The guilt of giving

There are many like the late Chaundhury who have begun to feel uneasy today where everything stands trivialised — be it politics, the arts, or daily living. When a top publisher without batting an eyelid justifies the trash he prints as “readable literature” one broods over whether he is the right man in the right chair. When a TV compere gathers a high-powered panel to discuss the state of the nation, oozing familiarity, chatting more in the manner of a buddy, one wonders if he is not reducing an issue to a parody?

An incident on a Calcutta street returns to mind resonating with ugliness which recircles us today. A man in a blue livery was wheeling down a massive pot filled with leftover food from the night before. In the manner of a ritual he emptied the pot over a garbage dump and stood watching. A crowd of ragged men, women and children swooped over it. What united them was the frenzy — they tore the meat from the bones, gobbled up the rice and crawled back to the pavement their hands dripping with red gravy. Horrified, I asked the man as he withdrew: Why don’t you distribute the food instead of dumping it as garbage? “If I do then some will get it and some won’t. And those who won’t will fight like crows. If I dump it the problem is theirs not mine.”

Prophetic words it seems. Whether it is food or saris, the manner of giving has not changed is norms. Nor have those who flock to receive it. When the rich give to the rich they pack what they give in fancy wrapping. And when they give to the poor, what they discard or do not need, they often betray contempt not generosity. My mother would tell us: “Give in such a way that when one hand gives the other should not know.” Most of us alas tend to forget what our mothers said. But when giving is shrouded in the dust of conflicting ideals it is condemned to a farce that goes beyond the banal..To see pictures of half dressed dead women lying in a dump, stripped of their shame is an image that no slogans can veil.

For the women of this land a sari is one garment that binds them in a circle, a symbol of honour, not hers alone but that of her family and clan. Traditionally meant to cover a woman’s body, it is more than a mere drape…it is the most coveted possession that a woman has. Behind the sari that wraps every woman, rich or poor, there is a weight of history and tradition. Women sing songs to their husbands exhorting them to buy them a sari if they love them. Those who came seeking saris in Lucknow were not just denied this whimsy but left to be stared at and burnt without a shroud before they were dumped on a pyre. There were no flowers, no chants, not a trace of dignity even in death.