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.