Confessions of a middle-class mind

I am middle class. Only the middle class can confess a fact about itself with such self-consciousness. I am a middle-class man whose body is iconically middle, whose career is middling. It is almost as if the word middle describes our life; our identity is made of limits. We fear extremes. The metaphor of our life is a ladder. A ladder expresses hierarchy, seniority, the certainty of change, the predictability of life. Even success comes in small pipettes. Our biggest fear is failure, failure in life, failure in exams. Failure declassifies one. Failure is the first sign of downward mobility. As a class we need not go up but going down is our vertigo.
I began personally because I was always intrigued by the gap between the shrivelled autobiography of any middle-class man and the sociological power, the halo we acquire as a sociologically category. Sociologically middle class seems an affirmation of power, certainty, a label that spells territoriality and identity. As middle class we create political regimes, as middle class we are the spoilsport of revolutions. The middle is substantive, substantial and solid.
Actually both are autobiography and sociology are captive texts. One is a desiccated CV, the other is collective stencil. Our everyday as an individual or collective narrative is a caricature: We are the sum total of our aspirations, our fears and our anxieties. The middle is a vague signifier. As body, it sags, it slows you down, as a collective its expansion is the Viagra of market surveys. The more we expand, the more we consume. This strange asymmetry between collective power and individual impotence bothers me. We make revolutions as a collective while as individuals our life runs in full circles haunted by repetition and redundancy.
When we protest, we write letters to the editor. Even protest becomes an act of decorum as we begin “Dear Sir” and end with a guarantee of sincerity. Even our outrage is an act of gardening. Yet when we buy or when we vote, we create a social dynamics. Yet the sad thing is as a middle class, we get reduced to voters and consumers. It is as if our prose and our poetry have only these two expressions. The rest is a black box no one looks at or cares for. We get reduced to predictable sociologies from our erections and our ejaculations to our consumption. We appear like a periodic table of predictable manners.
Yet, today I must become an advertisement, an argument for myself. I hereby vote myself person of the year. My achievement is the sheer act of being. As a being I have tolerated nonsense, seen my dreams and ideals crumble this year. The press, which I admired, appears like happy fixers. The Army I revered is more corrupt than the old zamindars. The Prime Minister who looked like a common man is honest, but his is a goodness which tolerates corruption, or is weak before it. I am tired of the violence around me.
My life is a timetable, a career, a biography in predictable chapters. That is my chrono-biology and the culture of time gives me my habits, my rituals, my expectations, my catalogue of classifications. That timetable is my civics and without it life would be anarchy.
I have watched in silence prices go up. I have watched with concern the indifference of politicians to basic norms. I watch bureaucrats act as if the state is hypothecated to them. Even the few moments of sport I enjoyed is tarnished with the incompetence of politicians. I wish I could vote for Saina Nehwal and Sachin Tendulkar, the Dravids and Kumbles for their competence, their grace and their ability to deliver. I ask can you name one politician with a promise or track record like theirs? They are middle-class minds performing at their best.
We know people laugh when our lives look as a collection of exams and tests. Even our Prime Minister admitted that his life seems to be a movement from test to test. We are being perpetually evaluated. Our arrival borders on the temporary.
I admit we are silly. Our anxiety and out categories make us silly. We are nationalists and we extend our nationalism to everything from a cricket match to a border incursion. We are paranoid about security and our territoriality. They maintain the chastity of our identity and out politics. We realise that it blunts our sense of hospitability. We suspect. We demand certainties, which no state can provide. Yet, we would rather be tourist pilgrims than conquerors. Yes, we prefer mobility to justice because mobility is quicker.
But look at us. It is because we stand wrists in tests that we threaten the world. What everyone laughs at is our strength. Our wagers, our fundamentals, and therefore, so are our anxieties. Yet, people take us for granted believing our habits, our inertia whittles protest. But look at it. The very words, the adjectives that describes us average, middle, certain and predictable, define society.
I think we need to celebrate ourselves, to argue that we make society. The end of the year is a ritual of spring cleaning. I know PROs must be creating fictitious awards for fictitious achievements so as part of the middle let us announce a few awards. As clichés, we have to be true to ourselves.
For the worst soap opera of the year: Nitin Gadkari and the BJP over the JPCC.
For the family of the year: Karunanidhi, his three wives and his jajmanis of sons, nephews and PROs.
For the woman of the year-the page 3 award: Niira Radia
For the sportsman of the year: Suresh Kalmadi
For the person of the year: The middle classes for displaying tolerance, patience beyond the call of duty. May it multiply.

Shiv Visvanathan is a social scientist