The book's the thing

And, as the life of Salman Rushdie proves, words are the only victors

 

“If I can’t burn you,” he told her, “I can certainly burn your book, which I don’t need to read to know that it’s full of unsuitable and forbidden thoughts, and then you will die and be forgotten, and nobody will know your name…What do you say to that?”

 

That is the threat delivered to Pampa Kampana, the semi-magical, demi-goddess heroine of Salman Rushdie’s new novel, Victory City. But it is hard not to see the author himself as the recipient, given what we know of his personal history. Subject to a kill order by the fanatical Ayatollah-led regime of Iran, Rushdie spent decades in hiding, while his book, The Satanic Verses, was burnt in the streets across the world by people who had never read as much as single chapter (or even a single word). 

 

But Rushdie did not die. He lived to tell several other tales. He lived to love (and marry) several other women. He lived to emerge from hiding and appear at literary events, where he was celebrated as a literary demi-God himself.

 

And then, came that fateful morning in August last year, when he went on stage at Chautauqua (New York) and was attacked by a fanatical young man who stabbed him 15 times in a mad frenzy. Remarkably, Rushdie survived the attack, though he lost the use of one hand and sight in one eye as a consequence. 

 

The manuscript of Victory City was delivered before this attack happened. But it is in keeping with the magic realism that powered Rushdie’s literary career, that his loss of eyesight (in one eye) is mirrored in the attack on his heroine, Pampa Kampana, who ends up being blinded in both. Does the author have a sideline in prophecy? Did he have a presentiment of what was coming round the corner? Or was this just the mother of coincidences, the kind that no writer would have the guts to magic up? I guess we will never know. 

 

The parallels with the author’s own life aside, Victory City marks a return to form for Rushdie, whose last few novels were less that well-received. Loosely based on the rise and fall of the real-life kingdom of Vijaynagar (Bisnaga in the book) in South India, it tells the story of how dynasties are created and destroyed, how magic has its own limitations, how religious tolerance is an ideal that many aspire to but few achieve, and how women struggle to make their place in a world ruled by patriarchy.

 

It is possible to read this book as a sort of feminist fable. It is a woman, Pampa Kampana, who is possessed by a goddess and creates a whole kingdom through magic, whispering entire histories into the ears of its population. She lives for 247 years and marries three kings, and remains in power for almost as long as she lives in exile. But in the end, the patriarchal world has its revenge on her, leaving her blind and broken, and longing for death to release her from this mortal coil.

 

As she writes in the history of Bisnaga she leaves behind: “I myself am nothing now. All that remains is this city of words. Words are the only victors.”

 

One suspects, that in writing that, Rushdie was writing his own epitaph. Though, God willing, he won’t need that for a while yet.

The Big Ban Theory

If banning stuff is the new ‘in’ thing, then here’s my own wish list

In case you haven’t noticed, this is the season of bans. Beef has been banned in Maharashtra; anyone found in possession of it or selling it will be jailed for five years and fined Rs 10,000. The Central Board of Film Certification issued a list of all the ‘bad’ words that would henceforth be banned in the movies (though there has been some furious back-pedalling on the issue since). The movie, Fifty Shades Of Grey, based on the best-selling erotic novel of the same name, has been banned as well, in case it corrupted our morals. And, most famously, the Government of India has banned the documentary, India’s Daughter, made by Leslee Udwin, on the December 2012 gang rape in Delhi (though a defiant BBC went ahead and aired it anyway, and millions have since seen it on the Internet).

On a visceral level, I am opposed to the banning of anything, whether it is The Satanic Verses or M.F. Husain’s nude portraitures of Hindu goddesses. Freedom of expression is meaningless if it does not come with the right to offend. That is why even those who did not necessarily agree with the views of the Charlie Hebdo cartoonists chose to march the streets with placards proclaiming Je Suis Charlie. The fact that you disagree with a point of view – as expressed in a painting, a cartoon, a book, a movie, or a documentary – is not reason enough to ban it. Look away if it offends you; but defend the rights of those who choose to do otherwise.

But given that bans seem to be the flavor of the month, I decided to follow that old maxim: if you can’t beat them, join them. So here, for the kind consideration of the Government of India, are just some of the things I would like banned. I would be much obliged if the same could be taken under its kind consideration (that’s proper bureaucratic-speak, in case you’re wondering, so that the babus can do the needful!).

• Let’s ban all netas from commenting on rape. That way we would be spared such gems as: “How can you hang someone for rape; boys make mistakes sometimes” (Mulayam Singh Yadav, SP leader). Or “rape cases are on the rise because men and women interact with each other more freely now” (Mamata Banerjee, West Bengal chief minister). Or “If a girl is dressed decently, a boy will not look at her in the way wrong way. If they (women) want freedom, why don’t they just roam around naked” (Manohar Lal Khattar, Haryana chief minister). I could go on, but this is depressing enough.
• A ban should also be imposed on all those who would interfere with women’s reproductive rights. So, no more Sakshi Maharajs telling us that Hindu women should produce at least four children. Or Shymal Goswami (BJP leader from West Bengal) increasing the count to five. And certainly, no raising the limit to ten kids, as the Shankaracharya of Badrikashram, did recently. How many kids she has is up to every individual woman; whether the count is 0 or 10 is entirely up to her.
• If you are going to ban beef then you have a moral obligation to ban tofu too. It’s Chinese in origin, tastes of nothing, destroys every dish it comes into contact with, and did I mention that it is Chinese? No good can come of tofu; let’s get rid of it from our shops, our tables, our restaurants, our shores. Let’s give paneer a chance, instead.
• Ban cell phones in movie theatres. No, turning on the silent mode is not enough. The odds are that some self-important sod will neglect to do so, and his phone will emit a shrill ring just as a crucial scene of the movie is playing. Then, he will take ages to answer, ignoring all the baleful looks cast in his direction, until he finally picks up to stage-whisper, “Sorry, can’t talk now. Am watching a movie.” And sorry, but even phones that have been silenced are a complete nuisance. They flash incessantly through the movie, with new messages and calls coming through, quite ruining the theatre-going experience.
• High heels must go. They are just instruments of torture, inflicted on women for centuries now. And alas, we are such suckers for punishment that we have clasped them to our soles and refuse to let go, never mind those aching backs and painful knees (not to mention the bunions). If you tried to sell men shoes that made walking – let alone running – an exercise in pain, they would laugh in your face. So, why don’t women just say ‘no’ when it comes to high heels? Well, never mind. Just ban the horrid things already. 
• Ban all fairy tales that teach young girls that they need rescuing. That their only salvation lies in a handsome young prince who will come riding up on a shining white horse and save them from an unhappy fate. And that they will then live happily ever after. Stop telling them these stories; you are just setting them up for disappointment.