Preoccupations With Death, Etc: Kannada Prabha Column

There were many reports on assisted dying that I was reading. Then there was the hanging of Yakub Memom. Then Cecil the Lion was killed. My grandmother had passed away some months ago. Death and various questions around it, religious, ethical, political, even economical kept cropping up. So I wrote about it in this week's Binkana column in Kannada Prabha.

Read a slightly unedited version below.

ನಿಜವಾಗಿಯೂ ವ್ರದ್ದಾಪ್ಯದಲ್ಲಿ ಮಜವಿದೆಯೇ?

ಎಪ್ಪತೈದು ವರ್ಷದ ಜಿಲ್ ಫಾರೋ ಎಂಬುವ ನರ್ಸ್ ಕಳೆದ ತಿಂಗಳು ಸ್ವಿಜರ್ಲ್ಯಾಂಡ್ ನ ಒಂದು ಕ್ಲಿನಿಕ್ ನಲ್ಲಿ ನಿಧನರಾದರು. ತಮ್ಮ ಜೀವನವಿಡೀ ಹಿರಿಯರ ಆರೈಕೆ ಮಾಡಿಕೊಂಡಿದ್ದ ಲಂಡನ್ ನಿವಾಸಿ ಜಿಲ್ ಅವರಿಗೆ ವೃದ್ದಾಪ್ಯದ ಭಯವಿತ್ತು. ತನಗೆ ಪಾರ್ಶ್ವವಾಯುವಿನ ಹೊಡೆತ ಅಥವಾ ಇನ್ನ್ಯಾವುದೋ ರೋಗದಿಂದ ಮಲಗಿದಲ್ಲೇ ಆಗಿ ತನ್ನ ಪರಿವಾರದವರಿಗೆ ಹೊರೆಯಾಗಬಾರದು ಎಂದು, ಒಂದೆರಡು ವಯಸ್ಸಿಗೆ ಸಂಬಂದಪಟ್ಟ ತೊಂದರೆಗಳನ್ನು ಬಿಟ್ಟರೆ ಬಹುಪಾಲು ಆರೋಗ್ಯವಂತರಾಗಿದ್ದ ಜಿಲ್ ಬಾಸೆಲ್ ನ ಲೈಫ್ ಸರ್ಕಲ್ ಎಂಬ 'ಸಹಾಯ ಮರಣ' ಕ್ಲಿನಿಕಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಜುಲೈ ೨೧ರಂದು ಆತ್ಮಹತ್ಯೆ ಮಾಡಿಕೊಂಡರು. ಜಿಲ್ ಬರೆದ ಒಂದು ಕೊನೆ ಲೇಖನದಲ್ಲಿ "ವೃದ್ದಾಪ್ಯದಲ್ಲಿ ಮಜವಿದೆ ಎಂದು ನನಗನಿಸುವುದಿಲ್ಲ," ತಾನು ಮೊದಲು ಇಷ್ಟ ಪಡುತ್ತಿದ್ದ ಹೂದೊಟಗಾರಿಕೆ, ಡಿನ್ನರ್ ಪಾರ್ಟೀಸ್, ಇತ್ತ್ಯದಿ ಈಗ ತನಗೆ ಆ ಮೊದಲಿನಂತೆ ಸಂತೋಷ ನೀಡುವುದಿಲ್ಲ ಎಂದು ಬರೆದಿದ್ದರು. ಕಳೆದ ವರ್ಷ ಆನ್ ಎಂಬ ಅದ್ಯಾಪಕಿ ೨೧ನೇ ಶತಮಾನದ ಇಮೇಲ್, ಇಂಟರ್ನೆಟ್, ಮಾರುಕಟ್ಟೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ಸಿಗುವ ರೆಡಿ ಮೇಡ್ ಊಟ, ಇತ್ಯಾದಿಗಳ ಜೊತೆ ಹೊಂದಿಕೊಳ್ಳಲು ತನಗಾಗುವುದಿಲ್ಲ ಎಂದು ಸ್ವಿಜರ್ಲ್ಯಾಂಡ್ ನ ಇನ್ನೊಂದು ಆತ್ಮಹತ್ಯೆ ಕ್ಲಿನಿಕಿನಲ್ಲಿ ತಮ್ಮ ಪ್ರಾಣ ತೆಗೆದುಕೊಂಡರು. ಈ ಅಂಕಣ ಬರೆಯುತ್ತಿರಬೇಕಾದರೆ ಬ್ರಿಟನಿನ ಇನ್ನೊಂದು ನಿವಾಸಿ ಬಾಬ್ ಕೋಲ್ ಚಿಕಿತ್ಸೆ ಮಾಡಲಾಗದಂತಹಾ ರೋಗ ಇರುವುದರಿಂದ ಸ್ವಿಜರ್ಲ್ಯಾಂಡ್ ಗೆ ಪ್ರಯಾಣ ಮಾಡಿ ತಮ್ಮ ಪ್ರಾಣ ತೆಗೆದುಕೊಳ್ಳಲಿದ್ದಾರೆ ಎಂದು ಓದಿದೆ. 

ಬ್ರಿಟನಿನಲ್ಲಿ, ಜಗತ್ತಿನ ಹೆಚ್ಚು ಕಮ್ಮಿ ಎಲ್ಲಾ ದೇಶಗಳಲ್ಲಿ ಇದ್ದಂತೆ, ಈ ಸಹಾಯಕ ಮರಣ, ಆತ್ಮಹತ್ಯೆ, ಯುತನೀಶಿಯದಂತೆ ಕಾನೂನು ಬಾಹಿರ. ಸ್ವಿಜರ್ಲ್ಯಾಂಡ್ ಬೇರೆ ಇನ್ನೆರಡು ದೇಶಗಳನ್ನು ಸೇರುತ್ತದೆ, ಇಂತಹಾ ದಯಾ ಮರಣವನ್ನು ಶಾಸನಕ್ಕೆ ತರುವುದರಲ್ಲಿ. ಈ ಸುಯಿಸೈಡ್ ಕ್ಲಿನಿಕ್ ಗಳ ಸೇವೆಯನ್ನು ಪಡೆಯಲು ಸ್ವಿಸ್ ನಗರೀಕರಾಗಿರಬೇಕಿಲ್ಲ, ಇತ್ತೀಚಿಗೆ ಗುನವಾಗದಂತಹಾ ರೋಗವನ್ನು ಸಹ ಹೊಂದಿರಬೇಕಿಲ್ಲ. ಯಾವ ಕಾನೂನನೂ ಸಹ ಕುಶಲತೆಯಿಂದ ತಿರುಗಿಸಬಹುದಲ್ಲವೇ?

ವೃದ್ದಾಪ್ಯದಲ್ಲಿ ಮಜವಿದೆ ಎಂದು ನನಗನಿಸುವುದಿಲ್ಲ ಎಂಬ ಜಿಲ್ ಬರೆದ ಒಂದು ವಾಕ್ಯದಿಂದಾಗಿ ಜೀವನದ ಪರ ಮತ್ತು ವಿರುದ್ದವಿರುವ ಗುಂಪುಗಳ ಮಧ್ಯೆಯಿನ ಚರ್ಚೆ ಪುನಃ ತಲೆಯೆತ್ತಿದೆ. ಈ ಯುತನೀಶಿಯ ಆಗಲಿ, ಸಹಾಯಕ ಮರಣವಾಗಲಿ, ಕಪ್ಪು ಅಥವಾ ಬಿಳಿ, ಸರಿ ಅಥವಾ ತಪ್ಪು ಎಂದು ಅಚ್ಚುಕಟ್ಟಾಗಿ ವಿಂಗಡಿಸುವಷ್ಟು ಸುಲಭವಲ್ಲ. ಇದರಲ್ಲಿರುವ ನೈತಿಕ, ಸಾಮಾಜಿಕ, ಕಾನೂನಿನ, ವ್ಯದ್ಯಕೀಯ, ಧಾರ್ಮಿಕ, ರಾಜಕೀಯ ಮತ್ತು ಆರ್ಥಿಕ ಸಮಸ್ಯೆಗಳು ವಿಪರೀತ ಗೊಂದಲಗಳನ್ನು ಉಂಟು ಮಾಡುತ್ತವೆ. ಸಾವು ಎಂಬುದೇ ಹೀಗೆ, ಒಂದು ರೀತಿಯ ಅನಾನುಕೂಲತೆ.

ಇತ್ತೀಚಿಗೆ ನನ್ನ ಬೇರೆ ಹಲವಾರು ಬರವಣಿಗೆಗಳು, ಚಿಂತನೆಗಳು ಸಾವಿನ ಕುರಿತಾಗಿ, ದೇಹದ ಕುರಿತಾಗಿ ಜರುಗುತ್ತಿವೆ. ಉದ್ದೇಶಪೂರ್ವಕವಾಗಿ ಖಂಡಿತವಾಗಿಯೂ ಅಲ್ಲ. ಆಕಸ್ಮಿಕ ಆಸಕ್ತಿಯಷ್ಟೇ. ಕೆಲ ತಿಂಗಳುಗಳ ಹಿಂದೆ ನಾನು ಚಿಕ್ಕವಳಾಗಿದ್ದಾಗ ದಿನಕ್ಕೆ ಕಡ್ಡಾಯವಾಗಿ ಎರಡು ಮೂರು ಕಥೆಗಳನ್ನು ಹೇಳಿಸಿಕೊಳ್ಳುತ್ತಿದ, ನಮ್ಮೊಟ್ಟಿಗೆ ಇದ್ದ ಅಜ್ಜಿ ಅದೆಷ್ಟೋ ತಿಂಗಳು ಮಲಗಿದಲ್ಲೇ ಆಗಿ ತೀರಿಹೋದರು. ಬಹುಷಃ ಸಾವಿನ ಬಗ್ಗೆಗಿನ ಈ ವಿಮರ್ಶೆ ಅಲ್ಲಿಂದ ಶುರುವಾಯಿತೋ ಏನೋ, ಸರಿಯಾಗಿ ಹೇಳಲಾರೆ. ಈ ಅಂತರದ ಹಲವಾರು ತಿಂಗಳುಗಳಲ್ಲಿ ಅವಿರೂಕ್ ಸೇನ್ ನ ಅದ್ಭುತವಾಗಿ ಸಂಶೋಧಿಸಿ ಬರೆದ 'ಆರುಷಿ' ಪುಸ್ತಕವನ್ನು ಓದಿದೆ. ದೇಶವನ್ನೇ ಮೋಡಿಮಾಡಿಸಿ ಹಿಡಿದಿಟ್ಟ ಆರುಷಿ ತಲ್ವಾರ್ ಮತ್ತು ಹೇಮರಾಜ್ ಹತ್ಯೆಯ ನಂತರ ವರ್ಷಾನುಗಟ್ಟಲೆ ನಡೆದ ಕೇಸಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಸಿಬಿಐನ ಸಂಶೋಧನಾ ತಂಡ ಮಾಡಿದ ಘೋರ ತಪ್ಪುಗಳನ್ನು ಸೇರಿದಂತೆ ಇಡೀ ವಿಚಾರಣೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ಏನೇನು ನಡೆಯಿತು, ಸಾಕ್ಷಿಗಳನ್ನು ಹೇಗೆ ಬದಲಾಯಿಸಲಾಯಿತು ಎಂಬ ವಿವರಣೆ ಇದರಲ್ಲಿದೆ. ತುಂಬಾ ಗೊಂದಲವನ್ನು ಉಂಟುಮಾಡುವ ಪುಸ್ತಕ. ಅದನ್ನು ಓದುತ್ತಿದಂತೆ ಕೇಳಿದ ಇನ್ನೊಂದು ಸುದ್ದಿ, ಅಮೇರಿಕಾದ ಒಬ್ಬ ದಂತ ವೈದ್ಯ ಐವತ್ತು ಸಾವಿರ ಡಾಲರ್ ಕೊಟ್ಟು ಬೇಟೆಯಾಡುವ ಲೈಸೆನ್ಸ್ ಖರೀದಿಸಿ ಸೆಸಿಲ್ ಎಂಬ ಬಹಳ ಜನಪ್ರಿಯವಾದ ಗಂಡು ಸಿಂಹವನ್ನು ಜಿಂಬಾಬ್ವೆ ನಲ್ಲಿ ವಿನೋದಕ್ಕೆಂದು ಬಿಲ್ಲು ಬಾಣದಿಂದ ಕೊಂದುಹಾಕಿದ ಎಂಬುದು. ಮತ್ತದೋ ರಿಯಾಲಿಟಿ ಟೀವಿಯಲ್ಲಿ ಈ ಸೀಸನ್ ಸ್ಪೆಷಲ್ ಎಂಬುವ ಹಾಗೆ ಉದ್ರೇಕವಾಗಿ ಯಾಕುಬ್ ಮೆಮೊನಿನ ಮರಣದಂಡನೆಯ ವರದಿಗಳು. ದಾರಿಯಲ್ಲಿ ಈ ಪ್ರಸಂಗಗಳಷ್ಟು ವಿವಾದಕ್ಕೊಳಗಾಗದ ಅದೆಷ್ಟೋ ಬೇರೆ ಘಟನೆಗಳು.

ಈ ಎಲ್ಲಾ, ಇಲ್ಲಿ ಹೇಳದ ಮತಷ್ಟು ಸಾವುಗಳ ಸುತ್ತ ಸುಳಿದಾಡುವ ಪ್ರಶ್ನೆ ದೇಹದ್ದು. ನಮ್ಮೆಲರ ಈ ದೇಹ ನಮಗೆ ಸೇರಿದ್ದಾ ಅಥವಾ...ಉತ್ತರ ಕಪ್ಪು-ಬಿಳುಪಿನಷ್ಟು ಸುಲಭವಲ್ಲ. ಹೆಣ್ಣೆಂಬ ಪ್ರಾಣಿಯ ದೇಹ ಒಂದು ರಾಜಕೀಯ ಭೂ ವ್ಯವಸ್ತೆಯಾಗಿ ಆ ಅಗೋಚರ, ವ್ಯಕ್ಯಾನಿಸಲಾಗದಂತಹಾ ಸಮಾಜ, ಅದೊಬ್ಬ ರಾಜಕಾರಣಿ, ಫ್ಯಾಷನ್ ನಲ್ಲಿರುವ ಅದ್ಯಾವುದೋ ಸ್ವಾಮಿ/ಬಾಬಾ, ಗಂಡ/ಹೆಂಡತಿ, ಪಾರ್ಟ್ನರ್, ಕುಟುಂಬದ ಒಂದಿಷ್ಟು ಜನಮಂದಿಯ ಸ್ವತ್ತು ಎಂದೆನಿಸಿಕೊಳ್ಳಲಾಗುತ್ತದೆ. ಅದೇ ಹೆಣ್ಣು ತಂತನವನ್ನು ಹಿಂದೆ ಬಾಚಿಕೊಂಡರೆ ಅವಳ ಹೆಸರು ಬೇರೆಯೇ ಕರೆಯಲ್ಪಡುತ್ತದೆ. ಕಾಡಿನಲ್ಲಿರುವ ಪ್ರಾಣಿಯ ದೇಹದ ಮೇಲಿರುವ ಹಕ್ಕು ಹರಾಜಿನಲ್ಲಿರುವ ಕೊಟ್ಯಾದಿಪತಿಗೆ ಸೇರುತ್ತದೆ.

ದೇಹ ನಮ್ಮದಾದರೆ ಏನನ್ನೂ ಅದರೊಟ್ಟಿಗೆ ಮಾಡಬಹುದೆ? ಅಲ್ಲವಾದಲ್ಲಿ ನಮ್ಮ ದೇಹದ ಮೇಲಿನ ಹಕ್ಕು ಎಷ್ಟರ ಮಟ್ಟಿಗೆ ನಮ್ಮದು? ದಿನದಿಂದ ದಿನಕ್ಕೆ ಈ ಪ್ರಶ್ನೆಗೆ ಕಲ್ಪಿಸುವ ನಿರಂತರ ಉತ್ತರಗಳಿಂದಲೇ ದಿನಚರಿಯನ್ನು ವ್ಯವಹರಿಸಬೇಕಾಗುತ್ತದೆ. ಹದಿನೆಂಟನೆ ಶತಮಾನದ ಜಾನ್ ಲಾಕ್ ಎಂಬುವ ಇಂಗ್ಲಿಷ್ ತತ್ವಜ್ಞಾನಿ ಲಾ ಆಫ್ ನ್ಯಾಚುರಲ್ ರೈಟ್ಸ್ ಬಗ್ಗೆ ಹೇಳುತ್ತಾ, ಪ್ರತಿಯೊಂದು ಮನುಷ್ಯನಿಗೂ ಜೀವ, ಸ್ವಾತಂತ್ರ ಮತ್ತು ಸ್ವತ್ತಿನ ಮೇಲೆ ಸಹಜವಾದ ಹಕ್ಕಿದೆ ಎನ್ನುತ್ತಾನೆ. ಆದರೆ, ಅವನ ಪ್ರಕಾರ, ಇಲ್ಲಿರುವ ಒಂದೇ ಒಂದು ನಿರ್ಭಂದವೇನೆಂದರೆ ಈ ಸಹಜ ಹಕ್ಕುಗಳನ್ನು ನಾವು ಬಿಟ್ಟುಕೊಡುವಂತಿಲ್ಲ, ಮತ್ತು ಅವುಗಳನ್ನು ಬೇರೆಯವರಿಂದ ಕಿತ್ತುಕೊಳ್ಳುವಂತಿಲ್ಲ. ಕ್ಲಾಸಿಕಲ್ ಲಿಬರಲಿಸಂನ ತಂದೆಯೆಂದು ಕರೆಲ್ಪಡುವ ಲಾಕ್ ದುಡಿಮೆ, ಅದರಿಂದ ಬರುವ ಸ್ವತ್ತು ಇತ್ತ್ಯದಿಯ ಬಗ್ಗೆ ಬೇರೆ ಅದೆಷ್ಟೋ ಹೇಳುತ್ತಾನೆ. ತಿಳಿದಂತಹಾ ಎಲ್ಲಾ ಧರ್ಮಗಳು ಜೀವ -ಸ್ವಾತಂತ್ರ- ಸ್ವತ್ತಿನ ಬಗ್ಗೆ ಅಭಿಪ್ರಾಯವನ್ನು ಹೊಂದಿರುತ್ತವೆ. ರಾಜಕೀಯದ ವಿವಿಧ ವ್ಯವಸ್ತೆಗಳೂ ಅಷ್ಟೇ.

ಒಂದು ಜೀವ/ದೇಹ ಮತ್ತು ಅದನ್ನು ಸುತ್ತುವರಿಯುವ ರಾಜತತ್ವವನ್ನು ಎದುರಿಟ್ಟು ನೋಡಿದಾಗ ಬರುವ ಪ್ರಶ್ನೆಗಳಿಗೆ ಉತ್ತರ ಕೊಡಬೇಕಾದವರ್ಯ್ಯರು? ನಮ್ಮ ದೇಹ ನಮ್ಮ ಜೀವನ ನಮ್ಮದಾದರೆ ಸಹಾಯಕ ಮರಣದ ವಿರುದ್ದ ಗುಂಗೀರಿಸಬೇಕಾದ ಅವಶ್ಯಕತೆ ಏನಿದೆ? ದೇಹ/ಜೀವನ ಕೇವಲ ತುಂಡುಗಳಲ್ಲಷ್ಟೇ ನಮ್ಮದಾದರೆ ಸರ್ಕಾರದ್ದು ಅದರಲ್ಲಿ ಪಾಲಿದೆಯೇ? ಇಲ್ಲವಾದಲ್ಲಿ ಅದನ್ನು ಕಿತ್ತುಕೊಳ್ಳುವ ಹಕ್ಕು ಅದಕ್ಕೆ ನೀಡಿದವರಾರು?

ಅಹಿತವಾದ ಪ್ರಶ್ನೆಗಳಿಗೆ ಹುಡುಕುವ ಉತ್ತರ ಕಪ್ಪು-ಬಿಳುಪಿನಷ್ಟು ಸುಲಭವಲ್ಲ.

The Bollywood - USSR connection: An Essay in The Calvert Journal

In another lifetime, I had two pen pals from Russia, their addresses circled in ink in some old issue of the delightful children's magazine Misha. Years later I realized how significant their letters asking for photos of film stars were. Raj Kapoor was of the yesteryears, Mithun Chakraborty was not amongst the top guys, Aamir Khan was yet to become a favourite for me. The story, once I began to read up on it, was fascinating. There was this whole cultural diplomacy that existed between the USSR and India that those of us from my generation didn't know much about. Something similar is perhaps being attempted with the other popular export these days: yoga.

My story on the influence of Hindi films in the former Soviet Union was published in The Calvert Journal here. Or see below. Actually read the story there, on the website. It is so much nicer there.

I love that they illustrated the story with so many old videos. 

BOLLYWOOD AFFAIR: HOW INDIAN CINEMA ARRIVED IN THE USSR

Bollywood films became available across the Soviet Union in the 1950s as an alternative to western cinema. Deepa Bhasthi looks back at the Hindi movies that enthralled eastern Europe, and asks why they were so popular

Marina U., born in the January of 1977 was 16 years old in 1993, when she wrote to me from a little town deep in Russia. She wrote the names of her pets and listed her favourite actors in the letter, blue ink on checkered paper, that came to my little town deep down in South India. Asking for photos seemed to have been a rage then, for she had asked me to send mine, promising to send hers the next time. We never did exchange photographs. I was 10. Circling nearly generic details under names I couldn't quite pronounce, found in the pages of Misha, the children's magazine from the Soviet Union that dad had procured back issues of for me from the old paper mart, I had started corresponding with two girls in Russia. I have all the four letters that they sent me, including one from a younger sister who got passed my letters when the older went away to study. I cannot remember if more letters were exchanged. Neither do I recollect now why we didn't continue being in touch. 

Every one of these letters talk of how much these girls loved Bollywood movies. Their most favourite actors were listed out. It read: Shah Rukh Khan, Mithun Chakraborty, Aamir Khan, Juhi Chawla, Rati Agnihotri, Govinda, Rekha, Sridevi, etc., a veritable who's who of popular cinema of those days. I hadn't thought much about their strange interest in Bollywood until a few weeks ago when one of those random thoughts that spring up, catching you unawares, out of the blue, in the middle of the road, struck me. A cursory scratching on the surface of Google-dom threw up virtual realms on the cultural diplomacy of the early 1950s that India, freshly recovering from gaining independence, practiced with the then USSR.

I was a Johnny-come-lately to this matter, it turns out. The late 1980s and early 1990s were years when the Soviet states were on their last legs of unity and India was similarly poised for new beginnings, opening its markets to the years of Coke and capitalism that would follow. By then, the grip that Bollywood held over the cultural landscape of the Soviet states had already loosened significantly. The era of sustained cultural diplomacy, via films from India to the USSR and via books in English and most Indian languages in the other direction was on a steady wane. The peak was in the 1950s and 60s when Raj Kapoor especially, and Dev Anand and Dilip Kumar to a certain extent elicited fan frenzy that can only be compared to the madness that followed the Liverpool boys, The Beatles on the other side of the world.

Bollywood is a sweeping all-encompassing term that denotes the Hindi film industry. To be more specific, it refers to the films that are made, to a large extent in Mumbai, the business heartland of India, and are instantly recognized worldwide by virtue of their basic characteristics - song and dance routines, varying degrees of melodrama and much else. The term Bollywood, a nomenclature loathed by some of its most widely recognized ambassadors for seeming to be a perceived mimicry of its Western counterpart Hollywood, is convenient to segregate these formula films from the rest of the films made in Hindi. In the same league as cricket, Bollywood brings my country together, be it when marveling at the insane money made by some of these films, or with the songs, both the ones with poetry and the ones crass, that are hummed across the country. It is as good as religion, given its influence. Everyday life is rife with references from a colourful factory that both manufactures, and nourishes, the escapist aspirations of a country.

This virtue of granting escapism to its consumers was what made Bollywood films so popular in the Soviet of the 1950s. Mine was the generation of Shah Rukh Khan and Aamir Khan movies. But growing up, having parents who were great fans of old Hindi songs - film songs, India's alternative for pop songs - had made me familiar with the poetry in their lyrics, even though I didn't care much for the films themselves. They were too slow, silly and old fashioned for my teen tastes. Raj Kapoor and Nargis, among the others were thus very familiar. This couple had taken the Soviet by storm, starting with Awaara in 1954. Alexander Lipkov's thorough paper, ‘India's Bollywood in Russia’, lists Nimai Ghosh's Chhinnamul as the first film that was released in the USSR. But it was the Chaplinesque roles of Raj Kapoor that struck a chord.

Eight hundred prints each of Dev Anand's Rahi and Awaara were released in all the languages of the 15 Soviet republics, I read somewhere. Kapoor, a slightly goofy smile in place, with a comical walk and trousers that didn't go beyond the ankles, was a symbol of optimism. His roles saw him as an innocent do-gooder, impractically romantic but beloved nevertheless. Storylines that predictably swirled around the themes of sympathy for the oppressed, socialist egalitarianism and the triumph of good over evil resonated with Russians whose only other option at the cinema was propaganda movies. When Kapoor, and his later counterparts, romanced their heroines, they did so surrounded by Swiss Alps and pretty flowers, in a manner that was depicted as wholly sustainable, even essential, in the pursuit of true love. It allowed a sweet path to escapism for a population otherwise fed on the state's idea of love for the motherland, ideas that were relentlessly driven down by propaganda movies that showed only what the people saw on the streets, at work and lived in their homes anyway.

Just after India's independence in 1947 when, after much deliberation, the then Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru decided to side up with USSR, Bollywood movies began to be either dubbed for a Soviet audience or subtitled. As pure escapism, a duty commercial movies continue to steadfastly fulfill, these movies ran to full houses for weeks at best, or to fairly full houses, at their worst. Indian films, always Hindi, not those in other languages, were encouraged because they were seen as a protection for the Russian film market from Hollywood films. Though Hindi was never officially a 'national language' in India, the film industry in that language was the biggest in those years. Not surprisingly, art films, those of Satyajit Ray and others of his ilk, failed miserably at the box offices. These showed real life, tackled poverty and issues that affected real lives. Lipkov talks of how there were many instances of audiences walking out of movie halls when these 'real' movies were being screened.

It perhaps helped that in the 1950s both India and Russia were in similar situations, the former, newly free, the latter, reeling under losses from WWII. It helped to be able to sit in a dark hall for up to four hours and laugh and cry and escape from the drudgery of life that was outside. With the collapse of USSR, the mighty distribution machinery of American films began to churn louder and louder. The quality of Bollywood was on the decline as well. The extensive cultural influences naturally began to ebb as both economies opened their doors to global vagaries and cultural diplomacy was no longer given its due currency.

India TV, the only Russian channel that broadcasts Indian movies and programs, is said to be rather popular. Their website says that they regularly show films, both classic Kapoor and newer titles. I imagine it caters to a section that is nostalgic for the good ol' days. Nostalgia is but another means of escapism from the present, from what lies above the TV screens. Nostalgia is big business too.

Thoughts on Avirook Sen's Aarushi: In Kindle Magazine

Avirook Sen's Aarushi is a deeply disturbing book. But a must read nevertheless. It's not a book one can review, instead, here are my thoughts. In Kindle magazine here. Or see below.

MURDER MOST FOUL

Avirook Sen’s gripping account of the Noida double murders is an indictment of our justice system and our ability to think for ourselves, says Deepa Bhasthi.

Aarushi

Avirook Sen

Penguin Books India

Rs 199 | 312 pp

How do you begin to write about a book that crushes your soul and all its feeble hopes? How do you begin to write when anger and despair overrides any attempt you try to make to view a book with a reviewer’s clinical eye? How do you review a book that you don’t want to stop reading, but makes you dread what the next page might bring?

The answer is you can’t. You can’t write a review of a book that meticulously lists all that went wrong, fact by cold fact, not granting you reprieve in a flimsy turn of phrase, an imagination, leaving you nowhere to hide. Aarushi by Avirook Sen is explosive, devastating, crucial. I want to use exclamation marks and superlatives and all the adjectives there are. It does something to you, this book.

Everyone knows the basic facts of the case. A little girl called Aarushi Talwar, on the cusp of angst-filled identity-crisis teenage, as all teen years are meant to be, was murdered one summer night in 2008. The next day, the putrid body of the Talwars’ manservant Hemraj was found on the roof of the middle-class building they lived in. Both the murder victims had similar injuries. After a long, winding, openly flawed trial, Aarushi’s parents Drs Rajesh and Nupur Talwar were convicted of the double murders.

It was a case that divided the nation. Unlike the 2012 Delhi rape case that was (nearly) unanimously condemned across the country, every household came to its own verdict with the Talwar case. It was boom time for 24/7 news channels and Aarushi became a landmark case not just for the twists and turns it began to take during trial, but also because it was TV that pronounced the Talwars’ guilt, wholly, fantastically, completely independent of the courts. Or perhaps, to put it more fairly, the media became the medium for the message that the CBI wished to most widely disseminate. Anyone that even casually followed the case back then will remember the scintillating spectacle it became.

I didn’t follow the case much. 2008 had been a strange year for me. It was the year I got into something new, a half-hearted attempt at the conventional. Needless to say, it was a spectacular failure (this time, though, almost wholly for no fault of mine). I was swirling steadfastly in an exhausting torture chamber of my own as the case broke. What was gripping the nation, and all that it said about us as a people, had passed me by. Even in the later years, until the Talwars were convicted in 2013, the case made the papers, the only mainstream media I can bear to consume, intermittently. Gone was the vultures’ taste for old meat. My interest remained restricted to a cursory glance under the headlines, having missed the initial frenzy that might have fed an inclination to follow it more thoroughly.

Frankly, the only reason I began to read Aarushi was because of the word-of-mouth praise it was getting online. In 2015, it is harder to let a collective tizzy pass by you than it was in 2008. And so I read the book. Sen reported on the case right from the beginning and brings with him the vast insight, knowledge and expertise the complicated case requires. His investigation is thorough. What would have easily turned into a dense book choked to the brim with legalese is laid down easily for the lay reader, never once though compromising on the complicated explanations that are required of a book that examines the case so minutely.

Aarushi does not seek to solve the case or even hint at who the murderer could have been. Instead, it elucidates the blunders the investigation teams made, right from the first day. It presents a damning image of the CBI, long seen by people as a body devoid of the prejudices of the police constabulary, by detailing just how evidence was tampered with, how witnesses suddenly did a volte face and how the court chose to ignore some of the most obvious facts that would have shown the innocence of the Talwars. Along the way, the book attempts to understand why the investigating officers might have been biased against the parents, how deep-rooted belief systems and a lack of understanding, or familiarity, with urban middle-class lifestyles worked against not just the parents, but also served to present a young girl as promiscuous and “loose”.

It is with sheer horror that I read the book. At one point, I kept it aside for a day or two, unable to continue. Cecil the Lion was dead, a victim of someone’s idea of fun. Yakub Memon had hanged, under circumstances that are only another large can of worms. The world seemed bleak, even on a bright day. The book wasn’t making it any better. But I pick up the book again soon after. Aarushi is a book that you cannot put down. Yet it is the sorts that you don’t want to turn the next page of, dreading how bad it will get, page after page after page.

What does the book say about us as a people, I have wondered. The possible answers are not pleasant to admit. It talks of a nation that is largely comfortable in being told what and how to think. It is in cases such as this that you begin to fully acknowledge the reach of the idea of manufacturing consent, and the unrelenting power it holds over its consumers. Logic, rational thought, even as far as the truth is mercilessly butchered at the altar of what is convenient to the decision-making few. If this is the collective conscience, then I opt out, take my name away, I want no part in it.

Logic, rational thought, even as far as the truth is mercilessly butchered at the altar of what is convenient to the decision-making few. If this is the collective conscience, then I opt out, take my name away, I want no part in it.

The American journalist Sarah Koenig hosted a podcast called Serial in 2014 where, over 12 episodes, she probed into the murder of a high-school student, whose ex-boyfriend Adnan Syed stood convicted of killing her. She spoke to friends, teachers, family and evolved a gripping narrative into the details of the murder and Syed’s personality, and picked holes in the investigation. Millions turned investigators themselves, forums erupting everywhere to discuss the episodes and draw their own conclusions. It was the radio equivalent of the Aarushi case, albeit backed by fantastic, if rather voyeuristic, storytelling. But the podcast generated so much publicity that Syed was allowed to appeal his conviction, previously denied.

Whether Syed is guilty or not is not the point. Whether the Talwars are guilty or not, that is again not the point. Perhaps Aarushi the book will do what Serial did to Syed. Give them a fair chance.

Avirook Sen’s Aarushi is one book that is not just a must read, but also one that is essential to be read.

That Little Sanskrit Village of Mattur: Filter Coffee Column in Kindle

Read the piece on the Kindle magazine here or see below.

MAMA GRAMAH MATTUR

Deepa Bhasthi pays a visit to the world’s only fully Sanskrit village, and finds that all that is, is not always that which is.

You know how you always miss what is right in front of you? That has been the classic case with me and this little village called Mattur. Let me first tell you why it is like a famous village and all. Long, long back in school there was a talk that one Mr Mattur Krishnamurthy gave, about what I cannot remember now. Nice old man. The significance of the name of his village slipped away from memory for many years after that until an article in The Hindu featured the place. I remember vividly a photo alongside the words, of little boys with shaven heads but long tufts and in the traditional panche or sarong bent half atop a cricket bat, waiting intently for the bowler to throw a spin. The article venerated the last-man-standing drive with which the village of Mattur was conducting itself. For it was, as per the article, as per every Google entry I scanned through, the country's, even the world's only fully Sanskrit village where life was the way lives were led in the dusty old times of the raja-maharajas in the high class ghettos or agraharas.

We all like tall claims, don't we? The first, the largest, the best, the biggest, the fastest. It is perhaps the desperation that comes with such exclusivity that we take recourse in to feel a little noticed in, in this largest democracy, the second most populated country that we inhabit. In my frequent trips to Shivamogga in central Karnataka, somehow the fact that this special village was a mere six kms away never came up. They say it is all about timing. And thus when the timing was right, when I stayed an extra day, I found myself hard bargaining with an auto driver to take me to the village. Of course, all auto drivers are the same and I ended up paying the tourist price.

It is a pleasant ride, once past the houses and dust descending from whooshing cars and bikes, the road begins to be flanked by tall trees and green fields. It is June. The auto driver deposits me where the buildings in the village start. I hobble (nursing a sprained foot, so.) along to where two old man are lazily sprawled on what we call the chaavadi, a veranda of sorts in coastal homes, meant for cooling off in the hot afternoons before and after a heavy lunch to catch up with visitors, watch the world conduct its businesses, etc. The two men look like they have been expecting me. The village gets its share of tourists, several of them from other countries of the world, thanks to its prolific internet profile. 

I am soon dispatched off to a school run by the Shri Sharada Shalabhivruddhi Samiti, at the edge of the village and told to meet one Shalini teacher. They tell me that she will help me learn Sanskrit. I don't correct their assumption. At the school, which houses the Samskrita Paatashala, Shalini teacher, the one with a beautiful, welcoming smile shows me to a small room where her colleagues sit. In a rapid alien tongue she tells me something I only comprehend because I see footwear outside the door, her instructions were to remove my shoes outside.

The three male teachers know why I am there, they get curious visitors like me and serious students at least twice every month. The headmaster, a grammarian, leaves for a class. Ramachandra and Ananthakrishna, who are experts in logic and conversational Sanskrit respectively, soon give me the lowdown on the village and its repute. For a while, we are joined by Kiran Avadhani, scholar extraordinaire, who runs the traditional paatashala in the village.

Avadhani's school teaches the Vedas, Upanishads and other religious texts to boys from Brahmin families. For six years, the boys live in the school, for free, in a gurukula system and get trained, also learning basics of subjects like mathematics and science to get them by in the world. Nearly all of them go on to become priests. Avadhani tells me that there are some fifteen students now, including one from out of state and others from around Karnataka. None are from the village. What he does not tell me is that the number of admissions to this gurukula has been steadily decreasing.

The other two teachers tell me that while the gurukula is open for only boys from the Brahmin community, the school is open for all. Though the school is a Kannada medium one, every student is taught to read, write and converse in Sanskrit. Two girls playing tag are called in and asked to demonstrate for my benefit. My Sanskrit learning is limited to a first level in a correspondence course, half-heartedly completed a decade ago. I smile and nod and after some goading, attempt to string a sentence to answer where I am from when the girls ask.

Mattur is not only touted as the country's only Sanskrit village, but also gives out the impression that Sanskrit is the aadu-baashe, the language of the streets, that you can hear it spoken over the counter at grocery shops, at street corners, by the river and elsewhere. That, exotic as it sounds, is not the case, I am soon informed. The assistant teacher Ramachandra tells me that Sanketi, a dialect that is part Kannada, part Malayalam and part a lot of other languages, is often taken as Sanskrit by wide eyed visitors. Mattur has about 600 Sanketi brahmins, a community that migrated from Kerala several generations ago and settled in the verdant environs of central Karnataka. The reality, says Ramachandra, is that nearly all of them understand and speak in Sanskrit, and if he visits the village, they all converse in Sanskrit. But the grand old language is not exactly something you hear on the streets. Candidly, he admits that while the hype about Mattur is all true, it is just not the whole truth. A gold medalist in Sanskrit, from the pilgrim town of Sringeri, he tells me that they advise students to learn the language out of interest and to preserve it or such like, but never to make it a profession. "There is no money in it," he rues. Avadhani makes do from the fees foreign students pay and once they leave after a month or two, gives them lessons over Skype. Ramachandra has a student in the US, lessons are sometimes taken over half hour long phone calls. He tells me he wants to start these Skype lessons as well.

Ananthakrishna, the other assistant teacher, is from Tumakuru, a wee bit away from Bengaluru. A keen interest in the language made him learn and now teach it. He wants to learn journalism next and offers to send me his writings. I have to politely, and repeatedly, say no. 

I don't have much time to walk the village and promise to be back. All my sprained leg lets me do is hobble along a lovely street, past a temple and down several steps to a river. She is the most gorgeous blue river,quietly shimmering past under an ultramarine sky. Wafting by is the sound of a dozen priests coordinating their chanting; there is some ritual making underway in a corner. Stripped off its religious rigidity and its many politics, chants tap into something primeval; it is so pleasant on the ear, I begin to think. Two stray dogs come by and leave. I dip my feet in the river. The water is cold, the lazy wind a bit warm. I take pictures, but not many.

None of the articles I read about Mattur spoke much of the river. But then it didn't matter. All that is, is not always that which is.

On Harper Lee and the Fallibility of Heroes: Kannada Prabha Column

We all have our heroes. And these heroes always fail us, the moment we decide they are perfect. Heroes are human too, with all the failings of human beings. In the context of Harper Lee's new book Go Set a Watchman being what it is, I write on heroes who fail us in my Kannada Prabha column, Binkana.

A slightly unedited version below.

ಪಟ್ಟ ಕಳೆದುಕೊಳ್ಳುತ್ತಿರುವ ಹೀರೋಗಳ ನಡುವೆ 

ಅದೆಲ್ಲದರಲ್ಲೂ ಅಬ್ಬರ. ಈ ಇಂಟರ್ನೆಟ್, ಸೋಷಿಯಲ್ ಮೀಡಿಯಾದ ಸಹವಾಸದಲ್ಲಿ ಮಾಡಿದ್ದೆಲ್ಲವನ್ನೂ, ಎಲ್ಲರಿಗೂ ತಿಳಿಸಲೇಬೇಕೆನ್ನುವ ಪ್ರಚೋದನೆ.ಪ್ರತಿಯೊಂದು ಸುದ್ದಿ ಟ್ವಿಟರ್‌ನಲ್ಲಿ ದಿನವಿಡೀ ಗುಂಗೇರಿಸದ್ದಿದ್ದರೆ ಅದು ಸುದ್ದಿಯೇ ಅಲ್ಲವೇನೋ ಎಂದೆನಿಸುತ್ತದೆ. ಫೇಸ್‌ಬುಕ್ಕಿನ ಬಗ್ಗೆ ಹೇಳಲಾರೆ.ಅಂದೊಂದು ದಿನ ಆ ಜಗತ್ತಿನ ವಿಪರೀತಗಳಿಂದ ಬೇಸತ್ತು ಪ್ರೊಫೈಲನ್ನು ಡಿಲಿಟ್ ಮಾಡಿ ಈಗ ಮೂರ‌್ನಾಲ್ಕು ವರ್ಷಗಳಾದವು. ಮನೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ಟಿ.ವಿ ಇಟ್ಟುಕೊಳ್ಳದ ನನಗೆ ಜಗತ್ತಿನ ವಿಷಯಗಳು ಸ್ವಲ್ಪವಾದರೂ ಆಗಿಂದಾಗ್ಗೆ ತಿಳಿಯಲಿ ಎಂದು ಒಂದು ಟ್ವಿಟರ್ ಅಕೌಂಟ್ ಇದೆ. ದಿನ ಹೋದಂತೆ ಅದನ್ನು ನೋಡುವುದೂ ಕಡಿಮೆಯಾಗುತ್ತಾ ಬಂದಿದೆ. ಅದರ ವಿಪರೀತಗಳು... ಅದು ವಿಷಯವಲ್ಲ. ಮೊನ್ನೆ ಒಂದು ದಿನ, ಎರಡು ವಾರಗಳ ಹಿಂದೆ ಟ್ವಿಟರ್‌ನಲ್ಲಿ, ಇಂಗ್ಲಿಷ್ ಪುಸ್ತಕ ಲೋಕದಲ್ಲಿ ಈ ಶತಮಾನದ ಅತಿ ದೊಡ್ಡ ಘಟನೆ ನಡೆಯಲಿದೆ ಎಂದು ಎಲ್ಲರೂ ಮಾತನಾಡಿಕೊಳ್ಳುತ್ತಿದರು. ಅದೇನಪ್ಪ ಅಂದರೆ, ಹಾರ್ಪರ್ ಲೀ ಎಂಬ ಲೇಖಕಿಯ ಹೊಸ ಪುಸ್ತಕ ಪ್ರಕಟವಾಗಲಿದೆ.

ಪುಸ್ತಕ ಲೋಕದಲ್ಲಿ ಸಹಸ್ರಾರು ಶೀರ್ಷಿಕೆಗಳು ಪ್ರಕಟವಾಗುತ್ತಲೇ ಇರುತ್ತವೆ. ಆದರೆ ಲೀ ಅವರದ್ದು ಒಂದು ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ವಿಚಿತ್ರ ಕತೆ. ಐವತ್ತೈದು ವರ್ಷಗಳ ಹಿಂದೆ‘ಟು ಕಿಲ್ ಎ ಮಾಕಿಂಗ್ ಬರ್ಡ್’ ಎಂಬ ಪುಸ್ತಕ ಬರೆದು, ಸಾವಿರಾರು ಓದುಗರ ಮೇಲೆ ಪ್ರಭಾವ ಬೀರಿದ ನಂತರ ಲೀ ಮತ್ತೊಂದು ಪುಸ್ತಕ ಬರೆದಿರಲಿಲ್ಲ. ಲೇಖಕರು ಸಮಾಜದಲ್ಲಿ ಬುದ್ಧಿಜೀವಿ, ಸೆಲೆಬ್ರಿಟಿ, ರಾಜಕಾರಣಿ, ಸ್ಟಾರ್ ಹೀಗೆ ಹಲವಾರು ಪಾತ್ರಗಳನ್ನು ತೊಡುವ ಕಾಲದಲ್ಲಿ, ಲೀ ಅವರು ತಮ್ಮದೊಂದು ಪುಸ್ತಕ ಪ್ರಕಟವಾದ ನಂತರ ಅಮೆರಿಕದ ಒಂದು ಪುಟ್ಟ ಊರಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಏಕಾಂತವಾಸಿಯಾಗಿ ತಮ್ಮ ಜೀವನ ಕಳೆಯುತ್ತಿದ್ದಾರೆ. ‘ಟು ಕಿಲ್ ಎ ಮಾಕಿಂಗ್ ಬರ್ಡ್’ ಬರೆದ ನಂತರ ಲೀ ಅವರ ಬರವಣಿಗೆ ಮತ್ತೆಲ್ಲೂ ಪ್ರಕಟವಾಗಲಿಲ್ಲ ಎಂದೆನಿಸುತ್ತದೆ, ಒಂದೆರಡು ಪ್ರಬಂಧಗಳನ್ನು ಹೊರತುಪಡಿಸಿ. ಆ ಅದ್ಭುತ ಪುಸ್ತಕವು ಅಮೆರಿಕದ ದಕ್ಷಿಣ ರಾಜ್ಯಗಳಲ್ಲಿ ನಡೆಯುತ್ತಿದ್ದ ಜನಾಂಗ ಮತ್ಸರದ ಕತೆಯನ್ನು ಹೊಂದಿತ್ತು. ಅಟಿಕಸ್ ಫಿಂಚ್, ಒಬ್ಬ ಬಿಳಿ ವಕೀಲನಾಗಿಯೂ ತನ್ನ ಸಣ್ಣ ಊರಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಬಲಾತ್ಕಾರದ ಆರೋಪ ಹೊಂದಿರುವ ಒಬ್ಬ ಕಪ್ಪು ವ್ಯಕ್ತಿಯ ಪರ ವಾದ ಮಾಡುತ್ತಾನೆ. ಅವನ ಪುಟ್ಟ, ತುಂಟ ಮಗಳು ಸ್ಕೌಟ್ ಎಂಬುವವಳೇ ಈ ಕತೆಯ ನಿರೂಪಕಿ. ಅಟಿಕಸ್ ಫಿಂಚ್‌ನ ನೈತಿಕ ನಿಲುವು, ಅವನು ವಾದ ಮಾಡುವ ರೀತಿ ಅದೆಷ್ಟೋ ಜನರನ್ನು ಕಾನೂನು ಓದಿ ವಕೀಲರಾಗಲು ಪ್ರೇರೇಪಿಸಿದೆಯಂತೆ.ಸೃಷ್ಟಿಸಿದ ಒಂದು ದೊಡ್ಡ ಕೃತಿಗಳ ಸಾಲು ಇಲ್ಲದಿದ್ದರೂ ಇದು ಎಷ್ಟು ಮಹತ್ವದ, ಪ್ರಭಾವಶಾಲಿ ಪುಸ್ತಕವಾಗಿತ್ತೆಂದರೆ, ಲೀ ಅವರಿಗೆ ಅಮೆರಿಕದ ಪ್ರತಿಷ್ಠಿತ ಪುಲಿಟ್ಜರ್ ಪುರಸ್ಕಾರದಿಂದ ಹಿಡಿದು ಎಲ್ಲ ಪ್ರಶಸ್ತಿ, ಗೌರವಗಳನ್ನು ನೀಡಲಾಗಿದೆ. ಇಂತಹ ಪ್ರಸಿದ್ಧಿ ಪಡೆದ ಲೀ ಅವರ ಹೊಸ ಪುಸ್ತಕ ‘ಗೋ ಸೆಟ್ ಎ ವಾಚ್‌ಮ್ಯಾನ್’ ಹೊರಬರುತ್ತಿದೆ ಎಂಬುದು ಈ ಶತಮಾನದ ಅತಿ ದೊಡ್ಡ ಘಟನೆ ಆಗುವುದು ಸಹಜವೇ. 

‘ಟು ಕಿಲ್ ಎ ಮಾಕಿಂಗ್ ಬರ್ಡ್’ ಪುಸ್ತಕವನ್ನು ನಾನು ಚಿಕ್ಕವಳಾಗಿದ್ದಾಗ ಓದಿದ ನೆನಪು. ಮಡಿಕೇರಿಯ ಕಲ್ಲಿನ ಕೋಟೆಯ ಒಳಗೆ ಇರುವ ಜಿಲ್ಲಾ ಗ್ರಂಥಾಲಯದಲ್ಲಿ ಧೂಳು ಹಿಡಿದ ಕಪಾಟಿನಲ್ಲೆಲ್ಲೋ ಇದ್ದ ಪ್ರತಿಯನ್ನು ಅದ್ಯಾವುದೋ ಬೇಸಿಗೆಯ ರಜೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ಓದಿದ್ದೆ. ಎರಡು ತಿಂಗಳಿಡೀ ಗ್ರಂಥಾಲಯದ ಮೂಲೆ ಮೂಲೆಯಿಂದ ಕೈಗೆ ಸಿಕ್ಕಿದ ಎಲ್ಲ ಪುಸ್ತಕಗಳನ್ನೂ ಓದುತ್ತಿದ್ದ ಸುಂದರ ದಿನಗಳವು. ಜನಾಂಗ ಮತ್ಸರ ಎಂದರೇನು ಎನ್ನುವ ಕಲ್ಪನೆ ಪುಟ್ಟ ಊರೊಂದರಲ್ಲಿದ್ದ ನನಗೆ ಇರದ್ದಿದ್ದರೂ ಅದೊಂದು ಒಳ್ಳೆಯ ಪುಸ್ತಕ ಎನಿಸಿತು. ಆದರೆ ಆ ಪುಸ್ತಕದ ಮಹತ್ವ ಅರಿವಾದದ್ದು ಅದೆಷ್ಟೋ ವರ್ಷಗಳ ನಂತರ.

ಈ ಹೊಸ ಪುಸ್ತಕದ ಬಗ್ಗೆ ಓದಿದ ನಂತರ ಅದನ್ನು ಓದಬಾರದು ಎಂದುಕೊಂಡಿದ್ದೆ. ಎಲ್ಲೆಂದರಲ್ಲಿ ಅದರ ಚರ್ಚೆ ನಡೆಯುತ್ತಿರಬೇಕಾದರೆ ತಡೆಯಲಾರದೆ ಓದಿ ಮುಗಿಸಿದೆ. ಒದಬಾರದಿತ್ತೇನೋ. ಜೀವನದಲ್ಲಿ ನಮ್ಮ ಹೀರೋಗಳನ್ನು ಕಣ್ಮುಂದೆ ತರಬಾರದು ನೋಡಿ. ಫಿಲಂ ಹೀರೋ ಒಬ್ಬ ಪಾತ್ರದಾರಿಯಷ್ಟೆ. ಸ್ಕ್ರೀನ್‌ನ ಮೇಲೆ ಕಾಣುವುದು ನೈಜವಲ್ಲ. ‘ಗೋ ಸೆಟ್ ಎ ವಾಚ್‌ಮ್ಯಾನ್’ನಲ್ಲಿ, ಮೊದಲ ಕೃತಿಯ ಸ್ಕೌಟ್ ದೊಡ್ಡವಳಾಗಿ ಈಗ ನ್ಯೂಯಾರ್ಕ್ ನಿವಾಸಿ. ಅಲಬಾಮಾ ರಾಜ್ಯದ ತನ್ನ ಊರಿಗೆ ತಂದೆ ಅಟಿಕಸ್ ಅನ್ನು ನೊಡಲು ಬರುತ್ತಾಳೆ. ಕರಿಯ ಮತ್ತು ಬಿಳಿಯ ಜನರ ಮಧ್ಯೆ ಮತ್ಸರ ಇನ್ನೂ ನಡೆಯುತ್ತಲೇ ಇದೆ. ಸ್ಕೌಟ್‌ಗೆ ಎರಡು ವಾರಗಳ ರಜೆಯಷ್ಟೆ. ಅಷ್ಟರಲ್ಲಿ ತಂದೆ ಫಿಂಚ್, ಅವಳು ಚಿಕ್ಕಂದಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಅಂದುಕೊಂಡಿದ್ದ ನಿಷ್ಪಕ್ಷಪಾತ ಹೀರೊ ಅಲ್ಲವೆಂದು ಅರಿವಾಗುತ್ತದೆ. ಆ ಒಂದು ಗಳಿಗೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ಅವಳ ಮುಗ್ದತೆ ಒಡೆದುಹೋಗುತ್ತದೆ, ಎಲ್ಲರಂತೆ ತನ್ನ ಹೀರೊ ಸಹ ಎಲ್ಲ ವಿಪರೀತಗಳನ್ನು ಹೊಂದಿರುವ ಮನುಷ್ಯ ಎಂದು ಆಕೆಗೆ ಅರಿವಾಗುತ್ತದೆ.

ಹೀರೋಗಳ ಗುಣಲಕ್ಷಣವೇ ಹೀಗೆ. ಚಿಕ್ಕವರಾಗಿದ್ದಾಗ ಕಣ್ಣಿಗೆ ಕಾಣುವ ಹೀರೋಗಳು-ತಂದೆ, ತಾಯಿ ಇರಬಹುದು, ಅಧ್ಯಾಪಕ, ಗೆಳೆಯನ ಅಣ್ಣ, ಅಬ್ದುಲ್ ಕಲಾಂ, ಸಲ್ಮಾನ್ ಖಾನ್, ಇನ್ಯಾರೋ- ಬೆಳೆಯುತ್ತಿದ್ದಂತೆ ಮನುಷ್ಯರಾಗಿ ಮಾತ್ರ ಕಾಣಿಸುತ್ತಾರೆ. ಮನುಷ್ಯತ್ವದ ಎಲ್ಲ ಕುಂದುಕೊರತೆಗಳನ್ನು ಒಳಗೊಂಡವರಾಗಿ ಕಾಣುತ್ತಾರೆ. ಕಿಮ್ ಕರ್ದ್ಯಶಿಅನ್‌ನಂತಹ ಫ್ಯಾಷನ್, ಪಾರ್ಟಿಯನ್ನೇ ಜೀವನವಾಗಿ–ಸಿಕೊಂಡ ಮತ್ತು ಆ ಜೀವನವನ್ನು ಜಗತ್ತಿನ ಮನರಂಜನೆಗೆಂದು ರಿಯಾಲಿಟಿ ಟಿವಿಯಲ್ಲಿ ತೋಡಿಕೊಳ್ಳುವವರು, ಕಷ್ಟದ ಬೆನ್ನೇರಿ ಮುಂದೆ ಬಂದ ಮೇರಿ ಕೊಮ್‌ನಂಥವರು, ಬಲಾತ್ಕಾರಕ್ಕೆ ಒಳಗಾದರೂ ಜೀವನ ನಿಂತಿಲ್ಲ ಎಂದುಕೊಂಡು ದಿಟ್ಟತನದಿಂದ ಹೋರಾಡಿದ ಸುಜೆಟ್ ಜಾರ್ಡನ್‌ನಂಥವರು, ಹೀರೋಗಳು ಎತ್ತ ನೋಡಿದರೂ ಸಿಗುತ್ತಾರೆ. ಸಾಂಪ್ರದಾಯಿಕ ಮಾಧ್ಯಮಗಳ ಕಾಲದಲ್ಲಿ ಈ ಹೀರೋಗಳ ಒಂದು ಮುಖ ಮಾತ್ರ ಕಂಡುಬರುತ್ತಿದ್ದರೆ, ಈ ಡಿಜಿಟಲ್ ಲೋಕದಲ್ಲಿ ಪ್ರತಿಯೊಂದು ಪಬ್ಲಿಕ್ ಫಿಗರ್‌ನ ಎಲ್ಲ ಮುಖಗಳೂ ಪಬ್ಲಿಕ್‌ಗಾಗಿ ಬಣ್ಣರಹಿತ ಕನ್ನಡಿಯಿಂದ ಪ್ರತಿಬಿಂಬ–ವಾಗುತ್ತಿವೆ. ಗುಂಗಿನ ಮಧ್ಯೆ ಕಿವಿಗೊಟ್ಟು ಕೇಳಿದರೆ ಅವರ ಮನುಷ್ಯ ಗುಣದ ಕತೆಗಳು ಕೇಳಿಸುತ್ತವೆ. ಗುಡಿ ಕಟ್ಟಿ ಪೀಠದ ಮೇಲೇರಿಸಿ ಸಂಸ್ಕಾರಕ್ಕೆ ಒಳಪಡಿಸಬಾರದಷ್ಟೆ.

ಅಟ್ಟಕ್ಕೇರಿಸಿ ಕೊಂಡಾಡಿದರೆ ನಿರಾಶೆ ತಪ್ಪಿದಲ್ಲ. ಪರಿಶೀಲಿಸುವಾಗ ರಾಷ್ಟ್ರದ ಅತಿ ಮೆಚ್ಚುಗೆ ಪಡೆದವರು ಶಾಂತಿವಾದಿಯಾಗಿರಲಿಲ್ಲ. ಕೋಟ್ಯಂತರ ಜನರನ್ನು ದಶಕಗಳಿಂದ ನಗಿಸಿದ ಹಾಸ್ಯಗಾರ ತನ್ನ ಮಕ್ಕಳನ್ನು ಹಿಂಸಿಸುತ್ತಿದ್ದ. ಕುರುಡು ದ್ವೀಪದಲ್ಲಿ ತಂದೆಯ ನೀತಿಯೊಂದೇ ದೀಪಗೃಹ ಎಂದು ಅಂದುಕೊಂಡಿದ್ದಾಗ ಅವನು ಆ ದ್ವೀಪದ ಮತ್ತೊಂದು ಕುರುಡು ನಿವಾಸಿಯಷ್ಟೆ. ಸಿನಿಕಲ್ ಟೈಮ್ಸ್ ಇವು. ನಿಜ ಜೀವನದ ಹೀರೋಗಳು ನಾವೇರಿಸಿರುವ ಪೀಠದಿಂದ ಕೆಳಗೆ ಉದುರುತ್ತಲೇ ಇರುತ್ತಾರೆ. ಆದರೆ ನೈಜಲೋಕದ ಪಾತ್ರಗಳಷ್ಟೇ ಪ್ರಭಾವಶಾಲಿಯಾದ ಸಾಹಿತ್ಯ ಲೋಕದ ಹೀರೋಗಳನ್ನಾದರೂ ಉಳಿಸಬೇಕಿತ್ತು. ಅಟಿಕಸ್ ಫಿಂಚ್‌ನ ಆ ಬಣ್ಣದ ಕನ್ನಡಕದ ನೋಟವೇ ಉಳಿದಿದ್ದರೆ ಚೆನ್ನಾಗಿರುತ್ತಿತ್ತು. ಅವನ ಕತೆಯ ಉತ್ತರ ಭಾಗವು ಹೇಳದ ಕತೆಯಾಗಿಯೇ ಉಳಿದಿದ್ದರೇ ಒಳ್ಳೆಯದಿತ್ತು. ಈಗ ಮತ್ತೊಂದು ಮುಗ್ಧತೆ ಚೂರಾಗಿದೆ. ನಿಜಲೋಕದ ಪಾಠಗಳನ್ನು ಲೆಕ್ಕಿಸದೆ ಕಾಲ್ಪನಿಕ ಪಾತ್ರಗಳನ್ನೂ ನಾವು ಗುಡಿ ಕಟ್ಟಿ ಪೀಠದ ಮೇಲೇರಿಸುತ್ತೇವೆ. ಈಗ ಅನ್ನಿಸುತ್ತಿದೆ, ಅಟಿಕಸ್‌ನ ಮುಂದುವರಿದ ಕತೆಯನ್ನು ಓದಬಾರದಿತ್ತೇನೋ.