I am filled with continual wonder that we haven’t produced an absolute rash of award-winning psychiatrists and psychoanalysts by now. It should be a cinch, given that we are literally bristling with complexes and phobias and self-delusions. Forget those feeble Oedipuses and Electras — they are small change compared to the Viswamitras and Ahalyas and dozens of femininity-fearing, libido-seeking, virginity-worshipping mental messes we could conjure up.
I am deeply disappointed that I haven’t yet received a WhatsApp forward that says our country is now recognised by the UN as the World’s Most Repressed Nation. At least it won’t be fake news and think what a kick-start it would give to producing our own desi school of psychoanalysis.
I don’t mind giving a gentle nudge in that direction myself. And what better place to start than with our charming, recently-replaced chief cinema censor. Let’s see now, perhaps we could call it the Nihalani Nautanki Neurosis or how about the Pious Pahlaj Plague.
The symptoms would be quite simple. The person should be capable of banning the word ‘intercourse’ but happily able (without the least sense of irony) to produce a film where Anil Kapoor is thrown out of the bedroom by wife Madhuri Dixit and stands outside singing a song that starts off with the words ‘ Khada hai, khada hai… ’ while Karishma Kapoor is shown writhing on a sofa presumably not in the throes of colic.
Then, of course, we must document the MGR Macho Machan Malady. This is a syndrome fondly planted and watered mostly by South Indian cinema and consists primarily of endorsing a hero who cannot be shown falling in love with a woman. No, he must be chased and seduced by a woman, he must reject her continually, and then he must do the supreme honour of accepting her. The Man’s inherent purity is thus preserved — he has succumbed to romantic temptation only because he was relentlessly seduced. He is never distracted from Higher Duties such as Saving the World from Bad Men except when said pestilential female pursues him, mostly while skipping along in a ridiculous costume to a ridiculous song.
There are variants to this scenario, waiting only for a keen shrink to mine their depths. For instance, rich / bubbly / urban woman “tamed” by poor / stolid / rural man.
From here it is but a hop-skip to the Vijai Violence Virus. People who suffer from this delusional illness are innocent and terribly sensitive folk who are so fond of a particular film star that they cannot tolerate anyone disliking his films. When someone does, and if that someone happens to be female, they instantly come out in force to troll them. When they abuse women with foul names and threaten to rape or dismember them, they display much gentle sensitivity.
A little bird (not blue feathered) tells me there are moves afoot to ban all reviews of all Tamil films because, well, VV Virus.
And last but not the least is what I think I’ll call the Defending Disorder. Let’s assume there will always be some sickos who troll. Do you assume there will also be ample normal people who jump up and shout these sickos down? Wrong assumption.
Seemingly normal and rational men and women will display strong symptoms of Defending Disorder and say, ‘Of course, it’s wrong to troll, but you know these fans, they are so sensitive….’ Or: ‘Calm down, it’s only verbal abuse after all.’ Or: ‘If she makes comments online, she should expect to be trolled.’ Or: ‘She has opinions about everything, so she should be shut up.’
The Triple V goons and the Double D hypocrites make a deadly combination. The former are loud, unstable and violent. The latter are quiet but toxic. They allow the former to thrive and spawn because they acquiesce in the violence, online or offline, without necessarily getting their own paws dirty. Maybe there should be another word for this psychosis — maybe we should call it the Enabling Ailment. The worst things would never have happened in history without the enablers — the people who stayed silent and allowed them to happen.
Where the writer tries to make sense of society with seven hundred words and a bit of snark.
