Shunya's Notes

Story Wallah

Story Wallah, edited by Shyam Selvadurai is the most comprehensive collection of south Asian diasporic writing that I have encountered. All the authors included in this anthology were either born outside the Indian subcontinent or emigrated out of there. Many of the contributors were new to me and others are old hands. The book is a collection of short fiction - short stories and excerpts from novels. Difficult as it is to cogently review the literary merits of a collection featuring twenty six writers with eclectic styles, I will refrain from doing so. Instead, let me quote a portion of the excellent introduction by Selvadurai, describing the inspiration behind the publication. As with any diaspora tale, it is largely about identity and finding one's voice within the tug of war between more than one "native" culture.

I am often invited to read from my novels in public, and, if there is a question period aftenvards, someone inevitably stands up to ask the following: “What kind of a writer do you consider yourself to be? Are you a Canadian writer or a Sri Lankan writer?” 

It is perplexing, this matter of cultural identity, and I am tempted, like some other writers of multiple identities, to reply grumpily, “I’m just a bloody writer Period.”

Yet this response would be disingenuous. I suppose I could answer, “Sri Lankan-Canadian writer,” or “Canadian-Sri Lankan writer.” But this also does not get to the heart of what I consider my identity to be as a writer (and we are talking of my writing identity here). For, in terms of being a writer, my creativity comes not from “Sri Lankan” or “Canadian” but precisely from the space between, that marvellous open space represented by the hyphen, in which the two parts of my identity jostle and rub up against each other like tectonic plates, pushing upwards the eruption that is my work. It is from this space between that the novels come. From a double-visionness, a bicultutalism.

For the majority of people, a dual identity is a burden forced on them by the fact that their bodies, or their skins to be precise, do not represent the nation-state they are in, thus compelling them to constantly wear their difference on their sleeve and carry it around on their back. In my day-to-day interactions with the world outside, I share the irritation, the burden, the occasional danger of this visible otherness. But when I close the door to my study and sit at my computer, that biculturalism becomes the site of great excitement, of great marvel, the very source of my creativity. It is from’ this space in- between, represented by the hyphen, that I have written what I consider Canadian novels set exclusively in Sri Lanka. For though the material may be Sri Lankan, the shaping of that material and the inclusion, for example, of themes of gay liberation or feminism ate drawn from the life I have lived in Canada. Homosexuality is illegal in Sri Lanka and the very real threat of physical violence and intimidation might have stopped me from exploring this theme had I lived there (being not of a particularly brave disposition). My thoughts and attitudes, indeed my craft as a writer, have been shaped by my life here in Canada. It is from the clash of these cultures, which occurs in the space between, that the conflicts in my plot lines arise. Without them my novels would be deathly boring to read.

I enjoyed Story Wallah for the most part.  Featured are many fresh faces (pens?) across the map.  Besides the US, Canada and Great Britain, it was interesting to encounter south Asian voices out of Australia, Malaysia, Fiji, Singapore, the Caribbeans and Africa. In the end though, the familiar voices of the big boys and girls rang out above others . Salman Rushdie (The Courter), Rohinton Mistry (The Collectors), Anita Desai (Winterscape) and Hanif Kureishi (We're Not Jews) tell the liveliest tales of the anthology, in my opinion. Selvadurai's own contribution is an excerpt from his very commendable novel, "Funny Boy." One other story worth mentioning is "Just Between Indians" by Ginu Kamani. It is about an arranged marriage - only, there is no marriage but rather a creepy attempt at arranging one. This one left me feeling slightly jolted. As I said, Story Wallah is a good enough collection - a perfect read on a long plane ride or a relaxing vacation.

End of Summer Slowdown

Many bloggers at Shunya's Notes will be traveling over the next few weeks; so there might be fewer updates. But this break will hopefully inspire many future posts on China, where two of us are headed (my second vacation in the PRC). We plan to visit Shanghai, Xian, Luoyang, Pingyao, Datong, Beijing, and the Great Wall. Enjoy the rest of your summer!

English Passengers

Matthew Kneale's novel, English Passengers, is a tragedy in the truest sense, a farce of biting satire, and a bludgeoning social critique. The narrative follows two separate trajectories which intersect only briefly, towards the end of the book, and then again diverge: two stories that could well have been two separate books. However, telling us these two stories in parallel brings us different insights into the characters, situations, and social reality of the Victorian world, as one story illuminates the other. Also, one of the stories provides an element of dark comedy, leavening what would be an otherwise entirely bleak tale. Kneale's ability to make distinctive and authentic nearly every one of the book's full chorus of voices is masterful, but his mastery goes beyond even that.

The opening narrative concerns three amusingly mismatched Englishmen and their unhappy crew from the Isle of Man as they voyage from England to farthest shores of wild, rugged, and unexplored Tasmania, during the years 1957 and 1958. This tale is fully farcical and its characters are caricatures. Nevertheless, it meaningfully dramatizes the prevalent Victorian-era social thought regarding ideas of social progress and English superiority. The English passengers of the title are Reverend Wilson and Dr. Potter, who gain passage on a Manx smuggling vessel. Wilson is on a mission to prove Tasmania was the original home to the Garden of Eden while Potter wishes to test out his theory of human racial differences, comically giving life to the cultural assumptions propelling colonialism as they were projected by both the religion and science of the day. Though some may look at these fictional characters and write them off as absurd, extreme, or sinister, they are, in fact, nothing of the kind; they are realistically representative of many respectable thinkers of their day who gave voice to, rationalized, and systematized their cultural assumptions, doing the important work of explaining away the rapacity of the British empire—exactly as it was done by very real people in very real history. Meanwhile, the ship's priceless Captain Kewley steers the long narrative through its comedy of errors and also provides a certain moral ballast as one of the book's few reliable narrators.

By contrast, the parallel narrative sticks closer to the ground, concerning itself with the experiences of settlers and aborigines of Tasmania during the 38 years from 1820 through 1858. Some of the settlers are convicts, others are business people and farmers who came to make a new life or big profits in a new land. Through their many voices, we come to witness how even well-meaning people end up participating in—often even condoning—realities as barbaric as genocide. Those few English who might truly recognize the humanity of the aborigines are sidelined, considered trouble-making extremists; more typical folk, wholly unconscious of the cultural assumptions and ideologies which guide their attitudes and actions—those same assumptions which are, in plain ugliness, epitomized by Rev. Wilson and Dr. Potter—inflict damage with their good intentions. Meanwhile, the settlers who don't care at all are openly barbaric. And around them all, supported by the same set of ideas, the English penal system promotes its own flavor of barbarity in the name of progress. It's a starkly real portrait of the times.

Second Hand Art

In my introductory virtual exhibition I posted some original compositions. This post contains paintings which are copies of other artists' works.  As a student and amateur artist, I have made many copies over the years, true and inspired -  of real objects, human beings, photographs and other artists' works as my model. The exercise is akin to penmanship - for practice and to improve drawing skills and techniques. Occasionally, a copy turns out to be so satisfactory, that happily it becomes a work of art worth preserving . I display them in my home for my own enjoyment and am doing so now on the blog, for yours. These pictures are a testimony to my skills as an illustrator, much like a billboard artist - not my artistic flair. I have spoken with those in the know about the wisdom of putting them out for public consumption.  They assure me that as long as I do not offer such art for sale or claim them as my own, I am not violating any ethical boundaries, imitation being the sincerest form of flattery .. etc.

When I started painting at Joan Furrow's studio in Omaha in late 1992, I was for the first time, working  seriously with oil paint. Joanie advised me to start off with a few copies of actual paintings to get a handle on the color, texture and proper brush strokes. All the paintings shown here are from assorted magazines that cluttered Joanie's library. Unfortunately, I did not make a note of the artists' names. So I cannot credit any one properly except to say that these are not my own compositions. I selected the pictures for different reasons but each appealed to me on the basis of subject matter, appropriate level of complexity and artistic quality. They are not reproductions in a technical sense because I did not measure out the originals in grids for exact proportions. I drew them from visual perception as closely as possible. But they are all good enough copies that if you saw the originals somewhere, you'd probably recognize them. The paintings are oil on canvas and they hang in my home. So enjoy some one else's art vicariously - channeled through me.

Please click on pictures for larger image: This was the first full painting I made at Joanie's.  I selected it for the depth of the perspective, colors and composition. The impressionistic style of drawing made it easier to avoid making glaring mistakes. I liked the criss-crossing of light and shadow on the dusty street.

I was struck by the two heads against a stark background, warm colors and the mysterious play of shadows on the faces of the women. The painted pots were  good practice in drawing perfect 3-D shapes and the intricate designs required control and careful use of brush.

Again, I chose the picture for its interesting subject (a horse & a rider are never boring), the cyan colors invoking deep twilight shadows and the rocky, stark look. The special challenge was to get the horse right from the front facing, foreshortened angle - always the hardest perspective for drawing four legged animals.

  The angry sky, a rocky landscape (yes, I prefer painting rocks to lush greenery), attractive colors and clear lines decided my choice here. I also love lighthouses.

For my next "exhibition," I will post a couple of inspired copies which are based on photographs in magazines like the National Geographic, Life and sometimes even scientific magazines. But in the process of painting, they evolved enough to become distinctly my own. I will end the art series with a few more of my originals. Please don't  hesitate to leave me a comment. 

Free Market News

The newspaper business has changed radically in recent decades. Most newspapers are now owned by a handful of large corporations, even by "holding companies", with parallel interests in cement, telecom, real estate, etc. While profit was once a motive for running a newspaper, it has become the sole motive today. In this Darwinian jungle, allegiance to the reader has been replaced by allegiance to the shareholder. Socially engaged and public service journalism, to the extent it existed, is increasingly rare -- its practitioners have become dinosaurs, unfit for the new age.

Many, including Chomsky, have reminded us for decades that corporate media, as profit-driven institutions, tend to serve the agendas and interests of dominant, elite groups in society. The "integration of the media into the market system has been accelerated by the loosening of rules limiting media concentration, cross-ownership, and control by non-media companies." And this trend has no national borders. The Times of India now sells editorial space, with not even the decency of adding a footnote to identify a commissioned write-up. A floundering old politician or a Bollywood starlet? An industrialist with a labor unrest problem? No worries. Just pay the Times for a series of flattering pieces on your wonderful human qualities. Want fries with that? Let the Times roll it out to its numerous other media "properties".

"Free market news" is in practically an oxymoron. Unlike in most professions, free market economics has been disastrous for journalism. Loyalty to shareholders only incidentally coincides with loyalty to readers. What we inevitably end up with is news that sells like any consumable, made palatable, which builds and affirms the myths of national greatness and benevolence. When aspirations devolve down to ratings and "eyeballs", news makers cater to the lowest common denominator. Dissent and disturbing stories tend not to be rewarded, sensational exposés and feel-good stories do. Soon, this spirals into frivolity or conformism, the latter best evidenced in the US right before the Iraq war.

To make matters worse, the juggernaut of the Internet has not been kind to newspapers. Circulation is down and so is print advertising. Too many newspapers are in the red. Alternate business models -- such as online versions with online ads -- have failed to stop the bleeding. The web has too much competition for advertising dollars, which simply follow the "eyeballs". Newspapers are therefore being sold off or shut down, concentrating corporate ownership even further. What will become of journalism? Should we worry about this?

In April 2006, John S Carroll, an eminent journalist and news editor, delivered an incisive and impassioned speech on the state of journalism at the annual meeting of the American Society of Newspaper Editors (ASNE):

A generation ago, we at the ASNE convention might have encountered such formidable editors as Gene Roberts, Ben Bradlee, Abe Rosenthal and Gene Patterson. With all due respect, there is no such pride of lions roaming among us today. This is not entirely our fault. Our jobs are harder than theirs. Our papers are shrinking, and so is our confidence.

How long has it been since an editor was so rash as to cite public service in justifying a budget? You might as well ask to be branded with a scarlet N, for naive. Our corporate superiors regard our beliefs as quaint, wasteful and increasingly tiresome. Even outside the corporation we have lost stature. We might see ourselves as public servants, but does the public see us that way?

(Do read the entire speech).
 

60th Anniversary of Independence and Partition of the Indian Subcontinent

(Indians and Pakistanis light candles at a border town, jointly commemorating the independence days of both countries. Photo: Times of India)

India and Pakistan celebrate the sixtieth anniversary of their independence this month - India on the 15th of August and Pakistan, a day earlier on the 14th.

Sixty years ago, the ancient land of India was partitioned to form two brand new countries - India and Pakistan, under circumstances that can only be described as a nightmare. Since then the two nations have gone their different ways, choosing their philosophies, allies and enemies to best suit their own interests. But all through their separate existence, neither can forget about the other's looming presence across the border. (Pakistan was further broken up in 1971 into Pakistan and Bangladesh.) The neighborly relations between India and Pakistan can be best described to include an uneasy truce, continued low level hostility and in the past six decades, four full fledged wars.

There are several sides to the story of India's partition and fingers can be pointed at those who were responsible - and there were many. But there is no doubt that what lay at the heart of this unfortunate event was suspicion, greed, intolerance, unseemly hurry at political power grab and above all, the abysmal lack of imagination on the part of political leaders on all sides. Britain, whose departure from India precipitated the partition along sectarian lines, played a particularly harmful role. It was a spiteful act disguised as a concession to peace that resulted in the arbitrary carving up of a nation - like a benevolent and tired elder handing out candies to howling children. Well, the children are still howling and peace remains a precarious commodity in the subcontinent.

As the BBC reports in an article aptly named Partitioning India Over Lunch, not much thought, vision, compassion or statecraft went into formulating the momentous decision that condemned millions to a grisly and uncertain fate. It was the action of a tired, lazy and callous colonial power which didn't much care what it left behind after 200 years of occupation.

While the above story examines the past, in an address to the Indian Parliament, Prime Minister  Manmohan Singh looks forward to India's future.

Although there is very little in the way of bi-lateral relations between India and Pakistan besides cricket matches, the occasional war and regular border skirmishes, the two countries continue to perform a quaint ceremony that takes place every day at sundown at the border town of Wagah located on the western boundary of India. The daily ritual is a popular attraction for local and foreign tourists and a party like atmosphere prevails on both sides of the dividing line. Readers who have never been to either India or Pakistan, may not know about this tradition.  If you think you might enjoy watching grown men strutting around in turkey-tail headdresses lowering their respective national flags at the end of the day with military precision and dancers' choreography, do check out the video - it is quite interesting. (Indian soldiers wear khaki uniforms and their Pakistani counterparts are in black.)

Eggcornucopia

An idiom by definition is idiosyncratic - it conveys a meaning that is not always obvious or predictable from its construction. No wonder then, people tend to mangle and modify old fashioned idioms containing  quaint expressions and words of foreign or antique origin to suit their own understanding of the language. A bit of logic too enters the modification according to our perceptions of the world around us. For example:

• Damp Squib (squib = an obscure name for a small explosive device) sometimes becomes Damp Squid for obvious reasons
• Vocal Cords (cord = thin rope or cable) is changed to Vocal Chords associated with sound (but why does the misspelling also extend to the spinal cord which is not involved with tonal function?)
• Fount (a gushing source) of Knowledge appears more impressive to some as the Font (receptacle) of Knowledge.
• Chaise Longue (pronounced shayz longg, meaning long chair in French) is languidly called the Chaise Lounge, the latter associated with relaxation.
• Just Deserts (from  deservir in French meaning deserve) may have transformed to Just Desserts due to simple misspelling.

I often misspell the word "deceit" as "deceipt." Its correlation to "deception" in meaning and the phonetic similarity to "receipt," leads to this frequent error.  My sister's housekeeper in India who doesn't speak English, refers to a cell phone as a "celephone." Serving the same utility, the newer technology is clearly linked in her mind to its traditional land line cousin not just in its purpose but also in a rhyming name. Associative linguistic changes and shifting idioms such as those above have been collectively termed eggcorns in honor of someone misspelling the word "acorn" as "eggcorn" (after all, acorns do look like large egg shaped corns). Spellings of individual words too become altered when we misread the origin of the word. The word minuscule meaning very small, derives its roots from minus. The alternate (but erroneous) spelling miniscule is becoming increasingly common because many now trace the word to mini.  For more on eggcornucopia and the frequency of the usage of eggcorns as compared to the original phraseology, see here.  (link via 3 QD)

There are other words and expressions, not quite eggcorns, that I have occasionally wondered about.  For example, some words exist only in their negative connotation with no  corresponding positive term in common usage. A "ruthless" person, we know is particularly unkind. Yet for the merciful among us, we don't describe them as possessing veins which are overflowing with the milk of human "ruth."  Similarly "uncouth."  We know who they are - the boorish, coarse and the unmannered types. But we never compliment someone's gracious behavior as being suitably "couth."

Two expressions, both slightly sarcastic in their usage, that always confound me just a hair are "over educated" and "same difference." Exactly how educated does one have to be before being disqualified as unsuitable for a particular job or social acceptance?  And why say "same" when one means "no?" 

Also interesting is how a Hobson's Choice can also be a Hobbesian one. No eggcorn here but a logical extrapolation of the idiom leading to philosopher Thomas Hobbes who coined a famous and specific Hobson's Choice - a choice between two options so unequal in their value ("your money or your life") that it is not a choice at all.

(Crossposted at Accidental Blogger)

The Wonder That Was India

An End to Suffering: The Buddha in the World
by Pankaj Mishra.    Picador, 422 pp., INR 275

1.

Various societies at different times have dazzled with their bursts of creative and intellectual energy. Historians have a penchant for dubbing them Golden Ages. Examples include the Athens of Herodotus, the Baghdad of Haroun al-Rashid, and the India of the Buddha. But though India has long been famous for its "ancient wisdom", the few historical sources that survive shed a woefully inadequate light on the Buddha's society. In contrast, far better portraits of classical Greece and Abbasid Baghdad are available to us.

Still, evidence at hand suggests that around 600-500 BCE, in parts of the Indo-Gangetic plain of north India, people were asking some very bold and original questions: What is the nature of thought and perception? What is the source of consciousness? Are virtue and vice absolute or mere social conventions? Old traditions were under attack, new trades and lifestyles were emerging, and urban life was in a churn, reducing the power of uptight Brahmins. Philosophical schools flourished in a lively marketplace of ideas. There were radical materialists, self-mortifying ascetics, chronic fatalists, rational skeptics, sensible pragmatists, mystical saints, and the ubiquitous miracle mongers. It was also an age of nascent democratic republics, which, like Athens later on, did not ultimately survive the march of monarchy and empire.[1]

Who were these people? How did they live, what did they believe, what did they aspire to? Due to the paucity of archaeological evidence and non-religious textual sources, insightful narratives on ancient India must rely more on "creative scholarship". The scholar, mimicking a novelist, must imagine himself into that society and try to see it as its members perhaps saw it, and understand, to the extent possible, what it was like to live in it. An End to Suffering is Pankaj Mishra’s work of "creative scholarship" for the life and times of the Buddha. In refined prose that rises to a lyrical pitch at times, it mixes memoir, history and philosophy while exploring the Buddha's relevance today.

Kissing Without Consent or A Picture May Not Tell The Whole Story

Last week at the other blog, I reported the story of Glenn McDuffie, the Houston man who was recently identified as the sailor kissing a nurse in Times Square in the celebrated 1945 Life magazine photo by Alfred Eisenstaedt. The picture seen and recognized by millions, is an historical moment captured by a photographer's lens, marking the end of World War II.

Upon being identified, McDuffie, who had served in the US Navy during WWII, described what the day was like when he went into Times Square with a couple of his buddies and later bussed the nurse in celebration.

On Aug. 14, 1945, he was in Times Square when the word came.

"When I got off from the subway, a lady told me the war was over, and I went into the street yelling. I saw the nurse and she was smiling at me, so I just grabbed her," McDuffie said. "But we never spoke." .....

In addition, Gibson (the forensic artist who identified McDuffy) said she "always wondered" about one aspect of the Eisenstaedt image: Why was the sailor's arm crooked in such an odd way? Only McDuffie could provide the answer, she said.

"I was kissing her, and then I heard someone running up. So, I realized there was someone taking our picture. I moved my hand so that the nurse's face would show," McDuffie said.

Hmm. So, they never spoke (not even a "Thank you Ma'am!") and McDuffy positioned his arm so the nurse's face would show in the picture?  Certainly looks like he was showboating and there was a certain amount of calculation in the pose which is widely interpreted as a spontaneous celebration. Also it appears that the nurse in the photo was not McDuffy's first target of affectionate display - he was on a kissing spree that day.  He had gone around Times Square grabbing and kissing several women before the memorable photographic moment. Also, it is reported that the nurse SLAPPED HIM after they disengaged from the embrace. Does explain why they never talked. [Link: Namit Arora]

(The link at the end of the post opens to a page called the Images That (supposedly) Changed the World. The page is a bit iffy - the images are sometimes visible and sometimes not. Click to find out if you can see them. The picture of the Kiss in Times Square is called V-J Day, Times Square, [1945] . It is halfway down the page.)

On the same page I came across a portrait of Winston Churchill taken by photographer Yousuf Karsh. The portrait reminded me of an ancient pen and pencil sketch of Churchill I had made ages ago. I am posting both portraits below for your critical viewing.

(Karsh's photo)        (my sketch)

Little Boy of Hiroshima

"Little Boy was the codename of the atomic bomb dropped on Hiroshima, on August 6, 1945" by the US Air Force, the first atomic bomb ever used as a weapon. Three days later, the Fat Man atomic bomb was dropped on Nagasaki. Both cities and 200,000 people were instantly destroyed, and this video shows how. The US is the only country that has used nuclear weapons in war or against civilian populations.

Source: BBC's Hiroshima (2005)  |  Was it Necessary? One, Two, Three, Four, Five

Death of a Colonel

Col. Vasanth V, commanding officer of the 9th Maratha light infantry battalion, died on Tuesday, July 31st. He was injured while battling a group of militants who were trying to cross the India-Pakistan Line of Control (LOC) in the Uri sector in Kashmir.

I had met Col. Vasanth briefly in 1991 when I was on vacation in India. He was a soft-spoken man with a good sense of humor. He had surprised me with his knowledge of obscure things by asking whether the culture of the Cajuns in Louisiana was still alive. I hadn't known about the Cajuns before coming to the US, and hadn't expected that someone in India would know about them. So I naturally asked him how he even knew of their existence. Though he couldn't recall exactly where he had read about them, he brushed off my surprise by saying "We used to read a lot of things, including the newspaper the samosas came wrapped in"! I could immediately sense a kindred soul, having been book and library-starved during my childhood. For some reason, that moment of resonance came back to me today, when I heard about his death.

I have often wondered if the chaos of the world of political violence, either within countries or between them, is going to affect me directly. There are so many conflicts in the world that I must count myself incredibly fortunate never to have come within sniffing distance of any. This time though, the violence has come quite close. Col. Vasanth and I had only one degree of separation. He was a long-time colleague and a good friend of my brother.

I wonder if the planners of violence like the generals and spy agencies pursuing "strategic depth" or "balance of power" ever pause to think of the misery they are inflicting upon people. Scratch that. It is quite obvious that they don't. For them, the jihadi groups are pawns in a broader chess game.

We read of the deaths of people in the news reports so often. Yet, when a person we know dies, we are forced to pause and reflect on the tragedy. Our own sorrows, frustrations and hassles start looking trivial by comparison. A death you reflect upon forces you to evaluate life again.

Cross-posted from Neutral Observer.

On Diversity

Last October, I went sightseeing in Calcutta with a friend. We began with a short cycle rickshaw ride, took a local train to Sealdah, wandered near College St, boarded another train to the Kali temple at Dakshineshwar, caught a commuter boat across the Hooghly to Belur Math, went on a bus to BBD Bagh, hopped on the Metro to Park Street for a Kathi roll, and ended the jaunt with a taxi to my friend's home. In just a few hours, we had sampled six modes of transportation. Notable exclusions include the tram, the auto, and the hand-pulled rickshaw.

I wondered where else in the world are so many public transportation modes possible. Calcutta, like the rest of India, abounds with such diversity of experiences. They are integral to the claim I'm about to make now: India is perhaps the most diverse country on the planet.

Some will ask: How can this be? Can India, an old, conservative culture that has seen relatively little migration in recent centuries from outside the subcontinent, be more diverse than, say, the US? Others will readily agree, invoking the scores of languages and dialects of India, regional cuisines, prodigious variety of faiths and customs, folk music, dance, attire, art, architecture, and other aspects of diversity that adorn colorful tourist brochures. What, after all, do denizens of Ladakh or Mizoram have in common with natives of Kutch or Coorg? However, to buttress my claim further, I'll mention some other key aspects of Indian diversity beyond these routine invocations.

Let's return to Calcutta. Each day multitudes -- from eastern tribals seeking a toehold in the metropolis to Blackberry kids plotting vacations in Europe -- walk, sleep, cook, eat, bathe, buy, sell, help, hustle, beg, piss, and pray on its streets, amid bustling old markets, signs and sounds in many tongues, and migrants from neighboring countries. Poverty and beseeching voices compete with lifestyle ads and displays of the rich. Hindu, Sikh, Jain, Buddhist, Muslim, Christian, Parsi, and Baha'i publicly practice their faiths and festivals, without fear or self-consciousness (when did that last happen in the US?). Its schools read literature and teach physics in several languages. Religious cult leaders, as well as some of the most rational minded Indians -- artists, scientists, philosophers -- have arisen and continue to arise from this milieu. 

Political parties champion ideological visions across a wider political and economic spectrum: from socialist to right wing nationalism, from regulated to free markets (socialism is not a dirty word, as it is in the US). A great many group feelings and identities arise out of its castes and classes, as well as educational and economic disparities (from rocket scientists to illiterates, posh gated enclaves to slums). Day trips away from the city are ruins of ancient cities. Layers upon layers of history, stories upon stories, all add to the diversity of ideas on how to live. Unlike the melting pot that is the US, I see India as decidedly a salad bowl. 

But what good is such riotous diversity that often impedes people coming together in common cause? The history of India shows that diversity has no causal relationship with material progress, rationalism, or social liberalism. In my mind, the primary benefit of diversity is in thwarting singular narratives of being. Diversity is a formidable bulwark against political and religious fundamentalism. It resists dogmatisms of various kind. It challenges and inspires, and helps create more vibrant art, music, and literature. As an ever present reminder of the fickle, malleable, and inscrutable human material, it perhaps even encourages awe and humility.

Update: Check out a related exchange on diversity that took place here.

John Frum

Some time ago, Ruchira brought to my attention an article about a village on the island of Tanna in Vanuatu, where the people believe Prince Philip of England is a god. Though it might sound preposterous to many of us, it’s actually not a joke. As the article explains, Prince Philip is a foreigner who traveled across the sea from his native land to marry a powerful woman and, as it happens, the people of Yaohnanen village on Tanna know that a pale-skinned spirit from their own island once made just such a journey. Somewhere in the past decades, Prince Philip came to be regarded by these villagers to be that selfsame island spirit.

And why not? This religious tradition dates back some decades to the time when Vanuatu was a colony of European powers. Conflating their own mythic histories with the current news they would have heard during those colonial times was not an unreasonable thing for the islanders to do, especially given that the goings on in faraway England and the lives lead by British royals might seem every bit as mythical and magical to them as their stories of spirits might to us. What’s more, by recognizing this powerful man as being one of their own kin (albeit of a spiritual nature), they associate themselves directly with power and can appeal for benevolence.

At least on one level, this is the aim of religious mythology: to associate ordinary people with mystical power. One sees in the emergent and localized religions of Vanuatu the unvarnished essence of how religion works, how it arises, what function it serves in society and in individuals, how it binds groups in common understanding, and also how it impedes understanding between people of different beliefs.

This story about the cult of Prince Philip reminded me of a brief encounter I had on the same island of Tanna, when I visited the island for a short vacation during my Peace Corps service. Our Tannese hosts lead my friend and me on a trek across the island from Port Resolution to their own village near Mount Yasur. We climbed up and down steep, muddy ridges and waded through streams, surrounded by dense jungle. At last we came upon a large village clearing, over which hung a well-preserved American flag, hanging upside-down. This was Sulfur Bay, the home of the John Frum (or Jon Frum) cargo cult. Our hosts took us down to meet the Chief.