JODHA-AKBAR (Hindi; 2008)

You have to be a masochist to make a historical film in India: no matter what the subject, you can rest assured the film's release will be accompanied by protests (often staffed by rent-a-thug sorts), mock outrage by assorted politicos, and public interest litigants, all of them convinced that the nation's very soul will be jeopardized if this or that film is allowed to hit theaters. So too it was with Ashutosh Gowariker's Jodha-Akbar (2008), the much anticipated film by the director of Lagaan on the marriage of Jodhabai, princess of the Rajput house of Amer (Jaipur for us, since Jai Singh founded the city in the eighteenth century), with Akbar, the third Mughal emperor, and by just about universal consent the greatest ruler of that dynasty. Underlying the controversy is the fact that few women make appearances in the court records of the time (although the Mughals certainly had their share of monumental female personalities who simply could not be kept away from the historical records, ranging from Akbar's aunt Gulbadan Begum, his wet nurse Maham Anga; through the likes of Nur Jahan (one of the fourth emperor Jahangir's wives, and the de facto ruler for years); the fifth emperor Shah Jahan's daughters Roshanara and Jahanara; and the sixth emperor Auirangzeb's daughter Zebunnissa (the only one who seems to have plotted rebellion against her father): "Jodhabai" is more legend than fact, although the persistence of the tale, not to mention that there is little doubt that an Amber princess was married to Akbar, means that it cannot be dismissed out of hand.

In any event, the "controversy" around the film, or the history underlying it, was always hypocritical: whatever the facts about Jodhabai, and whether or not Jodhabai even existed, no one doubts that Mughal emperors married Rajput princesses on several occasions, beginning with Akbar (who had multiple Rajput wives), and continuing all the way down to the blink-and-you-miss-it reign of Farrukhsiyar (1719). The source of the controversy wasn't difficult to understand either, reflecting as it did contemporary unease (of both the communal and casteist variety) among the so-called cultural nationalists as to how a community held up in modern times as the very embodiment of Hindu resistance to marauding Muslim invaders, could have done what so many Rajput royal houses chose to do, namely, make their peace with the dominant imperial power. The answer, of course, is simple: their mindset was different, their reality was different. That is, the great warriors simply cannot be impressed into the service of contemporary political ideologies without grave violence being done to their worldview. In the world of the sixteenth century Rajputs and Mughals, it was quite common to seal political pacts with marriages (the process continued until well into the nineteenth century, as evidenced by Napoleon's marriage to the Hapsburg princess Marie-Louise in 1810). Not to mention, of course, that the right-wing consternation says much about the ideological function served by "womanly virtue" in the construction of group identities -- "giving" a daughter has implicated honor for far too long, and the appropriate response is not to deny what was manifestly quite common, but to interrogate the connection between "one's women" and one's honor.

The opposite position -- namely that Akbar is the precursor of twentieth century liberalism, the good and tolerant emperor who presages the benevolent nation-state of our days -- is no more defensible. While I have far greater sympathy for the pluralistic impulses of Akbar than, for instance, for the Sunni orthodoxy of Badauni, the fact remains that Akbar was no liberal -- not because he was illiberal but because the term doesn't mean much in the context of sixteenth century India. The historians who have complained that the film distorts history miss the point, and betray a naive view of their discipline: there is no such thing as a history that simply presents its subject as he or she was; the study of the past is necessarily refracted through the concerns of the present. It could not be any other way, not because there is no such thing as objective fact, but because we can only live in the present. The brutal and violent Akbar, standing in for a whole order of rapacious Muslim "outsiders", has long been the need of the hour where adherents of Hindutva are concerned; likewise, Akbar as symbol of an essentially pluralistic India also reflects the compulsions of mainstream nationalist historiography. Not all historical narratives are equally plausible of course (a view of Akbar as life-long bigot; or of him as orthodox Sunni; would be farce, not history); but when we critique historical narratives, we cannot help but critique the political ideologies that underlie them.

There is little doubt that Gowariker falls on the "mainstream nationalist" side of the conventional divide, and doesn't have too much patience for the right-wing ideologues who see most of the last millennium as an unending round of pillage by marauders (although he does recycle some of the more partisan prejudices, such as when the film's opening voice-over speaks of the untold war and pillage invaders have unleashed on India since 1011 AD (the date of the first Muslim invasions under Mahmud of Ghazni); evidently, pre-Islamic invasions, whether by the Huns, the Kushans, the Greeks, or whoever else, don't seem to register; or when Hemu's forces at the Second Battle of Panipat seem devoid of any Afghan troops: one simply couldn't glean from Gowariker's representation that arrayed against the Mughal forces was a joint Indo-Afghan front representing the displaced Suri order). But Gowariker has also gone on record to say that his Akbar is the emperor of the Amar Chitra Katha (the beloved series that has long served as the introduction of millions of Indian children to numerous myths and folk takes in comic-book form, including several about Akbar and his adviser Birbal) -- which might not increase confidence in how solid the history underlying the film is, but doesn't undermine the plausibility of Jodha-Akbar as a Bollywood vehicle either (indeed, films like Braveheart remind one that an essentially cartoonish and simple-minded reading of the historical record can make for quite an engaging film). The foregoing is not a patronizing compliment: rather, it serves to underscore that the function of a historical film is something other than presenting history to its audience; the filmmaker also wants to tell his audience where it needs to go, by the light of a myth about the past that tells us who we ought to be, and who we can be. As discussed above, the discipline of history might do that too -- but the comparative freedom of popular cinema enables film to do it in a far more naked way, and to potent cultural effect. That is, the film can be what scholarship, for better and for worse, cannot; and what Gowariker has shaped his film as: a fable

The film begins with a somewhat turgid segment setting the scene for what is to follow: it is 1556, and the Mughal throne is in a precarious state after the untimely death of Humayun. The thirteen year-old emperor is under the guardianship of Bairam Khan, who leads the Mughal forces at Panipat -- the battle's outcome shattered the Suri/Hemu forces, paving the way for a Mughal imperium centered on the Gangetic plain. After the battle has been won, the boy-emperor refuses to behead Hemu, so Bairam Khan does the deed himself (some accounts have the young Akbar personally killing Hemu). Flash forward six years, and the Mughal armies on the march, after ultimatums that have been sent to the Rajputana states have been rejected. Akbar (Hrithik Roshan) has assumed the reins of power, having used the occasion of another monarch's defeat to clip Bairam Khan's wings, and demonstrate that he's going to be doing things differently. Meanwhile, in the palace of Amer, the lovely Jodha (Aishwariya Rai) is seen practicing swordplay with her cousin Sujamal (Sonu Sood) -- I cannot say whether this would have been an appropriate pastime for medieval princesses, but in the best Bollywood traditions, her swordplay serves as the occasion for some dialoguebaazi, and there ain't nothing wrong with that.

The ruler of Amer, Raja Bharmal (Kulbushan Kharbanda), decides to save his kingdom by accepting Mughal suzerainty, and offers Akbar his daughter Jodha's hand in marriage (the film never delves into the thought process that might have led Bharmal down this road; which could be a sign of how normal this was, except it's evident from the reaction of Bharmal's Rajput peers that it wasn't, at least not where Mughal emperors had hitherto been concerned). Akbar accepts, but Jodha -- who is as horrified as Akbar's more orthodox Muslim advisers at the thought of a marriage with an unbeliever -- has two conditions of her own. Both of these are linked to her faith (and doubtless a reflection of the controversy surrounding religious conversions to Christianity in India today; as well as the long history of unease in the sub-continent resulting from the link between Christian missionary activity and colonialism): Jodha will not convert, and she wants to have a personal shrine built for her beloved Krishna in her Mughal palace. Gowariker displays a deft touch here, as Kiran Deohans' camera lingers a shade too long on Aishwariya Rai's face: Jodha seems horrified when Akbar announces that he has accepted her conditions. Evidently, the film's Amer princess had been counting on the emperor's orthodoxy in order to get out of the marriage. She wouldn't have been the last to be surprised.

Jodha-Akbar really takes off -- or settles in -- at this point, and it becomes all too apparent that Gowariker is more interested in the domestic drama of Jodha making her place in the world of the Mughal zenana than it is with the wider sweep of Akbar's story. This choice undoubtedly made the film a safer bet at the box office where the much ballyhooed (and much sought after) "family audience" (which, conventional wisdom assures us, likes nothing so much as domestic drama and/or romance, as opposed to anything that so much as smells of blood, gore, or politics; whether the conventional wisdom reflects the truth or simply the prejudices of male filmmakers who have their own views on what women will or will not watch is a separate issue) was concerned, but it does make Jodha-Akbar less interesting as a period piece, and treading a path rather well-worn by the likes of films like Swami (1977) and Hum Dil de Chuke Sanam (1999), and (more recently) Rab Ne Banadi Jodi (2008), not to mention (far more luridly) by various contemporary Indian TV serials. However, the choice also means that once Jodha and Akbar get married, Gowariker is on cinematic terrain that he seems more comfortable on, and the characters who have hitherto existed as history-bearing vessels are revealed as Hindi film types we are more familiar with, and who have stronger claims upon our sympathy: two strangers who find themselves married to each other, and who need to make do. With some twists and turns -- the domestic intrigue, the pesky rebels -- the end is never in doubt: Jodha and Akbar fall in love with each other, and, by film's end Akbar inaugurates a newer, kinder, and gentler Mughal empire (to give Gowariker and Haider Ali credit, their Akbar is depicted as predisposed to a more humane touch; the historical veracity of this is not the point -- the care the filmmakers have taken (for the most part; some segments do cut the other way) to avoid suggesting that a barbaric Mughal order was civilized by means of a Hindu ethos, most certainly is; in the film, Akbar underscores a related point even prior to his marriage, stressing to Jodha that his claim to "native Indian" status is no less than hers).

The result is surprisingly engaging, although one cannot help but wish for a more vigorous directorial style. Numerous scenes in the film are visually striking (costume designer Neeta Lulla, and production designer Nitin Desai, deserve high praise, although not for our first sight of Agra fort, which seems woefully unreal), but are reminiscent of set pieces, working better as stills than as moving images. [The exceptions, such as the superb image of Jodha watching, through a white curtain, Akbar and his guards leave for Malwa the morning after the wedding, simply prove the rule.] Perhaps that is always a danger with period pieces: absent emphasis on the kinetic, a historical risks getting bogged down in dialog and props. Typically (even if a bit reflexively and unimaginatively) that kinetic quality is supplied by battle sequences. But Jodha-Akbar eschews these for the most part (necessarily, given the subject), leading to a film that is pitched a few notes lower than it ought to have been. The Bollywood period piece (whether Mughal-e-Azam, Kranti (1981), or Mangal Pandey (2005)) takes fantastic liberties with the historical record, and the impertinence is justified on dramatic grounds. Jodha-Akbar errs in going no more than half way in either direction, possessed of much of the low-key sobriety of a more serious historical engagement, but lacking the substance; while falling short of the dramatic bullseye of the masala movie.

The foregoing notwithstanding, one advantage of Gowariker's focus is that the female lead is granted a full-fledged role here, a rarity these days in Bollywood, the odd Rab Ne Banadi Jodi notwithstanding. Fed a steady diet of the T&A aesthetic no matter how inappropriate to the film at hand, this viewer found himself crying hallelujah at the sight of an actress having entire sentences for dialog. Not to mention the inversion of the male gaze Jodha-Akbar achieves in the memorable sequence showing Akbar practicing his swordsmanship; Jodha stumbles upon him, then finds herself unable to tear herself away from looking at him from behind a curtain. I can't think of another Bollywood film where the female lead is shown so candidly lustful (and not judged for it).

Gowariker's slowness seems to have rubbed off on A.R. Rahman here, whose music is often beautiful, and at its best -- in the Sufi-accented Khwaja Mere Khwaja -- magically soothing, but never unexpected or especially interesting. The album is a bit low-key, in the manner Gowariker seems to increasingly want from his composer (the music of Swades (2004) was also in a relatively laid back register), notwithstanding the rousing Azeem-o-Shaan-Shahenshah (itself more impressive than compelling). One hopes Gowariker has Rahman change his tack by the time What's Your Raashee? comes along.

The lead cast is well chosen: Hrithik Roshan and Aishwariya Rai suit the parts of Gowariker's and writer Haider Ali's Akbar and Jodha to a 'T', and if one can rightfully complain that the parts themselves are no more than skin deep, that is a function of the sort of film Gowariker has made, and the limitation can hardly be laid at the lead actors' door. Rai is a natural for the role of the quintessential Rajput princess, and enjoys the advantage of being relatively free to fashion her character, not only because virtually nothing is known about the historical daughter of Bharmal, but because of the gender conventions of Hindi film audiences. Princesses just are a certain way: beautiful, decorous with a dash of fire, and bedecked in jewels. Not much more is needed, and Rai is unlikely to have found this sort of role (not too different from her characters in Devdas and Hum Dil De Chuke Sanam, which says more about how Bollywood writes women than it does about Rai) terribly challenging. To her credit, she holds up the rather stilted role unflaggingly, testimony to the sort of Jodha Gowariker and Ali had in mind: oozing star wattage from every pore (but not sass: for that you'll have to re-visit Kajra Re from Bunty aur Babli). If one misses the possibilities that a more expressive actress might have brought to Jodha's role, one would also have to concede that film would have been very different from the one Gowariker and Ali apparently had in mind.

Roshan is impressive as the youthful Akbar, using his body and eyes to great effect, and unveiling a regal, languorous walk that hasn't been seen elsewhere in his oeuvre. One would be hard-pressed to think of another contemporary Hindi actor who could carry off the clothes this film has him wear so effortlessly. And while Jodha-Akbar, like most Hindi films, assigns high-falutin Urdu to its Muslim historical personages and Sanskritized Hindi to its Hindu ones, irrespective of what period is being represented (the Bollywood equivalent of Hollywood actors speaking in accented English when playing non-English speakers), Hrithik's Urdu diction is commendable -- he betrays none of the Bombay-boy accent that mars the Hindi/Urdu of very many of his contemporaries. If the role has a flaw, it is that Hrithik is playing the storybook (i.e. a generic) emperor -- not the famously earthy Akbar of history, intensely curious and fond of a laugh. Hrithik's Akbar is all monarch, and a bit too starched: a couple of scenes that attempt the contrary notwithstanding, one is hard-pressed to imagine this body getting sweaty. Nevertheless, Hrithik Roshan is a worthy challenger to Prithviraj Kapoor's older Akbar (in Mughal-e-Azam (1960)) for the title of best Bollywood monarch (Dilip Kumar's monarch-in-waiting Salim from Mughal-e-Azam was all precious foppery and no steel; while Hema Malini's Razia Sultan (from the 1983 film of the same name, perhaps not coincidentally released during Indira Gandhi's tenure as Prime Minister) was simply hapless), and did a better job than I would have expected from the rest of his oeuvre. A special mention must be made of Roshan in Akbar's confrontations with Adham Khan (the son of the emperor's wet nurse Maham Anga): not only does Haider Ali skillfully weave in the grounds for Akbar's ultimate falling out with Adham Khan (who had been diverting some of the loot from the Mughal conquest of Malwa; this would have troubled the emperor not because it signaled avarice, but rather, political independence and the usurpation of the sovereign's prerogatives), he does so in a manner that absolves Akbar of any culpability in the brutality of the Mughal sack of Malwa, preserving the hero's aura for contemporary squeamishness. Meanwhile, Hrithik's anger at Adham Khan's excesses is a rare moment of passion in the film, and a reminder that the greatest of Mughal emperors was no pussy cat.

The supporting cast is uneven: among the more prominent cast-members, Kharbanda manages, as always (with the exception of his debut as the villain Shakaal in Shaan (1980)), to be both insipid and annoying, while Sonu Sood is reliably compelling as Jodha's aggrieved cousin Sujamal. Gowariker should have done better with the characterization of the lesser Mughal male characters: far too many are etched as rather brutish warriors, reminiscent of stereotypes about butchers rather than courtiers. While the fledgling Mughal court during the period doubtless retained some of the freewheeling (relative) egalitarianism and rusticity of the Turkic tribal tradition (as opposed to the more Persian classical monarchical model Akbar would (under the guidance of Abul Fazl) construct over the course of his reign), it is hard to shake the feeling that Gowariker is not bringing us a whiff of the Central Asian steppe here, but has reflexively resorted to stereotypes about "Muslim warriors". Bairam Khan (Yuri Suri) is surely the most hard done by, but he isn't the only one. [Plus, on the subject of stereotypes, one wonders what meat-eating Rajputs since time immemorial would have made of the notion of Jodha having a vegetarian meal prepared for a feast; as far as I know, vegetarianism has hardly been this community's culinary calling card]. The women fare much better, represented as "normal" in a way the men never are (the contrast between Akbar's sister Bakshi Bano (Abeer Abrar) and his brother-in-law Sharifuddin (Nikitin Dheer) sums up the distinction). The one female villain is a splendid embodiment of masala wickedness: Ila Arun as Maham Anga commands attention in every scene she is in, and knows her Bollywood tropes very well; who needs naturalism when you can have this much fun telling a daughter-in-law "Aap ka aur Jalal ka sirf sauda hua hai [The emperor and you have simply struck a bargain [i.e. as opposed to making a real marriage]]"? I wish the director and writer had drunk longer from this well.

ANJAATHE (Tamil; 2008)

Anjaathe is a good example of Tamil cinema's attempted renovation of the masala movie genre. That is, the introduction of a certain urban grit; and the underplaying of the protagonists' epic traits (aided by the use of relatively new/lesser-known stars); enables the genre to continue almost as before. This is not a criticism: as someone who has watched the decay (through neglect more than anything else) of masala Hindi cinema, in favor of bowdlerized Hollywood and even TV sitcom cinematic modes, with some dismay, I have long watched Tamil cinema's attempts to sustain a popular cinematic idiom (perhaps best captured by that quintessentially Indian English word, "massy") with great interest. That is, while I certainly appreciate the criticisms of "native" Tamil film critics for whom most of Tamil popular cinema just doesn't seem new enough, the response of that film industry to the challenge of continuing relevance (a relevance that, however, ought not to be -- but often is -- the stale comfort of mere repetition) is, at its best, more successful than the derivative vapidities or niche ambitions of its contemporary Hindi cousin. In a nutshell, while "stale" and "jaded" are terms that might be applied to the run-of-the-mill Tamil films; "plastic", "imbecilic", or "crudely empty" mostly cannot (as they can to so many run-of-the-mill Hindi films; conversely, the logic of the Tamil market will not sustain very many niche films).

Anjaathe does not founder on either of the rocks discussed above. Director Mysskin has taken a setting that is hardly new -- the coming of age of a young police officer in a system that is not just corrupt, but reflexively cynical -- and has yet managed to make a film that is well-paced, and unobtrusively fresh (as opposed to, for instance, the sort of gimmickiness -- by way of extreme violence -- that mars films like Vel and even (to an extent) the otherwise commendable Paruthiveeran). The film begins in a middle-class colony in Chennai, where Sathya (Naren) and Kiruba (Ajmal Ameer) are the best of friends -- but with very different attitudes to life. Kiruba is every inch the good/sensible young man, whose ambition is to do well in his police exams and enter the force. [Even early on, he isn't all sweetness and light -- as we see from his rage when he gets a practice question wrong, he Just. Doesn't. Like. Losing.] Sathya is apparently just as good a student, but likes nothing better than to while away his time in brawls and drinking. His reaction to his police officer father's irate query as to why his wastrel son doesn't want to join the force like his friend Kiruba, is quintessentially Sathya: he "doesn't want to be called a maama" -- an "uncle", but also a pimp. [It's the sort of dialogue that this film does well, suggesting a whiff of the street without making a song and dance of "authenticity".]

You might be forgiven for thinking this is going to be a film about friends who find themselves on opposite sides of the law, with virtuous Kiruba pursuing Sathya, who no doubt would end up as some underworld don's henchman; with both uniting by film's end to take the gangster down. Instead, in a surprising turn, Sathya decides to become a police officer, using a political connection to secure a position he shouldn't have been eligible for; Kiruba has no "in", and fails to make the cut, his slot doubtless taken by the many candidates in Sathya's position. By the time Sathya returns to town after completing his training, the former teetotaller Kiruba is a drunken wreck, sinking deeper and deeper into bitterness and rage. Guilt at his friend's fate isn't the only challenge faced by Sathya, however, as Anjaathe -- with effective casualness -- introduces its hero, and with him, its audience, to the venal brutality and corruption that is the very texture of police life. On his first day on the job, Sathya, essentially left by himself at the police station, yells at a meek man sitting on his haunches at the room's far end, demanding to know what he is doing there, and why he's brought a yellow bag to the station. "I saw my wife sleeping with my best friend," the man says, humbly, showing Sathya what he's carrying in his bag "...I've brought her head...." Sathya (whose name means "truth") is felled, and he isn't the only one who's shocked. We, the audience, are shaken too, instantly appreciating that the brawls and fights we've hitherto seen in this film was just play-acting. This is real horror.

Anjaathe isn't an unqualified success, however. The cast is serviceable without ever being spectacular (one could say the same of Sundar C. Babu's music as well). This is only the second Narain film I have seen, and while he doesn't come across as an actor of especial nuance, hewing to the Arya school of acting, he is less jarring than Arya -- although, while both seem to be derived from Vikram, neither's edges are as smoothed over as they would be with a dose of Vikram's affability. Narain does, however, try not to perform out of his skin, and that awareness of boundaries might well stand him in good stead as his career progresses (certainly, the legendary Adoor Gopalakrishnan used him quite effectively in Nizhalkuttu). Ajmal Ameer works far better as the post-fall man who has lost his way; as the "good boy" of the film's initial reels, he is simply insipid (it must be said that he is far more of a presence with a beard and unruly hair than with a mere mustache). As is depressingly common in Tamil films, the female characters have precious little to do but get ordered around by this or that man, or fret, although Vijayalakshmi (who plays Kiruba's sister Utthara, and Sathya's love interest) deserved better. Prasanna (who plays the gangster Daya) deserves an especial mention, because he is simply annoying, coming across as Bizarro to Siddharth (on a bad hair-day) as Superman

Director Mysskin might also have done a bit better. Shortly before the halfway point, the film takes a Kaakha Kaakha-like turn, attempting to layer the slick Tamil policier Gautham Menon is so fond of, onto the emotional core of the sort of Tamil film Menon has little patience for, with its generous dose of friendship friendship and sentimental dialogues. But if that turn makes Anjaathe less seamless than it might have been (indeed Sathya takes quite a back-seat in the film's latter half), the director never falls into the trap of celebrating vigilantism, as long as the "good guys" are doing it. Mysskin might lack the technological finesse of Menon, but he possesses more insight: in this film, police violence (both in the commission and omission) is not, for the most part, costless.

Nor is Mysskin's insight simply metaphorical: I for one was quite taken by his (and cinematographer Mahesh Muthuswamy's) use of long-range and bird's eye shots to capture regulation scenes (e.g. Sathya and Kiruba making up after a fight; a kidnapper on a cellphone speaking about a job). The way these shots are framed, and the fact that they upset our expectations of (relatively) close-range images, renders the action more remote to the audience; the latter is taken out of its comfort zone, and is vaguely discomfited without necessarily being able to pinpoint why, given that everything else about the scene is exactly as one has long known it, from other films (Mysskin and Muthuswamy also have a great eye for ordinary locales -- an oddly clean alley here, a godown there -- and the resulting representation of Chennai is, especially at night, compelling indeed). This sort of touch is characteristic of Mysskin's ambition: he wants to do something different -- but he wants to make not just a good film, but a Tamil one.

The Godfather: A Thought

In response to this discussion on The Godfather:

For me The Godfather works tremendously well — as an opera, not as a film/Shakespearean interpretation per se. The incredible stylization, the fetishistic “funeral chic” of the film, the cult of the (male) gaze that would be campy were we not so thoroughly informed by and suffused with this film’s idiom, by its tremendous achievement in remaining (permanently?) relevant in the world of American, nay world, cinema — all of these would have been disastrous if the aim had been to make a naturalistic film. In the world of opera, however, these elements work superbly, creating a spellbinding experience. [Coppola seems to have made the implicit explicit by the end of The Godfather III: the climax takes place in and around an opera performance, one where a Corleone is both performer and audience-member, not to mention that the (off-stage) action while the opera is occurring is being “directed” (somewhat) by a Corleone as well, in a manner befitting a revenge opera.]

If you want to check out that opera sequence from The Godfather III:

PART I



PART II



Related Scene:

Realism (no, really)

The piece below appeared on Outlookindia.com; I had written it in light of the Sharm al-Sheikh declaration following the meeting of the Indian and Pakistani Prime Ministers on the sidelines of the Non-Aligned Movement summit.

The joint statement issued by the Indian and Pakistani governments in light of Manmohan Singh's and Yusuf Raza Gilani's meeting at the Non Aligned Movement ("NAM") summit in Sharm al-Sheilk in July was followed by more-than-usual breast-beating in the opposition ranks, and some sections of the Indian media. India, we were told, had surrendered to Pakistan by agreeing that "progress on terrorism" (i.e. efforts against terrorism) should not be linked to the broader "composite" Indo-Pak dialogue process.
India had apparently compounded the magnitude of its surrender by agreeing to discuss Balochistan: a first for India-Pakistan talks, and one that was quickly seen as an admission by India that Pakistani claims (principally, it must be noted, by way of insinuations in the media and anonymous leaks, rather than official charges) about its eastern neighbour's involvement in the secessionist movement in Balochistan were well-founded. Given that American Secretary of State Hillary Clinton was scheduled to visit India soon after the Sharm al-Sheikh meeting, two and two were readily put together: India's UPA government had kowtowed to American pressure to resume talks with Pakistan.

The resulting outcry -- which forced Prime Minister Manmohan Singh and the Congress spin doctors to claim, somewhat incoherently, that the Indo-Pak declaration did not mean what everyone thought it meant -- was all the more shrill because, on this issue, the UPA was vulnerable to attack from both left and right. From the Left Front's perspective, the affair showed yet again that the Congress was unable to resist American pressure (that this supposed pressure bore fruit on the sidelines of a NAM summit must have been salt in those wounds). To the BJP, the UPA had yet again shown "softness" on terrorism and vis-à-vis Pakistan.

In sum, all sides could agree that whatever one made of the declaration, the government's public relations machinery had flunked its first major foreign policy challenge since the UPA's May election victory. But was the substance of the declaration really as bad for India as the opposition parties and sections of the English-language media claimed?

Discussion of these matters is complicated by the continuing tendency -- in both India and Pakistan -- to see the peace process as a zero-sum game; thus, once the Pakistani media hailed the declaration as vindication of Pakistan's stand since last November's Mumbai attacks, certain segments of the Indian media reacted predictably (conversely, had the Indian media praised the very same declaration, the reaction in Pakistan would have been decidedly grumpier).

This sort of attitude serves as a reminder of how superficial the nearly half decade-long peace process has remained, and, as I have argued elsewhere, is sustained by the tendency of the Indian and Pakistani establishments to keep their publics in the dark on the peace process (beyond the mere fact of the process' existence). But perhaps even more significant, where the Indian political and public reaction is concerned, is the absence of realism in the country's foreign policy discourse; more accurately, by the disconnect between the Indian establishment's apparent (realist) views, and a public debate that is almost utterly bereft of such considerations.

First, it is unclear what India has "given up", or if what has been conceded had any value to begin with. The suggestion is that de-linking Pakistan's progress against terrorism from the broader dialogue process signs away India's strongest card, with nothing in return except promises by the Pakistani government, of the sort that the latter has made before (and failed to keep). This card, it must be said, is not worth the piece of paper it was purportedly printed on -- by now. That is, the Indian government used it fairly effectively in the aftermath of the Mumbai attacks, combining it with an international diplomatic offensive to pressure Pakistan into taking some steps against those responsible for the attacks.

Combined with rising global concerns about the Pakistani Taliban, Pakistan was on the back foot on both "fronts." However, such a card necessarily yields diminishing returns over time, and cannot be used indefinitely. That is, conditioning the peace process on Pakistan's anti-terrorism efforts can be a tactic -- not a permanent policy, unless the peace process were something Pakistan wanted or needed far more than India. But this is not the case: while true that Pakistan's more modest economic trajectory over the last decade renders the process of Indo-Pak peace more economically valuable to it (for instance, the country is highly unlikely to maximize its foreign investment potential in the absence of an enduring peace), India too needs the peace process quite badly.

Despite significant progress made by successive Indian governments over the past two decades in "de-hyphenating" India from Pakistan in the eyes of the Western world, the reality is that India cannot secede from its geo-political neighbourhood. Pride in economic growth, democracy, and a rosier future relative to some other countries in South Asia, is all well and good, but should not blind us: terrorism, environmental degradation, water disputes, and insurgencies by alienated segments of the population, are regional issues, and bleed across sub-continental borders.

Indeed, when it comes to terrorism, Indians implicitly accept that in the absence of Indo-Pak peace, there will almost certainly be more terrorist attacks: that is, if the Pakistani army/intelligence agencies really do continue to sponsor anti-India terrorist groups, it is only logical that such activity will increase in the absence of a credible peace process -- with disastrous consequences for India's society and economy.

Indeed, even events outside India's borders regularly cause such adverse consequences: for instance, it is highly unlikely that the IPL would have been shifted to South Africa had the Sri Lankan team not been attacked in Lahore; England's initial reluctance to resume their cricket tour of India after the Mumbai attacks; the New Zealand cricket board's reluctance to clear its players for the IPL before the tournament was shifted; and the Australian tennis authorities' more recent refusal to send players to Chennai, demonstrate that hermetic sealing is not an option.

As for events within India -- such as the Mumbai attacks last November -- one doesn't need to look at the data to know that the country's tourism sector was hit badly in the aftermath. Conversely, if Pakistan-based terrorist groups are not operating at anyone's "official" beck and call, holding up the broader dialogue process until Pakistan achieves that which it seems to be unable to achieve even vis-à-vis groups that are targeting the Pakistani state itself, seems irrelevant.

In a nutshell, the issue is simple: to the extent the Pakistani state has leeway over anti-India terrorist groups, it is not going to take firm action against them in the absence of a process leading to an ultimate Indo-Pak deal. As the "revisionist" power in the sub-continental geo-political equation, and conventionally weaker than the "status quo" power (India), these groups serve as Pakistan's strongest cards. On the other hand, the India-Pakistan disparity does not favour India to such an extent that it can harbour realistic hopes of "solving" the problem militarily (assuming anyone could do that, since the terrorist groups India complains of are located all over Pakistan, and are hardly in some localized region; more recently, one sees that even the United States has faced great difficulties in countering such groups in Iraq and Afghanistan, despite the advantages of a full-blown occupation).

Indeed, India's conventional military advantage over Pakistan has been significantly blunted in the wake of the country's (in my view, unwise) decision to test nuclear weapons in 1998; it is not difficult to appreciate that the belief that a full-fledged war between nuclear-armed Pakistan and India was rendered unlikely by the countries' nuclear status, might even have "liberated" much low-level instability: Kargil, it must be noted, would have been unthinkable in the pre-1998 era unless Pakistan were willing to fight a full-scale war with India. And to the extent the Pakistani state does not have leeway over anti-India terror groups, the best chance of motivating it to move against those groups is if Pakistan can deflect public criticism that it is "acting at India's behest" by pointing to progress on the diplomatic front.

Those criticizing the Indian government for the Sharm al-Sheikh declaration essentially want it to remain wedded to the least productive course of action: not talk to Pakistan, while simultaneously minimizing Pakistan's incentives to act; and all in a situation where India lacks the power to make the Pakistani government act as it wishes (it is unclear if any country could do so, but to the extent the US can, India is unlikely to be able to get America to exert pressure on its behalf without directly implicating the US in the Kashmir dispute -- a development India would be suspicious of, and has consistently resisted).

Second, the significance of the "concession" is itself being overblown, based on the theoretical possibility that the peace process would move forward, even if Pakistan took no action against anti-India terror groups. This is downright silly: where on earth would such a peace process progress to? Both the Indian and Pakistani governments have to be aware that no peace deal over Kashmir, Sir Creek, or the Siachen glacier, could be viable in an atmosphere of continued attacks in India emanating from Pakistani soil. The Sharm al-Sheikh declaration cannot change the political reality that no deal can be sold to the Indian public under such circumstances (the opposition outcry against the declaration might even be seen as confirmation of this). If the Pakistani establishment were to genuinely believe that the declaration means that the terrorism issue is off the table, it would simply be deluding itself.

Third, there is the question of hypocrisy. When in or (in the case of the Left) close to power, the opposition parties have done pretty much the same thing they now criticize the present government for. Indeed, it was the BJP-led NDA government that initiated the peace process with Pakistan -- despite the fact that no progress had been made for years in apprehending those responsible for the 1993 Bombay blasts; or the likes of Masood Azhar and Omar Sheikh, freed from Indian jails in exchange for the passengers aboard an Indian Airlines plane.

In fact, these alleged criminals seem to have been operating in Pakistan with great impunity: a Pakistani news channel carried footage of Masood Azhar's wedding in Multan; and the Pakistani magazine Newsline carried pictures of Dawood Ibrahim's new passport, after the Pakistani government denied knowledge of the whereabouts of the two. It is common knowledge that Dawood Ibrahim and several close associates (mostly Indian citizens to boot, and thus theoretically not subject to any complications arising from Pakistan's transfer of its own citizens to Indian custody) live in Karachi. If the Sharm al-Sheikh declaration is wrong-headed, it is no more so than the peace process initiated by the NDA, and perpetuated by the Left-supported first UPA government.

Of course, there is a method to the madness: the NDA, UPA, and Left all recognize the obvious, namely that no progress is possible on anything -- be it terrorism, Kashmir, or the Indus water dispute -- absent dialogue between India and Pakistan. Yet, in a conspiracy of cynicism and silence, the opposition parties further degrade the political discourse by means of hysteria, chest-thumping, and empty posturing (the UPA would doubtless have done the same had the NDA been in power at present).

But there is no shame in accepting reality, even if the government of the day lacks the courage to defend on honest grounds what it has quite reasonably done. Simply put, leaving all ethical and moral issues aside, both India and Pakistan lack the power to make the other country give in to their ideal solutions to the disputes bedevilling relations between the two countries. Yet each possesses enough power to de-stabilize the other and hold its polity hostage to a fear psychosis. Under such circumstances, hard-nosed realists would see that there is no alternative to dialogue, and to the peace process (however meagre and superficial) begun five years ago. A pity so many prefer to live in a dream world.

Apocalypse Now: A Thought

In response to satyam's comments on Apocalypse Now on this thread, my response:

"That [i.e., Satyam's comment that "Apocalypse [Now] could have been a film about any war”] is precisely what I find troubling about this monumental, and monumentally flawed, achievement. Apocalypse Now re-inscribes a colonial problematic in the heart of the war film, that is to say, Vietnam here is simply the site for the self-discovery, the inner journey, of its American protagonists (principally the characters played by Sheen and Brando). It is not so much that the Vietnamese are absent from the film, as that they are irrelevant — this film could have been set anywhere, in any “third world country”, and that indifference to local context, hearkens to the narcissistic colonialism of the settlers who always saw land as “empty"..."

Manifesto

Greencrescent pointed me (on this thread) to this important essay by Barbara Metcalf. In particular, the following passage threw me onto a tangent*:

Aside from Deoband’s enduring influence, it exemplifies a pattern, represented in general terms in a range of Islamic movements outside South Asia as well, of a pattern of “traditionalist” cultural renewal on the one hand coupled with political adaptability on the other. This tradition, seen over time and across a wide geographic area, illustrates that there are widespread patterns of Islamic a-politicism that foster a modus vivendi with democratic and liberal traditions. It also demonstrates, most notably in the teaching and missionary dimensions of their activities, that the goals and satisfactions that come from participation in Islamic movements may well have little to do with opposition or resistance to non-Muslims or “the West.” Their own debates or concerns may well focus on other Muslims, an internal, and not an external “Other” at all. And what they offer participants may be the fulfillment of desires for individual empowerment, transcendent meaning, and moral sociality that do not engage directly with national or global political life at all.

There remains, however, an elephant in the room: Metcalf speaks of "other Muslims" as if this were a self-evident category; yet it is precisely this category that was affected by colonialism in significant ways. Nor is this simply a Muslim issue: it is surely no coincidence that "reformist" Hindu and Muslim movements arose at roughly the same period in colonial India, from the latter half of the nineteenth century onward. Nor is it a coincidence that the strategy of both movements seems to have been broadly similar, namely to stabilize the community of "believers." With the likes of the Arya Samaj and others, this consisted of what has broadly been termed "Sanskritization" of groups that traditionally did not conform to (what was familiar to caste Hindus, orthodox Muslims, and colonial administrators, as) "mainstream" Hinduism. Where the likes of the Tablighi Jamaat (arguably reacting to similar movements on the Hindu "side") were concerned, the idea was to purge the religious life of millions of Indians who either self-identified as Muslims, or were rationally classifiable as such, of all manner of "corruption", religious "innovation", and even shirk (literally, "associating" partners with God, the highest form of blasphemy for orthodox Sunnis and Shiites).

How does colonialism fit into all of this? At its most basic level, of course, by means of the introduction of the census, and (subsequently) some of the institutions of representative government. As Nicholas Dirks eloquently showed in Castes of Mind, the first British Bengal census was a kind of watershed moment: prior to that, it had never really been necessary to determine how many Hindus or Muslims lived in the province -- or perhaps, more accurately, the contours of political discourse did not depend on what portion of Bengal's province was Hindu as opposed to Muslim. By itself the mere counting of heads would be unremarkable, and would be the prerequisite for any kind of representative polity seeking to mobilize popular support. The problem for the orthodox, however, was the realization that many -- very many -- of their supposed co-religionists were rationally classifiable under the sign of more than one religious community. Stated differently, Muslim and Hindu orthodoxy (not to suggest, of course, that the two functioned identically), while supremely influential, even authoritative, when it came to official texts and authorized interpretations of those texts; or official religious practices; did not come anywhere near to exhausting the possibilities of what religion meant to millions of Indians. That is, what on earth was one to do with the marginal traditions, the vast plethora of local cults, shrine-worship, animisms, and sheer (from the orthodox perspective) oddity that defeated classification?

"Marginal" is in fact a misnomer: any system of classification is rendered problematic at the margins (duck-billed platypus, anyone?), but in the Indian sub-continent, even until very late into the modern era, the "exception" threatened to eat up the (orthodox) "rule" (indeed, Charlotte Vaudeville estimated that as many as a third of all Indians might well have been classifiable as adherents of more than one "major" religious tradition; the point, of course, is not the number she comes up with; it is the realization that one isn't talking about an isolated community or two here, but about a whole host of traditions that have left far lighter traces in the historical records than the orthodox have managed). Nor does one need to subscribe wholly to Dirks' ascription of overriding significance to the Bengal census to appreciate the link between colonialism and the religious "reform" movements: the British colonial state's civilizing mission (existing uneasily with the strategic conservatism that saw interference in religious affairs as the prime cause of the 1857 uprising), and its vast intellectual prestige, premised on its monopoly on rationality, technological development, and progress, was internalized by the Raj's colonial subjects, especially orthodox cultural elites who were both most likely to inform the colonial state's view of what "standard" Islam or Hinduism was supposed to be; and who were (especially among Muslims) the ones most likely to have been politically displaced by the rise of British power. Orthodox Hindus and Muslims seem to have implicitly accepted the colonial account of "Oriental" cultures as decadent, while preserving a worldview that saw their traditions as potential vehicles for cultural and political renewal, as the core of future projects that would be politically anti-colonial, even as they were informed by colonial theories and forms of knowledge. For the renewal to occur, the traditions would have to be reformed, and purged of those elements that made them weak or backward -- and the needle pointed to the millions of Indians "lost" by virtue of religio-cultural adherence to overlapping religious traditions, difficult to galvanize in the service of religious projects beyond the local, and by their very existence challenging the notion of "internal" and "external" on which orthodoxy depended. These local or "liminal" identities were subversive of orthodoxy (or at least starkly demonstrated its limits), and were simultaneously stubbornly irreducible to the logic of the modern nation-state, or any notion of liberalism. In sum, the likes of the Hussaini Brahmins (who believed Husain ibn Ali was an avatar of Vishnu), the Bauls of Bengal, the Meos of Mewat with their "Muslim Mahabharata", or the millions of "untouchables" mourning in Muharram processions, were a profound embarrassment, the symbols of the sort of superstitious backwardness that had contributed to the past weakness of Hindus and Muslims (in the case of the former, the argument went, this had contributed to the displacement of Hindu political authority by Muslims in North India from medieval times onward); and that served as a formidable barrier to future hopes of renewal.

It is thus difficult to approach "reformist" movements such as the Arya Samaj, Deobandis or the Tablighi Jamaat without accounting for the difference that colonialism made. I do not quarrel with Metcalf's suggestion that to their members, these movements (Metcalf doesn't discuss non-Muslim reformist movements) were not necessarily "about" opposing Western domination. However, it is the political fact of Western domination (the form in which "modernity" arrived in India) that galvanized these movements to have as their primary object their co-religionists (or those imagined to be co-religionists). For instance, the Tablighi Jamaat might not have been primarily "about" opposing the West, but its drive to "rescue" Muslims from heretical religious practices was surely a response to the political crisis caused by the West's triumph over the political primacy of an Indo-Islamic order. That order was itself not orthodox in the sense that it functioned according to the precepts of groups like the Jamaat (it most certainly did not), but it was an order where orthodox Islam was symbolically enshrined in the polity. [By smashing the old order, colonialism might even be said to have liberated political Islam, unmooring notions of orthodoxy from any particular polity, and broadening its horizons to nothing less than an imagined community of global believers.] The dismantling of that order, and the rise of notions that tied political legitimacy to democracy, contributed to a logic of numbers, putting "fellow Muslims" or "errant Hindus" into play like never before. Metcalf is surely right (referring to the Muslim reformist movements) that they were ""traditionalist" because of their continuity with earlier institutions, above all those associated with the seminaries and with the `ulama in general" -- but traditionalism does not explain the newness, and the scale, of what can only be called proselytization movements targeting co-religionists. The ulema presumably always regarded the religious practices of the "lower orders" as un-Islamic, Brahmin priests presumably always had little religiously in common with the utterly non-Sanskritic belief systems of millions of "lower" or even out-castes. But it is only after colonialism that this became a problem that needed urgent rectification, and the proper object of a religio-political project. Not to mention that the colonial era's far greater dissemination of printed matter, the increase in literacy, and the development of communications technology, shored up the plausibility of the orthodoxy's claims. The ulema could now "prove" -- to audiences far and wide -- that this or that religious practice was contrary to Quranic precepts, or that it blurred the distinction that "ought" be there between Muslims and "others"; Hindu reformers likewise pointed to hazy communal boundaries as having contributed to Hindu political weakness; to the modern mind, the notion of throngs of Hindu worshippers commemorating the urs of Mahmud of Ghazni's nephew, seemed not so much un-Hindu as absurd. Perhaps most important of all, since the only religious categories the colonial state recognized were orthodox ones -- "Hindu" and "Muslim" for instance, sub-divided into castes and sects -- the political order of the day invisibly supported orthodox pretensions, incentivizing the choosing of sides. In order to be recognized by the modern state (whether pre- or post-1947), one almost had to declare oneself "Hindu", "Muslim", and so on. An identity or mode of practice that couldn't be shoehorned into one of these categories was worse than hostile -- it was aberrant.

The trend has continued in the contemporary sub-continent: "secular" people have imbibed and perpetuated the prejudices of colonialism and of the more orthodox, dismissing the religio-cultural practices of millions of co-citizens as simply backward or little more than superstition, not real religions at all (indeed, the definitive "otherness" of non-believers often commands greater respect, which should surprise no-one: the "other" is necessary, inasmuch as he enables the constitution of the self; but the otherness of the "marginal" is of a different kind, calling into question the stability of the order that has been erected (despite) him, even as it speaks in his name). The cause hasn't been helped by the fact that "secular" support has often proven cynical: "marginal" traditions are trotted out as anthropological curios to make political points; testifying to the "tolerance" of Indian society (immediately after a religious riot), or the essential goodness of Pakistani Islam (as opposed to the bad Taliban-style fundamentalism). The fact that "Sanskritization" efforts have come in for greater challenge in recent years in India itself testifies to this opportunism, as secular opponents of Hindutva groups have belatedly discovered outrage at the notion that adivasis are being "proselytized" by those for whom the adivasis apparently aren't good enough as they are. This outrage has been accompanied by left-wing silence in the face of Christian missionary activity that aims at much the same thing (the right, predictably, complains about Christian missionary activity, but has nothing to say about Hindutva's "Sanskritization" drives), not to mention silence in the face of the physical dispossession and marginalization of adivasis in the name of development. The material basis of adivasi cultures being rapidly consigned to the dustbin of history, we offer them the comforts of "mainstream" Hinduism and Christianity. And with the exception of a few scholars like Yoginder Sikand and Shail Mayaram, orthodox Muslim attempts to efface the local have flown under the radar (it bears mentioning that the progressive Sanskritization of the cult of the Sai Baba (a Sufi saint) was the result not only of greater "Hinduization", but of the progressive abandonment of the shrine by educated Muslim patrons). The result has been that orthodox Muslim authorities have been able to advance, un-challenged, the notion that only they are afforded unimpeded access to what "correct" Islamic practice is (the "marginal" traditions are not represented, either in the institutions of the nation-state, or in the waqf boards; the only exceptions are the important Sufi shrines, themselves under increasing strain, but which can partake of a sort of alternative orthodoxy) -- a conviction reinforced by the interchange permitted by communications technology, immigration patterns, Saudi wealth, and a "war against fundamentalism" that has historically drawn few distinctions.

It would be wrong to say that the "marginal" religious group in the Indian sub-continent does not have time on its side; it does not have reigning ideology on its side (depressingly, the best friend of the survivability of these traditions has been neglect and indifference -- but the number of places and communities that can count on being ignored is dwindling to zero, and "reformist" zeal shows no sign of flagging). And it is with the ideological plane that we must begin: by accepting the "marginal" religions as they are. Liminality is not backwardness to be redeemed, nor is it a political pamphlet to be trotted out any time one wishes to tell oneself comforting stories of good and bad Islams, or tolerant and intolerant Hinduisms, or pluralistic or monolithic Indias (those op-ed writers and policy-makers who troop to Nizamuddin for this purpose might as well head for Karim's Kababs near the Awlia's shrine instead; there, at least, satisfaction is guaranteed). As goes without saying, the heterodoxy of a religious tradition is no guarantee of anything: the heterodox may be as violent, bigoted, sage, or gentle, as the orthodox. The first step is simply to let it be.

*[ENDNOTE: I use "tangent" deliberately, as the issue I discuss here isn't the focus of Metcalf's piece, and I certainly do not criticize her work up as any kind of exemplar of the way in which "liminal" communities have flown under the radar of much historiography (indeed, I would note that the likes of Metcalf and Francis Robinson, extensive work on "high" Muslim religious culture -- as distinct from the social/literary culture that usually stands for "the Muslim" in many mainstream accounts on nineteenth century Urdu-centric cultures -- has performed an invaluable service by introducing English-speaking (not to mention secular, whether or not Muslim, and whether or not Indian or Pakistani) audiences to worlds and modes of thought that they are far more removed from than the mere passage of time might suggest); rather. her essay got me thinking about (what I have experienced) as a lacunae in even progressive scholarship on Indian history.]

A Chapati Mystery Discussion: Fundamentalism, Islamism, and all that jazz

It's been quiet for me on this blog for a few days...so I offer you this discussion from Chapati Mystery (the typos in my comments are the result of haste, late nights, and me being me).

Stranger. Friend.

A moving post by Amitabh Bachchan (and my favorite among the man's blog posts) on Madhushala on his father Harivanshrai Bachchan's most famous poetry collection (the son's English translation of his father's preface to Madhushala is included).

I was struck by these lines from that preface:

My definition of a good poem is that it appears before you like a stranger who impresses you so favorably that you feel like befriending him, and the more you know him the more you like him.

...and responded thus on the blog:

My own experience of poetry focuses less on friendship than on the other trope your father so astutely introduced here, namely that of the stranger. The good poem is the stranger who is never wholly reducible to friendship, it retains something in reserve. And perhaps a better way for me to approach your father’s thought is by recognizing that he sets up two axes, two poles, here: the friend and the stranger; and it is between these two that poetry happens.

(un)Surprising

It's nice to see that the Indian National Congress hasn't been paying much attention to the English-language media narrative of the party's recent election victory: that narrative, fueled by endless representatives of corporate India in news channel studios, would have everyone believe that the UPA's victory, combined with the Left's resounding defeat, signaled a ringing endorsement for greater liberalization of the Indian economy (never mind that the most liberalization-friendly party around (even if by a whisker), namely the BJP, also lost, getting 50% fewer votes than the Congress). With the pesky Communists no longer part of the governing coalition, the story went, the way would be clear for further economic reforms, beginning with the removal of caps on foreign investment in the banking and insurance industries. Naturally, then, the presentation of the new government's first budget by the finance minister, Pranab Mukherjee, who barely mentioned such measures, and moreover made clear that any loosening of the cap on foreign investment in the banking and insurance sectors would be limited to 49% (up from the current 26%); and, more importantly, announced a host of measures targeted at India's poorest (including a funding increase of 144% for the UPA's signature National Rural Employment Guarantee Scheme ("NREGS")), was greeted with some cries of disappointment by India Inc., not to mention a massive 900-point tank on the Mumbai stock exchange.

The startling thing about these reactions is the protestations of surprise that have greeted the budget. It seems far too many in the Indian media and business communities had swallowed their own line about the "meaning" of these elections. But even a casual glance at the results shows that while such overarching narratives might make for attractive TV punditry, constructing them is hazardous where Indian elections are concerned (where, it should never be forgotten, the winning party, which received nearly 40% of the seats, got roughly 27% of the popular vote; even adding all of the Congress' UPA allies does not bring that figure anywhere near 50% -- an issue virtually all first-past-the-post systems have to deal with, although the problem is compounded by India's highly fractured electorate(s)). Even a casual glance at the election results shows that the Left's defeats cannot glibly be put down to a general (as opposed to class-specific) hunger for more free market policies. In its West Bengal bastion, the Left Front, now re-invented as a "pro-development" force not unlike the Congress itself, and (as Nandigram showed) quite willing to use the coercive power of the state to brutal effect in the service of that agenda, sustained significant losses at the hands of the Trinamool Congress, a Congress-breakaway that was now the champion of the small farmers of the sort whose land was taken at gunpoint in Nandigram, i.e., that had effectively outflanked the Left Front from, well, the left. And as for Kerala, that state seems to have been alternating between the Congress and the Left forever (the Congress, having been thrashed there last time, was due); leaving such (half-serious) explanations aside, the infighting in the state's ruling party, and the latter's unpopularity in the wake of serious corruption allegations against a prominent leader, left the Communist-led coalition in a very weak position.

Turning to the Congress, the party's brain trust surely could not have forgotten that the NREGS, and its loan waiver (more accurately a deferral) to struggling farmers, were its two most popular measures -- and it is gratifying that both have received more attention in this year's budget. Despite grave problems with the implementation mechanisms (barely functioning, although there have been some notable successes by virtue of NGO-audits), these initiatives have done some good, and have real potential. [One is gratified, but also a little depressed: the loan deferrals, for instance, are essentially band aids for farming families that are at the end of their tether (tens, if not hundreds, of thousands have committed suicide over the last decade); that even these gestures, embedded in the context of government policies that have proven far more sympathetic to the logic of economic liberalization than to the distress of small farmers, should be decried as "populist" by so many, speaks volumes. At least part of the concern is due to India's ballooning budget deficit; while these are serious concerns, a focus on fiscal discipline to the exclusion of all else, in a country where hundreds of millions live in wretched poverty, and where, additionally, infrastructure investment is an urgent need, smacks of fetish, not merely prudence. Economic liberalization, like the "socialism" that preceded it, has come to India by virtue of being sanctified as the reigning trend; not adopted upon serious reflection.]

But if the lessons the Congress would draw from its election victory should have been obvious, why the surprise among India's urban (relatively) well-heeled? Part of the problem is that far too many do not really listen to politicians: the urban middle classes tend to view Indian politicians only through the prism of corruption and/or opportunism -- with the result that ideological issues do not really register (with the exception of those ideological issues that are too overt to be missed, namely communalism and the self-identified "Marxism" of the Left parties). Thus no-one, it seems, was paying attention to the fact that Sonia Gandhi had praised Indira Gandhi's bank nationalization as far back as last November; or that the current finance minister, Pranab Mukherjee, is an Indira Gandhi acolyte of the first rank. I do not quarrel with the view that most politicians might well be scoundrels -- but far too many forget the elementary rule that they are not all scoundrels in the same way. One would do well to ponder the very real distinctions between the various political parties (the fact that both the Congress and the BJP have reached a broad consensus on economic liberalization heightens the significance of the economic issues that do divide them; the differences might be small, but they are meaningful). Had the pundits all done that, they would have agreed that this budget might be many things -- but surprising it isn't.

PUBLIC ENEMIES (English; 2009)

It's 1933, and four years into the Great Depression, John Dillinger is being taken to jail. Even if we didn't know the real-life history of this bank robber, rather popular among "the public" for not taking the ordinary Joe's money (and for sticking it to the banks), Dillinger's smile would clue us in: he isn't going to be staying long. Dillinger doesn't disappoint, that is to say director Michael Mann doesn't disappoint, leading off Public Enemies with a jailbreak sequence the New York Times' Manohla Dargis has rightly called "sensationally choreographed." Nor is this the only memorable action sequence: the film is chock full of them (to the point where the accumulation almost becomes a problem -- the detail of the later sequences doesn't register; by that point the audience has become de-sensitized, and can only register the noise), not least among them Baby Face Nelson's escape from a Chicago apartment building from under the noses of several FBI agents; and Dillinger's last (and most violent) bank heist. That Mann is good at staging action sequences shouldn't come as a surprise; but what is unexpected is his taste for frenetic gunplay -- the pleasures of Heat, Collateral, and Miami Vice (or the lack thereof, where the last was concerned), seem serene by comparison.

Dillinger's foil is FBI agent Melvin Purvis, one of J. Edgar Hoover's new breed of agents waging war on crime. The FBI's "new" and "scientific" methods for fighting crime also serve to highlight the passage from the world of stars to those of actors. Johnny Depp is clearly a denizen of the former, Christian Bale, of the latter. This isn't a measure of how good either performer is, but of the sensibility Mann wants the two to bring to their roles: Depp, the Movie Star, is also the criminal John Dillinger (with the same initials as Depp), back when the right outlaw could loom larger-than-life and fire the public's imagination (Jesse James, and in particular, the James played by a sorrowful Brad Pitt in The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford, as the frontier era was drawing to a close, also comes to mind), a personality that is revealed in the grand gesture (and belief in gesture is itself belief in personality -- as opposed to mere psychology -- and is perhaps always susceptible to romanticism), and nowhere is this love of gesture more apparent than towards the end of the film, when Dillinger infiltrates (actually, saunters into) the offices of the FBI that is out to get him: the gesture is futile, and recklessly endangers Dillinger, yet one never wonders why he does it -- Depp's Dillinger simply would; Bale is the FBI agent, the "new" sort of law-enforcement official, who is stolid and diligent, too dedicated to his duty to be anything other than valiant in serving it (courage, that is, follows logically from his duty, and is not an ideal that Purvis seems to believe in), who believes in method above all else -- Melvin Purvis is played by an actor, and one who, like most of his Hollywood contemporaries, is denied access to the star's transcendence (and perhaps wouldn't know what to do with it if he were vouchsafed it). Public Enemies is, in short, a triumph of casting, because both Depp and Bale are very good at what Mann wants them to do; and if in the final analysis the film belongs to Depp, it is because Mann is ever on the side of Stars. No-one should be fooled by the grainy visuals, the very contemporary digital look of this film: it is a monument to a bygone era, and perhaps especially a bygone cinematic era (Depp's Dillinger meets his end right after he's done watching a Clark Gable film), yet rendered so straight that it doesn't have the vibe of homage, and for Mann seems to be simply the way men, women, love, valor, and films ought to be. The realization of this vision isn't unproblematic -- one might even call the vision puerile -- but there can be no doubt that in Public Enemies, Mann has achieved what he set out to do.

No meaningful discussion of Mann's work can omit mention of his visual style: his are the premier contemporary representations of nocturnal urban American spaces (Collateral is the best example), taking in gloss and shiny things with the eye (though not the covetous energy) of a magpie. The poet of things and surfaces is alive and well in Public Enemies, although the quaintness that hardly any period piece can escape means that Mann's eye is obscured from the audience, which is almost forced to believe that the camera lingers on an object not because it is made to, but because the object is an artifact, and doesn't exist anymore in the audience's time and place. The visuals themselves are markedly grainy, shorn of the luster that has been so characteristic of Mann's last few films, almost as if the director were determined to cook a snook at the annoying preciousness of Sam Mendes' Road to Perdition (as inappropriate a cinematic adaptation of a sparsely rendered graphic novel as one can imagine); yet if the film has been shot in very contemporary digital mode, the addiction to close-ups, the dialogue, the whole tone of the film, is nothing if not old school. In many of Mann's films, his earnest sensibility combines visual appeal with the claustrophobia borne of under-developed vision (one might even say superficial vision: Mann's is an eye that is satisfied with surfaces) -- that Public Enemies is spared that fate is largely due to Depp, and also to French actress Marion Cotillard, who takes the rather predictable role of Dillinger's love interest (Billie Frechette) and makes it her own -- along with her acting ability and screen presence, it certainly helps that Cotillard, like so many French actresses (and not enough Hollywood ones) looks and sounds distinctive; beautiful, but not in a generic way. Which isn't to say that the film is rescued by its cast, simply that Mann realizes that a film set around the concerns animating so many films in Hollywood's golden era must be "about" cinema in some sense; that is, that part of the effect of the 1930s period piece consists of recreating for a 2009 audience what it must have been like to watch a movie, and watch movie-stars (often playing gangsters), back in the day. We now know that experience was imperiled in the long run, and Mann represents that loss by means of the fate of John Dillinger (but not only Dillinger: I've referenced the sequence where Dillinger stares at Clark Gable, Depp's smile the smile of recognition, but even Baby-Face Nelson seems to like nothing better than doing James Cagney impersonations) in a changing world. Not only are his methods -- essentially, walking up to a bank and robbing it quickly, decamping with the loot and a couple of hostages used for cover -- doomed to ultimate failure in an emerging world where law-enforcement knows few jurisdictional bounds, and is metamorphosing into a science; his bank robberies themselves seem like small change when organized crime has itself gone "coast to coast" in the words of Chicago mobster Frank Nitti (played by Billy Camp). Quite fittingly, Dillinger is felled outside a theater showing a movie called "Manhattan Melodrama" -- not a title one could any longer even imagine gracing a movie theater. The expression on Depp's face when he is fatally shot is one of surprise -- his Dillinger never really thought the cops could catch up with him, insisting to Billie that he and his gang were too smart, too fast, and too good for them -- but we can see that it's been a long time coming.