Our Cultural Diversity

 

To me, Navratri has always been associated with Maa Durga. Though born in a Tamilian household, my childhood and youth was spent in communities with a predominantly Bengali population, so Durga Puja is a part of my cultural heritage, not Navratri golu.

The frenzied beat of the dakis. The sound of conch shells being blown. The smell of camphor and flowers, mingling with the tantalizing aroma of street food. New clothes and conversations. And reigning above it all the benign face of Maa Durga, who’s come on a visit with her four children.

Dashami was the day when all the excitement came to an end. Ma Durga would leave her earthly home, and return to her heavenly abode. For us, the excitement would come to an end, and we would be left with three words on our lips, আবার এসো মা/ come back soon, Ma.

If you asked me my family’s traditions for Vijaya Dashami, I wouldn’t be able to answer. Perhaps even my parents didn’t know; they had both grown up in other states and had most certainly picked up traditions from the places where they lived.

Dussehra assumed significance after I married into a North Indian family. But I was never comfortable with interpreting the epic battle between Rama and Ravana as one where Good triumphs over Evil. Rama spoke about the moral code when it came to others, but he was not above breaking them if it suited his purpose and Ravana often conducted himself with more honour than did his antagonist. As I saw it, in that particular battle, good and evil were labels reserved for the victor and the vanquished.

I am not the only one who thinks that way. There are communities which mourn the death of Ravana, just as there are communities that celebrate the victory of Rama.

And that is what makes Hinduism unique. There is no common ‘Hindu’ culture or tradition. There is no single version of Hinduism. There is no one God all Hindus worship. There is no one way in which all Hindus worship a particular God.

In the last few years, there has been a strong attempt to homogenize Hinduism. One deity has been given prominence over the others. A deity that in my part of the country is worshipped in a benign form has metamorphosed into one who is ready for battle. A singular narrative is being thrust on the country.

The essence of Hinduism has always been its plurality. It has been the ability to assimilate and cherish different cultures and traditions. To cherish our differences, and to take pride in our collective tradition. It would be a shame if that is lost.

In my tiny home, we cling to the plurality. Though none of us is a practicing Hindu, and only my husband even identifies himself as one, we carry forward parts of the traditions of our families. On Ashtami, I make kala chana, sooji halwa and poori for lunch because my mother-in-law always did so, and requested me to keep the tradition going. But I soak a larger quantity of kala chana than required, and keep some of it aside to make shundal and payasam the next day because my mother wants that I celebrate Saraswati Puja on Navami. And I am hoping that neither of the kids comes to know about the tradition of smashing a pumpkin on Dashami day, because they will most certainly want to adopt that tradition, and I don’t particularly want to clean up after them!

Let my country awake

Growing up in a mining colony in the 1970, your defining identity was that of an Indian. At home, we spoke different languages, worshipped different gods and celebrated different festivals, but outside, we were Indian. We spoke a mixture of English and Hindi, with assorted words from other languages thrown in. We landed up in each other’s houses without warning. We exchanged thalis of sweets and savouries during our festivals. And we often ended up celebrating different festivals with our friends.

“Hindu, Muslim, Sikh, Isai. Aapas mein hai bhai bhai”, was not just a slogan for us. We genuinely believed in it. From the folk dances that we took part in during various cultural programmes, to the sheer diversity of food each of our kitchens churned out, to the festivals that were celebrated in the community center. Everything was a living personification of “Unity in Diversity/ Unekta mein Ekta”.

As we grew older and moved away from the projects, we continued to see the country through our ‘Indian’ lenses. The food we ate, the movies we watched, even the people we dated; everything was cosmopolitan, secular, Indian. Our Indianness was our identity, and we viewed current affairs through our secular lens.

 

Long after the Babri Masjid was brought down. Long after Godhra and its aftermath. Long after the Hindutva ideology established itself in the political landscape of the country. Long after all that, I continued believing that it was only a fringe element that supported the divisionary politics that were tearing the fabric of the country.

It was only since 2014, and, more specifically, after 2019 that I started questioning whether the secular nation I thought I had grown up in actually existed or if it was merely something I imagine. On the eve of the Bhoomi Poojan of the Ram Mandir at Ayodhya,

I finally articulated what I had beenthinking for awhile- had the nation I loved ever existed, or had my image of a secular Indian just been a mirage?

My friends heard what I said and wrote in to tell me that they were happy I had articulated what they could never say. That they were mourning the secularism that they had grown up with but which no longer existed. “Thank you for saying this. If I said it nobody would have listened”, said three Muslim friends.

They had all grown up in colonies like the one I grew up in. Through their childhood and youth, they had never felt they were any different. So close was their belief in an Indian identity, some had even married non-Muslim men. Some of their closest friends were still Hindu, their families still went on holidays with Hindu families, and their children spent most of their waking hours with their Hindu friends. However, despite that, they could still sense the alienation. They recognized that things were no longer as they had been, and they missed those days.

It was heartbreaking to hear the words they left unsaid. These are the people who have lost most with the rise of fundamentalism. They had identified themselves as secular Indians, but were left bereft when that categorization was done away with.

But even in their heartbreak, I saw a glimmer of hope. They too were mourning a secular India that had once existed, but no longer did. But the fact that they felt the vacuum proved that the India I thought I grew up in had actually existed.

What never existed cannot be summoned, but what has been lost can certainly be reclaimed.

“Into that heaven of freedom, let my country awake.”

Not in my Name

December 6, 1992.
I was in the final year of college when karsevaks climbed the dome of the Babri Masjid and brought it down. I watched in shock and horror, but there was little else I could do.
The press condemned it, there were editorials written, but gradually it died down.
Everyone I knew condemned the demolition of the mosque, and I certainly believed that the people who had destroyed the structure were a fringe element.
What I didn't realise then was that the India I had grown up in was changing in ways I couldn't fathom.

A lot happened in the years since then.
Hindutva established itself as a mainstream political ideology. Vigilante crimes against Muslims got normalised. The Ayodhya case dragged on in the courts.
Through it all, I hoped that at least in the Court, justice would be done.

November 9, 2019
Like many others, I was following the judgement closely. I was shattered when the final ruling was read out.
It has been the last chance for the nation to apologise for a wrong committed, and the nation had chosen not to.

In the months after the Ayodhya verdict, the Muslim community has been targeted in many other ways. The 'otherisation' has been normalised. Nobody even bothers to put up a pretense of 'secularism' any more.
The India I thought I grew up in is no more.

August 5, 2020
In the numbness that follows grief, the Bhoomi Poojan of the Ram Mandir at Ayodhya is just one more nail in the already sealed coffin of secularism. I no longer even relate to it.
And yet, I will reiterate; the temple that comes up is not in my name.
#notinmyname