So I was watching this movie, last night - Hazaaron Khwaishein Aisi (Dir. Sudhir Mishra, starring Kay Kay Menon, Chitrangada Singh, Shiney Ahuja). You might have watched it. If you haven't, I recommend you do so. It's a nice movie, informing the viewer about what life was like for people from the upper, middle, and lower classes, during the tumultuous years of Indira Gandhi as Prime Minister of India.
The movie begins to pick up after Emergency is declared and all opposition party leaders are systematically arrested. That's when the director chooses to show the action happening in Bihari hinterland, especially in the district of Bhojpur.
I really like the handling of the character of the policemen in the film. I have rarely seen so accurate a depiction of district-level Indian policemen in film. There's this one scene in which the character of Chitrangada Singh, an adult literacy activist, confronts a policeman, probably a Sub-Inspector (SI), over a large number of villagers arrested in connection with a dead body that the police claim is one of theirs, murdered by Maoists from the village. The SI who is in the Police Station - his place of Power - after venting his rage on the lawyer for the villagers, sits upon his desk, his eyes upon Singh's breasts, slowly moving up to meet her eyes.
In that one movement, he seems to very effectively convey a supreme and total internalization of centuries of patriarchy.
This problem, you see, is not limited to just the police. The point I'd like to make here, is that in states of North India (note: I can write only about what I've seen for myself, so I'm not talking about the Southern states here, at all), the nearer one gets to the heartland, that is to say, the district towns and villages, the more one notices a distinct strain of patriarchal thought and action that seems to pervade the different levels of administration.
Here's a real-life example, something that happened to me:
A very senior officer in the District Administration here sat down in his stenographer's office and lit up a choti Gold Flake cigarette. I was there to look through some paperwork that had arrived the previous day from some departments in the district. The officer took a long drag and decided that he'd like to chat with me while he smoked. So he asked me, "Tum Bambai se ho, to tum Maratha hoge."
To which I responded with, "Main Marathi hoon, lekin main Tamil bhi hoon."
"Woh kaise?"
"Meri maa Tamil hai, aur mere father Marathi hain."
The officer smirked. "Nahi. Pata hai, tum galat ho."
"Woh kaise, sir?"
"Tumhari maa galat hai. Agar woh apne aap ko Tamil bolti hai, to yeh galat baat hai."
A self-satisfied look, and he continued.
"Hindu mythology mein, aurat ka koi jaat nahi hota. Shaadi ke baad, uska jaat apne husband ka jaat hota hai. Iska matlab hai, aap Maratha ho. Tamil nahin."
A man, passing by, was stopped by the officer and asked for his opinion about the matter. The senior officer's views were, of course, corroborated without hesitation. I realised, this wasn't a matter of seniority. That man, passing by, really did believe that men were superior to women, and that this 'fact' has its genesis in the Sacred Texts.
What's funny is, that senior officer spoke of Hindu 'mythology', and I can say, with complete assurance, that the man has never read - or for that matter, even heard of - Roland Barthes. Patriarchy, among so many other things, is sustained through mythologies that provide the structural framework for wisps of smoke to appear (and feel) as thick as concrete.
I'd like to write more about this, but I have to return to work now.
Maybe I'll update this post later.
The movie begins to pick up after Emergency is declared and all opposition party leaders are systematically arrested. That's when the director chooses to show the action happening in Bihari hinterland, especially in the district of Bhojpur.
I really like the handling of the character of the policemen in the film. I have rarely seen so accurate a depiction of district-level Indian policemen in film. There's this one scene in which the character of Chitrangada Singh, an adult literacy activist, confronts a policeman, probably a Sub-Inspector (SI), over a large number of villagers arrested in connection with a dead body that the police claim is one of theirs, murdered by Maoists from the village. The SI who is in the Police Station - his place of Power - after venting his rage on the lawyer for the villagers, sits upon his desk, his eyes upon Singh's breasts, slowly moving up to meet her eyes.
In that one movement, he seems to very effectively convey a supreme and total internalization of centuries of patriarchy.
This problem, you see, is not limited to just the police. The point I'd like to make here, is that in states of North India (note: I can write only about what I've seen for myself, so I'm not talking about the Southern states here, at all), the nearer one gets to the heartland, that is to say, the district towns and villages, the more one notices a distinct strain of patriarchal thought and action that seems to pervade the different levels of administration.
Here's a real-life example, something that happened to me:
A very senior officer in the District Administration here sat down in his stenographer's office and lit up a choti Gold Flake cigarette. I was there to look through some paperwork that had arrived the previous day from some departments in the district. The officer took a long drag and decided that he'd like to chat with me while he smoked. So he asked me, "Tum Bambai se ho, to tum Maratha hoge."
To which I responded with, "Main Marathi hoon, lekin main Tamil bhi hoon."
"Woh kaise?"
"Meri maa Tamil hai, aur mere father Marathi hain."
The officer smirked. "Nahi. Pata hai, tum galat ho."
"Woh kaise, sir?"
"Tumhari maa galat hai. Agar woh apne aap ko Tamil bolti hai, to yeh galat baat hai."
A self-satisfied look, and he continued.
"Hindu mythology mein, aurat ka koi jaat nahi hota. Shaadi ke baad, uska jaat apne husband ka jaat hota hai. Iska matlab hai, aap Maratha ho. Tamil nahin."
A man, passing by, was stopped by the officer and asked for his opinion about the matter. The senior officer's views were, of course, corroborated without hesitation. I realised, this wasn't a matter of seniority. That man, passing by, really did believe that men were superior to women, and that this 'fact' has its genesis in the Sacred Texts.
What's funny is, that senior officer spoke of Hindu 'mythology', and I can say, with complete assurance, that the man has never read - or for that matter, even heard of - Roland Barthes. Patriarchy, among so many other things, is sustained through mythologies that provide the structural framework for wisps of smoke to appear (and feel) as thick as concrete.
I'd like to write more about this, but I have to return to work now.
Maybe I'll update this post later.
