Livewire

The Role of AI in Preserving Indigenous Languages

Indigenous languages are like Italo Calvino’s Invisible Cities – each steeped in legacy, with different stories woven over time. If not preserved with authenticity, these languages could fade from existence. The revitalisation and preservation of indigenous languages have emerged as priorities within both cultural and technological realms.

In this era of deterritorialisation, technological advancements have both endangered and provided new means of safeguarding linguistic diversity. Initially, this “time-space compression” led to the establishment of English as the lingua franca, which promoted the “Americanisation” of social media and limited the growth and use of indigenous tongues. This notion of a “global language” has been criticised for contributing to linguistic imperialism. In response, resistance has emerged through movements, educational emphasis on multilingualism and digital projects aimed at promoting minority languages.

However, this cultural firewalling also reveals the positive side of globalisation, as online platforms enable us to maintain ethnolinguistic resilience. The use of AI-driven technologies is one such example.

Also read: Can AI Help Improve Learning Outcomes at Scale?

AI has played an indispensable role in the domain of language, aligning with indigenous epistemologies and sensibilities. One example is New Zealand’s initiative to preserve Te Reo, the language of the Māori community. By leveraging AI-driven tools like the Kōrero Māori app, the non-profit media organisation Te Hiku has contributed to reviving this endangered language. This initiative has not only made the language accessible in the digital space but also ensured its sustainability for future generations.

Another example is the “50 words project” by the University of Melbourne, an initiative aimed at preserving the indigenous languages of Australia by collecting and sharing 50 words from each language across the country. By recording native speakers and mapping each language to its respective area, this project not only promotes indigenous Australian languages but also makes them accessible to the public.

Utilising technology to preserve languages at risk of extinction can deepen cultural understanding. Additionally, integrating AI could further enhance such efforts by automating language processing and analysis. In this way, AI-driven projects working towards linguistic repatriation in countries like Brazil, Australia and New Zealand, among others, demonstrate that technology can promote cultural diversity and linguistic identity. This challenges hyperglobalist theories that argue globalisation weakens the cultural walls of nations.

In the era of “digital empowerment,” Worldism acknowledges the multifaceted perspectives of various indigenous communities and the role of technology in adapting to diverse cultural contexts rather than imposing a singular Western notion.

The collaboration between the government of Iceland and OpenAI to preserve the Icelandic language through AI tools is a prime example of how nations are using modern technology to support indigenous languages by developing natural language processing models tailored to unique linguistic structures. With growing tourism and digital connectedness with the U.S. and Europe, Iceland has seen English becoming more dominant. Currently, more than 370,000 Icelanders speak English, raising concerns about the Icelandic language losing its primary status. By digitising the language with AI, Iceland aims to protect linguistic diversity and promote cultural identity.

In Africa, the preservation of indigenous languages is being championed by a grassroots organisation named Masakhane. With a focus on advancing natural language processing for African languages, Masakhane’s volunteers and researchers are creating machine translation tools for various languages across the continent, fostering digital inclusivity. This initiative underscores the importance of community-driven AI projects in revitalising linguistic diversity and addressing language barriers.

Including indigenous languages within the AI domain broadens the scope of technological inclusivity. Unlike many contemporary AI models that often use data without consent, collaborations with indigenous communities encourage the ethical sourcing of linguistic materials. Through such collaborations, modern technology can become more inclusive, moving beyond the rhetoric of “Westernisation of tech tools” and promoting advancements in AI that are both ethically sound and technologically progressive.

Rohan Qurashi is a political science student at St. Stephen’s College, University of Delhi. He currently works as a research intern at the Centre for Northeast Asian Studies (CNEAS) at OP Jindal Global University.

Diljit Dosanjh, Tricolour and the Fragile Place For Minorities Within the Nationalism Narrative

For a Sikh, the accusation of being a Khalistani can place you firmly outside the realm of nationhood.

New Delhi: Towards the end of Diljit Dosanjh’s recent concert in Delhi last weekend, the Punjabi superstar appeared on stage draped in the Indian national flag. He went on to talk about how he respects all the different languages spoken in India but since his mother speaks Punjabi, he too speaks Punjabi. Strains from his song “Main Hoon Punjab” then rang in the background, with Dosanjh singing along as he waved the Indian flag across the stage.

Through the nearly two-hour concert, Diljit Dosanjh was indeed Punjab. Dressed in typical Punjabi attire, surrounded by bhangra dancers, speaking only Punjabi, Dosanjh’s show was a celebration of Punjabi music, culture and language. His now famous line “Punjabi aa gaye oye!” (Punjabis have arrived!) literally signalled the arrival of Punjab (in the way that Dosanjh embodies it) to the capital city.

Perhaps it is this salute to his home state that made the presence of the Indian flag seem a bit incongruous. Nationalism is inseparable from India’s obsession with cricket, but it felt odd that a pop star needed to end his performance with such an exaggerated nod to Indian nationalism. Perhaps an explanation for this bizarre act can be found in prevailing perceptions of his relationship with Indian nationalism.

In 2020-21, during the peak of the Covid-19 pandemic in India, farmers from different states gathered at Delhi’s borders and staged a months-long protest against the central government’s anti-farmer agriculture laws. While most celebrities, famous actors and singers stayed mum, Diljit Dosanjh’s voice cut through the silence and loudly expressed solidarity with the protesting farmers.

Even as most were afraid to speak up against the ruling Bharatiya Janata Party government led by Narendra Modi, Dosanjh, like many other Punjabi artists, used his social media platforms to popularise the farmers’ message and lend his support to voices critical of the government. Needless to say, he faced intense hate and harassment, with nameless, faceless internet trolls calling him ‘anti-national’ and ‘Khalistani’ (someone who believes in the idea of a separate state for Sikhs).

For a Sikh, the accusation of being a Khalistani can place you firmly outside the realm of nationhood. Right-wing television channels and dubious online portals were quick to label him an anti-state element and proclaim his alleged connections with separatist groups. Actor-politician Kangana Ranaut even got into a Twitter-spat with Dosanjh after she called him and Priyanka Chopra “desh-vidrohi” (anti-national) for instigating farmers.

Dosanjh replied saying, “Naley Kon Desh Premi Te Kon Desh Virodhi Eh Decide Karn Da Hakk Ehnu Kiney De Ta?” (Who gave her the right to decide who is anti-national and who is a patriot?)

It is this dichotomy and a tension around which category Diljit Dosanjh falls into that possibly prompted him to parade around the stage with the national flag draped around his shoulders.

It was his attempt to reclaim his nationhood and simultaneously fix Punjab within the temporal and imaginative contours of India. Given his unapologetic willingness to call out the failures of the Indian state, this act was perhaps intended to reiterate his devotion to both Punjab and India.

In addition to supporting farmers during the protest, Dosanjh has also never shied away from speaking on political issues or working in politically sensitive films. His first Hindi film Udta Punjab dealt with the issue of rampant drug use in Punjab. In 2014, he starred in the film Punjab 1984 that was based on the insurgency years.

In fact, at one press interview he insisted a journalist refer to the 1984 massacre of Sikhs in Delhi as a ‘genocide’. Clearly, he has never been afraid to speak his mind, even if it has meant confronting the limits of nationalism. After all, where exactly does the anti-Sikh massacre and the storming of the Golden Temple fit within the mythology of Indian nationhood? Both these events are seen by Sikhs and political activists as serious breaches of a community’s right to life, freedom, and autonomy.

Does this limited conception of nationalism also drive Dosanjh’s motivation to reinvent himself as a global artist and not simply a mainstream Indian star? Having become the first Punjabi artist to perform at Coachella and at the Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon, Dosanjh has already carved out a niche for himself in the global and diasporic market.

If we are to take his song lyrics at face value, this turn towards Bollywood and the West is a well thought out desire to represent Punjab on a bigger stage. “Dekh Bollywood vich jinne Khan ne, Ohna vich behnda sardar goriye,” he sings in one of his most popular songs G.O.A.T, implying that he is equal to the mighty Khans of Bollywood. “Dekh moam de statue ch vi taur Singh di,” he goes on, referring to his impressive wax statue at Madame Tussauds.

There is also a motivation to free Sikh identity from its stereotypes and introduce the idea of a stylish, globe-trotting, confident Punjabi who is still rooted to his village. In a recent interview, he said: “they said sardars can’t be fashionable, and I said, ‘I will show you.’ They said sardars can’t star in films, so I showed them. They said Punjabis can’t thrive in Mumbai, and I showed them.”

With plenty of references to Teslas, Impalas, ‘goriyan meman’ (white women), and the hood, Dosanjh has created in his musical universe a global village. “Cali vich rehan te punjab di padaish ae (I live in Cali but I was born in Punjab),” he declares in Welcome to My Hood, its music video appropriating Black culture and aesthetic liberally. Could the video and Dosanjh’s attempts at bringing together western rap and hip hop with Punjabi beats and lyrics be seen as a way to bridge cultures and transcend national boundaries?

His recent brush with success and fame would suggest so. Dosanjh is not only a star in India but has become a rage in the United States, Canada, the UK and Australia where he performs to sold out venues. As he takes Punjab all over the world, making Punjabi culture globally aspirational, when he comes home, he also makes sure to remind his audience that he and his home state are still very much integral to the idea of India and its performative nationalisms.

That a Sikh performer must express his commitment to the idea of India again and again publicly, only goes on to show how fragile and tenuous minority communities’ place within Indian nationalism really is. It’s unlikely that a Sonu Nigam or Shreya Ghosal would ever have to parade their nationalism in a similar way. But if you happen to sport a turban and speak only a regional language, the nation will demand allegiance especially at a packed stadium at the national capital.

Tanushree Bhasin is an independent writer and photographer based in New Delhi.

Nostalgia Cricket and its Ability to Bowl Out Anxiety

To an anxious mind, there is nothing more calming than becoming enveloped in a story completely different from your own.

Maintaining a healthy, high-quality sleep cycle has never been my strong suit – by July this year, the problem had reached its lowest ebb. There were new anti-anxiety meds coursing through my body and old one’s were slowly being petered out.

I lay awake each night watching my mind take on unfamiliar contours, drifting in directions from where I simply couldn’t pull it back. It was better to surrender to the storm in my head and accept that it would take three months at least to return to some sense of normalcy, as my psychiatrist had warned. Cursing myself for seeking this new course of treatment out, I submitted to the safety of my bed, barely getting out at all.

I knew that SSRI withdrawal was real and the likely cause of my present condition, but I had idiotically assumed the new meds would easily smoothen this switch. Perhaps they did – the severity of my symptoms could have been much worse were I not taking any SSRIs.

Nonetheless, I spent most nights awake, aware and anxious, with a looming sense of dread. Panic-stricken, I’d google my symptoms each night, scouring Reddit, Quora and Instagram for unlikely solutions, distractions – anything really to stop my mind from spinning out of control.

These deep dives didn’t yield any gatekept resources but they settled my fears of being alone in experiencing something new and bizarre. There is a lot of content out there about every type of peculiar affliction, such that any suffering that feels unique turns out to be quite routine.

Reading Esmé Weijun Wang’s book The Collected Schizophrenias helped in particular, as I found this gem – “I’ve always found comfort in preexisting conditions; I like to know that I’m not pioneering an inexplicable experience.”

So I wasn’t pioneering a new form of misery but how was I to make my way through it?

While the anxiety was bearable in the day thanks to the general noise and chaos of daily life, my mind’s nocturnal wanderings had an undertone of disquiet. I used to love being awake at night, enveloped by a luscious silence in the house.

But now all my symptoms seemed to be coming alive at night. Back pain. Wrist pain. Headaches. Sleepiness, but an inability to doze off. A debilitating sense of anxiety. I’d toss and turn in bed, hoping new angles and folds would relieve some of the discomfort. No such luck.

But then I found the treasure trove of nostalgia cricket.

Researching for a cricket story led me down a very welcome rabbit hole featuring a seemingly endless, bottomless resource of old highlight videos. I began to look for cricket matches from years gone by, that everyone on the internet seemed to remember fondly.

Some of them I remembered having watched as a kid, others I took joy in experiencing for the first time, as if they were live. Tucked away in my blanket, surrounded by the sights and sounds of my childhood, suddenly the noise in my head began to die down and I started being able to fall asleep quietly.

I don’t know if it was the exquisite sound of bat hitting ball, or the ebbs and flows of the crowd’s atmosphere, or even the dulcet tones of Harsha Bhogle or Richie Benaud, knowing that there was a game on and these familiar characters were out there batting, bowling, and commenting on it, brought me a unique sense of relief and calm.

Scenes after India’s historic victory against Australia in the test played at Gabba in January 2021. Photo: X/@ncbn

There‘s a cabinet of curiosities to be found in each of these videos. Cricket broadcasting has evolved significantly over the years, for one, making the old school videos appear almost unrecognisable to what you’ll find on Star Sports or Jio Cinema today. As the ball travelled close to the boundary with a fielder giving chase, a small window would appear on a corner of the screen to show the batters running between the wickets.

Camera movements also seemed to be rather instinctive, with the cameraperson misjudging the trajectory of the ball quite often! The spectators were different too – in a 1996 Titan Cup game between India and Australia, the crowd actually started lighting sparklers in anticipation of India’s win. Imagine walking into a cricket stadium with a pocket full of crackers. Those were different, more fearless times.

Grainy and low-res, these videos forced me to tap into my memories of ‘90s-2000s cricket when more often than not, I heard the match on the radio and never actually got to watch it. It’s interesting to finally put visuals to games that exist in your mind only as stories told by commentators.

One memory stands out particularly fondly here. I bunked school with a friend in early 2005 and listened to the India vs Pakistan ODI match in Kochi on our secretly smuggled in pocket radio. Sehwag had scored a blistering 108 with Dravid contributing 104 to the final score. This came after India lost early wickets and Sehwag was dropped twice in the beginning of the game. Watching the same game twenty years later felt like drawing the outlines of a painting in which the colours had already been filled in.

I suppose watching games where the result was already known made me feel safe as houses. I knew exactly where the challenges would come from, who would succumb to them, and who would emerge victorious. There was no sense of anxiety or doom, only the conviction that Sachin Tendulkar or Harbhajan Singh would save the day.

Sachin Tendulkar and Anil Kumble. Photo: X/@sachin_rt

A favourite video that I played and replayed often was the India vs Australia game at Eden Gardens in 2001 when VVS Laxman scored a sublime 281. His wristy stroke play and ability to find the gaps with ease made this match an absolute treat for the senses. On the other end, Rahul Dravid put up a mighty 180, which took the team’s collective lead against the Aussies to a mammoth 384, after having also played through a follow on.

The message was clear: you play each ball on its merits, get through the hard overs and eventually you will emerge on the other side with plenty of runs and a stadium applauding your efforts. Surely, all I too had to do was defend against intrusive thoughts with a straight bat.

My go to videos were of test matches where nothing really happened for large swathes of time. Ball after ball defended or left. “Well left,” the commentators chirped every time a batter decided not to play the ball.

Cricket might be the only team game where doing absolutely nothing is also considered a skill of endurance and concentration. A skill that I, in the pits of my anxiety, was excelling at. It was decided I was going to ‘leave’ all deliveries for the time being, until I found my footing and had settled at the crease.

Five days of cricket at a blindingly boring pace where – suddenly on the second day – the story would get interesting, the tides having turned, the winds having shifted. A spell of a few overs would bring well settled batters into attempting reckless shots and out of nowhere, the bowling side would gain momentum.

Earlier you might have been nodding off slightly, but now you sat up to take notice. Act one had introduced all the characters and set the scene.Act two presented complications and demanded heroic action. Would the new batter walking to the crease be able to live up to expectations or would their fate end in Shakespearean tragedy?

The fourth and final test of the 2020-21 Border-Gavaskar series between India and Australia brought this kind of narrative tension in spades. Both teams had won a test each and the third test in Sydney petered out to a draw, making this encounter at The Gabba the series decider. Australia hadn’t lost a men’s Test here since 1988 and by the second day, had cruised past 300.

But seamer Shardul Thakur had other ideas, dismissing captain Tim Paine, after which rookie allrounder Cameron Green and fast bowler Pat Cummins lost their wickets too in a span of just four overs. Tailenders Nathan Lyon and Josh Hazlewood fell shortly after, with Australia setting a first innings total of 369. Things remained bleak for India, as their top order was sent packing by the Aussies by the third, leaving the lower order to step up and get India to 336.

Australia were coasting again through the fourth day, when things began to turn in India’s favour. Beginning with Marcus Harris’ wicket, Thakur and Mohammad Siraj picked their way through the batting line up, restricting Australia to a lead of 327.

The stakes were high, victory within reach of either side, and the stage set for a classic final day nailbiter. Until the last few moments when India needed just 30 from 38 balls, things could have gone either way. With an unbeaten 85, wicketkeeper Rishabh Pant guided India to both the match and series win. The test had it all – grit, drama, despair, and hope – all the things that make up an engaging story.

And that is ultimately what elite-level sports like cricket are – storytelling. Despite the rules and settings remaining the same, the ‘feel’ of each game is different, played out in a new and unique narrative each time.

Some matches play out in slow motion, with your home team marching past each obstacle, every milestone seeping into your memory. Others are over in a flash, the opposing team’s onslaught feeling unreal and catastrophic (this is how I experienced the World Cup final on November 19, 2023). Every cricket match is then just a chance to tell a different story.

To an anxious mind, there is nothing more calming than becoming enveloped in a story completely different from your own. It hardly matters whether your team wins or loses. You are invested in the game, its ups and downs, its meandering sub-plots, and its various interesting characters, compared to the final result.

For hours a day, you imbue the unfolding game of cricket with meaning and significance far greater than your own struggles. How the batter plays each deceptive ball, how the bowler gets under the batter’s skin, these are the questions that pervade your mind. And for that brief interlude of time, the anxiety too sits back and watches you watch the most sublime game known to humankind.

Tanushree Bhasin is an independent writer and photographer based in New Delhi.

How The Politics of Cultural Revivalism Fosters Hegemony of a Particular Class and Religion

While cultural revivalism may mobilise the masses and serve political and economic interests, it ultimately perpetuates intolerance and inequality.

For the past 1,000 years, Hindus and Muslims have lived together in the geographical area that we call India. Yet, there are signs of a growing disconnect between the two communities. For instance, if we ask a Muslim child why Diwali is celebrated, he would not only narrate mythological stories of Ram’s courage and victory but also might be seen burning firecrackers on Diwali.

On the other hand, if I inform a Hindu child that it is Moharram today, he might wish me “Happy Moharram,” unaware of its significance.

While this demonstrates the sheer ignorance and lack of communication that has been deepening within the country, on a macro level, it shows that the disconnect is symptomatic of larger efforts to create a cultural hegemony under the guise of nationalism, fueled by fear and revivalist politics.

It is not to say that the two religious communities have always existed peacefully, but the extent of revivalist tendencies, fear-based politics, and state’s involvement is a cause for concern. They are used to create a social order that fosters the marginalisation and hegemony of a particular class and religion.

Two simultaneous processes of extreme nationalism and reviving cultural hegemony are the primary causes of the growing divide between communities in India. This extreme nationalism conflicts with the concept of secularism, as it is nothing but a nostalgic return to claims of a Hindu “golden age,” untainted by the intrusions of Muslims and Christians.

The concern here is not just about Hindu-Muslim unity but about the fear that stems from unpredictable mob behaviour within both communities.

Fear has increasingly become a unifying factor, fostering community solidarity and, on a larger scale, nationalism. The expansion of the idea of a Hindu Rashtra stems from the fear of being outnumbered by a minority community.

The fantasy of national purity and wholeness leads the majority community to construct a predatory identity. This predatory identity mobilises around anxiety about their incompleteness, and concerns about the growing birth rates of the minority community. It seeks to assert dominance and preserve its power by viewing minorities as threats.

The insecurity is not only cultural; states are also subjected to it. Globalisation and other factors have left nations feeling insecure regarding their sovereignty. These global uncertainties lead states to use nationalism as a tool to unite citizens. States constantly try to stay relevant in an international system of anarchy and unpredictability.

The rise of nationalism and community solidarity is often fueled by fear. Rather than overtly coercing citizens into nationalistic unity, a consensual dominance is established by certain social classes that wish to extend their leadership. Consequently, dominant cultural practices become naturally adopted as a “way of life,” blurring the distinction between actions and thoughts.

The state, once purely administrative, now takes on the role of shaping socio-cultural practices in daily life. Right-wing expansionist states have historically used cultural and religious revivalism to both fuel fear and foster isolation, while simultaneously reviving “long-lost” cultural practices and unity.

In this process, states may endorse hegemonic cultural practices, such as languages, festivals, food habits, and even clothing styles, to restore cultural dominance. Through an implicit social contract, the state uses these cultural practices to both legitimise itself and govern its citizens.

India’s secular framework prevents the direct imposition of specific cultural or religious norms, but non-state actors often work behind the scenes to establish cultural hegemony. Hindu nationalism is prompted by these anxieties.

“India’s pride, culture, and innate faith is now on course to be where it was long back when it showed the way to the world,” Union home minister Amit Shah’s words indicate a state-backed cultural revivalism. This instigates political fear among Muslims, a minority religion.

Religious and social organisations must adapt to remain relevant. While Hinduism has not seen significant progressive movements since the Arya Samaj and Brahmo Samaj in the 19th century, the RSS has highlighted the need for a Hindu Rashtra.

The right-wing focus on recreating a “lost” Hindu cultural space often involves extreme measures to promote dominant cultural and religious practices while showing reluctance and ignorance towards others. This societal fear leads to the “othering” of other religions and cultures. While reform movements exist in response to present social scenarios, revivalism revolves around an imaginary future.

What further intensifies insecurities is the economic side of promoting social and cultural practices. Cultural revivalism also has an economic angle to it. Progressive social movements do not generate capital, but religion surely does. Religion enables the wealthy and creates a false consciousness among the poor by justifying their conditions.

Large-scale religious festivals like the Kumbh Mela and Diwali are now commercialised events, with massive economic stakes involved. This intersects with the wider narrative of nationalism and creating a national identity, usually aligned with the dominant religion. The commodification of religious practices serves both economic and political interests, as it reinforces the dominant narrative of cultural superiority while generating capital for the wealthy.

This poses a further question: who are these cultural events and festivities for? The monopoly over social events demonstrates how economic resources enforce social relations in society.

This phenomenon is not solely religious. Even within the dominant religion, marginalised classes are subjected to the hegemonic nature of culture. Marginalised communities within the dominant socio-religious group, such as Dalits, are often incentivised to join the larger Hindu sect. The larger group is encouraged to move beyond historical prejudices, promising inclusion for marginalised groups.

However, the promised emancipation of Dalits through assimilation is often built on shaky ground. Assimilation within the Hindu social order does not guarantee better conditions for the marginalised; rather, it serves as a means of uniting against a common enemy.

RSS chief Mohan Bhagwat, in a recent speech, urged Hindus to unite and leave the past behind, suggesting that historical subjugation would no longer haunt the lower castes if they assimilate. However, the incentive must go beyond that.

The grey area lies in whether joining a united Hindu identity would truly alleviate the plight of the most downtrodden and segregated communities. If a Hindu Rashtra were to be established, would the same incentive apply, and which cultural norms would dictate the new social order? If the promise of emancipation is merely a fairy tale, the hierarchical dynamics would remain unchanged in an imagined Hindu Rashtra. A “subordinate” class would still exist under the banner of Hinduism.

The illusion of cultural revivalism serves only to mobilise the masses, fostering fear and intolerance among the various cultures that exist in India today. Fear of a common enemy is not permanent. Once the illusion of a united Hindu nation evaporates, justification takes over.

The predatory class goes to extensive lengths to create theories and proofs of this “natural” social imbalance and inequality. The historically underprivileged classes accept their natural position in society. This internalised marginalisation enables the dominant classes and cultures to take over the public space.

While cultural revivalism may mobilise the masses and serve political and economic interests, it ultimately perpetuates intolerance and inequality. In a multicultural nation like India, where pluralism is deeply ingrained, cultural conflicts are inevitable. Social injustices, arising from cultural dominance, are harder to address through universal notions of justice. Can social justice truly exist if one culture consistently dominates others?

The answer lies in a context-sensitive approach that minimises conflict and confrontation. State-backed cultural revivalism not only marginalises minority communities but also reinforces existing hierarchies within the dominant religion.

Pluralism naturally fosters friendly coexistence where mutual respect and acknowledgment of boundaries exist. However, this balance is fragile, often giving way to a friend-enemy dynamic. Fostering true pluralism and social justice requires moving beyond hegemonic practices to ensure that all communities can coexist with mutual respect and equality.

Anurakti Vajpeyi is a student of international relations at the South Asian University.

Consent and Pleasure: An Alliance Between Sex Work and Kink

Just as sex work is often laden with stigma, kink is taboo and deemed to be a product of sexual deviancy. Both communities are thus severely underrepresented in the rights landscape due to the moral judgment endured by them.

On the weekend of September 13-15, 2024, Kinky Collective (a community-funded group raising awareness around kink in India) organised the second edition of Kink Con: A National Convention in Celebration of Kink, Consent, Queerness and Acceptance.

The first panel was a Report launch titled “Conversations on Kink and Sex Work: Consent, Desire, and Power.” The Report was a summary of an Institute (workshop) organised by Kinky Collective (KC), and VAMP (Veshya Anyay Mukti Parishad, a collective of cis and trans women engaged in sex work in Maharashtra and North Karnataka) on 19th of October 2022 at Sangli, Maharashtra. The Institute facilitated a conversation around kink and sex work, and held space for questions, experiences and challenges faced by persons engaged in sex work. At the outset, the purpose of the Institute was to build alliances between the shared experiences of the two communities, and to debunk the idea that kink was an urban, western, capitalist phenomena since the sex workers predominantly experienced requests for kink from clients from villages and small towns.

At the report launch, two participants of the institute were present from SANGRAM, a collective of empowerment groups for sex workers, MSM and transgender individuals. They were Meena Seshu (founder of SANGRAM), and Aarthi Pai (director). Seshu and Pai served as the Marathi translators and intermediaries between members of KC, who predominantly spoke in a mix of English and Hindi. Members of KC shared that it was an interesting experience to find a shared vocabulary to articulate the experience of kink among the participants. The usual English vocabulary could not accurately capture the experiences, feelings and power dynamics of the participants. For example, ‘domination’ in the kink context translates plainly to Hindi as ‘havi,’ which bears a negative connotation of being oppressive or overbearing, thus, lacking the kink essentials of pleasure and consent. The word ‘satta’ ordinarily translates to ‘power,’ and was deemed to be a more suitable representation of the kink dynamic. In other instances, no attempt was made to create a word – instead, space was held to capture and translate the complexity of experience.

Also read: ‘A Twist in a Straight Line’: Inside India’s Kinky Networks

The workshop was an important space to build alliances between sexualities that are experienced outside ‘normalcy.’ Sex work is often categorised under the misnomer of ‘trafficking’ and ‘prostitution’ which has invited heavy-handed state surveillance, rescue, and rehabilitation.

Some of the slogans of the sex workers’ movement such as ‘Sex Work is Decent Work,’ ‘Rehabilitation is Redundant, Recognise Rights,’ and ‘Save us from Saviours,’ capture the battle of the community. These slogans were written on red umbrellas which were arranged on the backdrop of the report launch. The hetero-patriarchal Indian state also struggles to accept sex as a commercial service, an act that occurs outside the familial, procreational goal. Sex work is thus often laden with stigma.

Similarly, kink is taboo and deemed to be a product of sexual deviancy, and thus, remains far removed from any mainstream sexual rights activism.

It is notable that both these communities are severely underrepresented in the rights landscape due to the moral judgment endured by them. The report was thus wrapped in red and black ribbon to signify the coming together of the colours of sex work and kink respectively. Seshu and Pai argued for building more underground allied networks for sex workers and kinksters rather than waiting on the approval of the state, whose intentions are not to prioritize the needs and voices of these communities.

Another meeting point between sex work and kink is the clear negotiation of sexual acts, and therefore, the priority placed on consent as a central tenet to their relationalities. Seshu and Pai shared that their interaction with members of VAMP and SANGRAM revealed that they had very advanced approaches to consent, identity, and relationships due to their forthright and non-judgmental articulations with clients. Like the kink community, sex workers self-regulate around violations of consent, such as to end sessions when pain thresholds were crossed. When clients were aggressive, sex workers raised an alarm in their chambers, for example, some transgender participants shared the strategy of clapping loudly to call out for help. Similarly, in the kink space, munches (safe, social spaces) often serve as a space for raising concerns of consent violations in the community. It is important to note that due to their stigmatised nature, these communities don’t usually rely upon police support in fear of harassment and threat to their livelihoods and identities.

Seshu and Pai shared that one of the needs to have an Institute with KC arose due to the sense of intrigue and curiosity sex workers felt when clients would approach them with kinky desires and fetishes to offer larger than usual sums of money. They shared on behalf of the sex workers that because they were the primary act in the exchange, and penetrative sex was ancillary; for instance, one client only wished to oil, braid and smell the hair of a sex worker.

Members of KC shared that the affective atmosphere of the Institute was replete with laughter and teasing, and the reciprocity of sharing experiences without judgment, shame, but rather, curiosity and erotic fulfillment. This cheeky and arousing atmosphere among both communities foregrounded that their preoccupation with activism sidelined a discussion of their personal desires in daily dialogues. Seshu and Pai shared that while sex workers were completely non-judgmental about their clients’ kinky desires, most were not able to connect yet with kink due to their everyday experience of violence. KC shared that they would organise a joint workshop with SANGRAM in the future to create an avenue for sex workers to safely explore their own desires too. Some trans women sex workers shared that they had enjoyed spanking and hitting while engaging with kinky clients.

The kink terminology of ‘aftercare’ (acts of intimacy to wind down after the intensity experienced) also seemed relevant where kink and pleasure were aligned, especially when there were consent accidents/ incidents of excess; clients would offer cajoling, massages, and thereby support in the recovery.

Seshu and Pai also shared that the desires and pleasures of sex workers too, were ‘not mainstream,’ for instance, they would prioritise pleasure over physical appearance of clients. Similarly, in kink exchanges, identity and orientation often has very little to do with the exchange of kink, pleasure is the central endeavor. For instance, a gay male submissive and a lesbian female dominant both might engage in a play of spanking and flogging and both give and receive optimum pleasure in the act without being sexual

The convergences between kink and sex work thus reveals the importance of bringing together sexually marginalised groups to engage in productive and joyous camaraderie. As an audience member at Kink Con 2024, it was powerful to witness the importance of a safe space for members of the kink community to come together. Community provided by platforms like VAMP and SANGRAM have been critical for the empowerment of sex workers. The kink community urgently needs the strength of each other and that of allies to battle with silence and stigma that surrounds their desires. Kinky Collective’s efforts to create a platform like Kink Con provided an affirmative space around consent and negotiation, through the values of safety and communitarian care, in an atmosphere of joy, erotic energy and unabashed pride.

Katyayani Sinha is a PhD student at Melbourne Law School. Her project examines negotiation, informal contracts, and dispute resolution in the kink and polyamory communities in India.

The Death of One Direction’s Liam Payne Reminds Us ‘Just How Fast the Night Changes’ for Boy Bands

The increasing chasm between past success and a future with the pressure of replicating the same level of fame can lead to tragedies like Payne’s death.

Liam Payne is four years too late to be a member of the ’27 Club’ – the list of unfortunate, legendary musicians whose lives met an abrupt end at the age of 27 and who have now attained cult status.

Payne, a former member of the boy band One Direction, died at the age of 31, falling from the balcony of his hotel in Argentina’s Buenos Aires, reportedly under the influence of drugs.

In Payne’s music career that lasted nearly a decade and half, it is unlikely that one would find iconic moments akin to Jimi Hendrix singing his version of ‘Wild Thing’ and setting fire to his guitar at the Monterey Pop Festival – hands raised as the flames engulfed the instrument doused in lighter fuel – or that of Nirvana frontman Kurt Cobain’s unforgettable performance for MTV Unplugged in 1993. Both Hendrix and Cobain are members of the ’27 Club.’

And yet, Payne was a member of one of the most successful musical acts in the world. One Direction is undoubtedly the biggest such group of the late 2000s, carrying on the mantle from Backstreet Boys and NSYNC who owned the 90s.

After a few years of meteoric rise, One Direction met a predictable end destined for most bands in the genre – it went on hiatus, with all the members deciding to pursue solo careers.

While Payne did taste some success as a solo artist with singles such as ‘Strip that Down’, his most popular songs remain those produced during his time with One Direction, when he also wrote many of the hit numbers of the group.

To this date, Harry Styles – Styles won the Grammy for his solo album Harry’s House last year – remains the biggest star to come out from One Direction. The group had five young singers – Liam Payne, Niall Horan, Styles, Zayn Malik and Louis Tomlinson. It was formed during the 2010 edition of the The X Factor and taken to the pinnacle of success by Simon Cowell’s record label – Cowell had previously promoted other boy bands such as Westlife – Syco Records.

The One Direction band, of which Liam Payne was a part. Photo: X.

Each member of One Direction had a massive following among millennials and Gen Zs alike.

The downside of One Direction members tasting fame at a young age – late teenage years in the case of Payne – was that they, much like members of other boy bands, were often caged in an artfully-crafted persona which was created for them by image consultants and marketing pundits to ensure that the band appeals to its core audience of teenagers and fans in their early twenties.

Eight years since One Direction went into indefinite hiatus in 2016, barring a few such as Styles, most of the band members are still remembered best for songs such as ‘Best Song Ever’ or ‘What Makes You Beautiful’, even long after the members have become men in their thirties, navigating relationships, kids and exasperation while parrying questions about a reunion.

Be it in Payne’s single ‘Strip that Down’ or Malik’s ‘I Don’t Wanna Live Forever’, in the songs they made after exiting the band, one could sense a restless urge to shake off their image as integral cogs in a boy band and reinvent themselves.

In comparison, singers such as Ed Sheeran, who wrote a number of songs performed by One Direction have become only more popular.

The dark side of success, especially in the context of boy bands, has many precedents. In the movie Music and Lyrics, actor Hugh Grant played Alex Fletcher, a former member of a once-successful band, who is left adrift after his bandmate becomes a huge star.

Unable to keep up with the cutthroat competition in the music industry, Fletcher is relegated to obscurity, becoming a caricature of his former self, now playing at small concerts and birthday parties for people in their late thirties, who were once the diehard teen fans of his band.

The former members of One Direction remain huge stars who gain from the advantage of being one of the first music groups to tap the power of social media in the 2010s.

But separated from the band, former members such as Payne had the constant burden of staying relevant in an age where new, younger stars had taken their place in the teen awards or the top of the charts.

This is not new. George Michael, one of the two members of the 80s musical duo Wham, went on to chart a massively successful solo career, becoming one the best-selling musicians of all time. While Michael mesmerised crowds with his duet with Elton John, ‘Don’t Let The Sun Go Down On Me’, the sun did go down on the career of his Wham bandmate Andrew Ridgeley, who, after a forgettable solo album, slipped into oblivion.

After NSYNC broke up and Justin Timberlake went on to become a big pop star, the other members of the band would be restricted to occasional cameos in Timberlake’s concerts, failing to do away with the boy band tag and reinvent themselves in their forties.

In the days preceding his death, a grim picture had emerged about a problematic side of Payne’s personality. Payne’s ex-fiancée Maya Henry had accused him of manipulative behaviour, and coercion. She had sent Payne a cease-and-desist notice recently. Henry also accused Payne of “weaponising” One Direction fans against her.

The increasing chasm between past success and a future with the pressure of replicating the same level of fame can lead to tragedies such as the passing away of Payne, whose death reminds us “just how fast the night changes for boy bands.”

As Fans Mourn Pop Idol Liam Payne, Reactions Reflect Childhood Nostalgia

As more details and tributes to Payne’s life and death emerge, the fans will have each other to lean on.

Former One Direction band member and solo artist Liam Payne has been found dead outside a hotel in Buenos Aires, media reports have confirmed. Payne was just 31 years old – a loved friend and father.

Alongside his former One Direction band mates Niall Horan, Harry Styles, Louis Tomlinson and Zayn Malik, Payne had a huge influence on popular culture in his home country of the United Kingdom and internationally.

The group formed in 2010 on the British talent show X Factor and stayed together for about five years before officially splitting in 2016. Throughout this time, Payne remained a valuable member of the band and a clear talent in his own right.

Although each member auditioned seperately, they were eventually hand-picked by Simon Cowell to form a group.

After the split (and a brief hiatus from music-making), Payne continued to release music periodically as both a songwriter and collaborator. He most recently released the single Teardrops in March, ahead of an anticipated second solo album.

News of Payne’s death has led to an outpouring of tributes. Like many young people thrust into stardom seemingly overnight, his life wasn’t without controversy. But the response to his death by fans and industry colleagues alike is proof of the impact he had.

The making of a pop supergroup

While One Direction may have not been together for as long as other globally successful acts, their influence far exceeded bands that have been together for decades. They released five studio records – and broke many more, including six Guinness World Records. And even though they didn’t make it to their 10th anniversary together, they had still sold some 70 million records by 2020.

In the years since the split, fans continued to gather, listen and celebrate – with the most recent anniversary (14 years) seeing fan-led events held in Australia and the rest of the world.

It’s easy to dismiss pop music and its influence, especially in the face of what feel like increasingly dire global circumstances. But pop, like many other forms of entertainment, provides a practical way for people to gain momentary pleasure and comfort.

It also provides connection with others – and relief from politics and other daily pressures. For example, one of One Direction’s biggest hits, That’s What Makes You Beautiful, sought to empower young people who might otherwise be overwhelmed by negative messaging.

Within a year of their debut, the group was met with massive crowds of fans almost everywhere they want.

The impact on fans when their idol dies

The loss of life, especially a young person’s life, is always a tragedy.

For some young fans, this might be the first person they “know” who has died. While it may not be the same as losing a family member or close friend, the feeling of loss is significant. Young fans will need support. And in 2024, many will find this support through social platforms and online forums.

I still remember the impact the deaths of stars such as Kurt Cobain and Jeff Buckley had on people like me who were teenagers in the 1990s. These were artists I admired and listened to – and whose art I relied on during times of pleasure and pain.

A similar pang was felt when artists such as George Michael, Aretha Franklin and David Bowie died, albeit later in my life and theirs.

The experience of losing a music idol is in many ways a universal one. People whose art we attach to our own life experiences become inseparable from our lives. And when they die, it can feel like those experiences are over too.

After news of Payne’s death broke, hundreds of fans took to the streets of Palermo in Buenos Aires, where Payne had been visiting. They held a vigil, cried and consoled one another in front of the Casa Sur hotel where Payne had been staying.

One fan, 25-year-old Yamila Zacarias, probably spoke for many when she said:

He meant a lot to me because the band came into my life at this time when you’re trying to be a part of something, and being a One Direction fan became that something for me.

Lifelong fandom and memories

There’s a stereotype of “fans” as hordes of screaming girls, which can really take away from the depth of fandom.

Anyone at any stage of life can be a fan of just about anything. And the best thing about fandom is that it can, and often does, allow lots of different types of people an outlet for connection throughout their lives.

Many fans have left comments on old music videos.
YouTube/screenshot

The death of US actress Betty White in 2021, as sad as it was, brought people across generations and walks of life together. And not just those who knew her personally, but those who had connected with each other through their love of her work. It reminded me of my own family, including my Nan and Dad, now gone, and the laughs we’d share as we watched her.

As more details and tributes to Payne’s life and death emerge, the fans will have each other to lean on. If you yourself know someone who is a fan of Payne or One Direction, even reaching out to just acknowledge that person’s grief and experience is important. It says to them, “what you love is valid, and so are you”.

Liz Giuffre, Senior Lecturer in Communication, University of Technology Sydney.

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Indian Women’s Fight for Toilets Continue in Courts

It is pertinent to understand that the times have changed and so should the court infrastructure.

It was 8.30 am on a Friday morning, the last day of my second year law internship. I prepared my bag to leave for court, packing files, laptop, lunch, wallet, and a toilet seat sanitiser. During my commute, I came across an article by The Times of India, which read, “Registration of female candidates in CLAT [Common Law Admission Test] increases as more women get interested in legal profession.” I dig in to find that the enrollment of female candidates in CLAT has surged, highlighting a shift in preferences, with 57% of girls appearing in CLAT 2024. Although applaudable, I wonder if the courts are competent to accommodate such a shift?

Even after 75 years, Indian courts still lack adequate facilities and amenities for women. For female lawyers, washroom schedules are often dictated not as per biological need but rather according to inadequate toilet infrastructure. They routinely restrain their urge to relieve themselves and limit their liquid intake to minimise trips to inadequate or nonexistent facilities.

The issue was recently brought to the fore by the Nilgiris’ women lawyers association protest against the glaring lack of washroom facilities for women in the newly built Nilgiris district court complex, which led to the Supreme Court taking suo moto cognisance of the matter.

As per the National Judicial Data Grid, 19.7% of district courts do not have separate washrooms for women as of September 25, 2023, and the condition of the existing ones makes them unfit for use.

According to a survey conducted across 665 district court complexes across India by the Vidhi Centre for Legal Policy, it was found that nearly 100 district courts lacked any washroom facilities for women, and even in 585 that had washrooms, more than half — that is, 60% — were not functional. These data paint a grim picture of the reality of court complexes. Despite repeated attempts by women across the country to seek accountability and safety from concerned authorities yet a crucial aspect remains overlooked.

Also read: What Do Gender Roles Look like in a Refugee Camp?

Functioning toilet facilities and safe restrooms are fundamental requirements for human dignity, yet Indian courts have consistently failed to address this critical issue. Imagine having to consider job opportunities based on the availability of a clean and functional washroom, a criterion that disproportionately affects women and often gets added to their checklist for a suitable job.

The available data underscores the alarming insensitivity towards women’s health and sanitation, revealing the constitution’s unfulfilled promise of equality and dignity, the legislature’s inaction in enacting laws that ensure humane working conditions for women, and the state governments’ neglect in developing adequate court infrastructure. It is an irony that those entrusted with the task of fighting for others’ rights are being made to fight for their own.

It is pertinent to understand that the times have changed and so should the court infrastructure. The planning and building of courts must take into account and serve the needs of all the people it cohabits, which includes women and other genders. On the surface, toilet facilities appear gender-neutral, but a more nuanced examination exposes significant gaps in design, accessibility, and usage, compromising their inclusivity for all genders.

Recently, the Chief Justice of India (CJI), D.Y. Chandrachud, at the inauguration of an arbitration centre said that it is our duty to create dignified conditions work for women, so they can flourish as members of the district judiciary, sharing his personal experience as a judge of the Bombay high court, where he was surprised on discovering that there was only one toilet for female judges in the Kolhapur court, and for using that as well, one would have to go past the corridor where all under-trials were sitting. This highlights that judicial officers, even at the top of the workforce hierarchy, are facing such unwelcoming and embarrassing experiences, and the legal system in its totality is failing to accommodate the needs of the participating women.

Also read: Gender-Responsive Budgeting: Still a Long Way to Go For India

The judiciary remains a low priority when it comes to funding. Consequently, the burden falls on women to protect and provide for themselves. The additional costs of seat sanitiser, portable jet sprays, paid toilets and hygiene related products coupled with the gender wage gap causes both financial and mental distress.

A holistic approach to court design in consonance with women-centric facilities and demands, proper allocation of funds, and an honest attempt to provide women with provisions for their differences instead of sweeping them under the rug and ensuring that the providers of justice do not become seekers of it is the need of the hour. The government’s initiative of making India Open Defecation Free (ODF) must comprehend that households are not the sole parameter of assessment. Women are no longer confined to the four walls of their homes. These schemes and subsidies should also be deployed to places of work and public institutions. Indian women must not be made to fight yet another battle for dignity and equality.

Aqsa Mullick is a young Muslim woman and a law student who is trying to make conversations that are important.

The Limits of Punching Up in Stand-Up Comedy

Stand up as a genre has made a significant contribution in bringing politics out of its narrow confines of academic spheres and helping it reach a wider set of people. But this has been possible thanks to a change.

The following is an excerpt from the book Punching Up in Stand-Up Comedy: Speaking Truth to Power, published by Routledge.

Humour is valued when it is perceived as cerebral or intellectually stimulating, something that is difficult to grasp and allows those who are humour literate to take pride in their intellectual prowess. However, when it comes to subaltern laughter, the erasure of the socially disempowered from the status of the comic, and thus the agent of humour, is part of a persistent historical narrative and a master game plan that has come to define the construct of the rational (and funny) man. Humour from below is seen as lowbrow and is equated with pure, unadulterated emotion such as the kind women, children and vulnerable sections of the society display.

The refusal to see the marginalised as agents of humour instead of being the butt of ridicule, and “register the social power of subaltern laughter,” by dismissing their humour as mere relief is a bias that can be seen in philosophical and popular understandings of humour (Cynthia Willet and Julie A. Willet). Although the “diversity quota” (Aditi Mittal) of neoliberal markets makes room for a diverse set of voices, it does not recognise the political nature of comedy by women or “chick comedy” which foregrounds questions of identity and sexuality.

‘Punching Up in Stand-Up Comedy: Speaking Truth to Power,’ edited By Rashi Bhargava and Richa Chilana, Routledge, 2023.

Rebecca Krefting in her book All Joking Aside: American humour and its discontents has argued that all forms of humour locate itself in a particular social, cultural, political context. However, “charged humour” does it self consciously with the intention to create a more equitable world by challenging its divisions and cultural exclusion.

In contemporary discourse, politics transcends the confines of statist, governmental structures, institutions and processes and incorporates within it individual and collective experiences, relationships and political subjectivities in the everyday. It highlights the existence of power dynamics within societal relationships both at the micro and at the macro level and the various factors that have a bearing on it. Stand up as a genre has made a significant contribution in bringing politics out of its narrow confines of academic, scholarly, intellectual and activist spheres and helping it reach a wider set of people. But this has been possible only because of the emergence of a new moment in politics as underscored by Sophie Quirk. As a communicative and collaborative art form, it can be said to address the gap between lived experience and power equations, ideology and representations in a society.

Some of the contemporary female stand up comics across the world are challenging dominant views to question conventional hierarchies. We can specifically look at female comedians in different regional settings be it the US (Ali Wong and Taylor Tomlinson), India (Kaneez Surka, Sumukhi Suresh), Australia (Hannah Gadsby and Zoe Coombs Marr), Italy (Marsha De Salvatore) or Iran (Shaghayegh Dehghan and Elika Abdolrazzaghi) who through their acts have deconstructed gendered notions of humour as well as patriarchal structures, worldviews and ideologies.

A stand-up performance is a people’s art, performed for the people. It is predicated on the performer’s connection with the audience by breaking the fourth wall, unlike many other modes of artistic expression where the performer feigns oblivion of the presence of the audience (Ian Brodie). The stand up comedian performing her biography through her performance might enable creation of community, celebration of creativity, orality/aurality and performativity in addition to critiquing structural (racist, sexist, ethnic, class, caste), gendered, cishet and (hetero-)sexual politics.

Usually the biography of a performer is established through her/his interviews, publicity material and more recently in their tweets and other kinds of social media presence which allows them to share their opinions in their acts and which may not fully be directed to entertain the audience. There is a performance of the self outside their “performative moments” which can be called their “non-comedic performance” (Ian Brodie). The socio-cultural situatedness of the content of stand up comedy and the comic persona flows into the realm of interpretation by the audience (face-to-face and mediated, both). Thus, it is not only the comic that establishes a subject position but also the audience who react to her/his jokes and may take hegemonic ideas, positions and narratives head on. Their laughter can be dangerous and jokes can oust misinformation, propaganda and rhetoric. One can say, the audience is not a passive receiver but an active agent and has the power to challenge the hegemonic and the dominant. Thus even if a comic performance may not necessarily lead to any drastic change, it can definitely be instrumental in busting myths, representations and ideologies and alter the way people think about the dominant and the marginalised both from within and outside.

The question, then, is – is this kind of performance lucrative for the comic or does it always ‘land’? For instance, there are quite a few charged female comics who are successful but when it comes to long term success such as being headliners in comedy clubs, film, tv etc, it has mostly been men. While talking about the debate generated by Christopher Hitchens’ “Why Women Aren’t Funny” Krefting says that it ignored a seminal issue about the economy of artistic production and consumption and how we as individuals are taught to value certain things over others, made to identify with those in power and that identification promises material and cultural capital. Herein lies the reason why charged humour isn’t economically viable.

Authorial intention is another possible lens through which we can further examine humour. There are times when the intention of a stand-up comic might not translate in the form of the audience reaction he/she was working towards. In such a case, the audience, especially the ones at the margins may make attempts and find ways to reclaim their subject positions vis-a-vis the stand up comic. The contemporary digital space does allow for such a process to unfold. For instance in a recent incident, a fan who identifies as non-binary called out Vir Das for his joke on the transgender community and stated, “you (Vir Das) of all people know punching up is how comedy works and yet you chose to punch down, if only as a set up.” To this, Das took full responsibility and responded,

I did a joke on the new ten on ten episode that my friends in the trans community felt hurt by. I see why. My intent in the moment, was to say Trans people have courage the Govt messed up. It had the opposite effect and trivialised your struggle. Articulating my intent effectively is my responsibility, not yours.

This conversation, whose screenshot was shared by Vir Das on his Instagram handle indicates how digital space creates a space for dialogic communication and offers a glimpse into authorial intention or how sometimes the intent might not translate into the act or the personal life of the stand-up comic. In another instance, Aditi Mittal offers a caustic critique of sexism by talking unabashedly of bra shopping, menstruation etc. in Things They Wouldn’t Let Me Say, while on the other hand she was herself accused of sexual harassment by another comic. When the #MeToo movement laid bare the deep, dark secrets of the stand-up world, three comedy collectives in India, All India Bakchod (AIB), Schitzengiggles Comedy (SnG) and East India Comedy (EIC) either fell apart or saw the loss of some of the founding figures. How do we then look at their “subversive humour” or the reinvented relationship between the performer and the audience in this heavily mediatised world?

Although contemporary stand-up comics are seen as parrhesiastes or Horatian in their attempt to offer pleasurable instruction, the cathartic laughter of the audience also makes us wonder if catharsis is all it offers or is there something else that changes ever so slightly when we hear the ‘truth tellers’,

For the master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house… the true focus of revolutionary change is never merely the oppressive situations which we seek to escape, but that piece of the oppressor that is planted deep within each of us,and which knows only the oppressors’ tactics, the oppressors’ relationships. (Audre Lorde)

We believe that the joy, communion, sense of belonging and solidarity, empathy, humility, possibilities of (limited) transformation and laughing in the face of the powers that are and powers that be, that the form promises and delivers to the laughmakers and their audience is worth noting, investigating and celebrating. But how far and how deeply have the ‘master’s tools’ infiltrated stand-up comedy that punches up especially when most of them speak from a position of power and privilege is a question that we need to constantly ask and attempt to answer.

Rashi Bhargava is assistant professor at North Eastern Hill University. Richa Chilana is assistant professor at University of Petroleum and Energy Studies. The two are also editors of Politics of Recognition and Representation in Indian Stand-Up Comedy.

Submission, Dominance, Indianness and Laapataa Ladies

Recently, the FFI jury members’ unanimous decision to select Laapataa Ladies as the official entry to the Oscars made news. What also made news was the citation.

As the ‘ladies’ in Laapataa Ladies find their ‘pata’ (address) at the Oscars, it seems that the jury members of the Film Federation of India (FFI) have found their home in tokenism.

Recently, the jury members’ unanimous decision to select Laapataa Ladies, among 28 other strong contenders, as the official entry to the Oscars made news. What also made news was the citation:

“Indian women are a strange mixture of submission and dominance. Well-defined, powerful characters in one world a LAAPATAA LADIES (Hind) captures this diversity perfectly, though in a semi-idyllic world and in a tongue-in-cheek way. It shows you that women can-happily desire to be home makers as well as rebel and be entrepreneurially inclined. A story that can simultaneously be seen as one that needs change, and one that can bring about change, Laapataa Ladies (Hindi) is a film that can engage, entertain and make sense not just to women in India but universally as well..”

The above words by an all-male jury is a fine instance of how men’s perceptions shape women’s characterisation in media and the creative arts.

The film clearly says Indian women are not a “strange mixture” of submission and dominance; rather, they are clearly defined by their choices. But reality is ironical.

In an interview with The Indian Express, Jahnu Barua, the Jury Chairman of the FFI, said that it was the “Indianness” of Laapataa Ladies that most effectively celebrated the essence of Indian ethos and culture. Ravi Kottakara, FFI president, was quoted in an interview with Etimes as having said that this “ghoonghat misunderstanding” happens only in India which adds an essential Indian element to it.

Are we truly on a wild goose chase in ill-defining what the film’s narrative actually wants to educate us on?

Kishwar Desai’s opinion on the citation in The Indian Express is a fine jibe at the use of the term ‘semi-idyllic world’:

“And how is the world of LL even remotely “semi-idyllic”? Unless you think that women who live in a world where they are abused is semi-idyllic because it is idyllic when they are not being abused.”

Although the ends seemed to be tied up in a utopian thread, where Phool gets to reunite with Deepak after living a series of episodes as an independent woman, and then there is Jaya who breaks the social norm by forging an identity for herself, the film is still far from being semi-idyllic. In their monumental yet fleeting victories, as the characters choose their desired identities, we must know their journeys aren’t tied in an altogether promising utopian thread. Both Phool and Jaya would continue to grapple with challenges that accompany their choices, just like any other woman. Sure, there is empowerment but only partially.

However, the jury committee’s decision to select Laapataa Ladies for its “Indianness” still leads me to question whether this women-centric cinema, which redefines a gendered narratives, ultimately boils down to the cultural elements that help define India for an international audience. Some have asked whether Payal Kapadia’s All That We Imagine As Light gives the impression of foreign cinema. The film has won big at Cannes but notably got the snub as the Oscar pick.

Laapataa Ladies’ nomination is a fabulous treat for us, but the jury committee appears to have selected it to put multiple ticks on its checklist: ghoonghat, organic farming, rural India, women empowerment and so on, without critically engaging with Indian patriarchy.

Finally, is this the path for India to attain an Oscar? By telling the world that rural India is trying to overcome “ghoonghat” ordeals?

Manya Singh is an editorial intern at The Wire.