THE LOST GENERATION
Chronicling India's Dying Professions
Nidhi Dugar Kundalia
Random House
246 pages; Rs 245
As we hurtle towards new job opportunities, new industries and new skill sets, what happens to the ones we leave behind? We are in the midst of a massive transformation driven by technology - a revolution fuelled by smart phones, social networks and cloud computing that has shaped, destroyed and reshaped a wide spectrum of business sectors, from media to medical science. Not that this is a new trend - technical advancements have left the crumbs of all that they have gorged on across the pages of history. Nidhi Dugar Kundalia's The Lost Generation: Chronicling India's Dying Professions is a study of some of these crumbs of history - a street dentist who is proud of his trade's technical simplicity, a group of women who cry for others, a letter writer who gives word to the lies of complete strangers, and many more.
Ms Kundalia's book is a colourful read. The author begins each chapter by describing the backdrop to her tale. Each village, muhalla, town and city she visits is brought to life in the vibrancy of its culture, the lifestyles, and the scenic settings. Incidents and events are picked up from then on. The narrator is mostly a chance wanderer, stumbling into anecdotes, chatting with the locals, wary of the cultural differences, yet eager to know more. The narrative, however, is primarily bolstered by the dominant presence of the character's voice. It is the bhishtiwala, the malhar, the rudalis and the keeper of the vahis who carry the weight of their tales, joined in by their clients, keepers and patrons.
What is pleasing about Ms Kundalia's tales is the subtle yet continued presence of India's caste and class politics that, no matter how decadent, play a major role in the sustenance of these professions. Ms Kundalia's narrator does not pass any judgements about the ubiquity of caste and class dynamics, nor is she pointing fingers at oppressors or oppressed, thus clearly avoiding preachy tracts on social change. Instead The Lost Generation raises a few fundamental questions: If these professions need such deep-rooted caste and class prejudices to exist, do they need to exist at all? If these professions have sustained themselves all these years, does that mean the prejudices they feed from are much more rampant than is acknowledged in the media and popular culture? Is there no way to separate these age-old professions from the clutches of caste barriers and class-conscious traditions? Some of these questions are rhetorical, of course. Who, for instance, employs a rudali (professional mourner) today if not the patriarchal raja who deems it unfit for the upper-caste women of his family to be seen crying in public?
Most of these professions are hereditary, but none of them are family businesses. In most cases there is a battle between the impulse to move out of the hereditary obligations of these job profiles, and the urge to preserve a tradition that is both an art form, thanks to its endangered nature, and a way of subsistence.
For instance, the Haridwar-based keeper of the vahis, or family genealogies, has encouraged his sons to move out of their home town and pursue more mainstream occupations like banking. However, he is also happy that someone in his family, his nephew, will be there to take over his responsibilities when he is no longer able to continue.
The malhar, who has been mixing mother's milk with soot and liquor to make the dark ink for Godna tattoos, finds himself in short supply of his traditional raw materials now that most lactating mothers tend to save their milk for their new-borns. Ms Kundalia's malhar has lost his wife and, like all members of his community, is a gypsy with no permanent place to live. In all likelihood his family occupation will not be passed on to the next generation.
Ms Kundalia's tales are brought alive by the vivid descriptions she provides. However, by her own confession in the introduction to the book, the author has had to rephrase dialogues and even entire factual matrices to protect the identity and livelihood of her characters. This explains the sometimes stark, black-and-white nature of conversations and character sketches. Take for example, the Thakur in the far-flung hamlet of Rajasthan, whose patriarchal mind-set is brought out in such sentences as "Women's brains are hard-wired to feel loss and grief. They have a weak heart." Such characters can appear incredulous, and their characterisation can often seem to lack depth. It should be remembered, however, that within the enormous stretch of cultural and ideological spectrum that marks India's myriad societies, incredulity does not necessarily imply impossibility. The presence of such nearly anachronistic beliefs and ideas also makes understandable the author's motives in tweaking with dialogues, and character sketches.
Overall, The Lost Generation: Chronicling India's Dying Professions is an off-beat book that is pleasing in the diverse sights, sounds and ideas that it manages to capture.
Chronicling India's Dying Professions
Nidhi Dugar Kundalia
Random House
246 pages; Rs 245
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Ms Kundalia's book is a colourful read. The author begins each chapter by describing the backdrop to her tale. Each village, muhalla, town and city she visits is brought to life in the vibrancy of its culture, the lifestyles, and the scenic settings. Incidents and events are picked up from then on. The narrator is mostly a chance wanderer, stumbling into anecdotes, chatting with the locals, wary of the cultural differences, yet eager to know more. The narrative, however, is primarily bolstered by the dominant presence of the character's voice. It is the bhishtiwala, the malhar, the rudalis and the keeper of the vahis who carry the weight of their tales, joined in by their clients, keepers and patrons.
What is pleasing about Ms Kundalia's tales is the subtle yet continued presence of India's caste and class politics that, no matter how decadent, play a major role in the sustenance of these professions. Ms Kundalia's narrator does not pass any judgements about the ubiquity of caste and class dynamics, nor is she pointing fingers at oppressors or oppressed, thus clearly avoiding preachy tracts on social change. Instead The Lost Generation raises a few fundamental questions: If these professions need such deep-rooted caste and class prejudices to exist, do they need to exist at all? If these professions have sustained themselves all these years, does that mean the prejudices they feed from are much more rampant than is acknowledged in the media and popular culture? Is there no way to separate these age-old professions from the clutches of caste barriers and class-conscious traditions? Some of these questions are rhetorical, of course. Who, for instance, employs a rudali (professional mourner) today if not the patriarchal raja who deems it unfit for the upper-caste women of his family to be seen crying in public?
Most of these professions are hereditary, but none of them are family businesses. In most cases there is a battle between the impulse to move out of the hereditary obligations of these job profiles, and the urge to preserve a tradition that is both an art form, thanks to its endangered nature, and a way of subsistence.
For instance, the Haridwar-based keeper of the vahis, or family genealogies, has encouraged his sons to move out of their home town and pursue more mainstream occupations like banking. However, he is also happy that someone in his family, his nephew, will be there to take over his responsibilities when he is no longer able to continue.
The malhar, who has been mixing mother's milk with soot and liquor to make the dark ink for Godna tattoos, finds himself in short supply of his traditional raw materials now that most lactating mothers tend to save their milk for their new-borns. Ms Kundalia's malhar has lost his wife and, like all members of his community, is a gypsy with no permanent place to live. In all likelihood his family occupation will not be passed on to the next generation.
Ms Kundalia's tales are brought alive by the vivid descriptions she provides. However, by her own confession in the introduction to the book, the author has had to rephrase dialogues and even entire factual matrices to protect the identity and livelihood of her characters. This explains the sometimes stark, black-and-white nature of conversations and character sketches. Take for example, the Thakur in the far-flung hamlet of Rajasthan, whose patriarchal mind-set is brought out in such sentences as "Women's brains are hard-wired to feel loss and grief. They have a weak heart." Such characters can appear incredulous, and their characterisation can often seem to lack depth. It should be remembered, however, that within the enormous stretch of cultural and ideological spectrum that marks India's myriad societies, incredulity does not necessarily imply impossibility. The presence of such nearly anachronistic beliefs and ideas also makes understandable the author's motives in tweaking with dialogues, and character sketches.
Overall, The Lost Generation: Chronicling India's Dying Professions is an off-beat book that is pleasing in the diverse sights, sounds and ideas that it manages to capture.