Archana dalmia Chairperson of Grievance Cell, All India Congress Committee
The car moves slowly. This is an important road of the overcrowded city. Suddenly, the driver stamps on the brakes, making the passengers behind lurch forward. The vehicle in front has stopped. No warning. The driver edges his car to the right to get back on the road. He honks and inches forward. As he comes abreast of the errant car’s driver, he honks louder. The driver of the parked car thrusts his head out aggressively, his eyes flashing fire. He is wearing a saffron gamchha and a tilak on his forehead.
“Chalo bhaiya,” says the passenger. She wants to avoid an ugly situation.
“Ji, madam. No point fighting them, it is their rule now. Did you see he is wearing bhagwaa?”
The passenger saw the brazenness in the man’s eyes. She stays calm. “All drivers are like this in India. Who follows the rules?” she says.“Madam, this is different. They distribute saffron scarfs to men who are louts. It’s their passport to hooliganism. I stay clear of all this. Who wants an altercation with them? It’s their rule these days. At the Centre and in state.”She knew the driver had red the mood right. He knew the smart way of surviving in this very different India—by keeping quiet.
This was months ago.
In homes, elders caution their children. Dissent has become an ugly word.
An anxious man tells his daughter, “I like what you have written. But, it can’t go up in the net. People will get after you.”
“But, this is my point of view about the various jihads going on in our country,” she protests.
“I don’t care. Don’t you see, now there is only one point of view? Do you want to be trolled and threatened? Don’t you know that they have Internet Yodhas? People who have a carte blanche? They are trained in hordes. They look for voices of dissent. Can you take the abuse that is heaped upon the bigger journalists? The women writers? These men have no shame. Their language is repugnant. They don’t understand logic or reasoning. They certainly don’t understand dissent. I forbid you to put this up. I will not have you threatened with rape. Be quiet and swallow your pride, education.”
“Please. We are living in a democracy. Isn’t it?”
“I’m not sure anymore.”
At work, she talks to a colleague, “It’s impossible to reason anymore. Would anyone threaten to lynch me if my article is well-written, stating my view? They will read it—before they rage?”
He laughs. “You think they read? You think the crowds that trash offices, burn books have actually read those books? You are crazy! Who reads? Who has the patience? The new world order is reactive. To base stimulus. Do you really think they will read your logical, ethical opposition to anything they are propagating? They will sniff out dissent, snap at your heels like a wild pack. Better keep it down if you want to survive.”
She left the room. This wasn’t her country, which inspired Rabindranath to write his poems.
Later...
“I told you not to write anything to rouse their anger. Don’t write about the way the saffron army of goons bullies and intimidates. About how it dictates what we eat and wear? About the rabble rousers. Don’t write about unfortunate occurrences such as the kids who died without oxygen!”
“It’s all over the news, Gauri Lankesh was gunned down. This is serious, too close to home. I am afraid for you. We can’t dissent. The fear is not about online heckling, but bullets on the ground.”
She sits stiffening her spine. She will not bring her kids into this polarised country. Where thoughts are stifled. She will not put her pen down. She will rise and rail. And pray.
Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high…
Let My Country Awake! archanadalmia@gmail.com