The Mirror-Image Fallacy

I was watching Zoya Akhthar’s Dil Dhadakne Do yesterday. I guess the whole point of the movie was a belaboured one about how super-smart, intelligent women like the one played by Priyanka Chopra are suppressed by the patriarchal Angry North Indian Male (a distant cousin of the Angry White Male). One of the scenes that sets off the third act shows a frustrated Priyanka yelling her head off at a bunch of rich, North Indian aunties for gossiping about hookups among their litter of Ralph Lauren clad offspring. “Get a job!”, she yells. All transformed from Doormat Girl to Angry Indian Female. Stop gossiping. Focus on self-improvement. Study hard, begin startups and ‘Make In India’ for the greater glory of humankind. But she and her other social media lecturing counterparts forget one thing. Some aunties don’t want to become self-made women. Most, actually. Some are content with buying Fendi bags and gossiping about youngsters. Priyanka’s character’s solipsism believes that the whole world is like her.

This reminded me of a prescient article on the Mirror-Image Fallacy by Charles Krauthammer from Time 1983. I read it a while back and the sheer brilliance of Krauthammer’s thoughts stayed with me. I tried to find a link on the internet but couldn’t find one. So I typed it out for you. Word for word from the hard copy of his book ‘Things That Matter’. It deserves some space on the internet.

The Mirror-Image Fallacy
Charles Krauthammer in Time, August 15, 1983.

“As is evident just from the look on his face,” observes The New Yorker in a recent reflection on the Lincoln Memorial, “[Lincoln] would have liked to live out a long life surrounded by old friends and good food.” Good food? New Yorker readers have an interest in succesful soufflés, but it is hard to recall the most melancholy and spiritual of presidents giving them much thought. New Yorker editors no doubt dream of living out their days in gourmet pastures. But did Lincoln really long to retire to a table at Lutèce?

Solipsism is the belief that the whole world is me, and as mathematician Martin Gardner points out, its authentic version is not found outside mental institutions. What is to be found outside the asylum is its philosophical cousin, the belief that the whole world is like me. This species of solipsism – plural solipsism, if you like – is far more common because it is far less lonely. Indeed, it yields a very congenial world populated exclusively by creatures of one’s own likeness, a world in which Lincoln pines for his dinner with André or, more consequentially, where KGB chiefs and Iranian ayotollahs are, well, folks just like us.

The mirror-image fallacy is not as crazy as it seems. Fundamentally, it is a radical denial of the otherness of others. Or to put it another way, a blinding belief in “common humanity,” in the triumph of human commonality over human differences. It is a creed rarely fully embraced (it has a disquieting affinity with martyrdom), but in a culture tired of ancient distinctions as that between children and adults (in contemporary movies the kids are, if anything, wiser than their parents) or men and women (“I was a better man as a woman with a woman than I’ve been as a man with a woman” says Tootsie), it can acquire considerable force.

Its central axiom is that if one burrows deep enough beneath the Mao jacket, the shapka or the chador, one discovers that people everywhere are essentially the same. Eleven-year old American anthropologist Samantha Smith was invited to Moscow by Yuri Andropov for firsthand confirmation of just that proposition – a rare Soviet concession to the principle of on-site inspection. After a well-photographed sojourn during which she took in a children’s festival at a Young Pioneer camp (but was spared the paramilitary training), she got the message: “They’re just … almost … just like us,” she announced at her last Moscow press conference. Her mother, who is no longer eleven but makes up for it in open-mindedness, supplied the corollary: “They’re just like us … they prefer to work at their jobs than to work at war.”

That completes the syllogism. We all have “eyes, hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions.” We are all “fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer.” It follows, does it not, that we must all want the same things? According to Harvard Cardiologist Bernard Lown, president of International Physicians for the Prevention of Nuclear War, that’s not just Shakespeare, it’s a scientific fact: “Our aim is to promote the simple medical insight,” he writes, “that Russian and American hearts are indistinguishable, that both ache for peace and survival.”

Such breathtaking non sequiturs (cardiological or otherwise) are characteristic of plural solipsism. For it is more than just another happy vision. It is meant to have practical consequences. If people everywhere, from Savannah to Sevastopol, share the same hopes and dreams and fears and love of children (and good food), they should get along. And if they don’t, then there must be some misunderstanding, some misperception, some problem of communication. As one news report of the recent conference of Soviet and American peace activists in Minneapolis put it, “The issue of human rights sparked a heated discussion . . . and provided participants with a firsthand view of the obstacles to communication which so often characterize U.S.-Soviet relations.” (The sadistic sheriff in Cool Hand Luke was more succinct: pointing to the rebellious prisoner he had just brutalized, he explained, “What we’ve got here is failure to communicate.”) It is the broken-telephone theory of international conflict, and it suggests a solution: repair service by the expert “facilitator,” the Harvard negotiations professor. Hence the vogue for peace academies, the mania for mediators, the belief that the world’s conundrums would yield to the right intermediary, the right presidential envoy, the right socialist international delegation. Yet Iraq’s Saddam Hussein and Iran’s Ayatollah Khomeini, to take just two candidates for the Roger Fisher School of Conflict Resolution, have perfectly adequate phone service. They need only an operator to make the connection. Their problem is that they have very little to say to each other.

There are other consequences. If the whole world is like me, then certain conflicts become incomprehensible; the very notion of intractability becomes paradoxical. When the U.S. embassy in Tehran is taken over, Americans are bewildered. What does the Ayatullah want? The U.S. Government sends envoys to find out what token or signal or symbolic gesture might satisfy Iran. It is impossible to believe that the Ayatullah wants exactly what he says he wants: the head of the Shah. Things are not done that way any more in the West (even the Soviet bloc has now taken to pensioning off deposed leaders). It took a long time for Americans to get the message.

Other messages from exotic cultures are never received at all. The more virulent pronouncements of Third World countries are dismissed as mere rhetoric. The more alien the sentiment, the less seriously it is taken. Diplomatic fiascoes follow, like Secretary Shultz’s recent humiliation in Damascus. He persisted in going there despite the fact that President Assad had made it utterly plain that he rejected efforts by the U.S. (the “permanent enemy”) to obtain withdrawal of Syrian forces from Lebanon. Or consider the chronic American frustration with Saudi Arabia. The Saudis consistently declare their refusal to accept the legitimacy of a Jewish state in the Middle East, a position so at variance with the Western view that it is simply discounted. Thus successive American Governments continue to count on Saudi support for U.S. peace plans, only to be rudely let down. When the Saudis finally make it unmistakably clear that they will support neither Camp David nor the Reagan plan nor the Lebanon accord, the U.S. reacts with consternation. It might have spared itself the surprise if it had not in the first place imagined that underneath those kaffiyehs are folks just like us, sharing our aims and views.

“The wise man shows his wisdom in separation, in gradation, and his scale of creatures and of merits is as wide as nature,” writes Emerson. “The foolish have no range in their scale, but suppose every man is as every other man.” Ultimately to say that people all share the same hopes and fears, are all born and love and suffer and die alike, is to say very little. For it is after commonalities are accounted for that politics becomes necessary. It is only when values, ideologies, cultures and interests clash that politics even begins. At only the most trivial level can it be said that people want the same things. Take peace. The North Vietnamese want it, but apparently they wanted to conquer all of Indochina first. The Salvadoran right and left both want it, but only after making a desert of the other. The Reagan Administration wants it, but not if it has to pay for it with pieces of Central America.

And even if one admits universal ends, one still has said nothing about means, about what people will risk, will permit, will commit in order to banish their (common) fears and pursue their (common) hopes. One would think that after the experience of this century the belief that a harmony must prevail between peoples who share a love of children and small dogs would be considered evidence of a most grotesque historical amnesia.

From where does the idea of a world of likes come? In part from a belief in universal brotherhood (a belief that is parodied, however, when one pretends that the ideal already exists). In part from a trendy ecological pantheism with its misty notions of the oneness of those sharing this lonely planet. In part from the Enlightenment belief in a universal human nature, a slippery modern creation that for all its universality manages in every age to take on a decidedly middle-class look. For the mirror-image fantasy derives above all from the coziness of middle-class life. The more settled and ordered one’s life—and in particular one’s communal life—the easier it becomes for one’s imagination to fail. In Scarsdale, destitution and desperation, cruelty and zeal are the stuff of headlines, not life. Thus a single murder can create a sensation; in Beirut it is a statistic. When the comfortable encounter the unimaginable, the result is not only emotional but cognitive rejection. Brutality and fanaticism beyond one’s ken must be made to remain there; thus, for example, when evidence mounts of biological warfare in faraway places, the most fanciful theories may be produced to banish the possibility.

To gloss over contradictory interests, incompatible ideologies and opposing cultures as sources of conflict is more than antipolitical. It is dangerous. Those who have long held a mirror to the world and seen only themselves are apt to be shocked and panicked when the mirror is removed, as inevitably it must be. On the other hand, to accept the reality of otherness is not to be condemned to a war of all against all. We are not then compelled to see in others the focus of evil in the world. We are still enjoined to love our neighbor as ourselves; only it no longer becomes an exercise in narcissism. But empathy that is more than self-love does not come easily. Particularly not to a culture so fixed on its own image that it can look at Lincoln, gaunt and grave, and see a man ready to join the queue at the pâté counter at Zabar’s.


Apocalypse Now: An analysis of the Indian fashion scene as we know it

I’m a little foggy about the details but I remember one of Delhi’s first exclusive fashion destinations was called ‘1 MG Road’. Within its hallowed confines, one could find all varieties of home-grown fashion talent with names that sounded like camp versions of law firms (like Gupta & Thakur spelled Goopta & Thakore). Some of the less genteel designers used the old hyphen, used more commonly by Hindi movie music directors of the Kalyanji-Anandji ilk.

Anyway, so there was this store. On display were the usual array of putrescence. Iridiscent sarees with gold shit that looked like old Victorian chairs vaguely reminiscent of tv serials like Mahabharat and Ramayan.  For the men, jootis that could make your head spin. If you don’t know what a jooti is, it’s one of those traditional Indian slip-on shoes with the curly bit in the end. Like those worn by this guy.















It’s about as comfortable as a steel cactus but I suppose they couldn’t pair adidas kicks with ornate dhotis. The one time I went in there (I was invited to a store opening) it was completely deserted. Probably wasn’t wedding season yet so the market for frilly bandhgalas hadn’t really opened up. Not a soul. The whole place smelled of feet. And that was that.

A few months later, much to my delight, I heard that the MCD had the entire building razed to the ground because it was an illegal construction.

The fashion fraternity, thanks to its closeness with the media, was up in arms. It was hilarious. There was this one guy, some hermaphrodite looking designer with highlights in his hair who was so distraught that he was choked up for words. The presenter waited patiently as he said, “This… is…(sob) our (choke)… 9/11”. I’m not kidding you. He actually said that.

Ok I know this is going to stir a shitstorm of self-righteous rage calling us bigoted and whatnot. So, for the record, I would like to state that we are NOT homophobic. We make jokes about them, but who doesn’t? An entire community of men who spend a quarter of their salaries on hair products and you seriously expect people not to make fun of them? I have Queen and George Michael on my iPod. Heck I even have Prince. David Sedaris is my favourite living satire writer and he’s a flaming poof if there was one.

There are a lot of talented gays out there in the big, wide world. But the Indian gay community is another kettle of fish altogether. Can you name one talented gay Indian? Anybody? Somebody? Freddy Mercury doesn’t count. We don’t have a San Fran here. We just have some ugly trannies who speak in mock British accents. What a boring cliché.

The gay clique in Delhi and Bombay are said to have a chokehold on the fashion, styling industry. And look at what that has resulted in.

Today, the indigenous Indian fashion industry is in shambles. Not to be confused with the garment export business, which will do well so long as we can keep the sweatshops in Noida, Tirupur and Ludhiana running smoothly. In every country, the domestic fashion industry is supported by a strong domestic market. Italians buy Italian brands. French buy French brands.  What do the moneyed set in India buy? To find out, pay a visit to Emporio Mall, in Vasant Kunj which is Delhi’s equivalent of Rodeo Drive. They have two malls there. One for the plebs, with brands like Bennetton, Levi’s and Fab India. The other is its shinier, Dubai returned sister, with Louis Vuitton, Gucci, Armani, Ferragamo and Cartier on the ground level. On the second level are the stores which couldn’t afford the super exclusive high-footfall company downstairs. Boss, Marc Jacobs, Paul Smith and some others. As we go higher, we have a level that is almost exclusively for Indian designers. The Goopta & Thakore, Kalyanji-Anandji variety. It’s a re-creation of 1 MG Road, for the uninitiated. Their post 9/11 Freedom Tower. I haven’t bothered taking the escalator up there and I’ll bet I’m not alone. In fact, they’ve switched off the escalator to save electricity consumed by the escalator carrying nothing but air up into the third level from dawn to dusk.

I’m not under any delusions here. I realize I’m not the most fashionable person in the world. But I do know people who can tell their Martin Margielas from their Rick Owens and I asked 9 of these people one question. Would you ever buy an Indian design label? All of them, said ‘No’, disgusted at the very thought. One of them had a few kind words to say about Manish Arora, saying he was the only one worthy of any mention. But that was it.

What keeps this ragtag bunch of bum bandits afloat? They’re not even vaguely interesting and they don’t make any money. This year their only source of income, the export orders (a lot of Gujju aunties with more money than sense in the UK and Canada) have all but dried up.

But the real death blow will be dealt in a few months time. When Zara and Topshop enter the domestic market. If they get their pricing strategy right, their cheap chic model which democratized fashion in Europe and America will be the nuclear bomb that sends the local Kalyanji-Anandjis to kingdom come.

First published in KIRIK 02 March 2010

Breakfast in Agra. Circa 1985.

As I discovered to my dismay as a little kid, a typical day in Agra begins like this. Nobody eats at their house, like normal people. Instead, of an early morning, the Agravations (if they may be called that) head to an emporium of delights, manned by a man called a Halwai. Same Halwai has two cauldrons full of smoking hot mustard oil. A foul fume that causes many a vacationing schoolboy to tear up and try to stop breathing. In which are cooked poodis. Pronounced a la Gudgaon. Served in containers fashioned cleverly out of some waxy leaf and broomsticks. Which would in today’s times be lauded for its greenness and low carbon footprint. The whole place crowded with milling folks because in the midst of all this culinary ability was lost the need for a few basic things like tables and chairs. Cleanliness would’ve been great, but this is Agra, and the ring made of betel leaf binds all men to darkness. So the poodis are served up with what would be called a mashup of potatoes and  more leaves, more likely some low weed or the other. Waterproofness of the waxy leaves notwithstanding, the mashup and fluid within, like life, would find its way to your palm causing you to shudder violently and fling the whole mess toward earlier such flung items, and if you happened to miscalculate force required, direction and velocity of the prevailing wind and objects in the way, well that’s another anecdote altogether, which we will call How To Pick a Fight in Agra.

By now, you’re looking to wash all this down with a suitable beverage. Behold the Kullad Ka Doodh. That’s milk in a pot. Made of mud. To imagine what it’s like to experience this, imagine a cow being milked, an odd pull causes some milk to miss the bucket and land on the ground. To this situation, add some sugar. Milk, sugar, mud. What’s not to like?

Why don’t the Agravations eat in their homes you might ask? Damned if I know. Probably because you don’t eat where you shit.

First published in KIRIK 01, February 2010