The Business Standard column: Lives, Unsanitised

(Published in the Business Standard, April 24, 2012)


Before the digital camera age, the venerable photo studios in most large Indian cities offered a tactful service for the recently bereaved.

Just as honeymooners were offered fake backgrounds—castle, Kashmir lake, eerily white Himalayas, portraits of the dead could be retouched to make the departed’s resemblance to a gargoyle less obvious. Mahatta’s, for instance, added a touch of actual paint to photographs to simulate rouge or lipstick; the paint slowly flaked off, gently ageing the dead as time passed.

One of the reasons why we have very little in the way of interesting contemporary Indian biographies of the famous stems from this need to garland the dead with metaphorical marigolds. The recent persecution of Peter Heehs, who has lived and worked in India for many years, for his biography of Sri Aurobindo, might be seen in this context.

His biography, a work of careful scholarship, is being attacked not because it is inaccurate, but because it interferes with the very Indian demand for a strictly sanitized version of the lives of the famous--as Heehs has said, his critics are “interested in establishing a Sri Aurobindo religion with themselves as popes, priests etc”.

There isn’t much point invoking Heehs’ right to free speech as a biographer—the right to independent, critical inquiry into the life of a public figure clashes with too many deep-rooted Indian beliefs. If you put two favourite North Indian admonishments together, they don’t leave much room for a cultural defence of free speech. Between “zubaan sambhal lo”—hold your tongue—and “aukat me raho”—stay within your bounds, it’s hard to argue that India today has a deep, abiding belief in the value of free speech.

This argument, extended, might also help us understand a fairly recent phenomenon: the persecution of scholars like Heehs, or before him, James Laine, Wendy Doniger and even journalists like Joseph Lelyveld, on the grounds of their foreignness. The crude argument leveled against Doniger and Laine was a racist one that ignored the accuracy of their research into either Hinduism or Shivaji’s life, in favour of the reductive argument that being foreigners, they could not possibly understand the subjects of their study.

When the Passport Office begins to examine the papers of a scholar like Heehs, to see whether he should be allowed to stay in a country where he has lived or worked for years, we’re back with the widespread belief that “outsiders” have no right to write about us. This is paralleled by the fear that “foreign” scholars will not respect the Indian need to enshrine and embalm either the dead, or the dead past.

Perhaps this is why so many arguments that are ostensibly over free speech issues lose their way in the murk, as one side invokes (Indian) culture and the other invokes a (Western) tradition of free speech. The defenders of free speech will always lose this version of the battle as these firangi principles are interrogated by the Indian thought control police.

But an issue that is often obscured is that Heehs and scholars like him are writing in exact accordance with the Indian tradition of biography and autobiography. In 2007, for instance, Professor Tapan Raychaudhuri published Bangal-nama, his memoirs—translated as The World In Our Time by HarperCollins recently. His memories of growing up in Barisal and Calcutta also include a thoughtful critique of Indian nationalism, and the slow erosion by which Muslims and the rural Indians stopped supporting or became invisible in the ranks of the Indian National Congress over time.

The freedom that Raychaudhuri accords himself when discussing national heroes or difficult subjects like bigotry is an old freedom. It can be seen, for instance, in Harivansh Rai Bachchan’s wonderful autobiography, In The Afternoon of Time, which in passing reveals that his sons, Amitabh and Ajitabh, were almost named Inquilab and Azad.

But it also includes a very amusing section on how the furore over his Madhushala poems grew to the point where he needed a certificate from Gandhi: “There’s no wine-glorifying in these verses!” said the Mahatma, rendering Bachchan’s poetry fit for mass consumption again. Nor does Bachchan hold back when it comes to describing his friend and fellow poet Nirala’s struggles with madness; he does this with compassion, but with the understanding that both biography and autobiography require truth, not elision.

The candour that Heehs and others like him claim is a very Indian quality, then. It can be seen in Mulk Raj Anand’s biography and Vaikom Muhammad Basheer’s letters, in the completely open letters and autobiography of Gandhi, and it might be glimpsed in Sri Aurobindo’s letters, too. “I am afraid I shall never be good for much in the way of domestic virtues,” Sri Aurobindo writes to his father-in-law. “I fear you must take me as I am with all my imperfections on my head.”

It’s excellent advice, especially to those who seek to embalm his life, garlanding him with dead marigolds.

The BS column: The Saint Sonia Syndrome

(Published in the Business Standard, June 8, 2010)













A few months ago, Norberto Fuentes wrote an autobiography of Fidel Castro, a book that starts and ends in Castro’s voice, where by page 150 the reader has forgotten that this is a fictional creation. Fuentes’ relationship with Fidel was a dark and troubled one; he was once one of Castro’s supporters, then one of Castro’s prisoners, and finally one of Cuba’s exiles.

The Autobiography of Fidel Castro, unauthorized and unacknowledged by its subject, reads like the most venomous of letters from a disillusioned lover: Fuentes was close enough to Fidel to know exactly where to put the knife in, whether he’s describing Fidel’s real thoughts on Che Guevara or his fascination with the bloody exactness of the guillotine. In its original Spanish edition, Fuentes’ fictionalized autobiography is pulling readers in, despite its thousand-page bulk—in part because it fills an unusual gap. Castro, unlike most dictators, has never written his memoirs, and inexact, fictionalized and dependent on Fuentes imagination though it is, his Autobiography fills a need among readers to know more than the sanitized, official hagiographies will offer.

In India, a biography of Sonia Gandhi is available. Written by Rasheed Kidwai, it is dutiful, thorough, respectful—not, in fact, a terribly exciting read. It sold well when it came out, in the absence of better material. In the years since Kidwai wrote his biography and since Javier Moro, the writer-nephew of Dominique Lapierre, penned his “fictional biography” of the Indian Congress Party leader, there have been no better biographies of Mrs Gandhi.

The Red Sari, Moro’s slightly breathless account of Sonia Maino’s life before and after she became Mrs Rajiv Gandhi, has been attacked in a tide of rising hysteria by Congress loyalists. Currently, Moro has been threatened with defamation suits if he publishes the book in India; his publishers, Roli Books, are holding firm and Moro is annoyed enough to have threatened his own lawsuit in turn. The question of defamation—if any—is one for the courts to decide; but defamation only applies if you get the facts of a person’s life wrong.

The Congress point of view, summarized by the arguments of spokesperson Dr Abhishek Singhvi, appears to be that since this is not an authorized biography, it shouldn’t be published. There are also allegations of defamatory material—none of these can be judged until The Red Sari is published here. Moro’s prose tends to the purple, but it’s not very likely with his background as a decent researcher and with Roli’s experience that the book contains much libelous matter. With respect, here are three things the Congress might want to consider.

1) If you’re a public figure, you’re fair game for fiction: The ethics of the fictional biography/ autobiography have yet to be established, but as Paul Theroux knew when he wrote Sir Vidia’s Shadow about his friendship with VS Naipaul, it’s perfectly kosher to write about someone who’s already in the public eye. Moro allows himself to speculate about Sonia Gandhi’s thoughts and feelings—but by calling his work a fictional biography, he’s covered his bases. The famous have lives that can be researched, are often exhaustively covered, and are of great interest to the ordinary public—as long as the writer isn’t making up stuff, he’s on safe ground. Or more bluntly, the famous make excellent raw material for a book. And free speech covers the right to speculate about the inner lives of the powerful. If Castro and Obama can take it, so can Sonia.

2) Don’t be an unpaid publicist for the other guy: The Congress hysteria over The Red Sari has brought it front-page stories, prime time television slots and added anything from 5,000 to 10,000 potential readers to Moro’s audience. Presumably Roli Books and Moro are less than grateful because of the aggravation they’ve been caused, but the Congress PR machine might want to consider that their campaign has raised far more interest in The Red Sari than any publisher would have been able to achieve unaided.

3) Do it the Obama way: There’s no question of an unauthorized biography of Barack Obama doing anywhere as well as his own accounts of his life have done. Why? Because Obama’s autobiographical writings are searingly honest, detailed and brilliantly written. The sleazy, gossipy biography or the fictionalized biography just can’t compete. If Sonia Gandhi wrote her own memoirs, or authorized a really good biographer to write a no-holds-barred account of her life, there’d be no room for the overblown romanticism of The Red Sari. Given that its only competition is a hagiography, Moro’s book will do brilliantly. What would you rather read, the life of St Sonia, or an exaggerated but human account of Sonia Maino’s journey to become Sonia Gandhi?