I have been thinking about this.
For a long time, India has been the imagined repository for social evils far away from the western world: the caste system, sati, child marriage, child labour, dowry, poverty, and so on. It has also managed, somehow, to be the epicenter for various exotic positives: yoga, meditation, textiles, the vedas, the Kama Sutra, curry, Krishna, "that elephant guy", and other assorted gods. It could take hours to unravel the mystery behind this cultural composition, so I will desist. What I will say is that the above list does not represent my India. My description would look substantially different, furnished with different images.
But here's the thing: you rarely get to pack your own cultural suitcase. And when you travel, you discover, item by item, what you have been arbitrarily, often carelessly, assigned. You don't dress yourself, but people read every aspect of your appearance as ethnography.
What worries me is the possibility that we, that is Indians, have failed to describe ourselves to the world, and so are being described according to its fancy. I realize it isn't quite as simple as that. After all, it's not like there's a vaccuum where indigenous cultural witness should be. There are plenty of self-produced, nuanced representations of India. If they don't get seen, or if they are forgotten, ignored, dismissed, rejected or reduced, perhaps there isn't much we can do about it. Is there?
As always, we come back to Slumdog Millionaire.
In the end, what bother me is this: it must take very little to create convincing cultural representations, if this manipulative, platitudinous film can manage it. Just garnish with pretty people and a climactic kiss to make it go down easy. Glaze with a shabby bit of choreography and a slogan at the end to retain the ethnic flavour and set the hopeful message. Is this all it takes? Or perhaps I should ask if this is what it takes. Not too harsh, not too chirpy: just the right degree of grit.
Show me what I want to see, and I'll stick a dollar bill in your choli. Dance for me, India. Dance for me.
(Incidentally, if you're interested in more than the self-indulgent musings of one more blogger, you might want to check out this piece on the film by Tarun Tejpal, editor of Tehelka Magazine. It put the matter more or less to rest for me. Read it. It's excellent.)
For a long time, India has been the imagined repository for social evils far away from the western world: the caste system, sati, child marriage, child labour, dowry, poverty, and so on. It has also managed, somehow, to be the epicenter for various exotic positives: yoga, meditation, textiles, the vedas, the Kama Sutra, curry, Krishna, "that elephant guy", and other assorted gods. It could take hours to unravel the mystery behind this cultural composition, so I will desist. What I will say is that the above list does not represent my India. My description would look substantially different, furnished with different images.
But here's the thing: you rarely get to pack your own cultural suitcase. And when you travel, you discover, item by item, what you have been arbitrarily, often carelessly, assigned. You don't dress yourself, but people read every aspect of your appearance as ethnography.
What worries me is the possibility that we, that is Indians, have failed to describe ourselves to the world, and so are being described according to its fancy. I realize it isn't quite as simple as that. After all, it's not like there's a vaccuum where indigenous cultural witness should be. There are plenty of self-produced, nuanced representations of India. If they don't get seen, or if they are forgotten, ignored, dismissed, rejected or reduced, perhaps there isn't much we can do about it. Is there?
As always, we come back to Slumdog Millionaire.
In the end, what bother me is this: it must take very little to create convincing cultural representations, if this manipulative, platitudinous film can manage it. Just garnish with pretty people and a climactic kiss to make it go down easy. Glaze with a shabby bit of choreography and a slogan at the end to retain the ethnic flavour and set the hopeful message. Is this all it takes? Or perhaps I should ask if this is what it takes. Not too harsh, not too chirpy: just the right degree of grit.
Show me what I want to see, and I'll stick a dollar bill in your choli. Dance for me, India. Dance for me.
(Incidentally, if you're interested in more than the self-indulgent musings of one more blogger, you might want to check out this piece on the film by Tarun Tejpal, editor of Tehelka Magazine. It put the matter more or less to rest for me. Read it. It's excellent.)
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