Talking India: Ashis Nandy in Conversation with Ramin Jahanbegloo

84 Pages·2006·0.402 MB·English

by  Ashis Nandy, Ramin Jahanbegloo

Title Pages
Talking India: Ashis Nandy in Conversation with
Ramin Jahanbegloo
Ashis Nandy and Ramin Jahanbegloo
Print publication date: 2006
Print ISBN-13: 9780195678987
Published to Oxford Scholarship Online: October 2012
DOI: 10.1093/acprof:oso/9780195678987.001.0001
Title Pages
(p.i) Talking India (p.ii)
(p.iii) Talking India
(p.iv)
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Title Pages
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Ashis Nandy: Ontology of Dissent
Talking India: Ashis Nandy in Conversation with
Ramin Jahanbegloo
Ashis Nandy and Ramin Jahanbegloo
Print publication date: 2006
Print ISBN-13: 9780195678987
Published to Oxford Scholarship Online: October 2012
DOI: 10.1093/acprof:oso/9780195678987.001.0001
(p.vii) Ashis Nandy: Ontology of Dissent
I first met Ashis Nandy in March 1989 during my first trip to India. Majid
Rahnema, a UNESCO researcher on culture and development and a close friend
of Ivan Illich, who was in Paris, introduced me to Nandy. I was a Gandhian
scholar at the time, and was preparing my doctoral dissertation on Gandhi's
political philosophy. I knew Ashis by name, and I had read some of his writings,
especially his book on The Illegitimacy of Nationalism, but I had no awareness of
his vast knowledge in different areas such as philosophy, history, psychology, and
sociology. Back to India, on several occasions between 1996 and 2000, I thought
of doing a book of conversations with Ashis on his views on India. These
conversations took place on January 2000 at the Centre for the Study of
Developing Societies (where Ashis is a Senior Fellow) and at the India
International Centre (where I was staying as a guest).
I believe there are two dimensions to this book. On the one hand, it is a critical
and prudential dialogue between two intellectuals from the East. Nandy, as an
influential Gandhian scholar and an Indian dissenter, has always been a great
inspiration for me as a role model in cross-cultural and cross-political studies.
His research on nearly six decades of Indian democratic experience, in
conjunction with a close interest in the hegemonic narratives of nationalism,
secularism, patriarchal science, and cultural universalism, has resulted in
critical thinking on conventional developmental ideas. On the other hand,
(p.viii) this book could be a cultural matrix for a more global and border
crossed dialogue. It is a process of mutual learning in cultures and a
transvaluative situation exemplified by an acute critique of all homogenization
projects and the imposition of a cultural grid on another culture. Nandy's
interest in new sources of violence that stem from mainstream developmental
processes is often closely related to his attention to protest relating to
peripheries and marginal communities. However, Nandy does not automatically
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Ashis Nandy: Ontology of Dissent
accept all modes of defiance and dissent. As a true dissenter, he belongs to no
ideological camp, since he resists, inside and outside India, all dominant
frameworks of knowledge. His critique of masculinist and majoritarian violence
in Hindu nationalism goes hand in hand with his profound concern for the
ecological and cultural survival of plurality. In Nandy's account, industrialized
and technological science was tried by Europe as an instrument of violence on
colonized victims. In his book Traditions, Tyranny and Utopias, he clearly
formulates that ‘the image of the scientist as a slightly seedy natural philosopher
and practitioner of an esoteric discipline, and that of the technologist as a
humble craftsman or artisan, gradually underwent a change. Both became
partners in a new, high-paying, heady enterprise called modern science’. This is
one of the issues on which Nandy follows Gandhi's footsteps as a critique of the
technological and instrumental essence of modernity, and the inability of modern
science to live with pluralist conceptions of life.
Another aspect of Nandy's thoughts challenges our world, as did Gandhi in his
radical critique of the nation-state as a perverted form of social togetherness in
modern times. As a result, Nandy's critique of the ‘new world order’, in its
economic and techno-scientific form, is closely related with his struggle against
all kinds of ideological, religious, or rational reductionism. But his questioning of
a monolithic universalism in our world is in no way a defence of cultural
relativism. On the contrary, for him, no culture can remain unchanged.
Therefore, the time has come to open one's house to other cultures. There is a
sense of urgency in creating a plural world, where celebrating diversity replaces
the implementation of the idea of ‘one world’. Pluralizing the world of ideas and
the realm of daily practices, this is (p.ix) truly how Ashis Nandy elaborates his
movement of dissent in our world. Not being a Marxist or a traditionalist, he can
afford to criticize both the scientific and positivist view of Marxism and the
nationalist ideology of the Hindu traditionalists. On nationalism, Nandy seems
quite close to Tagore and Gandhi. As he explains clearly in his book The
Illegitimacy of Nationalism, ‘Both (Tagore and Gandhi) recognized the need for a
“national” ideology of India as a means of cultural survival, and both recognized
that, for the same reason, India would have to make a break with the post-
medieval western concept of nationalism or give the concept a new content. As a
result, for Tagore, nationalism itself became gradually illegitimate; for Gandhi,
nationalism began to include a critique of nationalism.’ Thus, on the one hand,
he subscribes directly and openly to the ‘tradition of political self-awareness’ of
Indian thinkers like Gandhi and Tagore. But on the other hand, he has some
reservations about Gandhian critical traditionalism. He agrees more with
Tagore, who hints ‘at another kind of tradition, which is reflective as well as self-
critical, which does not reject or bypass the experience of modernity but
encapsules and digests it’.
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Ashis Nandy: Ontology of Dissent
On modernity, Nandy positions himself as one of the major critiques of
developmentalist ideology. ‘Development’, says Nandy, ‘has come into the
Southern world as an analogue of two processes: modern science, wedded to
evolutionism, and the theory of progress; and modern colonialism, seeking
legitimacy in a new civilizing mission.’ For Nandy, development is a state of
mind. It is a way of looking at oneself and at others. As a result, ‘developed’ and
‘underdeveloped’ imply that development is the only way to civilization. ‘In this
world of development’, writes Nandy in his essay ‘Culture, Voice and
Development’,‘there can be no legitimate dissent. For the idea of dissent
imputes some minimal sanity and good faith to those who differ from the
establishment, whereas the official language of development makes no such
imputation to those who differ from the core concepts of development and to
those who do not grant any moral status to the advocates of development.
Unofficially, there are dissenters in the world of development, but there are
usually (p.x) dissenters only to themselves. They speak a different language
and their voice has no audibility in the public realm.’
Nandy's discomfort with the idea of ‘development’ results from his critical views
on the process of Westernization. As Nandy himself says, ‘what looks like
Westernization is often only a means of domesticating the West, sometimes by
reducing the West to the level of the comic and trival’. However, one should be
clear about Nandy's critical attitude towards modernity as a grand narrative and
a vehicle of salvation. What he actually aims to do is to de-divinize the secular
imagination as an imperfect solution to the problems of non-Western countries.
Saying ‘no’ to secularism, is, for Nandy, a way to create a state of awareness
about the living categories of our everyday lives as diverse concepts of
citizenship and democratic practice. In a chapter of his book Time Warps, on ‘the
Politics of Secularism and the Recovery of Religious Tolerance’, he represents
himself transparently as an ‘anti-secularist’ who considers secularism a faith
that is intolerant to other faiths. ‘The role of such secular ideology’, asserts
Nandy, ‘in many societies today, is no different from the crusading and
inquisitorial role of religious ideologies. And in such societies, citizens often
have less protection against the ideology of the state than they do against
religious ideologies or theocratic forces’. Therefore, the main issue for him is to
secure all distinctive visions of the future. Future visions, he contends, must take
the responsibility of being located beyond the West/anti-West dichotomy. As a
result, for him, the idea of history itself is essentially founded on an ontology of
distinctiveness. In other words, sociological subjects of differences have no
reason to seek self-definition in relation to a universalized image of the West. For
Nandy, ‘there are persons or communities in the modern world, which insist on
living with “unreliable” and “invalid history” … But there are other persons and
groups outside the modern world, who live with selves that originate and are
grounded in a-historical modes of constructing the past—in legends, in myths
and epics—which cannot be that easily fitted in the clinical format … ’. Maybe,
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Ashis Nandy: Ontology of Dissent
that is why, for Nandy, the best way to configure the future is (p.xi) to travel to
the past. Being sensitive to one's own cultural past, is, for him, an ‘ethos of
living’ as an ecology of plurality.
Nandy's commitment to the idea of plurality aims to ensure the act of dissent as
a decent way of life. This acute awareness of ‘outsiderhood’ as a form of dissent
takes shape in his breaking out of the disciplinary ghettos in which many
Western and non-Western intellectuals have been confined. Not being strictly
academic, Nandy works outside the narrow parameters of rationally-bordered
disciplines. He is a typical inter-cultural flâneur. However, all his cultural border-
crossings have one thing in common: in the final instance, they are intended to
deploy life-enhancing modes of thinking against ideological and cannibalistic
forms of rationalization in our contemporary societies. More than anything else,
Nandy's yearning for ‘another world of knowledge that refuses to die’ is related
to his vision of defying the dark side of modernity that makes voiceless the
dissenting voices of communities of our times.
Thinking about the future requires, for Nandy, a sincere dialogue with oneself as
a public intellectual. But even in this internal dialogue, one is not separated from
the plural, the world of others. Unless one develops the capacity to think from
the standpoint of human affairs, especially in relation to those who are victims of
modern history, thinking will not come to life again. The most compelling aspect
of Nandy's intellectual work can be summarized in the fact that thinking dissent
goes with dissent thinking. In other words, the question, for Nandy, is to resist
or not to resist. For Ashis Nandy, there is no real future without thinking of
thinking itself as a form of resistance.
Tehran                     RAMIN JAHANBEGLOO (p.xii)
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An Indian Childhood
Talking India: Ashis Nandy in Conversation with
Ramin Jahanbegloo
Ashis Nandy and Ramin Jahanbegloo
Print publication date: 2006
Print ISBN-13: 9780195678987
Published to Oxford Scholarship Online: October 2012
DOI: 10.1093/acprof:oso/9780195678987.001.0001
An Indian Childhood
Ashis Nandy
DOI:10.1093/acprof:oso/9780195678987.003.0001
Abstract and Keywords
This section of the book presents the biography of Ashis Nandy, beginning with
his childhood memories, moral education, and early influences. It then describes
the factors that brought Nandy to the study of sociology and clinical psychology.
He recounts his activities after receiving his Ph.D., specifically his work at the
Centre for the Study of Developing Societies. Nandy also explains why he often
describes himself as an ‘intellectual streetfighter’.
Keywords:   Ashis Nandy, childhood, moral education, sociology, clinical psychology, Centre for the
Study of Developing Societies
From Bihar to Bengal
RAMIN JAHANBEGLOO (RJ):
Thank you for agreeing to do this book. Let us go through, as quickly as possible,
the biographical section. You were born in 1937 in Bengal. Do you still have
memories of your childhood?
ASHIS NANDY (AN):
Though I am a Bengali, I was born in Bihar, not in Bengal.
RJ:
You are a Bengali and you were born in Bihar in 1937. Do you have memories of
your childhood, especially of the last years of India's struggle for independence?
AN:
Yes, I do have some memories of my school days in Calcutta. I remember that
there were constant demonstrations and processions in support of the freedom
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An Indian Childhood
struggle. Calcutta used to be known in colonial days as a city of palaces. Those
days were already past. It was acquiring new fame as a city of demonstrations
and strikes. Even in our school, there were frequent strikes. Youth from the
neighbourhood poured in to disrupt classes and force the school to close down.
No one was particularly disturbed—neither the children (p.2) who had a
holiday, nor the administration, who wanted to avoid trouble in the school
campus in a politically charged atmosphere.
I still remember vividly what was called Rashid Ali Mukti Dibas (Free Rashid Ali
Day). There was a rather predictable strike, and students in our school, including
some of us, joined the procession, just for the fun of it. It was thrilling for us, and
we followed the procession all the way to central Calcutta. There was a
lathi-charge—baton charge, as you might call it—and, later, firing of tear-gas
shells. We, of course, had run away earlier, probably the first to do so, though, as
children, we were at the back of the procession at a safe distance, in any case.
We were not just scared of police action, but also that our parents might get to
know about our escapade.
I also remember a massive, carnivalesque procession with three brand-new
heroes that the dying colonial regime had stupidly created by deciding to
prosecute three officers of Subhas Chandra Bose's Indian National Army—one
Sikh, one Muslim, and one Hindu. I think the British were already losing their
grip. These incidents were typical in the sense that there were similar things
happening all over the country at the time.
RJ:
Who were your parents? What kind of people were they? What was your cultural
background?
AN:
I come from a rather typical, urban, middle-class, Bengali family of Calcutta.
There must be thousands of families like us in the city. It was, however, a small
family, and, because my father was a secretary of CalcuttaYMCA and mother a
school teacher, we were exposed to a slightly wider range of experiences.
We are Bengali babus and the family had been in Calcutta for generations. We
were third-generation Christians, and my parents were devout Christians.
Although, like most people in this part of the world, their lifestyle also reflected
the influences of other faiths. For instance, there were elements of Hindu, and,
to a lesser extent, Islamic practices in my family. Fasting and some of the rituals
we followed were borrowed from Hinduism; some of the prohibitions came from
both Hinduism and Islam. Thus, our family did not eat (p.3) beef or pork.
There's no reason why a Bengali Christian family couldn't eat either. But that's
the way it was in practice; they had no real reason for it. If I asked what was
their objection, they would say, ‘There's nothing specific, we just don't like it.
They are big animals.’ There was an element of truth there, because, whenever
my father was served meat in large pieces, he would find some excuse not to eat
it. I do not think he ever ate tandoori chicken, which is now one of India's
national dishes. He just did not want to be reminded of the living animal. Once
my father had gone to Delhi for a meeting. Some of his colleagues persuaded
him to eat pork, saying it was mutton. The day he was to leave for Calcutta, they
told him that he had eaten pork. He came back home as sick as a dog.
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An Indian Childhood
I also remember vividly that my family had a different concept of austerity and
morality. Certain ideas of recycling, restrictions on waste, for example, were
built into our lifestyle. Not only because we were a family of modest means, but
also because it was considered somewhat immoral to think of your books or
clothes entirely as yours. For instance, we always put home-made dust jackets on
books, on the top of the existing jackets, because we were taught that, once the
year was over and we did not need the textbooks, they would be gifted to
relatives and friends who were not well off, and whose children would use the
books. Otherwise, such books were given away to some modest schools where
other children could use them. We were taught not to see our textbooks as
something we could use and discard; they had to be handed over to others after
temporary use. Even birthday gifts of novels and storybooks that we received
had to be taken good care of, because once we lost interest in them, they were
supposed to be given away to others.
Moral Education
RJ:
So you were brought up in a very moral and religious context?
AN:
Yes, certainly in a very moral context, and I found that moral framework quite
cumbersome at a young age. That was perhaps the reason I lost my faith early in
life. That heavy dose of morality, with a (p.4) touch of Puritanism, was derived
mainly from Bengali Christianity, from families belonging to reformist sects like
Brahmo Samaj, Ramakrishna Mission, and Gandhi. My parents were very
sympathetic to Gandhi and the style of freedom movement he represented. To us,
it indicated a certain conservatism and traditional moralism. Not morality but
moralism. We used to make fun of it. For years, I remember being quite
dismissive towards Gandhi and any form of morality tinged with religion. It was
much later in my life that I rediscovered Gandhi and began to take a serious
interest in the moral framework of ordinary people, the morality of everyday life.
I felt I had to understand it to understand the culture of democratic politics. This
time it did not look to me like an encumbrance; it was to me a kind of a cultural
and social rudder that was increasingly under threat. Only in the context of the
environmental crisis, the peace movement, and growing threats of global and
local violence, did I begin to appreciate the virtues of that kind of simple,
everyday morality.
That might also have been partly the influence of my family. Because their
morality was enframed in a certain compassion. I could frequently see my father,
even when we were not economically well off, going out to buy something and
then coming back to take money again, because he had met someone who was
needy and had given away the money. ‘Give till it hurts’ was one of his favourite
sayings.
RJ:
What is the basis of this morality for you today, since you say that you are a non-
believer and that your morality is not grounded in faith?
AN:
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An Indian Childhood
Maybe it is not grounded in religious faith, but there are other kinds of faith.
Everyone lives with a tacit or moral philosophy, and attempts to connect to
people who may not be able to articulate their morality in philosophical terms,
but nonetheless live within an ethical compass. Even those who see religion
primarily as a series of ritual performances or a bargain with divinity. My
morality, I guess, is partly derived from my background—cultural, social, and
religious—and is partly a by-product of my growing respect for ordinary people
in (p.5) everyday life. Let me put it this way. I think every life, to be meaningful,
must have a touch of transcendence. That transcendence may come directly
from spirituality, or indirectly through some forms of social endeavours that are
undertaken with a touch of moral passion.
RJ:
How did you become a non-believer? At what age did you lose your faith?
AN:
I must not have been more than 12 or 13 when I began to lose it. I was being
exposed to a new world through books, and many authors I read lived in a
mental world that was totally secular. In the family, too, I had uncles and cousins
who were believers, but had a clear touch of agnosticism in them. In addition, I
began to find many of the church functions and sermons a bit overbearing. Not
only overbearing, but also preachy and occasionally comical. Let us say that I
began to lose faith in organized religion quite early, and, in the process, I lost
faith in all religions. I recovered my respect for religions only when I was in my
late 40s. But it was only respect.
Early Influences
RJ:
Who were the authors who influenced your ideas at an early age? I mean authors
you read, people who influenced you?
AN:
First of all, my reading was random and totally disorganized. I read almost
everything I could lay my hands on, from Saratchandra Chattopadhyay to George
Bernard Shaw to T.S. Eliot and Buddhadeb Bose. Perhaps I was already moving
towards being a psychologist. For I was much interested in the mind of the
writer. I stuck to any writer I began to read, even when I did not like some of his
or her work. I must be one of the last few persons of my generation who was to
read, for pleasure, virtually everything that Shaw, Saratchandra, or Charles
Dickens wrote.
You may not have heard of many of the authors I read because they were very
much a part of the local milieu, like the Bengali poets Jibanananda Das and
Subhas Mukhopadhyay and writersTarashankar Bandopadhyay, Manik
Bandopadhyay, Rajashekar Bose, and Subodh (p.6) Ghose who had a
tremendous impact on me. But, among the persons you will know, I was deeply
impressed by Rabindranath Tagore's writings. I found his worldview very
congenial. I was, as I have said, uncomfortable with the Gandhian worldview,
though I had read little of him—only his autobiography and Hind Swaraj. And I
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