Dignity, Discourse, And Academic Leadership In Public Life

The discourteous behaviour displayed by Vice-Chancellor Alok Kumar Chakrawal towards the novelist and writer Manoj Rupda at Guru Ghasidas University in Bilaspur, Chhattisgarh, has rightly drawn condemnation from all sides. Vice-Chancellor Chakrawal was speaking at a seminar on the Hindi short story, organised by his university in collaboration with the Sahitya Akademi. 

In the video clip of the incident that has circulated widely, he can be heard making some light, casual remarks. His gaze then shifts towards the audience seated before him, and he is heard asking someone whether he feels uncomfortable. The response from the front was that he was not speaking on the subject or that he should address the topic at hand. The Vice-Chancellor then says that if the person is uncomfortable, he is free to leave. He adds that the person does not know how to speak to a Vice-Chancellor, and so on. At this point, we see Manoj Rupada stand up and walk out of the room. Subsequently, the Vice-Chancellor is heard asking his officials who had invited this person. Justifying his conduct, he says that he had been observing for quite some time that this gentleman did not appear comfortable, and that anyone who is not comfortable should not remain in the room.

Even after being criticised from all quarters, the Vice-Chancellor remains unfazed. He appears unable to see anything wrong with his conduct. It would have been appropriate for him to have expressed regret over the entire episode and apologised to Rupda. Instead, he is determined to justify himself. He should also reflect on the fact that there were other lapses on his part as well. The moment he agreed to attend the seminar, he should have obtained information from his office regarding the nature of the event. He should have familiarised himself with the subject of the seminar and with the list of participants by consulting the concerned department before entering the hall. He should have asked for a brief from the department organising the event.

His question—“Who invited him?”—was an act of extreme discourtesy. Rupda had been invited by the institution itself, and unless a guest behaves improperly, it is the responsibility of the institution—and of its head—to safeguard the guest’s dignity.

A Vice-Chancellor, by virtue of being the head of an institution, is required to attend programmes on a wide range of subjects. It is not possible for anyone to possess expertise in all of them. In such situations, Vice-Chancellors are usually provided with a brief by the concerned department to help them speak appropriately. Their role is generally to represent the institution in a formal capacity. Chakrawal’s academic field is commerce; his knowledge of literature is bound to be limited. To uphold the dignity of his office, he should therefore have prepared himself in accordance with the subject. But like many of his peers, he may have assumed that since everyone can read stories, anyone can also speak about them. His remarks trivialised the subject and undermined the seriousness of the seminar. A university is a space where we engage in structured and thoughtful deliberation, distinct from the casual chatter of the street. Was the Vice-Chancellor speaking in keeping with this expectation?

Unfortunately, many Vice-Chancellors today appear unconcerned about the dignity of their own office. Chakrawal failed to realise that even if others did not stand up and leave, their opinion of his remarks would not have been very different from that of Manoj Rupda.

This, however, is not something Chakrawal alone is doing. Most heads of institutions today can be seen indulging in joke-making from the stage, with little regard for the dignity of their positions. More often than not, the audience sits with bowed heads, enduring this spectacle. The ‘sensible’ among them merely wait for the Vice-Chancellor-moment to pass.

In his clarification to The Indian Express, the Vice-Chancellor said that while speaking, he noticed that Manoj Rupda’s attention was elsewhere and that he was repeatedly looking at his mobile phone. “I politely asked him whether he was bored,” he said. “In response, he asked me to speak on the subject. This was an insult to the dais, and therefore I asked him to leave the room.” He also told the newspaper that he had thereafter been receiving abusive phone calls and that insulting language was being used against him. “Is this our culture?” he asked.

So now the Vice-Chancellor laments the absence of cultured behaviour! He is not entirely wrong. The language being used by some writers on social media does require reflection. How casually the term *kulkalank*—a disgrace to the lineage—is being deployed. Those who use this term seem not to have reflected on the casteist and patriarchal mindset embedded in it. One may argue that it is merely wordplay, that calling a kulpati kulkalank carries a certain irony. But the word rests on the very ideas of *kul* (lineage) and *kalank* (stain). How appropriate is it to use such a term for anyone? This question deserves serious consideration. The same applies to the use of other such epithets. If the language of our protest itself becomes crude and street-like, then, in a sense, we end up nourishing the very culture we seek to oppose.

This incident also highlights another troubling aspect. When Manoj Rupda stood up and left, the hall remained largely unmoved. It later emerged that other writers were present in the audience, but they did not feel compelled to respond to the insulting remarks by the VC. Rupda did not walk out as an act of choice; he was left with no option but to leave. The non-reaction of the writers is not an exception. We keep witnessing eminent intellectuals not only tolerate the incoherent ramblings of Vice-Chancellors or other ‘dignitaries’ at public gatherings, but also listen in silence to their hate-filled remarks about Muslims. Later, in private conversations, they do express disgust, but voicing protest publicly, at the moment when it is most needed, does not seem to be part of our social temperament.

There is one principal reason for this: the culture of “respecting elders” or LIHAJ, produced by casteist practices in our society. No matter how uncouth or indecent an elder may be, opposing them is itself considered bad manners. Within the caste hierarchy, Brahmins or ‘upper castes’ occupy the position of elders in society; within families, they are parents or elder brothers; in classrooms, they are teachers; in institutions, they are heads or senior officials. Even in political parties, including those on the left that see themselves as forces of resistance, there exists a culture of deference to higher bodies such as central committees. How, then, could one possibly oppose a Vice-Chancellor in a university setting? Within this culture of deference, dissent appears as an unwelcome and discordant interruption. To expect writers to behave differently within such a framework is, in a sense, to be unfair to them.

Teachers, writers, and intellectuals are expected to defend autonomy, uphold individual dignity, and resist superficiality. It is through such resistance that a sociality of understanding is built. An insult to one is a collective insult. Yet we often persuade ourselves that since we are not individually affected, there is nothing for us to respond to. This is nothing but callous indifference. How can a gathering that lacks this awareness be called civilised?

Questions are also being raised about the role of the Sahitya Akademi in this episode. Many institutions seek financial support from the Akademi for organising seminars. Beyond this, the Akademi’s role in the actual conduct of such events is usually minimal. It is not clear whether it has any say in the selection of speakers. Be that as it may, since the Akademi’s name is associated with this event, its silence does not enhance its credibility. One might even ask: do the members and office-bearers of the Akademi care about their own dignity? The moment the Ministry prevented the Akademi from announcing its annual awards, the office-bearers should have resigned. They are not employees of the Akademi after all; they have been elected by writers and are meant to represent them. Yet they behave like subordinates of the government. How, then, can one expect them to speak up in this matter?

There is also the view that writers should not have accepted an invitation to a programme sponsored by the Sahitya Akademi, since the Akademi has lost its autonomous character and has become an appendage of the government. There is, however, no unanimity among writers on this question. Indeed, it is naïve to imagine a single, unified community of writers bound by a shared understanding of their role and responsibility.

Those who still consider the Sahitya Akademi autonomous may rightly be called naïve. Much like Gulzar and Vinod Kumar Shukla, who saw nothing troubling in accepting the Jnanpith Award, even though just before them it had been given to a person who openly propagates casteist hatred and hatred against Muslims. No one was asking Gulzar or Vinod Kumar Shukla to display political militancy. They could have expressed their disapproval of a social culture founded on hatred simply by refusing the award, or even by speaking while accepting it.

This would not have required extraordinary courage—only sensitivity.

They chose silence instead. To accept felicitation from those who garland killers is to extend the culture of murder. If the humiliation of Muslims and the humiliation of Dalits is not our collective humiliation, then who, indeed, are we? It is because this sensitivity is missing that the insult of Manoj Rupda appeared to the writers seated beside him as his alone; they did not experience it as an injury to themselves.

Views expressed by the author are personal.