Voices We Ignore

The people of Majuli are angry. For years, their land , the world’s largest riverine island is having its land mass eroded by the Brahmaputra and no one is doing any thing about it. Not even the Prime Minister who represents Assam in the Rajya Sabha. And Majuli is not just another back water island; apart from being home to over two lakh people, it is also the heart and soul of Assamese culture and arts. In other wise violence prone Assam, if the agitation has remained peaceful, it can probably be attributed to the fact that the leadership of the movement so far has stayed with the Satradhikars—heads of traditional Vaishnavite Satras which are based in Majuli.

Part of the hurt and anger stems from the fact that they feel ignored. The religious heads have been agitating for long, but all that they get is promises that are not kept. Apparently the Prime Minister has promised to visit at least three times ever since he took office but he chose to cancel the trips at the last minute. More should be read into the hurt of the Vaishnvite leaders of Majuli than is being perhaps read. For the Prime Minister’s repeated cancellations of his trip seem to be sending out a message that peaceful methods of conveying one’s demands are fruitless and go unheeded. It is true that the erosion of land by the Brahmaputra and other rivers like the Ganga is a complex problem and there may be no ready answers available.

But that does not negate the importance of a country’s leaders standing by its people. After cyclones, floods and earthquakes when leaders visit , it is not that they go with any lasting solutions. But even those visits, some looking pretty hypocritical in fact; still lend a bit of the healing touch that is sorely needed at those times.

By ignoring peaceful protests like the one emanating from Majuli, the nation is sending out a very sad message that to be noticed and heard ; one has to be aggressive and violent. Throw a few bombs and grenades; kill some innocent people and it will become a “law and order” problem at the very least and police, para military and army boots will com trampling down to make sure thing are in order. Be persistent – may be for decades and you will feted and invited for talks.

Witness for instance how the government is bending over backwards to negotiate with the NSCN factions , strtching the Indian constitution to the very limits of its elasticity so that the Naga demands can be solved. Or just look at the situation in Siachin where over Rs 60 million is spent every day to protect the territorial integrity of India – a glacier and a place where as was famously put once, not a blade of glass grows. Yet it is de rigeour for defense ministers to pay a visit there at least once in their tenure. But ask for the state to take to take some interest in a place where people actually live and not only that a place that is a virtual cultural treasure house fit for consideration as a world heritage site and suddenly no one has any time to visit and only a few measly crores is available as a grant.. It is a pity , is it not.

One cannot but connect the protest of the Vaishnavite seers without also reflecting on the changing trajectory of the Tibetan resistance. For decades, the Dalai Lama led the Tibetan resistance movement with an emphasis on non violence but the movement got no where. Now with the Dalai Lama ageing and no solution in sight, the Tibetan Youth Congress and other newer groupings have no use for the path of non violence. Before the peaceful Vaishnavite movement takes that route, we should take cognizance of a voice that we seem not to hear.

Migrants: Outsiders Forever

Prime Minister Man Mohan Singh recently got elected to the Rajya Sabha from Assam. He ostensibly lives “ordinarily” in Gauhati where his landlady is the widow of Mr. Hiteshwar Saikia , the former Assam Chief Minister , who first invited him to to contest the Rajya Sabha elections from Assam. He has been elected from there for a fourth straight term, although , he alone knows how many days he has actually spent in Assam In his declaration to the secretary of the Assam Legislative Assembly , the Prime Minister has declared ownership of two houses – one in Chandigarh and another in Delhi. Even so , the people of Assam supposedly consider him on of their own.

This kind of kinship has been denied though to poor migrant workers from North India , who actually live an work there with the ULFA militants again targeting them. After a series of bloody massacres in January , the ULFA has has targeted the Hindi speaking people across the state and the victims are feeling terrorized in the only place they call home. NDTV quotes the Assam labor minister, Prithibi Majhi as saying ''These people have not seen Bihar or any other place. They were born here, brought up here, married here and they are running their family. Everything is here,'' But for the ULFA, they will remain outsiders. The banned militant outfit has killed nine migrant workers in two days, triggering panic in the Hindi-speaking community.

Else where in the country , seeking prominence for the 'son of the soils' in recruitments in Maharashtra, activists of Raj Thackeray's Maharashtra Navnirman Sena stormed into an examination center of Railway Recruitment Board, Western Railway in Pune and beat up the candidates from north Indian states and tore their answer sheets, disrupting the ongoing test. Once again, the ire was against candidates from North Indian States, the hapless poor migrant , seeking to better their lives through legitimate means.

In a couple of months, we shall have our annual ritual of the independence day celebration an this year shall mark its 60th anniversary. The song of the season shall be Sare Jahan se Accha, Hindustan Hamara”. But in 60 years of political independence, how much of the narrow domestic walls that separate and divide us have we torn down? Hardly any.. When we treat people different from us in terms of language, ethnicity, religion in a manner that causes them to feel alienated , unwanted and threatened in their own country when some one can come and kick you out of your home and hearth just because you look different from the rest , where the migrant is always the outsider even after settling and living some where for generations, where vandals come and assault examination candidates who come from a particular part of the country , what kind of a nationhood have we achieved?

Typically as we move around the country, we see two kinds of migrants in the country. The first kind is sort of invisible but whose tentacles are every where. They often control the trade, commerce and through that the economy of the states and possibly own significant amounts of property. And though most people know who they are and what they do and love to hate them, they are not easy to dislodge. As I said, their tentacles are every where and they are wealthy and well connected.. So we curse them in private using the most pejorative of words and then go out into the streets and hit the other kind of migrant.

The other kind of migrant is usually one who is living in abject poverty or trying hard to ensure that he doesn't slip through the net and fall there. Often he is living on a subsistence economy himself but contributing disproportionately more. Often he is doing jobs that many of the so called locals would disdain to do. He doesn't have palatial homes and personal security to protect his person. When passions are ignited and anger has to be ventilated, his house is handy for arson , his family available for assault, battery and rape. He is the quintessential migrant and though from cradle to grave he may have lived in only one place , he is forever the outsider at the gate.

Death of the Chowkidar

When I was in school and lived in Delhi, we often slept on the terrace on the hot, stuffy summer nights. The nights were cool and pleasant and it was still possible on most times to see a sky full of stars. I would drift off to sleep trying to identify the few stars and constellations I knew. The silence of the night would be interrupted by the occasional burst of a car engine and the barking of stray dogs and the rhythmic tap –tap –tap of the chowkidar’s stick along with a shrill puff on his whistle.

Those were idyllic days when crime was little and mostly restricted to petty burglary and nothing more. I never actually saw the chowkidar more than once a month when he came along to collect his wages. He was a genial looking man from the hills, generically referred to as Bahadur and his kindly face inspired no fear or terror but a kind of gentle assurance of protection. The tap-tap –tap of the chowkidar’s stick was a sure antidote against the occasional nightmare and a child’s fears. With my parents by my side at home and the chowkidar blowing his reassuring whistle through the night, a child had nothing to fear.

After school, I left Delhi and came back after a long while; it seemed that an era had passed. Of course, politically, the country had changed a lot. The roots of terrorism were every where – Kashmir was boiling , and so was Assam , closer to Delhi , Khalistani terrorists were rising and had garrisoned off the hallowed Golden Temple and shortly when after Operation Blue Star , Mrs. Gandhi was assassinated by her own body guards, it seemed that the age of trust was over. When the anti Sikh riots happened, the social fabric of trust vanished not just for the elite living in Lutyen’s bungalows but also for the common man. Some where along the way, the chowkidar, the kindly, courteous man, who protected every one, harmed no one and knew every man, woman and child on his beat was gone. His time and role was over.

In place of the mild mannered chowkidar who often served for years if not a life time , now you have the rough, brawny, and uncouth and in your face “security guard” who inspires much terror and little confidence. Indistinctive and impersonal in their often ill fitting uniforms, they swagger around their beat often around a spiked gate erected artificially over a neighborhood designed in gentler times to be always accessible and open.

These guards know no one and care for no one except for their monotonous security drill but they are mushrooming everywhere. ATMs, housing societies, office complexes they all have dispensed with the chowkidar or his morphed cousin in the offices, the Durwan and have hired security guards. The chowkidar greeted every one with a warm smile and a salaam but the security guard greets you with a shabby notebook and a cheap ballpoint pen where to get to your best friend’s house, you have to supply every conceivable personal detail that he requires.

Are we getting better security for all these guards? May be, may be not. The crime statistics don’t tell an encouraging story. But even though the guards may be necessary in today’s day and age and the whistle blowing watch man of yore has been replaced by siren blowing police patrol jeeps and the stiff and starched guards of firms like Group 4, provide a kind of machine like politeness, I will still miss the endearing smile and care of the chowkidar whose heart was bigger than his stick and whose bark was louder than his bite. He belonged to a time when innocence, kindness and caring were the norm and the gentle tap of his stick signified a benign presence guarding us all. The chowkidar is dead but may his memory endure forever.