In the evening, without giving it too much thought, my wife and I decide to engage again in an exercise in masochism. We watch TV. Of course, this isn't the name we give to our evening appointment. 'Masochism' is a classificatory term that's long entered the parlance, but I doubt that even a dedicated masochist calls their activities by that name. We simply call it 'unwinding'. After the morning's bodily, clerical, and domestic duties, both of us preoccupy ourselves day-long with thinking; sometimes, writing. By evening, we're fatigued by what to passers-by would ostensibly seem like nothing. So we take a break from thinking. It doesn't occur to us then that, the next day, thinking itself will be an invigorating break from the imperatives of taking a break from it. Because nothing's as tiring - nowhere do you come face to face so purely with your marginality - than recreation. Yet next evening we're unwinding again.
As we unwind, in that semi-recumbent posture we invariably assume before a TV set, a Hollywood film in progress in front of us, or some kind of a serial or sitcom, we begin to quietly suffer. It's not boredom I mean. One is quickly aware of being bored. One responds with impatience. The impatience is predictable, and will come on cue five minutes into the programme: it's the condition of impatience to be bored, rather than (as we believe) the other way round. What I'm describing here is a kind of melancholy, which deepens as the minutes pass. It may not have to do solely with the quality of the programme. The question of quality is irrelevant, though it does come up: "That was a bad movie." It has really more to do with being presented, once again, with the vacuity of life. This has less relation to a director's or actor's or scriptwriter's skill or lack of it, than a whole way of living, behaving, and thinking in which we are unwittingly involved. We may not be aware of suffering. In fact we think we're being entertained. The consciousness of pain - except when it's physical and immediate, or chronic and emotional - lacks clarity and conviction. For example, we may not, with the passing of a loved one, become aware straightaway of the impact of bereavement. And, in our daily and social lives, we're fundamentally unsure about the line separating pleasure and pain. We regularly take part in social occasions which - or meet up with a group of friends who - leave us empty and unhappy. It takes time, sometimes years, for us to grasp that what we've been doing to cheer ourselves up has been depressing us. It's possible we won't grasp this at all.
In trying to pinpoint masochism, I find there are species of pleasure and pain that need to be distinguished from the masochistic experience - which itself is hard to define. Watching Arnab Goswami on Times Now, say, was an energizing ritual for many, because they agreed with everything he said and the way he said it, and for others it was an evidently masochistic one - that is, they watched Goswami to be outraged by him. Yet I'd hesitate to call the regular viewing of Goswami by Goswami-detractors masochism - I'd put it in the domain of an experience that dominates Indian life: the moralistic, based on a self-vindication that, on some level, unites both detractors and supporters. Masochism, on the other hand, is a habitual turning toward painful activity for pleasure. But I'd argue that, in contemporary life, this branch of masochism is a minor sub-genre, and that the pursuit has largely taken on another form: a recurrent chasing after 'pleasurable' things that are painful. Watching the Oscars is a case in point. Millions view this ceremony to entertain and - simultaneously - torture themselves. As we sit before the TV, the gloom sets in early. The meticulously orchestrated jokes, tears, music, rehearsals of gratitude, and exhortations of excellence are meant to showcase the emptiness of existence. We know this. We watch willingly to be entertained and to suffer. It's only when proceedings go badly wrong - as they did this year - that a purpose to life is reasserted. The ensuing chaos is the closest the Oscars will get to life; it revives us.
Does pure pleasure exist? It's difficult to say. In comparison to having a pleasurable physical sensation or finding something comical, it's not something we can be fully conscious of, since unadulterated pleasure is an extinction of consciousness as we understand it. While writing this, I've glanced a few times in the direction of a balcony. My eye falls repeatedly on potted plants, rectangular space, and an erect mop whose flaccid tassels hang down from the banister. The sight must be the closest I've come in the last few days to pure pleasure. I would hazard that it has to do with chancing upon the confluence of stillness, space, and life. Unadulterated pleasure has coordinates, but can't be fabricated.
My deepest experience of conventional masochism has to do with nationality. You can't choose your nationality - but you can change it. For more than 35 years, I've lived on and off in Britain. I've had the opportunity to get what was called 'permanent residency' and then 'indefinite leave to remain'; to become a British citizen and acquire a UK passport. Time and time again, I let these things go. Why would I want to relinquish my citizenship? I spent consecutive months and years in India knowing it made it impossible for me to get permanent residency in the country in which I was doing much of my work. A time came when Indians began to increasingly exercise a choice about their nationality. The benefits - and the compulsions - of being a British, European, or US national are clear for those who live in the West: the avoidance of queues for returning outsiders; the redundancy of visas for employment and travel; the freedom to travel the affluent world. To choose to be an Indian national in the era of globalization is to choose queues; periodic questioning at airports; application forms; varying degrees of uncertainty. It's what I have chosen. I say this without pride or embarrassment. Being Indian is my way of being a masochist: it's sometimes - and recurrently - painful, but gives me inexplicable pleasure. I don't think I could do without this experience of pleasurable pain.
