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Like a lot of things that have come into India
from the West, the terms multiculturalism and political correctness have come into the world of children's books — late. So
that now, when a lot of fuss has been made and dust raised about it in the
West, we in India are only just beginning to see them as issues. With some
of us, these are very important questions that need to be addressed
immediately. With the majority, however, they are merely long afterthoughts.
There is probably no more multicultural nation in
the world than India, given the number of racial types, languages and
dialects spoken, organised and unorganised religions practised, and cultures
represented. And as for point of view, the joke is: one plus one Indian
makes eleven opinions! In this climate, therefore, the multiculturalism and
political correctness debate cannot go along the same lines as it does in
the West. Lines are nearly impossible to draw because there are more
exceptions than rules.
This leads
to the question: When we create books for children, which children do we
address? The middle and upper middle class English-speaking children who go
to school in cities and towns? Rural children who go to one-room, no-roof
shacks with one teacher who almost never turns up? Children attending
elitist residential schools? Poorer children who are eager to go to school
and whose parents are eager too so that their
children may at least have one full meal by way of the noon meal incentive
scheme in some states in India? Who?
Seen in this context, the definition of
multiculturalism as an effort to reflect the real world of varied people and
cultures, or at least helping children find their own space in books, takes
on new meaning. And political correctness? That is even more difficult.
Different things mean differently to different people in different cultures,
regions, religions, and so on. Where do you draw the line? Or rather, how do
you cross them, obliterate them? The easy way is to pretend they don't
exist.
There is very little study of children's
literature in India save the odd dissertation often based on stereotypical
ideas. So we have no way of judging; we have no parameters with which to
examine children's books. Somehow, books for children are still not
considered important enough for critical examination and evaluation. This is
why we often first look to the West for models of multiculturalism and
political correctness before we realise that no, those systems and standards
don't apply in quite the same way. India as a mosaic of cultural
representations must be reflected in the books. Where one rule can apply in
one book, it cannot in another.
For instance, Hazel Rochman discusses Virginia
Hamilton's work in her book Against Borders: Promoting Books for a
Multicultural World, explaining how she once was on a committee that
selected Hamilton as the U.S. nominee for the international Hans Christian
Andersen award. Some said she didn't have a chance "because foreigners wouldn't understand her, wouldn't
read her, wouldn't translate her ... too difficult, too idiomatic, too local,
they said. They were wrong. She won." (ALA Books / Booklist
Publications; Chicago and London: 1993, p. 25)
This notion of being too local, too idiomatic,
too difficult is something we encounter with Western publishers and
distributors all the time. The responses to Indian books range from
"lovely picture, alien story," to "the English is
funny," to "too culturally removed." Removed from and alien
for whom, we may ask. For children, who clearly revel in stories of the
unfamiliar — dinosaurs from a strange past, aliens from wherever . . .?
Perhaps adult minds tend to judge from conditioned adult perspectives on
behalf of children, whereas, left to themselves, children are naturally
multicultural beings — comfortable with the familiar, yet quite accepting
of the strange.
Interestingly, we once had some Sri Lankan
distributors wanting some of our Tamil titles, but they had problems with
the language. They said the Tamil used in Sri Lanka was a little different
and suggested we change it to suit their needs. Surprisingly — and happily
for us — they later got back saying they were willing to go along with the
Indian Tamil because they felt it was time their children started reading
other kinds of Tamil too! Sometimes, looking for similarities can kill a
thing, appreciating differences can make a work live. This was the case
here. Take a book we did early in our publishing life: Ekki Dokki (Chennai:
Tulika Publishers, 1996), a classic folktale about two sisters — one with
one hair, one with two. Eventually, the girl with one hair gets lots of
hair, the girl with two loses both, but they all live happily ever after.
The objection in the U.K. was that showing a bald child would upset the
feelings of children on chemotherapy for cancer. For a while we were
stunned. Had we gone completely wrong? Then, upon reflection we realised
that maybe that maybe that was their perception. In the Indian context,
shaving the head is commonplace, connected with various rituals and beliefs,
even the belief that doing it to children encourages more luxuriant hair
growth! Then along came someone who had had a long battle with cancer
herself and simply pooh-poohed the suggestion of it being hurtful. But it
took that long for us to understand not to go by Western notions and that it
is time the West understands us too.
It is the same with illustrations.
We have come across comments from Western publishers
to the effect that "nice books but the pictures are not Indian"
— meaning of course, not their vision of "Indian". Too often, these publishers will change pictures around, change
colours to what they think it should be to fit preconceived notions, often
leading to a completely wrong perspective. As far as illustrations go, only
Mughal or Miniature style is "Indian"; nothing else is. Sorry, but
maybe we know better?! Then again,
merely reiterating what one already knows doesn't make something
multicultural or politically correct.
We cry ourselves hoarse in India, and to all
those outside who will care to listen, that children here have for years
been reading all about scones and chocolate eclairs, meringues and tongue
sandwiches, pixies and gnomes, oak trees and ginger ale, perhaps not
technically understanding all of it, but enjoying the books immensely.
Loving them, in fact. All of us grew up on a diet of mainly imported British
books. Anyone who has
worked with children knows how naturally and easily they absorb what seems
alien and strange to adults. It is a pity that adults decide what children
read and impose narrow taboos on the kinds of books that may be written for
them, instead of recognising children's instinctive ability to live
comfortably with the diversities that surround them.
Children extend their imaginations to include
all possibilities, questions asked and answers sought. The difference is,
they believe in the world they visit. When that is the case, who are we to
determine which worlds they may and may not people?
These are the dangers Isaac Bashevis Singer
warned of when he said, "In our time, literature is losing its
address." (When Shlemiel Went To Warsaw; Farrar, 1968 —
opening note) In the great race to be all things to all persons, we run the
risk of being nothing to anybody. Books produced in India will, indeed must,
reflect the Indian ethos in all its layers, moods, and complexities. Others
reading these books must simply try to understand, just as Indian children
try to understand the fine undercurrents of being black in the United States
of America, or young Zlata writing her diary while Sarajevo is being bombed.
Singer reminds us that we often come close to losing our sense of place and
identity and, as a result, we are losing our voices.
Singer makes another equally valid statement:
"Unknown words don't stop the child, a boring story will." (from Children's
Literature, 6, 1977, pp 13-14) That then is the crux. If the voice is
true and if it calls with passion and appeal, readers will listen. It
doesn't matter that they don't understand each word and punctuation mark. Do
we understand every single thing in every single book we read? It's the same
with books for children.
This is the way we in India understand
multiculturalism and political correctness. Talking about something in one
culture may be completely unacceptable in another, but that's okay. One of
our authors, Cathy Spagnoli, once wrote to us about how American publishers
were very touchy about body functions but the Japanese were not at all : "Japanese children's books
have for years included folktales with references to excrement, urine and so
on. I used to be fascinated as a teller in Japan to watch other
storytellers, often elegant librarians or stiff-looking businessmen, tell
tale after tale about passing gas and how urine became a river and so on.
Audiences loved them. I could never do that in the United States and the few
times I have tried such tales I've had school principals giving me a talking
to!" Stretching the point further, poet, translator, folklorist and
scholar A. K. Ramanujan believes that such
stories were in fact part of the traditional toilet training process for
children, told to them while on the job, just as Indian folklore wove in
"tales of passion and trouble, told to children by their grandmothers
and servants as the dusk descends." (from Radhika Menon, 'Are there
taboos in children's literature?' — paper presented at the Delhi Book
Fair, February 2000) These tales involved issues which may not have met the
standards of 'correctness' in children's books today — issues which,
however, were commonly encountered by children living in large joint
families. Stories have a way of speaking of what cannot usually be spoken,
and these tales were tools to help children deal with the complexities of
the world they lived in.
The correctness, then, comes in the manner of
telling, not by imposing taboos. Books must reflect the people, the times,
and things the way they are. Good books write about them easily, tinge them
gently with colour. In a lovely short story for children, "Clear
Sky," (One World; Chennai: Tulika Publishers, 1998, pp 9-16,
story translated from the Tamil) feminist writer Ambai raises questions
about existing gender and caste disparities. A reading of the story at a
University seminar once led to a heated discussion about including issues
like caste in children's books. "These are bad things. Why talk about
them and reinforce these in the minds of children who may not know about
them at all," ran one argument. The response was that others in the
room had been at the receiving end of caste discrimination and children must
surely be made aware that it is still happening today. Now, if children in
the U.S. and U.K. will not understand this, we must help them understand,
just as issues of racial tensions and anti-Semitic feelings are understood
by cultures that don't experience them.
A corollary to these issues is the question of
who is qualified to write about a particular culture: only someone from
within, or anyone who is sensitive and understands? The latter has its
pitfalls, and can be more open to criticism simply by virtue of being an
outsider. But to restrict a writer on these grounds would be a pity, for a
good writer can well overcome all such barriers. The onus is on publishers
to verify authenticity of facts and tone, to see if a story rings true. It
is also their responsibility to ensure that books claiming to be
multicultural are truly so — not merely European, African and Asian faces
put together on the same page. But publishing, too, is a business, driven by
global market forces, by the ideas of whoever holds sway at the time. Power
is glamorous, and more likely to attract and influence than the other way
round, even in the case of books read by children.
This is the imbalance that has to be corrected.
We must ensure that multiculturalism does not emerge as another face of
cultural imperialism. Only when there is a flow of books and ideas freely
the world over can there be true multiculturalism. An acceptance of this
would automatically unshackle political correctness from the rigidity in
which it is held. The good news is that it is indeed happening, if in a
small way. A review of a set of Indian folktales published by us — and
modified in no way for non-Indian readers — carried in the School Library
Journal of North America (Angele J. Reynolds, November 1998) says: "The result is a cultural lesson that entertains and
enlightens . . . The stories have a familiar ring to them, but a distinct
Indian tone that transports listeners to faraway lands." And again, the
same story that was once rejected by some as too culturally removed evoked
the response: ". . . a delightful, humorous creation story from the
Bhilala tribe in Madhya Pradesh, a state in central India . . . Accompanying
this lively tale with its understated wit are primitive, stylized
illustrations in bold primary and secondary colours on a rich tan background
. . . it is a real treat to have this charming tale from an area not always
represented in folklore collections" ( Diane S. Marton, School Library
Journal, July 1999).
Clearly, multi-way understanding is essential,
possible too. While adults may have to consciously work at it, the advantage
with children is that they are naturally open and will understand.
Conducting a workshop for Tulika recently on writing for children, Suniti
Namjoshi, one of Tulika's authors, beautifully encapsulated this expansive
idea when she spoke of cyberspace as really a form of "common cultural
space," a space shared not by computers but by human minds. With the
internet well on its way to becoming yet another medium in the evolution of
storytelling, cultural flexibility and understanding become that much
more
important. To then put children in straitjackets would be to handicap them. We must let their minds free.
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