One of the absurd arguments I foisted on her (anon has to be a lady in her mid 30s, I can tell from the writing) was that when a movie that succeeds at the box office, it is the film critic’s humble duty to investigate the formula that makes it a commercial success. To my credit, I did not descend into a classic fine arts (or who is post-moderner) debate about the meaning of art etc., where I would stand on weak ground and sink into the pit I have been digging for myself. I went on – Why investigate the formula of commercial success? It helps us understand the audience to whom we (eventually we hope to) sell our work. Don’t be snobbish about commercial Indian cinema my dear, isn’t it that you are just unable to appreciate the magic behind Ghajini, Dev D or for that matter, Dabangg? You must realize that it does not convey your evolved sense of artistic merit but a void in your understanding of your audience. The villain of the piece is not the ‘big production house’ but your disconnect with the audience. No cold water on your arthouse, no. Just your arrogance, where is the humility to learn what does well? Take a leaf out of my book, and push cinema beyond you and the audience, into newer and more fantastic film-making times.

I riled on and on.  As you can see, I didnt make much sense. Not to anon, not to myself, not to anyone. Film critics dont budge in their assessment of cinematic merit just because the large number of the ignorant tremendously enjoy a most pathetic piece of work. As a film critic, it is expertise, my sense of cinema that guides me in my assessment, not my arrogance or my superior ability to decipher artistic merit. No.

So with that thought, I decided not to select movies to review based on opening weekend box office collections. It used to be a fairly objective criteria for picking movies to review, that and ofcourse – Vidya Balan. Without the first to fall back on, the latter becomes now my sole selection criterion for reviewing a movie. I dont see why else I must put myself through the pain. The kind of pain undertaken by professional film critics who have to go and watch everything that comes out, whether they like it or not and then talk about whether they like it or not.

Coming back to the point, what I did not do with Kahaani (wow, falls within my criterion!) was look at opening weekend box office collections. I also did not read other people’s reviews and paid no heed to the facebook feed. The last thing I am going to do with this one, is investigate the mood of the unschooled birdbrained ‘public’. Until the critic speaks, the rest can banter. I will delve into technique, casting, characters, narrative, plot, camera, direction, script, unravel merits and scoff at faults, with an arrogant all-knowing vehemence. I’ll wear my favorite smug look as I make or break films and film-makers, and their ideas. I don’t follow trends, I reflect the one and only trend. My thoughts are always the crucial one step ahead of time! (breaking paragraph to insert item picture before I fall in love with myself completely).

I watched Kahaani the evening before. If it was terrible, like all movies I review (and dont!) are, it would have been simple. I would return and vent something balanced on the side of negative, grunt a few good one-liners, and pick up a few things from here and there to over-analyze (like I did with The Dirty Picture). But no, I actually thought Kahaani is good. Precarious position. I felt the same as I do when as a lawyer I find that there is absolutely no reason my client should be worried. Golden rule of lawyering, if your client has nothing to worry about, that’s your most serious worry. You will procrastinate forever, put a few junior colleagues on a spit then toast them black before you give your client a reluctant go-ahead. Much the same with saying nice things about a movie?

Decided to I sleep over these thoughts after watching Kahaani the other evening. Didn’t wake up to much inspiration. What with Sachin Tendulkar and Pranab Mukherjee competing for attention (the cricket match and stock markets ending on the same high note). The little break before writing the movie I thought was a good idea. Always think a second time before you say something nice Suhas. Soon, I also began to realize that my multiple experiments with inventing criticism for Kahaani only ended up in nitpicking rants. The kind that readers will soon consider in the wrong spirit, or worse – WHATEVER (like this one by confused-as-hell Rajeev Masand).

Just when I attempted to constipate my appreciation of Kahaani, came this review by Mukul Sharma.  A mix of relief and consternation. Relief because if Kahaani sucks in retrospect, forgotten by cinema or ranked as a lesser achievement than Vidya Balan’s role in Hum Paanch it is Mukul Sharma’s (doubtful) credentials as a film critic on the line, and not my (doubtful) reputation! Consternation because Vidya Balan has become selective about the films she signs up for, and releases at most 2 or what 3 movies a year? By posting on CT a review of one of few movies that I review every year, Mukul Sharma is the (proverbial) cat urinating on my side of the wood.

I did accuse him of pre-emptive plagiarism, while he harped about first-mover’s advantage. I take this opportunity to remind my loyal readers that we will NOT go down without a fight. Until I do, I persuade all of you to absorb my views on Kahaani which you will find here, very fluently articulated and to the point! Your trusted film critic never fails to disappoint.

Soon we reach Mahim where I live near the dargah of Makhdoom Ali Mahimi, a sufi saint of the 14^th century. It was during the Mahim fair, and processions sprung from the dargah onto the streets, green lights flashing and speakers screaming, the intoxication of song in the air and white robed men dancing in wild enchantment, moving through the lanes where women and children indulged in succulent kababs.

While I got off, the cab driver looked around in disgust. Then turns to me and says, this naach gaana this disfiguring of Islam, this is wrong! This should never happen. These people will go to hell.  I pay him and say, the Makhdoomi precedes Deoband, maybe you should let us be.

Satanic!

The media has been up in arms, and the liberal heart broken at India’s capitulation to the crackpots who didn’t want Salman Rushdie at the Jaipur Literary Festival. Further investigations reveal that Salman Rushdie has in the past come and gone unhindered, and suddenly now we have crackpots all over the place who want to kill him if he sets foot. The more tolerant of the lot have promised to stage a passionate and hopefully, violent protest. Everyone is confused, the organizers cautious, 3 governments are exchanging notes and 2 of them advising the highest caution. Some say even the governments are intimidating the writer ostensibly, to keep the peace lest the country fall apart. This is not jihad, this is internal resurrection.  This is not cross border terrorism, this is religious sensitivity.

What beats me is why we are aghast at the so-called religious fundamentalists, the Darul-Ulooms and the SIMIs. Why we think that this has something to do with religion, or religious fundamentalism. Why the beards and trisuls fool us so easily, that we train our liberal bazookas diligently at these religion crazed idiots. Organized religion is certainly a problem, but surely only some of the religious are indulging in being offended? What is it about them that makes them offended? Or as some like to put it, why should we respect their right to be offended?

Those of us who measure progress with GDP figures, investor friendliness, social harmony, and the Human Development Index often overlook the difference between progress economic and of civilization. In our obsession with building on the numbers and respecting everyone’s ‘sensitivities’ we have forgotten some of the basic ideas that history has taught us. What matters most and what we often fail to realize in our theoretical rigmarole is that civilization is measured by its ideas, and well-being be it economic or social is premised on the constant advancement of thought. In the past, whole civilizations have met their end once they stopped nurturing free movement and evolution of ideas. What leads societies to stifle ideas, to withdraw their support for their nurture, and clamp down on their growth?

It is not religious fundamentalism. Religious fundamentalism is only a symptom of a certain kind of insecurity, an intellectual laziness. The same kind of insecurity suffered by every person, every cult which fears ideas, thought and free discourse. Offence is caused because the offended feel the waves of thought will capsize their boat. More unfortunate is the fact that very often, the waves don’t mean to capsize the boat and never will, and hence I refer to it as ‘insecurity’ and not fear. Why are they insecure? Is it because new ideas will displace the old? Why should we indulge this insecurity? The question is irrelevant and self defeating. As a society, if we don’t allow free discourse, competition between ideas, entrenched and fledgling, how would we be in a position to judge their relative merit? We would be like my cab driver who constantly runs in disgust from cinema, music and ideas in the fear that it will shake his boat. The boat his father locked him up in, and which he feels his children should suffer. A pathetic man who cannot think for himself, and who has outsourced his mind, who waxes eloquent on Deoband which has given him the word of God, giving him an excuse to otherwise miss the plot.

In Jaipur, all we have done is indulge the most insecure among us in the name of keeping the peace, and democracy. If this is what the most number of us want, and this is what democracy dictates, we should also consider what the point is of having a democracy in the first place, if it does not allow its constituents to think for themselves. Instead of raising an army to protect those among us who think, who write, who express and who question, we are shaming ourselves by helplessly throwing up our hands in the air for accommodating those of us who wish to convert the rest to the creed of the intellectually bankrupt.

There was much hype over Dirty Picture. Pakistan banned its release, and Ekta Kapoor unleashed upon us a saucy promo which got every Vidya Balan fan hungry, thirsty and desperate for this promising slice of bootylicious cinema. From what could be gathered from an interview with Ekta Kapoor and Vidya Balan on release night, the ladies who watched it found the movie ‘uplifting’ and the men just couldn’t wait for the ‘dirty’ picture. The reviews for Dirty Picture have been especially generous in their praise for the ‘bold’ and ‘balanced’ depiction of a sex symbol of the 80s with the stellar performance of Vidya Balan, not to mention, some over the top efforts at direction by Milan Luthria and script writing by Rajat Arora

Film reviewing in India often lends itself to glorifying films where the heart is in the right place, irrespective of cinematic merit, and the rave reviews received by Dirty Picture are a case in point. Dirty Picture is bold, sexy and in many ways pioneering in Indian cinema, but it is not by any stretch of imagination a great film. Vidya Balan’s performance was laudable but by no means exceptional, and she has not bettered her previous performances by a far margin. Praise for the director and script writer are ill-founded. The story telling was weak, and the film messily edited, and the talents of Naseeruddin Shah and Vidya Balan all but wasted. For anyone who has watched Ishqiya (vastly underrated at the box office), the potential of these two actors together in a movie is obvious, and in stark contrast to what came about in Dirty Picture.  We saw unengaging, and black and white characters, the villainous Suryakanth (Naseeruddin Shah) who stereotypes a class of successful men, a devious film critic (Anju Mahendroo) and the duplicitous Ramakanth (Tusshar Kapoor). The saving grace, among all the typecasting seemed to be the role played by Emraan Hashmi – human, flawed, affected and dynamic. A function of his time and the story, something which seemed to miss the characterization of the rest, including ‘Silk’ who were as cut, dry and unengaging as the storyline.  

This is especially tragic in light of the material that the producers and directors of the movie had at their disposal – the glamour of 80s cinema, filmmaking in the south Indian film industry, and an extremely sexy protagonist. It goes without saying that on many counts, Dirty Picture has done what hasn’t been done before. It is a biopic of an actress comfortable with her sexuality, who delivers in an industry dominated by men, who discards social mores, and heartily follows her dreams. In a conservative society, what she does, and how she goes about doing it are exceptional. The character sought to be portrayed is difficult, any director and script writer had to continuously refrain from desentisizing their characterisation by unintentionally sleazeballing the protagonist. But as much as critics have liked us to believe so, the balance isn’t all that difficult to strike. And even if it was, to be completely honest, Dirty Picture didn’t really manage to strike it. It is a fairly clean movie, with few outrageous scenes. The Dirty Picture by Ekta Kapoor isn’t as ‘dirty’ as they would have us believe. By calling it that, Ekta Kapoor has pulled off a coup which many (though by no means all) film critics and audiences have bought into.

If not anything, Dirty Picture had the license to be erotic and entertaining, and uplifting for the feministically inclined. It wasn’t erotic by any stretch of imagination, and what it does to reclaim space for women is highly debatable. Silk’s bold unabashed ways and struggles uphold means that few women today may see as worthy of replication, however admirable (in the context of the times).  It certainly is entertaining, and as much as we seek to find explanation, there isn’t much more than that to explain the $ 4 million it has made since opening last Friday.

In many ways, we both share the dubious distinction of being ‘Almost Writers’; writers that were, would have been, could be, should be, can be, please be, and the many other bees that hummed around us, thus forcing us to indulge in writing and appreciating our writing, but never really up to the hard task of going to work with pen and paper, dwindling the riches and comforts of private practice, Volvo buses and a Bisleri bottle. This was the idea anyway. A bus ride to Jaipur, sight seeing, random debauchery and maybe if we were lucky, a little bit of the literature festival. As an Almost Writer, you don’t hound literature festivals, you follow them on twitter and facebook but only if it is really in the news, and has enough facebook friends hooking up links and updates. What also happens with Almost Writers, is you end up intoxicated in the wee hours of the morning in a compartment of the Shatabdi travelling ticketless and generally disturbed about having to make a trip on a precious weekend!

We did eventually enter Diggi Palace; a haveli converted into a heritage hotel and the venue of the DSC Jaipur Literature Festival (JLF) quite easily.  There was little hustle, much bustle, like a late entrance into a leisurely Delhi wedding reception lunch on a winter afternoon, and yes, with a fair spattering of ‘firangs’ (To the credit of JLF, we were forced to turn our heads many times over by as many Indians, but more on that later).

On the front lawns there stood a massive (but gorgeous!) crowd, not much like the wedding reception, but the most colourful, most interesting – waahs and oohs resounding. On the stage, Gulzar, Javed Akhtar and Prasoon Joshi holding the crowd to much drama, Akhtar explaining away sub-standard Bollywood fare by describing it as a glorious gift of democracy, yes – democracy, which makes India beautiful and ofcourse, tasteless, what gets produced, and what writers produce reflect a coalition of flavours voted in by the masses. Gulzar was soon conducting a viva voce on which old songs a school girl knew that made her say they were so much more simple and better. Then there were other piquant observations which suddenly paled into the background when one of us noticed that many in the audience were having beer, and of course why not, on a glorious sunny winter afternoon in Jaipur. Why not!

Akthar - Art and democracy

An estimated 50,000 visited the JLF over its 5 days, an unusually high number for a literature festival, which left many of the participating authors overwhelmed. There were higher numbers on weekends, when some of the Delhi crowd did its literature road trip. The crowds though were surprisingly well behaved for an Indian crowd. One would bump into people to hear apologies and a sincere smile. Though we are all close to a stampede, after all this was a pilgrimage sight, credit to the sponsors – there wasn’t a 100 rupee express darshan. There weren’t x-ray machines, frisk and feel ups, caste system (all areas are open to all, being a Delegate only helps if you want to binge on scotch at the same counters). From writers, to film stars everyone part of the same throng which shifted from venue to venue through Diggi Palace. You could smell the next person, who wouldn’t smell like the next, if you are keen on that kind of thing. Though trust us, you wouldn’t mind some of it at all!

Festival throngs

For us, on both days the routine involved wading through these throngs from venue to venue, venue to watering hole, from the hole to the pool, and back to the venues, the shops, the book signings. Each time, there would be distractions. We are rushing for this session on Memoirs but wait; there is a gang of college (or school?) kids humming Knocking on the heaven’s door….with a guitar and we stop there, beer, cigarettes and all. There’s a panel discussion on The Future of Pakistan between Mani Shankar Aiyar and MJ Akbar but we stop to hear Arundhati Subramanian recite her poem the accusation of being too un-Indian to be writing about India.

The sari says it all!

There were moments; when you felt blessed; to be listening to famously reclusive JM Coetze reading out a story of the soul – of a Spanish cottage and an old woman with cats; you felt happy to join everyone who hung on to every single word, spellbound; you laughed when Ashok Chakradhar forgot the name of the moderator and went on to recite beautifully the awful poetry that came out of Kapil Sibal and his cellphone; ironic moments when you stood in the “Merril Lynch” Mughal Tent or the “Economist” Durbar Hall listening to an American, a Brit and a Mumbaikar talking about their respective memoirs being moderated by a Malyali and forgot that globalisation was a word you first heard in a school debate.

A story for the soul

There was much for the literary inclined, there was much for the celebrity inclined as well; for those who swung both ways, it was an orgy. Om Puri walked undisturbed. Few noticed Tarun Tejpal, fewer did, Rajat Kapoor. Koel Puri drew the stares, so did Kabir Bedi. Ruskin Bond got mobbed and didn’t look particularly pleased for it. No one bothered Vidhu Vinod who looked ready to punch the next guy who got in a foot’s radius. Orhan Pamuk was chatty while signing the books, Coetze dignified.

Bond, Ruskin Bond.

There were the diplomats, the bureaucrats, the politicians, an ex CM, a current CM. Add to this Jaipur school kids, attractive volunteers, the famous aunties of Delhi, their daughters, splash of Mumbai artsy and Delhi arsty, a lot of fartsy, small writers, big writers, readers, dedicated readers, loyal readers, potential readers, potential writers, students, academics, family picnics, skin and hair of various colours, countries, communities, elite, some not so elite, some certainly not, a fair bit of intoxication and everyone easily conversational, the invitation was warm. The sunrays blew away the breeze, cigarette smoke graced the air. This was joyous, noisy and throngy but warm and fun.

Rock!

After indulging the literary, the evenings broke into revelry and a concert. Indian classical followed by sufi rock. The qawwali made better by the alcohol and hope of love, as threads of conversations with beautiful strangers were cheered by hands rising in applause; matching the beat. You picked up from where you left; along with that glass.

Qawwali

Classical

However, joyous and eclectic the crowd, like one of one of our lovers (collaborating can be tricky!) put it so well – there are three pillars to a festival, the art, artist and audience and the better the festival, the more seamlessly they interact. This was the crowning glory of JLT. Yes, maybe there was more English than Indian or international, yes, maybe Shell was sponsoring an event, maybe it was all getting a little too political at times, a little pedestrian sometimes, we all had our observations and reservations.

But with the finest of art, the finest of artists, an audience of connoisseurs, fineness of spirit doesn’t sit all too far. On two winter Jaipur days, we found much warmth and epidemic enthusiasm. The spirits conspired to make JLT the joyous party we little expected but thoroughly enjoyed. We wish to return, year after year.

Legal opinions can be funny animals. There are the straight forward ones, the sneaky ones, some are informative, some wasteful, all depending on the addressee, client (including budget), opposing parties, questions of law and various matters that make legal opinions unfathomable even to their connoisseurs – transactional lawyers. When all these complex matters come together and churn in your gut, red lights go on in your head, you know there are some things that have to be said but you cant say because you are a lawyer. Especially when there isnt anything ‘illegal’ or ‘non-compliant’ but when things smells funny. You take cover and you make noises, squeak but not squeal, do a little hop.

Clients don’t like little squeaks and hops. In a legal opinion, you have to justify noises that you make. One of the wonderful things to the rescue is ‘Obiter dictum’. There is a sea of it, an ocean – blue waters full of little fairies ready to justify the randomest of thoughts and arguments, a lawyer’s damsel in the time of distress. Obiter is that part of a judgment (opinion of a court) that contains what courts actually mention in passing. Picture your mother, dishing out her opinion of your new girlfriend just when she’s about to lock you out of the house (actually, for smelling of rum). This can be useful and important when you can’t find a prior decision to give you an idea of how courts (read mom) would look at a dispute (read girlfriend). To get a flavour of things to come, words mentioned in passing are sometimes all we as lawyers are called upon to make the best of. We twist and turn them over a fire, roast them to a decent brown, and drop them into our opinions.

When legal opinions are cooked up, lawyers are careful to distinguish between ratio decidendi (law on the basis of which courts actually decided a case) and obiter dicta (courts in blah blah mode), thus tempering the seriousness of their conclusions. But sometimes we wonder if courts actually know the difference. There are judges who like to have fun with all parts of their opinions, and often care little about the seriousness of their conclusions. But theoretically, it is imperative that judges get the ratio decidendi right, while the obiter which has no bearing on the matter at hand, can be blah. Judges can blah wrong, blah and blah, blah in peace, all in the off chance that someone someday somewhere will heed their obiter, hail their foresight, alter the law (to suit the blah), and place their names on obscure pedestals in distant law universities. Obiter is a longshot, a lottery ticket to limelight.

For lawyers who yearn entertainment when punished with inconclusive and long-winding legal research, obiter can be an excellent source of entertainment. Obiter can be interesting, random, mind numbing, dumb, philosophical, cynical, religious, patriotic, socialist, stupid and anything else that that you like it to be, you stumble across them everywhere and unlike ratio decidendi, obiter often exceed expectations. Obiter also makes for good conversation. If you want to capture the attention of an attractive lawyer, no better way than to discuss which part of a judgement was funny, and which part disgusting. Lawyers are creepy, but in innocent ways.

But judges? A recent example of entertaining obiters is in this judgment (which some called a ‘historical disquisition’!). I don’t mean to trivialize a gruesome case involving sexual molestation, but this obiter is truly, well -  comedy, unadulterated and unintentional. We recognize judges are extremely well paid in this country, and often have the insatiable urge to create value, but this passage should blow anyone’s mind:

“25. In Google `The original inhabitants of India’, it is mentioned : “A number of earlier anthropologists held the view that the Dravidian peoples together were a distinct race. However, comprehensive genetic studies have proven that this is not the case. The original inhabitants of India may be identified with the speakers of the Munda languages, which are unrelated to either Indo-Aryan or Dravidian languages”

26. Thus the generally accepted view now is that the original inhabitantsof India were not the Dravidians but the pre-Dravidians Munda aborigines whose descendants presently live in parts of Chotanagpur (Jharkhand),Chattisgarh, Orissa, West Bengal, etc., the Todas of the Nilgiris in Tamil Nadu, the tribals in the Andaman Islands, the Adivasis in various parts ofIndia (especially in the forests and hills) e.g. Gonds, Santhals, Bhils, etc.

27. It is not necessary for us to go into further details into this issue, but the facts mentioned above certainly lends support to the view that about 92% people living in India are descendants of immigrants (though more research his required).”

8 percent makes sense!

I wonder where the other 8% of our descendants came from, and who is smoking what. Please read all of it, it makes for good conversation and most of all – it’s a hell lot of fun.

                                                                                                                                                                                                               –           Quran 9:73

Thus goes a quotation employed by Arun Shourie to provoke a genre of controversy, that he (like many others) has tactfully turned into a subject matter of bestsellers.

Whatever one might have to say about that, Wikipedia estimates that the holy’ Bible and the ‘holy’ Quran have sold (or distributed) more copies than the publishing industry has otherwise been able to manage. Even today, the industry (besieged by more secular threats such as the Internet) is yet to overcome its success with the Bible and the Quran. It finds itself struggling with an abundance of writers who feel the queer need to impart sense, or convince, rather than preach.

But thanks to a majority of us yet being unable to read, write or comprehend these texts, the historical abundance of religious teaching and literature, has turned out to be a relatively an innocent manifestation. The archaic languages in which they are expressed further aid in our misunderstanding of what they contain and provide many of us a passable excuse to ignore what are evidently – bestsellers. Of course, we place them in high regard on our bookshelves, and I suggest we continue to do so, as it is intellectually fashionable.

As someone who conveniently calls himself a ‘Hindu’, I hold ancient Indian texts with the same high regard, and value my time delving into the absurdity of their translation, or comprehension. And as a so-called ‘English speaking, urban middle class Indian’ who will not spend his days worrying about anything that isn’t expressed in English and on paper, that is easily available or can be printed out, understood, underlined and made into paper planes, I don’t typically permit religion to distract from more pressing and immediate preoccupations. In the matter of course, some of us, like my good friend Subramanian has over here, do manage to fly into gardens of roses ostensibly planted by religion, and smell the flowers, letting their religious hues invigorate the religious senses, shutting out the science of the olfactory nerve, and perception of color, abandoning in a flight of romance, the absurdity of roses having anything to do with religion.

That is not to lightly dismiss Subramanian’s erudite illustrations, because the genesis of this piece lies not in what he says, but what they represent. They represent, what I think, is the most pressing dilemma facing religion today. It lies in our inability to rationalize where religion begins and ends. In each of Subramanian’s examples, I would beg to differ on where religion starts and stops, and where music, philosophy and grammar do.

While it may be an academic exercise to demarcate our secular and religious intellectual / academic traditions, and reevaluate such matters as works of art, cultural practices, ‘good and evil’ and the role of the church and state, we often forget that, outside of our intellectually fashionable bookshelves, religion may yet be a formidable force. We pay little attention to its material manifestations. For instance, its figure-heads, who control vast amounts of wealth, endowments, charities and educational institutions, and carry great influence. We pay little attention to the propriety of religion being dished out to children at an age when obeisance is most easily obtained and inculcated. We know little about what our politics means to those who occupy their minds with more religion than we do.

Having developed new ideas, and framed new principles in spheres that we previously left to the holy book and silent prayer, we may be conceding less today to religion than we did before. By scrutinizing and demarcating the role of religion in our lives – in politics, in institutions, culture and society, some of us may be finding it increasingly of little relevance. But, today more than ever before, political and cultural battles may at their very root, be a result of conflicting ideas of what religion does and does not represent,what it must and must not mean, most importantly, what it means in the first place.

Consider the words of this concerned father of a girl (who was a victim of an instance of ‘honour killing’ soon after) warning her against marrying out of caste -

“I would say that what you have done or going to do, is the opposite of Sanatan Dharma… The Indian Constitution says that adults can have their own marital bond but our Constitution is just 60 years. In contrast, our religion, no one knows how old our religion is”

Aghast at the prevalence of ‘honour killings’ on the basis of an ancient religion, (and maybe less aghast at the understandable disdain towards the more recent Constitution) the establishment in Delhi intends to pass laws to wipe the practice out, presumably having overcome its fear of alienating voters in the battle that may ensue with khap panchayats, the cultural / religious muttawwahs of our rural hinterland.

To say that religion is boring or useless is one thing, to say that it is irrelevant is another. Any political battle that religion will wage, will concern us all. And worse, like international terrorism, separatism, certain territorial conflicts and extremism, which are made out to belong to that category, we may struggle to ascertain whether it is religion that has anything to do with it. Like Richard Dawkins here, and in the Mahabharata, maybe – the genesis of Kunti’s offspring!

Like the contradictions inherent in Kunti’s attribution of Karna to Surya, it may be a little late in the day to explore modern secularism’s inherent contradictions, but we have ignored religion for too long, and risk repeating Kunti’s mistake of punishing a contradiction with abandonment! As Subramanian says, we may consider ourselves successful if we were to interest you in a discussion on religion and culture. If it would do the trick, a few sleepless nights too!