Way back in the 11th century, scholar, historian, chronologist, polymath, traveller, man of sciences and much more, Abu Rayhan Muhammad ibn Ahmad Al Beruni wrote in his history of India, Tarikh al-Hind , that Indians hate saying “I don’t know”.
How firmly this characteristic has held sway over the entire Indian population over ten centuries of action and change! Admit it — most of us find it near impossible to say we don’t know something. It appears we’d rather be considered insufferable gasbags, as well-meaning foreign friends have sometimes pointed out and I have realised upon introspection. We know it all, indeed we’re the best… in fact, it was we who discovered, invented, created… well, let’s not be modest… basically everything.
This train of thought was triggered by a book by the British journalist Sam Miller called A Strange Kind of Paradise: India Through Foreign Eyes (published 2014). It’s an engaging journey through Indian history with references to many sources, one of them being the intrepid Al Beruni.
Katherine Mayo phenomenon
Do I sense a sudden intake of breath? Is it the Katherine Mayo phenomenon all over again, the area of darkness syndrome, the don’t-like-hearing-things-from-foreigners business?
In 1927, Mayo published a book called Mother India . Among other things, she opposed India’s independence (undoubtedly unacceptable), but she also wrote in chilling and graphic detail about how Indians treated women, dalits and animals, and raised several red flags on the generally filthy environs, widely occurring instances of rape especially of small girls, and questionable issues around sexuality and sexual practices. She was likely racist and bigoted, and all that critics of the book said she was (and which you can read online). Gandhi famously called the book “the report of a drain inspector” but the fact is, our drains stink to high heaven.
I remember, as a college student, being enraged upon reading VS Naipaul’s An Area of Darkness , a book based on his travels across India in the 1960s. It had nothing good to say about the country, the land of his origins; indeed, it was another kind of drain inspector’s report, and was subsequently banned in India.
Only after doing some growing up and the dawning of a little more wisdom did I realise that although Naipaul had not one good thing to say about India, and painted an excessively bleak picture in the book, fundamentally, it was true. It hurt, but much of it said was there for all to see.
Miller is very different. For one, he loves India — and he is no colonialist. For another, he’s objective, in a feeling sort of way. And he weaves views from old texts and travellers into a narrative that makes a lively connection with the state of the country today. Miller reports how al Beruni observed that “the world also has a lot to learn from India and Indians (Can you hear the applause? Question mine) and that this knowledge needs to be teased out of them. Indians, he says, are ‘by nature niggardly in communicating that which they know…’ ”
Put differently: We are no good at sharing information. We don’t like sharing information. We tend to be secretive. Think about it. Al Beruni’s not far off the mark. We’re opinionated, we’re loudmouths, and we’re loath to part with information, even if it is intended to be disseminated. That’s reserved for gossip.
The clincher (and I haven’t yet finished the book) is this (again, Miller quoting al Beruni): “If only they (Indians) would travel a bit more, he complains, ‘they would soon change their minds — for their ancestors were not as narrow-minded as the present generation’.” How much more insightful can a historian get?
Push to travel
It seems when you sift the wheat from the chaff, it’s possible to glean further insights. For instance, a Portuguese priest, Antonio Monserrate, landed in Akbar’s court in the 16th century with the express purpose of converting him to Christianity.
He failed in his efforts, but was treated with great hospitality. Miller writes, “Monserrate would not be the last foreign traveller to remark on the contrast between Indian xenophilia and the appalling way some Indians would treat the people of their own country.” Akbar was no different. Xenophilia means an affection for unknown or foreign objects or people. It comes from the Greek words xenos (unknown, foreign) and philia (love). Ring some bells?
While what others have to say may not always be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, hearing them out certainly helps balance the equation about oneself. It contributes to greater self-awareness, and can possibly clear the way to better solutions. But for that, you have to be open, ready and willing to be taken down a peg or two, hopefully with a light touch, perhaps a laugh.
If you don’t like it, you can always let it go. But ever so often, some of it will make sense and we can learn to be more sensitive and sensible.