Divine Bovine controversy: While battling the demon of intolerance, let us not forget the monster of literalism

The recent controversy over the Divine Bovine, an installation mounted at the Jaipur Art Summit, underscores the threat literalism poses to our imagination, in the process negating symbolism, stifling irony, and insisting on affixing one meaning to our reading of texts, works of art, and even our past. The rise of intolerance in the country is indeed linked to the rise of literalism. All these dangers emanating from literalism came remarkably to the fore at the Jaipur Art Summit, evident from a bewildering exchange of meanings there. For those late on the story, the Bovine Divine had its creator, Sidhhartha Kararwal, suspending a life-size plastic cow mid-air using a balloon. Spurning literalism, Kararwal did not provide a caption to explain to his viewers the meaning of his installation. Art often lies in its ambiguity. To explain to the viewers the meaning of his artistic expression was to tell them that they had to see it the way Kararwal did. Once the installation kicked up a storm, and it was summarily brought down, Kararwal thought it prudent to explain the intent behind the Divine Bovine. Kararwal said, “The purpose of the display was to draw attention to the plight of abandoned animals who end up scavenging, eating plastic and choking to death.” Considering the raging debate over cow-slaughter in the country, it should have been construed as an artistic intervention pleading for better treatment of the cow, not leaving it to feed on what could kill it. [caption id=“attachment_2518662” align=“alignleft” width=“380”] The Divine Bovine installation in Jaipur. IBNLive[/caption] But this wasn’t how the Divine Bovine was necessarily viewed. There were some who claimed it had hurt their religious sentiments, prompting the police to bring down the cow to the ground. Puja was performed before the cow was garlanded – and, subsequently, removed from the venue. What hurt their sentiments? The Indian Express quoted Deputy Commissioner of Police Kunwar Rashtradeep thus: “According to the calls that we received, people were confused whether it was a real cow, whether the message was to kill and hang cows.” What people wanted was an explicit explanation, bewildered as they were by their own incomprehension of the installation. Instead of taking the challenge their bewilderment posed to them, and seeking to tease out the possible meanings of the installation, they chose to impose one meaning on it — that the Divine Bovine was a show of disrespect to their religious sentiments. Literalism fuelled their anger: cows are supposed to have their four legs on the ground; any other posture is demeaning of the cow — and, therefore, of those who worship it. Literalism demands adherence to the certitudes of the reader or viewer, obvious, for instance, from the remarks of the Jaipur-based animal rights activist, Suraj Soni. He said, “There was no slogan (meaning caption) accompanying the art work and one could easily misconstrue the installation as a portrayal of cruelty on animals.” The viewer should have thought that there might be other meanings he or she couldn’t grasp. On seeing the cow, the question Soni should have asked was: What purpose would the artist have had in suspending a plastic cow mid-air? But literalism eschews questioning and asks us not to think, not to hit upon answers that challenge our existing notions and prejudices. This is why literalism insists there can only be one meaning to a text or work of art. Then there was the VHP, the ever-keen arbiter of what hurts sentiments. Its Jaipur chief, Narpat Singh, seemed to ostensibly accept Kararwal’s explanation that his installation sought to highlight the plight of cows dying because of eating plastic. But he was opposed to the method Kararwal chose to depict his message. As Singh said, “The artists should express their emotions after weighing them. Rather than the controversy, there should have been a discussion on how to arrange a place to live and fodder for them.” Indeed, literalism demands expressions without ambiguity. This was evident in Kararwal’s recapitulation of the questions the police asked of them. As he said to the press, “A key issue that seemed to bother them was: ‘Why fly a dead cow?’… When we explained that the cow was not dead, we were asked if it was alive." Literalism seeks answers in the binary of either this or that, black or white. Against this backdrop, Rajasthan Chief Minister Vasundhara Raje’s reaction should be commended. She said she was “saddened” by what happened at the Art Summit, spoke and apologised to the artist-supporters of Kararwal who were mishandled and whisked away for questioning, and transferred the SHO who had taken action against them. In Jaipur at least, literalism has claimed more famous victims earlier, quite a paradox for a city which hosts India’s most famous literary festival. In 2013, for instance, political psychologist Ashis Nandy had a case of foisted on him for declaring, in a panel discussion, that “most corrupt people come from Other Backward Classes, Scheduled Castes and Schedules Tribes.” Nandy had intended his remark as an irony in a discussion on corruption, pointing out that the corruption of the upper caste is invisible, largely because they rely on the elite network to promote their interests. For instance, when an influential bureaucrat or academic pulls strings to get his or her child admitted to an elite institution, that’s not considered corruption, he said. By contrast, OBC, SCs and STs resort to corruption because it is their method of “equalising” the advantages that accrue to the upper caste because of their network, inherited wealth and privileges. The furore his remark created had him issue a statement saying the corruption of Dalits, tribals and OBCs gives them “access to their entitlements. And so long as this equation persists, I have hope for the Republic.” The irony of his statement didn’t dissuade the then Congress government from instituting a case against him. And the case continues, taxing his energy and resources. Anyone who has read Nandy would know he couldn’t have possibly aired caste superiority. But it is impossible to argue against the literalist who abhors ironies, and who is disinclined to read a statement in its context. No wonder the literalist lacks humour. It was, again, literalism which drove out from India the late painter MF Hussain, who painted Hindu Goddesses in the nude. His paintings were deemed disrespectful even though it wasn’t his intention. Hussain was dipping into the tradition of Indian art for his artistic expression. Or take Salman Rushdie, who was once denied participation in the Jaipur Literary Festival because of vociferous protests from local Muslim leaders. It was literalism which prompted the Congress government to ban his Satanic Verses. The novel was labelled offensive because it sought to probe, through the device of fiction, the question scholars had already discussed: Was the Quran revealed to Prophet Mohammad or was it a case of him hallucinating? Then again, it is literalism which has the BJP leaders, including Prime Minister Narendra Modi, to insist that ancient India had mastered modern technology such as plastic surgery, aerodynamics, and cloning. Their very mention in ancient texts is taken as proof of these technologies having existed then, ruling out the possibility of authors having imagined them. Literalism abhors imagination. This is because imagination enables us to portray the world in shades other than black and white, making it difficult for us to judge it in simplistic terms of right and wrong. It is indeed literalism which is at the roots of our disputes over history. From the literalist’s perspective, either Muslim rulers were tolerant or they were intolerant. It can never be a mix of both, driven by the exigency of circumstances. This is why the literalist must rewrite history, efface or underplay evidence which creates a fuzzy picture of the past. For instance, long before the Muslim came to India, Hindu kings too plundered and destroyed temples their rivals patronised, and often ferreted away the deities the vanquished ruler worshipped. Were the Muslim rulers merely subscribing to policy extant in pre-modern time? How do we reconcile their destruction of temples with them giving land grants to maintain other Hindu sacred sites? Or again, how do we square the fact that the largest number of those who converted to Islam lived on the margins of the Muslim empire, far away from the Doab region which was directly under the control of Muslim power? Shouldn’t the incidence of conversion have been the highest closer to the centre of power of the Muslim empire? The literalist will not ask these questions because he or she can’t, like the modern-day judge, then deliver a verdict on the past. Passing judgement is the defining trait of the literalist. India’s paradox is that as it has become increasingly literate, it has also become less educated. The author is a journalist in Delhi. His novel, The Hour Before Dawn, has as its backdrop the demolition of the Babri Masjid. It is available in bookstores.