The business of God-making

Humans are believers by nature. When we say that we do not believe, we infact have a belief that we don’t believe. Thus not believing is also a form of belief. This trait eventually manifests itself as religion. It is a common chord running through all cultures and across generations, testimony to us having evolved but from a common ancestor. The physical emblems of religion ooze out as Gods, deities, mythologies and customs. They are perhaps an attempt to gauge the unknown and allay fears, we are so vulnerable to.

The most primitive Gods emerged out of the fear of the unknown. Worship and complete surrender were thought of as methods to keep them benevolent. Floods, lightening, forest fires, earthquakes are examples. They were all personified in the course of time.

The second type emerged from all that within nature which benefited us. Banyian, Neem and other trees, animals such as cow were all given reverential status. What it did was encrypt in the psyche of the community and future generations, not to harm these beneficial gifts of nature under any circumstances. Confucianism, Taoism and Shintoism were all erected on this belief system. Overtime relationships developed have been so intimate that people value it more than their lives. In every Hindu home Tulsi and other trees, cow, snake and other organisms are still worshipped. Tribal communities stand up in arms against any attempt to harm their ‘Nature Deities’, never mind the compensations. We saw recent examples in Gujrat and Orissa where people refused to leave their surroundings for multipurpose projects and dams in spite of attractive rehabilitation packages.

The third type of ‘Gods’ emerged from within the man-made society. They were those who did something extraordinary for the community. Tales were weaved around them and transcended from one generation to the next, as oral tradition. As was inevitable, they underwent considerable modifications. The personality of the story teller played a gargantuan part. Some portions were truncated while others were extrapolated. The same tale got transported in different regions and thus underwent regional modifications, in addition to generational modifications. They were ultimately penned down thus creating innumerable versions of the same story. The recent controversy surrounding the essay ‘300 Ramayanas’ was precisely over this issue. Tales not suitable to the psyche of the larger community or to the dominant group were also sidelined. We find little mention of Charvaka and his philosophy in ancient texts because it was opposed to Brahmins. Kings, being dominant were often raised to the pedestal of God. They were thought of being the ‘avatara’ of God on earth. This also provided legitimacy to their rule.

Another type of deities emerged from the personification of our requirements which stem because we live in a society. For example ‘Goddess Laxmi’ became the goddess of wealth and ‘Goddess Saraswati’, the goddess of knowledge. All these categories of Gods were subsequently blended and we find tales encompassing all these in the same canvas.

‘Rama’ seems to have been immortalized by the same phenomenon. A charismatic King, probably of a time of which no written records are available, stories of his valor would have gone down through generations orally. The fact that ‘The Ramayana’ was composed in twenty four hundred years (8th Century B.C.-16^th Century A.D.) bears testimony to the aberrations the original tale would have undergone. The fact is further corroborated by other examples. ‘Buddha’ and ‘Mahavira’ spent all their lives fighting against the ritualistic interpretation of Vedas. Never once did they portray themselves as Gods. But after their death, they began to be worshipped. Temples were constructed in their honour. ’Mahayana’, a sect of Buddhism separated out for this reason. ’Vajrayan’, another Buddhist sect, believes in ‘tantras’ and ‘mantras’ for attaining salvation. Brahminism adopted ‘Buddha’ as an avatara. This is what we reduced them to. This has always been the ‘modus oprendi’ of man. But we were more fortunate in their case. We have written records of their times. We know what they actually preached. Had they existed a couple of hundred years earlier, they would have suffered the same fate as ‘Lord Rama.’

The same cycle is repeating itself today. Sai Baba became ‘God’ in the twentieth century.  ‘Satya Sai’ has become our youngest deity. Many others will follow.

The whole business of God-making is logical in a sense. Those from between us who gave something to this cosmos, through service of the animate or to mankind were raised to the status of ‘Gods’. The idea was to portray their work and character as ideal and set forth their example before the society to emulate. They were thus to give direction to our society. We were to absorb them by worship and try to live them through our deeds.  But we faulted. We overlooked the basic criteria and instead gave importance to charisma. We started choosing the wrong people. We infused mysticism. The distance between mortals and immortal increased so much that they became objects of fear.

If God-making is in our blood, so be it. There is nothing wrong. But we must be rational in whom we choose to bestow our love upon. ’Mahatma Gandhi’ and ‘Mother Teresa’ will make much better Gods than ‘Satya Sais’ and ‘Nirmal Babas’. Their message of love and non-violence will work better for our society.

The South Effect..

Characteristic vacation day. Comatose summer afternoon. Even the animate imitates the inanimate. Lying prostrate, you start the television, desultory gliding through the news channels, music programmes and reality shows, showing utter disregard. Life seems to have lost meaning. Then all of a sudden you stop at a channel, pupils dilate. This is it! NIRVANA! Magic happens to the moribund entourage. Throwing the remote with apathy, you rise, eyes glued, confident that you have finally escaped the vicious cycle of channel hobbling. This vitalizing force is the sight of a man, well a superman, beating the hell out of an army of ghastly looking men, armed with glistening daggers and all (and you thought that the man was ‘BUDDHA’, the Enlightened one!). These are the mainstream South Indian masala dubbed flicks. THE MEN ARE BACK!
So popular have they become that in the last year or so that every movie channel telecasts them. Their Bollywood remakes have set the cash counters ringing. What is it in them that catches the eye, encompasses our imagination? The actors? Actresses? Or the locations? Certainly not. The lyrics of songs come across as having been distastefully squeezed into the music beats. Bollywood beats them on all these counts. The secret is the unadulterated, high voltage action. Storyline is simple and mostly runs along chartered territory. The good, innocent hero is harassed by the goon until it is his turn to seek revenge. You can actually tell when the movie meanders from a purely hilarious scene to an emotional one and then to action. It reminds me of the South Indian plate served in restaurants. Sambhar, chutney, rasam, Idli and vada neatly confined to their compartments on a platter, opposed to the ‘Khichdi’ we often eat.
The psychological aspect which attracts us to these movies is worth inspecting. Even seeing the hero mercilessly butchering men, breaking every law in the book, we sympathize with him. Does it tickle our beastly instincts; we long abandoned to settle down as a society but which still spills out sometimes? Will we still like to have an eye for an eye if given a chance? Doesn’t the evolution of our laws reflect what we are in reality? I don’t think so. For me, the reason for this attraction is a creation of society itself. We see injustices occurring all around us. Many a times we are a party too. Seeing no way to stop these, we become insensitive. We protect our minds by an elaborate system of abstractions, ambiguities, metaphors and similes from the reality we do not wish to know too clearly; we lie to ourselves, in order that we may still have the excuse of ignorance, alibi of stupidity and incomprehension, possessing which we can continue with a good conscience to commit and tolerate the most monstrous crimes. But somewhere deep down, in the darkest caverns of our heart, we still nurse the desire to spring forth and bring a change. When we see these over the top films in which the good stands up against injustice, our moribund desires are incentivized. We feel related. Our pent up frustration oozes out. This relaxes us. For once, we end up on the winning side.
The evil is polarized in the villain and the good in the hero, much unlike in real life where it is impossible to classify good and bad. This adds to the vigour. We know it is surreal but so be it.
 Watching the climax of these films one cannot help but compare it to the height of the ‘Anna Hazare agitation’. We felt we had gheroed ‘CORRUPTION’ .It seemed we won. But reality is different. Change happens when we act. We act when we are filled to the brim with the desire for change.Buying these over-simplistic and impossible solutions to very complicated problems, our angst and our potential for change all flow down the drain. Our ability to craft a revolution is consumed. Far better are movies which expose the underbelly of the ill without becoming prescriptive. They force us to think and increase our uneasiness, our desire to unleash a change.
But no matter how much I criticize these films, I am abruptly ending this piece because it is 2:00 p.m.(one of THOSE AFTERNOONS I mentioned in the beginning) and I am sure I haven’t missed much of the latest ‘Nagarjun’ starrer flick, slated to be broadcast today.

The walking story

Keeping in shape seems to be high on priority with the Allahabadis. It is not for nothing that ‘Company Garden’ has become the toast of the city. Spread over many acres in the heart of Allahabad, this sprawling green patch was a witness to the martyrdom of Chandrashekhar Azad, one of the greatest sons of Mother India. But today the park is recognized by its colourful, avid walkers who throng it all day long. Early morning and evening is peak time.

The entire hullabaloo surrounding the spate of publicized diseases has propelled the denizens to take to walking. It has in fact contributed to a Domino effect where more and more are taking to it. The portraits of obese men and women with tummies ballooning out beyond the perimeter of their trousers, sick men coughing their lungs out and frustrated people with head in hands, depicted outside clinics, on hoardings, behind buses and taxis, in newspapers and on television, asking you to care about your health   have certainly played their part in pulling people to the park. Walking and caring about your body has become a status symbol and people like to flaunt it like an achievement in bold on a CV .You have relatives, neighbors and friends professing the benefits of walking and the magical makeover they went through within a few days. There is no escape. No matter how ambivalent your thoughts, how hard you try to ignore all warnings, you will one day find yourself in the park with sports shoes on, ready to reverse the cycle of ageing, ready to achieve the pink of health, ready to live once again. The conjure of the garden will do the rest. You won’t realize when you were sucked up in the scenery and became part of the ‘walking family’, the greater whole. So encompassing will be the effect that within a few days it will become the centre around which your rest of day would revolve. Soon faces will become familiar, the distances known and the breeze, a companion.

The garden presents a microcosm of the city in transition that we live in. Men and women, young and old, fat and thin all flock the garden. Especially occupied is the outer walking track along the garden’s perimeter. Hordes of women, chatting away (sometimes you overhear some crap), walking briskly is the staple site. Matching them are men meandering on the track, some panting, others taking it easy. Youngsters with headphones, detached from reality, tread harmlessly. There are couples too who mostly like to keep to themselves.  Once in a while comes a committed soul exuding   a sense of purpose, taking determined steps as if chasing some obscure goal. Seeing such individuals, others automatically make way facilitating him towards his eluding destination. Then there are the professional runners in congruence, overtaking others, from left and the right, not for a moment slowing down, having no time for the lovely vista. They remind you of a brand new car overtaking snail paced trucks on a highway. The most peculiar site is of the high ranking government officials with gunners behind them plodding cautiously as if on an official visit. Serene pride overflows from their faces. The gunner keeps all ordinary mortals at arm’s length from his deity. You will find students lying prostrate, books in front blending so well with the surrounding greenery that they become inseparable from logs of wood. Another is the romantic type. Generally in two (common sense), they search for the most obscure benches in the park. Smiling faces, hand in hand they tend to get alarmed at the fall of a leaf (You know why!).If you walk past them they look at you as if you were a wanted criminal with posters all over the city. A group of people laughing out loud, in the midst of the park, deserve special attention. There are children playing all sorts of games.

I will now tell you about my motivation to walk. A friend had taken me to the garden. After running for half a kilometer I slowed down to catch some breath. A man, in his late fifties (that is old) crossed me. After moving a few paces ahead he turned back and gave such a contemptuous look that I remember it even to this day. The look was potent than a million abusive words. He seemed to convey his haughtiness at having won an imaginary race .He challenged my youth, my manliness. A million volcanoes erupted in me. I wanted to show him who was the boss. I ran full throttle. But before I could cross him he exited from the closest gate. Poor me. I felt cheated. It seemed like after having bowled under the hot sun all day long, it had started to rain when it was my turn to bat. Every day I watch out for that man in the park but have not found him since. Perhaps he is too busy basking in the glory of his self-styled win. But I continue to run hoping that someday I will get my shot at glory.