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Thereby conceived — as natural — such miscarriage is monstrous pure and simple, impure and confused. Nothing in-between such realism and complete destruction — destruction fanning out catastrophe from the hub of foreign — alien -- affairs.
In other words, the realism of nature — the primitive insistence that the alien should be possibly exterminated when perceived -- is indiscernible from an alienation which has ingested possibility as existence.
Panic one imagines — one cannot be hopeful -- is the possibility of conscious fear. It captures a leak gushing across the object continua without limit demanding and desiring the subject. It exists for a subject in so far as it is recognised not as known but incurred. This signifies itself only in false embodiment. Objectification can only be the expression — whether vague or inaccurate -- of subject-perception. This is feeling which feels itself without self-contradiction in a way that knowledge can never know itself with contradiction.
The subject-object polarity of a knowing that can never itself be known iterative displacement as just comeuppance -- is transposed into an alternation of subject-object as concatenation: symbolising inadequacy it invokes the adequate. This records the rage on the part of the latter which knows it can never know and worse feels it to be so: rationality here as always is lapsing affect.
Just fear condensing on the brink of nature, a no-body. It just ise. The work — and the politically incumbent raw-material — is missing in the political analysis of today which is just rationality, no different from fear. It immures itself from thinking the outbreak — not merely in the form of disease or terror — but the specter and only chance of the subject.
This in the meanwhile is documented as naturalised reason: it is reasonable to fear the stranger; we are time and again warned not to befriend the unknown person.
Who else can one befriend? What had induced the need for politics in the first place is reiterated in a state of nature without exit. Practice retracts into the former now emptied of distinction, leaving nothing more or less to explain, account for, or investigate.
Veiled ignorance3 — not unlike the old state of nature — has escaped its laboratory becoming all pervasive. Meanwhile new erstwhile wars mushroom with prediction as justification — this is what time without content can do -- that they too will become erstwhile.
A blind faith is what just is. Immanuel Kant. Perpetual Peace and Other Essays. Ted Humphrey Hackett, , Indianapolis , p. Kant of course famously follows Hobbes here, notwithstanding stated positions. And, perhaps more importantly, how does one distinguish one from the other, the subject from he who is made an object of action. Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel. Phenomenology of the Spirit. There is no need for a veil of ignorance regarding what is being referred to here.
The intention is to explore the relationship between abandoned industrial landscapes, the experience of an urban space in transition and the practice of everyday archiving.
The Lab commissioned ten young filmmakers to shoot for six months on the NIL campus. An archive of about 65 hours of video and 20, stills has been created.
This is a common pool from which filmmakers and artists are creating blogs, experimental shorts, documentaries, etc. The factory has been taken over by Jadavpur University, and will soon turn into a new campus.
It wears the look of a place teeming with activity, abandoned in haste. Elegant pieces of half-finished products lie scattered on desks and floors. All of this has been captured in detail. Alongside, testimonies of former workers have been recorded.
It is the show-sign of patriotism. I have voted, and this is supposed to make me a good Indian. I registered to vote because I was afraid of a Hindu nationalist party coming to power in Maharashtra or at the Centre; of Gujarat happening in Mumbai; of being a number among the riot toll of Muslim women raped or maimed or killed in the streets.
This fear had multiplied itself within me and grown another organism: the fear of being on the electoral roll. Initially, I was disgruntled that people in faraway Ayodhya had decided to tear down a mosque on my birthday. After a rather damp morning of Cadbury chocolate distribution, I returned home feeling deprived of an entire day of wishes and attention. There was a perceptible atmosphere of gloom, of confusion, and I felt the beginnings of fear.
But it was soon replaced by the thrill of no school for three months and endless games of relay in the building compound. I knew that something was amiss because uncles would guard the building at night with cricket bats, and my mother had given me a Christian name, just in case someone asked. But it was not my time for sleepless nights. Gujarat has been the most egregious and therefore the most memorable communal carnage of my adult life.
I had witnessed it remotely, from my laptop in an overheated apartment in Brooklyn. I had read: madly, obsessively, half-shivering, half-crying. I heard the sounds of my romanticised notions of syncretic India being crushed. I had waited with as much anticipation for the next episode of Mahabharat on Sunday mornings as any other kid in my building.
My mother had worn a big kumkum bindi on her forehead for as long as I could remember. I had loved the colour and magic and myth of Hinduism and, like a child whose ball is snatched from her, I felt crudely severed from it.
I was on an H1-B visa and working a dead-end job at a shelter for abused women and children. I eventually decided to leave New York and return to Mumbai, but the fear lingered on: could Mumbai become another Gujarat? She had shrugged them off just as she did my fear of being on the electoral roll.
She reminded me of the classic argument of how class will protect me. Rioting only happens in the bastis, in the slums, to the poor, the uneducated. It is spontaneous, unplanned. It is the result of sudden political upheavals. I am met with retorts that point to the planned nature of Islamist violence and its roots in a deeply entrenched fundamentalism.
I persist with arguments about the politicised nature of everything — religious philosophies, progressive social movements, knowledge systems, interpersonal relationships, etc. This Marxist critique, applicable as it is to most social institutions and structures, takes the discussion away from the particular and into the universal. I am no closer to articulating a sentient theory about the experience of majoritarianism.
I fumble, trip, digress and fall over my words. I have gone as far as writing newspaper op-eds about how Eid is uneventful in our home, a date on the calendar like any other. But the electoral roster, when I finally looked at it, had a number of Mohammed and Sharifa Jiwanis before and after my name.
While Islam is just something I inherited, I am Muslim by association on the electoral roll, whether I like it or not. My decision to vote finally came from the desire to push myself into accepting that, try as I might, I cannot resist being tagged Muslim. It is on my birth certificate, in my passport and my family ration card. Like race and gender, our religious identities cannot be circumvented, however incidental they may be to the construction of our selves.
They need not entrap us, however, and perhaps we can, with our particularities, break through their bondage and the essentialisms they force on us. I landed on a revelation when I finally went to the electoral office in with a filled-out application form for my voter identity card. My fear had induced amnesia about the time when I was so angry about the Gujarat betrayal that I felt the only way I could overcome it was by voting out the possibility of a saffron government in Maharashtra and the Centre.
It had slipped out of my mind, the way an ATM cash withdrawal receipt gets lost in my wallet, in the clutter of bills, Halls wrappers and bits of paper. Did I simply forget the fear which projected itself as anger, a shudder deep inside my chest that threatened to explode? I lived with it alone, and if I tried to share it, I was reminded of its irrationality. My self-groomed cosmopolitanism had made me areligious and isolated, and my fear was driven into the ground with a shovel.
In a Kill Bill II moment, it re-emerged from its coffin in early Journalist Sameera Khan had been invited to speak about Muslim identity. Of the many experiences she shared, I was moved by the story of how her family had to take shelter from a mob during the riots. Images of poor, crying Muslim victims of the carnage were ubiquitous in documentaries and news; these were pictures of affect. The events that had spurred on our fears were from different decades; the nature and handling of our fears were different; but fears they were, finally united and echoing each other.
Sameera had quite literally tabled her fear, and forced a predominantly Hindu audience to acknowledge a history of communal violence and majoritarianism. I felt less alone in my fear, less convinced of its irrationality, but reminded of it nonetheless. Fear may be a confrontation with the unknown and the confusion that results from this meeting. In order to grapple with this unknowing, we translate it in terms of the known, in terms of memory. What has been leaves its imprint on us; it makes us and our present.
We cannot predict what will be but want to, and this reflects our deep-seated desire to know and control. The impulse that drives institutions to obtain knowledge, classify, taxonomise, experiment and, finally, prognosticate has also trickled down to the individual. If we cannot know what the future will hold, we fill the gaps with our anxieties and extrapolate. Indeed, un-knowing has inspired my own fears. And the inability to answer the following questions: will a Hindu nationalist party come to power?
If so, will it instigate communal violence? Will I be caught up in it and become vulnerable? This essay grew out of the desire to admit my fears publicly, to share them with an audience and, perhaps, overcome them through articulation.
In reality, it has been an attempt to control and rationalise them. I would like to think, though, that the dot on my nail has brought me a little closer to submitting myself to the unknown. I do, however, wonder if a communal conflagration can flare up in a snap second. This worry, which inhabits a subliminal space, prevents me from divulging my religious identity to strangers or people I barely know. The local Shiv Sena corporators also give him business, and he might, at some point in the future, have to choose sides.
Smita Narula. Arundhati Roy. In The Nation, September 30, This is where I lived and grew up. The person who would want to say this would find herself becoming as much an element of exotica as the biryani and kebabs that people from the outside would know these places for, sold, as they are, cheaply on the sidewalk. They would drive in, park their glitzy cars in the middle of the road, eat and go. And so it would always be fixed as Old — pointing towards a way of life replete with food and kitsch.
But only so long as that plate of chicken tikka lasts. Soon enough, there would be a transformation. The topography would turn disorienting. GPS systems would go awry and villains from the nooks and crannies of A Wednesday1 and Aamir2 would cloud the screen. A feeling that it would take forever to get out of here, a moment in which all maps and markers collapse, will in any case remind you of the labyrinthesque adventure of K.
It was never there when I grew up, it is not here now. Jamia Nagar is a cluster of colonies. I talk to Nilofeur about this one afternoon at the saloon.
Like me, she too is an inhabitant of the Old City. She works at the saloon. This she does every day, except Tuesdays. It does not help much because it is the ruins, the dilapidated, algae-eaten, broken walls that are the markers through which the place can now be recalled. They are there too. But there is that one image that flickers long after time has passed. A Kashmiri militant. He was killed, and the scene outside the building in which the operation happened was similar to the one outside L a year back.
Countless heads chanting Naar-e-Takbeer, Allah-hu-Akbar, people crowding the street, people in homes not wanting to go out for fear of being suspected.
The police guards gun-toting, macho-posturing, sipping chai, looking you directly in the eye and muttering under their breath. Swanky media vans and chic journalists descending for that byte worth millions. And because the place is marked, the language persists. A language that constantly throws up the Old against the New.
The New has the promise of apartments, education, malls, show windows, ATMs, car loans, cake deliveries. In the meanwhile, the Old City sees terrorist encounters, countless raids and arrests, innumerable people losing their jobs or never getting any because they live in places that hole terrorists. Rahim, the madman, who for the longest while suffered from a fear of stepping outside home, a fear of places he could never describe fully, becomes a man of the streets.
Nilofeur feels this fear can be dealt with. She looks out of the saloon window at the warm, incandescent glow of light bulbs lining the almost similar-looking kebab kiosks and little eating-places.
I know she is waiting for the jobless Hyder. It is evening now. The Old City is her familiar world. There is the comfort of slipping into something known, she says. Of not being watched as an oddity. Of being and moving about easily. For whatever reason, Nilofeur insists on travelling by the Phatphat Sewa. A rickety tempo with six to eight people sticking together, the one on which she travels regularly between Jama Masjid and Batla House Chowk.
In the aftermath of the encounter, questions of evidence dominate the conversation inside. For days, she meets the same people carrying newspaper clips, showing each other photographs of the bullet-riddled bodies of those killed, building their versions of what could have happened. She is still trying to make sense of it all. It is a question of where those boundaries lie.
She usually wears versions of the hijab. Often wears none, when she and jobless Hyder go for ice cream to the India Gate lawns. But that day she did cover herself — out of whim, maybe. A Wednesday , dir. Neeraj Pandey, Indian thriller drama. The event unfolds as one that has no record beyond his memory. Aamir , dir. Rajkumar Gupta, Indian, thriller.
A young Muslim doctor returns to Mumbai from the UK and finds himself in a plan to bomb the city. No Smoking , dir. Anurag Kashyap, Indian, thriller. Phatphat Sewa: A minibus shuttle service, usually packed to capacity. Another casualty was Special Cell inspector Mohan Chand Sharma, who was wounded and later succumbed to his injuries. A flat mate of the two alleged terrorists, Mohammed Saif, was arrested from the site; the Delhi Police claimed two others escaped during the operation.
The Delhi Police also claimed that the occupants of L, all students and all hailing from Azamgarh in Uttar Pradesh, were part of the Indian Mujahideen, supposedly an Islamic terrorist group. Further, the Delhi Police alleged that the deceased and the arrested were the main conspirators and executors of the bomb blasts in Delhi on 13 September I went there with C.
You walk into Traasi, and a number of six- to seven-storey boring, somewhat jaded buildings stand out to greet you. The wide street between them bustles with activity in some corners; in others, groups of boys, seemingly unemployed, stand in bunches, either chatting among themselves or watching people pass by.
I feel uneasy as I walk, but I am not afraid because C. In yet other corners, you notice a lone woman frying potato vadas on her cart, and a person or two buying the snack from her. The second time I went to Traasi, I was alone. This time, I sensed nervousness and tension on my skin. Why the fear? Is it the layout of the space? Or is it the groups of unemployed boys standing in the street?
Or is it because of the dark and dingy atmosphere inside the buildings that makes you feel uncomfortable when you simply walk into one of them? Or is it the proximity of Traasi to that part of Mumbai city which is known for gangs and crime, and the question of whether moving people en masse into Traasi has changed the social dynamics and networks in, and of, the city?
Or is it all of these and more? Property titles and ownership documents, in the manner in which they have been conceptualised, have legal and economic significance De Soto, , In economic terms, property titles facilitate transfers of property from one person to another, enable poor people to obtain loans from banks on account of their titles,3 and allow individuals to participate in speculation and notional transactions.
This conception of property titles has been interrogated and challenged by researchers and scholars of various disciplines Benjamin, , ; Razzaz, ; de Souza, , a, b. In what follows, I narrate a few accounts which individuals who have experienced evictions, demolitions and resettlement have shared with me during my fieldwork.
Their life experiences and stories provide important insights for understanding security, fear, the nature of demolitions and life in squatter settlements, slums and rehabilitation housing.
I am grateful to them for giving me entry into their lives. Here we go. She has been moved into a building in Valmiki Nagar along with other people living on the same plot.
I met Amiya to understand how her life was in the Loka area settlement and how things were or were not different for her now. Amiya began by explaining to me how she started living on the plot of railway land in Loka.
I have been living here since I was in my teens. My mother got us here. In the beginning, when we occupied the land and tried to build and consolidate our hutments, the demolition squads would come every now and then to move us out of the plot. Opposite the railway land plot we occupied was a large flyover. We moved like this each time the demolition squads came — from the plot to the space below the flyover and then back again.
This continued for some years. We also developed contacts with a powerful trade union leader, who later contested elections and became a politician. He would speak for us every time there was talk of demolishing our hutments or evicting us from the plot. There were railway employees also living in our settlement; they had given the houses the railway authorities had allotted them under employee housing out on rent to other people. The demolitions stopped eventually.
And later, the railway authorities constructed toilets on the plot so we could use those instead of defecating on the tracks. In , we were moved from the plot.
This happened because some of our local leaders and committee members went to court to claim ownership of the land. They lost the case in different courts about three times. Their victory enabled the railway authorities to carry out demolitions once again.
When these started, we tried to mobilise an NGO to help us remain on the plot. The NGO helped us a few times. But we were constantly facing the demolition squads and kept going to the NGO every now and then. The people from the NGO eventually said that we would be given houses, and they moved us to transit camps while these were being constructed. We did not know where we would get houses — in Traasi or in Valmiki Nagar. Also, not all the 80 families who lived on the plot were eligible for housing because many of them had lost their proofs of identity, such as their ration cards, voter ID cards and other documents, during the demolitions and at other times.
The NGO conducted a survey to determine which of us 80 families would get what and then we were moved into the transit camps Among these, I visited the Kalhanpur Gate Number 8 site. During my visits there, I met with Baaji. Baaji and others residing on the Gate Number 8 plot had been evicted from the land four years ago because some large commercial builders had purchased it to develop properties for sale.
But, even after the purchase, the people residing on the land were unwilling to move. The builders found it difficult to remove them, and so they started putting pressure on the Maharashtra state government to evict the people from the land.
I asked Baaji to explain how he came to Gate Number 8 and started living there. They then started subdividing the plots and selling them to incoming people. During this time, demolitions took place on a daily basis. Especially in the neighbouring area, the demolition squads would come each day. One day, I met my friend Yusuf, who resided in that area.
Yusuf invited me to his home for tea. When I went over, I saw his wife. Her skin had become pitch black. I knew that she was dark complexioned, but now she appeared darker. I asked Yusuf what the matter was. Eventually, people decided that they would build their hutments in the evening, stay in them and then pull the structures down themselves before the demolition squads came back in the morning.
They would sit in the hot sun all day on their respective spots with their building material until the demolition squads went away. The idea was to hold firmly to lots people had originally occupied and not leave them.
Eventually, the squads stopped coming. Then, in late , the bulldozers came. This time, they destroyed everything, including the mosques that were built in our area. We were ruthlessly moved out. The land was fenced in, and private security guards were appointed to keep us out. When the demolitions happened, people tried to salvage what little they could of their belongings.
We attended rallies organised by an activist who was protesting at that time against the mass evictions of slum dwellers in Mumbai. Later, we approached her to ask her to help us. In the floods that ravaged Mumbai in July , we used the opportunity to reoccupy the land. We collected around our land, which was still being watched over by the private security guards. The authorities came and asked us what was going on. Afterwards, we organised protests and meetings outside the state government headquarters in Mumbai to get permission for us to stay.
We sent delegations and petitions to the chief minister and the government. The activist continued to support us. In the meantime, the district collector allotted some people plots on the Gate Number 8 land, based on their eligibility and possession of identity cards and proof of residence documentation. Those of us who got the plots built our own houses. Now, we live at Gate Number 8 with some people on plots they got from the collector, and many, many other people still occupying the land.
The activist who gave us help is very important for us because her support, even if symbolic, keeps the police away. The accounts narrated to me by Amiya, Baaji and many other slum dwellers during fieldwork led me to rethink the fear of demolitions and the notion of insecurity.
In general, the manner in which we comprehend demolitions and evictions has implications for how we understand and conceptualise security of tenure and property ownership. Yet, much as demolitions are real, they are also symbolic acts which state agencies, police authorities and municipality demolition squads carry out from time to time.
In a way, demolitions are carried out to prevent claims of ownership over the space occupied. Demolitions can also be viewed as a form of threat which state agencies issue to occupying persons.
In the initial stages of occupancy, demolitions are likely to be more frequent to scare away the occupants, as we can see from the accounts of Baaji and Amiya. Such demolitions are performed to prevent the tenant from making any ownership claims. This does not necessarily create a condition of insecurity for the tenant.
But the nature of demolitions and their symbolism have transformed in the last one-anda-half decades. Bhagwati Prasad, researcher at Sarai-Centre for the Study of Developing Societies CSDS , lucidly explained to me how he comprehended changes in the nature of demolitions in recent times: Earlier, in Delhi, demolition squads would come into squatter settlements and simply break things here and there, but would leave the building materials behind after the symbolic act had been performed.
This enabled the occupants to reconstruct their houses and rebuild the settlement. Now, not only are the building materials, things and people packed away in trucks, but a fence is constructed around the cleared land, and security is installed as soon as the land is cleared.
Workers are immediately called in, and the foundations of the proposed infrastructure are laid down by nightfall. The workers labour day and night to complete their assigned tasks. Within a week or so, the once-occupied land looks completely different and even unrecognisable. This prevents people from coming back and reclaiming it. The pressure on administrative agencies chiefly municipalities is applied by chief ministers and offices of the Central government Benjamin and Bhuvaneswari, , owing to which, these bodies have to execute their orders immediately.
Given this climate, the demands for, and the discourse of, housing are only legitimised further. We were living in a hutment [in Loka], which we were renting from my maternal uncle. It was his house, and we were living in a part of it.
When the NGO said that we would be given housing, they conducted a survey to determine who was eligible. Housing was to be given only to those people who owned hutments and who had identity cards and proofs of residence. The night before the surveyors came, my family and I put up four bamboo poles and spread plastic sheets on top for covering.
The next day, the surveyors marked our makeshift dwelling as one house, and so we became eligible for housing. But many people did not get houses because they did not have proof of residence and documentation. Some are still struggling over their unfulfilled claims. Some time later, we were moved into transit camps. Trucks came and we were loaded into them with our things.
In the transit camp, some families lost people because of illness and the trauma of rehabilitation. Others lost some of their documents in the transit camp phase, and they are now in limbo. Then it also happened that people who had been living in the transit camps before us tried intimidating us when we first arrived. They told us that a number of crimes were being committed in the transit camp, including robbery, rape and murder. They were trying to scare us away. But we decided to stay, despite the fear.
We lived in the transit camp for six months. When we first came here, people who had been living here before we moved tried to frighten us off again. They would tell us that Valmiki Nagar was haunted. Nothing happened. I am happy I got a house here because I can now travel by the easier railway line to the city and not the difficult and uncertain one. But when we first came here, there was no transport to go to the closest train station. We had to ply on the only bus there was, one a madrasi [indicating a person from Tamil Nadu or, generically, southern India] was running between our housing colony and the station.
Now, we have the public bus service. Then, also, the water in the taps was yellow in colour and smelly. Power cables were running below the sewage drains.
So electrocution would happen. We organised a dharna [protest demonastration] to the local ward office and got that straightened out. They made similar remarks about the initial phase of settling in at the resettlement housing colonies.
Akshaya said: When we first came here, the land was barren and there were only a few buildings. The plot you see there was a garbage dump — there were no buildings on it then. At first, we used to feel frightened.
What would happen? But we continued to live here. At a later time, Aaliya said to me: You know, the people who were moved here, they had to face very rough conditions. Some people are worse off now than they were before. Many of them sold the houses allotted to them here, took the money and went off to live elsewhere.
I was living close to the railway tracks earlier. I loved my life there. Our people did not want to move. We were unsure of when we would be allotted housing and also what kind of houses would be given to us. We have physically fought the police when they came to evict us from our place. We did not want to move. Then, we saw the better-looking state government housing given to some of our people, and so we decided to move.
But now, look what we have got — matchboxes with open drains! It is somewhat well known now that people who were rehabilitated lost employment, and a significant number have only been impoverished further. Amiya said to me: I wanted to make some improvements to the house we have been allotted.
But then, my husband reminded me that we have not received our registration papers and that the process of registration is not complete. Hence, we should be careful about spending any money on improving this house. What if we are evicted from here tomorrow? Better than being evicted time and again. I used to miss our former place earlier. After coming here, I have never gone back. I am now looking for space to open a beauty parlour in the area near the railway station.
Aaliya, meanwhile, earns a rental income from one of the two houses that she was allotted in lieu of her two hutments.
While trying to understand the experiences of security and insecurity post-resettlement, I encountered Rose. The rent from her house in Valmiki Nagar suffices for the rent she pays on the central city flat she lives in. Amiya also tried to return to the central city area by letting her Valmiki Nagar flat. But: We came back to Valmiki Nagar. The settlement in the central city area where we rented a hutment for ourselves had no toilet inside.
My daughter and I had to go out to use a toilet. My daughter is in her teens. I do not wish for her to go out like that because I am afraid something might happen to her. Hence, my husband and I decided to come back to our flat in Valmiki Nagar. But, maybe, down the line, in some years, Valmiki Nagar will become like Loka — posh!
Contestations : Navigating and Traversing Security-Insecurity The process of resettlement and the fact of being allotted a house do not, as we have seen above, automatically bring security for poor groups. Even when the state allots them a house, they have to negotiate with governments, the city administration, bureaucrats, officials and politicians to secure their possessions and consolidate on them. The municipality officials sent demolition squads to impound the goods the women were selling.
They, in turn, tried to mobilise hawker leaders from the central city area to enter into talks with the municipal officials.
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