It took India 2 weeks to condemn Rushdie attack: Shame!

IN PERSPECTIVE

It has taken the central government two full weeks to condemn the attack on Salman Rushdie, and that too by a spokesperson of the External Affairs Ministry in response to a question at a formal press briefing

“We condemn the attack and wish him a speedy recovery” could have been formally said of any victim of attempted murder, but not regarding one of the greatest literary figures of the modern world. Salman Rushdie straddled two centuries with panache and elegance. If the Iranian government placed a fatwa on his head in 1988 and offered an additional three million dollars as a reward for his assassination, the Indian government in 2022 has simply dispatched the author by not acknowledging the scale of his talent or eminence as a writer.

But that should not come as a surprise. Our politicians, with their gross insensitivity to the finer things in life, added to their own ridiculous vanity, cannot be expected to understand, let alone appreciate, anything beyond their petty world of politics. Have we not seen this same callousness when it comes to any form of art? We cast away our best painters saying their work offends our sensibilities. We remove entire scenes from our best cinematic productions in the guise of upholding moral standards. We change their titles to hide their identity. We even go to the extent of obfuscating the truth on the pretext that the truth may offend some viewers. We stifle news saying that it may create a law and order problem.

As for writers, journalists, cartoonists, poets and artistes of all hues, we freely dictate what should be written or sketched or played or sung – and run our scissors freely on essays, cartoons, books or even music and dance performances. The Tamil writer Perumal Murugan, who wrote the book Madhorubagan, which was translated into English with the title One Part Woman, is an example of our lack of appreciation for creativity. Without going into the details of the ritual behind his story of this deity representing the concept of male and female, the book was banned and the author hounded until he gave a written apology to chastise his own book. Afterwards, the author went public on social media to declare “Perumal Murugan, the writer is dead.” That the reputed singer T M Krishna gave voice to this writer by setting his verses to music and singing them to keep them alive is another story of art surviving against all odds. Yet, no words can describe the pain and the grief of an author who was made to apologise for his work.

When those in authority lack sensitivity to appreciate the beauty of great art, whether it is music or literature, creativity must yield to mediocrity. When the powerful court musicians tore off parts of Mozart’s brilliant composition, La Figaro, the music died, and the opera was conducted in painful silence. A powerful statement indeed. Imagine an artiste forced to destroy his own creation. It is an open invitation for mediocrity to thrive. I am sure Rushdie will not miss India’s concern for his life or work.

When the Satanic Verses was published in 1988, the Indian government vacillated in its initial reaction. “To ban or not to ban….” was the question troubling an inexperienced Prime Minister still fresh from the complexities of the Shah Bano case. He had no fond mother any more to advise him on delicate State matters. After dithering for some time, Rajiv Gandhi banned the controversial verses while an amused Rushdie teased, “I wonder if the honourable Prime Minister has read my book…!”

This is not the first time that Rushdie has faced public wrath. As an interesting aside, I have seen him face public humiliation with utter indifference. It was in New York, at an event to fete him and his former wife, the glamourous Padma Lakshmi, who dominated the show with her flippant talk, to the delight of journalism students from nearby Columbia University. When they asked what she thought of her husband’s books, she replied “Haven’t read a word of what he writes – not even his grocery list!” Rushdie sat there, unperturbed.

Coming back to the present, it is high time that India exhibited more pride in its extraordinary writers, artistes, and thinkers. Why do we wait for the world’s approval before we recognise their talent? Why must our outstanding sportspersons remain in the shadows until some international organisation rewards them? Scientists, economists, mathematicians have fled this country in search of recognition for their work. It took a Hardy and a Trinity College in Cambridge to recognise one of the greatest mathematicians of the last century, who was languishing in the accounts department of the Port Trust of India as a petty clerk. We have not travelled far since then if it took us a fortnight to condemn the attempted assassination of one of India’s illustrious writers.