Sunday, June 28, 2015

கட்டபொம்மன் நினைவிடம்





இன்று (28-06-2015)  நாடாளுமன்ற உறுப்பினர் தங்கவேலு அவர்களுடன் கோவில்பட்டியிலிருந்து திருநெல்வேலிக்குப் பயணிக்கும் போது கயத்தாறு சாலையில் உள்ள வீரபாண்டிய கட்டபொம்மன் நினைவிடம் பார்க்க முடிந்தது.

கட்டபொம்மன் தூக்கிலிட்ட மாமரம் இருந்த இடத்தில்  இடத்தில் ஆளும்  ஜெயலலிதா அரசு நினைவு மண்டபம் அமைத்துள்ளது. அது கட்டபொம்மனின் பராக்கிரமத்திற்கும் கம்பீரத்திற்கும் பொருத்தமாகத் தெரியவில்லை.
கரிசல் மண்ணில் அளவைக்குப் பயன்படுத்தும் ஆழாக்குப் படிகளை ஒன்றன் பக்கத்தில் ஒம்று வைத்ததுபோலக் காட்சி அளிக்கின்றது.

1799 செப்டம்பர் 4ம் நாள்  பாஞ்சாலங்குறிச்சி  கோட்டை வெள்ளையர்களால் முற்றுகையிடப்பட கட்டபொம்மன் தன்னுடைய படைவீரர்களோடு கோலார்பட்டி வந்து பின், புதுக்கோட்டைக்குச் சென்று காடுகளில் மறைந்திருந்தார்.

அங்கு தொண்டைமான் உதவியால் கைதுசெய்யப்பட்டு 1799ம் ஆண்டு அக்டோபர் 16ம் நாள் கயத்தாறு சாலையிலிருந்த புளியமரத்தில்  தூக்கிலிடப்பட்டார். தமிழக வரலாற்றில் முக்கிய நிகழ்வாக வீரபாண்டியக் கட்டபொம்மனின் வரலாறு அமைந்தது. அவ்வாறு தூக்கிலிடப்பட்டதாக கருதப்பட்ட இடத்தில் கட்டபொம்மனுக்குச் சிலையும், தற்போது  இந்த நினைவு மண்டபமும் எழுப்பப்பட்டுள்ளது.

புதுக்கோட்டையிலிருந்து கைதுசெய்யப்பட்டு விசாரணைக்காக கயத்தாற்றில் கட்டபொம்மன்  தங்க வைக்கப்பட்ட கட்டிடம் கயத்தாறு மெயின் ரோட்டில் அமைந்துள்ளது. அது எந்தவிதமான பராமரிப்பும் இல்லாமல் சிதிலமடைந்து கிடக்கிறது. எத்தனையோ முறை கோரிக்கைகள் வைத்தும் எந்தவிதமான நடவடிக்கையும் எடுக்கப்படவில்லை ஏனோ?

-கே.எஸ்.இராதாகிருஷ்ணன்
28-06-2015.

Saturday, June 27, 2015

கடம்பூர் போளி.

நண்பர் நாறும்பூ நாதன் தெற்குச் சீமையில் கடம்பூரில் கிடைக்கும் போளியைப் பற்றி எழுதிய பதிவு கவனத்தை ஈர்த்தது.

*****
கடம்பூர் போளி
------------------------
ஒரு தின்பண்டம் ரயில்வே நிலையத்தால் மட்டுமே புகழ் பெற்று விளங்கியது என்று சொன்னால் நம்ப சற்றே சிரமமாக இருக்கும்.

ஆம்.அது கடம்பூர் போளி. திருநெல்வேலிக்கும் கோவில்பட்டிக்கும் நடுவே உள்ள இந்த சிற்றூர் வெறும் 5000 மனிதர்களுக்கும் குறைவானவர்கள் வசிக்கும் ஊர்.

சுமார் 70 ஆண்டுகளுக்கு முன்பு இங்கு வசித்த ஒரு ஐயர் குடும்பம் இந்த இனிப்பு உணவை தயாரித்து ஊருக்குப் பெயர் சம்பாதித்துக் கொடுத்து விட்டு வெளியேறி விட்டது.
 (ராமசுப்பு ஐயர் ,கிருஷ்ணா ஐயர் என்ற இரு சகோதரர்கள் )

இவர்கள் தாம் இந்த சிற்றுண்டியை வீட்டில் வைத்து தயாரித்து இரண்டு ரயில்கள் மட்டுமே நிற்கும் இந்த கடம்பூர் ரயில்வே நிலையத்தில் விற்பனை செய்து பிரபலப்படுத்தினார்கள்.

இந்தக் குடும்பத்திடம் தொழில் படித்த சிலர் இப்போது போளி வியாபாரம் செய்து வருகிறார்கள். இப்போது ரயில்வே நிலையத்தையும் தாண்டி, பல ஊர்களில் இருந்தும் ஆர்டர் கிடைத்து விற்பனை அதிகரித்துள்ளது.
கடம்பூர் போளி என்ற பெயர் பிரபலம் அடைய ரயில்வே துறைக்கு கணிசமான பங்கு உள்ளது.

எனது நண்பன் எழுத்தாளர் உதயசங்கர் அங்கே ரயில்வே ஸ்டேசன் மாஸ்டர் ஆகப் பணி புரிந்தான். எனக்கு கடம்பூர் என்றால் முதலில் உதயசங்கரும், பின்னர் போளியும் தான் நினைவுக்கு வரும்.


பனி மிகுந்த மலைக்காடுகளில் 100 ஆண்டுகள் வாசம் - Life in the snow forests: 100-year-old photographs







Indigenous people from the snow forests of Inner Mongolia and Siberia have been reunited with century-old photographs of their family and communities as part of a research project and exhibition at the University of Cambridge.


Each photograph tells many, many different stories about the lives of the people, the clothes they wore, the animals they raised and the places they called home.
Jos Dudding
Previously unseen photographs showing life in a remote corner of the world a hundred years ago will be displayed for the first time as part of River Stars Reindeer at the Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology.

The photographs document the indigenous Evenki and Orochen communities and were made by Russian ethnographer Sergei Shirokogoroff and his wife Elizabeth between 1912-1917, and by Cambridge graduate Ethel Lindgren and her husband, Oscar Mamen, between 1929-1932.

The exhibition, which opens on June 23, is the culmination of a painstaking curatorial process, which involved choosing 70 images from more than 26,000 photographs; a process further complicated by the research team coming from ten different institutes located in three different countries.

One of the exhibitions curators, Jocelyne Dudding, said: “This is a unique opportunity to see the very best of their images together for the very first time. The photographs are not only a wonderful record of the ways of life for Evenki and Orochen, but they also speak of the more personal stories behind every image.

“Each photograph tells many, many different stories about the lives of the people, the clothes they wore, the animals they raised and the places they called home.

“These stories continue still as members of the community recognise the names or faces of family and friends that they had not seen for decades, or had never seen, as was the case of Anta Bu and her father.”

The conversations Dudding and her fellow researchers from Aberdeen, St Petersburg and Hohhot had with the indigenous communities directly influenced the selection process for the exhibition. As the project developed and word spread, more and more communities from other areas came forward and asked to be included.

“River Stars Reindeer comes about from a digital sharing project to reunite Evenki and Orochen communities with their photographs, and thereby their histories and their cultural heritage,” added Dudding. “We are now in the process of digitally sharing our photographs with them - having spent the last 18 months digitising 16,000 images so far.

“The response of the Evenki and Orochen to seeing these photographs has been very humbling and we are excited at the prospect of displaying these pictures and telling these stories for the first time here in Cambridge.”

The exhibition title River Stars Reindeer speaks of the cosmologies and realities of the lives of Evenkis and Orochens in an area known as the three rivers region.

River Stars Reindeer runs from June 23 to September 27, 2015 at the Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology.

(Courtesy : Cambridge News )

- கே.எஸ்.இராதாகிருஷ்ணன்.
27-06-2015. 

Friday, June 26, 2015

The Emergency at 40: you know the facts, now read the fiction - Article - 5



 
This June marks forty years since the Emergency came into effect. The Emergency, in place from 1975 to 1977, had seminal implications, in ways still being understood today, on the polity and how we understand the many freedoms constitutionally guaranteed to us.  With its restrictions on the Press, its arrests of opponents, programmes of slum demolition and compulsory sterilisation, the Emergency provided fertile ground for fiction. Indeed, “Emergency fiction”, taking an oblique and yet penetrative look at events of the time, extends across several genres.

Fable and allegory

OV Vijayan’s unflinchingly satirical novel, The Saga of Dharmapuri, is one that the author translated into English from the original Malayalam. In a country where “social evils” of every kind are rife, its ruler, named Pippalada, and his officers are more preoccupied with the former’s bowel movement. His defecation is closely monitored, for any deviation from routine is deciphered as a catastrophe. The novel’s note of satire is but a thin veneer for the total desperation experienced by its people, and the mystic Siddartha who appears as their saviour has his task cut out for him.

Ranjit Lal’s The Crow Chronicles, written around a decade ago, is set in the Bharatpur national park, where its avian populace mirrors people of every kind. Besides a weak prime minister, there are conniving army men as well as bureaucrats adept at circumlocution. Into this mire steps in a dictator from the outside world. Khatarnak Kala Kaloota Kawah Kaw has a fascination for jewellery and ably incites his crownies to steal on his behalf.

Arun Joshi’s sadly forgotten novel, The City and The River, is his last work of fiction. Another allegorical depiction of the Emergency, it shows the Grand Master declaring an Era of Undiminished Greatness and imposing the Triple Way – a way of living that all people must follow. But the boatmen who live by the river rebel under the Headman, for they refuse to give up their worship of the river. This defiance, however, has tragic consequences.  Joshi’s novel is not merely a straightforward depiction of good versus evil, but more about the nature of authority,  the abuse of power, and is replete with symbolism.

The figure of Jayaprakash Narayan as Prophet appears in Delhi Calm, a graphic novel by Vishwajyoti Ghosh that appeared in 2010. And though a disclaimer early on warns you not to relate events to real life situations, it is set at a time when Prime Minister Moon and her sons Pilot and Prince take away the basic rights of citizens. Three friends, once part of a musical band called Naya Savera, come together: Master, VP and Parvez are also idealistic followers of the Prophet. The title is, of course, deceptive, since Delhi is anything but calm, but things follow an efficient, systematic schedule for a blitzkrieg of propaganda that silences everyone and everything else.

Saleem Sinai’s life is conjoined to the events of post-independent India. Saleem is one of Salman Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children, born in 1947 and it is on the night of June  12, 1975 that his wife Parvati goes into labour.  Saleem, however, is not the real father, having been one of many coerced into the government’s compulsory sterilisation programme.

In this novel that won the Booker and then later the Booker of Bookers, Rushdie’s imagination brilliantly lent itself to history, melding smaller lives to bigger events and to mythology.  Shiva, Saleem’s rival, and enemy in several ways, is then Aadam’s true father, when he is born 13 days later, almost on another midnight as the Emergency is signed into effect.

But Aadam is named after Saleem’s grandfather and he is, thus, “the child of a father who was not his father; but also the child of a time which damaged reality so badly that nobody ever managed to put it together again.” With his big eyes and large flapping ears, Aadam sees and hears almost everything, though he stays silent – mirroring the times.

Rushdie’s other story based on the Emergency is titled Free Radio, appearing in his collection East West. It’s about a man, with big dreams of becoming an actor, who is inveigled by the promise of a radio, offered by the government’s sterilisation programme as an incentive.

Mirroring a troubled reality

In some other novels, there is little attempt to evade resemblance to real life events.  Rich like Us, Nayantara Sehgal’s novel written in the early 1980s, which also won the Sahitya Akademi award, couldn’t exactly avoid such speculation. She is, after all, Indira Gandhi’s first cousin, and also quite critical of the Emergency.

The novel features two women: Sonali, a bureaucrat, and Rose, a British woman married to the Indian businessman Ram. Rose has moved to India to make a new life with her husband, but her life takes a turn for the worse when he falls ill and then is virtually confined to bed.  It is then that her stepson begins to dupe his father, forging his signature and transferring his millions to himself.  He is also, of course, set on his dream project – a car factory; to ensure it comes up, all bureaucratic rules are bent, and those opposing him are transferred, as is Sonali. A helpless witness to Rose’s decline, Sonali also sees for herself the painful pursuit of lucre and how it subverts all morality.

The car project appears again in Manohar Malgonkar’s tightly plotted and action-packed novel, The Garland Keepers, which unfolds over a period of six days.  It begins with a terrorist from Gilgit, in Baltistan (POK), evading capture and entering a monastery in Ladakh, where he becomes an initiate after killing one of the monks.

After this, the scene moves to Delhi, where lives the Great Leader, with her son Kalas Kak wields absolute power. The “Garland Keepers” are his  three associates: Kaul and Pashupat (referred to as the Owl and Pussycat) and also Swami Rajguru, known for his flamboyant lifestyle, who always wears white to emphasise his enhanced spiritual powers.

Kalas Kak floats the idea of a car project and avails himself of bank loans and donations from hapless and ingratiating businessmen.  All opponents are of ruthlessly done away with, and it takes two policemen to follow the trail from clues left in the diary of a murdered colleague.

In A Fine Balance, Rohinton Mistry piles up the miseries on Om and Ishvar Darji, tailors who come to Bombay to escape caste oppressions in their native village in Bihar.  But even in the city they find little respite.  Their slum is demolished, and their patron, Dina Dalal, finds herself hard put to provide for them in any way.

When they return to their village, they fall straight into the hands of their upper caste tormentor yet again.  The horrors of the Emergency take their toll on Ishvar and Om, while the perils of development,  when a highway threatens Manek’s parents’ shop, means the end of a certain way of life for him as well. A gripping portrayal whose harshness demands the most stoic of readers.

Rahi Masoom Raza’s Katra Bi Arzoo is set in a small locality in Allahabad in the 1970s. Like Mistry’s novel, its shows the travails of the ordinary individual against the rampages of a system gone to extremes.  Desh watches his home being demolished while slogans are raised in honour of the prime minister and her dreams for the country. His other friends, who have lived for years in amity in this mohalla, see their small dreams perish at the hands of all powerful system.

In R K Narayan’s 1976 novel, Raman is the painstaking Painter of Signs. He is also devoted to his aunt, and is writing the story of her life as she narrates it.  It is when he meets Daisy, a young woman from the city with a mission to promote the government’s programme of “Family Planning” that he is thrown into conflict, for Daisy needs Raman to put up the slogans to influence people to adopt such methods. Set in Narayan’s beloved Malgudi, the novel juxtaposes tradition and modernity, presenting a young man’s contradictions and choices that aren’t really as stark as they appear.

Nirmal Verma’s Raat ka Reporter, translated as Dark Dispatches by Alok Bhalla, is about an idealistic brave young reporter’s descent into suspicion and paranoia as he sees inexplicable events unfold around him. Everything becomes a sign or an augury of events to come: changing signboards on a church, hovering kites, and a girl’s unexpected disappearance even as he watches her roll a tyre only heightens his paranoia.

Epic retellings 

In The Great Indian Novel, Shashi Tharoor weds events of the Emergency to the Mahabharata. After the death of Dhritarashtra, his daughter Priya Duryodhani becomes Prime Minister and tries to wrest control of the old Kaurav party. The fate of democracy is symbolised in the figure of D. Mokrasi, and every decision seems to have an impact on its health; for instance, it declines in critical times such as when important personages such as Yudhisthir (the deputy PM) and a gentle academic (a President Zakir Hussein-like figure) resign. The story is posed as a struggle between Good (D. Mokrasi) and Evil (Priya Duryodhani).

Kiran Nagarkar’s play Bedtime Story is a subversive retelling of the Mahabharata.  It was written during the Emergency, but soon drew the ire of fundamentalists and censors alike. The screenplay remained unpublished till earlier this year. In the published edition, which also includes his Black Tulip, Nagarkar made an eloquent introduction warning against extra-legal censorship, which, unlike the more “heavy-footed legal censorship”, can be fearless and effective; the kind of censorship that finds new insidious ways of exercising threats, and so must be guarded against.


Courtesy : Scroll.in 

-K.S.Radhakrishnan
26-06-2015.


Emergency Article 1    -  Click Here 

Emergency Article 2   -  Click Here 

Emergency Article 3   -  Click Here  

Emergency Article 4  -  Click Here 

Emergency Article 5  -  Click Here

Emergency Article 6  -  Click Here 

Emergency Article 7  -  Click Here 

Cornelia Sorabji - The First woman lawyer, and India’s first woman civil servant

Cornelia Sorabji was the British Empire’s first woman lawyer, and India’s first woman civil servant.

















Cornelia Sorabji (1866-1954) had a slew of firsts to her name: the first woman graduate from Bombay University, the first woman to graduate in law from the University of Oxford, the first to practise as a barrister in both India and Britain, and the first woman civil servant in India. She achieved this success on her own, without belonging to rich or royal families, through sheer determination.
A towering figure of her times, she served under and interacted with seven Viceroys, was a close friend of two of them and of their wives, of two of the Secretaries of State, and of King George V and Queen Mary.
She was however not inducted in the post-Independence Indian hall of fame in spite of a life of service, especially to Indian widows, probably because of her open support for the British Empire during its last three decades. Though she was wholly Indian, a Parsi, beautiful, and beautifully dressed in Indian sarees, she was essentially a product of the Empire, perhaps more at home in British society, with perfect English and perfect English manners. As she said, “My heart beats with two pulses—one for India and one for England.”
Her father Reverend Sorabji Karsedji was the only brother to six sisters, and the hope of his family. He was however one of the first Parsis to convert to Christianity at the tender age of 16 in 1840, influenced by the missionary school he had joined to better his English. Parsi society in Bombay was outraged by this event, with angry mobs of thousands surrounding the buildings where he had sought refuge with the British, a weeping widowed mother and six sisters, all beseeching him to reconsider, and three attempts to murder him so as to blot out the shame to the community, including casting him out to sea without provisions, which he fortunately survived.
When the tumult died down, he married Franscina Ford, a girl from Karnataka who had been adopted and brought up by a British couple. They soon found themselves in Poona, where Franscina set up four schools, with extensive fund raising, including via lectures in England. The family home still exists as Hotel Ritz with most of the furniture intact.
The happy couple, in keeping with Sorabji’s family tradition of a surfeit of girls, had seven daughters and one son. The girls led exceptional lives, Cornelia as a lawyer and civil servant, Susie as the principal and administrator of the Poona schools, and Alice, the youngest, as the first woman BSc of India, who topped the university. Alice became a surgeon and doctor, ran a hospital in Peshawar and drove herself in her old Ford on many adventurous trips including driving through Persia right up to England.
Cornelia was the first woman to be granted admission to Bombay University, and was the only girl among 300 boys in Deccan College, Poona. In 1886, she received a Bachelor of Arts degree and became the first woman graduate of Bombay University. She managed this, despite resistance from the boys, which included slamming the lecture hall doors in her face, to prevent her from attending lectures.
She won a number of prizes, and as one of the top four students, was eligible for a scholarship to England. This was denied her because she was a woman, and a question was actually raised in the British House of Commons.
A group of aristocratic women, including Florence Nightingale, however, got together and raised a scholarship for her, and she set off for England. This made her a celebrity in that country, and she found herself one of Victorian England’s darlings, feted in upper-crust salons in London and Oxford.
She joined Somerville College in Oxford in 1889, and spent four very happy years there, under the patronage of the terrifying head of Balliol, the philosopher Benjamin Jowett, who introduced her to people like Alfred Lord Tennyson and Nightingale. She was the only woman allowed to use the All Souls College library—she had to sit in a separate room reached by a separate entrance, and the books she requested would be brought to her!
Jowett had a special law course devised for her. In 1892, she cleared the Bachelor of Civil Law, but was not awarded a degree as she was a woman—she only got the official degree after 1920, when they agreed to give degrees to women. She however trained at the law firm Lee and Pemberton in London for a year before returning to India to practise as a lawyer in 1893.
Here she met with huge resistance to her practising either as a solicitor or an advocate.
A job she was to take up with some English solicitors fell through as the Chief justice of Bombay opposed it.
In the summer of 1893, she tried instead for a post for furthering the education of women, offered by the Gaekwad of Baroda.
She had to live alone in a house in the wilderness and faced problems with dishonest officials. She quit after eight months, though in this period, she got to know some women from the princely states, who offered her cases.
She joined a solicitor’s office in Bombay, and started getting cases from the princely states, sometimes simply for the novelty value of encountering a woman lawyer. In a farcical case, she was retained by an elephant who had filed a case against the Maharajah of Panchmahals to protest the taking away of his banana grove. She showed up in court in a carriage with six white horses, which had been sent for her, and realized that the Maharajah was also the judge.
He sat on a swing with a gramophone playing English songs, and immediately pronounced the judgement in her favour without hearing her argument, since his English bulldog at the gate had liked her.
More seriously, many purdanashins, women who had inherited property or were holding it in trust for their minor children, but were in purdah and could not interact with male lawyers, started engaging her to defend their property, and getting justice for them became for her a lifelong mission.
She was singularly unsuccessful in getting entry as a barrister in the British courts. In one case only was Cornelia allowed to plead in a British court—however, not as a lawyer, but as a “person for the defence of the accused” in Poona, where she successfully defended a woman charged with the murder of her husband.
Her brother Dick had meanwhile qualified as a barrister in England, and the duo moved in 1897 to Allahabad, the premier court of India with luminaries like Motilal Nehru practicing there. She had been promised by the Allahabad High Court that they would allow her to plead, but they reneged in a drawn decision where the British Chief Justice used his second casting vote to disallow her.
He jovially told her: “If you appeared before me, how could I scold you?”
She continued preparing cases and doing backend work. However, there was now an unexpected twist in the tale. Cornelia, at the age of 32, got romantically involved with a 60-year-old married British judge Harrison Falkner Blair. After a couple of years, when her family found out, they were horrified, and exiled her to England in 1901, to try and contain the scandal. Cornelia and Blair however continued their correspondence till 1907 when he died in her arms, after a boat trip in Oxford.
From 1901 to 1904, Cornelia Sorabji led the high life in England, making friends and influencing people.
In London, she moved comfortably in aristocratic society, visiting her friends in their country houses. She became intimate friends with one of Queen Victoria’s granddaughters, Princess Louise of Schleswig-Holstein, with whom she later travelled to Sri Lanka,
Cornelia was always beautifully dressed in silk sarees, often with exquisite Parsi embroidery, which she wore with elaborate blouses in the Victorian British style, setting a distinct style of her own. A contemporary comment: “She wore the most wonderfully brilliant saris and dangling jewellery, of great length, and I thought of her and her sisters as the brightest thing in London.” A British intellectual considered her as being one of the three brainiest women, along with George Eliot and the explorer Mary Kingsley.
During this period, she started an orchestrated campaign to get the Government of India to create a legal post for her in the Civil Services, to advise the purdanashins.
She used a wide range of tactics. Her first book, Love and Life Behind the Purdah, published in 1901, was an important part of her campaign because it was a set of short stories illustrating the suffering, hardships and self-sacrifice of the secluded women whom she hoped to serve. In 1902, she had a leader published in The Times of London on the need for a woman to help secluded widows in India.
This caused a question to be asked in the House of Commons about whether the Government was doing anything to provide for the needs of these secluded women by appointing a woman, and the Secretary of State for India said the matter was being looked into.
Finally, in 1904, the brother of a friend was appointed Secretary of State for India. He overrode Lord Curzon, the Viceroy, who had twice indirectly refused to create the post, and appointed her as the Legal Advisor for Purdanashins in the Indian Civil Service Court of Wards for Bengal, Bihar, Orissa and Assam. There were no women and very few Indians in the Civil Services at the time.
The period from 1905 to 1922, when she retired, was the most successful and productive period of her life. She revealed in her role in Calcutta, living in style with her office in Writers Building, the state secretariat, and travelling by palanquin to inaccessible kingdoms bounded by jungles. She rescued women and children about to be murdered, caused reconciliations, appointed tutors and in general looked after the welfare of these widows and children. At any given point, she had as many as 600 wards whose interests she was looking after.
She meticulously recorded these years, and these records give us an invaluable glimpse into the vanished world of these purdanashins, and the politics and jealousies of the Indian Civil Service. She would later write about many of these cases in her work Between the Twilights and her two autobiographies.
She believed in “education before legislation” in the field of women’s rights with two exceptions: sati and child marriage. She helped reform laws on child marriage and the treatment of widows. She excelled at her job, and was awarded the Gold Kaiser-i-Hind medal for public service in 1909. Her sister Alice was awarded this in 1918.
She travelled extensively, regularly visiting her brother in Allahabad, her sister in Peshawar and other members of the family in England, even making two extremely dangerous sea trips during the First World War.
In 1922, she retired from the civil service at the age of 55. “My heart,” she wrote, “is like a banyan tree with roots in the zenanas. The great uprooting is painful.”
She now returned to England and finally got her legal degree, 30 years after she had cleared the exam, and was called to the bar in Lincoln’s Inn, where her statue was installed in 2012.
In 1924, Cornelia, now nearing 60, an age when other people sit back and reflect on a life well-spent, returned to India to practise as a barrister in Calcutta High Court. This was very different from her previous stint. It was a period of great struggle, as, in spite of acclaimed legal opinions, and her actually winning a case against Tej Bahadur Sapru, the famous lawyer, she faced immense opposition as a woman, and was confined to preparing opinions on cases, rather than pleading them before the court.
She however threw herself into social work, founding the Bengal League of Social Service which worked for poor women who were behind the veil.
In this period, she was embroiled in a controversy regarding a strongly anti-Hindu book, Mother India, by the American writer Katherine Mayo. Many of Cornelia’s opinions were unwittingly used in the book, and her legal career was destroyed, as many lawyers now would not work with her. Mahatma Gandhi called the book “a drain inspector’s report”.
She was also opposed to Mahatma Gandhi’s style of politics, though she had earlier supported nationalists like Gopal Krishna Gokhale, and openly campaigned against him, believing in the goodness and necessity of the British Raj.
In 1931, at the age of 65, she retired to England, and lived there till her death at the age of 87 in 1954. She spent this time writing prolifically, including her autobiographies India Calling and India Recalled, advising the British government on India, and helping with the war effort during the Second World War.
The author is the President Elect of FLO, the women’s wing of FICCI. One of India’s leading quizzers, she was declared Champion of Champions by BBC Mastermind in 2001. Archana also owns and runs a successful gems and jewellery business, which is a pioneer of Indian costume jewellery that caters to the middle class. Touchstone has a pan-Indian retail presence, and also exports, primarily to USA and Europe.

Courtesy : Swarajya 

- K.S.Radhakrishnan 
26-06-2015.


'Himmat' during the Emergency ( Article 4)

When Indira Gandhi suspended the Constitution, some journalists maintained their independence despite State repression. Why can't today's journalists find ways to resist corporate control to tell readers the truth?




Forty years ago on a rainy evening in Mumbai, a group of friends met in an apartment overlooking Grant Road Bridge. It was June 26, 1975.  We knew that a State of Emergency had been declared. We also knew that there would be press censorship. But what on earth did that mean?

All India Radio did not explain. We had to turn to BBC World Service to get a sense of what exactly was happening. That is how we learned that thousands of opposition leaders and political workers had been arrested under the draconian Maintenance of Internal Security Act.

Some of us in that room were journalists. We worked with a small English-language weekly, Himmat, edited by Rajmohan Gandhi. What would censorship mean for us?

When we went into work the next morning, we heard that the government had sent out “guidelines” that the press had to follow. Number one on the list was: “Where news is plainly dangerous, newspapers will assist the Chief Press Adviser by suppressing it themselves. Where doubts exist, reference may and should be made to the nearest press adviser.” Clearly we had to decide what is “dangerous”.

The guidelines also instructed us not to reproduce rumours or anything “objectionable” that had been printed outside India. Given that only newspapers outside India were reporting what was actually going on in the country, this pretty much foreclosed reporting on anything.

Roller-coaster ride

The next 20 months were a roller-coaster ride, but one that formed us as journalists. The principal lesson we learned was that freedom of the press is not a luxury that the rulers bestow on you: it is a lifeline in an unequal society like ours. Without it, the poor would become invisible because it would deprive them of their basic right to be heard as citizens in a democracy.

As the majority of Indians today were not even born when Emergency was declared and this also applies to most of the journalists in the trade today, let me just briefly recount my own experience with censorship.

In the initial days, there was confusion in the press about what censorship would involve. The office of the Director of Information and Publicity of the Maharashtra government had been converted into the Censor’s office, employing around 15 people. Binod Rau, a former resident editor of the Indian Express, was the Censor. An official from this office was sent to each daily newspaper in the evening. But by September 20, 1975, it became evident that it would be impossible to pre-censor every single word that appeared in print. Hence, we were informed that we were expected to “self-censor” and abide by the guidelines.

White-out protest

In the two issues that came out after the declaration of Emergency, Himmat chose to leave its Editorials blank. Thereafter, we decided that we would write as we always did until we were informed that we had violated some guideline. That didn’t take long. In our issue of October 24, 1975, we had carried a report about a prayer meeting at Raj Ghat held on October 2 at whic Acharya JB Kripalani had spoken. The police broke up the meeting and arrested those who refused to leave, including our editor-in-chief Rajmohan Gandhi and his brother, Ramchandra Gandhi. Although they were released later, some of the others spent several months in prison.

By then, I was the editor of Himmat. I was summoned to the office of the Special Press Advisor (as the Censor was known) and informed that as Himmat had violated the guidelines, we would be under pre-censorship with immediate effect. When I asked which guideline, there was no answer. Finally, one official told me that they had been berated by Delhi for allowing the item on the Rajghat meeting to appear.

Despite this, we found ways to dodge the censor. Additionally, the Bombay High Court ruling in April 1976 in the Binod Rau vs MR Masani case on censorship provided some breathing space. Amongst other things, the Court ruled that “if there is a right to praise either an individual or the government, there is equally a right to criticise the individual or the government…”

For a couple of months, everything was quiet. Then in July 1976, someone from the Criminal Investigation Department turned up at our office with a notice stating that the printer and publisher of Himmat (Rajmohan Gandhi) had to deposit Rs 20,000 within 15 days with the Commissioner of Police because there were “prejudicial reports” in three issues in April. No details were given. These details were provided only when we went to court challenging censorship guidelines. Apparently, we had quoted Mahatma Gandhi saying, “The restoration of free speech, free association and free press is almost the whole of Swaraj” was considered “prejudicial”.

Arbitrary rules

I give these details to illustrate the arbitrariness of censorship during those times. Yet, we had decided that we would rather continue to push the envelope and take risks than buckle under censorship. Such bravado meant that the press where we printed was served a notice to stop printing Himmat, andno other printing press would touch us. Of course, we did not have the money to buy our own printing machines. In desperation, we put out an appeal to our readers. Amazingly, hundreds of readers responded, sending us contributions as small as Rs 5 and going up to a few thousand rupees.  We managed to collect over Rs 60,000 and with some additional funds bought two small printing machines and rented a space in an industrial estate in Prabhadevi. This allowed us to have our own print line and take the risk we felt we must.

Unfortunately, this arrangement was also busted when the authorities found that the bulk of the magazine was being printed elsewhere. So finally, in December 1976, we were left with no option but to go every week to the Censor’s office and be subjected to the irrational and arbitrary slashing of copy. To fill these spaces at the last minute was virtually impossible. Yet we had to because leaving blank pages was also a crime!

The Emergency ended in March 1977 after the spectacular election that threw Indira Gandhi out of office. Although on paper censorship continued during the election campaign, no one paid any heed to it.

The lessons of 1975

Looking back now, four decades later, has the Indian press learned anything from that experience? Do we value the freedom that was snatched away from us?

Some of us as journalists certainly learned important lessons. The 1970s was still a time of idealism. I can count many of my contemporaries who came into journalism believing that our job was to seek the truth and write without fear.

Once the Emergency ended, many such journalists took it upon themselves to unearth the stories that had been suppressed, stories that above all denied poor people their rights. These included slum demolitions in many cities, forcible sterilisation campaigns, torture of prisoners, fake encounters and many others.

Instead of merely reporting on these atrocities, and others like bonded labour, trafficking, denial of human rights, the rights of pavement dwellers and more, journalists followed up these stories by filing Public Interest Litigations in the Supreme Court. No one charged them with being “unprofessional” or “activist journalists”. In the mood that prevailed then, it was accepted that even as we are journalists, we are also citizens and cannot stand by and watch such egregious violations of rights.

If you survey the Indian press of the late 1970s into the 1980s, you see the results of such a commitment by scores of journalists. Newspapers gave space for such writing, even encouraged it. And even though several smaller publications likeHimmat closed down because the economics did not work out, many mainstream publications took up the task of unearthing the developments that were hidden during the Emergency.

New priorities

Since the 1990s, there has been a visible change in the Indian media. For one, print is not so dominant, yielding space to the electronic media. In the last few years, the Internet has opened up new spaces.

The growth and variety of the media suggests that there should be greater freedom, that it would be virtually impossible today for the State to control the media. Certainly the kind of censorship regime imposed by Indira Gandhi in 1975 would never work today.

Yet, has the space for the kind of writing spawned by the experience of Emergency shrunk or expanded? This is a question we still have to ask.

While the expansion of the media space would suggest that there would be much more room for writing on poverty, on human rights, on the invisible and marginal parts of India, on communities that are forgotten, the reverse is true. In a media driven by the market, such news has no value. So while earlier, falling foul of the government restricted the pursuit of such stories, today the belief that such news will not sell your product denies them space.

Secondly, how do we define “free” in relation to the media? “Free” of what or whom? Perhaps the State does not have the same ability it had in the past to control the content of even privately owned media, but today there are other forces that do. When politics and business come together, and define what can or cannot be reported, is this not a form of covert censorship? The increasing consolidation of media ownership in a few powerful hands, and the nexus between some of these owners and the people in power, gives an entirely different spin to the concept of a “free” media.

What remains the same is the choice that journalists have to make. During the Emergency, as LK Advani famously noted, although the press was asked to bend, it chose to crawl. Yet many journalists chose not to do so, at considerable risk to themselves and their careers.

That choice is one that we still have to make.  If even under overt censorship, some publications managed to communicate the truth to their readers, why can't journalists do it under the indirect forms of control that exist today?

Kalpana Sharma was editor of Himmat from 1976 to 1981 when it closed. She has worked with The Indian Express, The Times of India and The Hindu and is currently consulting editor with Economic and Political Weekly.




Emergency Article 1    -  Click Here 

Emergency Article 2   -  Click Here 

Emergency Article 3   -  Click Here  

Emergency Article 4  -  Click Here 

Emergency Article 5  -  Click Here

Emergency Article 6  -  Click Here 

Emergency Article 7  -  Click Here 

Thursday, June 25, 2015

பென்னிங்டன் லைப்ரரி - திருவில்லிபுத்தூர்.

கி.ராவும் நானும் எங்களுடைய நூல்களை வழங்கியுள்ளோம். மறைந்த தீபம் பார்த்த சாரதியின் நண்பர் சுவக்கோ நாராயணசாமி முதன்முதலாக என்னை இங்கு அழைத்துச் சென்றார்.


தென்மாவட்டத்தின் பழம்பெறும் நூலகம். அனைவரும் இந்த நூலகத்தைப் பற்றி அறிந்துகொள்ளவேண்டிய அறிவுச் சுரங்கம் இது.

https://www.facebook.com/shivaayyapan.sankarapandiyan/posts/791334414318126

Nov 14, 2025

  இன்று…2025 நாளை….2026.