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The
passionate liberal
In
a country filled with religious intolerance, his life reveals how
the finest intellectual sensibility can fashion the most open and
humane outlook
SOME
major academic events, organised by Jamia Millia’s Academy
of Third World Studies, got listed in the Delhi listings column
recently, but an inconsequential dharna by seven students last week
received much coverage. Likewise, the death of a politician routinely
finds space in newspapers, whereas the passing away of a distinguished
academic usually goes unnoticed.
Recently,
the president and the prime minister condoled, quite rightly of
course, the sad death of the 38-year-old Dewang Mehta, chairman
of NASSCOM. What saddens me, however, is the general silence at
the death of Professor Ravinder Kumar, a man who combined intellectual
distinction with a very admirable character. Is it the case that
we have lapsed into a lazy scepticism? Are we beginning to value
our scholars less and less? Have we discarded our age-old tradition
of revering persons of intellect? Or, are we living in an era of
unbridled globalisation, losing interest in keeping alive the principles
for which they stood? I don’t blame the president or the PM;
the problem lies with the erosion of our value system.
Who was Ravinder Kumar and why was he so special? Though most remember
him as the director of the prestigious Nehru Memorial Museum &
Library (NMML) and chairman of the Indian Council for Historical
Research, what at first attracted me to him was his habit of challenging
assumptions that one is apt to take for granted. His intellect stood
out, clear-cut, robust, and confident. He was energetic and passionate
in his feelings, suave, meticulous in his ways, and very seldom
excited. He sought out the company of learned and clever people,
regardless of where they stood in the political spectrum, and delighted
in their conversation.
Some aspects of his role as the head of the NMML deserve attention.
For one, he created a liberal space for different voices to be heard,
and extended support to NGOs, feminists, civil libertarians, and
left wing groups. He hosted Sahmat’s exhibition on Ayodhya,
and stood by the organisers when the exhibits caused a furore in
some circles. Similarly, when moves were afoot to get rid of me
from my university, he led a delegation to then education minister,
Arjun Singh. At a time when I felt lonely and abandoned, Ravinder
boosted my morale and confidence. He valued dissent, defended academic
freedom, and rallied around the victims of religious bigotry.
His
other quality was reflected in his concern for merit and talent,
and his encouragement to young and upcoming scholars. Here, too,
merit and not personal preferences, influenced him. The Centre for
Contemporary Studies, his brainchild, offered refuge to so many
brilliant researchers who were unable to make their way into the
university system. Here, they had access to the excellent archival
facilities, created by B.R. Nanda and his colleagues. And yet their
greatest asset was the accessibility of the director, a scholar
who was restless, eager to learn and share his insights.
They found him knowledgeable and wise; they found him warm, affectionate
and kindly in the highest degree. Time and time again, he would
emerge from the confines of his office to meet up with his colleagues
in the library’s annexe or in Kutti’s canteen. He would
discuss, often with monotonous regularity, his idea of India as
a civilisation rather than a nation state. He would engage with
Karan Singh on Aurobindo Ghose, with Dharma Kumar, Romila Thapar
and Sumit Sarkar on social history, with Ramchandra Guha on cricket
and environment, with Aijaz Ahmad on Marxism, with Nasir Tyabji
on industry, with Geeta Kapur on art, and with Kumkum Sangari on
gender issues. Such was the galaxy of scholars he had gathered at
Teen Murti House.
Occasionally, he discussed his experiences at the Punjab University
and the universities in Australia where he taught and researched.
He did not ever mention his own writings produced in Australia.
Many of us had read and benefited from his book entitled, Western
India in the Nineteenth Century. Focusing on the years 1818 to 1919,
this work, which was once debunked by the radical historians at
Jawaharlal Nehru University, traced the history of rapid social
and political transformation in Maharashtra. Not only did he focus
on the changes, he traced their connection with the social ideals
and the political objectives that inspired the British rulers and
shaped their administrative policy.
Ravinder’s seminal contribution to Gandhian studies is reflected
in the edited volume on the Rowlatt satyagraha. His own essay on
the nature of urban society and urban politics in Lahore was brilliantly
conceived and crafted. His introduction, too, was insightful. Setting
aside the traditional accounts, he examined how Gandhi — an
individual without any established position of leadership —
mobilised a society as complex as India. What, he asked, was the
complexion of the social groups which responded to the Mahatma’s
initiatives? What were the local discontents that he canalised into
a movement of protest? And, finally, did the support for the Rowlatt
Satyagraha
vary from region to region, as between urban and rural society?
Ravinder’s writing talents dried up during the last couple
of decades, and yet he was capable of new thought and imagination.
He belonged to a type which is now perhaps extinct, the type who
would abandon the greener pastures of Australia to teach and research
in India, the type of a quintessential liberal whose zeal and inspiration
was derived from the liberal/secular values rather than from divisive
ideologies. His greatest strength was that he knew where he wanted
to go, and that his every action was grounded on a good reason.
In
a country where very little remains of institutions, Ravinder demonstrated
how it was possible to work for the highest academic and intellectual
ideals within an institutional framework. In a country impregnated
with religious intolerance, his life reveals how the finest intellectual
sensibility can fashion the most open and humane outlook in private
and professional life. In a country where history writing is being
tailored to right-wing perspectives, Ravinder alerted us to the
fact that myth making and stereotyping will reduce history to polemics.
Studies dealing with the political ferment of 1919, he had observed,
were polemical rather than scholarly, and the conclusions they offered
were distinguished more by the depth of their commitment than by
the quality of their insight.
Ravinder’s
accomplishments, both as a historian and an institution builder,
deserve to be known outside the academic community. When they are,
we hope that there will be fresh attention to analysing the contribution
of scholars like him. They have to be rescued from the mists of
history.
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