The tribal mall

MARKET AND COMMUNITY: The Jolarpet haat is not just about buying and selling

Jolarpet’s weekly haat has a striking resemblance to the modern mall – without the frills, of course. Set in a large clearing off the main highway, its temporary lanes and alleys boast a staggering quantity and variety of material. Cheap apparel hangs from wooden canopies, beside an army of mirrors and combs. Tomatoes, onions and all kinds of vegetables rest on the ground, enduring clouds of dust whipped up by shoppers walking by. Cosmetics are another ubiquitous sight, hugely in demand. On the fringes on the market, near the highway, a Vivel stall lurks, waiting to ambush.

S. Kannan, 71, retired as a railway mechanic and receives a monthly pension of Rs 6000. He sells vegetables at the haat, working only one day of the week. The occupation gives him a chance to socialise and interact with other people of the area. “There is not much money in this,” he says. “But I get a chance to meet people and get away from the boredom and loneliness of old age.”

Hafez on the other hand has only recently returned after spending ten years in Bombay. He had shunned the anonymity of urban life fuelled by a desire to lead a more rooted existence. “I wanted to speak Tamil again,” he said. He shares his stall with his next-door neighbour Rafiq, and they sell mostly vegetables. Rafiq remarked that the sales were very good. “It is five o’clock now. By eight o’clock, everything on this table will disappear. For the next three hours, I wouldn’t able to share even a word with you.”

Both Rafiq and Hafez, who were running a middle-size stall, seemed content. Every day, they are able to earn Rs 250 each, and in festival season, anywhere from Rs 400 to Rs 500. Whereas overt government intervention and regulation account for the oppressive plight of the Indian farmer, the freedom of the market was liberating for Hafez. “I could easily set up shop here. There are no restrictions, as long as you don’t encroach on anybody else’s space.”

The Indian intellectual has been deeply antagonistic towards the market. But for Hafez, this free nature of the haat meant he did not have to deal with the bureaucracy. There were no bribes to pay, no sahibs to appease. “It was easy, really. Rafiq needed someone to partner him, and it worked out all right for both of us,” he said. When asked whether they faced any discrimination, both of them replied with a vehement ‘no’. Rafiq said, “When the customer buys here, he doesn’t mostly know who I am. For some of our regular customers, it is not important at all. All they are interested is in good quality vegetables.”

The haat is not just a place for buying and selling, it is also a social hub. Here, beyond the routine monetary transactions and the hustle-bustle, conversations abound and lasting emotional ties are forged. Though the market may not ultimately dissolve identities, it certainly dilutes them. And in places like Jolarpet, the haat is an extremely cosmopolitan place where people from all communities participate.

This piece appeared in the Covering Deprivation issue of The Word, the paper at the Asian College of Journalism.

Surging South

Alarm bells are ringing for the Hindi heartland. UP and Bihar face serious questions before they can be relevant on the national stage

LEADING THE WAY: By most yardsticks, the South is way ahead

For the last month, I’ve been travelling across much of Kerala and Tamil Nadu. For somebody who often spent vacations in obscure towns in Uttar Pradesh where the suitability of a town is often measured by comparing crime statistics, the southern part of this country is a revelation. Better roads, decent public transport, a semblance of order, hardly any undercurrents of violence on the street – this is all very far away from the ubiquitous misery and constant state of unrest in the Hindi heartland.

I’ll let the stats do the talking. The four southern states contribute one-third of India’s tax revenues. Contrast this with UP and Bihar who despite accounting for 25% of the population contribute just above 10%. The electrification in Tamil Nadu and Kerala is in the high eighties and nineties. For UP and Bihar, an abysmal 42.8% and 27.7% respectively. Literacy is a no-contest – Kerala 89.9%, Tamil Nadu 74.2%, UP 61.6%, Bihar 54.1%. Any yardstick of social and economic development we take, HIV awareness, media exposure, vaccination coverage, household size, the result is the same – the South is way ahead.

Throughout our Covering Deprivation tour in Vellore district, what struck most of us was the quality of the roads. Even in the remotest parts of the state, as you turn away from the highway, there are paved roads which are easily navigable. While anybody who has travelled way into Eastern UP is sufficiently acquainted with the dustbowls that account for highways. The stats bear us out here too. Tamil Nadu is half the area of UP, yet has 75% of that mammoth state’s highway length.

Chennai, Hyderabad and Bangalore are a league away from the wretchedness of Lucknow, Bhopal and Patna. Even Chennai’s understated material opulence may perhaps be a sign of greater social equity. The harsh gulf between destitution and obscene wealth that is part of the perennial landscape of Delhi, Bombay and Calcutta is less visible.

This is not to say that the South does not have its problems. Of course, it does. Caste, as we saw on our Covering Deprivation tour, remains a major problem as everywhere else in India. But the fact that very different questions are being asked of the polity here is instructive. Voting patterns on the basis of identity are far from extinct, but the elected representatives also know that a minimum level of performance will have to be shown. The question is of better performance, not of occasional, providential government intervention.

The writing is on the wall – the Hindi heartland is in trouble. Even the xenophobic sentiment exploited by Raj Thackeray and his ilk is a pointer to the stark failure of these states in giving their inhabitants a sustainable livelihood. So what does this mean for those two non-performing monoliths – UP and Bihar? They have a monumental challenge ahead of them, if they are to remain relevant to the nation, not just a festering sore. For far too long, they have been trapped in an endless quagmire of violence and destitution. While railing against Raj Thackeray, they must also radically change their political culture and demand performance from those they elect.

This piece appeared in the Covering Deprivation issue of The Word, the paper at the Asian College of Journalism.

Cinema Today

We live in an age in which the culture of cinema has been substantially impoverished by the hegemonic banality of Hollywood. It continues to be the case. The best films are reduced to the ghettos of film festivals, while tasteless dubbed versions of ordinary American films are everywhere to be found.

The review format, in its current form, with the vulgar system of star ratings has only worsened its current plight. Cinema today, is in danger of being annihilated as an art form, and its future existence may solely be in the form of a consumer good.

Hence, the importance of criticism. We have a battle at hand.

All of us, who have spent hours and hours in the company of the great masters, who have loved this mechanical art with the passion of an only love – we have an obligation to rescue it.

In 1967, Jean Renoir wrote about Andre Bazin, “For that king of our time, the cinema, has likewise its poet. That king on whose brow he has placed a crown of glory is all the greater for having been stripped by him of the falsely glittering robes that hampered its progress. It is, thanks to him, a royal personage rendered healthy, cleansed of its parasites, fined down – a king of quality – that our grandchildren will come to delight upon.”

The critic today is faced with a monumental challenge. He must rid film criticism of its slumber, and reinvigorate it with ideas. Every thriving art form has a healthy, impassioned sphere of criticism.

Cinema has lost its way – we have exchanged eclectic cuisine with junk food. We, as critics, must speak of the health hazards of this junk. We must call a spade a spade – we have to restore cinema to the idealistic vision of its greatest innovators, return it to madness and passion. Through criticism, we shall reclaim our endangered art.

It was Fellini who said that “a different language is a different vision of life.” It is what we need to save our king, the cinema, who still sits on the throne, but is beset with grave illness.

This piece appeared on the FIPRESCI website and for the International Film Festival of Kerala.