August 15th is India's Independence Day, and the preparations are already beginning at Visthar for quite the fest. The girls at Bandhavi, in their usual expressions of adorableness, are planning a play to perform. From my spot in the window seat in the library (with the windows open, I can just hear the cows bawling in the distant pasture), I have the perfect vantage to spy on them as they practice. From the polish to their performance, they seem to have already talked through what they wanted to perform -- mostly vignettes, with lots of saluting and "Vande Mataram"-ing (Vande mataram is "hail to the motherland").
I looked out of my idyllic window just in time to see sweet Sunita (Sunita of the chubby cheeks, versus Sunita of the high voice) picking up an air machine gun, taking a stance and sounding out her actions as she "gunned down" Akshaya, Nagaratna, Shruthi, Deepa, Ganga, Sheshikila and others. (ironically, they are practicing in a structure called, "Priety Mane" - house of love) They hopped up a moment later, moving into the next statement of nationality.
It would be impossible to talk about India as a nation without talking about violence. This Independence Day will be only their 62nd; a young nation of an ancient culture. Though borne out of a nonviolence movement against the Raj, India's national history has thus far been punctuated by violence. There is the incalculable violence of the Partition as India and Pakistan West and East were split. Several wars have been fought with Pakistan over land and primacy, and India's border areas remain ragged with hostilities. Then, there are the daily violences brought on by crushing poverty, caste, gender... the list goes on.
By the way, I am not picking on India here; violence seems imbued in the identity of a new state. Look at US history as comparison - in our first 62 years, we tried the Articles of Confederation and had to scratch them because of insurrections (one of the more successful over the taxation of whiskey), fought a rather nasty war with the British, and seriously thought about trying it with the French, too. In the mean time, we quite nearly annihilated an entire indigenous population, enslaved a decent proportion of another, and laid the seeds for civil war.
So, in celebrating our respective Independence(s), how do we celebrate a nation without celebrating violence? How to we honor sacrifice without creating a culture of war? In the US, we are as likely to have a barbecue on the 4th as we are to have a program -- perhaps we are further removed from the realities of our independence-- but still we talk about war.
At my own personal stance, I think we have to realize that being a citizen of a nation is negotiating the border between just national pride and the insidious influence of violent nationalism. How do you celebrate independence justly without turning into a, "'Merica for 'mericans." How do children talk about India's history without machine gunning each other in a field? Does the celebration of institutionalized violence lead to those same trends and themes in political and social thought?
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Eclipse
The longest solar eclipse of the century tracked over India late last week; it was heralded by astronomical nerds for weeks prior, and even the average global citizen found cause for excitement as the time for the eclipse approached. There’s a lot to be learned about the sun during an eclipse, about the outer layers of the corona, and solar flares; more interesting to me is what was to be learned about those watching.
The path of the eclipse was predicted to cut across northern India, then on to China and terminating in the Pacific. When the news began to spread that there would be an eclipse, interesting things began happening… an eclipse has certain superstitious portents, and preparations cannot be thrown together lightly to make full use of the power and avoid the threat of eclipse.
In Northern Karnataka (the state where Bangalore is located), many families brought disabled children to a common place in the village and buried them in mud up to their necks. It was believed that performing this act during the eclipse would help to heal these children. The children were reported as rather uncomfortable with the process, but most were hopeful for progress. This strikes some of us as superstition at best – how can people in the modern age believe these things? But for rural people who crave for competent medical care even at basic levels, how different is this mud treatment from sticking your child in a machine that pops out pictures of their bones?
In certain areas, an eclipse requires certain ablutions at temples, and it was possible prior to the eclipse to purchase eclipse insurance related to journeys to these temples. Has there been such a pleasant meeting of modern and ancient?
As for myself, the celestial proved rather banal. I set my alarm for 6am (for those of you aware of my sleeping preferences understand what commitment this indicates to see the celestial event) and headed outside with my camera, journal, and two sheets of paper to create a “pinhole” effect; at some point, I remember Mr. Murphy, my slightly terrifying elementary art teacher, explaining that looking directly at an eclipse would scald your corneas. I walked out to the mango grove near my little home, hoping for the best sightlines to the east. There, I ran into Aishwarya and Barathi, two of my favorite girls from Bandhavi, loitering after yoga. They looked surprised to see their rather oddly attired aunty tromping around in the bushes with my expedition gear. I explained as best I could the impending event – “camera is Suriya (sun) and journal is Chandra (moon)… suriya no see…” Barathi has a sharp little laugh, and has no hesitation to cry out, “Auuuuntieeee” when I am being particularly ridiculous. Aishwarya grabbed my hand, and pulled me towards Bandhavi – “TV, Aunty,” and sure enough, it seemed that Bangalore was sadly refusing my excitement—monsoon clouds hung low and heavy. Why not watch a little TV?
But when I arrived, the whole of the group were watching the eclipse on their little television in the dining hall, 70 girls in various states of wakefulness (Small Shruti didn’t even pretend, wrapping her head in a blanket and falling asleep on the floor) settled in to watch the sun disappear, with the sound of Star Trek: Voyager playing in the background.
And so, I watched the eclipse on television, like so many other of millions around the world, but in a way that left me more pleased by the experience than any old mango grove could provide.
The path of the eclipse was predicted to cut across northern India, then on to China and terminating in the Pacific. When the news began to spread that there would be an eclipse, interesting things began happening… an eclipse has certain superstitious portents, and preparations cannot be thrown together lightly to make full use of the power and avoid the threat of eclipse.
In Northern Karnataka (the state where Bangalore is located), many families brought disabled children to a common place in the village and buried them in mud up to their necks. It was believed that performing this act during the eclipse would help to heal these children. The children were reported as rather uncomfortable with the process, but most were hopeful for progress. This strikes some of us as superstition at best – how can people in the modern age believe these things? But for rural people who crave for competent medical care even at basic levels, how different is this mud treatment from sticking your child in a machine that pops out pictures of their bones?
In certain areas, an eclipse requires certain ablutions at temples, and it was possible prior to the eclipse to purchase eclipse insurance related to journeys to these temples. Has there been such a pleasant meeting of modern and ancient?
As for myself, the celestial proved rather banal. I set my alarm for 6am (for those of you aware of my sleeping preferences understand what commitment this indicates to see the celestial event) and headed outside with my camera, journal, and two sheets of paper to create a “pinhole” effect; at some point, I remember Mr. Murphy, my slightly terrifying elementary art teacher, explaining that looking directly at an eclipse would scald your corneas. I walked out to the mango grove near my little home, hoping for the best sightlines to the east. There, I ran into Aishwarya and Barathi, two of my favorite girls from Bandhavi, loitering after yoga. They looked surprised to see their rather oddly attired aunty tromping around in the bushes with my expedition gear. I explained as best I could the impending event – “camera is Suriya (sun) and journal is Chandra (moon)… suriya no see…” Barathi has a sharp little laugh, and has no hesitation to cry out, “Auuuuntieeee” when I am being particularly ridiculous. Aishwarya grabbed my hand, and pulled me towards Bandhavi – “TV, Aunty,” and sure enough, it seemed that Bangalore was sadly refusing my excitement—monsoon clouds hung low and heavy. Why not watch a little TV?
But when I arrived, the whole of the group were watching the eclipse on their little television in the dining hall, 70 girls in various states of wakefulness (Small Shruti didn’t even pretend, wrapping her head in a blanket and falling asleep on the floor) settled in to watch the sun disappear, with the sound of Star Trek: Voyager playing in the background.
And so, I watched the eclipse on television, like so many other of millions around the world, but in a way that left me more pleased by the experience than any old mango grove could provide.
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