I have not read Chekhov or Amos Oz. I am ashamed and I promise to read their works ASAP.
Anyway, I remember seeing Amos Oz on TV, January 23rd, 2002 on Newshour with Jim Leher to be precise. (I did a search on Yahoo! to refresh my memory, in case you are wondering). Oz, an Israeli peace activist and author, was commenting on his hope that the Israeli-Palestinian conflict would be a Chekhovian tragedy.
ELIZABETH FARNSWORTH (from the Newshour): You once said that you hoped that the tragedy of the relationship between Israel and the Palestinians would be Chekhovian and not a Shakespearean tragedy. What did you mean, and is it becoming more Shakespearean?
AMOS OZ: Well, my definition of a tragedy is a clash between right and right. And in this respect, the Israeli-Palestinian conflict has been a tragedy, a clash between one very powerful, very convincing, very painful claim over this land and another no less powerful, no less convincing claim. Now such a clash between right claims can be revolved in one of two manners. There's the Shakespeare tradition of resolving a tragedy with the stage hewed with dead bodies and justice of sorts prevails. But there is also the Chekhov tradition. In the conclusion of the tragedy by Chekhov, everyone is disappointed, disillusioned, embittered, heartbroken, but alive. And my colleagues and I have been working, trying...not to find the sentimental happy ending, a brotherly love, a sudden honeymoon to the Israeli-Palestinian tragedy, but a Chekhovian ending, which means clenched teeth compromise.
How anyone can think in such elegant ways is beyond me. Well, it occurred to me a few days ago that Indian cities are a Chekhovian tragedy - a clenched teeth compromise. Everything on the road is slowed down to a grinding crawl. Everyone is forced to accept the anarchy. In fact, everyone, even the most gentle law abiding among us, is transformed into an anarchist. Not a violent one, but a meek one. Breaking road rules meekly. While the traffic police looks the other way meekly, pretending not to see. With clenched teeth, of course.
Even the joy of seeing new roads, laid just before the monsoon season starts, is crushed when you see that it comes with pre-fitted potholes. Smooth black tar roads with giant manholes protruding into thin air. If by luck, the road has no potholes or protruding holes, there comes the water or electricity department next day. Or an arrogant nearby building owner. With pickaxes and shovels, tearing into the fine shiny surface. Bringing the pickax down with a callous rhythm in a manner only irresponsible, insensitive morons can.
Roads that flood at the slightest drizzle. Traffic lights that conk out when someone sneezes. Forcing pedestrians, cows, cars, cycles, cops, sewage, drainage, rain, auto-rickshaws, buses, minivans, vendors, temples, protesters, bus stop waiters, beggars, nouveau come-from-village-looking-for-jobber, sales-children selling at traffic stoplight, lepers (you don't see many of them now a days), gypsies - well you get the picture - forcing all of them to move an inch to the right, then to the left, inch by inch moving forward by sometimes moving backward. Watch out for the cyclist trying to slip into the crack between two vehicles deadlocked.
Slums next to mansions. Mansions in the middle of slum. All accepting the mysterious ways of the Lord. All accepting their place in this society, in this world. Begrudging the other's existence, at least the proximity if not their very existence. Sometimes acknowledging the other courteously, with clenched teeth. Other times, pretending they don't see.
I cautioned our American friend and her daughter on holiday in India when I picked them at the airport. "Prepare to be shocked and awed". New comers to India can have only one of two reactions. Either shocked or awed. Some vow never to return. Some stay and become more Indian than Indians. The paradox is that with all the extremes that is the Indian city, it is a compromise.
Long ago an Israeli colleague of mine described to me the India he saw. He had visited Mumbai (Bombay) after his compulsory duty in the army. He spoke about the man who slept peacefully on a bench in the middle of the day. About the man, who when asked for direction, walked for more than an hour with the Israeli just to make sure he found his destination. About the peace and tranquility that radiated beyond all the chaos and confusion. About patience and tolerance amidst all the pushing and shoving. I wonder if the Israeli noticed the clenched teeth.
I am very sure Chekhov was an Indian. If not, at least he had visited the Indian city and that inspired him to describe his tragedies. Amos Oz would appreciate the Indian city. As a man who yearns for clenched teeth compromises, he will recognise it in the Indian city.