Straight from the tiger’s mouth: a review of the short film, Truth About Tigers

Rajesh Singh


Most of you by now will be aware of my plight. The government has told you that only 1411 of us exist in the country, and even these numbers are endangered. The authorities have engaged the corporate sector and the media to spread the message of our conservation, with the hope to involve each one of you in the exercise. I cannot tell you how glad I am at all the publicity. Without your participation, I have no future. Let me also add, if you do not mind the language, that you too have no future without me.

You want to save me, but what can you do? Truth About Tigers – a 40 minute compact film by wildlife activist Shekar Dattatri, shows the way. It’s for people who love me, care for me, but do not know how to contribute to my well-being, because they do not know enough about the situation. The film empowers you with the information that will help you ask the right questions and demand the right answers. But, more than the academic part, I think it is invaluable because it stirs your conscience – makes you ‘feel’ for us.

When you see us in the film with our cubs playfully scampering about, you will be reminded of the little children around you and the happiness they spread around you. And then, a poacher gets to one of the mother tigers, spears her in the throat repeatedly or knocks her brutally on the head till she dies … for her skin and bones. Can you imagine the grief that visits our young ones who have lost their mother? Let alone hunt for food, they are too small to even defend themselves. So, they either die of starvation or fall prey to the hounds and jackals and hyenas in the forest.

You are a human being, so I ask you: Is it humanity to kill one of us that have done no harm to you, orphan our cubs and push them to an untimely and brutal end? Are you doing enough to punish those who are responsible for the slaughter? Why am I being exterminated when I am such a key part of your eco-system – without me there would be no forest; without forest there would be no rain, without water you would not be there.

Like the film says, my plight might not have been so pathetic had the authorities taken affirmative action when the crisis first became known. While the political will in the 80’s provided good news for us with the arrival of wildlife and forest protection legislations, the 90’s and later proved disastrous for us. Can you imagine, just when we were being killed left and right by poachers, a Project Tiger official said in 1993 that he saw no threat to our race! It is such complacency that did us in.

As we were getting eliminated in alarming numbers, the government launched upon a census to track our strength by employing the dubious ‘pugmark technique’. This method, as the film points out, is entirely unreliable, as the same pugmarks got counted over and over again, inflating our numbers in official records. If only the authorities had heeded the words of committed experts, we would not been on the verge of extinction in a country that has been our home for millennia. As long as two decades ago, the film informs us, an expert had devised the camera trapping method to count our numbers. It was by comparing the stripes in the photographs that the actual figure could be arrived at, since no two of our stripes are exactly the same. His advice was ignored, and the pugmark system continued to provide heartening figures even as we kept getting killed and our numbers dwindled. In another instance, a scientist was hounded out of the Panna reserve in Madhya Pradesh because he ‘dared’ to tell the authorities that we had disappeared from the sanctuary.

It was only five years ago that a Task Force recommended scrapping the pugmark methodology. By then, your poachers had already wiped us out from reserves like Sariska.

But, it is not just poaching that is a threat; even supposedly well-intentioned moves can harm us. If you want us to survive, please understand the basics: avoid unnecessary ‘development’ activities in and around our jungles. Shekar’s film shows how check dams are being built in my reserves where there is no water source, watch towers erected from where no watching is done, plants that provide food for our prey and cover for larger animals like us being cut down in the name of afforestation, and rainwater harvesting pits are being dug in regions where there is no rain water. All these activities affect us severely as they mutilate the natural habitat that we need to flourish.

My immediate protectors in the forest are the foot soldiers of the government – the forest guards. But, as Shekar’s film points out, equipped with just lathis and at times outdated guns, they are no match for the poachers who are armed with sophisticated weapons and fast-moving vehicles. Also, they are poorly paid and not incentivised enough to protect us.

So, is this the end of the road for us, despite all the high-pitched publicity? I accept that it’s not easy being a tiger in India today, but I have not given up. You can still turn the tide in our favour. You have the Kaziranga and the Nagarhole examples, as the film narrates. Both turned from near-disasters to wildlife paradise, thanks to committed forest officials.

Learn as much as you can about us and promote the concept of ‘live and let live’. The film will help you in that endeavour.

By the way, Truth About Tigers is narrated by Roshan Seth. He has a nice voice, but it’s not better than my growl!

For more on me, log on to: http://www.truthabouttigers.org

Abode of Star Goddess

Rajesh Singh

Tara Devi temple is located on, well, the Tara Parvat. Situated a little over 1800 metres above sea level, it is around 10 Km from Shimla and five from Sunrise Villa at Shoghi. The road to the temple is uphill… and further uphill through various bends. As I travel I wonder if I shall arrive there at all. Alongside the pinewoods and the valley from which the sun so tantalizing rose, accompanied by soft winds, I am finally there.

The history of this temple dates back to 250 years. There is a belief that Goddess Tara was brought to Himachal Pradesh all the way from Bengal. A temple trustee told me this story: Several hundred years ago a king from the Sen Dynasty visited the place. He had with him the family deity in the form of a gold idol within a locket tied to his arm.

For years the idol remained encased, until Raja Bhupendra Sen had an unusual vision. While on a hunt in the forests of Juggar near the temple, he `saw’ the deity – Goddess Ma Tara – who asked that she be unveiled before the people. Without any delay, the king donated a huge tract of land in her name and got a temple built there. A wooden idol of the Goddess was installed in accordance with Vaishnavite traditions.

Years later, the trustee continues, Raja Balbir Sen of the same dynasty too had a vision. The Goddess this time expressed a desire to be installed on the hill top. The king got an idol made out of ‘ashtadhatu’ – eight precious metals - and carried it over an elephant named ‘Shankar’ to the hill top, where it still stands. But, before it reached the hill, several goats were sacrificed to appease the Goddess, who for some reason, would suddenly put on weight, rendering the process of her transportation difficult.

The temple itself is understated but its simplicity gives a sublime feel to the visitor. There is another temple – that of Lord Shiva, a stone’s distance away on the top. While I stand atop, I look at the deep plunge from where our vehicle had only some time ago emerged. On the other side is a pedestrian path that leads through a forest to the Tara Devi town. Years ago, when the road had not been built, visitors and devotees used this tortuous route to reach the temple.

Glorious sunrise, riot of rhododendron colours

Rajesh Singh

Determined to keep an arm’s length from crowded Shimla on a recent Himachal Pradesh trip and yet stay close to the queen of hills, I settled for Shoghi, some 15 kilometres before the state capital on Chandigarh-Shimla highway. The Internet had helped me locate hotel Sunrise Villa, and the Villa’s website through various descriptions and picturesque images persuaded me to book a room for three nights and as many days. I fell for the temptation, not least also because the tariff was an enticing Rs 900 per day. Until now, my acquaintance with Shoghi was minimal, having passed through the non-descript town on earlier occasions without a second glance out of the car window.

It is natural to be dismayed on first seeing the ‘hotel’, because it is no hotel at all. Sunrise Villa is a house with a few rooms on the ground and upper floors. There is no reception, butler or room service. Located on a steep little hill some two hundred metres from Shoghi town, the Villa is an example of the entrepreneurship of a middle aged resident who decided to make a few extra bucks out of the tourist inflow. He seems to be doing well, for, when I arrive, work on the upper floors is in full swing. Before this summer end, Aggarwal, the proud owner, says he would have as many as ten fully functional rooms.

A help soon appears as I dislodge from the taxi with belongings. He is butler, cook, gardener, sweeper and man Friday for the Aggarwal family, and shares his duties with another cheerful employee. The owner and his wife are at the doorstep. After the customary greetings, tea arrives. It is four in the evening and the weather is pleasant. In three hours time, a chill will begin to set in. I take in the surroundings before me.

The initial disappointment over the `hotel’ is quickly dispersed as I am face to face with a breathtaking, unhindered view of a valley dotted with small villages and terraced fields and surrounded by pine trees. Far beyond is a range of hills, and they appear far enough to seem like a different world. The following day I will travel to two of them – Chail and Kufri. Birds glide across, piercing the silence with their calls. To my left, on top of a hill is the Tara Devi temple. From this distance, the temple appears to be precariously poised and in danger of toppling over with a strong gust of wind. Do not leave the place without a visit there, my hosts tell me. I promise not to do so.

Meanwhile, I soak in the wonder of Nature. A short seven-hour drive away, while Delhi sizzles with temperatures hovering around 42 degrees, here I am in the lap of heaven, reaching out to a shawl to keep me warm! As the trees get enveloped in darkness and the birds settle on the thick foliages around, the stillness creeps into your bones. Deep down, the houses are lit, and look like tiny stars scattered in the valley. It’s only 8 pm and the world I am in is preparing to retire for the day. After a piping hot dinner that includes vegetables grown in the Villa backyard – with every serving supervised by the lady of the house who insists on enhancing the quantity every time I protest at being over-fed – I wonder why the place should be called Sunrise. Be up and out of the room by 6.30 in the morning, she responds.

After a fitful sleep, with the ceiling fan switched off, I am up at 6 am. I eagerly await the arrival of the morning tea – which thankfully Mr Aggarwal had informed would be served in the room. But before that was the 6.30 am appointment. As I gaze at the far away hills and take in the chirping of various birds – one had a cry that rent the air for a full five minutes before the exhausted avian took a break – the sun slowly emerges from behind the hills. Like a child up to some mischief, it first peeps out tentatively, and seeing the coast clear emerges fully, rising as if from somewhere beneath. Streaks of orange light spread on the sky as I watch enthralled. The sun is now rapidly coming up, and will rule the sky until it retires for the day somewhere behind me. Time to move on – for tea, then stuffed parathas for breakfast, and a trip to the hills yonder.

One of the problems of describing breathtakingly beautiful places like Kufri or Chail is that words fail you. Although I am told the two hill resorts are absolutely splendid in the winter, they are still wonderful in summer. A short horse-ride later at an altitude of more than 8000 feet in Kufri, I am transported to a large plateau that houses the Temple of Four Great Snakes including the Shesh Naag and a medley of open air restaurants. Glum-looking yaks are lined up to entice visitors to be photographed atop the animals. A few yards away, tourists have a merry time getting ready for a photo-op, dressed in ‘traditional’ costumes provided then and there. All around us are mountain ranges that will be enveloped by snow in the winter, as the ground beneath our feet also would be. The horses are superbly trained; I am certain they can lead the tourist to the destination without any human supervision.

Chail does not any more find mention in the record books as having the highest located cricket ground on earth. The ground is still there but competitive cricket in no longer played. The expansive space is now home to students from the nearby Rashtriya Military School, who practice drills and sundry sports.

Also close by is the famous Palace Hotel, once home to the Maharaja of Patiala. It is said that, after being expelled by the British from Shimla, Bhupinder Singh, Maharaja of Patiala decided to create his own capital for the summer. The picturesque Chail was (and is) perfect. Amid deodar forests, it had (still has) a great view of Shimla and that is where the palace came up. Today it is a hotel attracting entry fee from non-resident visitors.

Mesmerizing that the two hills are, the journey itself to reach them is no less ecstatic. The roads are lined by the stiff pine (Chir and Indian Cedar) trees. Considered as most sacred by Lord Shiva, the Cedar is also appropriately called Deodar – from ‘Dev’ (God) and Daru (tree). Botanists refer to it as Cedrus deodar, thus retaining the divine in the species. The tree is the source for a variety of applications, from perfume to medicinal. Its wood once upon a time served to make sleeper berths in Indian trains.

The stern-looking Chir too belongs to the Pinaceae family. An evergreen fixture in the Himalayan region, its leaves are like sharp needles that are used in cattle sheds and for packing fruits. Pinus Roxburghii, for that is what botanists call it, also provides timber for construction of houses and furniture.

And then there are the ubiquitous rhododendron trees in full bloom all along the way. Loaded with red flowers, they dazzle the voyager with their bright contrast to the green pine trees alongside. Locals call the flower baras, which is used to make squash, jam and jellies. You can even chew the petals, for they have a nice flavour.

Discoveries never end in such places – at least for an ‘urbanite’ like me. My taxi-driver and self-appointed guide, B D Gaarg suddenly stops on the way, skips out of the vehicle and plucks a bunch of flowers. Only a while ago, he had made a similar halt to reach out to a rhododendron branch and bring in a fistful of the red beauties. The new acquisition, he tells me as I take the bunch, is called kachnaar. Hold on, I interrupt excitedly, there is an old Hindi song: kachchi kali kachnaar ki…Gaarg smiles and adds that the flower buds have many culinary uses; they are for instance used in raithas.

As I wind up for the day, I wonder why people should live anywhere else in the world, away from the Himalayan region and the tree of Gods. Maybe because so many of us do not deserve that honour, because we are bent upon destroying what nature has given us to appreciate and enjoy. One need not look beyond Shimla to understand that.

Pipli: Birthplace of an Epic

(Published in The Pioneer dated April 11, 2010)

Rajesh Singh

The summer heat has begun to tell. I get down at Pipli in Kurukshetra after a three-and-half hour bus journey from Delhi. Stepping out of the air-conditioned coach at 12.30 pm, I am confronted by a burst of hot wind and an imposing arch at the doorway of the town. On the roof is a chariot with Lord Krishna intent on persuading a non-committal Arjuna to fight a war against his tyrannical brothers and elders he has revered all his life. I am in the land of Mahabharata, where the epic war between the good and the evil was fought, where the timeless and universal sermons were rendered by Lord Krishna – to later be known as the Bhagvad Gita.

I take in the otherwise non-descript town. Is this indeed the place where the Great War happened? Small, shabbily done up shops line the two narrow roads that led into the town from the national highway. Autos race up and down with passengers clinging precariously to the iron railings and whatever else they can find as they sit – half in and half out of the vehicle. I look around for some tourist help; there is none though I am told later that there was a tourist information centre round the corner that I missed. I pass under the doorway – the Gita Dwar. I am now officially in the holy town.

I had thought that Adi Badri, where the now dried up mighty river Saraswati entered the plains after a rollicking journey through the mountains beginning in Garhwal, was close by. I wanted to visit the place. Enquiries with auto drivers and tea stall owners prove futile. None had heard of Adi Badri. Using the Google technique, I try out the key search word: Saraswati Sarovar. O yes, there is a sacred pond, but it is the Brahma Sarovar, only seven kilometres away. There is also the spot where Lord Krishna gave the Gita Sandesh, they add helpfully. They suggest that I hop into the auto for a visit. By now, having realized that I had blundered, I am determined to make the most of the serendipity of being in proximity to the great mythological event.

After ten minutes of drive in a speeding vehicle that disgorges and takes in passengers at half a dozen places, back rubbing sweat-drenched back, I reach Brahma Sarovar. A local guide, whom I encounter as I walk down the narrow lane towards the sacred pond past the Gita Birla temple and dark (power supply has been cut off) souvenir selling shops, tells me I am lucky to be here. According to Hindu mythology, Lord Brahma created the universe from the land of Kurukshetra. And the Sarovar itself became the cradle of civilisation. People come from far and wide to take a dip in the holy pond. On solar eclipses, the place teems with lakhs of devotees wanting to bathe in the waters.

My guide, whose name is Raju – though not half as debonair as the Raju of the film `Guide’ – is a competent man. He informs me that the Sarovar finds mention in the 11 century AD memoirs of Al Beruni, called ‘Kitab-ul-Hind’, and in the writings of Akbar’s court historian, Abul Fazl in his famous Akbarnama.

The Brahma Sarovar is a massive pond, with bathing steps and small bridges connecting its various ends. The guide tells me it is 1800 feet long and 1400 feet wide. The enormous size, says my guide, prompted Fazl to remark that the Sarovar was a ‘mini sea.’ He must have been indeed impressed by the devotion of millions as they gathered for the ritual bath on a solar eclipse day.

Apart from the sacredness, the heat is also a good reason to dive into the waters. I resist the temptation though; I cannot swim. I glare at Raju when he tells me encouragingly that those who perish here go straight to heaven. After all, a bath in the holy waters is equal to the rewards of an Ashvamedh Yagna.

What strikes one straightaway is the disdain that we as a people have for our heritage. Despite written appeals displayed all along the pond asking people not to use soap and bathe and not pollute the pond with dirt, there are people dipping into the waters fully soaped up. Plastic waste in large quantities bobs up and down the water. Devotees clear their throat and spit out huge lumps of dirt into the pond as they bathe – who knows they may even be urinating in the sacred Sarovar. I wonder, in doing all this can they reap the rewards of the Yagna?

One entire bank of the pond, close to the entrance, is reserved for resident swamis and devotees who have made the Sarovar their home. They eat, wash and sleep here. I see old women with matted hair wash clothes, draining all the detergent into the sacred water, clean utensils and round it all up by blowing their nose into the pond.

Easily the most imposing figure on the banks of the Sarovar is the bronze statue of a chariot pulled by horses. It is commonly referred to as the Rath. Lord Krishna as the charioteer is seen persuading Arjuna to fight a war that the mighty Pandava prince is not inclined to. A plaque informs that that the statue is 50 feet in length and 25 feet high.
As I stand in front of the chariot, I imagine the battle that took place a short distance away from the Sarovar. A confused Arjuna – with the confusion confounded by Lord Krishna’s roundabout replies – makes a vain bid to avoid the fight and asks Lord Krishna for clear-cut guidance. His appeal rings out:

“O Janardana, O Kesava, why do You urge me to engage in this ghastly warfare, if You think that intelligence is better than fruitive work? My intelligence is bewildered by Your equivocal instructions. Therefore, please tell me decisively what is most beneficial for me.”

Raju, who has meanwhile taken a dip in the holy pond, joins me with his wet clothes clinging to his lean figure. It will dry up as he stands for fifteen minutes under the sun, he cheerily says.

Bang in the midst of Vishnu territory at the Sarovar complex – Krishna after all, is said to be an avatar of Lord Vishnu – is the Sarveshwar Mahadev Temple of Lord Shiva. It is only the amazing plurality of Hinduism that makes such a thing possible, considering that Shiva and Vishnu represent two very different and often contrasting sects in Hinduism: Shaivite and Vaishnavite. In parts of the country these two are often at loggerheads, with their own muths and swamis. At the Sarovar they co-exist, and keep company with another `outsider’ – a character from Ramayana, of all things! He is Lord Hanuman, who has a temple of his own, with a perpetually large number of devotees flocking there.

We know that the Gopis were enamoured of the flirtatious Lord Krishna and desperately sought his attention. They were the seekers of truth while he was Truth himself. They tried several things to succeed, including appeasing the deity Katyayani Devi. Legend has it that she was born to sage Katyayan. The three-eyed and four-armed deity is the Sixth Aspect of Shakti. An ancient temple in her name stands on the banks of the Sarovar, attracting devotees by the thousands.

As I wind up the tour, Raju suggests that I should visit the place in November end –beginning December. That is when the Gita Jayanti celebrations are held. I promise to return. Like for the gopis, the quest for Truth, for an understanding of this world and beyond, is a journey that will never end. One seeks, and seeks again, and again…

How Indian are we?

Becoming Indian
The Unfinished Revolution of Culture and Identity
By Pavan K Varma
Allen Lane
Rs 499/-

Rajesh Singh

This is truly an Indian heart at work. Alternately anguished, upset and outraged over what it sees as growing insubordination of the Indian cultural identity to superfluous western influences, the heart skips a beat or two in its impassioned narration of the betrayal by the educated class of many things Indian – language, art, literature, architecture, films, the performing arts, mannerisms. At first glance, it may appear to be the lamentation of a spoiler, a cynic, or even a hypocrite who uses the very same medium that it derides as ‘un-Indian’ to express its very Indian outpourings. Indeed, some critics say this Indian Heart has gone overboard and is perched dangerously close to becoming a fundamentalist.

There are also those sufficiently aroused ones who have taken exception to the `assault’ on English – a universal language without which the nation would in their opinion come to a standstill. In their agitated state, they have even gone to the ludicrous extent of claiming that Indian languages actually flourished during the English rule.

But Pavan Varma is not a bigot. Disenchanted he may be, he has no cause to be a spoiler. He belongs to the elite Indian Foreign Service cadre, is a distinguished government servant and has many of the comforts of life that millions of ordinary Indians cannot even dream of. He has traveled the world, dined the best and with the best, has a job that will keep him secure even after he quits it and is miles away from the daily crises that the average Indian confronts: power outages, water scarcity, untrustworthy public transportation etc. He is after all a product of the system that he now finds stifling. What, oh, what, asks the agitated Middle class India, is wrong with this man? Someone please shut him up.

(Yes, Pavanji, it is the same Great Indian Middle Class you had lampooned in an earlier book which is out to take revenge. You have yet again dared to take it head on. Then, you had questioned its moral ethos, now, its loyalty to Indianness. How ch-e-e-p!)

So, even as the author’s critics froth around the mouth and condemn him to the cave age, with perhaps only the Vedas for company – for, in their perception the Vedas represented the caveman period – they are unable in their over-exuberance to understand that, not once does Varma in his remarkable book speak against English or the foreign attitudes. He makes just one point, over and over again, throughout the narration: be proud of your language and culture; demonstrate it, wear it on your sleeve. Platitudes will not suffice, go beyond.

The book acquires a greater meaning for us if we appreciate that it represents an inner journey for the author in search of an identity. Varma is not a preacher who is bent on converting us to his way of thinking; he is a victim of an emotional turmoil that is rocking his very cultural roots. He can no longer be ambivalent; he has to take a stand. Would he like to be swamped by the external influences or would he prefer to promote his Indian identity in ways more than merely formal? And, that is the question before us all.

One can argue that the Indian heart is a robust one and can withstand knocks one too many; that being Indian is a state of mind and not of physical display; that the likes of Varma haven’t patented the right to be Indian culture’s torch-bearers – in fact they are the cry-wolf types. Bravo! The Great Indian Middle Class at work again. But seriously, is it possible for a cultural identity to survive beyond decades and centuries if it is not practised – and thus passed on to succeeding generations? We have the recent case of nearly 200 Indian languages facing extinction because of their diminishing usage by newer generations. And, a language represents a vital thread of the nation’s cultural fabric.

But, as Varma argues, language is but one element that binds us to our culture. There are other milestones that indicate the direction our cultural instincts are taking us in. They are to be found in our art, literature, architecture, films, the performing arts, mannerisms – as mentioned earlier. The author has chosen these parameters rather cleverly as they would help a multitude of readers across the country to relate to his battle-cry. They are also fields where cultural ‘corruption’ – distinct from desirable fusion – is most alarmingly evident.

For instance, he talks of the penchant of many travellers on the Delhi-Chandigarh Shatabdi train to respond in English even when spoken to in Hindi, lest the traveller is considered uneducated. None can dispute the tendency. The fixation with the English language is all around us. In Varma’s words, the marvellous English prose of novelist Nirad Chaudhuri made him no less of a “caricature” of the “pucca Brown Sahib” or the “Brown Englishman”. The author holds him responsible for not using his “vast intellectual resources to chisel an authentic identity for himself. Instead he chose to become the most flamboyantly learned mimic of an alien civilization.”

Varma is scathing in his assault on the Indian establishment’s fawning over Western icons – and even over those who were far from being icons in their native countries. He talks of Nehru’s almost child-like fascination for things and people Western. If he had not got the New Delhi project, Lutyens would have remained unknown as he was considered a failure in the West. Le Corbusier could not get major contracts back home in France and one of his architectural plans for Paris had been summarily rejected. Yet, he is an iconic figure in India for `designing’ Chandigarh. The author of course is dismissive of both efforts. In his view, while New Delhi got planned by systematically brushing aside the cultural epicenter of the Old, thus condemning that region and the river Yamuna on which it once thrived to a pitiable existence, Chandigarh, with its over-systematic lay-out lacks the soul of India.

The author gives us an insight into what these men really thought of India and Indians. He quotes Lutyens on a train journey from Delhi to what was then Bombay: “Some fat blacks occupied the only ladies carriage – and you mustn’t occupy a carriage they have used.” In Varanasi, while cruising down the river Ganges, he remarked: “Every sort of black body doing every sort of thing.” Finally, the great Lutyens’ take on the inability of Indian princes to dance: “…a pity, but the only possible solution to the horror of seeing a black man embrace a white woman.” All in all, as Varma points out, Lutyens considered Indians to be “natives with low intellect,” – but that did not prevent Nehru from rewarding him.

It is today fashionable to think globally and shun anything that appears parochial. Thus, projecting and promoting one’s cultural identity is passé. But, as the author says, “There is no contradiction between being culturally rooted and being a global citizen. On the contrary, only those who are so rooted win genuine respect.”

As the world grapples with a number of socio-economic and political conflicts, Varma notes with a touch of deep insight, “The flashpoints of the future may appear to be political. But the real causes are rooted in the unresolved issues of culture and identity.”

Is anybody listening? The Great Indian Middle Class, especially.

Centre pays lip service to languages facing extinction

(Published in The Pioneer dated March 17,2010)
Rajesh Singh

196 endangered tongues listed in UNESCO atlas not even recognised in Census

Languages facing danger of extinction provide crucial link to cultural past


Although close to 200 Indian languages that provide a crucial link to our cultural past are in danger of extinction, the Central Government appears to pay only lip service to the cause of their revival.

When the Human Resource Development Ministry’s attention was drawn to the issue through an un-starred query in the Rajya Sabha on March 12, HRD Minister of State D Purandeswari brushed aside the issue saying the endangered languages were not even recognised as ‘languages’ in the Census of India Report, 2001.

In response to the question in the Upper House by RC Singh, the Minister said the UNESCO’s Atlas of World Languages in Danger (2009) had listed 196 Indian languages under various categories of endangerment. “However, all these languages… are not recognised as languages in the Census of India Report, 2001,” the Minister replied.

But, while the Minister stated the Indian languages mentioned in the UNESCO atlas were not recognised in the Census of India Report, 2001, the atlas provides the 2001 Census numbers for many of these languages. For instance, the 2001 Census figure for Deori — a ‘definitely endangered’ language — is 28,000 speakers; Bhadravahi language — again ‘definitely endangered’ — has 66,918 speakers left; another ‘definitely endangered’ language Kinnauri has 65,097 speakers; while Godabov has just 26,262 speakers left in Koraput (Orissa). There are more such languages in the list that carries the 2001 Census figures. If, as the Minister said in Parliament, these were not recognised as languages, why then did Census 2001 engage in collecting data on them?

In a show of magnanimity though, Purandeswari went on to mention that the Mysore-based Central Institute of Indian Languages, which functions under her Ministry, had been documenting and digitally recording several of these periled languages. The CIIL was constituted in 1969 with the primary aim to develop and promote Indian languages.

Nearly a dozen of the endangered Indian languages are of Dravidian origin, Purandeswari informed, adding that CIIL had initiated an array of activities to preserve them. She said that the Centre had “documented/digitally recorded many of these languages. Moreover, it had implemented various programmes on data collection….in which NGOs are involved”.

The atlas was presented on the eve of the International Mother Language Day (February 21), carrying the grim warning that nearly 50 per cent of the world’s 6,500 plus languages were at various levels of criticality.

The Indian languages in the ‘danger zone’ are spread across the country, from the far north in Jammu & Kashmir to Tamil Nadu and Andhra Pradesh and the North-east in Assam and Manipur. In fact, of the five Indian languages already declared extinct by the UNESCO atlas, three — Ahom, Andro and Sengmai — belonged to the North-east, while Rangkas and Tolcha were spoken in Uttarakhand.

If one goes by the Minister’s reply, 11 languages spoken in and around Andhra Pradesh alone are endangered. These are: Gutob, Gondi, Irula, Konda, Kolami, Korwa, Kui, Kurru, Kuvi, Kuruba and Naiki.

Gutob belongs to the Austro-Asiatic family of languages and is spoken in Koraput district of Orissa and Srikakulam and Visakhapatnam districts of Andhra Pradesh. With no authoritative estimates available of the number of speakers — with the Government unconcerned about the statistics — the figure is said to vary between 32,500 and 54,000.

The Gutobs began shifting to the more modern version — the ‘Desiya’ language - some six decades ago. As things stand now, reports estimate that as high as 80 per cent or more have cut their links from their heritage tongue and no longer speak the language.

An observer remarked that the younger generation avoided speaking in Gutob lest they are branded as ‘outdated’.

Similar is the case with Kolami language. Of the 2,00,000 people who speak the central Dravidian languages, Kolami has the largest number of speakers, approximately 1,22,000, and has borrowed heavily from Telugu. Yet the language continues to languish and die for want of patronage.

One language used — though its patronage is rapidly shrinking — in Chhattisgarh and Jharkhand, besides the Dravidian belt, is Korwa. The Korwa-speaking people are tribals who live in the States' forests and hills. They are socially and economically poor (it is estimated that 60 per cent of Korwa people are below the poverty line) and outsiders often look down on them because of this.

Many of these languages sound exotic today, but they will not even be heard of in a few years' time. When that happens, a vital connection of the Indian people with their rich cultural history will be gone forever.

Sita as an empowered Indian woman

Rajesh Singh

The other day Rahul Mahajan got married on a reality TV show. His marriage was of course for real, and one wishes him well in life. Some one remarked that the show was a tribute to the new Indian woman who had taken the unconventional path to choosing a life partner. He said that it was the coming of age of the Indian Woman.

As I watched the final scenes of the show, I was reminded of a comment a young woman had made some months ago in connection with the Ramayana. "I do not wish to be a Sita -- meek and submissive. I am the new Indian woman!"

Three 'new Indian women' stood decked in bridal finery, fluttering nervously and waiting to be chosen in the final episode. The 'new Indian women' felt nothing wrong in being commoditised and rejected in front of a live audience of lakhs across the country. As for the mythological Sita to whom our young friend had disparagingly referred, remember that she had chosen her groom on her terms. If this is not women empowerment, what is!

It should be clear to the reader, if he or she were under some illusion, that the character of Sita in the epic was never meant to be submissive in the face of injustice – to her personally and to the female gender. One must realise that she could not have become the icon she is by being a frail figure, forever manipulated and bent by a patriarchal system. And, as events were to prove, her devotion to her husband and willingness to be his partner through thick and thin could not be interpreted as a sign of subordination. Let us look at some of the instances where her dominance is undisputed.

 At her father’s home before marriage, Sita would routinely lift Shiva’s bow with her left hand while mopping the floor. It is the same heavy bow that several strong princes failed to move even an inch from the ground at her svayamvara. Only Ram succeeded and married her. Thus, Sita actually set the ground rule for choosing her groom. Is this a sign of a weak woman?

 When Rama was exiled for 14 years, Sita insisted on accompanying him. Her husband told her categorically that she should not do so as the exile order was only for him, but she overruled him in the presence of a number of people. Does this indicate her ‘meekness’?

 Abducted by Ravana and surrounded by adversaries, she successfully fobbed off his advances and threats made directly and through others. The Lankan king failed to persuade her despite using all means at his disposal. Does this not show her determination and resolve in the face of a grim situation?

 Banished from the kingdom by Ram, a then pregnant Sita later brought up her two children as a single mother, imbibing in them the qualities of valour and fair play. And when they in their boyhood captured her brother-in-law Laxman, she rushed to get him released, keeping aside her grief at having been wronged by his family. Surely, this is a sign of a strong and very mature woman.

 In large parts of north India, the standard greeting is: Jai Siya-Ram. Sita gets preference while Ram is the suffix. Again, most bhajans and kirtans end with the cry: Bol Siyavar Ramchandra ki jai!. Ram's identity is thus as the groom of Sita. Are these not indications of the prominence that Sita has, even in relation with her husband?

 Finally, it was her decision to leave the world as a rebuttal to a demand to prove she had not been ‘defiled’ while away from the kingdom. Given her wrath over the humiliation and determination, it is unlikely that Rama would have been able to persuade her to change her mind even if he had tried. In the end, Sita set and lived by her own terms. It is not easy to find a better example of determined womanhood.

The book, In Search of Sita: Revisiting Mythology/Edited by Malashri Lal & Namita GokhaleYatra Books/Penguin Books/Rs 399/- provides excellent interpretations of the mythological character. Sita has been in the country’s subconsciousness for centuries largely as the ideal Indian Woman.

What makes the book even more special is the ideological space it provides to writers with different bends of mind. So, if there is Meghnad Desai and Indira Goswami, there is also Tarun Vijay and Karen Gabriel – the latter weaving for the reader an interesting Sita-Draupadi syntax in a gender context.

In Search of Sita is, thus, in many ways a tribute to an ancient icon by modern India.