I cite these examples from history to draw a stark comparison with recent years. It is worth wondering what has happened to our spirits now. How did our dissenting voices, which have historically risen against forces squashing our freedom, become so enfeebled?
When Indira Gandhi declared the Emergency and censored the press in 1975, we were distressed for a while, but then became inured to it and went about our lives. The majority of us sits by and watches when talented artists, writers, film-makers and members of the press are persecuted by religious groups, political parties or the authorities. In 2016, after the initial shock, we ultimately shrugged off our anguish about Kanhaiya Kumar’s arrest. In 2017, we have been told what we cannot eat after the government ban on the sale and purchase of cattle for slaughter, and we obey. Often, we cannot express in traditional and social media views contrary to those of the establishment, and we go with that. We have surrendered, given up the fight to differ. When our freedom to freely express our emotions is curbed by an authority, we briefly worry, but soon after, we calm down by telling ourselves that this restraint must be for our own good.
We have been ‘brainwashed’, first by the British and thereafter by our politicians. In neuroscience, the phenomenon of ‘brainwashing’ has been proven—research shows that repeated transmission of the same message eases the replacement of an old belief structure by a new one in our brain.19 The technique of brainwashing has been used in ancient sexual initiation rites, rhythmic singing in primitive societies, and in evangelical speeches in many parts of the world. Now, it can be seen in political rhetoric the world over as politicians repeat a particular message constantly in their speeches to induce a change in attitude among their audience. The rhetoric that has been hammered into our heads by anyone who has wanted to govern India is that we Indians need to mind our expressive ways. This is part of the psychological foundations upon which contemporary Indian society is now being built.
And so we accept to be stopped short of speaking up, writing and expressing, or creating works of art that reflect the soul. We are left under-confident and suspicious of our own natural tendency to uninhibited expression. Our films—which tend to be an explosion of emotions, songs, dance and elaborate fights—are considered to be good ‘art movies’ when they are more restrained. On the other hand we find it odd, but ultimately accept the chopping of all sex scenes by the CBFC, a government authority which advocates that adults cannot express their sexuality even in their bedrooms. Why? Because we, the people from the land of the Kamasutra, are too barbaric to know whom to have sex with and when, so our expressions of love and desire need to be controlled.
Ultimately, the contrast is glaring: on the one hand, Indians have thrived on unbridled self-expression, while on the other, the freedom of expression allowed to us is consistently and dangerously restricted.
When I moved from Geneva to Delhi, I observed that people in India liked to talk. But after a few years here, I also discovered a unique pattern of conversation starters I had never experienced anywhere else in the world. The first set of questions I was usually asked by someone I met socially for the first time would be: ‘Where do you live?’, ‘What do you do?’ Both questions were often asked in the same breath. With my response, my interrogator would have sized me up, placing me mentally in the hierarchy of social status. Did I belong to ‘high society’ and therefore deemed good enough to be befriended? I was used to people in Europe being friendly without getting on to personal territory during initial conversations, but in Delhi, it was quite the opposite.
Contrary to my education, which had taught me that ‘name dropping’ was anathema, in Delhi, if you knew a well-known person even remotely, then you had the licence to announce him or her as your ‘close friend’ in public at the first opportunity.
Then came the point in the conversation when the other person spoke about his or her own self. I had been taught to be understated, to reveal little, and instead be gradually revealed to the other person in the conversation. Instead, those I met would immediately jump into a monologue of—I only later deciphered—a rather exaggerated version of their life story.
Meeting someone for the second time around was even more bizarre. The trend was to seem forgetful about the people you have met. I was only later explained this simple logic—if you recognize the person immediately (even if you actually do remember them), it would mean that you don’t meet enough people in a day, and therefore you are socially or professionally (or both) unsuccessful.
And if both parties do recollect meeting each other earlier, the answer to the innocent question ‘How are you?’ must unfailingly be ‘Terribly busy’. To be not busy here, I learnt, signified being unwanted and therefore unimportant. In every other country I had lived in, such a question usually elicited a more optimistic or at least a more emotionally neutral answer.
There is certainly no right or wrong way of conducting an appropriate conversation, and comparisons of cultural moorings in this regard can be brushed aside as, at most, amusing. However, my only—and intensely depressing—discovery in the social circuits of Delhi was that ideas and hypocrisy in a conversation were two sides of the same coin. And my only solace lay in the fact that these interactions were perhaps specific to their own local sphere, and not representative of the rest
