There is nothing the mainstream media loves more than the social media. Journalists from newspapers and television channels are delighted when they hear the phrases "trending", "viral video" and "Facebook". For the younger lot, such things signify popularity and approval by the online community, another favoured term, and stories around them are easy to do.
So it is not at all surprising that the online success of the ditty Kolaveri di has thrilled reporters, commentators and analysts alike. It's an interesting story, no doubt: a nonsense rhyme in street Tamil patois with a catchy beat becomes a hit from Malapuram to Mexico and is viewed by over 10 million people. The music company behind it has no doubt done its bit to popularise the song, but much of the success is organic and self-perpetuating — it gets talked about because it gets talked about.
The video itself is amusing in a self-conscious way. Though it's hardly spontaneous and off-hand, given how professionally it has been shot, it is hard to ignore the cultivated air of casualness which adds to the cool factor and the funny words, starting with the first line itself, which translates as "Why this rage, girl?"
Last month, a song from Pakistan too beca-me an overnight sensation. Aloo Anday is a sharp take on the condition of Pakistan. Sung by three young boys, who call themselves Beygairat Brigade (Sha-meless Brigade), it takes digs at the military, Islamic fundamentalism, Imran Khan, Nawaz Sharif, the valorisation of terrorists like Kasab and the society in general. The band members are dressed like schoolboys from respectable families and the title refers to their lunch-box in which they get the same old boring food every day. In the end, they hold up a board saying "This video is sponsored by Zionists", a clear poke at the tendency to blame everything on external conspiracies. The last time I checked, the song had over eight lakh views — though nowh-ere near the Kolaveri sensation, it's popular when you consider how many people will understand the references.
Yet, numbers apart, it is interesting to reflect on what the two songs represent and what they tell us about their respective nations. Kolaveri is all pointless fun and even though it looks a bit manufactured, it has a certain joie de vivre. The singer, the musicians, the recordist, all have not a care in the world and are just goofing around the console and the mike. These youngsters are not carrying any burden on their shoulders, nothing that keeps them awake at night with worry.
The Beygairat Brigade are cheeky and aware of what they are doing — insulting all the holy cows of the Pakistani society. It's one thing to make fun of politicians, even the fundoos (religious fanatics), quite another to go after the Army and even a judge. The reference to Zionists may be ironical, but there are many who won't see it that way. It is undoubtedly a brave effort. Try as I might, I couldn't come up with a corresponding example of satire here.
Indeed, satire has now become a sharp weapon in the hands of Pakistan's artistic community. Pakistani novelists are using satire to engage with current affairs and social issues which does not hesitate to point out the foibles of the rulers. A Case of Exploding Mangoes may have been about Zia-ul-Haq but had many contemporary messages. Mohsin Hamid and H.M. Naqvi have looked at what it means to be a Pakistani abroad in the post 9/11 world. Artists are exploring political and anti-establishment issues in their works.
Much of Indian art seems to be preoccupied with issues of identity, as though 60 years after Independence that is still a burning topic. The successful and saleable painters from India who have made a splash abroad have stayed in the comfort zone of tackling "safe" issues such as globalisation; how many have taken on the Indian establishment? Tribal rights, mining, corruption — have these subjects found their way into art, literature or song?
It is not as if there is no dissent in this country, but the creative community, whether it is Bollywood (and its various versions), English writers or artists, all have tended to not articulate it. In the mid-1970s, our leading painter M.F. Husain painted Indira Gandhi as Durga; during Zia-ul-Haq's time, Iqbal Bano sang Faiz Ahmed Faiz's ghazal Hum Dekhenge to a live audience though it was banned and enraged the regime.
All this may only show how democratic and tolerant of dissent we are and how brutal Pakistan's rulers have been, but it could also be argued that our creative people do not like to rock the boat. There is no dearth of troubling issues in the country — what is missing is vibrant engagement and critiquing.
Notwithstanding all its problems, this is a country that is largely pleased with itself to the point of being smug; that mood is not conducive to producing radical art. There is nothing wrong with being happy and satisfied, but it is the duty of the artist, the writer and the filmmaker to speak truth to power. That is not happening in today's India. Occasionally, the online world creates some subversive memes but here, too, it remains rather tame, taking on the usual suspects like politicians, rather than spoof corporates or even do-gooders; no one wants to take on the really powerful. Which is why our Kolaveri will remain charming rather than caustic. We are not going to get an Indian version of Aloo Anday anytime soon, because that would mean not merely making fun of our holy cows, but also questioning ourselves.
