Turning Tables: Classroom Subversion through Table Art

All through its long, chequered and shadowy history, graffiti has been a tool of supposedly anti-social articulation. As an artistic form of expression predominantly in the public domain, it still carries with it connotations of rebellion and subversion…

In the classroom, table graffiti serves as one of the effective mode of subversion. This paper will analyse how the almost unlimited creative license afforded by this form of cultural expression enables the student-artist to give a free reign to his/her imagination, critiquing not just the immediate context of the teacher and the class but also umpteen other current and past issues, related as well as unrelated to their own socio-cultural context. It will examine the table as a neutral space which allows students to adopt different identities in order to articulate things which they otherwise leave unsaid…

It will begin with a short history of graffiti as a subversive medium of expression. Thereafter, it will move on to examine graffiti in the immediate context of Ramjas College, particularly in rooms 8, 6 and 27. It will also discuss some of the factors which motivate students to adopt this form for expression. It will conclude with an overview of the arguments so presented.

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Coming from the Italian graffiato, graffiti, as defined on dictionary.com, refers to “markings or inscriptions, as initials, slogans, or drawings, written, spray-painted, or sketched on a sidewalk, wall of a building or public restroom, or the like”. By this very virtue of being “markings or inscriptions” in the public domain, graffiti’s origin cannot be traced back to any single era. Indeed, from

wall paintings of pre-historic, cave dwelling humans to

the inscriptions preserved on the walls of Pompeii, from the carvings on the temple walls of Tikal to

the verses immortalised on the Qutub, the diverse range of graffiti makes it difficult, and also unnecessary, to draw a unilinear history of the same.

Long though its history is, graffiti’s strong association with subversion are only recent. We can see graffiti emerging as a tool for the anonymous oppressed when we consider

Victorian London and its chalk writings. Slogans against colonial rule during our own Indian freedom struggle too can be considered as graffiti.

In the Second World War, Kilroy made an appearance all across Europe and the US and baffled one and all.

However, modern graffiti as we know it was born on the subway trains of New York in the late 1960’s. Using spray cans, the new age graffiti artists let loose their imagination on staid subway cars and deluged the Metropolitan Transport System with a riot of colours. Taki183 will always be remembered as an early pioneer of spray-can art whose influence led to a boom in graffiti the world over.

Teens and young adults followed his example to ‘get up’ by having their name in as many places as possible. Graffiti also became one of the integral elements of hip hop and a favourite medium for political activists to express anti-war, radical feminist, anarchist and, in general, anti-establishment messages.

The mid-80’s saw graffiti declining as New York’s Metropolitan Transport Authority ushered in its Clean Train Movement to win the so-called war against graffiti. Municipal authorities the world over continue to perceive graffiti as a threat to peace and graffiti artists as wanton vandals who deface property. Nonetheless, graffiti is slowly gaining acceptance as a legitimate art form- this is apparent not just through spurt in graffiti style art on/in T-shirts, posters and computer/video games but also through the fact that some communities have actually designated places for artists to express themselves (like Stroud).

Though well past its golden age, graffiti survives as an art form being increasingly accepted as a part of urban street architecture.

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Just as street graffiti enables the artist to ‘get up’ by breaking through rigid societal boundaries and categorisations, so does table art allow the student-artist to subvert the teacher-student hierarchy by silently, yet creatively, breaking through the façade of discipline imposed upon him/her by a largely uncaring, indifferent and insensitive system. Research in the previous decade has shown that doodling carries messages from the unconscious, with different symbols and patterns suggesting different personality needs. However, table art is not just about doodling when bored in class- it encompasses or addresses a whole range of issues, from tabooed sexuality to concerns about pollution to mimetic beauty and truth.

By virtue of being a neutral, unbiased public space free and open to all, the table is first and foremost ground for articulation of dislike, hatred and other such baser passions. Be it the teacher who’s boring or irritating the artist to death or be it some other personal enemy, the table acts as the canvas for expression of the artist’s pent up emotions. Responses may range from

simple, straight forward statements of disgust like “BMS sucks”

to cries of despair like “I am bored/Being bored”

to supercilious, sarcastic instructions like “Get a life RGM”

to threats like “Ishaan, you better mend your ways”
to lampoons in rhyme, like-

“There was a boy named Anshuman
I would have shot him, if I had a gun
I’ll shoot him that day
When I find out that he’s gay.”

Having gone through some horrendous experience her/him self, the artist warns the world at large to be ware of some person. One such piece clearly warns us, for reasons unknown, to be

“Beware of/ Rengleen/ English Hons, II Yr”

On the other side of the spectrum, there are expressions of admiration and love, things fit enough to gratify anyone’s vanity. An unknown and unknowing suitor immortalised her/his love for me thus-

“I love Anubhav Pradhan!
Thank you immensely
But would you care to reveal your identity”

It is, of course, very possible that this is subtle sarcasm.

However, it is not just unrequited love which finds its way onto the table. People happy in love too express their joy in blank verse-

“Coz u bring out
D best in me
Lk noone else can do
Dats why m by ur side
Dats why I love u!”

Moving on, the table allows the artist to adopt another identity, to put on another hat so as to say and in this guise explore his/her hidden sexual needs and desires.

Nudity,

swear words,

and violent demands for intercourse

comprise this genre of table art.

Similarly, in an arena as (supposedly) liberal and forward-looking as a Literature class, there are sexist and misogynistic, or pseudo-misogynistic comments like

“Gals are all bad/Guys are all good”. Another sexist remark claims that

all but 2 of the girls in a particular year are boring and hence should be kicked off.

Taboos like homosexuality and oral sex are also brought up. For example, in room 27, constant attempts are made to establish one Tarun as gay.

Normally, this can be identified as a perverse form of ragging by differentiating or ‘other-ing’ a student, or a group of students, from the majority of the heterosexual population. In this context, however, it is interesting to note that this group of students, with Mr. Tarun as their head, actually wish to project themselves as gay and therefore these open declarations of their sexual orientation. It does not matter here whether the said gentlemen are really gay: no, what matters is the fact that the artist here is clearly playing upon the stereotype by ridiculing society’s fear of the other by openly declaring himself to be one of the ‘other’.

Significantly, even in the midst of seemingly frivolous and obscene banter, the artist addresses a serious issue.

As answer to the question “Kya Gay hai” is listed, amongst others, the name of Dr. B.N.Ray, into whose tragic history one need not go. The artist further adds, with a tinge of unmistakable sarcasm in the tone, that Dr. Ray is his “role model”. An issue of great topical interest is thus satirised by this unknown table artist thus.

Another piece satirises a boring lecture in context of a topical issue, successfully merging the microcosm of the class with the macrocosm of the international issue.

The artist claims that the class is as toxic as Chinese dolls.

The table is also a repository of axioms and truths. Example range from

universally shared emotions like “Hate monday mornings”

to insights like “Beware! Studying Economics is injurious to health”

to truths of life such as “Being happy doesn’t mean that everything is perfect. It means that you’ve decided to look beyond the imperfections”.

Then, there are times when the artist introspects. One articulates his/her frustration at being perennially misunderstood and denied the freedom to greater expression, saying “90% of the stuff written here makes sense 10% of the time.” Another mocks his/her seniors while becoming part of the ongoing tradition with “Btw seniors were you guys good enough to never write on tables or were these painted before the term?” He/she therefore mocks not just the seniors but also him/her self and thus shows extraordinary self-awareness.

Lastly, distinct from these scribblers is that class of table artists which draws and sketches. From

beautifully done, calligraphic pieces celebrating the Renaissance

to idyllic scenes from a pastoral, Alpine romance

to good luck Tibetan Buddhist charms,

the table displays many great works of amateur art.

A renowned table artist in the second year class opines that graffiti for him acts an anti-depressant in boring classes and that drawing beautiful things in the midst of the general, overpowering anarchy on the desks affirms his belief in the existence of beauty in even utter Chaos. Highlighting the dynamic nature of table art, he says that he has always found it interesting to see how others have added on to his pieces and given them new directions. The ethos of table art, therefore, makes it possible for his creations to become alive as they evolve in the search of higher beauty and truth.

This piece illustrates this point about artistic evolution, showing how various people added on to his original sketch of Hitler, thus enriching the entire piece with multiple perspectives…(the cross, the goggles, the names of concentration camps on the left, the swastika above, the messages below and on the right, all of these have been added to the original by numerous, unknown artists).

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Whatever the form or genre, table graffiti strikes at the very heart of classroom teaching. Indeed, the very act of even thinking to take up one’s pen to doodle, scribble or sketch goes against the basic premise of this system which demands the student’s undivided attention to be centred only on what the teacher is saying in class. Further, the artist’s use of sms-language helps him/her to ridicule and easily break through communication barriers. This becomes of even greater subversive import in a Literature class wherein the barricading of communication by the mainstream, so-called legitimate body of language is all the more rigid.

The amount of table art in a room may, therefore, be roughly taken as an indicator, qualifying not just the teacher’s calibre as an engaging instructor but also the receptiveness of the student community as a whole. The anonymity and the resultant scope of the form give students freedom to not just indulge in bloodless vendetta but also to bring down teachers from their high pedestals and hold them up for universal ridicule. Student-artists therefore create an inverted world order in which hierarchies are suspended: a surreal, anarchic, macabre world where teachers, and everybody else, are/is at the mercy of the student and not vice-versa. It is through this, the absolute break down of reality and its fusion with fiction, that table art subverts all norms of classroom education and, by extension, society at large. It is because of this that I now end this paper with this last piece- “I love graffiti”.

Being CR

To Myself,
Bickering & Bitching,
Gratifying my own Vanity…
(…is this surprising? don’t delude yourself!)

I’ve been a good CR (class representative for the uninitiated). Yes, I have been quite an efficient, fair and unbiased CR who’s done his work as conscientiously and honestly as possible. I’ve been democratic and open and have always tried to maintain a balance between the interests of the class, the teachers and myself. Yes, I’ve been a pretty good CR.

But I’ve had my bad points as well. I’ve been too efficient, too caring, too considerate, and in being all of this, I’ve spoilt my class, spoilt the whole blooming lot of them. In telling them each and every thing; in meticulously planning out schedules, carefully arranging classes and religiously sending out messages to every single one of them, I’ve made them complacent, assuming and overbearing…

For example, just because I feel everybody has an equal right to know what is happening shouldn’t make people feel that they have an-equaller-than-thou right to treat me like a bloody (or bloodless!) walking, talking, living timetable! First, they can’t call. No sir, they needs must message you! But do try and understand their situation: poor outstation students from small towns surviving on shoestring budgets, living their miserable life somehow or the other away from their home and family…oh how tragic! How moving! Don’t you see, cruel heart, and still more cruel reader, that they have to save, they have to economise, they have to message? How else will they live their life of utmost drudgery? How else will they survive?

So, they message. And pray, when do they message? At the bewitching hour of 12, at 3 in the morning, at nine in the night! Dinner, lunch, tea, study, do what you will, the messages will follow you like that accursed pug, you and I in this god forsaken world! You might be deep in Indian mythology, you might be going along Chaucer to Canterbury, you might be walking with Socrates, but all in vain! Trrrrrrring-tin-tin! A message out of nowhere, a call back from the twenty-first century, rudely waking you up…

And what do we want to know? “hey!r v hvng d 8:40 cls wth bms tomrrw?”

Bloody hell! First you disturb me, you rudely pull me back to the reality which you poison with your presence and then ask me questions in such a preposterously sickening language! Damn you! You spoil my Romantic/Elizabethan/Medieval/Victorian/Augustan dreams with this! This! THIS!

And what if I reply, which I, out of a sense of duty, always do? What then? Nothing. No sign of gratitude, not a single thank you (or “thanx” as you type it!)!

Then, nobody has any phone etiquette. You call somebody to ask something, your call isn’t taken, you send a message stating your query and expect the person to at least message in reply- after all, we are classmates…

But no. Why the heck should I care? Why should I answer your question? Of course, it doesn’t really matter that I always answer your questions, but then so what? You’re the CR, aren’t you? You’re supposed to answer our questions! You owe it to us, while we, oh, we are divinities on earth, we are answerable to nobody. We’re in a bad mood, and we won’t reply. We sooo hate phone-calls. We suffer from amnesia and forget you even exist…

Forgetfulness was really endemic. You sent a message clearly specifying when which class is going to happen, yet the night before the class some bugger or the other would send a message asking for further clarification. You sent messages asking people to note down and choose any one of the ten presentation topics, yet there will be some chu-chu who will message late in the night before the presentations asking you to message back all ten of the topics. Oh gods, is it so difficult to understand instructions? So difficult to comprehend plain English? Have mercy on me, ye lords of swarga; have more mercy still on these poor dumb animals, these wolf-toothed sheep of your fold!

Well, ok, not really. There were a few well-mannered stalwarts, like Aastha, Ishaan, Prashaste, Abhimanyu, Meenakshi, Mayoura and Kiran, who would nicely thank you whenever their queries would be answered…Jonathon was the only person who really came up to my expectations of phone etiquette, calling back, and not messaging, to enquire why you had called…people like these made you feel the trouble was worth it. Yet, on the whole, the job has been pretty thankless.

Thankless. Yes, thankless. And they expect you to do more and more for them. Just because your system works well, they expect you to tweak it every now and then to suit them. A professor gave essays to be photocopied. You sent a message telling interested people to contact you within a time frame. You got them copied for as many people as approached you with money and gave the essays back to the teacher. But the very next day, you get a message asking you to “gt dem cpied 4 me,& ill pay u later”. Certainly your highness, certainly! As you like it! Ja exzellenz!

Teachers, of course, can also be high and mighty at times. Dramatic. Goddess-like (we anyways have a matriarchy in our Department of English…). At nine-thirty in the night, you’ll get a message announcing, nay, pronouncing, this shattering judgement- “Class is on”. If I fix tomorrow as the deadline for an assignment, then tomorrow it will unchangeably be. My word is law, my will immutable. What I wish, even the stars shall obey, for I am the liberated woman (no, female- we’re all gender-less in Literature!).

And to add to all of this, we had the Freshers and the Farewell as well. If the third years were prodigiously kind to direct us with the wisdom of their years for the former, the first years are being (it’s still to happen) extraordinarily generous in refreshing our perspective with their pseudo-suicidal/existential/nihilist tendencies. I’ve had a mood swing, so I won’t complete the work assigned to me. We had a meeting today? Oh, but we have a class and we can’t possibly attend- let’s have it later…What? Could’ve informed you we had a class yesterday evening when you sent the message? Well, I’m a little busy these days you know, and I just couldn’t...

Then, there are people who were so very keen to have the Farewell, people who’ve been thinking about it for a year or so. Sure, I appreciate your spirit, but then why the heck weren’t you ready with your plan? Why are you busy getting your act together now? Why, for blessed heaven’s sake, now, when you had the idea in mind for almost a year? Oh, I know you’ll manage to put up something fair in the remaining week, but then most of your work will be last minute preparation with hectic schedules! Why didn’t you plan in advance, so that we wouldn’t have to work at the eleventh hour? Why make my life difficult!

Of course, there were times when you felt everybody was conspiring to make your life difficult. Having an almost non-existent, embarrassingly invisible Dancing Queen as my fellow CR didn’t-doesn’t-help. People don’t expect her to work anyways, and things would inevitably get messy when she would all of a sudden wake up, realise that she had other responsibilities besides giving audience to all the sundry men of her retinue and assert her right to do as she pleased…this the heavy price we humble mortals pay for having thrice-born Queens amongst us…

Oh, I agree, I’m to blame for all of it. I and my stupid ideas about democracy and equality. “The only precondition will be that we do everything by democratic vote and that all of us be as equals.” Thinking that Athenian democratic ideals (yes, you can laugh- somebody already has, and now I’m more or less impervious) would work with a juvenile bunch of college students. What bosh!

Whatever. Que sera sera. It’s been an awfully great adventure being a good CR. It would be an awfully great one being a bad one…

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Actually, I don’t mean all of it…
(Yes, I know: how disappointingly predictable! Yet, I tried my best!)

* * *

Reading Homer: An Amateur’s Account of the Iliad

Homer is disgusting. Homer is fantastic. Homer is horrible. Homer is sublime. Homer narrates horrendously blood chilling violence. Homer evokes beautifully appealing landscapes. Homer…

…to begin with, is marvellously contradictory!

Ok, before you start raising cudgels over the Homer question, let me clarify that I’m not talking of Homer. Here, for convenience’s sake, I’m going to refer to Homer and his (their?) creation (compilation?) Iliad as one and the same thing, inadvisable though it is…

There’s something magically inexplicable about Homer. Oh yes, how uncritical! But that’s true- at least for me! I find it difficult to ‘interpret’ Homer, and to a lesser extent all other Greek literature, in the standard ways taught us in English Hons.- in fact, I find it not just difficult but also demeaning to analyse Homer in any way. To analyse is to see through the text, to break the skilful illusion which the author weaves, spider-life, around it. Sometimes, I think it reduces Homer’s unparalleled majesty when you break him down into different ideologies and schools. I know why we do it, and why it’s necessary, but still…

The first thing which strikes one is the sheer size. By conservative estimates, there must’ve been around 99,000 men on the Achaian side, a 100 men to each of the 990 ships. Imagine! Imagine the colossal amount that would’ve been sent on their maintenance- there is a point in the tale when ships laden with good wine sail in from Lemnos to Ilium, all for the two sons of Atreus. Innumerable oxen and goats are routinely sacrificed, and then consumed- and daily at that. This is Greece (or from Greece), a sparsely wooded land of scanty precipitation and unfertile soil…clearly, Homer’s Heroic Greece was vastly different from, say, Classical Athens- a land much more rich and rewarding…

Then, as the Primal Parent of sorts of Western literature, Homer has everything, from predominant tragedy to occasional comedy and momentary romance. Yet, what impresses one the most is the terrifying violence narrated by him. So much so that one feels like throwing up, or throwing it out of sight as soon as possible. Nothing more ghastly, gory and sickening than Homer when it comes to the “dance of war”.

Consider this. A spear hits a warrior in the arse and come out from his navel. One hits another in the base of the neck and come out from his left eye, taking along his eyeball as the trophy: a fountain of blood spurts out from the now empty socket. Another is brought down to die an excruciating death as the merciless spear mines its way to come out of the crotch…

One could go on paraphrasing a seemingly endless number of gruesome incidents from that bloody catalogue of death, but I think this much is enough. The point has been adequately stressed…

On the other hand, His also fantastically beautiful. The picture he paints of Greece is magically alluring. A peaceful land, of wooded mountains, gurgling streams, gleaming lakes and white, shining cities. A land of mountain shepherds and country farmers, busy tending their sheep and bees; simple folk, unambitious, content, happy, at peace with the world. A world of merry dances and festivals, of good natured revelry and light fun…it is difficult, almost impossible, to associate this world and its denizens with high and noble personages, great heroes and god-ordained kings. Perseus, Agamemnon, and Oedipus seem to have little in common with these rustic folk!

Then there the entire ‘heroic’ discourse. A good warrior is one who establishes his arête by killing as many people as possible, without remorse or pity. When angry, Achilleus is as uncontrollable as a ferocious mountain stream: he comes down like doom for the village in the plain and breaks through the banks, sweeping aside many houses- a lifetime of hark work destroyed in the deluge (yes, yes! I am getting the epic simile thing!). Odysseus is, at his best, a malicious trickster, a dishonest, unconscionable manipulator of men and women- wily, sly and worst than the worst of foxes…take him for his word and you will suffer. Fielding’s acute observations on the skulls of military men very much apply to our Homeric Heroes- all action, no deliberation…

Opposed to this rashness of youth is the wisdom of grey-bearded Nestor, a second generation hero. Nestor is always there to guide his proud and generally rowdy “god-ordained” kings, to put them back on track and organise them, to ensure that the Achaians present as a unified front, not as the loosely knit clans as they are, each to his own…

Nestor brings us to another remarkable thing: the Heroic age. The entire heroic age seems to be condensed in just three generations! You have Tantalus and his notorious feast; then Pelops, his two sons Atreus and Thyestes followed by Atreus’ kids, Agamemnon and Menelaus and then kaput! The so-called invasion, the fall of Mycenae, the beginning of the Dark Age…these three generations (Tantalus was no hero!) touch about three Hesiodic ages: the end of the Bronze age, the whole of the Heroic one and the early beginnings of the last, ‘current’ Iron Age. Greek compression at its confusing best!

Finally, Homer’s Gods. The twelve Olympians, with “cloud-bearing” Zeus as their head, exercised great power over mortals without any accountability whatsoever. Well, all Gods do that, you might say. Right, all Gods do that, but not all of them are as fickle, as impulsive, as querulous, as licentious, in fact (which cannot be, because this is mythology!) as unbalanced (big, important word this!) as our motley gang of Olympians- and big daddy Zeus, as the head, is the worst. He’ll do what he wants and is quite blatant about his power- he routinely reminds his rowdy Gods and Goddesses (quite a paradox, eh!) of his power over them, to fling them down to Tartarus and to cage them therein forever more. His will is law, unchallengeable, immutable. If he wants a woman, he will have her by any means, even though she be his sister (and, at one time, mother Rhea). Incest is allowed amongst the Gods; it’s alright to rape your wife, sister, mother…

Yes, it’s so very tragic. That buggers like these should be Gods and not noble men and women like Penelope and Orestes is such a tragedy. Well said noble Pindar: “One is the race of Gods and of men; from one mother we both draw our breath. Yet, our powers are poles apart; for we are nothing, but for them the brazen Heaven endures for ever, their secure abode”…if only, if only we had been them and they us, we who are so much the better in our conduct, if only…yes, quite a tragedy, one which, as Kitto says, runs throughout much of Greek Literature, the tragedy of being men, strong and dignified, yet weak, mortal…

Homer’s Greece is very much a land of flux, not so much in economic and political flux as in a slow process of societal transformation, from semi-civilised barbarism to the balanced Classicism of Pericles. It is this spirit of flux, and so, imperfection, which Homer’s heroes embody. A tragedy, but much much more than that- Homer stands eternal, forever…

Wild Ducks

Why? Why did I go to that protest? How did it help me? Why did I fight with my parents and grandparents to be part of that demonstration? Did I think it would make a difference, would be an affirmative step forward towards positive change? Did I believe that it was my duty as a responsible citizen to register my disapproval of (rising) intolerance and extremism? To come forward and protest against infringement of my, and my fellow citizens’, fundamental, constitutional rights by groups with retrograde ideologies? To stand up for our right to do as we like and please, as long as it’s under the law?

Well, no, not really.

I don’t think protests of this sort make any effective change. A sustained number of them over a long period of time might just bring about some sort of change, but a single protest of, as this was, less than 25 people has, I think, no effect on either state policy or ideology. Protests in general don’t really affect things- when a rare one succeeds, the system soon reverts back to its old status quo in some new form. Protests of this sort, apolitical, essentially urban middle class, with high, lofty (and, to many, ambiguous) aims like civil liberties are nobody’s concern except few intellectual zealots in Universities and some sections of the largely inarticulate, indifferent urban middle class. Yes, a bunch of college students and young amateurs with simple placards standing silently in one inconspicuous corner of a bylane of a major artery make good centre page bylines and off-peak TV news, but that’s about it- five minutes on TV and then off the fickle public consciousness for the latest on Rakhi Sawant’s antics in some brand new reality show.

As far as fundamental rights and things like equality and liberty which the Indian Constitution and its solemn Preamble so magnificently announce and guarantee, well, everybody knows how the real world works. It’s all very nice and proper on paper, but when it comes to life in the real world, then there are people who are more equal, who are, by virtue of their might, of their ‘power’, first amongst equals. There will always be ‘big’ people and ‘small’ people; the big ones will always have their way with small ones, regardless of the political institutions of that particular society. Indian democracy is in itself a conglomeration of feudal parties, veiled patriarchies or one-(wo)man systems. Indian bureaucracy is a highly stratified structure where, given the rigid hierarchies, it’s almost impossible to have any sort of ‘democratic’ discourse…

The law too is different for different people. You can, of course, sight the odd example and cry yourself hoarse about its impartiality, but everybody knows how easy it is to get around our judiciary. If you have the resources, then it’s very easy to impose your will on people- for one, the state, wherever it’s strong and whenever it feels like it, does that regularly. One of our basic desires as a nation is to be above the law, to show people who we are (tu jaanta nahi main kon hun?): being romantic and claiming that nobody’s above it is just being delusional, not accepting reality as it is. Some people, in fact quite a lot of them actually, can get away with almost anything…

So, why did I go?

I think it was because I don’t wish to let go of my wild ducks.

We all need illusions in life, what Ibsen called “life lies”. For one, they make life incredibly and comfortably simple, give you aims and purposes which you otherwise might not even bother about. The idea that there is God, some divinity which sees that ‘good’ is rewarded and ‘evil’ punished, even if that be in the ‘afterlife’ as eternal glory or damnation, has held together the human race, given a majority of it the tolerance and patience to endure all sorts of sufferings which a minority, taking advantage of these beliefs, has inflicted, directly as well as deviously, upon it. Indeed, the very idea that there is an unchanging, (divinely) sanctioned, and so permanent, ‘good’ and ‘evil’ is one of the primary illusions of this race, as is the idea of monolithic identity: his(and her!)story is witness to umpteen catastrophes which have been consequences of changes which have shattered these illusions…

Our lives are full of all sorts of illusions, all of them vital in their own right. The truth might be something else, but we like to believe otherwise. We don’t know whether ghosts exist or not: science, or at least mainstream science, tells us that they don’t. Yet, most of us, in our heart of heart, do believe in them, not just because the idea is so deeply ingrained in our consciousness as individuals and a collective but also because (as Saurav said) it’s fun to believe in them. We know the knight-and-lady-in-distress idea is a romantic exaggeration, yet it appeals to a majority of us. Most of us get up early in the morning, rush to college, attend classes and go back home, all without knowing where we’re moving towards, or why we’re doing it all…

No, you’ll say: we want to get good marks, and a paying job- earn money and be happy. But then, that is absurd also- money and happiness don’t necessarily go together. Indeed, more often than not, the former doesn’t guarantee the latter. Even when they do, then happiness is usually a nice house with a decent garden, somewhere in a quiet suburb: a little paradise of one’s own to mellow away into the seventh age…yet, this too is a sort of an isolationist illusion- cut off from the hustle-bustle of the world, pretending that one’s own little sphere is immutable, happy in ignorance…

Ignorance, of course, is bliss. It really is, no pun intended. But then, knowledge suddenly thrust upon ignorance is one of the causes behind all tragedies. Desdemona didn’t know a thing about Othello’s suspicions, and so she died. Chamberlain thought Hitler wanted peace, and so came the Munich Agreement, and consequently the War. Nehru thought Hindi-Chini were bhai-bhai, but Mao didn’t, and the ’62 fiasco occurred… clearly, there must be a balance between ignorance and knowledge...

So while things like nationhood and nationality are ideas, they’re also ground realities which just cannot be ignored, as Ghosh seeks to do in The Shadow Lines. Ideas bind individual humans into groups: the idea of family, of belonging and of ownership. Ideas join together those small groups into organised societies- democracies, tyrannies, have what you will. They made Hindustan into the Republic of India, and they keep this Republic from sliding back into Hindustan. Everybody knows things don’t always work according to the ideal, yet the idea that a day will come when they will still continues to inspire and move us all…

I think all of us who went there know all of this: in our heart we all know that there are people who’re more equal. Yet, we, or at least I, wouldn’t have admitted that out there before the cameras and the journalists. Not just because it would’ve been bad publicity to have said that, but also because in spite of being fully aware of the ‘reality’-which is quite illusionary-I also realise the importance of upholding ideas, without which the whole superstructure of society would fall to pieces. Reality without the illusion of these ideas is a brutish beast: ignorance must be tempered with knowledge, reality must be softened with illusions.

And that is why I went to that protest.

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!”