Starting tomorrow (24th March) Mapping the Matrix of Contemporary Indian Literature in English is a UGC Sponsored National Conference organized by the Department of English, Dhempe College of Arts and Science. The keynote discussion at 11.20am on 24th features the award-winning novelist and writer, Mahesh Rao (maheshrao.info). Coincidentally, his first ever piece in the New York Times has just appeared:
http://www.nytimes.com/2015/03/24/opinion/of-puffed-up-chests-and-ornate-belligerence.html?_r=0 Of Puffed up Chests and Ornate Belligerence WAGAH, Pakistan — I was standing in the churned mud as the Indian border guards frisked me for the third time. A few weeks ago, returning to India after my first trip to Pakistan, I had decided to watch the “Beating Retreat” ceremony: the flag-lowering spectacle that Indian and Pakistani security forces conduct every evening at the sole land crossing between the two countries. It had begun to rain again, and I was regretting my decision to come. Three declared wars and countless skirmishes, terrorism, espionage, hostility and mistrust: That, after all, is what the border represents. How could the daily ceremony at the crossing be anything but an unpleasant jingoistic charade? As I approached the tiered seating area on the Indian side, the first clue that things might not be quite what they seemed blared out of invisible speakers: patriotic songs remixed like the playlist at a Punjabi wedding. On the other side of the border, about 20 meters away, the Pakistanis were playing their own souped-up songs of valor. It was a war all right, one fought with decibels. On the Indian side, two sets of bleachers faced each other, the central area cleared for the ceremony. I sat in one of the middle rows, surrounded by Indians of all ages and a smattering of foreign tourists. We waited for something portentous and defiant to take place, our view scalloped by a row of umbrellas and plastic hoods. A man in a dazzling white tracksuit stepped out of the Indian guards’ building. Apparently his remit was to create as much hysteria as possible within the audience. It didn’t take long. His holiday-resort enthusiasm was overpowering. Even the clouds turned less gray. After our master of ceremonies announced the warm-up act, a group of about 50 women surged onto the area in front of us. Dressed in an array of outfits but all sporting white baseball caps, they began to dance as though it were closing time at a nightclub. Shoulders shook, bodies whirled, pink and yellow dupattas trailed in the rain. Given the strict security arrangements, they must have been granted special dispensation to participate. But how had they been selected? By radio phone-in? Through a suggestion box on the highway from Amritsar? Auditions? The women lined up in pairs. The M.C. handed the first couple of them a long pole with a fluttering Indian flag and waved them off. Hitching up their shimmering saris, they started to run down the sodden strip toward the gates that marked the Indian side of the border. Apparently, they had not run in some time: Their pace dropped; the pole slipped. Yet gamely they carried on. When they reached the gates, they paused, took a few deep breaths, turned and came lolloping back. We roared, less out of patriotism than a sense of shared humanity, willing the women to complete their endeavor without mishap. We knew the flag was heavy, the ground slippery, the wind merciless, and we knew they were running on our behalf. When, spent but successful, they handed the flag to the next pair, we roared again. This flag-bearing jubilation continued until a bugle blasted through the air. Time for the soldiers. And off they went: in pairs, in solos, in a foursome. Their legs kicked high, and their arms swung straight. The exaggeration in their gait stayed right on the line between following protocol and playing it for laughs. They stomped and swished and twirled all the way to the dividing line, directed a camp grimace toward Pakistan and strutted back. Now it was the Indian star’s turn. With intense concentration, he adjusted his scarlet sash, the same shade as the magnificent fan crowning his turban. Then he marched to the gates with menacing intent, faced the Pakistani soldier on the other side, and made a great show of lifting his leg high. We gasped. Yet rather than kick, he stamped into a puddle, splashing the Pakistani’s pristine trousers. The Pakistani responded with an elegant sissonne en avant and splashed him back. Then they both raised their arms and showed each other their biceps. The Swedish tourist seated next to me asked, “What are they all saying after ‘Hindustan’?” “‘Zindabad,”’ I said, “It’s the same as ‘Viva!”’ A moment later the Swede yelled, “Zandyfad,” punching his fist into the air. A barrage of cheers broke through from the Pakistani side. They appeared to be having more fun. Some of us peered anxiously at their stands. They had begun a Mexican wave. Why hadn’t we thought of it first? We glared at our M.C., suddenly doubting his competence. Nationalism, it seems, is just a form of heightened social anxiety: a preoccupation that your neighbor throws better parties than you. The bugle sounded again. More marching. This time by a formidable prancer, fully aware of his splendor and flair. We felt a little better about ourselves but also nervous for him. Had his kick been any higher, he would have fractured his own nose. All of us — Indians, Pakistanis and tourists alike — were reveling in this pantomime of puffed up chests and ornate belligerence. Here was the military acknowledging the ridiculous bombast of its own ceremonies. There is humor at the border, it turns out, perhaps especially at the border. A last Indian soldier goose-stepped his way down the strip, saluted his superiors and spun out of sight. The rain stopped. Our applause was frenzied. Soon the gates on both sides of the border slammed shut. The sound of the songs faded as we walked away through the mud and slush. But for a moment we had seen the air go out of the workaday chauvinism and saber-rattling, and somehow that seemed like a kind of beginning.
