Zero degrees of Separation
Letter from my friend, James D. Newman -- a Seattle native
Subject: A letter from my friend Pranay Gupte -- a Mumbai native
There's a major square in South Mumbai - a complex intersection,
really - that mirrors the open, secular and trusting society that
India has always been.
In and around the square, there are small haberdasheries run by Hindus
and groceries owned by Muslims; there's a Catholic church; there's a
theater that exhibits brash foreign films, and another one that
features Bollywood fare. There are tiny eateries that offer everything
from samosas to sandwiches. There are cobblers parked on pavements,
and tailors perched on the patios of dilapidated but crowded
tenements. There are bookstores and magazine kiosks.
I like to think that this square is the crossroads of Mumbai, India's
commercial capital and its most cosmopolitan and ethnically diverse
city, with a population of nearly 20 million people; I even like to
think that this square is the crossroads of India, which has 1.2
billion people.
I like to think these things not only because the square - called
"chowk" in the Marathi language that's widely spoken in Mumbai - is
named after my late mother, Professor Charusheela Gupte. She was a
Marathi and Sanskrit scholar, a writer, and a social activist who
championed the cause of literacy for dispossessed children and of
economic opportunities for women, particularly in slums and in the
rural regions surrounding Mumbai. During her long lifetime, she
witnessed the transformation of India from a colony of the British Raj
to an independent democracy. She spoke up for people who had no voice
in public discourse, and few opportunities to advance beyond
subsistence. She spoke from her heart because she had pulled herself
from poverty to reach the highest levels of intellectual and social
attainment.
My mother is long gone now, but I like to think that the square named
in her honor by a grateful city still resonates with the spirit that
animated her life - the spirit of openness, secular and trust that
resides in the hearts of most Indians, regardless of their faith or
ethnicity.
The square that's named after Charusheela Gupte is not very far from
the carnage that's severely testing that spirit in Mumbai right now.
My mother would have never anticipated that terrorism would strike the
old and hauntingly beautiful city she loved; had she been alive, I
know she would have rushed to Mumbai's hospitals and densely populated
neighborhoods to comfort those who have been brutalized. My late
father, Balkrishna Gupte - a lawyer and banker - would have surely
accompanied her, for it is also in the nature of Indians to
demonstrate that extending a helping hand to others traditionally
starts with lending unconditional support to your own spouse and
family members.
The support that my parents gave me flowed from their sweat and
sacrifices. My own good fortune has been that of seeing a wider world
where technology has brought societies closer; my misfortune has been
that this world has become more cynical, more competitive, more
terrifying and more unforgiving than the one my parents inhabited. The
global clash of civilizations simply didn't exist in the world that
they knew. They would have been saddened by the clash, and they would
have been surprised by the disheartening events of the two decades
since their demise.
In my own journalistic career spanning four decades and virtually
every continent, I have been a witness to that clash. And now I am
seeing it come suddenly and brutally to my home, to my native city of
Mumbai, where the soundtrack of my childhood was the cacophony of
myriad lilting languages; where the visuals were those of Hindus and
Muslims and Sikhs and Christians and Jews and Parsis and Buddhists
greet one another warmly during their feasts and festivals and in
everyday life, too; and where the ambitions of my youth were
predicated on cooperation, not confrontation.
The age of confrontation is here now, perhaps irreversibly so. There
will be continuing speculation and conjecture over the next many
months about the terrorists who held hostages in Mumbai, who hit at
the heart of India's commerce, who shut down an entire city, who drove
people to panic, who killed innocent men and women. There will be
endless debate about the perpetrators' motives. I fear that there may
even be further violence, undertaken in vengeance but driven, of
course, by the politics of communalism. Who knows?
But this much I know: Terrorism or not, India will always be an open
and secular and trusting society. It may be forced to become a more
wary one on account of the exigencies of our time. Indeed, the culture
of laxity concerning public safety that make India so vulnerable is
going to need some toughening up.
Those are technical issues, however. But I talk here about matters of
the heart, of an enduring spirit that embraces everyone, regardless of
covenant and communion and community. I speak in the hope that our
mutual suspicions will be lessened, I speak in the hope that our
rhetoric of blame will be softened, I speak in the hope that Indians
will never abandon the essential elements that have characterized our
vast land for millennia - tolerance and understanding.
I speak in the language that Charusheela and Balkrishna Gupte spoke in
their time, in the language they would still have spoken despite the
drama that's shredding the fabric of Mumbai's society. I am their son,
and I like to think that their spirit lives in me. I like to think
that it is a universal spirit, that its essence is no less true today
than it was in their much simpler time. My parents believed that while
people may have been born to different cultures, they were joined by
the bonds of the soul. I subscribe to that belief, and I invite
everybody to share it, now more than ever before.
Subject: A letter from my friend Pranay Gupte -- a Mumbai native
There's a major square in South Mumbai - a complex intersection,
really - that mirrors the open, secular and trusting society that
India has always been.
In and around the square, there are small haberdasheries run by Hindus
and groceries owned by Muslims; there's a Catholic church; there's a
theater that exhibits brash foreign films, and another one that
features Bollywood fare. There are tiny eateries that offer everything
from samosas to sandwiches. There are cobblers parked on pavements,
and tailors perched on the patios of dilapidated but crowded
tenements. There are bookstores and magazine kiosks.
I like to think that this square is the crossroads of Mumbai, India's
commercial capital and its most cosmopolitan and ethnically diverse
city, with a population of nearly 20 million people; I even like to
think that this square is the crossroads of India, which has 1.2
billion people.
I like to think these things not only because the square - called
"chowk" in the Marathi language that's widely spoken in Mumbai - is
named after my late mother, Professor Charusheela Gupte. She was a
Marathi and Sanskrit scholar, a writer, and a social activist who
championed the cause of literacy for dispossessed children and of
economic opportunities for women, particularly in slums and in the
rural regions surrounding Mumbai. During her long lifetime, she
witnessed the transformation of India from a colony of the British Raj
to an independent democracy. She spoke up for people who had no voice
in public discourse, and few opportunities to advance beyond
subsistence. She spoke from her heart because she had pulled herself
from poverty to reach the highest levels of intellectual and social
attainment.
My mother is long gone now, but I like to think that the square named
in her honor by a grateful city still resonates with the spirit that
animated her life - the spirit of openness, secular and trust that
resides in the hearts of most Indians, regardless of their faith or
ethnicity.
The square that's named after Charusheela Gupte is not very far from
the carnage that's severely testing that spirit in Mumbai right now.
My mother would have never anticipated that terrorism would strike the
old and hauntingly beautiful city she loved; had she been alive, I
know she would have rushed to Mumbai's hospitals and densely populated
neighborhoods to comfort those who have been brutalized. My late
father, Balkrishna Gupte - a lawyer and banker - would have surely
accompanied her, for it is also in the nature of Indians to
demonstrate that extending a helping hand to others traditionally
starts with lending unconditional support to your own spouse and
family members.
The support that my parents gave me flowed from their sweat and
sacrifices. My own good fortune has been that of seeing a wider world
where technology has brought societies closer; my misfortune has been
that this world has become more cynical, more competitive, more
terrifying and more unforgiving than the one my parents inhabited. The
global clash of civilizations simply didn't exist in the world that
they knew. They would have been saddened by the clash, and they would
have been surprised by the disheartening events of the two decades
since their demise.
In my own journalistic career spanning four decades and virtually
every continent, I have been a witness to that clash. And now I am
seeing it come suddenly and brutally to my home, to my native city of
Mumbai, where the soundtrack of my childhood was the cacophony of
myriad lilting languages; where the visuals were those of Hindus and
Muslims and Sikhs and Christians and Jews and Parsis and Buddhists
greet one another warmly during their feasts and festivals and in
everyday life, too; and where the ambitions of my youth were
predicated on cooperation, not confrontation.
The age of confrontation is here now, perhaps irreversibly so. There
will be continuing speculation and conjecture over the next many
months about the terrorists who held hostages in Mumbai, who hit at
the heart of India's commerce, who shut down an entire city, who drove
people to panic, who killed innocent men and women. There will be
endless debate about the perpetrators' motives. I fear that there may
even be further violence, undertaken in vengeance but driven, of
course, by the politics of communalism. Who knows?
But this much I know: Terrorism or not, India will always be an open
and secular and trusting society. It may be forced to become a more
wary one on account of the exigencies of our time. Indeed, the culture
of laxity concerning public safety that make India so vulnerable is
going to need some toughening up.
Those are technical issues, however. But I talk here about matters of
the heart, of an enduring spirit that embraces everyone, regardless of
covenant and communion and community. I speak in the hope that our
mutual suspicions will be lessened, I speak in the hope that our
rhetoric of blame will be softened, I speak in the hope that Indians
will never abandon the essential elements that have characterized our
vast land for millennia - tolerance and understanding.
I speak in the language that Charusheela and Balkrishna Gupte spoke in
their time, in the language they would still have spoken despite the
drama that's shredding the fabric of Mumbai's society. I am their son,
and I like to think that their spirit lives in me. I like to think
that it is a universal spirit, that its essence is no less true today
than it was in their much simpler time. My parents believed that while
people may have been born to different cultures, they were joined by
the bonds of the soul. I subscribe to that belief, and I invite
everybody to share it, now more than ever before.