Phantom India (1969–…): Season 1, Episode 5 - A Look at Castes - full transcript

PHANTOM INDIA
Reflections on a Journey

"My name is Thomas Howard.

I'm an American
with the Peace Corps.

I've come to India
as a specialist in agriculture.

I talk to the peasants.

I tell them, 'Instead of doing a crop
in the old method,

why don't you try something new?"'

There are hundreds like him:

Young American Peace Corps
volunteers

living for two years in Indian villages.

The Communists accuse them
of spying for the CIA.



All's fair in war,
even if it's not actually true.

Thomas Howard lives on his own
in a village of 800 inhabitants

in the mountainous region
of the state of Madras.

"The problem is convincing them to adopt
several new techniques at once.

For example,
when they use a new variety of grain,

they must use a lot of fertilizer
and insecticide.

I have to be really careful,

because if I've convinced someone
to invest money in new methods

and it doesn't grow the way it should,
that's very bad for me."

The presence of Tom Howard
and his friends is largely symbolic.

There are barely 700 of them

and 560.000 villages in India.

Everyone tells you, "The villages
are the real face of India."

It's where 80% of the population lives,
a life unchanged for centuries.



One passes through these villages,
ignoring them,

or repeating one
of the countless trite remarks

about the Indian peasant's sluggishness,
fatalism, and refusal to change -

the usual clichÈs
expressed by foreign visitors.

At the start of our journey,
we stayed in a village in Haryana,

about 60 miles from Delhi.

It was a very cold January.

Maybe it was the climate, the landscape,
their clothing or the irrigation system,

but nothing really seemed
exotic to me.

The women covered their faces
when we approached,

as if in an Arabic country.

Islamic influence is so strong
in this part of northwest India

that you'd think
you were in North Africa or Syria.

No farms or houses
stood off on their own.

All the peasants lived in the village,

one of the most prosperous in the region,
despite appearances.

A village like any other.

Peasant life, with its repetitive tasks
and empty stretches of time,

wasn't exactly inspiring.

We tried to film in snatches

to avoid disturbing the natural order.

But every villager was aware
of our presence,

and this seeming naturalness
is a bit fake.

The women spend hours
each morning making chapati,

a flat bread
of wheat, corn, or millet

that is the basis
of the northern Indian diet.

It's eaten with very spicy vegetables,

a lentil puree called dal,

milk, yogurt, and sometimes
butter and molasses.

These villagers are vegetarians.

We were often tempted
to direct them.

Very basic direction,

like trying to get this woman
not to look at the camera,

to act as if we weren't there.

The woman gets involved in her role.

She watches her child,
she watches herself.

It becomes a kind of performance

in which she plays herself, a spinner.

We quickly gave up trying
to organize or compose their reality.

Like this man and girl

cutting mustard leaves for fodder.

I don't direct them.

Between the watchful precision
of their gestures

and their awareness of being filmed,

they're being directed,
but by themselves.

At day's end, the villagers
put on a performance for us,

a real one this time.

As a treat for us,

they dust off instruments
that haven't been used in years

and that need to be tuned.

They're having a great time
reconstructing this scene.

After this charming folkloric scene,

we left the village at nightfall,

followed, as always,
by a flock of kids and onlookers.

Over the following days,

the villagers gradually get used to us.

Within the villagers' daily routine

we'd make discoveries.

Cow dung isn't for the birds.

Children gather it
like precious material,

and the women mix it with straw

to shape it into patties,
which are kneaded for a long time

before being placed against walls
or on the ground to dry.

There are almost
no forests in this region.

Wood is rare, and coal unknown.

Cow dung is the only fuel
available to the villagers,

an excellent fuel that burns slowly
and gives off lots of heat.

It isn't used as fertilizer,

which would be the best way -
but that's not their custom.

Another traditional women's chore
is fetching water.

For this village of 2.000 inhabitants,

there are about 20 wells.

But the women don't fill their buckets
wherever they please.

We quickly notice that the same women
always go to the same wells.

Each has her assigned well,

which she shares with other women
of the same caste.

For the first time,

we were seeing a physical manifestation
of the caste system.

For foreigners,

the caste system is incomprehensible,
and even invisible.

It's manifest in every gesture
of daily life,

yet we hardly ever see it.

Indians don't like to talk about it.
They feel no need to.

Everything rests on a tacit agreement.

From childhood on, women always
draw water from the same well.

To them, caste divisions
are like natural law.

They're a reflex,
not a conscious choice.

The caste system was officially
abolished by the Indian constitution,

but laws can't erase
a tradition dating back millennia.

When the government
digs wells in a village,

it digs 10
where two would suffice -

to accommodate the caste system.

Guidebooks explain
that there are four castes in India:

Brahmans, the priests,

Kshatriyas, the warriors,

Vaisyas, peasants and merchants,

and at the bottom,
Sudras, who serve the others.

Outside the system are
the outcastes, the Untouchables.

This simplistic division
bears no relation to reality.

From one region to the next, castes
divide and multiply almost to infinity.

Each village has a hierarchy
that's both strict and fluid,

in which everyone has a role,
including the Untouchables,

who are also divided
into distinct groups

and are as necessary to the balance
of the whole as the Brahmans.

In this village
there are over 20 castes.

After our first contact
with the caste system,

we saw villagers differently.

We imagined the place
each held in the hierarchy,

but how to know for sure?

To our questions,
the few villagers who spoke English

gave vague answers
or changed the subject.

The words in themselves
don't mean anything.

"Pariah", "Untouchable, "and "caste"

are words invented by Europeans

that don't exist
in Indian languages.

Reality is more complex
than terms used to describe it.

One day, passing some houses
set apart from the rest,

the sarpanch, the village leader
who interpreted for us,

said nonchalantly,
"Those are the Backward Classes."

It's the expression often used in India
to designate the Untouchables.

In newspapers
and political speeches,

the preferred term is harijan,
which means "child of God."

The term was coined by Gandhi

to show his intention
of giving equal rights to everyone.

The harijan don't seem any different
from other villagers.

The leader of the village seems
to have a good relationship with them,

a slightly paternal one that implies
everyone knows their place,

reminiscent, perhaps, of relations
between blacks and whites

in small towns in the American South.

Sometimes there are articles
in Indian newspapers like:

"Harijan Stoned to Death in Village
for Wearing Sandals."

In certain regions, the Untouchables
are obliged to go barefoot.

Or, "In a Small Town in Andhra Pradesh,

Young Harijan Tied Up
and Burned Alive."

Why? He was suspected
of stealing two copper pitchers.

For the scandal to be exposed,

a policeman or civil servant
had to break the law of silence.

I notice that the countless
Untouchable children

never set foot in the village school,

even though the government
has passed laws

promoting education for harijan.

Do they really want them
to take advantage of it?

I was told that peasants of the inferior
classes were against change

more than anyone else,

that they would refuse
agricultural reform

if it altered the traditional hierarchy,

and that thus, regressive thinking
and lack of education

made the system's worst victims
its staunchest defenders.

I'm told this courtyard, quite near
the neighborhood of the Untouchables,

is the home of an upper-caste family.

What makes this house
and these women different?

We begin to understand that there are
invisible - or almost invisible - lines

separating neighborhoods,
houses and people.

These lines exist in people's minds,
not in the material world.

It seems like an everyday scene.

The village leader smokes the hookah
with friends in front of his house.

The hookah is the Indian water pipe.

Smoke from very pungent tobacco
is passed through a reservoir of water.

The mouthpiece passes
from hand to hand,

but not from mouth to mouth.

The smoker places his closed fist
between the mouthpiece and his lips.

Once again, caste taboos intervene.

Touching one's lips to a mouthpiece
after someone of a lower caste

would be a source of great impurity.

One doesn't smoke the hookah
with just anyone.

These villagers are in the same caste,
or in castes close to their own.

It may seem anecdotal,
but it touches the heart of the problem.

The caste system is based above all
on ideas of purity and impurity

of religious origin.

In a small town near our village,

this public bath
is always filled with bathers.

I ask if the bathers
belong to different castes.

As usual, I get evasive answers.

There's been a definite loosening
of taboos, especially in the cities,

but for many Indians,
the essential questions remain:

With whom do you do this or that
activity? Whom can you marry?

With whom can you
bathe, eat or smoke?

In the West, the basic unit
of society is the individual.

In India, individual people don't matter.

It's their relationship that matters.

One isn't pure or impure. One is
more or less pure than someone else.

On the roof of the baths, we found
a charming little outdoor school.

The children are learning to count
in Hindi and English.

Schoolmasters are often
of the Brahman caste,

as teaching is one
of their traditional roles.

How can we expect them
to attack the caste system

when they occupy its highest rung?

One of the kids asked
in faltering English if I was American.

My negative response troubled him,
and he asked,

"Then what caste do you belong to?"

Wisdom from the mouths of babes.

This child already knows that castes
are barriers between people,

and for him, nationalities
are no doubt just foreign castes.

Every day we spent in the village,

we saw this blind camel

circling tirelessly from dawn till dusk,

dragging a millstone behind him
to mix the cement.

Finally we filmed him

as a heavy-handed symbol
of Indian society.

An Indian of the caste system is caught
in a web of rights and responsibilities,

absolutely unaware of the concept
of individual freedom

that we value so highly.

His destiny is laid out from birth,
with almost no possibility for free will.

But there is a reward:

Living interdependently,
in relation to everyone else,

he's part of a whole,
shielded from solitude.

Day after day, we saw the same teams
take turns at this well.

The precise division of labor
is a direct corollary of the caste system.

This man is a water carrier
and nothing else.

It's his dharma, his duty,
his place in the hierarchy.

In the past, when villages
formed a closed economic system,

the 20 or 30 castes
of the community were linked

by an elaborate and codified
exchange of services.

Priest, peasant,
barber, water carrier:

Each carried out
his hereditary function,

and in exchange
received goods and services.

An idyllic vision
of agricultural communism

where everyone's needs are met,

which, even if it did once exist,
is lost to the villagers today.

These water carriers
are no longer linked to the community

but to the landowners
who pay their salary.

Today, the division of labor looks
more like one person exploiting another.

A few hundred yards from the village,

these men and women
live in huts in a clearing.

Originally from a mountain tribe,

they came down to the plains
in search of work.

They live in quarantine.

We never once saw them
enter the village.

These are the real outcastes.
Without a place in the system,

their lot is worse
than that of the Untouchables.

At the nearby river,

the village clothes washers
attack the washing

with an energy that makes up
for the lack of soap.

Washing laundry
is a particularly impure task

and is therefore reserved for
the lowest ranks of the Untouchables,

called dhobi.

By giving this task to the dhobi,
upper-caste housewives avoid defilement.

Dhobi are found all over India.

Here, on the riverbed in Madras,

hundreds of dhobi wash
the dirty laundry of the entire city.

They're remarkably organized.

Men, women and children
all share the work.

The laundry is collected,
washed, dried, ironed

and returned to the client
the same day.

The historical origin of the castes
is generally attributed

to the traditional divisions
among the Aryan people -

priests, warriors and farmers -

also found in the ancient civilizations
of Greece, Rome and Germany.

It's said the Aryans, after invading
India over 3.000 years ago,

integrated the local population
into the hierarchy

by placing them at the bottom.

But recent discoveries show that castes
existed in the first Indian civilizations,

before the arrival of the Aryans.

In the modern city of Bombay,

washers are cooped up
in this enormous washhouse

with cement stalls and running water.

Modernization hasn't changed
essential facts:

It's still the dhobi caste,
and they alone,

in charge of this impure task.

In front of the Red Fort in Delhi,

dyers dry long pieces
of multicolored cloth

that will become turbans.

In the cities, the craftsmen's castes

resemble the craft guilds
of medieval Christian Europe.

One wonders how castes survive
in modern India.

In 1853, Karl Marx prophesied

that railroad construction would alter
the division of labor in India

and, at the same time,
destroy the caste system.

It seems Marx was wrong.

Railroads have long
crisscrossed the country,

yet the castes are still here,

even if they don't officially exist.

For example, castes play
a decisive role in elections,

which completely negates
the concept of democracy.

Almost everyone votes
according to caste.

Candidates, regardless of party,

represent, above all else,
a caste or alliance of castes,

and the political arena,
all ideology aside,

is nothing but a power struggle
between rival castes.

The caste system has even survived
proletarianization.

The southern Indians crammed
into this shantytown in Bombay

haven't lost their roots.

They regroup according to family,
native village or region.

In cities, caste solidarity
also plays a part at work.

Certain government administrations
only admit members

of a certain caste.

That's why, in modern India,
instead of disappearing,

castes are becoming rigid,
autonomous blocks

that are no longer interdependent,
but rivals and competitors.

The hierarchy remains,

but stripped
of its traditional framework,

it's become a plain and simple form
of economic oppression.

We came across this funeral
in the streets of Madras.

The musicians play Marlborough.

The flower-covered corpse is carried
to the place where it will be burned.

I see no suffering or tears,
nor even sadness.

To us, for whom death is so tragic,

this aspect of Hinduism is stunning.

The bonfire is prepared.

The older brother will perform
the ritual, assisted by a priest.

Balls of rice are held to the mouth
and forehead of the deceased.

Death is not an end,
nor even a separation.

One lives and dies
and is then reborn,

over and over
in an unbroken chain.

Each life is judged,

and the next life
constitutes the verdict.

If you're born an Untouchable,
it's your fault,

because in a previous life
you proved yourself unworthy.

You can imagine
the social efficiency of the system.

No penalty is permanent,

unlike the heaven and hell
of the Christians,

where residence is eternal.

Hindus are given
a suspended sentence,

as if books were kept
on their conduct

from one birth to the next.

This ceremony of propitiation takes
place in the days following the death.

The deceased still lingers
near the earth,

so the last ties to the body
left behind must be severed.

The deceased's closest relatives
contact him,

assure him that he's still
respected by the living,

and ask him to enter
the specially prepared balls of rice.

The offerings include flowers, urine,

cow dung, fire and dirt.

When it's finished, the rice balls
are fed to a cow, the sacred animal.

The priest invokes
gods and demons in alternation,

transferring the sacred thread
from one shoulder to the other.

Now liberated, the soul of the deceased
can reincarnate in another body

or disappear forever,

because the supreme goal
is to one day not be reborn,

but to dissolve into the Absolute
once and for all,

to merge with the cosmic void.

What can the concepts we treasure
mean to an Indian believer,

concepts like progress, individual
freedom, a higher living standard?

They're taught
to live and act without desire,

to disregard material reality,

to accept the way things are
as divine judgment.

The caste system is
a logical extension of this worldview.

Modernizing Indian farmers

is not a matter
of fertilizers and irrigation.

It's a matter of changing
what's in their heads.

They'd have to see
the world differently.

The villagers don't want us to leave

without filming their traditional sport,

a mixture of Red Rover
and Greco-Roman wrestling.

There are two teams,

and each player
in turn attacks his opponents.

But no one knows the rules,
or they've been forgotten.

The game quickly degenerates
into a huge wrestling match,

to the great joy of the spectators.

Maybe some hope can be found
in this forgetting of rules,

a sign and symbol
of rejection of the past.

The panchayat is a sort
of town council,

an elected assembly whose leader
is the sarpanch, the village leader.

In principle,
it's composed of six members.

Today, our village's panchayat
has gathered for a special session,

because a villager
has lodged a complaint.

A government official from
a neighboring village will handle the case.

At first, I was very impressed.

I was seeing Athenian-style
direct democracy in action.

There was a large crowd.
The witnesses gave testimony in turn.

The discussion was
open and lively.

I'd heard each panchayat must include
an Untouchable and a woman.

When I ask to see them, I'm told
they're absent from today's meeting.

First surprise.

Second surprise: We finally
learn the reason for the investigation.

The sarpanch, the village leader,

the dignified old man
who accompanied us everywhere,

is accused of embezzling
2.000 rupees

of government money
allotted to the village.

I learned the outcome
from a disgruntled villager:

The investigation was unable
to reach a conclusion,

and the case was closed.

The government official was
a close friend of the village leader,

who is an important landowner.

I gradually realize that beneath
its democratic appearance,

the panchayat is just a tool
of the rich peasantry.

There aren't
any large holdings of land.

In the region,
it's exceptional to own 30 acres,

but the wealthy peasants, who almost
always belong to the same caste,

are often moneylenders.

The entire village is indebted to them,

which allows them
to monopolize production.

They stockpile grain
to later manipulate prices.

These shylocks with political clout

seem to prove Marx right:

castes turn into social classes.

But one must be wary
of simplistic analyses,

for India's complexity will continue
to amaze for a long time to come.

In order to film
these women gathering fodder,

we drove a whole day
over nearly impassable roads

and hiked six hours up a mountain.

It's like traveling back in time.

These women belong
to the Bondo tribe,

descendants of India's
earliest inhabitants.

About 15.000 Bondo are divided
into a few hundred villages

perched at 4.000 feet in the forest
at the tip of the state of Orissa.

The Bondo are one of the many aboriginal
peoples who've survived until today,

conserving their way of life
and ancestral religion.

The waves of invaders,
and in particular the Aryans,

gradually forced them
into the most inaccessible mountains

with the poorest soil in central India.

The men still hunt with bow and arrow
and are extraordinarily skilled.

But game has become scarce.

The bow also serves as defense against
the numerous bears living in the forest.

The Bondo language has nothing
in common with other Indian languages.

The women and children stand
before us with no hint of surprise.

They're used to intruders.
This village, Mudulipada,

has the privilege of being
the Bondo administrative center,

privilege manifest in the presence
of a police station, a school

and an infirmary.

I'm told the Bondo refuse to send
their children to the government school,

and indeed, it's almost deserted.

They also refuse to be vaccinated,
though it's mandatory in India,

and the community
is ravaged by smallpox.

The women wear
an impressive number of necklaces,

which weigh on their chests.

Once made of copper, the necklaces
are now mass-produced in brass

and sold at the market.

The women weave
brightly colored cloth,

which they wear low
on their buttocks like tiny loincloths.

That and necklaces
are their only apparel.

The Bondo ignore
Indian taboos on cattle.

They slaughter cows, eat their flesh,

and sacrifice them
for religious ceremonies.

Near the village,

these dreary buildings
are the police station, the school,

and a shack for the tax collector.

On his annual visit,
he often finds the village empty.

The Bondo refuse to pay taxes

and hide in the forest.

The next day, we hiked
five miles through the forest

to move away from the police

and visit another village, Kisampada.

This time our arrival
provokes a slight panic.

The women and children
hide in their huts.

The men of the village are away,
except these two,

who are building
a mud-and-wattle house

using a technique similar
to African poto-poto houses.

Many of the aboriginal tribes
of India are famous

for their dormitories.

In these buildings,
set apart from the rest,

boys and girls mix with total
sexual freedom before marriage.

The dormitories also serve
as a matchmaking service,

a kind of club
where they get to know each other

before choosing a spouse.

I ask where the dormitory is
in this village.

I'm told there isn't one anymore,
that it was torn down,

and anyway,
it's not marrying season.

Anglo-Indian Puritanism
has left its mark here too.

We met the leader of the village,

an old man who speaks a little Oriya,
the language of the plains.

He explains that life has become
very difficult for the villagers

since the Direction of Water and Forests
appropriated their land for reforesting.

Now they're forced
deep into the forest, miles away,

to secretly burn trees to create
clearings in which to plant crops.

The main occupation
of Bondo women is making brooms.

They sell these brooms
each week at the market.

It's their only means of trade,

their only business
with the outside world.

I'm struck by the sadness
in many of their faces.

Life seems extremely hard here.

Poverty is everywhere in India,

but among these forgotten populations
that are slowly disappearing,

it's heart-breaking.

On this monolithic platform,
now fallen out of use,

rituals were celebrated,

as well as animal sacrifice.

Bondo mythology is very complicated,

with a supreme god, who is the sun,

and the worship
of protective earth spirits.

They burn their dead like the Hindus.

Every Sunday, the Bondo villagers
descend the mountain

to go to the local market
held in Mundigudal.

It's their only point of contact
with what we call civilization.

At the entrance to the market,
they pay a kind of tax.

Government employees take some
brooms from each woman's bundle,

but not without arguments
and endless discussions.

It seems to be a new tax,
which the Bondo fiercely protest.

Then the women deliver
their brooms to merchants,

who sell them
as far away as Calcutta.

The price is set in advance:
One rupee for 10 brooms.

It takes almost an hour
to make a broom,

which means they earn 70 centimes
for a full day's work.

But it's the Bondos' only means
of obtaining rupees.

The Bondo women
don't hold on to their money for long.

They use it to buy necklaces.

They take their time, try them on,
and discuss them.

To us, all the necklaces
seem the same,

but to the Bondo women,
they're all different.

One of the characteristics
of Bondo society

is that the women are older
than their husbands.

Generally, a 20-year-old girl
will marry a 14-year-old.

Marriage follows
strict exogamous rules.

It's forbidden to take a husband
from your own village.

Divorce isn't a rare occurrence.

If a husband leaves his wife,
he sends his in-laws a goat.

If the wife leaves, her new husband
gives her ex three goats.

The Bondo don't have writing.

They don't have last names either.

They're all called
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday,

according to their day of birth,

which, obviously, isn't easy
on tax collectors or policemen.

At this market, barter is
a common method of exchange.

These Bondo women brought
some rice, as well as brooms,

and trade it for peppers.

The Bondo are under increasing
pressure from the people of the plains.

They have great trouble
adapting to modern life,

desperately refusing
to become integrated.

They want to be left alone
in the mountains,

to live as they always have.

Many Indian government officials
despise them and consider them savages.

They want to force the women
to wear saris,

close the remaining dormitories,
and forbid the slaughter of cows.

The Bondos' days are numbered.

Many have begun leaving the mountains
to join the working masses.

They find jobs building roads,
like these men,

or as field hands.

They blend
into the anonymous masses

and lose their customs and identity.

They dress like Indians
and become outcastes

at the lowest level of society.

We left the Bondo.

In a nearby village,
a red flag flies above a house.

It's the home of a Communist activist

who's trying to politicize
the region's tribal populations.

He explains how difficult his task is

due to the distances, illiteracy,
and especially the language barrier:

Each tribe speaks its own language.

He says the tribes were robbed not only
by the Direction of Water and Forests,

but also by landowners
from the plains,

who take advantage of
the tribes'lack of land deeds.

The tribes are also trapped
by moneylenders,

who end up seizing their lands.

A law was recently passed

returning some uncultivated
government land to the tribes,

but it hasn't been enforced.

The Communists try to organize them.

There hasn't been any trouble here yet,

but in nearby Andhra Pradesh,

there are violent clashes
between tribes and farmers.

The police, in the name of the law-
the landowners'law-

reestablish order
by means of massive arrests.

In India, we're always surprised
to come across a church.

There are many in Kerala.

It's the only state
with a large Christian minority.

Despite a long history
of evangelization,

it's obvious
that Christianity failed in India.

The Portuguese, fanatic converters,
had little impact here,

despite St. Francis Xavier's
visit to Goa.

The English,
too clever to attack Hinduism,

severely limited
missionary efforts at conversion.

The rare conversions occurred at
the extreme ends of the caste system:

Among Brahmans and Untouchables.

Indians who become Christians
don't give up the caste hierarchies.

Until the beginning of the century,
a church in Madras

was divided
its entire length by a wall

so Catholics of the higher castes
could worship

without being tainted
by the Catholic Untouchables.

Indian Christians
are fanatical believers,

but they seemed uncomfortable, as if
laboring under an inferiority complex

in relation to both Hindus
and Europeans,

as if torn between two cultures,
their identity lost.

This is a young Syriac Christian priest.

According to tradition, the Syriac
church of Kerala was founded

by St. Thomas the Apostle
when he landed at Cranganore in 52 A.D.

And converted many Brahmans.

The Christians of Kerala,
violently anti-Communist,

loyally support the Congress Party.

There are also Jews in India.

Not many, about a hundred,
living near their synagogue

in a district in the city of Cochin.

We spoke with Simon Coder,

community leader and
prosperous shopkeeper in the city.

"We've been here
for the last 1.900 years or more.

We're supposed to have come to Cochin
even before the destruction of the Temple.

We were never persecuted here,

except by the Portuguese."

India is the only country in the world
that never persecuted the Jews.

"My father's family
came here about 200 years ago

from Baghdad.

My mother's family is supposed to have
come from Spain after the Inquisition."

The Jews play an important role
in the city's economy.

They like to say
that the maharajah of Cochin

once had a militia of Jewish soldiers.

"I'm too old and too poor
to go to Israel.

I'm 76 years old."

"The community's always been small,
about 300.

Now there are less than
a hundred of us.

We get along well with the Indians,
but we never intermarry."

The community keeps to itself, and all
the Jews here are more or less related.

"We're very happy here.

Our only problem is that
the community is disappearing.

Families no longer
have many children,

and many have left for Israel
or are planning to go.

I might go,
but only if the Indian government

allows us to take out our money."

There's something degenerate
and sickly about them.

In this country
where all races have mixed,

the pure bloodline jealously
guarded by this tiny community

leads to sterility.

In Pondicherry,
a former French trading outpost,

the entire downtown
is painted a uniform white and gray.

These buildings belong to the ashram,

a religious community
that's growing ceaselessly.

Its spiritual leader is a Frenchwoman
who's now very old

and who's simply called "the Mother."

She lives in retreat,
and we weren't able to film her

but only record her voice.

It never happens the same way twice.

Generally, it happens
when we least expect it.

And it's usually...

when we've surrendered

our so-called knowledge,

our convictions,

and abandoned all hope

that we enter a state
where we're able to receive it.

The ashram's founder, Sri Aurobindo,

died in 1950.

He was not cremated but buried,

as is customary in India
for very holy people.

Aurobindo's tomb is the center
of the ashram's spiritual life.

His followers come at all hours
to pray and meditate.

Revelation is always present.

It's always here.

We're the ones who don't let it in.

Knowledge is always present.

Enlightenment is always present,
floating above everything,

ready to be received.

It's only because
we're so completely blinded

by everything we think we know
and want to do

that we can't receive it.

But at the moment we surrender,
for whatever reason,

it makes us

a bit passive and open,

and that's when we receive it.

They come from all over the world
and all say the same thing:

"I was seeking, and here I found."

"I worked in the hotel industry
as a chef.

I was in a dozen countries in Europe.

Then I went to Australia,
where I spent 13 years.

I couldn't settle down.
I was looking for something.

I needed an inner life,
and that's how I came here.

I'm home here, really home.

I'm happy. I found the answers
to the questions of my life."

"I left Italy in 1964
without a specific destination.

I'd read verses of the Bhagavad Gita
that really impressed me,

and I'd also noticed the transformation

on people's faces
when they returned from India.

Their faces were calm,
not stressed like typical Europeans.

I'd intended to travel
through India up to the Himalayas.

But after a few days of travel,
I arrived here

and found what I was looking for."

"I was brought up in Sweden. Not very
much religion - they're Protestants.

I had practically
no religious background.

God was not a living presence.
That didn't exist there.

I didn't know I had a soul.

Essentially, it was questions:

'Who am I?
Why am I like this?

Why is the world the way it is? '

Finally, I got to the essential:

'Why am I here?
Is there a reason for life?"'

"God had given me everything
a man could wish for:

Prestige, money, good family, health.

I was president of a number
of companies and industries,

yet I wasn't satisfied.

Something was missing.
I needed a goal in life.

When I read Aurobindo's book,
Synthesis of Yoga,

it opened my eyes, not only
to problems I was already aware of,

but to many others
I'd never thought of.

Its answers were so complete
that I had no questions left.

I didn't waste a minute
coming here to devote myself

to the highest ideal
to be found today."

Members who wish to do
a solitary retreat

stay in this beautiful building
constructed by a Japanese follower.

They live in solitary cells
and spend several hours each day

in meditation.

The ashram has a school
with 700 students.

The children are allowed
to freely choose

the subjects they study.

This very highly regarded school
receives students from across India.

Joining the ashram doesn't mean
withdrawing from the world.

On the contrary, believers
are encouraged to lead an active life

and to exercise every day.

The ashram is very active
and very prosperous.

The numerous believers
who've come to live here

brought their fortunes with them.

With this money, they set up
workshops, a modern printing press,

stores and a farm,

all run by qualified
European technicians

belonging to the ashram.

Today it's the largest business
in Pondicherry.

The Indian government
has exempted them from taxes.

Disciples here lead a comfortable
but austere life.

They must practice celibacy
and must not drink or smoke.

Sometimes these rules can be bent.

Every evening, the elderly disciples,
those who do office work,

come to exercise with an instructor.

The oldest is 85 years old.

"We believe in evolution.

A day will come when the human body
will undergo a transformation.

Transcending the limits of reason,

the new man will achieve,
through inner enlightenment,

a state of superconsciousness

that will set him free,
and all of humanity too."

Ambu is the ashram's
hatha yoga master.

He allowed us to film
his daily exercises, the asanas.

The asanas are merely one of eight
successive degrees of hatha yoga,

which also include breath control,

self-restraint and meditation.

Ambu is over 60 years old.

"No, I don't practice every day,
because I'm lazy.

But I should practice an hour a day.

'Hatha'means persistence."

More than the spiritual dimension
of hatha yoga,

Ambu stresses its physical benefits.

It steadies the nerves,
purifies the system,

and relieves rheumatism and sciatica.

The ashram has a large project:

To build Auroville,
a city for the man of the future,

a few miles from Pondicherry.

This ideal city is still
in the planning stages.

The site was inaugurated
by solemnly placing in this monument

a bit of earth
from every part of the globe.

"Auroville is open to all.

Everyone who seeks a better life,
who wants to work for world unity,

regardless of their race, religion,
nationality, or caste.

No one will lack for anything
nor have to work for a living.

Everyone will do the work they enjoy.

Yes, it will be expensive to build,
but I'm sure we'll find the financing,

as I myself am a man of finance."

Sri Aurobindo told us -
it's the core of his message -

that this evolution
is occurring now -

They're annoying,
this rich Indian businessman

who found his road to Damascus,
and this pompous Frenchman.

To my mind, all mystical experience
is accompanied by a certain anguish,

or at least anxiety.

There's nothing like that here. They've
found happiness, their souls are at peace,

and they sincerely believe
they'll save the world.

Maybe they're right.

Why are we alive?

Why do human beings exist?

Why does there exist

a feeling of our own imperfection...

that there's something
other than what we are

and above all,
than what we know?

There's something else
to discover and express.

But there are countless paths.

There's a different path
for each person.

But we all feel the same thing:

That something exists
beyond what we are,

beyond what we know,
beyond what we're capable of,

something that speaks to us.

So, you'll leave here

and take a memory with you.

Those who wish to know,
those who feel the need,

will always return.

In the Nilgiri mountains,
at an altitude of 8.000 feet,

we found the ideal society:

The Toda tribe.

Today, there are only 800 Toda.

For untold centuries they've lived
in these isolated mountains,

where their solitude was undisturbed

until the arrival of the English.

Certain ethnologists
claim they're of Sumerian origin.

They're also said to be descendants
of Alexander's soldiers.

But the Toda believe their mother
goddess waved a magic wand

and magnificent buffalo
emerged from the river.

Hanging from a buffalo's tail
was a Toda.

No Toda girl is a virgin
past the age of 13.

Before puberty, they're entrusted to
an experienced male to learn lovemaking.

These lessons
are part of their education,

just like singing and cooking.

Sex is a natural need,

and throughout their lives,
the Toda practice free love.

The Toda language
has no word for sex.

They use the words "fruit" or "food."

Children don't go to school.

Their education comes
from their contact with nature.

They often improvise
collective poems like this one,

which tells of our arrival
in mocking fashion.

Toda houses are made of wood.

The doors are always
flush with the ground.

Divided into 16 clans,
the Toda are spread

across their vast territory
in small hamlets of a few houses.

Marriages are arranged from birth,

but since there are
fewer women than men,

it's customary for a girl to marry
several brothers of the same family.

Since absolute sexual freedom
prevails throughout the tribe,

paternity is impossible to establish.

The oldest brother is the legal father.

A pastoral people,
the Toda never wanted to farm.

They're vegetarians,
subsisting on milk from their buffalo,

honey and wild fruits,

and grains grown
by neighboring tribes,

whom they allow to cultivate
some of their land.

The land belongs to the community
and cannot be sold.

The Toda have never waged war,
never had weapons.

They have no laws,
leaders, or hierarchy.

If a serious disagreement
arises between two Toda,

it's settled by a council of elders
called for the occasion.

The Todas'buffalo are longhorns,
unique in India.

They're sacred
and constitute the sole activity

and sole wealth of the tribe.

The Toda consider
all other animals impure.

All the men, in turn,
serve as priest for a year.

The priest lives alone in the temple.

No one can approach or touch him,

and he must remain celibate.

Each temple contains
a sacred piece of metal,

which is revered by the clan.

Every time a Toda woman
meets a man from the tribe,

she kneels and he touches
his feet to her forehead.

When a Toda dies,
he goes neither to heaven nor hell.

According to legend,
he'll live forever in a wild valley

that really exists,
not far from their territory.

His body and personal belongings
are burnt,

and two of his buffalo are killed
for company in his new world.

The Toda have contact with civilization,
as this ceremony proves.

It's the inauguration
of an all-terrain medical van

that will bring modern medicine
to the villages.

The Toda improvise a dance
for the occasion.

But civilization also means
restrictions and encroachment.

The English built a mountain resort
in the middle of Toda territory,

and it has grown.

Indians have moved there from
the plains for the richness of the soil.

Industries have been created,

and the Toda territory
shrinks day by day.

This government official explains
that the Office of Water and Forest

will annex their grazing grounds
to plant terebinth.

It's a death sentence for the Toda.

They'll be forced to abandon
their traditional way of life.

The Toda don't make a tragedy of it.

They dance around the medical van

as if to exorcise
the civilization it symbolizes.

They've seen many others
since the English arrived.

They've withstood missionaries,
ethnologists, tourists and filmmakers.

But this may be the final stroke.

One might say,
"What do 800 Toda matter anyway

in a country of half a billion people?"

But these 800 Toda are
the last remnants of a free society

that never knew war, hunger,
prudishness, or injustice.

Wednesday, April 17.

Bombay, the end of our journey.

It's like being back in the West.

Like Calcutta, Bombay is a port
built by the English for colonial needs.

Today it's the economic capital,
the city of the future.

In the suburbs here,
you feel you could be anywhere.

Monotonous stretches
of low-rent apartments,

like anywhere else
in the industrialized world.

Impersonal construction sites
rise next to shantytowns

crammed with people
from all over the country.

You never get used to the poverty
in India, even after four months.

Especially in the cities,
where it shows its most terrible face.

But the villages of India,
behind their charm and beauty,

often conceal even greater
economic distress.

That's why many peasants,
deeply in debt or without land,

leave their villages
and come here for work.

Some leave family behind
and return home in a few years.

Others bring wife and children,
severing ties with village life forever.

Like all industrial metropolises,
Bombay has suburban trains

that transport hordes
of commuters day and night,

packed to overflowing.

Many people sleep
and eat on the streets.

There's no place for them,
because even in the shantytowns

rents are high.

Bombay no longer has rickshaws,

but goods are still transported
by handcart,

which are cheaper than trucks.

For those living on the street,
often without employment,

each day is a new battle.

It takes endless ingenuity
just to survive.

The numerous sidewalk vendors
are mostly southern Indians.

Craftsmen punch holes in copper
stencils for printing patterns on cloth.

One stencil is used for each color.

Certain designs call
for a dozen stencils.

These craftsmen are Muslims.
They fill an entire district,

where they ply their traditional trades

of goldsmith, potter,
decorative painter, musician.

Islamic cultural influence
dates back to the Mongolian emperors,

who ruled here before the English.

It deeply marked the architecture,
painting and music of northern India,

as well as many aspects of daily life:

Cuisine, language, clothing
and agriculture.

Under Mongolian rule, many
lower-caste Hindus converted to Islam.

Near the Haji Ali mosque,

this woman prepares
garlands of flowers for worshippers.

When the English left in 1947,

the Muslims, concentrated
in the northwest and northeast,

separated from India
to form Pakistan.

After a period of bloody turmoil,

millions of Hindus and Sikhs
left Pakistan to seek refuge in India,

while Muslims
fled in the opposite direction.

Yet there are still
50 million Muslims in India today,

making it, paradoxically,
the second-largest Muslim nation.

Sometimes there are local conflicts
between religious communities,

but in general, Muslims are accepted
with remarkable tolerance.

The muezzin's call,
broadcast over a loudspeaker,

summons the faithful to prayer.

The Haji Ali mosque,
on an island 500 yards from the shore,

is cut off from land at high tide.

This ultramodern petrochemical factory
is located in Thane,

a suburb of Bombay,
in a large industrial complex.

On the other side of the bay stands
the country's first nuclear power plant.

Every sailor in the world
knows Bombay's red-light district,

just like in any European
or South American port.

But for us,
fresh from the country's interior,

this officially sanctioned prostitution
is staggering.

Everywhere else in India,
prostitution is secret, invisible,

like an embarrassing sore
one carefully conceals.

In many cities,
it's practically nonexistent.

The women are often very beautiful.

Most are Telugu peasants
from Andhra Pradesh.

An old man moves from room to room,

purifying with incense.

Prostitution may be accepted here,
but alcohol is not.

It's a "dry" city,
like many regions of India,

for reasons
more religious than social.

The Bombay stock exchange displays
the same collective hysteria

as Paris or Milan.

Outwardly it's the same incomprehensible
frenzy and exaggerated gestures.

These men playing
at frenzied capitalist games

are still marked by tradition.

Before making a trade,
many Bombay businessmen

consult their astrologer

to see whether omens are favorable

and which astral period is best.

Industrialist Pashabhai Patel
made a fortune in farm machinery.

He's a delegate of the Swatantra,

a party of large landholders
and capitalists,

to the right of the Congress Party,
its current opponent.

"We have 50 members
in a parliament of 450,

but many Congress Party delegates
disagree with the current government.

After coming elections, we hope to form
a right-wing majority with them.

We're fighting for free enterprise.

It's the only path
for our country's development.

What's catastrophic
about government policy

is the planned economy
it imposes on the country.

Enormous sums are invested
in state-run industries,

which all show huge deficits.

Only one was profitable this year,
earning a 1% profit,

while private business
earns as high as 20%.

The Congress Party has been
drifting towards Russia,

and that's one of the reasons
we oppose them.

To us, the Congress Party is nothing
but Communism in disguise.

I know there's more social justice
in the US than in the USSR,

though some try
to convince me otherwise.

India could make a big leap forward
if its policies were set right.

We're on the threshold
of an industrial revolution.

Twenty years from now, thanks
to our cheap and abundant labor force

and our philosophical background,

we can beat the West
just like the Japanese have."

Gigantic fortunes are being made
in India today.

For capitalists like Pashabhai Patel,
the future is bright.

But there's another side to the coin:
A total lack of social laws,

the over-exploited working masses,

and unimaginable corruption
and fiscal fraud.

The Parsi are the pioneers
of Indian capitalism.

We attended a wedding of rich Parsi,

celebrated according to the Mazdean
rite, founded by Zarathustra.

India's few hundred thousand Parsi
are concentrated in Bombay.

They came here from Persia
to escape Muslim persecution.

The Parsi don't cremate their dead.

They expose the bodies on raised
platforms called "towers of silence",

where they're devoured by vultures.

These towers are found in gardens
in the middle of Bombay,

and entry is strictly forbidden.

This tiny community suddenly became
wealthy at the turn of the century,

in the first wave of industrialization.

The Tatas, a Parsi family,
founded India's first steelworks

and today rules
a gigantic capitalist empire.

Though at the vanguard
of modern India,

the Parsi fiercely defend
their traditions and uniqueness.

A Parsi who marries
outside the community

is immediately ostracized.

This yoga class in Bombay
might appear to carry on tradition,

but it doesn't.

Many of the students
are well-heeled Parsi,

as foreign to the philosophy
of yoga as the French.

Strangely enough, the wave of interest
in yoga in the West

led to a somewhat spurious revival
in its country of origin.

There's a new nostalgia
for the past.

Bombay's bourgeois will discuss
the evils of consumerism with you.

This yoga master, who asks his students
to "measure the immeasurable",

spends several months a year
in Switzerland,

where he is Yehudi Menuhin's
private instructor.

On a downtown street,

a police instructor teaches a young
recruit the ritual of directing traffic.

Indian soldiers fanatically perpetuate
the traditions of the British army.

One day,
an especially spic-and-span officer,

crop tucked under his arm
and mustache freshly waxed,

told me nostalgically,
"We're the last of the true English.

There are no more in England."

The ultimate in Westernization:

India today has
its own left-wing intellectuals.

Vinayak Purohit lives in a beautiful
house filled with books and art.

His wife is rich. He belongs to the SSP,
one of four Socialist parties.

When we interviewed him, he'd just
finished writing a play on the revolution.

"Don't think I'm exaggerating
when I say there are foreign powers

who will stop at nothing
to destroy India's unity.

India has the potential to be
a major power in this part of the world,

so they seek to divide it."

To him, whether it's China, America, or
England, everyone's out to get India.

This socialist intellectual
pushes fervent patriotism

to ridiculous extremes.

He's obsessed
with the border of Pakistan.

Pakistan is his pet peeve.

"Giving up even a small part of India

threatens the entire country.

We must stop this policy
of appeasing the aggressor.

What is Pakistan?

A puppet country
invented by imperialist powers

to set up their military bases
on the Indian border."

This extreme nationalism
is found in many Indian politicians

on both the right and left.

They criticize the government
for its "weakness" towards Pakistan.

In this modern textile mill
with Swiss machinery,

the emphasis is on efficiency
and productivity.

It's highly automated,
with relatively few workers.

The management takes
full responsibility

for training its workers.

Unions don't exist.

These workers, still attached
to the past by religion and caste,

have no class consciousness as yet.

Near Bombay, a brand-new factory
builds jeeps under American license.

It was meant to produce 25 a day -

nothing for a country like India -

but it was reduced to 17
after army budget cuts.

India has insufficient cars.

It produced only
60.000 cars and trucks last year.

To obtain a car for private use,

you must be on a waiting list
for seven to 10 years.

The May Day parade of Left Communists
only drew a few hundred people,

despite all the party's efforts

after suffering a crushing defeat
in local elections.

Communists don't play as important
a role in India as we'd expect,

because they're divided,

they hesitate between reform
and revolution,

and their ideology is antithetical
to traditional Indian thought.

Many of them, formed in the ranks
of the English Communist Party

following strictly Marxist ideology,

seem to be waiting for the complete
industrialization of the country to act.

What they lack is a Mao Tse-tung,

someone to adapt
Marxism and Leninism

to the specific conditions in India.

Days earlier we'd filmed
these same musicians and dancers

at a Congress Party demonstration,

where the parade
was over a mile long.

The Congress Party
is very powerful in Bombay.

The Congress Party, despite recent
defeats, still dominates politics.

It may be its own worst enemy.

It's currently caught in a violent
power struggle between factions

that began after Nehru's death.

Nehru supported
a democratic socialist regime,

a happy medium between
planned economy and private property.

His daughter, Indira Gandhi,
currently prime minister,

has trouble following
this political agenda.

Many of her party's leaders
declare themselves right-wing

and represent the interests
of the new classes of rich peasants,

retailers and manufacturers.

A new political force celebrates
its victory in local elections:

Shiv Sena,
an extreme right-wing movement

serving purely local interests.

It expresses native Bombay residents'
desire to defend themselves

against the invasion
by immigrants from southern India,

who are both despised and feared.

Shiv Sena is a mass movement
and claims 500.000 members.

Its slogans are racist and xenophobic.

This man, Bal Thackery,
is Shiv Sena's founder.

A former cartoon artist,
he's a remarkable orator,

mixing cynical humor and demagogy.

In this speech, he attacks Bombay's
Muslim community for the first time

in violent terms.

"If Muslims aren't happy,
let them go to Pakistan.

We gave them their own country.
Let them go and leave us alone."

I interviewed him the next day.
He eagerly defended his cause.

"People living in a particular state
must get a preference.

I see nothing wrong with that.

If people from here can't find jobs
or housing, where can they go?"

Thackery favors a strong government.

"Ruling with a firm hand
doesn't mean dictatorship.

I'm not talking about dictatorship,
just keeping the people in line.

We need order in this country.

Yes, I'm anti-Communist.

If Communists took power tomorrow,
I'd be the first to fight them.

I'm not hunting for power.

These people should have preference.
Their rights should be respected.

I'm fighting for justice, nothing else.

Physical violence
was there before us.

It would be wrong to attribute
it to Shiv Sena.

There might have been
individual actions here and there,

but don't blame
our organization for that."

Despite what Thackery says,

new immigrants crammed
into shantytowns like this

are victims of systematic violence
from Shiv Sena activists.

These southern Indians are Catholics

from the state of Madras.

They don't speak the same language
as the other inhabitants.

They're marginalized, unorganized,
undefended, nonvoters.

The reasons for these conflicts
are essentially economic.

We spoke with Rajani Desai,
an economist with an Oxford degree.

She's optimistic

and speaks of her country
with a kind of scientific detachment.

"There is American influence,
certainly,

but it's limited.

Foreign businesses here
don't directly influence Indian politics.

They pressure
their governments to do it.

Our weakness isn't that they're here,
but that we need them here.

We need their raw materials
and technology.

So they can impose their terms.

India is socialist in that the government
tries to structure the economy,

and capitalist in that businesses
are allowed to develop freely

within the government's framework.

Are we badly administered?
Yes, we are.

Nothing can be done at this time.

You understand,
in such a stratified society,

with such a small elite,

one has every reason to act
in one's own interests.

And this is what is done."

What are the reasons
behind the economic crisis?

"Mainly the failure of the monsoons
in the last two years.

The drought caused poor harvests,

and since the economy is mainly
agricultural, grain prices rose.

This was taken as a signal to curb
investment, and that led to recession.

We've stepped up grain production.

We still need 15 million more tons
a year, but we'll make it.

There's a new generation
of capitalist farmers

who use modern methods
and have investment capital.

They've been very successful.

But we can't expect this to happen
all over the country.

There are so many peasants
and so little arable land

that industrialization is necessary,

if only to absorb
some of the excess rural population."

This beautiful young woman
who speaks like a technocrat

is a living example
of Westernized India.

But she only represents
a microscopic minority.

An Indian friend told me of a village
35 miles from Bombay

where the people weren't even aware
the English had left.

After two weeks in Bombay,

we wanted to immerse ourselves
in traditional India one last time.

A few miles from the city,
a small village called Vrajeshwari

was celebrating
its annual temple festival.

This crowd swept up
in religious fervor

is the image I'll keep of India.

Everywhere in the world,
industrial civilization

shatters societies
and erases tradition.

Our world is becoming
the same everywhere.

But India resists,
for its social and religious structures

are stronger and more vital
than anywhere else.

In the temple courtyard,
families from the entire region

have come to stay for several days.

We come upon a marriage procession.

We're leaving for Bombay,
it's our last day of shooting,

and we think these will be
our last images of India.

But India will prove us wrong
yet again.

On our way back,
we came across these salt flats.

In India, we discovered with wonder
another way of being,

another way of living
and seeing the world

that made us all feel nostalgic,
like a secret forever lost.

But we felt all along it was
a world living on borrowed time.

Here, where the population is greater
than Africa and South America combined,

modern life increasingly takes the form
of man exploiting his fellow man.

Translation by LYNN MASSEY
for SUBTEXT SUBTITLING