The Political Overlords Of A Violent Underclass

Violence has become Indian society's default template. This is ironic for a country that gained independence from colonial powers by using the politics of non-violence. What is even more appalling is that this violent streak in society is sponsored and patronised.

I wrote an Op-ed piece for The Hindu on the sponsorship for such wanton violence. My piece can be found here: http://goo.gl/z82277

Football Politics

It was 1980 and a sultry Calcutta, August 16, afternoon. Tensions were running high in the city: the cops had marshalled their forces and the lumpen armies had sharpened their arsenals. Two bitter rivals were facing off  -- East Bengal versus Mohun Bagan, bringing the summer of the Calcutta football season to a crescendo. Like thousands of fans, I too trudged a dusty path to the verdant Eden Gardens, hoping to catch a classic derby from the concrete bleachers.

Hope brings prayers to the lips; but loyalty, a sense of belonging to a cause or a club can dredge up the ancient tribal instincts. And violence is what emerges from the churn. At the end of the game, 16 dead bodies were laid down next to each other, club affiliations be damned. Hundred others were bludgeoned and bloodied, but fortunate to have escaped the mindless soccer savagery.

But, what really topped the absurdity scales that day was the match result: Mohun Bagan-0 -- East Bengal-0. It was one of the worst displays of football I've ever seen. Poor skills, pathetic gamesmanship, appalling strategy. And, yet it provided so much conviction to fans that they ended up killing 16 and injuring hundreds of others.

That day was eventful for other reasons. I, for one, stopped watching Indian football from that day. I have never ever watched a Mohun Bagan-East Bengal match after that dreadful day; not on telly, leave alone the thought of going to the stadium. Skipped the parts about them in the local newspapers too. Sometimes, and these are rare occasions, I feel I have been a bit too harsh on my adolescent and youthful pre-occupations. Not worth it, my left side would shout out any such rising doubts.

But, as with family traits, the lessons of 1980 seem to have got scattered and weakened with the passage of time. A fresh resurgence of violence broke out again during a Mohun Bagan vs East Bengal game yesterday (read here and here). It's the same story. Reprise 1980 with one thankful omission: nobody died.

I have often wondered what could fan such passions? How can people still brave the elements and watch such dreary stuff? Improving satellite connections have weaned me off. Whenever I've tried to watch a similar derby on the box, I've immediately switched channels. The local stuff seems to be playing out in excruciating slow-mo, compared with the outstanding quality of European and Latin American soccer now available at the press of a button!

Which brings the mind back to mindless violence. I have often thought about that fateful August day of 1980 and inevitably concluded that the violence was the outcome of a new voice, a new sense of  empowerment sanctioned to a new section of lumpens co-opted by the then new ruling party. Cut to 2012 and the violence seems to be the handiwork of a new set of lumpens, patronised by a new political party. According to unconfirmed reports, the police have recovered a large and shocking cache of arms from fans (read here).

Who says it's just a game!

Build Me A Rainbow

If I were a rich man,
Ya ha deedle deedle, bubba bubba deedle deedle dum.
All day long I'd biddy biddy bum.
If I were a wealthy man.
I wouldn't have to work hard.
Ya ha deedle deedle, bubba bubba deedle deedle dum.
If I were a biddy biddy rich,
Yidle-diddle-didle-didle man.

I'd build a big tall house with rooms by the dozen,
Right in the middle of the town.
A fine tin roof with real wooden floors below.
There would be one long staircase just going up,
And one even longer coming down,
And one more leading nowhere, just for show.

I'd fill my yard with chicks and turkeys and geese and ducks
For the town to see and hear.
Squawking just as noisily as they can.
With each loud "cheep" "swaqwk" "honk" "quack"
Would land like a trumpet on the ear,
As if to say "Here lives a wealthy man."

If I were a rich man,
Ya ha deedle deedle, bubba bubba deedle deedle dum.
All day long I'd biddy biddy bum.
If I were a wealthy man.
I wouldn't have to work hard.
Ya ha deedle deedle, bubba bubba deedle deedle dum.
If I were a biddy biddy rich,
Yidle-diddle-didle-didle man.

-- From the musical Fiddler On The Roof

Had Topol known the extent of extra-constitutional powers enjoyed by builders in modern India’s cities, he would have probably sung a slightly different set of words for this famous musical. Attacking women, defenceless men, elderly citizens keen on preserving the ecological balance is the only vocabulary builders use to counter dissent. But, how come they’ve got away each time?

Obviously, the political apparatus has been co-opted full time. In Bombay, the builder-politician-mafia nexus has been thriving for years. But, earlier, builders knew how to keep their distance, and rarely got into the public spotlight. They were seldom seen, never heard. But, today they want their pictures printed, aspire to celebrity status and even crave for recognition. Their daughters and sons want a piece of the Bollywood action too. Any dissenting voice is seen as a threat to this sublime equilibrium and needs to be silenced, even if it is with brutal force.

Their deep pockets have ensured a safe passage every time. One builder, accused of short-changing the state revenue department by deliberately mis-stating the area of the apartments he’s been selling for years, even crowed to fellow builders that the hullabaloo would quieten down soon after some money was spent – on politicians and on newspaper advertisements! Like the famous playwright Noel Coward said so fittingly: “The higher the buildings, the lower the morals.”