Privilege
Written in the waning days of 2019.
A roar of protest goes up in the crowded room as the children at a lunch party are grouped together for a photograph. We aren’t kids anymore, they protest. It’s true. The youngest is almost sixteen now and the oldest is probably twenty six years old. They have known each other all their lives, these bright, beautiful young people, full of joy and laughter, eager to meet life head on. Their future can be anything they choose to make of it. They have the privilege of choice, of opportunity, of financial resources. They have lived in a bubble all their lives, a bubble carefully nurtured by us, their parents. Sheltered, protected, pampered by the fine things in life. The best education this country has to offer, comfortable homes, chauffeur driven cars – these are not luxuries to our children.
I have forbidden myself from raising the one subject uppermost on the minds of most fellow citizens – the new bill, soon to be a law, that may alienate and isolate large sections of our population, based at best on their ability to prove their ancestry, and at worst, on their religion. My politics don’t go down well in this group of friends. In a social group that is largely apolitical or pro- establishment, it is best to keep one’s liberal, leftist views to oneself. Today is a happy day and I have memories of past parties where my inarticulate tongue has mangled the clear thoughts in my head, leading to a less than convivial atmosphere and embarrassing my hosts beyond apology.
So I content myself by observing the young people and eavesdropping on snatches of their conversation. Some of them are local collegians, some are on winter break from university abroad, a few are still in high school and some are graduates, out in the real world. I wait to hear any of these articulate, intelligent youngsters bring up the issue that has been convulsing the youth of the country since a fortnight at least. I wait in vain. Not one brings up an argument for or against the Act, no one has attended a protest march for or against the Act. They seem oblivious to or clueless about the seething emotions and age old divisive lines that are again threatening this country,its unity and its constitution. Or perhaps their good breeding forbids them from bringing up politics at a lunch party. Perhaps some have been warned in advance by their parents, don’t set off Sanaya, we’ll never hear the end of it. They are obedient and well behaved, our children.
I think of other young people I know. Equally privileged, beloved of their families and educated at the best schools. I think of their distorted faces as they raise slogans and their fists, as they duck under lathi charges and face water cannons defiantly. Hindustan kisi ke baap ka hai kya? NAHI! they scream. They are active on social media, disseminating information, correcting misconceptions, standing up, speaking out. Their fancy colleges wait for them to return, their parents worry about their safety, these are not abandoned jobless trouble makers as the powers-that-be and the establishment imagine. These are articulate, concerned citizens, fighting for equal rights for all Indians, standing up to the bullying tactics of an increasingly fascist regime, taking on a police force shamelessly protecting the views of their political masters, refusing to allow the destruction of our Constitution.
There couldn’t be a greater contrast between the two groups of young people. Both are invested in their futures. The first can and often choose a future away from the upheaval that is life in India. As a parent, I too encourage my kids to go down this path of least resistance. Increasingly, being a member of a minority community makes this decision less fraught with guilt and shame. Or so I tell myself in the dark night.
The second group of young people chooses to fight for their future in this country. The same schools, the same families, yet a vast gulf of incomprehension and misconception yawns between my lunch time friends and the kids gathered at Azad Maidan or in Jamia, vocalising their anger at having the very foundations of our democracy desecrated by the politicians.
Once, I believed in this country and its constitution. I am unsure what it is that I believe in anymore. I thought I had passed on my love for this country to my kids. I wonder now, if, instead of a clear, unambiguous love, what I passed on was hesitant and doubtful, a take it or leave it kind of love. Then again, perhaps that message (of unequivocal fellowship, of belief in the diversity and solidarity that this country stands for) got through loud and clear. I dare to hope when my eldest asks me if he is right to have blocked a friend on social media who supports the recent police brutality. I answer absentmindedly that as long as he is convinced of the wrong actions of the police, he is quite right to block his friend. Now I see I missed a chance to explain myself further – that sometimes, possibly every time, humanity trumps friendship. He may have figured this out for himself. My son has depths to his character that I often underestimate. Have I also underestimated my young friends at that party? Resisting a wrong may take different routes. Not all protesters raise their voices or spill out on the streets. Perhaps these kids write impassioned pieces on these subjects or discuss it quietly amongst themselves. Perhaps they have promised themselves to never surrender their souls to fascism.
Still, the silence amidst the happy noise at the party deafened me.
So while my dreams are given to the hearts and minds of my beloved children, children I gave birth to and whose births in friends’ homes I celebrated, I keep my hopes for my beloved country alive in the spirits and voices of those children I only know through my social media feed – the girl with raised finger against a lathi wielding, masked cop, the boy reciting a wry list of things his mother tells him but which he’d like to tell the PM, the boys standing guard over friends praying namaaz.
No one group is right, or wrong. Circumstances and priorities, values that were taught to them or not, these colour their present indifference or passion. But the day will come when we parents ask our children or our children ask us: Where were you when the battle for the soul of this country was being fought?
What answer will we give our children then? What answer will our children give us?
Awesome post! Keep up the great work! 🙂