A Day Spent Working with
“Independent Media”
(Writter is part of the editorial collective of the Indian Writers’ Forum)
I am travelling back after a day at work. There is a
submission of a poem I have to respond to. I am going
to reject it but I am looking for words that can reject
the poem. I want to reject the poem, not the person, and
treading through that line is more difficult than I thought it
to be. Since we run Indian Cultural Forum, and indulge in
cultural politics, we must indulge in the “political poem”.
Most of the times, the submissions we receive for those are
definitely political, and definitely not a poem.
Meanwhile, there’s another problem. We run with, what
we call, an editorial collective, which means there are no
editors, sub editors, sub-dub editors, managing editors
and the like. Everyone has a say, everyone is equal, and
sometimes, when tempers flare among members of the
collective, I wish there was someone who could simply
come and say, “That’s rubbish, you have to publish this,
not that. That’s rubbish.” The current debate is on a series
we are running now, called “Indian Memories of Meat”.
One of the members feel that the tone is too light; we are
simply celebrating a non-issue. The issue is of livelihoods
lost because the state has given a free hand to gau rakshaks,
mostly in North India, and particularly in the state of Uttar
Pradesh. What we have decided to follow is simply too
jovial. How can we celebrate our food habits when people
are attacked on the street? People are dying, dying! Death,
a word that comes so close to our lives that we choose to
overlook it, and if you are in India, the more your privilege,
the more the chances are of overlooking. Some people
don’t have that luxury: death, or its possibility, overlooks
their lives.
But, we try to reason, we can still remember to find some
laughter in our everyday lives. So what the Fascists are
here? We will, of course, out with our fangs open in the
streets when the time comes, but is it sinful to remember
that we can still have our moments of laughter. After all,
why are we so worried of beef if it didn’t taste the way
it did? But, angry editorial collective member retorts, the
poor don’t seem to enjoy so much; your enjoyment is a
sign of your class and caste privilege. Sure, it is. But are
we too presumptuous because we try to frame the poor, the
lower castes, when they are humiliated the most? Do they
not have their own moments of laughter and joy? What are
they like?
Souradeep Roy
At a talk organised by this privileged editorial collective
in association with another privileged university, the not
so privileged Bezwada Wilson, convener of the Sakai
Karmachari Andolan, says that we could not eat with his
own hands after a day of manually scavenging shit. When
he left his house to start the movement, however, we did
not face the problem of hunger. I ate well in some other
house, someone always offered me food; I was liberated
when I decided to step out of my caste work, I was liberated
when I not at home.
“At Home and Outside” is the English translation of
Rabindranath Tagore’s novel Ghare Baire. Later, a new
translation was published by the name of The Home and
the World, and this title lived a longer life. I prefer “At
Home and Outside” more. Where do we like to see the
poor in this country? Toiling outside in the fields; working,
working, working all the time. At home, if there is a home
to return to, they eat, if there is enough to eat. And I am quite
sure they enjoy a nicely cooked meal as much we enjoy
our own. Once, also while coming back from the office we
booked an Ola cab. I asked my colleagues in the editorial
collective, where do you find good biryani near Munirka?
The consensus was that you may find biryani in Munirka,
but your Bengali preference for potatoes in biryani cannot
be met anywhere. Suddenly, our driver jumped in: you
have to do to Old Delhi. Then, he listed the places I have
to go to and the dishes n each of the hotels: Noori ki nahari
near Bara Hindu Rao; roasted fried chicken in Aslam and
Chicken Changezi in Shahid, Taufi biryani wala: all near
Jama Masjid. Brilliant. I have met the perfect subaltern all
independent media waits for. tell him we are doing a series
called “Indian Memories of Meat”. Will he be willing to
share some of his memories or recipes? Sure, he says,
and then lists his days with camel meat (not too good);
pigeons; deer (don’t tell anyone, you’ll be jailed). Stop, I
say, I will publish meat recipes that are legal. So, no deer.
Can you come to our office once? Sure, he says, I have no
time. I keep getting booked for some ride or another.
I return home, pack something for dinner. I imagine our
driver returning home after taking a few more rides. I
imagine him walking into Taufi biryani wala. I met him
outside, I imagine him home.
Nidhin Nath
Theyyam 7