The Third Front
Tibetan monks do a lot of things that can make you wonder whether it’s humanly possible to emulate them. The number of hours they apply…
Tibetan monks do a lot of things that can make you wonder whether it’s humanly possible to emulate them. The number of hours they apply toward meditation and the meagre amount of food they consume are just two of their very fascinating facets. However, in my book, mandala tops the list. Those unfamiliar with this form of beauty, mandala is an elaborate work of art and semblance which requires weeks, if not months, of patience and diligence. Think of it as rangoli on high-quality steroids. For all the efforts required and the focus blown onto the coloured sand on the floor, what surprises you is what unfolds at the end: the monks wipe off the mandala with their own hands when it’s complete. Just like that.
The philosophy behind this peculiar practice is rooted in the ancient wisdom of iteration. You rinse and repeat no matter how amazing the end product is. The sun rises every morning without fail; it settles too every evening. What’s the point in aiming for perfection when the cycle of life doesn’t care to wait? It goes on and on regardless of who the passenger is. Different meanings for different folks. Some take a dip in the filthy Ganga and genuinely believe that they are born again. Who wouldn’t fancy second chance at this terrible ride called life? Some like George Carlin and Louis CK throw away their old body of work and start afresh. Well, why? Because you need to destroy the old you to find the new you. You can’t stick with a perfect moment. The mandala has to go so that a new mandala can replace it someday somewhere. In the ’70s, some rock stars were known for destroying their guitars, not out of hatred but because that’s the best they could do with their beloved instrument. Ruining it beyond repair was an act of making sure it ended on a great note. Something Rafael Nadal won’t agree with because he hasn’t smashed a single racket in his entire pro career.
Regardless of one’s predilections, it’s an ongoing struggle to change without really changing. You sink and you emerge again. You blink and you’re born again. I started thinking about this ceaseless process of repetition because I saw a couple of hijras recently in Gurgaon. They are quite a common sight back in Mumbai but this was my first encounter in the north. For those who aren’t familiar with the term, hijra denotes the third gender in Indian subcontinent. Simply put, they are derided by the society and neglected by the state. They are just floating around in our restricted horizon of entertainment and superstition.
Anyway, the reason we’re talking about them here is it’s worth wondering where do they start and how do they end. If a mandala were to be their motif, who would wipe off the sand and when? Will they get a second chance the way the rest of us do? When do we reach a stage of maturity as people? After all, aren’t they human too? How long can their lack of agency carry them on our streets? What about those hijras who don’t wish to be treated like an object from circus? Shouldn’t the issues of real minorities like transgenders be highlighted with at least half the fervour of what’s showered on the issues of political minorities?
Maybe the answer to these questions lie in nomenclature as usual. I once read that angrez comes from the Urdu take on Latin anglais, meaning ‘of angelic nature’. I later read that angrez might have arrived thanks to the juxtaposition of ang (Sanskrit for body) and rez (Persian for destruction). I like to believe that the latter version is true because it aptly sums up the role British folks played in the post-Mughal era. Similarly, hijra has its roots in the Arabic hijr which stands for separation. When a person becomes a hijra, he leaves his family and the society he was familiar with to enter a system designed by hijras. The resulting separation dignifies the name he’ll be known by henceforth. However, in my mind, it has a deeper meaning. Hijra manifests the journey a person takes from the man he thought he was to the woman he will never be. In all probability, it’s a tragic interpretation but then, what isn’t tragic about humans?
What started has to end sometime, creating scope for new beginnings. Maybe the so-called third gender understand this better than anybody else. They appear to be celebrating their existence with their artistic demeanor in public but they know very well the absolute nature of mortality. They understand nothing is forever. When all the hijras from the country — irrespective of geography and religion — clad in beautiful sarees — gather at Koovagam (Tamil Nadu) to marry the mythological Aravana, thus becoming Aravanis, for just one night, they are reminding us about our fickleness. Going by the legends of Mahabharata, they assume the role of Krishna’s Mohini and are glad to be married; huge celebrations are in order. Temporary though, like most man-made events are on this planet. The following morning, they become widows again as they weepingly tear off their thaalis/mangalsutras and go back to leading yet another year of bereavement.