Thursday, October 22, 2015

On Single Mothers and Adoptions, etc: Kannada Prabha Column

What is 'normal?' Who defines this normal in an age when everything that is is something that never was? When religion and the state becomes so closely meshed that either feed off the other to manipulate the larger society, it is a dangerous situation indeed. Relationships are being re-defined and everything is "normal" if you see it from the other perspective. Or nothing is.

I wrote about single mothers, about the need to find a new word for unmarried women (in Kannada) other than lonely and spinster and a bunch of other things in my column for Kannada Prabha this week, published Sunday, October 18, 2015.

ಸಹಜತೆಯ ಕತ್ತು ಹಿಸುಕುವ ಅಸಹಜ ನಿಯಮ ಸಂಕೋಲೆ

ಹಳೆಯ ಒಂದು ಕೆಲಸದಲ್ಲಿ ಇದ್ದಾಗ ತುಂಬಾ ಭಿನ್ನವಾದ ಜನರ ಪರಿಚಯವಾಗುತ್ತಿತ್ತು. ಮೇರಿಯ (ಅವಳ ನಿಜವಾದ ಹೆಸರಲ್ಲ. ಹೆಸರು ಸಂಕೇತಿಸುವ ಧರ್ಮ ನಿಜವಾದದ್ದು) ಪರಿಚಯ ಫ್ರೆಂಡ್ ಎನಿಸಿಕೊಳ್ಳುವಷ್ಟು ಇಲ್ಲದಿದ್ದರೂ ಒಂದು ದಿನ ಅದೆಲ್ಲೋ ಹೋಗುತ್ತಿರುವಾಗ ತನ್ನ ಮಗಳನ್ನು ಹೆತ್ತ ಕಥೆಯನ್ನು ಅದೇಕೋ ಗೊತ್ತಿಲ್ಲ ನನಗೆ ಹೇಳಬೇಕೆಂದು ಅನಿಸಿತು ಎಂದು ಹೇಳಿದಳು. ತನಗೆ ಮಗು ಬೇಕೆಂಬ ಹಂಬಲ ಅದೆಷ್ಟೋ ವರ್ಷಗಳಿಂದ ಇದ್ದು, ತನಗೆ ಹೊಂದಾಣಿಕೆಯಾಗುವಂತಹಾ ಗಂಡ ಅಥವಾ ಪಾರ್ಟ್ನರ್ ಸಿಗುವವರೆಗೆ (ಸಿಗದಿದ್ದರೆ?) ಕಾಯಲು ಆಗುವುದಿಲ್ಲ ಎಂದು ಮೇರಿ ಸ್ಪರ್ಮ್ ಬ್ಯಾಂಕ್ ಒಂದಕ್ಕೆ ಹೋಗಿ, ಕೃತಕ ಗರ್ಭಾಧಾನದ ಮೂಲಕ ಒಂದು ಮುದ್ದಾದ ಮಗಳನ್ನು ಹೆತ್ತಳು. ಆ ಮಗಳಿಗೆ ಈಗೇನು ೬-೭ ವರ್ಷಗಳಿರಬೇಕು. ಅವರಿಬ್ಬರಿಗೆ ನನ್ನ ಮನೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ಒಂದು ದಿನ ಲಂಚ್ ಕಾರ್ಯಕ್ರಮ ಇನ್ನು ಬಾಕಿ ಇದೆ.

ಮೇರಿಯಂತಹ ಅದೆಷ್ಟೋ ಹೆಂಗಸರಿಗೆ ಮಕ್ಕಳು ಬೇಕೆನ್ನುವ ಆಸೆ ಇರುತ್ತದೆ. "ಒಂಟಿ" ಹೆಣ್ಣು ಎನ್ನುವ ಶಬ್ದ ಈಗ ಅಪ್ರಸ್ತುತ ಶಬ್ದವಾಗಿದೆ. ಮದುವೆ ಆಗದವರು ಅಥವಾ ಮದುವೆ ಆಗಲು ಬಯಸದೆ ಇರುವವರು "ಒಂಟಿ", ತಂದೆ/ಗಂಡ/ಅಣ್ಣ/ಮಗನ ಮಗಳು/ಹೆಂಡತಿ/ತಂಗಿ/ತಾಯಿಯ ಬಿರುದು ಹೊರತುಪಡಿಸಿ ಹೆಣ್ಣಿಗೆ ಬೇರೆ ಗುರುತಿಲ್ಲ, ಒಬ್ಬ ವಿದ್ಯಾವಂತ, ಬುದ್ಧಿವಂತ ಹೆಣ್ಣಿಗೆ ತನ್ನ ಜೀವನಕ್ಕೆ ಬೇಕಾಗುವ ನಿರ್ಧಾರಗಳನ್ನು ತೆಗೆದುಕೊಳ್ಳುವ ಸಮರ್ತ್ಯ, ಹಕ್ಕು ಇಲ್ಲವೆಂದು ಭಾವಿಸುವ ಪುರುಷ ಪ್ರಧಾನ ಸಮಾಜವಿದು. ಅದರೂ ಅಲ್ಲೊಂದು ಇಲ್ಲೊಂದು ಸಾಮಾಜದ ಜೇಬಿನಷ್ಟು ದೊಡ್ಡ ತುಕುದುಗಳಲ್ಲಿ ಹಳೆಯ ನಿಯಮ-ನೀತಿಗಳು ಬದಲುತ್ತಿದರೂ ಈ ಬದಲಾವಣೆಯ ಸುಳಿವೇ ಇಲ್ಲವೆನ್ನುವ ಹಾಗೆ ನಡೆದುಕೊಳ್ಳುತ್ತಿರುವ ಸಂಸ್ಥೆಗಳಲ್ಲೊಂದು ಧರ್ಮ/ಜಾತಿ/ಮತ/ಮಠ. ಬೇರೆ ಬೇರೆ ಹೆಸರುಗಳ ಹಿಂದೆ ಅಡಗಿರುವ ಒಂದೇ ರೀತಿಯ ನ್ಯಾಯ-ನೀತಿ. ಧರ್ಮ/ಮಠ ಮತ್ತು ರಾಜ್ಯ/ರಾಜಕೀಯ. ಇದಕ್ಕಿಂದ ಅಪಾಯಕಾರಿ ಅಸ್ತ್ರ ಇರಲಾರದು.

ಹೀಗೊಂದು ಸುದ್ದಿಯಾಯಿತು. ಎರಡು ತಿಂಗಳ ಹಿಂದೆ ಮದರ್ ತೆರೇಸಾರವರ ಮಿಷನರೀಸ್ ಆಫ್ ಚಾರಿಟಿ ಸಂಸ್ಥೆಯು ತಮ್ಮ ಹಲವಾರು ದತ್ತು ಕೇಂದ್ರಗಳನ್ನು ಮುಚ್ಚಿತು. ಕಾರಣ, ಕೇಂದ್ರ ಸರಕಾರವು ದೇಶದ ಎಲ್ಲಾ ದತ್ತು ಕಾಯಿದೆಗಳು ಒಂದು ಕೇಂದ್ರ ದತ್ತು ಸಂಪನ್ಮೂಲ ಪ್ರಾಧಿಕಾರದ ಅಡಿಯಲ್ಲಿ ಬರಬೇಕೆಂದು ಹೊಸ ನಿರ್ದೇಶನ ನೀಡಿದೆ. ಲಕ್ಷಾಂತರ ರುಪಾಯಿಗಳ ಮಕ್ಕಳ ದತ್ತು ಕಾನೂನೂ ಬಾಹಿರ ವಹಿವಾಟನ್ನು ತಡೆಗೊಳಿಸುವ ಉದ್ದೇಶ ಹೊಂದಿರುವ ಈ ಹೊಸ ಪ್ರಾದಿಕಾರದ ನಿಯಮದ ಪ್ರಕಾರ ಯಾವುದೇ ದತ್ತು ಕೇಂದ್ರವು ದತ್ತು ಪಡೆಯಲು ಅರ್ಜಿ ಸಲ್ಲಿಸಿದ (ಕೆಲವೊಂದು ಅಗತ್ಯಗಳನ್ನು ಪೂರೈಸಿದರೆ) ಯಾರನ್ನೂ ಸಹ ನಿರಾಕರಿಸುವಂತಿಲ್ಲ. ಇನ್ನೂ ವಿವರವಾಗಿ ಹೇಳುವುದಾದರೆ ಮದುವೆಯಾಗದಿರುವವರು, ವಿಚ್ಛೇದನ ಪಡೆದವರು, ಸಹಲಿಂಗ ಪಾರ್ಟ್ನರ್ ಗಳು, ಎಲ್ಲರಿಗೂ ಸಹ ದತ್ತು ಪಡೆಯುವ ಹಕ್ಕಿದೆ. ಈ ಜಾತ್ಯಾತೀತ, "ನೈತಿಕತೆ"ಗೆ ನಿರ್ಭಂಧಕ್ಕೆ ಒಳಗಾಗದ ನಿಯಮಗಳು ತಮ್ಮ ಧರ್ಮದ ವಿರುದ್ದ ಹೋಗುವ ಕಾರಣ ಮಿಷನರೀಸ್ ಆಫ್ ಚಾರಿಟಿ ದತ್ತು ಕೇಂದ್ರ ಸೇವೆಯನ್ನೇ ನಿಲ್ಲಿಸಿದ್ದಾರೆ.

ಸಹಲಿಂಗ ದಾಂಪತ್ಯದಲ್ಲಿರುವವರು ದೇವರನ್ನು ಹುಡುಕುವುದಾದರೆ ತಡೆಯಲು ನಾನ್ಯಾರು, ಎಂದು ಪ್ರಶ್ನಿಸಿ ಕ್ಯಾಥೊಲಿಕ್ ಚರ್ಚಿನ ಧರ್ಮ ಗುರು ಪೋಪ್ ಫ್ರಾನ್ಸಿಸ್ ಎರಡು ವರ್ಷಗಳ ಹಿಂದೆ ಸಾಂಪ್ರದಾಯಿಕ ಕ್ರಿಶ್ಚಿಯನರನ್ನು ದಿಗ್ಬ್ರಮೆಗೊಳಿಸಿದ್ದರು. ಸಹಲಿಂಗ ಸಂಬಂಧದ ವಿಷಯ ಎಲ್ಲಾ ಜಾತಿಗಳಲ್ಲಿ ಇನ್ನೂ ಸಹ ಸೂಕ್ಷ್ಮವಾದ ಸಂಗತಿ. 'ನೀವು ಹೇಳಬೇಡಿ, ನಾವು ಕೇಳುವುದಿಲ್ಲ' ಎಂಬುವ ಅಭ್ಯಾಸ ಇನ್ನು ಮುಂದುವರಿಯುತ್ತಿರುವುದನ್ನು ಕಾಣಬಹುದು. ಇದು ಯಾವುದೇ ಒಂದು ಧರ್ಮದ ನಿಂದನೆಯೆಲ್ಲ. ಅದೆಷ್ಟೋ ವಿಷಯಗಳಲ್ಲಿ, ಕಟ್ಟು ನಿಟ್ಟುಗಳಲ್ಲಿ ಎಲ್ಲಾ ಧರ್ಮದ ನಿಲಿವು ಒಂದೇ.

ಧರ್ಮ, ಜಾತಿ ಎಂಬುವ ಸಂಸ್ಥೆಗಳು ಸರ್ವವ್ಯಾಪಿಯಾದ ಈ ದೇಶದಲ್ಲಿ ಯಾವುದೇ ಸಾಮಾಜಿಕ ವಿಷಯವನ್ನು ಧರ್ಮವನ್ನು ತೆಗೆದಿಟ್ಟು ಮಾತನಾಡುವಂತಿಲ್ಲ. ಸಹಲಿಂಗ ಸಂಬಂಧಗಳ ವಿಷಯ ಅದಿನ್ನೊಂದು ಅಂಕಣಕ್ಕಿರಲಿ. ಅದೆಷ್ಟೋ ಹೊಸ ಶತಮಾನಗಳು ಕಳೆದರು, ಇನ್ನು ಸಹ ಹೆಣ್ಣನ್ನು ಒಂದು ಯಥಾರ್ಥವಾದ ಚೌಕಟ್ಟಿನ ಒಳಗೇ ಇರಿಸುವ ಪ್ರಯತ್ನ ಮುಂದುವರಿಯುತ್ತಲಿದೆ. ಹೆಣ್ಣಿನ ಪಾತ್ರಗಳು ಹೀಗಿರಬೇಕು, ಕುಟುಂಬ ಎಂಬ ಘಟಕ ಇಂತಹಾ ಒಂದು ಪರಿಮಿತಿಯ ಒಳಗೆ ಇರಬೇಕು, ತಂದೆ-ತಾಯಿ ಇಬ್ಬರ ಆರೈಕೆ ಇದ್ದರೆ ಮಾತ್ರ ಮಗು ಸಮಾಜಕ್ಕೆ ಒಪ್ಪುವ ನಾಗರೀಕನಾಗಿ ಬೆಳೆಯಬಹುದು ಎಂಬೆಲ್ಲಾ ಗೊಡ್ಡು ನಂಬಿಕೆಗಳನ್ನು ಮುಂದುವರಿಸುವುದರಲ್ಲಿ ಮೂಲವಾಗಿ ಧರ್ಮವಲ್ಲದಿದ್ದರು ಧರ್ಮಗುರುಗಳ ಪಾತ್ರವನ್ನು, ಧರ್ಮದ ಕಾಲಸಂದ ನೀತಿಗಳನ್ನು ತಮ್ಮ ಅನುಕೂಲಕ್ಕೆಂದು ಬಳಸುವ ರಾಜಕಾರಣಿಗಳನ್ನು, ಇಂತಹಾ ಅಭ್ಯಾಸಗಳ ಪ್ರಭಾವವನ್ನು ಆಲಕ್ಷಿಸುವಂತಿಲ್ಲ. ಇಂತಹಾ ಅಭ್ಯಾಸಗಳಲ್ಲಿರುವ ಅಪಾಯವನ್ನು ಅಸಡ್ಡೆ ಮಾಡುವಂತಿಲ್ಲ.

ಈ ಧರ್ಮ/ಮಠದ ನಿಯಮ, ಕಟ್ಟುಪಾಡುಗಳು ಮತ್ತು ಸರ್ಕಾರ, ಅಥವಾ ಸಮಾಜ ಶಾಸ್ತ್ರದಲ್ಲಿ ಹೇಳುವ ಹಾಗೆ 'ರಾಜ್ಯ' ಹೊಲಿದ ರೇಖೆಯೇ ಕಾಣದಂತೆ ಸೇರಿಕೊಂಡಾಗ ಅವಾಂತರ ತಪ್ಪಿದಲ್ಲ. ಇನ್ನು ಸಮಾಜದಲ್ಲಿ ಆಗುತ್ತಿರುವ ಬದಲಾವಣೆಗಳಿಗೆ ಸರಿಯಾಗಿ ಸ್ಪಂದಿಸುವ ಮಾತೆಲ್ಲಿ?

ಬದಲಾವಣೆ ಸಹಜವಾದದ್ದು. ಅನಿವಾರ್ಯವಾದುದ್ದು. ಇಂತಹಾ ಬದಲಾವಣೆಗಳಿಗೆ ಸ್ಪಂದಿಸದ ಧರ್ಮ, ರಾಜಕಾರಣ ಪ್ರಸ್ತುತತೆಯನ್ನು ಕಳೆದುಕೊಳ್ಳುತ್ತದೆ. ನಾಸ್ತಿಕದತ್ತ ದಾರಿ ಹಿಡಿಯುವವರು, ಹೊಸ ಕಲ್ಟ್ ಗಳತ್ತ ಆಕರ್ಷಿತಗೊಳ್ಳುವವರು, ಇನ್ನ್ಯಾವುದೋ ಧರ್ಮದ ಸೆಳೆತಕ್ಕೆ ಓ ಎನ್ನುವವರು...ಅಥವಾ ಮೇರಿಯಂತಹಾ 'ವಿಚಿತ್ರ' 'ಅಸಹಜ' ಅಸಾಧಾರಣ' ವಲ್ಲದವರ ಸಂಖ್ಯೆ ಕೋಟಿಯಲ್ಲಿ ಇಲ್ಲವೇನೋ. ಆದರೆ ಅಲ್ಪಸಂಖ್ಯೆಯಲ್ಲಿದ್ದರೆ ನಿರ್ಲಕ್ಷಿಸಬೇಕೆ?

ಧರ್ಮ, 'ಮಾರಲ್ ಪೋಲಿಸ್' ಅದೇನೇ ಹೇಳಿದರು ಒಂದಿಷ್ಟು ಜನರು ತಮ್ಮ ಹೊಸ 'ನಾರ್ಮಲ್' ಅನ್ನು ನಿರ್ಮಿಸುತ್ತಲೇ ಇರುತ್ತಾರೆ. ಹೇಗೆ ಕೆಲವರಿಗೆ ಸಾಂಪ್ರದಾಯಿಕ ಕುಟುಂಬ, ಸಂಸಾರದ ಚೌಕಟ್ಟು ಸಹಜ ಎಂದೆನಿಸುತ್ತದೋ ಅದೇ ರೀತಿ ಮೇರಿ ಅಥವಾ ಇನ್ನಾರೋ ಒಬ್ಬರೇ ಮಗುವನ್ನು ಬೆಳೆಸುತ್ತೇವೆ ಎಂದು ನಿರ್ಧಾರ ತಗೊಂಡವರು ನಾರ್ಮಲ್ ಆಗುತ್ತಾರೆ, ಅವರದ್ದೇ ವಲಯದಲ್ಲಿ. ಈ ವಲಯವನ್ನು ವಿಸ್ತರಿಸಿ ಎಲ್ಲಾ ವೇದಿಕೆಗಳಲ್ಲಿಯೂ ಸಹಜ, ನಾರ್ಮಲ್ ಎಂದೆನಿಸುವ ಹಾಗೆ ಮಾಡುವ ಜವಾಬ್ದಾರಿ ಸಾಮಾಜಿಕ ಸಂಸ್ಥೆಗಲಿಗಿದೆ - ಧರ್ಮವಿರಬಹುದು, ರಾಜಕೀಯವಿರಬಹುದು. ಇಂತಹಾ ಸಂಸ್ಥೆಗಳನ್ನು ಮುಂದುವರಿಸುವವರು ನನ್ನ ನಿಮ್ಮಂತವರು, ಅಲ್ಲವೇ?

ಯಾವುದು ನಾರ್ಮಲ್, ಯಾವುದು ಸಹಜ, ಯಾವುದು ನೈತಿಕ ಎಂಬುದು ವ್ಯಕ್ತಿಗತವಾದ ವಿಷಯಗಳು. ಇಂತಹಾ ಸರಳ ಮಾತೊಂದನ್ನು ಅರ್ಥೈಸಿಕೊಂಡು, ನೆನಪಿನಲ್ಲಿಟ್ಟುಕೊಂಡು ಅದರ ಪ್ರಕಾರ ನಡೆದುಕೊಳ್ಳುವುದು ಕೋಟ್ಯಾಂತರ ವರ್ಷಗಳಿಂದ ವಿಕಸನಗೊಂಡು ಇಲ್ಲಿಯವರೆಗೆ ಬೆಳೆದುಬಂದ ನಮಗೆ ಅಷ್ಟೊಂದು ಕಷ್ಟವೇ?

Monday, October 12, 2015

Sarita Mandanna's Good Hope Road: A Review

I had loved Sarita Mandanna's Tiger Hills, though it reeked of overly poetic passages more often than was necessary and came shaded with accusations of plagiarism. I was excited about her new book, Good Hope Road. When it came, I was surprised that it was on a theme as different as possible from her debut. The language is so unlike the previous book as well. Without the benefit of the author's name on the cover, I wouldn't have been able to tell it is the same writer who wrote both the novels. Though she continues with the sugary poetic phrases and passages in this one too. I am not at all sure this evident lack of a style is a good thing at all.

Anyway, here is a review of the book. The New Indian Express has conveniently removed the last two paragraphs of the review, making it seem now read lazy and half hearted. I am not linking the piece here. Below is the full review.

SARITA MANDANNA'S GOOD HOPE ROAD
Aleph, 400 pages
Rs 595

What do pretty words do? A lyrical line, a clever turn of phrase, a poetic piece of prose in a book, a page, a passage: what it does is that it gives you a line to note down in a journal of favourite such lines from there and elsewhere. What these words and phrases do is make you remark privately on the poetry in the writer’s prose, applaud her imagination in stringing smart metaphors together, the sorts that make you pause your reading and say ‘ah’. But there is something like too much of a good thing. We have known that for long. And it is this too much of a good thing that threatens to tarnish the gleam in Sarita Mandanna’s Good Hope Road.

Mandanna is a good writer, undoubtedly. Some of her metaphors are very well thought of indeed. “…petrol-over-water colours”, “the sheen of a fin upstream” and such like draw a picturesque scene in the readers’ minds, like something at the edges of a detailed postcard. They lend themselves delightfully to a reading aloud, the lyricism as pleasing to the ears as to the mind that recreates every scene in a story as you go along. But the pitfall – and I imagine it is a hard one to avoid falling into – is that the story itself gets clouded by the pretty décor that is sprinkled on every page like sparkly confetti. Which is too often the case with Good Hope Road.

The story’s scope is ambitious and is spread over many decades and a couple of generations, spanning the First World War and ending just at the beginning of the Second. The narrative goes back and forth, shifting between the years and stories and incidents, jerky in some places, but mostly retaining a decent pace. There is Major James Stonebridge, a Yankee from New England and Obadaiah Nelson, a Louisiana native who find themselves at the warfront in Paris. Idealistic, brave, loyal and hungry for adventure, as most young men were, they form a deep, and unlikely, friendship. A decade and half later, Stonebridge is a recluse, back home, but lost somewhere still in France’s old war zones. A mirror that he is content to stare into stares back at him an image of a man broken and burdened by a war that changed his generation and the histories of many nations. His anger, his moods are most felt by his son Jim, whose first understanding of his father’s life comes when pretty and privileged Madeleine enters their lives. She won’t let the Major stew in his black mood, drawing him slowly out of his shell.

Then there is the Bonus March that is sweeping the nation... a reference uncannily, coincidentally similar to the protests sweeping this nation, for pensions and dues. Mandanna picks up on a little known protest by veterans demanding that the US Government give them the bonuses due to them and explores poignantly the way nations ignore their returning soldiers. It is in that sense a story of every nation that has ever been at war. While young men are sent off to the front with fanfare and hailed as heroes, or martyrs, the ones that return are often ignored. Their assimilation into a society that has never seen bombs or been in trenches is an exercise undertaken only reluctantly, half-heartedly, if at all. Good Hope Road addresses this theme with sensitivity, highlighting the trauma, the depression and lack of a sense of purpose that plagues war heroes. It is not limb or life alone that is affected, but the hidden scars that run dark and deep that Mandanna seeks to shine a torch on. And for all the gloss, the book does do that rather well.

Her attention to detail makes for fascinating reading as well. Skimming over the technical details of war positions and strategies, she cuts right through to the lives of the soldiers, strangers thrown together by patriotism, adventure or something else. Their camaraderie, the little sharing of a song or a letter, small conversations, these are places where the book offers lovely insight into the human-ness of those that fight a nation’s wars.

While the present is told in the words of Jim, the son, the war is brought to life largely through the eyes of Obadaiah, speaking in a Louisiana accent. Though the use of the dialect lends a measure of authenticity, Mandanna cannot seem to help but give Obadaiah pretty phrases to mouth as well. In doing so, she jarringly makes the reader aware that it is her, not him, telling this story.

A novelist’s job is best done when he or she sits back and creates a language for each of their characters to speak, without letting in their writing prowess interfere. Mandanna cannot seem to help herself from making her characters wax poetic, even when it goes against the rest of their language. In constantly doing so, Mandanna sure reminds how imaginative a writer she is, but it is done at the cost of what would otherwise have been a very good story.

Monday, October 05, 2015

On Dr M M Kalburgi, Freedom of Speech, Self Censorship, etc (Again): In Filter Coffee Column

How often must we write about these attacks on writers and intellectuals?
Everyday.
Not when and just after they happen.
But then, they happen everyday too.

Kindle magazine has lots of great articles on the future of intellectualism this month. I think it is the responsibility of each of us, those of us seeking to continue to be free, to think and act and speak freely, to read these kind of articles. It is fast becoming a dangerously unsafe country. Please read, please react. Just don't be silent.

Read what I wrote on Dr M M Kalburgi, Dr M M Basheer, freedom of speech and the power of the pen, here on the magazine website. Or see below.
HARMLESS PENS. HARMFUL PENS

I was gifted a Pelikan fountain pen some time ago, a beloved gift from someone beloved. It is yellow, like sunshine. I need to fix ink cartridges into it, a relief, for I get the joy of writing with a fountain pen with the convenience of a refill ball point. Puritans be damned. By no measure is my favourite yellow pen a dangerous weapon. Or perhaps it is. I can imagine how it must morph into a six foot long urmi - the most deadly flexible sword in Kalaripayattu, the one they say can decapitate your own head if wielded un-rightly - in the minds of those that fear your words, your opinions. Harmless pens.

Harmful pens.

The Kannada literary tradition that I grew up around, though not as a participant, has had a long list of the 'radicals', the 'liberals', the 'rebels', 'kafirs', all dangerous words, words that you don't want used to describe you anymore. P Lankesh, Shivarama Karanth, Kuvempu, Poornachandra Tejaswi, U R Ananthamurthy, Devanooru Mahadeva,...wait, name me any writer and I will tell you what a 'rebel' he or she is/was. Karanth tried to bring in a ballet tradition into Yakshagana, the folk theatre form of Karnataka. His books were not in the realm of controversy, but were in traditions unusual in Kannada writing. Poornachandra Tejaswi, son of the illustrious father, was just as radical, weaving expertly his concerns for the environment with humour. Ananthamurthy....dear old Prof URA, from the time he admitted to have urinated on idols, to prove it wouldn't incur any curse, to saying he would leave the country if Modi came to power, he was always the dear old rebel we would count on for a juicy quote.

Leaving aside Kannada, every writer in every language is somewhere a rebel from the moment there sparks in him/her the desire to wield a dangerous pen and write those words that may/may not get them killed. Salma, the Tamil writer, has fought all her life for the freedom to write. Her poems are fiery, explicit in places, celebrating the woman, her body and the freedom to do with this body as she pleases. Salma is not her real name.

M M Basheer is a respected Malayalee writer and critic. He was writing a few articles on the Ramayana for a daily newspaper. Some Sene repeatedly called him and asked him how dare he write on Rama, being a Muslim. He stopped. There is an entire tradition of Mapilla Ramayana, where Rama is a sultan, Valmiki becomes the long bearded auli. Dr Basheer is not a writer who is wet behind the ears. Dr Basheer is his real name. He is no longer picking up calls from unknown numbers, I hear.

Perumal Murugan has stopped writing, at least publically. I don't know if he has been persuaded otherwise. One Part Woman, an old book that suddenly became dangerous, is not a particularly fantastic book. It is good, nothing earth shattering, tame even, for it does not deliberately provoke. Yet it is a book burned and unofficially banned.

Not many incidents in other parts of the country have reached us below the Vindhyas here.

It seems exhausting documenting these and many, many other transgressions into a writer's freedom of expression. But constantly write we must. That is the only way. The individual writer and his/her claims to purported notoriety is not the question here. Every writer is a rebel, for the very nature of the act of writing is such. Those of us who work with the metaphorical pen shape our thoughts with the medium of these words, bringing into existence opinions, words, more words, many more words. On the face of it, it seems silly to wonder if words, mere words, could really do anyone any harm. But then you suppose that it is not the word by itself, but the things it makes you say, the other words that it sparks in you that makes anything written or spoken so utterly dangerous.

Dr M M Kalburgi died for the things from history he had the gall to research on and write about. It did not adhere to the views of a certain few of how a narrative should be. It is also a certain few. A few days ago K S Bhagawan, another writer and critic who received death threats in the wake of Dr Kalburgi's murder, was conferred with a lifetime achievement award by the Karnataka Sahitya Academy. Predictably, it was followed by the Academy receiving several threatening calls, a priest who decided Bhagawan's writings would sow discord in a community had made them. He was arrested. The KSA chairperson was forced to distant herself from Bhagawan’s statements, clarifying that the award was for his meritorious contributions to the field of literature.

What is appalling is the way one needs to defend a belief in something. What is more appalling is the immunity to these incidents that is building up. In the era of breaking news, when every minute detail is repeated endlessly, making you blind and deaf and often, mute, the increase in these incidents is increasingly less shocking. The normalisation of these incidents when they will turn one day into just another piece of news is when the society, everything we hold dear, everything that makes us free, begins to disintegrate.

I write a column in Kannada, on current affairs and such like. My last one was about the same topic as this. Along the way, I wrote about Mapilla Ramayana, a version of the Ramayana I had never heard of. I wrote about how culture is not any religion's right, that the collective culture belongs to everyone, to all the citizens. Everyone has a share, everyone has a right. Somewhere in the words of a language I am not as adept as, not as familiar with, as English, I remember stumbling. May my words mean more than they do? The thought sprung from the fact that writing in Kannada perhaps makes me more vulnerable, for the "certain few" read perhaps that paper than the words I write here. My parents read it, the rest of the family read it, townspeople read it. The shameless lot that burst crackers in jubilation when Prof URA died, they read it. And so I got a dear friend to check it for potential firebrandness. Perhaps I was overestimating the power of my words. But the sense of hypocrisy did not, does not escape me. I was surreptitiously censoring my words and while I hated doing so, I had a fair inkling into why writers say they will stop writing. It isn't just about you and your words. Like in the movies where the heroine gets kidnapped by the villain to get to the hero, these certain few, they go after your families too. They always find a way to hit where it hurts. Somewhere you begin to weigh in the worthiness of words versus what it can do. It is easy to say what you will choose when you place yourself on the outside looking in.

You understand, you acknowledge. Yet you hope. Hope that there will still be writers who will discard all this fear and be the public intellectuals they have a mandate in themselves to be. When they don't, you rave and rant and pretend to understand. Watching their words scroll across a book or screen, when you hope they will write more and more, and raise the hackles of those stupid, irrational few, you attempt not to acknowledge the selfishness behind that hope. And therein lies the hypocrisy of this, and every society.