a party, lying down in an art gallery and holding people’s legs and not letting go, posing nude beside a sculpture of a nude, standing half naked beside a clothes rack, asking people to dress her.” This is a control experiment in order to explore the way sociability actually takes place. By starkly deflating its operation we realize the power and ubiquity of sociable interaction. The artist is asking people to invent sociability by improvising or formulating human interactive methods right at the moment of her performance. This is exactly what one could see unfold after Aniket Jaaware’s death. Or the obverse of it rather. It was spring time and his material body had just been cremated a few days ago, along with his famous ear-stud! A really good discussion on his book was arranged at the Max Mueller Bhavan, New Delhi. And academics like me heard his video-recorded voice waft across the hall – and the hall indeed was choc-a-bloc.  There was hope for something grand and gone for the audience. And therefore collegial sociability was everywhere. That is the only mode in which each makes peace with the other just before and after such discussion sessions: in the foyer or the rotunda or at the car park outside. These modes of temporary communality we carry to the hall itself (perch ourselves at the right spots, greet other fellow beings with a certain collegial air, preface questions later with polite humility, and so on).You keep on performing something ‘social’ – yourself as an academic, a journalist or as an intellectual – while being constantly individuated. This was the ‘silence’ part of the ‘social

BHU: Pragmatism, Placation and Panic

  Siddhant Mohan _____________________ Those who are oblivious or unperturbed about the sedition and felony charges brought against some students of Jawaharlal Nehru University are living in a better world.  Important as it is, the media (and the powerful JNU alumni)—traditional, electronic and word of mouth—have made this news assume a larger than life dimension. Heroization of academic vanguardism has many worthy antecedents.  While the incidents themselves are still unfolding and contingent, the reactions, abstractions and tales of glory brings a dimension of inevitability—an ironic form of heriozation perhaps? It is not surprising then that the national (and firmly nationalist now) and social media have been  completely absent from another dramatic scene that was unfolding in Varanasi simultaneously:  around hundred ABVP hooligans disrupted and vandalized a lecture event delivered by the academician, social scientist and Hindi poet Dr. Badri Narayan in Varanasi. Incidentally, he teaches in JNU. It happened on Valentine’s Day. Dr. Narayan was in Banaras Hindu University’s Art’s Faculty auditorium. He was delivering a special lecture organized in the memory of Late Kamla Prasad. The rubric: ‘Subaltern Societies and Indian Development.’ The Department of Hindi, BHU, was the chief organizer of the event. On the completion of his talk, Dr. Narayan answered few of the questions raised on the topic and took his seat.  At some point Dr. Kashinath Singh, one of the foremost writers of our nation and an esteemed denizen of Varanasi, was delivering his presidential note. At that point the hooligans broke in. They were armed with the tricolour, saffron headbands, garish placards and with images of the soldiers who had recently died in Siachen. There entry and exit were book-ended with two matter-of-fact slogans, bereft of any ideology:  ‘Stop the Program’ and ‘Maaro Joota Saale ko’ (Footwaer for the bastard!).  Doubtless these rather universal and timeless slogans were directed at Dr. Narayan. While they were at the verge of assailing the stage, vandalize and eventually turn physical with the participants and spectators present there, a few Hindi poets confronted, argued and came together to neutralize the situation.  The damage was done though—symbolically and emotionally.  It is part of a larger pattern that is unfolding in institutes like BHU. To ponder on that, I take up the quill today. When ABVP activists ask how BHU dares to invite a professor from JNU who harbours a certain ethos, a political and literary sensibility which is not to their liking, it is in continuation of their condemnation of some other recent events in other parts of the nation, supported by the left and votaries of non-pragmatic identity politics. This is according to the script. What is not is the response: a professor from Hindi department, enlightened the ‘protesting’ students that if any anti-national is or was invoked in some other institute, BHU condemns it. The activists should seek an explanation from the administration as to how BHU dared to invite a professor from such a divisive and schismatic university. This placatory tone is characteristic of how we usually handle a contingent situation at hand: divert attention and make a temporary truce. But what price such quasi reconciliatory and paternalistic truce? One feels it emboldens a pattern in our institutions which has taken us away more and more from deliberative (or directly antagonistic) ways in public life.  Even in a communitarian set up that marks a place like Varanasi, it means giving away a precious locational and affective space to an antagonist who is a master player in populist politics. Anyway, the din and brouhaha carried on for about 15 to 20 minutes. The poetry reading began soon after. Apart from Narayan himself, poets included Vyomesh Shukla, Ashish Tripathi, Anand Pradhan Sharma, Chandrakala Tripathi, Neeraj Khare and Baliraj Pandey. All of them condemned the attack and recited poems, many of which reverberated against fascism, colonialism and religious dictatorship.  Only a handful of media houses reported this incident. Seemingly BHU itself has papered over this whole fracas.  Life goes on. Or so it seems. The obvious factual question that can be raised against me is about my assertion that the hooligans were indeed ABVP members. But the fact of the matter is that the disruptors are quite brazen and upfront about it.  Such is the level of their confidence in state backed majoritarianism of the kind hitherto unseen. They could target Dr. Narayan so easily because they have seen him on TV debates and there were his posters on the campus. Sources informed that someone had briefed the mobsters about the presence of JNU professor. They would not let go of such golden opportunity to score a point. Goons/Hooligans: I use such words with some hesitation. But advisedly too.  Being judgmental too quickly is not a wise thing to do but not possessing a basic understanding of populist radical values operating in the chowks, mohallahs and premises of our nation is worse. For one, this form of populist universality is far from vague. Populism in our towns are a series of performative acts endowed with a rationality of its own, unto itself.  Partly it is globalized aspiration. Partly a constant reconfiguration and unicity around a fictive idea of a mystical nation.  Each new and heterogeneous incident and participation symbolically enhances populist reason.  Its very mercenary nature allows, what Ernesto Laclau had called, a deeper homogeneity constructed by radical multiplicity of the popular—present as that which is absent.  I am therefore using hooligan as a descriptive rather than as a purely pejorative term. The preferable word would be ‘activist’ except that there is no activism that is going on in our campuses and the adjoining areas now.  Forms of pure retribution are void of any activist content. Activism does have a different meaning today though. Activism, nowadays, has come to mean treachery—of the nation and pater patria, pure and simple.  Such is the level of heightened frenzy in the right voluntarist rhetoric at this point of time. It will be an important task for the social scientist to recalibrate and

1971, Three Letters

#1 Sender: Ataur Rahman Khan Kaiser. Chittagong. July 17, 1971. Receiver: Oysika A. Khan. 17 Ayesha Khatun Lane, Banshalbari, Chandanpura, Chittagong.   Mamoni Mine, I am writing this letter for the day, Inshallah, when you will learn to read and understand things. Your young heart must be filled with abhimaan and heartache wondering why your abbu does not come to see you. Mamoni mine, how shall I ever explain to anyone the kind of pain that shoots through your abbu when he thinks that it is your birthday today and yet he cannot hold you close? Whose guilt is it, whose crime—that he cannot take you into his arms? This you shall understand and fathom when you grow old, mamoni.  Because that day this crime of his, will no longer be considered a crime. The people of this nation are also criminals like your father, because they have been demanding their rights. All criminals—universally loved leaders, writers, artists, journalists, intellectuals— criminals since they love this country. For the exploiters and invaders, nothing is more criminal than this emotion.  The only punishment for such a crime is, death.  Lakhs of people have left this country in order to escape this punishment. Your father has no other option but to move from one village to another, seeking mountains and forests in distant places, so that he is not shot at or hanged. And today, even if your abbu craves for his mamoni, he cannot shower kisses on her.  The picture of a little doll that lingers in his mind’s eye is the one that he loves and kisses. And that is your abbu’s only solace. As I perform namaaz, at every waqht, I pray for you, for your happiness and safety. I pray to Allah Rahmanur Rahim that he keep both you and your ammu safe. Mamoni, your ammu has written saying that you have learnt to speak now? You say that your abbu used to sing Joy Bangla, do you? Inshallah that day is not far when your abbu shall once again sing Joy Bangla to you. If your abbu is not there your ammu will sing that song for you. Your ammu has also written that when she scolds you, you say you will send her off! Do you know, your ammu does not know anything. She only suffers for you and me. Even if you send her off, you will see, she will come back to you again. She cannot stay without us. If your ammu cries or suffers, don’t tell anyone mamoni. Just be with her. By her side. Cry with her.  And love her—that is her only solace, all right? Many thousands of kisses to you  mamoni. All yours, Abbu ***   *** #2 Sender: Kadbanu Aleya, Sonatola,  September 28, 1971. Receiver: Muktijodddha Abdur Razzak, Kumarkhali, Kushtia.   Dearest Husband, Accept my salam and love. You have sent a letter with Jahan Bhai.  After reading the letter I have destroyed it, fearing the razakars. The razakars are guarding our house day and night, 24 hours so that they can catch you. On the day your second child was 6 days old, I received your letter.  You had written that I should be alive to tell others your proud story, that you will win back Bangladesh. I kept running, bearing a pain that defies description. I still remember the day I came from my abba’s home to yours, it was July 16th. You were not home. I realized you were frantic and troubled and had gone underground for a few months. You do not, did not tell me anything but I understood that you were mentally preparing for the war. Once I reached my abba’s, Babu was born—that was July 21st. I was still hoping that somehow you would be there. Some miracle would happen. But instead this letter arrived. Tomorrow I shall go to my in-laws’, that is, to your place. All around razakars have created hell. At least here I used to get your news through Jahan Bhai, but I don’t know what lies for us there.  I still hope you are alive. Hence, I write. Your two and half year old older son always carries the flag and shouts Joy Bangla! The razakars chastise him. My abba tried to shut his mouth with his hands but he keeps on struggling, pleading—leave me alone Nanu. And then again with renewed vigour screams—Joy Bangla! The razakars keep on threatening abba that the moment your son-in law arrives, your house shall be razed to the ground and all of you will be taken into custody. Due to all this, abba has decided to send me off. My only doya to allahtalah is that you return safe. One day, one day. After you have freed our nation.   Yours, Kadbanu Aleya *** *** #3 Sender: Shahid Ashfaqus Samad Uttam, Patgram, Rangpur.  August 25, 1971. ( died fighting West Pakistan army in direct combat at Raiganj in November 20, 1971.) Receiver: Tauhid Samad, Current Address- 42 Dilkusha, Dhaka.   Dear Tauhid, First let me tell you that I am writing to you from a liberated area of Bangladesh. The Indian border is almost 18 miles away from here. I am breathing the free air of a liberated place and by God it feels good. Liberated this place 2 weeks back. It is now around 10 o’clock in the evening. I am lying in my bed inside a hut. My bed is a wooden platform dug in about two feet below the floor level. The earth raised all around me to give protection from the bullets and shells. One lamp burning with minimum light. My ‘friends’ the Punjabis from Pakistan are only 600 yards away. The sons-of-bitches have not shelled on today/might, but I have a feeling they will anytime now. They usually do at this time. The idiots did not let us sleep last night. Fired about 40 shells. Couldn’t land a single one on us—some marksmanship! So, we fired about 50