Silent Films, Silenced Voices

Welcome to the era of silent films.

Or should we call it semi-silent, maybe?

The Central Board of Film Certification has released a list of words which are no longer permitted to be used in cinema. Before we all decide to shoot ourselves point blank on the head or throw a party in celebration of the successful protection of our Indian culture, depending on whatever you identify with, let us just take a step back, take a deep breath and FUCK IT.

FUCK.

FUCK.

FUCK.

FUCK.

FUCKITY FUCK.

FUCK YOU, VERY VERY MUUU-CCH! (Lily Allen-style)

FUCK.

FUCK.

BASTARD.

SON OF A BITCH.

MOTHER FUCKER.

FUCKING CUNT.

SCREW.

DICK.

ASSHOLE.

BITCH.

BAAL.

KELA.

MADARCHOD.

BEHENCHOD.

CHUTIA.

This is like a last attempt to gasp for breath while drowning in the pool of censorship. Maybe I have never used any of the above mentioned profanities. Maybe I have.

But my hands got a little cold and my throat a little parched while I typed this. Maybe I have read too many dystopian novels or been too obsessed with V for Vendetta lately, but a sort of cold terror gripped me as I tried to understand the implications of this decision.

All India Bakchod’s Knockout raised hackles for use of the profanity and for indulging in un-Indian acts. I’m not going to comment on the comedy or whether it was funny or not. Fortunately, I and a small group of friends could watch it before it was taken off YouTube.  We laughed when we thought it was funny, shook our heads when the jokes fell flat and generally could discuss the highs and lows of it. This group consisted of feminists (male and female both and no, I’m not going to explain feminism), sexual assault survivors, people with different sexual orientation, people who are not skinny/curvy, people from different religion or no religion etc. Basically, a motley group of people who watched it as dinnertime entertainment. Nobody, and I stress NOBODY, was offended (or threw up their dinner, for that matter).

Oh, and I forgot to add. All of us are Indians.

Indians from birth, by blood, by all natural traits (except maybe the pissing and spitting in public), by all accounts. Well, for arguments sake we can say that since we are North-easterners and hence, immigrants (read foreigners), we have no fucking idea about Indian culture. That might be true in which case I cannot fathom my gratefulness to my ancestors for shifting to those beautiful hills and valleys, mired in conflict, yet culturally vibrant, distinct and most importantly, not stifling.

But the controversy got me thinking. Why were we not affected? I am not a person who uses profanity on a regular scale and neither are my friends. So what was the reason for our supposed indulgence?

One of the most plausible reasons I have come up with, pertaining specifically to Hindi swear words, is that they have become normalized for us. Maybe when I first came to Delhi, I was a little uncomfortable with all the swearing that goes on (I can’t perfectly recall my feelings on this instance) but over time, assimilating with the people and culture here, I came to understand it as terms used equally for endearment as well as when someone has just hit your car.

I am not for promoting violence or profanity in popular culture but we are far from being the utopian society we deem ourselves to be.

The comments of Ashoke Pandit, Guardian of Culture and All things Indian, and now Censor Board member, targeting Karan Johar’s mother in a comment expressing his extreme disdain of her acceptance of her son’s sexuality and lifestyle perfectly summed up the hypocrisy of the situation.

To his pea sized intellect it seemed astounding that a mother could be okay with her son having fun over his own sexuality. Where is her desire of having a bahu? Who will she torture for dowry? Wait, no DOWRY??!? And who will keep the bloodline alive? Most importantly, how could she bloody well CONSENT to such blasphemous acts, words and gestures?

A mother who doesn’t get worried about all these things obviously needs to be dragged into public controversy and condemned in such a flurry of words which made me vomit a little in my mouth.

And that is why I decided to sit down today and write this.

I don’t know honestly when my right to voice my opinion would be curtailed by the state’s rush to protect public policy, I don’t know how many children or mothers I would influence into being happy in their lives and personal choices, I don’t know how many cultures would come thundering down, crash and sputter because of my will to live and speak freely, I don’t know when the guardians of the culture would brand me a slut just because I allow my best friends to call me a tea slut owing to my unconquerable love for all kinds of tea, I don’t know if I would empathize with Raif Badawi one day.

I don’t know if this blog becomes a collection of blank pages one day.

Too little, too late?

I haven’t got my passport with me.

That is the first thought that springs into my mind while reading the news restricting the entry of students from Handique College, Assam in the Taj Mahal premises.

However, reading the complete news snippet calms my mind to a certain degree because I’ve always been told that I look like a Bengali, sometimes even a Punjabi and not at all Mongoloid, which is obviously my saving grace. Such a little tweak of DNA could save someone so much trouble. 

Obviously, whenever I have tried pointing it out to people that I am not an exception but the North-East is a mixture of many races, Mongoloid, Aryan, you name it; I have been met with a vehement opposition based on some forgotten vacation they took ages ago. My entire life and experiences of twenty three years undoubtedly pale in light of their culturally savvy vacation.

The next thing I did, after putting my mind to rest about the passport issue and making a mental note to carry a map of India whenever I go anywhere that is not a vegetable market, is to search for the news coverage in other newspapers. Google dismally showed me two links, The Assam Tribune and E-Pao ( a Manipuri site). (The last time I checked, Deccan Chronicle and Asian Age had also covered it.)  The bile rose up my throat and I bent double to collect myself.

A physical reaction is unlike me. Why are my non-mongoloid features protesting against such gross violation of fundamental rights? But wait, the fundamental right of travelling anywhere within the country is only for its citizens. And by citizens we mean a uniform batch of human beings descended from the same race and having the same features. Huxley’s Brave New World is swimming before my eyes.

A group of students from Handique Girls College, a seventy five year old institution named after a noted Assamese philantrophist, travelling from a part of the country unknown for its freedom fighters like Rani Gaidinliu, Maniram Dewan, Kanaklata Barua, Mairembam Koireng Singh, to visit a monument built by an invader of glorious Hindustan for one of his wives who succumbed to death while giving birth to her fourteenth child. The irony of the situation ceases to escape me.

As one of my friends pointed out, maybe subtlety is not the need of the hour. Maybe, instead of having full page newspaper advertisements of brain numbing books, or movie scripts whichever you prefer, we should have the Indian map, a full page version, front page, one day for each month. Maybe we can just grill our way into their heads just like they have been grilling oil from us. Maybe we will just reach a blank stony surface but it is worth a try. At least the inclusion of north-east India in the maps might suddenly shock them out of the reverie and make them call the newspapers offices demanding the removal of such un-nationalistic propaganda just the way they did for the removal of the Arunachali women from the Republic Day parade. Maybe they will be patiently explained by the publishing houses that, unfortunately, their superior Aryan minds failed them and the north-east has always been a part of India.

Maybe they will reach out for a cup of premium Assam tea while trying to deal with this life-changing piece of information.

The ignorance, however, is not one sided. News glorifying a district in Kerala as the country’s First dowry free zone when the north-east itself has been prominently dowry free adds hurt to the humiliation. Bride-burning, dowry, female infanticides are relatively unheard phenomena in that part of the country. But all I ever hear when north-east is brought up is Naxalism. It takes a measure of patience I thought I wasn’t capable of to explain to people that Naxalism is spreading its roots in recent times due to the already destabilized atmosphere of the states of Manipur, Nagaland and Assam primarily. Naxalism, however, was born in Naxalbari, West Bengal. Again the same tirade of nonsense and ignorance greets me as I fruitlessly argue. The Indian Prime Minister being asked to request permission to visit Arunachal Pradesh by the Chinese Premier did not raise as many eyebrows as Narendra Modi’s fashion choices. The ruthless murder of Adivasis in Bodoland saw lesser sympathy than the Sydney Siege. The Bangladeshi illegal migration problem draws slighter attention every year while people are losing out on livelihoods. And stories of AFSPA and encounter killings are missing from our mainstream lives while we routinely condemn Sohrabuddin encounter case.

I am not comparing tragedies but merely pointing out that tragedies shrouded in dust, ignorance and darkness pierce hearts and minds in a way that no later consolation can mend.

In an era when knowledge is no longer a luxury, I cannot find an excuse for mass ignorance.

And more importantly, I am not even searching for one.