The Republic of My Dreams- Mahasweta Devi

Mahasweta Devi

Note-- "The Republic of My Dreams" was the inaugural speech delivered by Mahasweta Devi at the Frankfurt Book Fair, 2006. Deeply moving, she had the people in tears at the event. The speech can be found here -> http://archive.tehelka.com/story_main20.asp?filename=hub102106The_republic.asp

Summary-
“The Republic of My Dreams” by Mahasweta Devi is the writer’s take on the culture of India and her attempt to fit it into a satisfying definition. She says that there are many facets to this culture whose history expanses from the beginning of the World—The Indus Valley Civilisation-- to the modern day Bluetooth generation. There are two Indias that dwell in this country-- India of Light and India of Shadows-- and subsequently the Culture exhibits many paradoxes which are as intricately woven into it and integral to it like the intertwined threads of a beautiful tapestry. 
On one hand where the citizens of the Country but recently celebrated 66 years of Independence, there is, on the other hand, a lot that has been marginalized and deprived in our society-- the Tribals. Their history has been forgotten and has become invisible in the official history of India. Our Independence means nothing for these dispossessed people, who still struggle for their most basic of rights. 

The writer goes on to ask that when we talk about protecting our culture, which culture are we talking about-- The culture of the India of 21st century? Which India? Even after so many years of becoming sovereign, the culture of India couldn’t become intrinsic and native. The Indian culture is like a cloth on which all these facets are woven with a thread. The complexity of this culture gives it a unique individuality. It appears different to different people. Each person has his own definition of the Indian Culture, trying to fit it within the frame of logic. My India is something else and yours something else. But, inevitably, we both define India only. As many people are there, that many definitions and thus that many Indias exist within a single country. The khadi sari in India is nothing more than mini-skirt or backless choli. The traditional and the modern share same space and enjoy same importance in the hearts of Indians. The bullock carts run parallel to latest Mercedes or Toyota. On one hand where illiteracy haunts us, the country, on the other hand, also produces individuals at the forefront of medicine, science, and technology. India is where eight-year old kids are into child-labour. On the other hand, India is also where other eight-year olds groom in the company of air-conditioners and mobile phones. The traditional Satyam Shivam Sundaram is India. Yet, the modern Choli ke peechchey kya hai-- that too is India. The mega-malls, multiplexes, snake-charmers, maharishis, all are inevitably one definition of India or the other. 

There are various shades to this tapestry of Indian culture. Somewhere it is dark, light at others, and saffron at yet different places. From the green of the rice fields to the red of the blood-stained violent-hit areas, from the cold of the Himalayas to the red of a watermelon slice, from the blue of a Bengal autumn sky to the purple of musk deer’s eyes, all is India. Somewhere in the red of a bride’s sindoor this culture dwells. The cloth of Indian culture has thread somewhere woven in Urdu, somewhere in Assamese, and somewhere in Bengali. At some places our culture suffers at the hands of communalism, terrorism, natural calamities, and ignorance. This cloth of Indian culture frays, some of the threads break, but it manages to remain intact. 

The pattern shifts, flows, stutters, forms again and changes shape from one season to the other. I see one India in the pattern. Many individual definitions of India arise. From superstition and myth, Rabindrasangeet and rap, Sufi and Shia and Sunni, caste and computers, text and sub-plot, laughter and tears, governments and oppositions, reservations and quotas, struggles and captivity, success and achievement, hamburgers and Hari Om Hari, Sanskrit and sms, the smell of rain and the sound of the sea, this culture is seamlessly stitched. Our culture is woven by millions of hands, and is still getting weaved by another million. A torn, tattered, proud, beautiful, hot, humid, cold, sandy, bright, dull, educated, barbaric, savage, shining India is getting her history written. Though battered by circumstances and history, our culture stands the test of time. India has learnt to survive, to adapt, to keep the old with the modern, to walk hand in hand with the new millennium whistling a tune from the dawn of time. The tapestry has learnt to remain intact.