Love and hate relationships

Is it really possible to love and hate something simultaneously? How often do we see couples fume one moment and be affectionate the next? Do we have moments when we feel utter dismay towards our parents yet love them? How frequently do we disagree, argue or get enraged at siblings but then yearn for their company? How many times on an ordinary day do parents get exasperated and then absolutely adore their children?

These thoughts come to me as I look at some of my contradictory feelings. Our history books and elders told us about British exploitation, which make us angry for its ruthless, inhumane abuse. The anecdotes surrounding the savage treatment of Muslin workers for not teaching the English how to weave the fine cloth which had become so popular in Europe in the 18th century, the massacre of 1857 to quell the Sepoy Rebellion, the heart-wrenching tales and legends of the hunting and eventual killing of indomitable leaders like Master-da Surjo Sen or Titumir make us indignant, even today.

Our common drink, tea, produced and drunk for many centuries, was first cultivated on a large scale and exported by the East India Company, and it is a good example of the lucrative British trade in minerals, textiles and spices which exploited, among other things, cheap labour.

Despite its abhorrent suppression, at times camouflaged as economic development and modernisation, the Empire (or its representative) has issued no formal apology for marauding a civilisation for so long. Nor has it returned looted wealth or even symbolic jewels from the subcontinent, including the prestigious Koh-i-Noor diamond that now forms part of the British Crown Jewels, and enjoys proud display at the Tower of London (set into the Crown of Queen Elizabeth).

I have not enough space to describe the brutalities of the colonial administrators that took away food, as taxation, from starving farmers, causing many to die during its rule. Neither am I articulate enough to describe the callous but meticulous ruthlessness with which they were able to plan and promote the systematic division of Indians by religion and ethnicity.

Yet there are so many positives from that period: the stopping of Satidaho , a cruel practice; the Indian Railway, apparently still one of the larger railways in the world employing over a million staff; the court systems, the civil service, the trading centres and ports and the universities.

Above all, the introduction of English (as the business language in a multilingual continent), that has become the most dominant medium for business communication. Similar to its colonial conquests, English has easily defeated French, Spanish and Portuguese to become the most widely used language internationally. So we the ex-British colonials, being relatively familiar with the language, enter life's rat race perhaps with an edge. Curiously, knowing and being good at English has always been advantageous in the subcontinent, pushing us closer to the most desirable, ostensibly upper echelon, the Sahib class.

The admiration does not stop there. Cricket, a mere pastime for the English, gained religion-like status in the subcontinent and knows no bounds when it comes to its followers. The region today wields decisive power in the governance and administration of the game. As well, we have learned to use it to boost economic and diplomatic activities.

As generations pass, the once bitter master-slave relation with Britain continues to morph into a more congenial one, giving limitless inspiration not only for fiction, movies but also for business opportunities. With increased trade, thriving democracy, extensive cultural, lifestyle and educational exchanges and remarkable Raj relics, India truly remains the brightest jewel in the British Crown.

But do we still not harbour a grudge towards the ill-intentioned wrongs and manipulations?

Do we also feel the same towards India? While we acknowledge its vital role in gaining our Independence, its big brother and selfish attitudes often put our teeth on edge. Notwithstanding, we are immersed in so many Indian consumables; movies and fashion apparel are a mere few. Indian influence is rooted far deeper into our psyche – ask an upmarket wedding organiser or a parent of a teenager.

And what about our feelings towards Pakistan? Natural and well deserved acrimony and antipathy are there, but do feelings of solidarity pop up at times?

How about our feelings (obedience) to God? Sometimes we pray more often, feel absolute love and devotion towards the Almighty, realisation of his kindness and gracious gifts for us, makes us submit to him spontaneously. There are moments, though, when we may feel angry with our God, for creating an unjust and unequal world, where the strong, the rich and the talented enjoy unfair advantage over the weak, the poor and the average. Some of us may remember occasions when we cried and raged at his stepmother-like allocation of misfortune to us. Yet, we continue to love him and pray to him as best as we can, accepting the fact that the Almighty and his endless miracles are beyond our worldly comprehension.

Finally, what are our feelings towards leaders? History provides so many instances where nations as large as India, China or Russia or as small as Bangladesh loved, adored and united behind a leader, gave everything they had, in some cases even achieved nationhood under those leaders, only to assassinate them later. Where they were not killed, their departure from leadership was unceremonious, with a few exceptions.

A very brief look at these issues reveals a common thread – mixed feelings, inexplicable conflicting feelings – the same object/subject is the common source of our joy and sadness.

How do we reconcile these feelings or make sense of them? My explanation has been that we deliberately open and close our emotional doors as and when we see fit, but sometimes we are unable to regulate these doors as easily, making us susceptible to profound emotional dissonance.

But I am still in search of a more convincing answer. Do you have one?

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Irfan Chowdhury writes from Canberra, Australia.