Inquilab, Zindabad!

I've seen so many sides of this city already, and this weekend was no different. It kicked off with a brilliant stage performance of 'Dear Liar'- a dramatisation of letters exchanged between George Bernard Shaw and a stage actress- brought to life by veteran Indian actor Naseerudin Shah, and his wife Rathna Pathak Shah. I watched in total awe, from the cheap seats in Bangalore's historic Chowdiah Memorial Hall, which incidentally was built in memory of a musician and is in the shape of a massive violin (a slightly bizarre sight).

But the real treat was in store for me the following day, when my colleague took me along unsuspectingly to a student-organised performance in an amphitheatre in the heart of the city. Some law students of a premier Law Institute were 'Reclaiming Dissent', in their words, through a new collective they had formed, this being their first event. Ah, those heady student days, I thought to myself, as I glanced over at the audience- an eclectic mix of students, kurta-clad intellectuals and people who had just wandered over out of sheer curiosity.

'Kabir Kala Manch', she said.

Yes, I'd heard of them of course- 'a radical Dalit cultural group' is what they have been referred to in the past. I wasn't sure what to expect, but I feel nothing could have prepared me for the next few hours.

They were a group of seven, armed with nothing more than powerful words- words that pounded away at the State, mocking its dirty tricks and promises, and highlighting the depressing irony of our starving farmers. These performers, these activists, these revolutionaries wore Ambedkar and all his sociological analysis on their sleeves.

"Mazdoor ka shaasan laane ko, 
Sangarsh karna ho re bhai"

After an hour and half of poignant poetry and music, it was announced that the two women performers' husbands were still in jail. One of the lead performers- Deepak Dhengle was performing only for the second time after he had been released, for his radical critique of the State, and his alleged promotion of Naxalism. Their struggles are real and ongoing. They are fighting hard. Against the apparatus that is clearly choking them.

Laal Salaam! (Red Salute!)

Jai Bhim Comrade!

Inquilab, Zindabad! (Long Live the Revolution!)

On next, were Makkal Mandram, a Dalit group from Tamil Nadu, comprising of 15 men and women, reclaiming a percussion instrument, that was traditionally only used during funerals, and played only by lower caste untouchables. The drums pounded away at my soul for the next hour and a half, as they swayed gracefully to the beats, and brought half the audience to their feet in a fit of spontaneous dancing.

As the drums closed the evening, I found myself being pulled by someone into the mass of people all in a trance. My feet began to move, and then my body whirled around uncontrollably, as I let go. I danced in a circle with people I didn't know, and when the music stopped, we all walked away as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

It was one of those days when I was so proud to be Indian. So proud, yet so ashamed. Of our divisions, of our inability as a country to support each other across movements. So overwhelmed and confused- there are so many stories and experiences of struggle. And here I had grown up in a world so far away and so incomprehensibly different. Feelings of disconnectedness abounded, as I grabbed an auto in the midst of a traffic pile up, and navigated my way home.