My eyes are full of visions of your face
Your ways the only paths my feet can trace
You bless creation with your gift of sleep
Yet keep my mind aloof from sleep’s embrace…”
From Chori Chappati by Bachchoo
(Tr. From Hafiz)
In the late Sixties and early Seventies of the last century (yes, one does get old!) I was in Britain, in Leicester and London, and joined an immigrant political movement. It was an agitation and propaganda organisation dedicated to oppose and do away with discrimination against “coloured people”, ex-colonials from India, East and West Pakistan, the Caribbean and Africa. The organisation, which had after several attempts and splits and after assuming several avatars and names was, when I joined it, called the Black Panther Movement. The founding members used the name, borrowed from the vibrant and aggressive Afro-American Party which was making hard progress in the US and headlines all over the world, to inspire the West Indian youth of Britain to join.
They did. The movement was very largely West Indian and young, though there was a fair sprinkling of Asian intellectuals, Marxists, demagogues and demonstrating bodies. The flag of the movement had a black panther in the stance of springing. Though there were attempts in discussion to include a uniform which the cadre would wear, the more sensible opinion prevailed — we didn’t want to wear berets like boy-scouts or dress in anything that would remind people of Hitler Youth or be in some sense an echo of the then powerless “knicker-wallas” of India.
In a powerful sense the movement was about “race” because all its members by definition were non-Caucasian. The black panther in the movement’s name was a reference to the symbol on the flag and on the masthead of the newspaper, and it was metaphorical for the anger of an underclass. Of course it was inevitably associated with the colour of one’s skin. Now, being a Parsi, I am not of the darkest hue. I would describe my colour as a vague khaki, prone to turning quite brown when exposed to severe sun and being fairly fair in the British sunless winters (Writers shouldn’t write about their skin-colour. It’s tasteless and even boastful — Ed. Fair enough, Madam — geddit? — fd).
Through the campaigns that the movement fought, one worked hard at pamphleteering, demonstrating, giving one’s time to factory picketing with this or that demand, writing bulletins and even battling the police when making strong points on a political demonstration. It made the young activists, myself included, feel worthy and active as world-changers. The slogan, when demonstrating against a piece of blatant racism was “say it loud, I’m black and I’m, proud!” The one person who didn’t “get it” as we say nowadays, was my father Lt. Col. Dhondy. Friends of mine who lived in Mumbai encountered him walking on the beach taking the evening air. They exchanged recognitions and then with a puzzled brow he said “What is Farrukh doing? He seems to have joined some association of dark people?” My friends laughed. Generation gap!
The movement with others prevailed and the British Parliament, liberally inclined whenever a threat appears on the horizon, passed laws against discrimination in housing, employment and schooling and attempted through administrative initiatives to address the grievances of the immigrant community. What legislation and these administrative manoeuvres couldn’t address was the deep-set issue of racial prejudice. Yes, the state could criminalise race-hate speeches or incitement to attack black, Asian or Muslim people. Legislation may inhibit behaviour but it doesn’t change attitudes. But integration of the non-Caucasian races into Britain necessarily entailed the change of attitudes and, though I didn’t see it as part of my challenge, a movement to win recognition for race and colour came into being.
Descartes didn’t say it, but by and large, “I express myself therefore I am” is substantially true. This latter movement set out to reform the way people express themselves — a sort of verbal revolution which expresses horror and determined opposition when someone says rude words — which have now been euphemised into their first letters: The “N” word, the “C” word, the “P” word (indicating Asians whether they originate in Pakistan or not) etc. Concomitant on this linguistic revolution, which seems to old street-fighters as a perhaps necessary but easy option, was the assertion that black is beautiful. The assertion had several corollaries and social consequences. People of African descent were urged to stop wearing Caucasian wigs, to look upon Afro hair as natural and beautiful, to stop assaulting their skin with skin-lightening drugs and to walk tall. More significantly there was a move to bring darker skins into acting. So the black Hamlet or Cleopatra became a possibility if not a liberalising necessity.
So also with advertisements. There was a move to get black models on posters advertising high-end products and not just urging the target viewer to eat McDonald’s hamburgers and Kentucky Fried Chicken. There may be some way to go but it’s happened in America and Britain so why not in India? Why don’t Indian films and Indian billboards reflect the skin-colour of the majority of the population? Why do all our models in TV commercials look like Caucasians or Vikings in dhotis and specs or in saris? Why do all our actresses look like ads for skin-lightening cream?
I am not stupid yaar, I know that my grandmother and her friends would judge a girl by her colour — fair was good, dark was not so good. But isn’t it time there was a movement of “dark people” as my father put it? A vigorous protest at film locations against the “ban” on darker-skinned actors and a boycott of the products that don’t use models who would reflect the skin-shade of a huge percentage of the population? Why aren’t hoardings with the subliminal message of “only fair is beautiful and acceptable” filled with protest graffiti? Why do South Indian actors have to hide their skin colour behind large moustaches?
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