More than mullahs

An American friend sent out these images out of concern that her country might go and change Iran's landscape, the way it has Iraq's. Here's what her e-mail made me think, and what I wrote to her:

The first I heard about the horrific brutality of the Iranian Revolution was from an American magazine, the one that Mad magazine (in the 1970s, when it was funny) called Reader's Disgust. I must have been nine or ten. Fortunately, around the same time, I also happened to see an exhibition at a Theosophical Society school in Mumbai, which had pictures of everyday scenes much like the ones you sent (I recall being especially amused by a picture of a young woman putting on a burqa over a mini skirt).

In India, Iran has been a strong influence on popular culture for centuries. In that perspective, the Islamic Revolution seems like a hiccup, or possibly a bad cold. For me, and for many of my compatriots, I'm sure, Iran is far more than fanatic mullahs (although there are unfortunately many of those at the helm there). Iranian classical and folk traditions have heavily influenced Indian ones, especially in painting, poetry, music, and architecture. Iran in the popular Indian imagination is not an Islamic pilgrimage site (unlike Najaf / Karbala in Iraq, or Mecca / Madina in Saudi Arabia), but rather a country of orchards and high culture. Together with Afghanistan, Iran was famous in the India of my grandmother's generation for figs, raisins, nuts, apples, berries, etc. Itinerant vendors sold the dried fruit and nuts from door to door. As a child, I imagined Iran to be a bit like Kashmir before terrorism (beautiful and rich land that yielded exotic things like saffron, walnuts and chestnuts; beautiful people; snow in the mountains; and exquisite art). Looking back now, I don't think I was far off the mark, although Kashmiri cities today are far less developed than Iranian ones (Kashmir being a less peaceful place than Iran). A substantial portion of most modern Indian languages consists of Farsi words (and it's not because of writing alone -- I include my own language, which has no script). These are words for ordinary things like salt and sugar, not just arcane literary or architectural forms.

I think this strong and rich cultural relationship between Iran and the Indian subcontinent may be in part what has kept Indians from becoming ideologically opposed to Iran in these days of popular anti-Islamic sentiment. Remarkable, because India is home to two persecuted Iranian religious minorities -- Zoroastrians and Baha'is. (Of course, there are other strategic reasons why India and Iran have been on relatively good terms... like the Cold War, and especially our nukes! But let me not start on that one.... I suppose the scenario would be different if India and Iran shared a border, given India's record with countries that share a border...)

Thanks to my Iranian roommate of two years in State College, at one point I knew just about every Iranian in State College -- Shi'a, Sunni, and Baha'i. Most of them were very attached to Iranian culture, loved science, had a terrific sense of fun. My roommate herself was quite batty about volleyball. She and the other women all loved beautiful clothes (western style).

Do you really think the US will attack Iran? I doubt it. There are just not enough Americans to send there! Even the great Cheney must be much weakened by recent events and scandals. I hope there is greater political fallout from the Libby verdict, and that people can see how much the US has been weakened by the war in Iraq, but unfortunately it seems such things don't catch the popular imagination very easily. Still, I think there would be popular resistance in the US if it really went to war in Iran -- how many are willing to fight now?

The people in the park

There's a tiny park where I go to walk my daily 1-2 miles. It's not bad as municipal parks go. Given the ratio of open space to residents in Mumbai, it's predictably crowded enough that running (as opposed to walking) would be dangerous. I like people-watching there. Usually I go in the evenings. First of all, there are plenty of ladies, ranging from thin North Indians in gaudy polyester saris to heavy Gujarati matrons in cotton saris. A few young ladies in salwaar kameez, and many in burqas and headscarves as well. Some are leading kids by the hand. One led a kid, as well as supported an elderly man, apparently partially paralyzed, on her shoulder. A few women wear western or semi-western dress -- linen blouse, kurti, etc. Some wear gym shoes, some wear light canvas shoes (sort of like pumps), some wear chappals, and some are even barefoot. You can hear some of the women come up behind you, as their anklets jingle.

With the men, there's a similar sort of range in terms of age, class, and foot gear. This morning I saw five old paunchy men in khaki shorts, doing what looked like an RSS drill, but minus any caps and lathis. They looked rather comical. There were also people seated on the grass in a loose circle, doing pranayam. A slightly crazy-looking sadhu type was rapidly and jerkily doing uttanasana -- with his knees bent! It looked like a ridiculous waste of time.

The kids are mostly cute. In the eveings, when they are playing, they sometimes don't look where they're running. They often get in the way of the "joggers" (read walkers), but it's hard to get mad at them. Once I told a kid to stay off the running track so nobody would get hurt, but you can't do that all the time. They have so few places in which to be kids -- I recall that as a child I had this park, the beach every weekend, and all the summer hangouts with the mamas -- S. K. Patil Udyan, Azad Maidan, Cross Maidan. I sometimes see hawker-kids on relatively empty commuter trains, hanging from the straps as though they were Roman rings, and I really wish they had safe places to play in.

There are residents in the park, too. A black dog with a white-tipped tail, and four shy, scrawny cats who hang out on the steps of the pump house. Since yesterday, I've seen a skinny puppy too -- yesterday he was on the kerb outside, and today he was inside, asleep on a pile of dry leaves.

Buon 8 marzo

From a dear friend, the traditional Italian gift of mimosas, for International Women's Day

Jeené ka haq (right to live)

Here's the latest letter from Pragya Bhagat in Bhopal, where survivors of the 1984 gas tragedy are still asking the state government for clean water and medical care, after twenty-two years!

March 9, 2007
Day 18 of Sit In
Day 5 of Indefinite Fast

The police are regular visitors now, "ensuring our safety" as they like to call it. The doctors visit fairly often too, examining and testing the six fasters whose bodies grow weaker by the day. Walking has become an arduous chore, so they lie in blankets, waiting. They wait for the meeting with the Chief Minister the collector said he would try for when he dropped by again today. They wait for that puke factor to leave their gut so they can focus on other things, like their families. They wait for something, anything that indicates that Shivraj Singh Chauhan is ready to redeem himself by agreeing to the demands set forth a year ago. They wait for a sign that today might be the last day, that they will get to go home and sleep on real beds and take real baths in real bathrooms instead of a makeshift structure curtained by blue plastic. They wait, as they have been waiting for twenty-two excruciating years.

Five o'clock arrives soon enough, but there is no news of the alleged meeting with Chauhan. Disappointment is not a new phenomenon, especially where our interaction with the Madhya Pradesh government is concerned. There is no sign of the Chief Minister, but a large ambulance truck does pull in close to our tent. All eyes are on the policemen and other personnel coming out of the vehicle. They come to our tent, and ask questions about the fasters' health. Have you experienced dizziness? How are you feeling? The answers are short and meant to ward away the people that might want to take the fasters away forcibly. Fine. Great. There are no problems. The ambulance leaves soon enough, but a cluster of policemen remain. These messengers of the government seem to have made our tent their second home.

The tent has become a home for many people, the newest additions being two middle-aged men from Chattisgarh. They are associated with the Dalit movement there, focusing on eliminating the sexual exploitation of women. Mahendra is the more gregarious of the two; he explains how they plan to stay in Bhopal until the survivors get what they are demanding. He used to be a typist for All India Radio until 1990, when he left his job to dedicate himself to the struggle for Dalit's rights. This story echoes the stories of Sathyu and Rachna, who also left their respective jobs to dedicate themselves to the movement of the gas-affected Bhopalis. And here they are today, on their fifth day of fasting, busy with phone calls, finding legal documents, emailing people that eagerly await every morsel of news from Bhopal. They fuel the campaign with their tremendous work ethic and dedication.

Dusk quickly sets in, and a lone light bulb dimly lights the tent. Today the police might come to clear us out of the Tinshed. Everyone scurries around, formulating their own plans of action for the night. A list of media contacts is made, people to call if a raid were to occur. Gulab Bai and Hajara Bi make a pepper powder mixture to protect themselves with. The children strategize over who will hold the policeman's arm and who will grab his/her leg. Pull their cheeks really hard, someone says. We laugh. The six fasters put their beds together, and chain themselves to the tent. Chain link metal with locks, the whole nine yards. And then we do what we have been doing all day-we wait. More men arrive from the bastis and two people from Yuva Samwad come to spend the night. We learn new songs and sing the old ones with a warm familiarity. We dance. We drink tea to stay awake and at one thirty in the morning, most of us decide to call it a night. The police watch from a distance, but no one dares to come near us. We smile to ourselves as our eyes shut out the darkness.

An update from the future ;)

Fun song

Qué voy hacer je ne sais pas...