Dibyendu's WallScript

History, said Hegel, repeats itself—first as tragedy, then as farce. Yet in the labyrinth of ideologies, sometimes both arrive together, entwined in a grotesque embrace. The story of Indian Communism under the stewardship of men like Prakash Karat is such a tale: a theatre where tragedy and farce parade upon the same stage.   The First Betrayal: Religion and Marx   Marx, the titan of dialectical materialism, declared with thunder: “Religion is the sigh of the oppressed creature, the heart of a heartless world… It is the opium of the people.” To him, faith was no harmless solace but the fiercest rival to revolutionary consciousness. He knew that two tyrannies could not coexist: either the Church or the Party must fall. Hence his ceaseless denunciations, his call for the destruction of ecclesiastical power, his demand that illusions yield to reality.   Yet, in the twenty-first century, from the corridors of Alimuddin Street, a softer proclamation emerges: “We are not aga...

Today, Dhanuka looked beautiful. It was the day of Navami, during Durga Puja. She wore her best attire — a faded red skirt and a radiant pink blouse. Her black hair was oiled and curly. As she gazed at the clay idol of the Goddess, her large eyes sparkled with admiration at the divine attire. Lowering her head, she bowed before the Devi.   The village priest, in full-throated voice, sustained the ancient cadence of Sanskrit hymns in praise of the Mother:   “To the Goddess who rescues the distressed and the destitute, To She who removes the suffering of all, To Narayani, the Mother Divine — I bow in reverence.”   “You, O Supreme Lady of the Three Worlds, Dispel every obstacle, destroy every foe. Thus it is ordained, O Devi — By you alone must my enemies be vanquished.”   “Grant me fortune, grant me health, Grant me the highest bliss, O Mother. Bestow upon me beauty, grant me victory, Give me fame — and destroy my foes.”   He touched sandal paste to her forehead....

Lesson No. 1   This is not merely the tale of three fools; it is the saga of twelve hundred million fools. Each one fancies himself wise and educated, yet seeks enlightenment only from the lips of a Hindi film actor — particularly so if the actor belongs to a minority community, for then his words carry the sanctity of prophecy.   When Chetan Bhagat first penned the original novel, none of these fools had heard of it, let alone read it. Now, the very same fools declare that they have received a “great social message” from the film. And thus, we twelve hundred million Indians acquire our entire stock of social wisdom not from writers, not from philosophers, not from thinkers or artists, not even from novelists — but from the cinema halls of Mumbai and the cacophony of television channels.   Among these so-called enlightened masses, how many know the name of Vaikom Muhammad Basheer, or Mrinal Sen, or Mahasweta Devi, or Vikram Seth, or Mulk Raj Anand? Had we possessed eve...