Subramaniam
had no idea where he had been. All he
could remember was the shipwreck and the lifeboat which he was pushed on to
along with a few others. The huge waves
that tossed the boat up and down.
When
he opened his eyes a few men, naked except for the rags tied round their
groins, were standing round his staring into his eyes. There was fear in those eyes as much as
curiosity. A couple of the men carried a
bow and arrow each.
It
didn’t take him long to realise that he had landed up on the island of some
primitive people. His ship had wrecked
in the South Indian Ocean. The people
spoke a language that was curiously similar to Subramaniam’s own. After all, his was a classical language, one
of the oldest in the sub-continent called India, one which withstood many
onslaughts from languages of the North. At
any rate, his ability to communicate with the island people did not surprise
Subramaniam too much since he had read Gulliver’s
Travels and knew that Gulliver could communicate with people who spoke
languages which had nothing common with his own.
The
people on the island turned out to be more friendly than Subramaniam would have
hoped for given the context which he had left a few days back. He came from a peninsula on which people were
being hunted out for questioning the government. Emergency, they called it. “India is Indira and Indira is India” and
such slogans had become popular. People who refused to bow to the divinity of
the new Bharatmata vanished from the society. Subramaniam’s best friends had all been
arrested. A few of them just
vanished. No one knew where such people
went. Slogans resounded in the vacuum
created by “vanished” people. “Talk
less, work more,” “Be Indian, Buy Indian,” “Efficiency is our watchword,” and
so went the slogans that bewitched a whole subcontinent. Subramaniam must now count among the many “vanished” persons though he had just run
away to escape being caught by the over-zealous police personnel of the
Government of sweet slogans.
Soon
Subramaniam became a hero on the pristine island. He brought them civilisation. He was a student of engineering and so he
knew how to civilise a pristine island.
Civilised buildings replaced the huts made of mud and leaves. People learnt to assert “I”, “my” and “mine”. Currency was introduced. Trade followed. People began to buy and sell things which
they had hitherto shared freely. They
made theories about what was right and what was wrong. They made rule so that people’s liberties
could be curtailed. They made boundaries and borders.
In
the meanwhile, Subramaniam managed to collect enough materials to construct a
hot air balloon. When the balloon was ready
to take off, he said goodbye to the people whom he had civilised. They shed tears on the ascent of their
Messiah into the heavens.
Four decades passed.
Another
era of resounding slogans rose on the subcontinent. “Good governance,” “Swachch Bharat,” “Ghar
Vapasi” and “Make in India” resounded in the air. The subcontinent once again witnessed goose
bumps sprouting on its nationalist skins.
People did not start vanishing, however, though the Cassandras began to
see auguries and omens of imminent vanishing acts. Priests and oracles drew the boundaries and
borders between Us and Them. Some of
Them were lured to become Us.
Subramaniam
felt nostalgia for the primitive island which he had civilised four decades
ago. He found a way to reach there.
He
was amused as well as surprised to see temples on the island with his image in
the place of the deity. He had become a
God, the God, on the island.
Subramaniam
was not a fraud, however. He told the
Elder (who was his bosom friend four decades ago) that he was just an ordinary
human being with some skills which they had not yet developed when he entered
their island.
“No,
no,” protested the Elder. “You are our
God.”
Subramaniam
protested more vehemently.
“Please,”
pleaded the Elder, “leave this place immediately before anyone recognises you. All the morals of this island are bound
around the myth and if the people come to know that you did not ascend into
heaven they will all become wicked.”
Subramaniam
walked silently back to the boat that awaited him on the coast.
Note: Inspired by the ‘Sun Child’ in Samuel Butler’s Erewhon Revisited.
So true... we make our Gods. It reminds me of another poet in Bengali, Kalidas Roy, who wrote, "Mortal beings build the Gods and all divine deeds depend merely on their pity."
ReplyDeleteEven Tagore (whom the RSS is now misquoting for nefarious purposes) wrote something subversive in Gitanjali: [let me reproduce the beautiful lines below]
DeleteLeave this chanting and singing and telling of beads!
Whom dost thou worship in this lonely dark
corner of a temple with doors all shut?
Open thine eyes and see thy God is not before thee!
He is there where the tiller is tilling the hard ground
and where the path-maker is breaking stones.
He is with them in sun and in shower,
and his garment is covered with dust
Put off thy holy mantle and even like him
come down on the dusty soil.
Come Out of thy meditations and leave aside
thy flowers and incense!
What harm is there if thy clothes become
tattered and stained?
Meet him and stand by him in toil and
in sweat of thy brow.
VERY TRUE..
ReplyDeleteOur perception of what god is , is what we believe him to be !
In other words, we create our gods in our own images?
DeleteInteresting post...
ReplyDeleteStrong leaders are always the same, more or less, irrespective of the party ")
Delete