Polyphony in the air

At this juncture it may be worthwhile to pursue an old idea which may yet prove to be the newest one we have — pluralism, multiculturalism, cosmopolitics

Okay, this is a question that figured in Kaun Banega Crorepati? recently. Which train passes through the largest number of states in the country? I happened to travel in it some days ago. Fifty one hours spent on the Kerala Express is a salutary reminder of not just the geographical vastness of this country, but its cultural spread; not just its regional diversity, but its subregional diversity; not just the multiplicity of its voices but the constant polyphony that’s in the air.

These differences do not sit politely like the neat squares stitched into a quilt. It is a unique multilayering of sensibilities and traditions that you have here. The Malayali who rushes to swap his constricting terrycot trousers for the freedom of his lungi the moment the train leaves New Delhi station and the kurta-clad, turban-wearing Sikh, speaking fluent Telugu at Warangal, they are all products of a polyglot India.

At this juncture, when three new states — Chhatisgarh, Uttaranchal, and Jharkhand reflecting the aspirations of localised communities — are coming into being; when attempts to bring about a lasting peace in Kashmir are on, and, yes, as the country enters its 54th year of independence, it may be worthwhile to pursue a familiar concept. An old idea which may yet prove to be the newest one we have — pluralism, multiculturalism, cosmopolitics, call it what you will, since we are not preoccupied with the exactitudes of academics here.

The modern State has had to reckon with its own heterogeneity, caused by the multiplicity of religions, ethnic groups, languages and traditions within it. It has attempted to manage the repercussions of such a heterogeneity in one of two ways: either by homogenising its populations through various arrangements, from enacting laws which privilege the majority to something as extreme as ethnic cleansing. Or it seeks to regulate, rather than wipe out, differences, by recognising the importance of values like tolerance, consensus and rights, including minority rights, and basing its constitution and laws upon them.

Those who debated the contours of the future Indian state on the benches of the Constituent Assembly in the late Forties were clearly committed to the second option. Indeed, from all accounts, it was the only option they considered. They therefore struggled to evolve a Constitution that would preserve democracy and usher in development, while providing a matrix with which to negotiate differences and diversities. They may not have been entirely successful in this enterprise — and many maintain that the document they produced was not sufficiently federal in its scope — but in essence the Indian Constitution recognises the value of cultural diversity and attempts to preserve it.

The late lawyer and bureaucrat, T.C.A. Ramanujachari, in a brief exposition on the Constitution, had outlined what he saw as the five main purposes of governance, according to the Constitution. One, the reduction of the divide between State and civil society. Two, the enlivening of a whole network of autonomous institutions and pluralities to form an integrated system that complements State functioning. Three, the altering of the nature of the State into a ‘‘cooperative commonwealth’’ without prejudice to national security. Four, preempting the propensity of the State to enlarge and consolidate its extractive and monopoly rights. Lastly, enabling the anticipation of and maximal adjustment and harmonisation of internal conflict arising out of equally just but rival claims for identity, status, opportunities, resources and life chances.

Conflict has to be viewed as the inevitable outcome of democracy, because it arises out of differing perceptions of identities and entitlements. The question of course is how should such conflict be addressed? Or, as social scientist Sunil Khilnani put it in an essay entitled, ‘Time to Challenge the State’: ‘‘Will social groups that have embraced the idea of democracy and that are entering electoral politics, be able to sustain and support the institutions and procedures that democracy requires? Does greater participation threaten the sustainability of democratic politics in India, or does it in fact support it?’’

There are no two ways about it. If greater participation is crushed, democracy cannot survive. Indian democracy must, therefore, not just tolerate the possibility of greater participation, it must — if it is true to the original intentions of this Republic — engender even greater participation.

This is a struggle that is not uniquely India. Nations around the world are waging it, or are being forced to do so. Germany’s attempts to be seen as a ‘‘land of immigration’’ are constantly being challenged by a virulent xenophobia that keeps manifesting itself. In late July, two Africans were kicked and spat upon in the town of Eisenach, while a bombing in Dusseldorf wounded nine immigrants. The attacks provoked the German foreign minister, Joschka Fischer, to berate the majority who, he believed, was actually abetting such crimes through its silence.

Britain, having waded through rivers of blood, having failed Norman Tebbit’s cricket test (‘‘Which side do you cheer for? Are you still looking back to where you came from or where you are?’’) and having worked out a difficult and uneasy peace with the IRA, is acquiring something of a reputation for being a laboratory for multiculturalism. In the process it has had to shed many shibboleths, including the belief that there existed ‘‘pure Englishmen’’, in the Rupert Brookeian sense. Today, media commentators like Philip Dodd urge readers to rejoice in the fact that the English are ‘‘mongrels, not pedigrees’’.

For further confirmation of this, one just has to read Zadie Smith’s rumbustious celebration of a multicultural Britain, White Teeth. In it Alsana Iqbal, a Londoner of Bangladeshi origin — one of the many eccentric characters who people this work — puts it this way: ‘‘Do you think anybody is English? Really English? It’s a fairy tale.’’

Do you think anybody of us is Indian? Really Indian, in the one-dimensional, homogeneous way that the close-circuit mind of the fundamentalist conjures up? Take a trip on the Kerala Express, order ‘‘banana roast’’ as the train reaches Jhansi and aloo puri as it shrieks past Salem, and disabuse yourself of the notion once and for all.

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