Markist

A happy moment occurred soon after I landed in the United States for my graduate studies. The academic department secretary, the very able and well-coiffured Mrs. Virginia Strickland, handed me a stack of papers to fill out for my assistantship employment. Buried therein was the following question, “Have you presently or in the past have had any association with the Communist Party?” The question very likely was a remnant of the McCarthy era, not applicable to a foreign student. Nevertheless, I was happy to oblige. But how do I answer honestly?

Inescapable Association
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I mean, come on, “any association with the Communist Party”? I could write a book.

How could it be otherwise for a person from Kerala, an Indian state with the alleged distinction, or infamy if you prefer, of having elected the first communist government in the world? If you are a Keralite, you are sure to have been “associated” with the communists one way or another. Perhaps you are a card carrying member, continuing your lifelong struggle (പോരാട്ടം) against … computerization. Remember no? Or you are a covert sympathizer (അനുഭാവി) who regularly votes for the party symbol while packing off your children to America to feast on the capitalist bounty. Or, increasingly likely as the cadres have thinned out, you were on the receiving end of the struggle—stranded somewhere due to a general strike, missed a job interview due to an unannounced road blockade, kicked out of the party village (പാർട്ടി ഗ്രാമം) for your contrary beliefs (Orwellian villages were you pledge allegiance to the party, or else), or extorted out of your earnings by red labor unions wedded to the principle of least action.

I could go on, and although it may seem I have no love lost for the comrades (സഖാക്കൾ), don’t be misled. I love them. Wonder who the aforementioned party sympathizer parent who packed children off to America might be? That would be my mother. And I recently found out her brother, a retired engineer, is a closet commie. This came as a surprise because his daily routine appeared to be

Contortionist History
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wholly devoted to volunteer duties at the local Hindu temple. The rival allegiance became apparent on a recent visit when I caught him watching on the party TV channel red volunteers perform yoga. He appeared very satisfied with the proceedings. Be assured, the yoga adoption does not signal a dilution of Marxist ideology. Rather, the rest of us just misunderstood yoga and its origins. Crafty party theoreticians researched history and discovered that yoga had non-religious origins; it was co-opted by the Hindu rishis. Makes me almost wish I had gone to the party school to imbibe this convenient contortion skill; I wish to erase and rewrite parts of my own history.

C. Achutha Menon
(Photo Credit: timescontent.com)

My mother and my uncle weren’t exceptions in our family. They were simply following the path set by their elders. One of those elders, Valliyammaman or Elder Uncle, was especially influential. He was a revered family figure due to his impeccable character and principled living. Valliyammaman was once a rising star in the Kerala communist party before it splintered into the Soviet and Chinese factions. He worked alongside another budding luminary, C. Achutha Menon. As a kid, I listened in awe how Mr. Menon and other party functionaries dined at our ancestral home in Varandarappilly while they plotted with Valliyammaman to organize the exploited plantation workers. Mr. Menon went on to become the Chief Minister of Kerala and is widely considered the best Chief Minister in the state’s history.

Meanwhile, Valliyammaman’s party career was cut short by a tragedy. He was leading a group of plantation workers in a procession protesting their lamentable living conditions. The status quoist Congress workers disrupted the march and a knife fight broke out. It didn’t end well; six Congress workers lay dead. With Jawaharlal Nehru of Congress as the Prime Minister, the incident made national news. In the resulting court proceedings, Valliyammaman was acquitted: he was leading the march in the front, the fight broke out in the back, and the attack was preplanned by the adversaries. He gave up active politics and went on to lead a distinguished life as a teacher and administrator.

Swept up by the times, my father too fell under the communist spell. I found this out in a startling way. I was out strolling one evening with my father near the village center when we ran into a group of Congress workers trying to hoist the party flag. The red hammer and sickle communist flag fluttered nearby. The Congress workers aim clearly was to fly their tri-color flag higher than the hammer and sickle. They had it up almost vertical, but then gravity took over, the pole tipped, the workers ran every which way, and the whole contraption fell to the ground with a giant thud, sending up a cloud of dust and debris. My father, watching the effort intently, was thrilled by this outcome. He burst into a wild round of hooting, hollering, and clapping.

And I stood there thinking, “What? Wait a minute, dad is a Markist?!” Markist is how Achamma, my dad’s mother, called Marxists.

There is more than a bit of irony here. Against the grain of Marxist sympathies running strong in my family, one person firmly stood in resistance. That person was Achamma. She was a strong woman, a tireless worker, and above all a staunch and outspoken anticommunist. She held the communists squarely responsible for the endemic where’s-the-money-for-no-work culture. Every time she read about a political murder in the state, she would stop and thunder, paraphrasing Bheeshmar’s utterance when the news of Keechaka’s death reached Hastinapuram, “If the dead is a political worker, the killer must be a Markist!” Her influence is perhaps why my father was tempered in his communist sympathies and the flag incident was one of the few instances when he was off guard. In any event, whatever his level of youthful support for the communists, it didn’t last long. As his children grew older and started pointing out the obvious, he did an about-turn and joined his mother in resistance.

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When I was in high school, I came across some glossy Soviet propaganda magazines, which briefly put me under the party spell. Swanky apartments, lifelong health care, annual vacations in the Crimea! Could life ever be this good, I wondered. In the end though, the chasm between Soviet fantasy and the local reality was too wide to cross.

Going into college, it seemed that would be the end of my “association” with communists. After all, I was entering the Kerala Agricultural University, which on account of its professional college status, was free from politics. But sensible norms can be swiftly abandoned by a bit of deceptive theorizing as the communists showed by co-opting yoga into their repertoire. They hatched a scheme and soon colonized the campus. I joined a group of independent students to thwart them in the college student union elections but lost (or did I?—read Three Shy & a Career Shot for the full account).

But that didn’t mean I wouldn’t turn to the party apparatchiks for help when I needed it. After graduating, I soon found myself knocking on the party’s door.

Finishing college was one thing, facing the real world quite another. The escape hatch is higher education and I got bitten by this notion that I should do it in America, which I figured would solve my career problems in one swoop. As it turned out, it did, and more (read my Drowning in Consumption or Tyranny of Lists). But first I had to get there and while trying to do that and not succeeding at first, I entertained plan B alternatives in Canada, Australia, and upon consulting with Valiyammaman, the Soviet Union.

(Photo Credit: nbcnews.com)

The Soviets sponsored some students to study in Russia, Valiyammaman advised me, and the local party bosses had some say in who gets these coveted spots. He gave me a couple of party names to contact. The way to the Soviet land was through the Communist Party of India, Thrissur office. I went there and met up with the party functionaries, laying out my goal. Whether from Achamma’s influence or not, I surely must have given politically incorrect answers to their questions because I never heard back from them. But while waiting for their call, I heard from America—admission to a Ph.D. program with an offer of a three-year assistantship. Whew!

And that’s how I ended up sitting across the desk from Ms. Strickland, facing the quandary “Have you presently or in the past have had any association with the Communist Party?”

Faced with a question that unmistakably signals dire consequences for the wrong answer, it's doubtful any communist sneaking his or her way into the capitalist haven would answer yes. And you’d hope that after denying their past, they’d put it behind and accept the American way. In my experience, this hope has borne out, mostly. Many from Kerala with a communist past quickly morph into staunch capitalists and diehard libertarians. Others get too busy amassing riches and lose interest in their youthful attraction to airy theories. Some become followers of Indian right-wing parties.

And then there are the secretive few who nurse a longing for the dear party they left behind. They were activists of the communist student union in their college days and enjoyed to the hilt the perk of lawlessness that came with it. Now, unable to bark “who the hell are you?" (നീ ആരാടാ?) to law enforcement officers and forced to cough up $100 fines routinely for running red lights, life has become a little less enjoyable. These few now find their quantum of solace by pushing social media posts and alternative facts promoting party positions.

And so my “association” with communists continues.

* * *

Back in the Department office, Ms. Strickland cleared her throat. “Jay, are you finished with it?” she asked pointing to the papers in my hand.

I stopped staring at the form, checked the box against the potent political question, and handed her the papers.

“No,” I said smiling. “I mean, yes, I am finished with the forms, and the answer is no!”