Still Want To Do It?

My father smoked for many years, my husband smokes (while advising
others not to) and some of my friends do it. I'm against smoking. With
some zillion dreadful diseases waiting to strike us, we don't need any
additional hazards. However, the anti-smoking campaign which has been
taken to near evangelical heights by our previous health minister
wanted, most of all, that our celebrity stars give it up. On screen.
What they did in real life did not matter. The subject of smoking and
the stubbornness of some of them to persist brings to mind this
comical account by Spike Milligan about his days in the British Army
as a lowly Lance Bombardier. Read on.

"One morning a chill of horror ran through the serried ranks. There in
Part Two Orders were the words: 'At 0600 hours the Battery will
asemble for a FIVE MILE RUN!'
Strong gunners fell fainting to the floor, some lay weeping on their
beds. FIVE MILES? That wasn't a run, that was deportation! On that
fateful dawn the duty bombardier bade us rise: 'Wakey, Wakey, Hands
off ----- on Socks.' ((fill in that word which rhymes with socks, if
you please.)

The defenders of England rose wraith-like from their blankets. All
silent, save those great lung-wracking coughs that follow early
morning cigarettes. The cough would start in silence; first there was
the great inhale, the smoke sucked deep down into the lungs, and held
there while the victim started what was to be an agonised body spasm.
The face would first turn sweaty lemon, the shoulders hunched, the
back humped like a Brahmin bull. The legs would bend while the hand
grabbed the thighs to support the coming convilsion.

The cough would start somewhere down in the shins, the eyes would be
screwed tight to prevent being jettisoned from the head, the mouth
gripped tight to preserve the teeth. Suddenly! From afar comes a
rumbling like a hundred Early Victorian Water Closets. Slowly the body
would start to tremble and the bones to rattle. The first things to
shake were the ankles, then up the shins travelled the shakes, and
next the knees would revolve and turn jelliform; from there up the
thighs to the stomach it came, now heading for the blackened lungs.
This was the stage when a sound like a three-ton garden roller being
pulled over corrugated iron was heard approaching the heaving chest.
Following this up the convulsed body was a colour pattern, from a
delicate green at the ankles to layers of pinks, blue, varicose purple
and sweaty red. As the cough rose up the inflated throat, the whole
six colours were pushed up into the victim's face. It had now reached
the inner mouth; the last line of defence, the cheeks, were blown out
the size of football bladders.

The climax was nigh! The whole body was now a purple shuddering mass!
After several mammoth attempts to contain the cough, the mouth would
finally explode open. Loose teeth would fly out, bits of breakfast,
and a terrible rasping noice filled the room. Aweeioussheiough!
Followed by a long, silent stream of spume-laden arir. On and on it
went until the whole body was drained of oxygen, the eyes were
popping, and veins like vines standing on the head which was now
'twixt kees . This atrophied pose held for seconds. Finally, with a
dying attempt, fresh air was sucked back into the body, just in time
to do it all over again. Bear in mind this was usually performed by
some sixty men all at the same time."

Cigarette anyone?

To doubt or not to doubt?

In my meagre take on Marginality, I asked that I be doubted and be allowed to doubt. That, some of you did rather well! I’m grateful that friendship affords this freedom for dialogue and combat.

Lisa Lau teaches at Keele University in Staffordshire and has a doctorate in Earth Sciences. She is also a serious literary critic who has, at different times, praised and criticised my work. She likes my piece on marginality but is surprised that I should use the term ‘marginalised’ for people like my husband and myself who chose to live away from the so-called privileged areas. You’re right, Lisa. We’re are not damaged by our marginality in any way; we have all the basic amenities, and more, and the ability to look after ourselves. We live on the margins but we are not marginalised.

I had letters too, about my comments regarding the minor tribes of Coorg. Some agreed that these tribes have been sidelined; others felt it is unfair to say that the Kodavas have exploited them. True, we have never been physically cruel. In fact the Kodavas (also known as the Coorgs) treat their workers with a lot of kindness. Many try to get Yerava children to go to school, give them free medicines when they’re sick and so on. But somewhere along the way, we have ignored their steady decline into drink and destitution. It is certainly not okay to sit back and say, “they love booze and ganja and are promiscuous,” or to call them “nature’s children” and then forget their plight.

The reason behind their unwillingness to assimilate our terms of progress really interests me. When I was in Coorg as a child and later when I visited, I used to be fascinated by some of their festivals when they go from home to home singing bawdy songs and dance, with lewd gestures thrown in. Although mothers urged their daughters not to show themselves at such times, we girls never felt disgusted or threatened. Such coarseness with its sexual allusions are common to all cultures at some time or the other. I find nothing wrong with it.

There are 18 tribal groups in Kodagu. It is not too late and reach out to all who belong to Kodagu and have as much claim to it as the Kodavas. When we begin to address the needs of the less fortunate among us and help them live in dignity, we will be strong in the real sense of the word.
Please don’t get me wrong. The Kodavas have a long tradition of being helpful to the underprivileged in their midst. We have a strong sense of community and belonging. Accepting that the other tribals are our own brothers and sisters is the best thing that could happen to us. We must become aware of our strengths and our faults and see what amends we can make. Only then can we defend our beautiful district from being ruined by those who only want quick ‘progress’ and quicker money and do not have any love for the land.

Upliftment of tribals is not easy. It certainly cannot be done through free handouts, food or a few scholarships. One needs to understand and empathise with their own unique culture, help them revive their customs, provide them with medical care and train them in vocational skills they are comfortable with. In July-August I will be working in a remote area of Tamil Nadu where a doctor couple have been working for the betterment of tribals in 70 villages. They started by addressing their health problems and then helped them develop farm collectives, handicrafts and other means of being self-sufficient.

A few days back a close friend from Coorg called up to say that there is a fresh and vigorous initiative to address the plight of the Yeravas. Wonderful news. I would be only too happy to offer my services as a doctor to help the disappearing tribal communities of Kodagu.

Scenes from a Tribal Hospial, Dharmapuri, Tamil Nadu.

Some more from the margins

Marginality is not always within our control. Certainly, for a large
section of people, it is not. Society has rendered them voiceless;
they are easy meat for exploitation. As a doctor and a writer, It is
my business to lend them a voice. Those who have marginalised
themselves out of choice can help those whom society has marginalised

Marginality is fluid, and in continuous flux. Its meaning will change
too, with the times. You could say that right now, in Indian politics,
Rahul Gandhi is the epicentre. Tomorrow he might find himself
marginalised, pushed to the periphery, like his grandmother was once,
after the Emergency. If the political climate decides the destiny of
certain people, then the financial status, cultural identity, caste or
race might decide the destiny of others.

Those of us who have escaped such marginalisation, are the lucky ones.

I come from a tribal community in south India. We are called Kodavas
from Kodagu which is also known by its British name, Coorg. We were
hunters and ancestor-worshippers and had no inkling of the Hindu gods
until the 17th century when neighbouring kingdoms invaded, built
temples and gradually Hinduised us. There are several tribal
communities in Kodagu but the one I belong to happens to be the
dominant tribe. In the last couple of centuries we have exploited the
other tribes, taken over every bit of land and more or less crushed
them. Some have no choice but to work on our land in order to survive.
Many face extinction.

I don't feel proud to say any of this. I only state it as a fact. One
of my novels, The Scent of Pepper deals with this issue. We have done
is exactly what the white Americans did to the Red Indians, what the
upper caste Hindus did to the lower castes.

From my position as a writer, I do not see literature as separate from
life. In literature too, marginality can be a strength or a curse. The
Second World War gave birth to a certain type of Jewish literature
which reminds us of the base levels to which human cruelty can
descend. In India, Dalit literature gave tongue to a huge section of
oppressed people. Until the 1970's, except for Mulk Raj Anand who
wrote feelingly about the cruel, oppressive force of the caste system,
there was little in Indian literature that highlighted the suffering
of Dalits to a larger public. The Marathi writer Namdeo Dasal came on
the scene, threw every rule in the literary cannon in the ditch and
wrote in a hurtfully original voice. It humbled the non-Dalits into
accepting the fact that true literature is not elitist, it is just
human.

Mahashweta Devi has spent a life-time writing about the plight of
tribals. In recent years there have been several gifted writers have
emerged from the North-East. We are able to read their work, thanks to
good translations.

Marginality, however, is a delicate issue. One can become obsessed
with one's vicitmhood and that is dangerous. Marginalised people
(feminists, gays, Dalits, minority religions, to name a few) will
serve their purpose better if they are open to criticism and deeper
analysis of their condition. They must be able to doubt their own
idelogy and reflect upon it from time to time. And political
correctness should not make others shy of being critical, when they
have to.
Internet has given tongue to many issues of marginality which until
recently were not known of widely. Internet can be a great platform
for debate and dialogue. But increasingly, one finds a great deal of
shrill argument that is prejudiced and often, hate-filled or
rhetorical.

I guess this too is essential, as a vent to supressed anger and
hatred. But if we are to move forward, our minds must learn to
separate the grain from the husk.

For me, the only way of doing this is to doubt myself. As a writer, I
want to retain my freedom to doubt myself, my beliefs, my victimhood.
I want to be able to doubt my heroes – the Gurus, Gods, Gandhis,
Ambedkars and the Obamas. And I want always to respect that freedom in
others.

Coming back to the literary conference and the several papers I
listened to, how worthwhile were they? Merit, especially in
literature, is vindicated by posterity. Marginal or otherwise, the job
of a writer is to write. The less I talk about it, the better.

*

.

Marginally Speaking

Vijay and I have just returned from a literary seminar in Aurgandabad
University. One of the incentives, besides the hope that we would be
learning something of value from the academics, was that Ellora and
Ajanta were nearby. We – foolishly – presumed that we could make some
time to zip off…

I'm dizzy with the knowledge I gained in three days of listening to
learned papers. As creative writers, we thought we would be excused
from making memorable speeches.

Some hope. The charming HOD of the English Department was insistent
that we both speak on the theme of the conference: "Reinventing
Marginality. A Multidisciplinary Approach to Literature."

My, my. Too late to decline the invitation, so I got to work. Here's the gist:

In my medical college years and then as a young doctor, I read very
little besides my medical books and journals. You could call it the
ten-year starvation that left me with severe malnutrition in literary
matters. In my own way, I have tried to make up for this deficiency.
But academics eludes me. Visiting a university is a learning
experience, every time.

Marginality can be looked at from different perspectives: One is the
marginalisation of those ignored by society and 'pushed' to the
periphery. The very poor, the uneducated, the Dalits and tribals have
repeatedly faced indifference and oppression. In a foreign country,
the uneducated immigrant is often marginalised, like the unemployed
blacks in London; in the US, the poor black communities and the
Hispanics.

In India, the need for survival impels such people to take up jobs
that provide for basics like food, clothing and shelter. So we have
rural folk migrating in droves to constructions sites, quarries and
road-works. The delicate filaments of their own culture and tradition
which are particularly important to them snap and disappear; they
forget their mother tongue, their folk songs, their gods, their
families. It is a tragic existence, the ultimate result of which is
millions of people who must lose everything that is precious in life
in order to fill their stomachs. It is cultural suicide that happens
every day before our eyes.

The periphery or the margin is nothing but the blind spot in the
collective eye of the powerful sections of society.

Humiliation and loss of dignity are the worst outcome of
marginalisation. Having been denied the opportunities for progress,
marginalised communities take a long while to catch up with the rest.
No society can be complacent until it has addressed their sufferings.

How about me?Then there are people like myself and my husband who
chose to live on the margins. As a doctor, after my surgical training,
I've worked in small towns and rural areas. It was a personal choice.
My husband and I are both writers and as writers, we do not wish to
live in cities, if we can help it. Our marginalisation is voluntary.
It offers us a ringside view of society and the absence of too many
distractions.

Artists and writers often tend to live on the periphery. The muse
seeks quiet in which to nurture imagination and creativity. However,
many writers are able to produce their masterpieces even while they
live in cities. Their creativity feeds off the constant interaction
with society.

Many writers, in recent times, have moved out of cities.This does not
mean that writers do not like the limelight. We do, we do. I like
being made a fuss, of but only once in a while – that is, once in
three or four years, when I have managed to write a book and it is due
for release. This brief moment of fame with book launches, readings,
interviews, reviews and the fan-mail is quite wonderful but it is also
exhausting. It takes away several months of my writing life and I can
never make up for it. I feel frustrated for having spent so much of my
energy, apparently, for publicity. But then, I know that once my work
has gone into the public domain, I have to put in some effort in order
to draw attention to it.

For a writer, it is a privilege to be invisible.

****