Dousing India in Kerosene
By Prayaag Akbar
In English, August, Upamanyu Chatterjee's superb novel about a year in the life of a young Stephanian who has just joined the Civil Service, there is a revealing passage where the District Collector of Madna, Ravi Srivastava, refers to a sweaty underling of theirs as "just a promotee". In the uniquely abstruse language of the Indian Adminstrative Service, a promotee is someone who joins the Service via promotion from one of the lower grades of the Administrative Services, usually State-level; an officer who has not cleared the much-hyped annual Civil Service exam but works his way up the ladder. It is testament to Chatterjee's skill as a novelist that he is able to show through a single throwaway remark the sneering disregard officers of Srivastava's ilk have for these junior officers. But, having come through the State ranks, often these junior officers are the ones who know the areas they serve best. Their knowledge of the minutiae of the political, social – and criminal – dynamic in an area can be of invaluable aid to the Collectors and Additional District Collectors who hop from posting to posting around the country. Additional Collector of Malegaon Yashwant Sonawane was one of these "promotees".
"This matter will be taken very seriously. He was a very upright officer and this probe will continue until we take all the required action." - P. Velarasu, District Collector, Malegaon.
Smack in the middle of that quote crops up another favourite word in the IAS lexicon, though their officers have less cause to use it: "upright". From the use of this adjective, the astute reader will immediately understand that Sonawane, in contrast to the wide majority of his colleagues, was impeccably honest, dilligent and guided by such foolish values as patriotic pride and right and wrong. A look at his years in government reveals that Sonawane was all that and much more; it is open to conjecture, but it is just as likely that he was not only the most "upright" officer in Malegaon, but in all of Maharashtra.
By every account Sonawane was a truly remarkable man. Born into a poverty-line poor rural Dalit family, he managed after college to get himself a job as a clerk in the Mantralaya in 1988. In 1994 he cleared the state civil services exam, where he worked dutifully for fifteen years before being promoted to the IAS rank of Additional Collector in Malegaon.
Recognising that one of the major impediments to development in Malegaon was Hindu-Muslim tension, he worked hard to reduce the faultline, campaigning hard for a branch of Aligarh Muslim University to be set up there. He was also the driving force behind a plan to set up a unit of Maharashtra Industrial Development Corporation there. If his life had not been so cruelly interrupted, he would have had the chance to do a great deal of good in one of India's most troubled areas.
Read more @ Sunday Guardian
Thursday, March 24, 2011
The case of the kidnapped collector
The case of the kidnapped collector
by Prayaag Akbar
The deplorable kidnapping of Malkangiri District Collector Vineel Krishna and junior engineer Pabitra Majhi by Maoists situated somewhere along the Andhra-Orissa border, and the harrowing ongoing hostage crisis that has followed, brings light to a number of the most intractable problems the Indian state faces when attempting to deal with the armed insurgency.
From the Indian state's perspective, its biggest concern is best explained by one of the fundamental problems of Game Theory (and hoary favourite of articles like these), the Prisoner's Dilemma. The Prisoner's Dilemma explains why two rational actors might not cooperate even when it is in their best interests. To cut a lot of nigh-on-indecipherable probability theory short, the logic behind it is that both sets of actors (in this case, the Indian state and the Maoists) lack complete information about the other's motivations. If both mistrust each other, each side ends up choosing the least favourable option available, because of the inherent pressure on both to renege on the agreement.
In this case, after some deliberation, the Indian state prioritised its most favourable outcome, which was to bring District Collector Krishna and junior engineer Majhi home safe. It chose to trust that the Naxalites would fulfill their end of the bargain, and so conceded to all 14 of the demands made. But the Naxals decided they would not keep their end of the bargain, and returned only the junior engineer; custody of the District Collector was their primary bargaining chip, and they chose to extract more from the state.
So how can the Indian state trust this adversary when the majority of prior dealings have ended similarly? What must it do to ensure it does not suffer for choosing the option that, given the initial conditions, would have suited both parties admirably?
It should be noted that the Prisoner's Dilemma is a theoretical tool, at best providing insight into why actors behave the way they do. It does not allow for a number of real-world complexities that cloud almost every instance of hostage-taking (if interested, see Reuben Miller's study of the 1972 Munich Olympics attack). The most urgent difference in the assumptions made above is that the Maoists are not a unitary actor. This is a nebulous collective (if that) of different groups with differing agendum. Clubbing them together can have grievous implications on life and livelihood in the heartland of India, and must be avoided
Delving into ground realities reveals a second disturbing aspect of the case, this one a sharp indictment of the role of the Government of India in this Indian heartland. Take a look at the 14 demands made by the Naxalites on the state. Apart from the (almost mandatory, in hostage situations) demand for prisoner-exchange, much of the rest are demands that have been made on behalf of marginalised communities in India. The Naxals ask for: Scheduled Tribe status for certain Andhra communities; the closure of the multi-purpose Polavaram irrigation project; pattas (record of rights) of dispossessed groups; irrigated water supply to two villages in Malkangiri; compensation to two villagers who claim to have been tortured while in state custody; compensation to farmers living in areas submerged by the Balimela reservoir; better governing laws for the out-of-control bauxite mining industry; and the minimum displacement of tribal groups – and their adequate compensation – when development projects close in on their existence.
Here, then, are the failures of the Indian state placed in sharp relief. Indian citizens are being forced to request manifesto-waving brigands to make what are entirely legitimate demands on the state. These are citizens who feel so disempowered, so disenfranchised, by the industry-state nexus that they feel they must use Naxalites, and by proxy, kidnapping, as a conduit. What is this corner that India has painted its own citizens into?
Additionally, viewing the Prisoner's Dilemma from the Naxalite perspective for a second, they could be entitled to argue that all they have received from the state is a commitment to fulfill their demands, one that might easily be reneged upon once the state functionaries were back home safe. In that case, they might argue that they would be entitled to hold onto the prisoner's until the fulfillment of the 14 demands the Indian state committed to, including long-winded processes like remedying mining laws and putting an end to Operation Green Hunt. After all, the Government of India's track record in providing social justice to the unprivileged is hardly more favourable than the Naxalites track record in keeping their end of bargains.
One final disturbing aspect of the case was the reportage that surrounded it, which could be faulted on two issues. A crude rendition of the manner in which the major national newspapers portrayed the 14 demands of the Naxalites is: "release our Naxalites cronies, plus 13 others." While Times of India did carry an edited list of the demands (on an inside page) the headlines and major chunk of the stories in the national dailies prioritised this solitary diktat. Given the nature of the full set of demands, the media's unwillingness to analyse the Indian state's failure in this regard is shocking. The Naxals ask for an end to Operation Green Hunt. Is the media not required to ask if the Home Minister has now given up on a policy he deemed of paramount importance to national security, even in the diminished form in which it exists today?
Read more @ The Sunday Guardian
by Prayaag Akbar
The deplorable kidnapping of Malkangiri District Collector Vineel Krishna and junior engineer Pabitra Majhi by Maoists situated somewhere along the Andhra-Orissa border, and the harrowing ongoing hostage crisis that has followed, brings light to a number of the most intractable problems the Indian state faces when attempting to deal with the armed insurgency.
From the Indian state's perspective, its biggest concern is best explained by one of the fundamental problems of Game Theory (and hoary favourite of articles like these), the Prisoner's Dilemma. The Prisoner's Dilemma explains why two rational actors might not cooperate even when it is in their best interests. To cut a lot of nigh-on-indecipherable probability theory short, the logic behind it is that both sets of actors (in this case, the Indian state and the Maoists) lack complete information about the other's motivations. If both mistrust each other, each side ends up choosing the least favourable option available, because of the inherent pressure on both to renege on the agreement.
In this case, after some deliberation, the Indian state prioritised its most favourable outcome, which was to bring District Collector Krishna and junior engineer Majhi home safe. It chose to trust that the Naxalites would fulfill their end of the bargain, and so conceded to all 14 of the demands made. But the Naxals decided they would not keep their end of the bargain, and returned only the junior engineer; custody of the District Collector was their primary bargaining chip, and they chose to extract more from the state.
So how can the Indian state trust this adversary when the majority of prior dealings have ended similarly? What must it do to ensure it does not suffer for choosing the option that, given the initial conditions, would have suited both parties admirably?
It should be noted that the Prisoner's Dilemma is a theoretical tool, at best providing insight into why actors behave the way they do. It does not allow for a number of real-world complexities that cloud almost every instance of hostage-taking (if interested, see Reuben Miller's study of the 1972 Munich Olympics attack). The most urgent difference in the assumptions made above is that the Maoists are not a unitary actor. This is a nebulous collective (if that) of different groups with differing agendum. Clubbing them together can have grievous implications on life and livelihood in the heartland of India, and must be avoided
Delving into ground realities reveals a second disturbing aspect of the case, this one a sharp indictment of the role of the Government of India in this Indian heartland. Take a look at the 14 demands made by the Naxalites on the state. Apart from the (almost mandatory, in hostage situations) demand for prisoner-exchange, much of the rest are demands that have been made on behalf of marginalised communities in India. The Naxals ask for: Scheduled Tribe status for certain Andhra communities; the closure of the multi-purpose Polavaram irrigation project; pattas (record of rights) of dispossessed groups; irrigated water supply to two villages in Malkangiri; compensation to two villagers who claim to have been tortured while in state custody; compensation to farmers living in areas submerged by the Balimela reservoir; better governing laws for the out-of-control bauxite mining industry; and the minimum displacement of tribal groups – and their adequate compensation – when development projects close in on their existence.
Here, then, are the failures of the Indian state placed in sharp relief. Indian citizens are being forced to request manifesto-waving brigands to make what are entirely legitimate demands on the state. These are citizens who feel so disempowered, so disenfranchised, by the industry-state nexus that they feel they must use Naxalites, and by proxy, kidnapping, as a conduit. What is this corner that India has painted its own citizens into?
Additionally, viewing the Prisoner's Dilemma from the Naxalite perspective for a second, they could be entitled to argue that all they have received from the state is a commitment to fulfill their demands, one that might easily be reneged upon once the state functionaries were back home safe. In that case, they might argue that they would be entitled to hold onto the prisoner's until the fulfillment of the 14 demands the Indian state committed to, including long-winded processes like remedying mining laws and putting an end to Operation Green Hunt. After all, the Government of India's track record in providing social justice to the unprivileged is hardly more favourable than the Naxalites track record in keeping their end of bargains.
One final disturbing aspect of the case was the reportage that surrounded it, which could be faulted on two issues. A crude rendition of the manner in which the major national newspapers portrayed the 14 demands of the Naxalites is: "release our Naxalites cronies, plus 13 others." While Times of India did carry an edited list of the demands (on an inside page) the headlines and major chunk of the stories in the national dailies prioritised this solitary diktat. Given the nature of the full set of demands, the media's unwillingness to analyse the Indian state's failure in this regard is shocking. The Naxals ask for an end to Operation Green Hunt. Is the media not required to ask if the Home Minister has now given up on a policy he deemed of paramount importance to national security, even in the diminished form in which it exists today?
Read more @ The Sunday Guardian
Friday, March 18, 2011
Why Mother India is an orphan at the Oscars
Why Mother India is an orphan at the Oscars
Mother India (1957)
By Prayaag Akbar
The Oscars are back, with all the hysteria only languid blue sexpot aliens (or Morgan Freeman as a smoulderin' Nelson Mandela) can incite. For Indian cinemawallahs, however, this is likely to be yet another year of disappointment: one more Best Foreign Film award slides away, probably to some beret-wearing "auteur" in Spain or Eastern Europe, far from the grasp of Bollywood directors and producers.
Every year the Film Federation of India dutifully proclaims its favourite from the thunderstorm of movies that India produces. The announcement of India's Oscar nominee is greeted with great local – and perhaps localised – excitement, despite the fact that the accolade is usually meaningless. Nine times out of ten (or, to be more accurate, 58 out of the 61 times the award has been given), the Indian movie selected is deemed not good enough to compete with the other efforts on the Best Foreign Film shortlist. In effect, the best movie from India is sent to that same canister in the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences where lie films from Kazakhstan, Trinidad, and all those other countries where there is no multibillion-dollar movie industry, there are no world-famous actors, no imported background dancers.
At first this might seem like a failing of the Indian movie industry. We wonder if the film critics of Los Angeles are suffering from that old colonial disease of snobbery. We wonder if they decry the ease with which we intersperse fantasy and reality, song and drama, tragedy and laughter. But things are slowly changing. Increasingly, Los Angeles is beginning to recognise that Indian movies speak to the people they are made for. Yet, the Academy Awards will not search for the best films that come out of India because that award is interested in celebrating something else: the privileged perspective of the United States.
The vast assortment of Hollywood technicians, filmmakers and actors that judge the entries seek movies that correspond with their own politics; they want movies where the noble American saves the world; and they want stories that allow them to reinforce whatever stereotypical notions they have of a foreign nation. Movies that make people think are outside the Oscar matrix.
During the ceremony, "Best Foreign Film" might sound like one of the more arty Academy Awards, but the winner is invariably the cheeseburger of non-American cinema, where every ingredient is easily discernible, and the whole is a mass of uncomplicated, fatty, stereotypical fun.
Over a brief chat, filmmaker Pankaj Butalia (from whom the cheeseburger comparison has been stolen) is extremely insightful: "The Oscars are obsessed with large-scale human drama. A foreign film must either speak of large events, or it must correspond to American political interests. The protagonist must overcome some major adversity, the lowest of the low battling the mightiest forces."
There are distinctions, of course. Films from Western Europe and Canada are allowed more leeway; because the imagery is familiar to an American audience, the cultural ties date back further, and their political interests have been mostly aligned. It is easier, then, for a Western European film to transmit a focused, genuine message without having to resort to crude stereotyping. This perhaps explains the relative success of European films: since 1947, 51 out of the 61 awards have gone to European films, five to Asian films and three to African films. Films from nations in the former Communist bloc have suffered similarly.
The Foreign Film winners from 1999 to 2001 illustrate this point well. In 1999 it was director Pedro Almodovar's classic, All About My Mother, which provides a poignant examination of AIDS, transvestitism and faith in Spain. In 2000 China won with Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, which is a stunning, beautiful film, but fantastical in the extreme, embedded with Orientalist symbolism of flying kung-fu monks and Gengis Khan-type warlords. In 2001, Danis Tanovic's No Man's Land, a dark comedy about the Bosnian war, won, only two years after Clinton bombed the Serbs into submission. In the film, valiant United Nations representatives come to the rescue of three soldiers trapped in No Man's Land: ah yes, precisely what happened, then.
By their nature, the Awards grant Western Europe artistic license the rest of the world is not accorded.
This year, the Film Federation of India chose a delightful Marathi film called Harishchandrachi Factory, the debut film of director Paresh Mokashi. It is the story of Dadasaheb Phalke's struggle in making the first Indian film in 1913. The film is not a "small" story; it is about the birth of Indian cinema, undoubtedly a landmark cultural event, even from a global perspective. But Butalia explains that it could not hope to come close to the shortlist.
"They want caricatured versions of India," he says. "Portraying triumph from abject poverty, or sanitised representations of the anti-colonial struggle. Just like the movie that must emerge from Afghanistan is Kite Runner [in which the Afghan villain, a Talibani, of course, is interested primarily in molesting boys, and the young Hazaari boy requires the goodly Afghan-American to come to his aid] the movie that must emerge from India is the rags-to-untold-riches Slumdog Millionaire. There can be nothing in between."
Dr Arvind Rajagopal, professor of Media Studies at New York University, and an expert on the political effects of representations in popular Indian media, argues that the method of selection inherently denies any movie the opportunity to be a meaningful cultural window. In an e-mail to Guardian20 he writes, "With the Oscar shortlist, it is the U.S. that selects India's ambassador, so the films making it to this list reveal as much about the U.S. as they do about India. Poverty, misery, and the hope of redemption is the formula – and the white man's burden (of uplifting the poor and downtrodden of the world) is expressed in this formula itself, as the filmmaker Paromita Vohra has remarked."
America's privileged political status also plays a part. Dr Rajagopal continues: "Popular culture in the U.S. exhibits little interest in other cultures, except what it can get through stereotypes and clichés. Today in the U.S., Indian films are usually approached in the spirit of cultural tourism. Many Americans are happy to capture the soul of a nation in a few images – or so they may think."
But it remains a fact that almost every international filmmaker cherishes Uncle Oscar's recognition more than any other. So, for those directors in India who want to follow that route, below is a handy guide based on the three Indian films that have made it to the Academy Awards shortlist.
1. MOTHER INDIA: Mother India had unique political advantages. It was 1957, only ten years after Independence, and this tearjerker par extraordinaire was unleashed on an unsuspecting American audience of Hollywood liberals. Recognition was bound to follow for this excellent film, but only because it hit notes they could understand: landlord-peasant conflict and rural indebtedness, coupled with evocative imagery and stellar acting. "This is India," you could hear them say. As Pankaj Butalia says, "It would have won, but it was filled with songs."
Read More @ The Sunday Guardian
Mother India (1957)
By Prayaag Akbar
The Oscars are back, with all the hysteria only languid blue sexpot aliens (or Morgan Freeman as a smoulderin' Nelson Mandela) can incite. For Indian cinemawallahs, however, this is likely to be yet another year of disappointment: one more Best Foreign Film award slides away, probably to some beret-wearing "auteur" in Spain or Eastern Europe, far from the grasp of Bollywood directors and producers.
Every year the Film Federation of India dutifully proclaims its favourite from the thunderstorm of movies that India produces. The announcement of India's Oscar nominee is greeted with great local – and perhaps localised – excitement, despite the fact that the accolade is usually meaningless. Nine times out of ten (or, to be more accurate, 58 out of the 61 times the award has been given), the Indian movie selected is deemed not good enough to compete with the other efforts on the Best Foreign Film shortlist. In effect, the best movie from India is sent to that same canister in the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences where lie films from Kazakhstan, Trinidad, and all those other countries where there is no multibillion-dollar movie industry, there are no world-famous actors, no imported background dancers.
At first this might seem like a failing of the Indian movie industry. We wonder if the film critics of Los Angeles are suffering from that old colonial disease of snobbery. We wonder if they decry the ease with which we intersperse fantasy and reality, song and drama, tragedy and laughter. But things are slowly changing. Increasingly, Los Angeles is beginning to recognise that Indian movies speak to the people they are made for. Yet, the Academy Awards will not search for the best films that come out of India because that award is interested in celebrating something else: the privileged perspective of the United States.
The vast assortment of Hollywood technicians, filmmakers and actors that judge the entries seek movies that correspond with their own politics; they want movies where the noble American saves the world; and they want stories that allow them to reinforce whatever stereotypical notions they have of a foreign nation. Movies that make people think are outside the Oscar matrix.
During the ceremony, "Best Foreign Film" might sound like one of the more arty Academy Awards, but the winner is invariably the cheeseburger of non-American cinema, where every ingredient is easily discernible, and the whole is a mass of uncomplicated, fatty, stereotypical fun.
Over a brief chat, filmmaker Pankaj Butalia (from whom the cheeseburger comparison has been stolen) is extremely insightful: "The Oscars are obsessed with large-scale human drama. A foreign film must either speak of large events, or it must correspond to American political interests. The protagonist must overcome some major adversity, the lowest of the low battling the mightiest forces."
There are distinctions, of course. Films from Western Europe and Canada are allowed more leeway; because the imagery is familiar to an American audience, the cultural ties date back further, and their political interests have been mostly aligned. It is easier, then, for a Western European film to transmit a focused, genuine message without having to resort to crude stereotyping. This perhaps explains the relative success of European films: since 1947, 51 out of the 61 awards have gone to European films, five to Asian films and three to African films. Films from nations in the former Communist bloc have suffered similarly.
The Foreign Film winners from 1999 to 2001 illustrate this point well. In 1999 it was director Pedro Almodovar's classic, All About My Mother, which provides a poignant examination of AIDS, transvestitism and faith in Spain. In 2000 China won with Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, which is a stunning, beautiful film, but fantastical in the extreme, embedded with Orientalist symbolism of flying kung-fu monks and Gengis Khan-type warlords. In 2001, Danis Tanovic's No Man's Land, a dark comedy about the Bosnian war, won, only two years after Clinton bombed the Serbs into submission. In the film, valiant United Nations representatives come to the rescue of three soldiers trapped in No Man's Land: ah yes, precisely what happened, then.
By their nature, the Awards grant Western Europe artistic license the rest of the world is not accorded.
This year, the Film Federation of India chose a delightful Marathi film called Harishchandrachi Factory, the debut film of director Paresh Mokashi. It is the story of Dadasaheb Phalke's struggle in making the first Indian film in 1913. The film is not a "small" story; it is about the birth of Indian cinema, undoubtedly a landmark cultural event, even from a global perspective. But Butalia explains that it could not hope to come close to the shortlist.
"They want caricatured versions of India," he says. "Portraying triumph from abject poverty, or sanitised representations of the anti-colonial struggle. Just like the movie that must emerge from Afghanistan is Kite Runner [in which the Afghan villain, a Talibani, of course, is interested primarily in molesting boys, and the young Hazaari boy requires the goodly Afghan-American to come to his aid] the movie that must emerge from India is the rags-to-untold-riches Slumdog Millionaire. There can be nothing in between."
Dr Arvind Rajagopal, professor of Media Studies at New York University, and an expert on the political effects of representations in popular Indian media, argues that the method of selection inherently denies any movie the opportunity to be a meaningful cultural window. In an e-mail to Guardian20 he writes, "With the Oscar shortlist, it is the U.S. that selects India's ambassador, so the films making it to this list reveal as much about the U.S. as they do about India. Poverty, misery, and the hope of redemption is the formula – and the white man's burden (of uplifting the poor and downtrodden of the world) is expressed in this formula itself, as the filmmaker Paromita Vohra has remarked."
America's privileged political status also plays a part. Dr Rajagopal continues: "Popular culture in the U.S. exhibits little interest in other cultures, except what it can get through stereotypes and clichés. Today in the U.S., Indian films are usually approached in the spirit of cultural tourism. Many Americans are happy to capture the soul of a nation in a few images – or so they may think."
But it remains a fact that almost every international filmmaker cherishes Uncle Oscar's recognition more than any other. So, for those directors in India who want to follow that route, below is a handy guide based on the three Indian films that have made it to the Academy Awards shortlist.
1. MOTHER INDIA: Mother India had unique political advantages. It was 1957, only ten years after Independence, and this tearjerker par extraordinaire was unleashed on an unsuspecting American audience of Hollywood liberals. Recognition was bound to follow for this excellent film, but only because it hit notes they could understand: landlord-peasant conflict and rural indebtedness, coupled with evocative imagery and stellar acting. "This is India," you could hear them say. As Pankaj Butalia says, "It would have won, but it was filled with songs."
Read More @ The Sunday Guardian
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