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everydayducksoup · 4 years

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Because I can finally post it: here’s my absolute shithouse off-my-ass this-is-secular-school-now-I-can-write-REAL-politics-into-my-work essay. “Who Gets Eaten and Who Gets to Eat: Morality and Socioeconomic Mobility in Aravind Adiga’s White Tiger and Stephen Sondheim’s Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street”

In a society where honest work just doesn’t cut it, there’s always murder- at least, for the protagonists of White Tiger and Sweeney Todd. Both works make use of fictional narratives and stylistic language to destabilize narratives of wealth as moral judgement and expose the forces in society which push individuals, especially amongst the lower class, into immoral action and emotional detachment in exchange for socioeconomic stability and advancement. With Adiga presenting the story of driver-turned-entrepreneur Balram Halwai, and Sondheim the Victorian English revenge drama of Sweeney Todd’s mass murder and cannibalistic enterprise, the ‘dark side’ of capitalism, justice, and class dynamics comes to light.

In his essay, “capitalism, caste and con-games in Aravind Adiga’s The White Tiger”, Snehal Shingavi presents us with two common narratives about poverty- where it is either “overcome by virtue of moral fineness (so that to be rich is to deserve) or by moral corruption (so that any upward mobility marks ethical opprobrium)”(Shingavi 7). However, neither of the works presented adhere to this conflation of wealth with morality, because they take a different look at the way our society works. In Sweeney Todd, it is constantly emphasized that vice and immorality are universal traits: in the song Epiphany, Todd sings “we all deserve to die/ even you Mrs. Lovett/ even I” (Sondheim 38), and similar judgements are made throughout the rest of the play. Meanwhile, The White Tiger expresses the opinion that goodwill is only an option for those with privilege- “here, if a man wants to be good, he can be good. In Laxamangarh, he doesn’t even have this choice.” (Adiga 262).

This decision to separate morality from the act of gaining capital does something incredibly important: it undermines the idea of the poor as apolitical or moralizing figures, establishing their autonomy. When we acknowledge this, we can more thoroughly experience the injustices that drive these characters to violent means. Both protagonists are literally denied justice- Todd is framed for a crime by Judge Turpin and sent to the penal colony as part of his plan to steal his wife, Lucy; and Balram is expected to take the blame for his master’s wife when she runs over a young child. The statues of law are shown to be ineffective within modern society due to class imbalance- the reality is, as Balram says, “the rule of the jungle”. Both protagonists take on cannibalism (one literally, the other figuratively) as their own brand of justice outside the system that has failed them. Sweeney and Lovett sing, in A Little Priest: “the history of the world my dear/…/is who gets eaten and who gets to eat”(Sondheim 48), while Balram expresses the new caste structure of postcolonial India as “there are just two castes: Men with Big Bellies, and Men with Small Bellies. And only two destinies: eat—or get eaten up.” (Adiga 54)

Rather than marking the distinction between rich and poor through morality, these works employ the binary of filth and cleanliness as a signifier of socioeconomic position. From the first, Todd describes the poor of London as “vermin” and claiming that the subjugation by the upper classes “(turn) beauty into filth and greed” (Sondheim 2). Similarly, Lovett’s introduction, The Worst Pies in London revolves entirely around the spectacle of how disgusting her situation is: “is that just revolting?” (Sondheim 9). This state of perpetual impurity is both a direct result of economic equality, and a contributing factor in its continuation. Adiga demonstrates the impact of cleanliness over filth by showing Balram successfully “passing” in middle-class society by copying his master’s habits- he stops chewing paan, starts brushing his teeth, dresses simply, changes his posture, and he is suddenly unrecognizable as the poor driver he still is. The authority given to anyone who can present well enough within the expectations of their society strips yet another layer from the connection between ethics and wealth- through appearances, Lovett’s pie shop is successful despite selling its clients human flesh. However, this effect is not only felt through the common motif of a façade, as it also serves to prove that the currency of this society is necessarily aggressive.

The White Tiger presents this struggle through the metaphor of the rooster coop:

“hundreds of pale hens and brightly colored roosters, stuffed tightly into wire-mesh cages…pecking each other and shitting on each other, jostling for breathing space…on the wooden desk above this coop sits a grinning young butcher, showing off the flesh and organs of a recently chopped-up chicken… the roosters in the coop smell the blood from above… they know they’re next.” (Adiga 147)

This analogy presents the inherent violence in the situation: if you are a poor rooster, no matter how much you preen your feathers or how peacefully you stand, your neighbors will only continue to peck at you and try to climb over you, and you will still be in line for the slaughter. If you are the rich butcher, the only way you can survive is to continue killing chickens, because that is your trade, regardless of how nicely you treat them, and if you let them out of the cage you lose it all. In order to gain power in this society, Shingavi points out, one must forsake both their origins, their emotional ties; and their morality, their societal ties. For Balram, this is the killing and torture of his family by the state, which relieves him of his caste; and the murder of Mr. Ashok, which relieves him of his servitude. For Todd, it is the knowledge that “Lucy lies in ashes” and he’ll “never see Johanna” (Sondheim 44); as well as his plan to murder the Judge. The disconnection of morality and capital allows for a system wherein justice is obtained through violence, the truth revealed through con-games, and social mobility and betterment come at the cost of human lives.

However, the values of the system do not reflect directly on the people within it- Balram, Todd and Lovett are still emotional, human figures, who have the capacity for grief and empathy. Both protagonists harbor a young boy throughout the course of the story- Balram his nephew Dharam and Lovett and Todd their young employee Toby- neither of which are related to their grander schemes. Both openly grapple with the loss of their familial connections, with Balram commenting “I’ve got no family anymore. All I’ve got are chandeliers” (Adiga 97) and Todd addressing a monologue to his lost daughter in the song Johanna (Quartet): “Goodbye, Johanna/ You're gone, and yet you're mine… And though I'll think of you, I guess/Until the day I die.” (Sondheim 63) The biggest distinction between the two works comes through this aspect: Balram succeeds in separating his personal life from his business and channeling the cold methods of the system even in his charity- giving bribes in exchange for the life of a young boy killed by one of his employees- while Lovett and Todd let their emotions drive them to ruin.

In his essay, “Mayhem and Morality in Sweeney Todd”, Alfred Mollin points out the way Sondheim uses musical references to demonstrate Todd’s descent into righteous rage and madness. The use of the music of the Dies Irae from the Requiem Mass, a piece which is immediately recognizable to a western audience as representing a sort of divine “judgement of the wicked and the good”(Mollin 3), shows that his intentions lie directly outside of the give-and-take of the system around him. In this sense, Balram’s parallel in the play is more in the character of Mrs. Lovett, who acknowledges the entrepreneurial potential of their situation and acts almost exclusively out of “thrift”- almost, because she is also in love with Todd. This affection goes directly against the preestablished tenant of the system, emancipation from emotional ties, and thus leads to their downfall. It is only fitting that Shingavi would refer to this tenant as a “murder”, as it is literally the realization that Lucy is alive, brought about in the third act of the play, that sets off the eventual demise of Lovett and Todd.

These narratives present the worst faces of our modern, heavily unequal society- the failures of justice, of capitalism, and even of human empathy. Through them, we can see past the façades imposed on daily life, worn by rich and poor alike in their pursuit of self-betterment. They express a more nuanced story of class inequality and the forces that control our society, recognizing that bringing about a just and fair environment is not a matter of taking out the boogeymen of billionaires or capitalism, but rather a process of unlearning and replacing systems that value aggression as social capital. The authors acknowledge the autonomy and potential for both good and evil present in each member of society and analyze how the world around it undermines them. These works remind us that- regardless of our personal stance or our actions- we function within the same cannibalistic system. Like the chickens pecking each other in the rooster coop or the public eating Mrs. Lovett’s pies- if we are not working to change the system, we are accomplices in this cannibalism.

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formonbelami · 4 years

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Lihaaf

In the depth of winter whenever I snuggle into my quilt, its shadow on the wall seems to sway like an elephant. My mind begins a mad race into the dark crevasses of the past; memories come flooding in.

Begging your pardon, I am not about to relate a romantic incident surrounding my own quilt—I do not believe there is much romance associated with it. The blanket, though considerably less comfortable, is preferable because it does not cast such terrifying shadows, quivering on the wall!

This happened when I was a small girl. All day long I fought tooth and nail with my brothers and their friends. Sometimes I wondered why the hell I was so quarrelsome. At my age my older sisters had been busy collecting admirers; all I could think of was fisticuffs with every known and unknown girl or boy I ran into!

For this reason my mother decided to deposit me with an 'adopted' sister of hers when she left for Agra. She was well aware that there was no one in that sister's house, not even a pet animal, with whom I could engage in my favorite occupation! I guess my punishment was well deserved. So Mother left me with Begum Jan, the same Begum Jan whose quilt is imprinted on my memory like a blacksmith's brand.

This was the lady who had been married off to Nawab Sahib for a very good reason, courtesy her poor but loving parents. Although much past his prime, Nawab Sahib was noblesse oblige. No one had ever seen a dancing girl or prostitute in his home. He had the distinction of not only performing the Haj himself, but of being the patron of several poor people who had undertaken the pilgrimage through his good offices.

Nawab Sahib had a strange hobby. People are known to have irksome interests like breeding pigeons and arranging cockfights. Nawab Sahib kept himself aloof from these disgusting sports; all he liked to do was keep an open house for students; young, fair and slim-waisted boys, whose expenses were borne entirely by him. After marrying Begum Jan, he deposited her in the house with all his other possessions and promptly forgot about her! The young, delicate Begum began to wilt with loneliness.

Who knows when Begum Jan started living? Did her life begin when she made the mistake of being born, or when she entered the house as the Nawab's new bride, climbed the elaborate four-poster bed and started counting her days? Or did it begin from the time she realized that the household revolved around the boy-students, and that all the delicacies produced in the kitchen were meant solely for their palates? From the chinks in the drawing-room doors, Begum Jan glimpsed their slim waists, fair ankles and gossamer shirts and felt she had been raked over coals!

Perhaps it all started when she gave up on magic, necromancy, seances and whatnot. You cannot draw blood from a stone. Not an inch did the Nawab budge. Broken-hearted, Begum Jan turned towards education. Not much to be gained here either! Romantic novels and sentimental poetry proved even more depressing. Sleepless nights became a daily routine. Begun Jan slowly let go and consequently, became a picture of melancholy and despair.

She felt like stuffing all her fine clothes into the stove. One dresses up to impress people. Now, neither did the Nawab Sahib find a spare moment from his preoccupation with the gossamer shirts, nor did he allow her to venture outside the home. Her relatives, however, made it a habit to pay her frequent visits which often lasted for months, while she remained prisoner of the house.

Seeing these relatives on a roman holiday made her blood boil. They happily indulged themselves with the goodies produced in the kitchen and licked the clarified butter off their greedy fingers. In her household they equipped themselves for their winter needs. But, despite renewing the cotton filling in her quilt each year, Begum Jan continued to shiver, night after night. Each time she turned over, the quilt assumed ferocious shapes which appeared like shadowy monsters on the wall. She lay in terror; not one of the shadows carried any promise of life. What the hell was life worth anyway? Why live? But Begum Jan was destined to live, and once she started living, did she ever!

Rabbo came to her rescue just as she was starting to go under. Suddenly her emaciated body began to fill out. Her cheeks became rosy; beauty, as it were, glowed through every pore! It was a special oil massage that brought about the change in Begum Jan. Begging your pardon, you will not find the recipe for this oil in the most exclusive or expensive magazine!

When I saw Begum Jan she was in her early forties. She sat reclining on the couch, a figure of dignity and grandeur. Rabbo sat against her back, massaging her waist. A purple shawl was thrown over her legs. The very picture of royalty, a real Maharani! How I loved her looks. I wanted to sit by her side for hours, adoring her like a humble devotee. Her complexion was fair, without a trace of ruddiness. Her black hair was always drenched in oil. I had never seen her parting crooked, nor a single hair out of place. Her eyes were black, and carefully plucked eyebrows stretched over them like a couple of perfect bows! Her eyes were slightly taut, eyelids heavy and eyelashes thick. The most amazing and attractive part of her face were her lips. Usually dyed in lipstick, her upper lip had a distinct line of down. Her temples were covered with long hair. Sometimes her face became transformed before my adoring gaze, as if it were the face of young boy

Her skin was fair and moist, and looked like it had been stretched over her frame and tightly stitched up. Whenever she exposed her ankles for a massage, I stole a glance at their rounded smoothness. She was tall, and appeared taller because of the ample flesh on her person. Her hands were large and moist, her waist smooth. Rabbo used to sit by her side and scratch her back for hours together—it was almost as if getting scratched was for her the fulfilment of life's essential need. In a way, more important than the basic necessities required for staying alive.

Rabbo had no other household duties. Perched on the four-poster bed, she was always massaging Begum Jan's head, feet or some other part of her anatomy. Someone other than Begum Jan receiving such a quantity of human touching, what would the consequences be? Speaking for myself, I can say that if someone touched me continuously like this, I would certainly rot.

As if this daily massage ritual were not enough, on the days she bathed this ritual extended to two hours! Scented oils and unguents were massaged into her shining skin; imagining the friction caused by this prolonged rubbing made me slightly sick. The braziers were lit behind closed doors and then the procedure started. Usually Rabbo was the only one allowed inside the sanctum. Other servants, muttering their disapproval, handed over various necessities at the closed door.

The fact of the matter was that Begum Jan was afflicted with a perpetual itch. Numerous oils and lotions had been tried, but the itch was there to stay. Hakims and doctors stated: It is nothing, the skin is clear. But if the disease is located beneath the skin, it's a different matter. These doctors are mad! Rabbo used to say with a meaningful smile while gazing dreamily at Begum Jan. "May your enemies be afflicted with skin disease! It is your hot blood that causes all the trouble!"

Rabbo! She was as black as Begum Jan was white, like burnt iron ore! Her face was lightly marked with smallpox, her body solidly packed; small dextrous hands, a tight little paunch and full lips slightly swollen, which were always moist. Those puffy hands were as quick as lightning, now at her waist, now her lips, now kneading her thighs and dashing towards her ankles. Whenever I sat down with Begum Jan, my eyes were riveted to those roving hands.

Winter or summer, Begum Jan always wore kurtas of Hyderabadi jalli karga. I recall her dark skirts and billowing white kurtas. With the fan gently rotating on the ceiling, Begum always covered herself with a soft wrap. She was fond of winter. I too liked the winter season at her house. She moved very little. Reclining on the carpet, she spent her days having her back massaged, chewing on dry fruit. Other household servants were envious of Rabbo. The witch! She ate, sat, and even slept with Begum Jan! Rabbo and Begum Jan—the topic inevitably cropped up in every gathering. Whenever anyone mentioned their names, the group burst into loud guffaws. Who knows what jokes were made at their expense? But one thing was certain—the poor lady never met a single soul. All her time was taken up with the treatment of her unfortunate itch.

I have already said I was very young at the time and quite enamoured of Begum Jan. She, too, was fond of me. When mother decided to go to Agra she had to leave me with somebody. She knew that, left alone, I would fight continuously with my brothers, or wander around aimlessly. I was happy to be left with Begum Jan for one week, and Begum Jan was equally pleased to have me. After all, she was Ammi's adopted sister!

The question arose of where I was to sleep. The obvious place was Begum Jan's room; accordingly, a small bed was placed alongside the huge four-poster. Until ten or eleven that night we played Chance and talked; then I went to bed. When I fell asleep Rabbo was scratching her back. "Filthy wench", I muttered before turning over. At night I awoke with a start. It was pitch dark. Begum Jan's quilt was shaking vigorously, as if an elephant was struggling beneath it.

"Begum Jan", my voice was barely audible. The elephant subsided.

"What is it? Go to sleep". Begum Jan's voice seemed to come from afar.

"I’m scared". I sounded like a petrified mouse.

"Go to sleep. Nothing to be afraid of. Recite the Ayat-ul-Kursi".

"Okay!" I quickly began the Ayat. But each time I reached Yalamu Mabain I got stuck. This was strange. I knew the entire Ayat!

"May I come to you, Begum Jan?"

"No child, go to sleep". The voice was curt. Then I heard whispers. Oh God! Who was this other person? Now I was terrified.

"Begum Jan, is there a thief here?"

"Go to sleep, child; there is no thief". This was Rabbo's voice. I sank into my quilt and tried to sleep.

In the morning I could not even remember the sinister scene that had been enacted at night. I have always been the superstitious one in my family. Night fears, sleep-talking, sleep-walking were regular occurrences during my childhood. People often said that I seemed to be haunted by evil spirits. Consequently I blotted out the incident from memory as easily as I dealt with all my imaginary fears. Besides, the quilt seemed such an innocent part of the bed.

The next night when I woke up, a quarrel between Begum Jan and Rabbo was being settled on the bed itself. I could not make out what conclusion was reached, but I heard Rabbo sobbing. Then there were sounds of a cat slobbering in the saucer. To hell with it, I thought and went off to sleep!

Today Rabbo has gone off to visit her son. He was a quarrelsome lad. Begum Jan had done a lot to help him settle down in life; she had bought him a shop, arranged a job in the village, but to no avail. She even managed to have him stay with Nawab Sahib. Here he was treated well, a new wardrobe was ordered for him, but ungrateful wretch that he was, he ran away for no good reason and never returned, not even to see Rabbo. She therefore had to arrange to meet him at a relative's house. Begum Jan would never have allowed it, but poor Rabbo was helpless and had to go.

All day Begum Jan was restless. Her joints hurt like hell, but she could not bear anyone's touch. Not a morsel did she eat; all day long she moped in bed.

"Shall I scratch you, Begum Jan?" I asked eagerly while dealing out the deck of cards. Begum Jan looked at me carefully.

"Really, shall I?" I put the cards aside and began scratching, while Begum Jan lay quietly, giving in to my ministrations. Rabbo was due back the next day, but she never turned up. Begum Jan became irritable. She drank so much tea that her head started throbbing.

Once again I started on her back. What a smooth slab of a back! I scratched her softly, happy to be of some assistance;

"Scratch harder, open the straps", Begum Jan spoke. "There, below the shoulder. Ooh, wonderful!" She sighed as if with immense relief.

"This way", Begum Jan indicated, although she could very well scratch that part herself. But she preferred my touch. How proud I was!

"Here, oh, oh, how you tickle", she laughed. I was talking and scratching at the same time.

"Tomorrow I will send you to the market. What do you want? A sleeping-walking doll?"

"Not a doll, Begum Jan! Do you think I am a child? You know I am…"

"Yes… an old crow. Is that what you are?" She laughed.

"Okay then, buy a babua. Dress it up yourself, I'll give you as many bits and pieces as you want. Okay?" She turned over.

"Okay", I answered.

"Here". She was guiding my hand wherever she felt the itch. With my mind on the babua, I was scratching mechanically, unthinkingly. She continued talking. "Listen, you don't have enough clothes. Tomorrow I will ask the tailor to make you a new frock. Your mother has left some material with me".

"I don't want that cheap red material. It looks tacky". I was talking nonsense while my hand roved the entire territory. I did not realize it but by now Begum Jan was flat on her back! Oh God! I quickly withdrew my hand.

"Silly girl, don't you see where you're scratching? You have dislocated my ribs". Begum Jan was smiling mischievously. I was red with embarrassment.

"Come, lie down with me". She laid me at her side with my head on her arm. "How thin you are… and, let's see, your ribs", she started counting.

"No", I protested weakly.

"I won't eat you up! What a tight sweater", she said. "Not even a warm vest?" I began to get very restless.

"How many ribs?" The topic was changed.

"Nine on one side, ten on the other". I thought of my school hygiene. Very confused thinking.

"Let's see", she moved my hand. "One, two, three…"

I wanted to run away from her, but she held me closer. I struggled to get away. Begum Jan started laughing.

To this day whenever I think of what she looked like at that moment, I get nervous. Her eyelids became heavy, her upper lip darkened and, despite the cold, her nose and eyes were covered with tiny beads of perspiration. Her hands were stiff and cold, but soft as if the skin had been peeled. She had thrown off her shawl and in the karga kurta, her body shone like a ball of dough. Her heavy gold kurta buttons were open, swinging to one side.

The dusk had plunged her room into a claustrophobic blackness, and I felt gripped by an unknown terror. Begum Jan's deep dark eyes focused on me! I started crying. She was clutching me like a clay doll. I started feeling nauseated against her warm body. She seemed possessed. What could I do? I was neither able to cry nor scream! In a while she became limp. Her face turned pale and frightening, she started taking deep breaths. I figured she was about to die, so I ran outside.

Thank God Rabbo came back at night. I was scared enough to pull the sheet over my head, but sleep evaded me as usual. I lay awake for hours.

How I wished Ammi would return. Begum Jan had become such a terrifying entity that I spent my days in the company of household servants. I was too scared to step into her bedroom. What could I have

said to anyone? That I was afraid of Begum Jan? Begum Jan, who loved me so dearly?

Today there was another tiff between Begum Jan and Rabbo. I was dead scared of their quarrels, because they signalled the beginning of my misfortunes! Begum Jan immediately thought about me. What was I doing wandering around in the cold? I would surely die of pneumonia!

"Child, you will have my head shaven in public. If something happens to you, how will I face your mother?" Begum Jan admonished me as she washed up in the water basin. The tea tray was lying on the table.

"Pour some tea and give me a cup". She dried her hands and face.

"Let me get out of these clothes".

While she changed, I drank tea. During her body massage, she kept summoning me for small errands. I carried things to her with utmost reluctance, always looking the other way. At the slightest opportunity I ran back to my perch, drinking my tea, my back turned to Begum Jan.

"Ammi!" My heart cried in anguish. "How could you punish me so severely for fighting with my brothers?" Mother disliked my mixing with the boys, as if they were man-eaters who would swallow her beloved daughter in one gulp! After all who were these ferocious males? None other than my own brothers and their puny little friends. Mother believed in a strict prison sentence for females; life behind seven padlocks! Begum Jan's "patronage", however, proved more terrifying than the fear of the world's worst goondas! If I had had the courage I would have run out on to the street. But helpless as I was, I continued to sit in that very spot with my heart in my mouth.

After an elaborate ritual of dressing up and scenting her body with warm attars and perfumes, Begum Jan turned her arduous heat on me.

"I want to go home!" I said in response to all her suggestions. More tears.

"Come to me", she waxed. "I will take you shopping".

But I had only one answer. All the toys and sweets in the world kept piling up against my one and only refrain, "I want to go home!"

"Your brothers will beat you up, you witch!" She smacked me affectionately.

"Sure, let them", I said to myself annoyed and exasperated.

"Raw mangoes are sour, Begum Jan", malicious little Rabbo expressed her views.

Then Begum Jan had her famous fit. The gold necklace she was about to place around my neck, was broken to bits. Gossamer net scarf was shredded mercilessly. Hair, which were never out of place, were tousled with loud exclamations of "Oh! Oh! Oh!" She started shouting and convulsing. I ran outside. After much ado and ministration, Begum Jan regained consciousness. When I tiptoed into the bedroom Rabbo, propped against her body, was kneading her limbs.

"Take off your shoes, she whispered". Mouse-like I crept into my quilt.

Later that night, Begum Jan's quilt was, once again, swinging like an elephant. "Allah", I was barely able to squeak. The elephant-in-the quilt jumped and then sat down. I did not say a word. Once again, the elephant started convulsing. Now I was really confused. I decided, no matter what, tonight I would flip the switch on the bedside lamp. The elephant started fluttering once again, as if about to squat. Smack, gush, slobber—someone was enjoying a feast. Suddenly I understood what was going on!

Begum Jan had not eaten a thing all day and Rabbo, the witch, was a known glutton. They were polishing off some goodies under the quilt, for sure. Flaring my nostrils, I huffed and puffed hoping for a whiff of the feast. But the air was laden with attar, henna, sandalwood; hot fragrances, no food.

Once again the quilt started billowing. I tried to lie still, but it was now assuming such weird shapes that I could not contain myself. It seemed as if a frog was growing inside it and would suddenly spring on me.

"Ammi!" I spoke with courage, but no one heard me. The quilt, meanwhile, had entered my brain and started growing. Quietly creeping to the other side of the bed I swung my legs over and sat up . In the dark I groped for the switch. The elephant somersaulted beneath the quilt and dug in. During the somersault, its corner was lifted one foot above the bed.

Allah! I dove headlong into my sheets!!

What I saw when the quilt was lifted, I will never tell anyone, not even if they give me a lakh of rupees.

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