The Council

I

Every Duke and Earl and Peer was there
Everyone who could be there was there!
Kings and Queens, Monarchs wise,
All lined up for this great enterprise.
First to come were the Scions of Kullu:
Noble, wise, loyal and true!
Then came the Chieftains from Axom’s rarefied heights,
Queen-mothers and Ladies of warrior tribes!
From Awadh, Doon and the Desert Land of Thar,
Mallu Backwaters and Lallu’s Bihar,
From all these lands, and a few other more-
Notably the ancient Oriyan jungles and Dhillika, upon Jamuna’s shore-
There came the select, the chosen, the ordained, the sceptred few:
Knights, Esquires, Marquises and a Damsel new.
Noble and high, eager to decide,
The Fate of this Land unendingly wide!
Last to come were the Bangla hordes;
Shepherds of their peoples, true bhadraloks.
Leading them, of course-
The Elder; wisest, immortal, fairest of them all!
Handsome and tall, exceeding all others in his wherewithal.
By His side His Subversive Wife,
Betwixt the Twain, Young Master Turee!
Regally progressing up the stairs
All others fawning and bowing to this pair!
This then the family, this then the assemblage,
This then that galaxy of stars, taare zameen pe!

II

Everyone assembled, everyone settled,
The noise subsided, the din fettered,
The Elder rose, a statuesque figure-
On his head that sybillic hanky,
In his hand that potent ale.
Fully erect, in total control, thus he spake-
“Friends, Ramjasians, Countrymen!
(Stay! Not countrymen!- they are but shadow lines!)
We are in this silvery sandy land amassed,
To deliberate, opine, declaim, decide,
By blessed rhetoric’s charms untwine,
A momentous skein of Herculean size!
A matter upon which rests the fate of sundry souls,
No easy task, difficult to endure!
So hark to my words, listen carefully now,
‘Tis this-
To dance or not to dance?
To party or not to party?
To move around in high Bacchic revelry or
Sit, ordained, in solemn state?
This the crisis to be solved,
This the matter to be resolved!”

III

Tell me now, O Muse, who amongst that august gathering
Was the first to speak?
‘Twas you, High Prince of Loony Doon,
The Elder’s equal in your liver’s resource,
Blessed, beloved of the Gods,
Who first addressed them thus-
“Listen to me now, O thou worthy Peers of mine!
Long ago in Thrace was our wild Madcap God born,
He came dancing down to Helas, O beauteous Helas, and
Swept through it! Swept as do
These waves in this silvery sandy realm!
None could before him withstand, none now really can,
To bow down in reverence is all we can!”
So spake he, that heir of Moony Doon, and
Many were his admirers, specially
Those Warrior Monarchs of the East:
“Well said, well said!” they all cried,
“That is the Word of the Council, and
We shall abide!”

IV

At this did our Esquire of Dhillika stand
Adjusted his thoughts, and so began-
“’Tis folly, my Lords (Ladies implied!), this sage’s advice:
To Apollo I recommend ye, to that Delphic far-shooter wise.
Learn ye from him, from his restraint be advised-
Our own self is most precious, better than any ring yet devised.
Be not solemn; certainly enjoy and dance,
Yet let not maenadic fury mingle in your prance.
To loosen a little is alright,
To loose completely prefect blight.”
At this there was uproar, shouting, wails;
(Brazen Ares would’ve had competition great!)
“Nay, nay!” cried the sovereigns, and
Their dissent decried.
“Kiss my ass” quoth one, and to wrangling slide.

V

Fearing infighting and war’s dance grim,
Stood up the Elder, and thus begin-
“Listen ye now, O friends of old,
To me and mine, my words so sure.
We are of one family, of one larger fold,
Separate, yes, but united by lore.
I have heard you speak, all of you opine,
Yet I am your superior, your senior exceedingly fine!
So cease now this clashing, these quarrels base,
And abide by my words, of wisdom great!”

VI

Then was there silence, deadly still,
The Sovereigns sat afraid, and listened to Him.
“There is a time for everything, for everything a phase,
To do as one pleases is folly grave.
Modesty and balance, harmony brave-
These are the Virtues that They to us gave.
These are my words, my views confirmed,
And you’ll follow them all, for
I am the Elder still!”

VII

At this they were stunned, bamboozled, amazed,
Unbelieving, shaking, they blankly gazed.
From his stony lined face took hints and
Stood up to leave, dismayed.
“Cease” cried the Elder, and they fearing stopped.
On his face suddenly broke a grin so broad,
“Hahaha! I was just joking guys!
Let’s all go party, and dance all night!”

We Don’t Need No Examinations

Exams don’t make any sense. No, no, don’t get me wrong. I don’t mean it in that sense, that we shouldn’t have exams at all. We do need exams: virtue, as old Milton so rightly declared, can only be known when tested. Exams help you realise your capacity, and your capability: as far as self-realisation/assessment goes, nothing beats a test, or exam.

What I’m against is the current system of examination in our Delhi University, a system which, for all we know and do, ultimately, because of its inherent flaws, defeats the very purpose of examinations. Giving exams in DU under the existing system, and that too in Literature in English, doesn’t make sense: exams are redundant.

We have all the exams lined up one after the other, especially in the college mid-terms, so that it’s quite difficult to break away yourself from one age to land in the other. One day you’re going along that motley gang of pilgrims to Canterbury and, suddenly, on the very next you’re supposed to come right down to the Restoration and see the Prince of Dullness crowned. Then, immediately after, you have to go back in antiquity and then oscillate between Achilles and Dushyanta, both of them two humongous continents and ages apart. Somewhere in between, you also have to divine why the heck would Kevin be just as happy with 20 units of food as he’d be with 40 of them and why on earth Tenali Raman cracked so many jokes. If this is not confusion incarnate, if this does not lead to dislocation, then what will?

Then, sometimes, you just don’t feel like giving exams- the weather might be too nice, you might be in mood for a getaway-break, or somebody might be getting married, or you might be sick, or somebody might’ve died, or anything...but no, you don’t have an option. You have to give them when the big bossy authorities want you to. No free will here (hopefully the radicals amongst us will be reading this…) – you either tow the line, or give your papers next year.

Why can’t we give exams as and when we want to? Why can’t DU, like a few Open Universities in India and some universities aboard have exams more often, every quarter so that the student can choose and give exams at his/her convenience? Surely such a thing can be implemented in a phased manner? There will be logistic and administrative challenges in this, but the University is, at least in theory, supposed to be for us, the students. As it is, it’s so unfair slogging when you don’t feel like it…

Then, there’s luck. You might get stuck in a terrific traffic jam and be half an hour late, or the ignoramus behind, in front, or besides you might keep pestering you with whyfores all through the paper, or you might start feeling sleepy or, worse still, sick, or your invigilator might be a boisterous, ne’er-to-do-well type who’ll go around passing loud comments, or, you know, anything…you came prepared, but wretched luck got you. And you can’t help it too, and have to abide by the results, because there’s just one chance! How unfair to be judged through a system so open to the vagaries of Fortune!

Coming back to Literature in English, what’s the point of having RTCS-reference to context for the uninitiated-in our papers? What are the long-lasting merits of knowing who said what where, when and why? This art is more suited to ingenious trainers of parrots and other dumb beasts, not to us literature students. As you read new texts you forget the old ones, or consign them to not-so-conscious, non-everyday-usage parts of your brain. Most of us cannot remember each and every story we’ve read- I certainly don’t remember the plot of any of the scores of Enid Blytons I read some five to seven years ago. All I have is a faint inkling of a few of the great amount I devoured and I guess so will be the case with the prescribed texts in our syllabus: as and when I read new things, which I, and many of us, do unfailingly, the memory of these old ones will start fading. In fact, the process has already started; I don’t remember what happens in many of the innumerable poems in our first year…

The examination strategy of asking RTCs, therefore, is redundant. Time will make me, and others, forget. Does it even matter whether Faustus said such and such thing in Act 2, Scene 1 or in Act 1, Scene 4? By thundering Jove it really does not!

What matters is how much of the text you’re able to understand, how much of its ideology you’re able to analyse and see critically from an unbiased, rational and historical as well as universal point of view (i.e. whether or not you can understand the text in its and your own milieu).

Sadly, the current system does not even ensure that.

There’re stock questions to which are expected stock answers. There’s a mixture of stock interpretations, “readings” as we’re fond of calling them in our own literary jargon, which you can safely apply to all your questions and get fairly good marks. What’s more, any guide in the cheap markets, on the pavements or in Grub Street bookstores will, or so I’m told, give you a fair enough idea of what stock reading to apply when and where. True, you won’t score excellently, but you can still get something in the late fifties and that fair enough in English hons. Exam-oriented strategies, therefore, can get you good marks. No need of studying through the year, or devoting hours to thinking about the text. Our system is so accommodating that the dullest dunce can, with luck and a RamjiLal, score well.

Oh, did I miss something? I think I did. You can cheat too y’know! Yes, cheat, that too in Literature, wherein it is so very redundant to cheat. So, even if you do work hard and well with a clean conscience, there’ll always be unconscionable rascals who’ll cheat and, since most invigilators are just not up the job, get away quite, quite easily with it.

Finally, even if you tow the line, put in all that hard work and give your exams like the good, diligent student you are, you’re still at the mercy of the whims and fancies of faceless sarkari babus and still more faceless examiners. First, (in the finals that is) you don’t know the quality of the examiners, the procedure by which they’re selected, whether or not they’re even qualified enough to check your answer sheets. A bad, unqualified examiner and whoop! there goes all your hard work! Then, you never know whether the result in the finals is yours or somebody else’s: the Examination Office can very easily, and does with disgraceful regularity, fudge results and fumble over mark-sheets. A friend of mine witnessed something of the sort: the third, and final, term is about to start and his final, re-evaluated, or re-processed (or whatever they call it in the high mysterious language of babudom) results are yet to come out.

Of course, you do need that degree with the first division on it- it looks so nice and proper. And of course you will work, or cheat, hard to get it. But then, that’s what it is- a nice and proper document for most with nothing substantial but fragmented and confused ideas and notions behind it. What will ultimately matter is the knowledge you gain for its own blessed sake and how you let that make yourself an altogether better human being, not, certainly not, the facts and readings you memorise to spit out on answer sheets,

And since the system as it is doesn’t inspire the majority to do that, exams really don’t matter…

Damnation

To Nisha, Maya and Vishaan
For me, as a reminder

I’d like to burn some crackers. They used to be so much fun, those phooljaris and those chakris, I wish I could burn some of them again...

I was till a few years ago prejudiced against the North-east chinki people. I still find them a bit strange, especially their names…

I think it’s perfectly stupid that girls should put up so much kaajal to give themselves the dark circled, supposedly seductive look. I’m quite sure they would look better without that; in fact, they do look better without that…

I think The Iliad is the most horrible text I’ve ever come across. It’s full of the most disgusting bloodshed and the most gory violence…

I find homosexuals strange, that is to say inexplicable. It’s eerie that they get sexually attracted to people of their own sex…

I’ve had enough of Christianity and I don’t care a damn about it! Those bloody Christians are pretty much responsible for the mess the world is in right now…

I love the songs Why Can’t a Woman be more like a Man and Never let a Woman in your Life from My Fair Lady and I think I am 16, going on 17 from The Sound of Music is cute…

I think the Punjabis are conspiring to take over the world, that Singh is King was the latest in their covert agenda of overthrowing all culture and art. Most Punjabis and Jats I have met are philistines with no trace of sweetness or light or refinement about them…

I think…

I think this much is enough!

Yes, this is pretty much enough. I’m sure that by now I’ve successfully established myself as a sexist, racist, insensitive, communalist, bigoted, ne’er-to-do-well, devil-may-care monster.

You know what’s more?

I don’t give two hoots to what you think because that’s what I am. I am racist, I am sexist, I am insensitive, I am a bigoted monster.

Just as you are.

Ok, perhaps that was a bit too much, eh? Perhaps you’re not such a monster...

Perhaps you’ve never ever guffawed or told a joke ridiculing nagging wives or simple Sardarjis, perhaps those of you who’re not Punjabi have never cribbed about the degenerative influence of the ‘Punjabi culture’, perhaps you’ve never thought that India would’ve been a better place had Muslims been packed off to Pakistan in ’47, perhaps you’ve never wanted to do and have never done things you know are ‘bad’, perhaps…

Perhaps not.

It would be a real miracle if you’ve never ever done this, or any other politically incorrect, blasphemous thing. Perfection in imperfection is the only perfectly human trait- all of us do, have at some point done, or, at the very least, have thought of various stupid, illogical, unspeakable, ‘bad’ things. All of us are, therefore, monsters.

Bah, you would say. Never! We might’ve thought of, or considered privately something of this sort, but we’ve never actually done anything. No siree, never! How dare you, you, you insolent, battameez brat! Innocent till proven guilty, blotless till party to the act!

And that’s the point. You’re right, one really is blameless till one actually commits the crime, one really cannot be called names till one has actually done something unacceptable…

I really am not a monster.

I know burning crackers is bad for the environment and I know I won’t burn them, even if I want to for a while.

People have the unassailable freedom to dress as they like: I dress as I choose and I definitely don’t like others to question my dress sense. I may comment on others, but I seldom do so vocally.

The Iliad is gory, but that’s one of its points- to fully highlight the horrendousness of war, as also its futility.

I do think homosexuals are weird, but that doesn’t stop me from accepting them.

Anybody studying Literature in English in Delhi University will agree that we have too much of Christianity. I know why, but then there is an excess, and an illogical, temporary repulsion against an excess is a very natural reaction.

I’ll stand for Henry Higgins in any pulpit, just as I would for feminists.

I do despise-sometimes hate-the Punjabis, but that has till now not blinded me to their good points. My oldest friend is a Punjabi, my favourite teacher in high school was a Punjabi, the girl on whom I first had a crush was a Punjabi, my current second-best friend is a Punjabi, my most regular correspondent and pen friend too is a Punjabi. So much so that the semi-academic paper I started with the intention of lampooning the Punjabis and blasting them to smithereens ended up, for lack of rationally justifiable arguments, praising them.

In short, I do not, like you, usually let my subjectivity adversely influence my objectivity. I may believe in something illogical and may want to do or say something stupid, but I usually don’t do or say that.

I think this is what matters.

Jane Eyre thought her rustic pupils below her, and saw her placement as their school-mistress a degradation, a move down the social ladder. Yet, by all accounts, she never let that affect her pedagogy with them- she strove to not just teach them as a schoolmistress but also train them in the Graces as a mentor.

Just so, I, for example, like some deeply misogynist songs, but I also champion women’s empowerment. I enjoy Henry Higgins cribbing about women as exasperating creatures- which man wouldn’t? I’m sure every woman would enjoy listening to a song about men in the same vein- a poem my Punjabi pen friend recently wrote lampooning men was greatly appreciated by all women who read it. These things are enjoyed in good humour, without any real intention of offence…

Which is to say that you don’t let your subjectivity, of liking a song as chauvinistic as I am 16, affect your objectivity as an analyst- instead, if possible, i.e. depending upon the case, you use the former to reach to a deeper understanding of the subject matter so as to enhance the latter. You enjoy the song, but also realise that women were looked down upon as dependants and so get a multiple perspective on the matter, something which goes along with you when you assess the situation today. You are horrified by Homer, and so get one of his main points. You wish to burn firecrackers, but don’t, for you know it’s harmful and so become a bit more understanding and a bit less judgemental because now you know how hard it is to actually resist temptation as compared to preaching.

Of course, you have to be politically correct. You can’t go around saying what you feel, wherever you feel. Yet, it’s important not to forget that you aren’t really all that politically correct, that you may feel like doing or saying something illogical or bad, but you don’t precisely because you know it’s not done, that it’s a bad thing and really not as you think it to be. That is how you improve yourself, by reminding yourself of your follies and, if not fully correcting them, then at least striving to not let them overpower you. Your subjectivity and objectivity should overlap, but only till its constructive and beneficial. It’s a very difficult task, but that's the only way to survive, for always being politically correct means, to put it as Charles Osgood did, “always having to say you’re sorry.”

Which, caring more than a damn about what you’d think, I am not.

Those Brilliant Black Eyes: Physiognomy in English Literature 4

*

…while mediating on the very great pleasure which a fine pair of black eyes in the face of a pretty woman bestowed…

*

Divination, alchemy, astrology…the human mind has always had a fascination for these extraordinary arts outside, as it were, the established order science, arts which present the possibility of knowing more than what is sanctioned by the mainstream. Physiognomy, the art of judging character form the study of facial features, too is one such branch of learning which has attracted scholars and quacks alike throughout human history. This paper will analyse physiognomy as a significant reflection of the Victorian worldview by critically commenting upon its role as an important character delineation tool in the four prescribed novels, namely Pride and Prejudice, Jane Eyre, Hard Times and The Mill on The Floss, in English Literature 4. To do so, it will begin with a brief discussion on the Victorian outlook to life, go on to establish physiognomy as a paradoxical substantiation of the same and proceed then to examine in separate sections each of the said texts in context of their reliance upon physiognomy.

*

The Age of Science and Reason, the nineteenth century, was characterised by a comparatively extraordinary zeal for knowledge in all spheres. Rapid advances in technology were extending the frontiers of scientific knowledge, just as aggressive colonisation was furthering the sway of the British Empire. The almost sudden burgeoning of the middle class, the rise of the nouveau riche from amongst this class and the emergence of a new, industrial working and lower-middle class put the existing framework of society under tremendous pressure: industrialisation had led to a comparative democratisation, a progressive loosening of bonds in the socio-cultural hierarchy, and as a consequence mobility and advancement became the watchwords of society.

In fact, the nineteenth century can be seen as one remarkable epoch, an age wherein the continuing quest for knowledge got fresh momentum. The world was changed, hugely different from what it was just half a century ago: knowledge and ideas were pouring into Britain from all corners of the world and these same, combined with the socio-political developments taking place in British society, made the Victorian intellectual put all existing ideas about ethics, morality and culture under intense speculative interrogation. Faced with a reality of crumbling institutions, growing strife and increasing cynicism-in short modernity-definition and categorisation became one of the vital ways of setting a topsy-turvy world back in order. In this sense, the Victorian intellectual was somewhat like the Victorian colonist: driven by an almost uncontrollable urge to explore, to find out and annex by definition.

*

Physiognomy caters to this very ideal of precise knowledge. The idea that a person’s character can be divined by a study of his/her features has always been a captivating one: the Victorian passion for exploration and annexation combined with the utilitarian ethics of mathematical precision made it almost irresistible. Here was an ancient art which reflected the quintessentially Victorian motifs of order in flux, of permanence in mobility: such and such shape of the skull meant such and such thing, no more, no less, quite fixed, not subject to the vagaries of time and space, almost immortal. The Victorian mind, trained to be precise and accurate, could not have helped getting attracted to this art which could, by reference to some charts and supposedly unquestionable, immutable facts, reveal, magically as it were, a person’s character and personality, the innermost inclinations of his heart.

Of course, as a ‘magical’ revelation of character, physiognomy is actually at odds with the typically Victorian refutation of superstition and condemnation of fables and stories as fanciful and misleading. Indeed, it stands out as a yet another paradox in the Victorian worldview, a milieu wherein on one hand wo/men put extreme emphasis on rationality but on the other took as substantiation of their beliefs in order and utilitarian precision an art coming from the most fantastic traditions of divination.

*

We will now turn to examine the said texts. First to Pride and Prejudice.

Jane Austen, of course, is not a Victorian author when it comes to strict periodisation. Yet, in her works, and in the world which she portrays in them, the seeds of Victorian mercantilism can already been discerned as sprouting. In Pride and Prejudice itself we can see the nouveau riche rising- Bingley’s family, in spite of their claims of being a “respectable family from the North of England”, owe all their money to trade, presumably colonial trade. Victorian ideals are yet not firmly in place- after all, this is 1796 and the Romantics are at their height, yet the steam engine has been invented and we are already moving towards

In any case, Pride and Prejudice, or First Impressions as it was originally called, is very much about highlighting the deceptive nature of appearances-first impressions-and so there is little reliance upon physiognomy to draw out characters. Indeed, as far as appearances go, Austen actively disproves their validity- witness this in the introduction of Wickham as having an “appearance greatly in his favour…a fine countenance, a good figure and very pleasing address”. Later, Elizabeth is appalled at Darcy’s cruel and insensitive treatment of Wickham, “a young man too, like you, whose very countenance may vouch for your being amiable”. Just how good and amiable he proves to be later is common knowledge...

Next, to Jane Eyre. Charlotte Bronte’s reliance upon physiognomy and, to a lesser extent, phrenology is abundantly apparent in the way she delineates characters according to what their eyes tells about them.

Mrs. Reed has “cold grey” eyes, “devoid of truth”- correspondingly, Mrs. Reed herself is a hypocrite with double standards, somebody who presents herself to society as a good charitable woman but is actually something else. Then Dowager Ingram and her “precious” daughter Blanche- both have “fierce and hard eyes”, amply indicating to a good reader of faces their ambitious pursuit of the rich Rochester. Blanche’s love for him is, in spite of all her coy and pretty mannerisms, naught but a show, Jane assures herself and her readers: this judgement is later proved to be true when the Ingrams break off as soon as news of Rochester’s fortune being not even half of what they had imagined reaches them.

Rochester, a complex, multi-faceted character has, true to his personality “very fine eyes with hidden depths” and though he’s “not beautiful, according to the rule”, his inner beauty is reflected in his “brilliant and gentle” eyes when his “stern features” soften under a smile. He is emotional, prone to sin, yet a streak of nobility underlies him. Just so, for his foil St. John has no such streak of gentleness. His eye is a “cold, blue gem”, as he is himself a cold, doctorial, ambitiously ruthless man who’ll tolerate no hurdle in his road to glory.

Finally, Jane. As is Rochester multi-faceted with shades to his personality, so is Jane a princess trapped in a pauper, a figure full of the most endearing contradictions, on one hand a common governess, on the other a marvellously powerful and spirited woman, emotional and rational…her eyes are “soft and full of feeling”, “shine like dew” and a “flame flickers” in them. Clearly, eyes are the true windows of the soul in Jane Eyre.

Interestingly, through this discourse of eyes, Bronte, like Austen, disproves the validity of impressions. Rochester’s “square, massive brow” and “firm, grim mouth” establish him as a harsh, brooding, wilful man-of-the-world, yet he has those “hidden depths” which only his eyes betray. Similarly, Jane, in her Quakerish dresses and black, brown and grey coats, is as plain and as dull as a woman can be, yet her dewy eyes have a “flame” in them that shows her to be not what she appears to be. Here, as in Pride and Prejudice, appearances are proven to be deceptive.

Dickens employs physiognomy to create remarkably flat caricatures in Hard Times. The novel begins with caricaturing of Thomas Gradgrind, that extraordinarily square character. Everything about his person is mathematically square, right from his “square legs” to his “square wall of a forehead”. He has a “wide, thin and hard set” mouth and his head is “all covered with knobs”…with such a body, his voice, not surprisingly, is “inflexible, dry and dictatorial” and he himself is as rigid, obstinate and unimaginative as can be.

Of course, Dickens’ most flat character is that “Bully of Humility”, Josiah Bounderby. “A man with a great puffed head and forehead, swelled veins in his temples and such a strained skin to his face that it seemed to hold his eyes open and lift his eyebrows up”, Bounderby is the cartoonist’s delight. Just after this unflattering description we are told that he has a “metallic laugh”, a “brassy speaking trumpet of a voice” and, the final nail in the coffin, that he is a “Bully of humility”. The connection between his features and his personality is hard to miss: it’s almost as if the latter was a consequence of the former.

Then there’s Bitzer, “light-eyed and light-haired”, his skin so “unwholesomely deficient in the natural tinge” that sunlight seemed to “draw out of him whatever little colour he ever possessed”, his “short-cropped hair…a mere continuation of the sandy freckles on his forehead and face”. With features such as these, it’s not surprising, if not expected, that he grows up “into an extremely clear-headed, cautious, prudent young man”, his “mind so exactly regulated, that he had no affections or passions”, all his proceedings the “result of the nicest and the coldest calculation”…indeed, so cold that he sends his mother to the workhouse- and this was the sort of self-made man who was, as he later does, “sure to rise in the world”.

Curiously enough, the motif of appearances being deceptive is carried over here as well. James Harthouse is “good looking”, has a “good figure…good breeding” and “bold eyes”. So far, so good. One might have expected Harthouse to have been good as well. That, of course, is not to be. He puts “no more faith in anything than Lucifer”, is completely honest about being dishonest and is very much the “trimmed, smoothed and varnished” Devil who, being “aweary of vice and aweary of virtue”, goeth about “according to the mode”.

Lastly, to The Mill on The Floss. Though George Eliot was supposed to have been influenced by physiognomy, very little of it is apparent in The Mill, excepting, of course, Maggie’s eyes.

Admittedly, Maggie has the most brilliant eyes of all the heroines in this paper, “dark eyes which remind you of the stories of princesses turned into animals”, full of “unsatisfied intelligence and unsatisfied beseeching affection”…these are “such uncommon eyes” which somehow make you feel “nohow”, eyes “trying to speak- trying to speak kindly”.

These of the girl Maggie. As a young woman, they develop, just as Maggie does, to become “full of delicious opposites”, carrying forward the motif of paradox. Rightly are they described as “defying and deprecating, contradicting and clinging, imperious and beseeching”, like a “lovely wild animal struggling under caresses”. Maggie’s persona, her changing moods, her captivating charm, all of these lie in those brilliant dark eyes of hers...

*

Reintroduced into modern consciousness with Lavater’s Physiognomische Fragmente zur Beförderung der Menschenkenntnis und Menschenliebe, physiognomy’s influence steadily increases as one comes into the nineteenth century. A science quintessentially Victorian in its paradoxical underlying assumption of immutable universality beneath confusing, maddening diversity, physiognomy as a delineation tool served well to not just create gripping characters but also project, consciously or not, some of the primary Victorian outlooks to life.

One for Men

It’s surprising that so many of us Literature-wallahs falter when it comes to men.

Ok, that was a bit too loaded; the title of this piece is in itself a bit too loaded…but still, isn’t that true?

Critical attitudes towards men are often black and white from the one pole of harsh condemnation to the other of negligence with almost nothing substantial in between. Criticism seldom, if ever, focuses on men except to highlight their deviousness, their duplicity, their sadism, their nihilism, their moral degeneracy…so on and so forth.

This, of course, stems from feminism.

Of the few ‘readings’ which are regularly applied to texts, one of the most prominent, and indeed, the most predictable, is feminism. You’re sure to come across this; critiques on the condition of women in such and such society, lengthy essays on this or that aspect of a bildungsroman of a female protagonist, intense speculations on the evolution of constructs and institutions like motherhood, womanhood, matrimony etc…these are stock and barrel strategies of modern (or is it post-modern?) classroom criticism. One begins with discussing the society of so and so period, goes on then to deduce the attitudes towards women from the given text and, with the help of critical material, concludes with an overview of the deplorable conditions of women at that time.

So far, so good. All this is right and proper. Women have suffered a lot, perhaps an inestimable lot, throughout the course of human existence. Our way of life-patriarchy-has thrust onto them innumerable privations and indignities…the annals of social history are full of the most appalling crimes, the most horrendous violence against them. It is important for all to realise the enormous magnitude of these inequities, for only when we are aware of the injustices of the past can we successfully strive to forge a better world. In this, and in many other things, feminism aids us.

Yet, like all schools, just as feminism broadens one’s horizon, it simultaneously narrows it down. An excess of feminism, like an excess of everything else, ultimately brings about subtle changes in a critic’s objectivity till the same dissolves with his/her subjectivity to morph into a more or less indistinguishable body. Texts wherein feminist readings are warranted are given overtly feminist interpretations, almost obliterating other explanations. Be it professors or students, all focus exclusively on the condition of women, on the crimes perpetuated against them, on the hazards of patriarchy, on the tyranny of men…

This is what is dangerous.

First of all, I have a problem with dealing with these issues as concerning females, or being ‘feminist’. I would much rather see them as concerning not one half (or, sadly, a bit less than half…) of humanity but the whole of this race, as being issues which affect males and hermaphrodites as well.

Secondly, and more pertinent to this discussion, is the exclusivity of these interpretations. True women have suffered a lot, but that doesn’t negate the suffering of men. Just as females are gendered into women and womanhood is a construct, so are males gendered into men and so is manhood or manliness a construct. While analysing texts to critically comment on the condition of women as projected through them, we very often forget, deliberately or not, to consider the condition of men.

More than that, we often go overboard with our criticism, blowing things wildly out or proportion, demonising men and patriarchy far more than is necessary. When Calonice in Lysistrata talks about her household chores, we immediately shake our heads with sympathy: poor dear she had so much work to do, how awfully burdened she was with all those petty domestic jobs, what a miserable life she must’ve had…Sidney’s Stella is a figure of even greater pity, a non-existent creature without a voice. In fact, the more things change, the more they remain the same- look at plain old Jane, she had a voice, but then she also suffered so many trials and tribulations. It’s so unfair…things were too easy for men, way too difficult for women!

Agreed things were difficult for women, but that doesn’t mean they were easy for men. The ancient division of labour on the basis of sex and age was very much a survival tactic. This is not to say that women are inferior to men: no, instead, this is to say that males are for the most physically stronger than females and that it is all the more efficient for the former to do the greater amount of manual labour. When poor Calonice would be spinning wool inside the comparative safety of her home and instructing slaves to do this or that, her husband would as likely as not be out in some dusty, stuffy factory painstakingly making that famous Athenian pottery or in some wheat farm ploughing with his own hands or, as is actually the case in the said play, out on the battlefield risking his life for her sake. So very unfair that men had to risk their life in battle every now and then while women would sit at home spinning at the wheel, or making bread, or washing the clothes, or tending to the baby.

Let no one perceive this as an invective against housework. Having voluntarily had some experience of cooking and washing, I have the greatest possible respect for all domestic goddesses. It is hard work, there’s no doubt about it: without our modern amenities it would’ve been harder still. Yet, that applies for men as well; their life too was difficult, their existence too fraught with dangers. Being a woman, leave apart a lady, is no easy task, but then, so is being a man, more still a gentleman, an onerous challenge. The codes of arête and dharma in ancient times, of chivalry in the Middle Ages, of gentlemanly behaviour in the Age of Science and Reason and their remnants in our own (post?) modern days…these are the constructs at the hands of which gendered men have suffered, will continue to suffer along with women. The point is not whether the latter is difficult than the former: no, instead, it is that the both, as more or less universal constructs originating from a more or less universal way of life, are equally difficult, or equally easy, and that while analysing one the other should always be kept in mind