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Asoka, Afghanistan and Horrors of War - Sunny Singh Sunny Singh was born in Varanasi. She received her education in various parts of India and the world. She has worked as a journalist, teacher, and as a management executive for multinationals in Mexico, Chile and South Africa. For the last four years, she has been writing full-time. She is also a playwright. Her first play, Birthing Athena, focussed on evolving relationships and the price of ambition in post-liberalisation India. The Times of India described the play as "an intensely cathartic experience." Her first novel, Nani's Book of Suicides, had been published by Harper Collins Publishers India. Described by the Hindustan Times as a "first novel of rare scope and power," the novel explores the cultural identity of an Indian woman through a fund of myths, family lore and contemporary reality. Her second book, Single in the City: The independent woman's handbook was released on Dec 22, 2000 by Penguin India. Visit Sunny Singh's website at: http://www.sunnysinghwrites.com/

In the current climate of war, a simple (and for Indians, the most popular) past time brought in its wake a call for sanity. You see, after watching interminable hours of CNN, BBC and various other news channels, I took a few hours to go watch Asoka, the new Shahrukh Khan magnum opus.

Although comparisons are inappropriate, but the film seemed to combine the best of world filmmaking, with the editing of a Tarantino, subtlety of a Kurosawa and the lush, hyper-real aesthetics of our very own Bollywood. If the kalari sequences were reminescent of a "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon," the philosophical moorings were far more profound. If cinematographically, the war sequences reminded one of "Braveheart," the emotional devastation was clearly rooted in our own ideals of ahimsa. I have to say, Bollywood has come of age this year: with "Lagaan," "Dil Chahta Hai" and now "Asoka," transforming the idiom of the commercial Hindi film, and paving the way to truly memorable cinema.

In the movie theatre, the grit and filth of arid Afghan soil that I have been watching for the past four weeks were replaced by the breathtaking emerald forests of Panchmarhi, and the spectacular white marbles of the Narmada canyon. As always, Santosh Sivan didn't disappoint as his camera caressed a drop of water trembling on a rich green leaf, the white foam of the waves dancing on the shore and the inexpressible grace of a rushing rivulet. Yet, from the very first sequence, the brute hand of human barbarity gleamed menacingly beyond the veil of nature's poetry. And in the dark cinema hall, the horror of war sounded loud and clear. And in dolby surround sound, Asoka did something that all the "live" images of Al-jazeera and CNN couldn't.

In a recent TV interview, the film's producer, Juhi Chawla had promised that the audience would cry by the end of the movie; not only for the characters but also for the futility and horror of war. The lead actor, Shahrukh Khan, had spoken (with surprisingly philosophical maturity) of "only the dead having seen the end of war."

Well, guess, what? In that dark theatre, I cried. I wept not only towards the end of the movie, at the pathos of the great emperor haltingly finishing a fairy tale for a dying, beloved child. But I also wept when the terrors of war were subtly foreshadowed.

I even wept for the sheer overwhelming beauty of Sivan's aesthetic universe. He must surely be the one of the unacknowledged masters of cinematography today, where each frame is a painstakingly composed painting, of unique harmony, mute yet resonant symbolism and heart-wrenching grace. But, most of all, it was the violence within us, all humans, that brought tears to my eyes.

As I watched Asoka unleash the forces of depradation on the populace of Kalinga, I was chillingly reminded of the current war in Afghanistan. More than the Taliban, or even bin-Laden, it is the Afghani people who are dying: not necessarily of U.S. bombs that miss their target. They are dying because of the yellow plastic-cased cluster bombs that lie unexploded on dusty Afghan soil next to similarly coloured and shaped packets of food. And for years, they have died of the Taliban's atrocities against those who oppose them (or of the Northern Alliance who are known to be equally cruel). In the next few weeks, there will be more deaths, due to the dreaded Afghan winter that has already set in, whipping up biting winds, and dust-storms, bringing in heavy snows and cutting off all access to aid.

As I watched, one amongst a completely silent audience (this must have been the only Hindi film I have ever seen without the mandatory "seetees"), I was stuck by the sheer madness of war. In the movie as well as in history, the emperor was called "Chand-Asoka" for his cruelty and arrogance which lead him to violate all norms of military engagement. "In war, the only rule is victory," he declares.

As I walked out of the movie-theatre, I was struck by the incredible relevance of that statement in our world today. Bin-Laden and Taliban forgot all rules of humanity when they imprisoned women, brainwashed illiterate children, and killed innocents around the world. But Bush and the United States are also part of that league of "Chand-Asokas", as they break bread with other terrorists (Pakistan, for example), and interminably bomb Afghanistan (which achieves little except the suffering of its people) instead of sending in ground troops to do the job surgically. So when will this tandava of these "Chand-Asokas" end?

I have no answers. And search as I might, I can't find any. And yet, I am no Buddhist pacifist. I believe that there is evil in the world, which at times must be suppressed by violent methods. That sometimes, evil must be faced in the field of war. And in those cases, when we rise to fight evil, we fight a righteous war. To walk away from such a battle, or to refuse to fight in such circumstances would be a violation of our dharma as citizens and human beings.

As Krishna says to Arjun: "sva dharmam api chavekshya, na vikampitum arhasi/Dharmyaddhi yuddhach chreyo, nyat kshatriya na vidyate" (Bhagvad Gita II, 31)

Loosely translated, the verse means that given one's duty as a kshatriya (warrior, in this context), one should not waver. There is nothing more blessed for a warrior than a righteous war.

However, before we confuse a righteous war with various ideas of "holy war," let me clarify. A warrior must fight the "righteous war" with complete dispassion, without regard for the outcome. There can be no anger, no blood-lust, no hate, no vengeance. It is simply a "duty" (dharma) that must be done. Yet, even in the Mahabharata and inspite of Krishna's presence, there is nothing left for the Pandavas, the victors, at the end of the battle. Except grief and mourning. Their lineage ends - as children are killed - and can only be restored by divine intervention.

However, in today's world, as in the time of Asoka, there are no divine interventions. No miracles change the course of our lives. And no divine presence explains the rights and wrongs of our actions to us. Which leaves just us humans to find a better way. For the great Mauryan emperor, this "better way" was the journey from "Chand-Asoka" to "Dharma-Asoka". In renouncing violence, and more importantly his ambition of becoming the greatest emperor of the material world, Asoka found enlightenment, and himself.

I wonder if the "Chand-Asokas" of our own times will ever be able to make a similar transition. For the Mauryan Asoka, the transition began as he walked through the battle field, watching the rotting corpses, burning pyres and grieving families. I wonder if Bush or Bin-Laden will ever dare to walk the battlefields to count the dead or see the destruction they have brought upon innocents.

Today, the images repeated endlessly on TV ultimately dehumanize the victims, as they bring war to us in a sanitized form. There is no stench of death, no filth or grime of the battlefield, no cacaphony of violence in our ears. The dead too, are like actors, removed from us by miles and incessant "replays." Instead, we sip our beers in the airconditioned comfort of our home and watch the war as entertainment, much as our ancestors watched "shadow puppets" battle in the flickering light of a bonfire. Perhaps, then, it is time that Bin-Laden left his hide-out in Kandahar and walked through the rubble at World Trade Centre. And perhaps, Bush should visit the killing fields in Afghanistan. As they look into the eyes of the bereaved, hear their laments, and smell the foul odor of death, they may recognize their shared humanity. And perhaps, they will learn to choose a "better way," too.

As for me, the film made me weep. More, because there is nothing I can do to stop the carnage in our world today. But more importantly, it left me profoundly disturbed. So much so that I have not been able to turn on my television to watch any more images of dying children, grieving parents and despairing refugees. Because, for a change, in the hands of Santosh Sivan, that much reviled, dehumanizing, medium of film has cut through technology to bring home the unspeakable evil that is war. And for that alone I am grateful.

Photo credits: http://www.time.com

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