If you’ve been watching Mira Nair’s adaptation of Vikram Seth’s A Suitable Boy, you have no doubt been subjected to the most idiotic disclaimer in the history of disclaimers.
This is the screen you’ll see after the swooshing Netflix logo and before every episode begins.
It reads as follows.
This series is a work of fiction and is based on a book titled “A Suitable Boy” written by Vikram Seth and published in 1993.1
The characters, places, names and events in this series are fictional and have been creatively conceptualized for the purpose of dramatisation. Resemblance or similarity to any actual events, entities, places or persons is purely coincidental.2 We respect all faiths, religions and communities and do not in any manner intend to disrespect, insult, impair or disparage the beliefs, feelings, sentiments of any person, community, religion, society and its culture, custom, practice and tradition.3
No animals were injured/harmed during the making of this program. Computer graphics have been used to depict the parrot.4
Now let’s take a closer look at it.
1. This might be the most damning line of the whole disclaimer. It implies that because the novel was published in 1993, it therefore doesn’t speak to modern sensibilities. It throws both the author and the book under the bus. Right up front, it is saying that if anything here offends you in any way, just know that it was written way back in the 90s when people were less enlightened. It lacks courage and conviction and undermines the power and importance of the book that it purports to celebrate. If Vikram Seth were dead, he would be rolling in his grave. But he isn’t, so I can only assume that he is spitting at his television screen.
2. While the Mehras do indeed hail from the made up town of Brahmpur – located along the Ganges between Banares and Patna – I’m pretty sure the residents of Calcutta, Delhi, and Lucknow won’t be best pleased to hear that the cities they call home are, in fact, “creatively conceptualized” fictions. A Suitable Boy is a love story. But it is also just as much a story about history and place, politics and the communal conflicts that continue to plague the subcontinent. Disclaiming a piece of fiction in this way is to render it inconsequential. It is the equivalent of saying, “chill dude, it’s just a TV show.”
3. Throughout this series, there are less than savoury things said about Muslims by Hindus, and about Hindus by Muslims. What did you expect from a story that is set in post-independence, post-partition India? A time when communal suspicions ran high, and xenophobia was often shrouded under the guise of patriotism. (Sound familiar?) The best historical fictions tend to channel every sentiment of the age by way of complex and nuanced characters that are neither good nor bad, but reflective of humanity as a whole. When Lata’s mother forbids her from dating a Muslim, calling them “dirty, violent, cruel, and lecherous,” the intention of the narrative isn’t to tar an entire religion, but rather to give us an insight into the prevailing fears and insecurities of the time. Yes, watching A Suitable Boy requires some thought on the part of the audience. But let’s be fair, it really isn’t rocket science now is it?
4. What about the monkeys? What about that buffalo emerging from a village lake? Were they CG too?
This, mind you, is a trigger warning for an adaptation of a much lauded and profoundly literary work, which prodigiously blends history and fiction, creating a timeless narrative that speaks as much to this generation as it does to every previous one. Which is precisely what makes it so offensive.
This is also a trigger warning that did not appear when the series first aired on BBC One back in August. Are British audiences more enlightened than we are? Or was Netflix burned so badly by the Cuties controversy that they now feel the need to apologise for every piece of content they put out?
The assumption behind this disclaimer is simple. The people who watch television are dumber than the people who read books and therefore need a whole load of handholding or they might jump to all manner of uninformed and unfounded conclusions. I have no idea if this is true. But why bother airing such literary adaptations if you’re going to cater to the lowest common denominator? Why pander to the subliterate dregs of society?
Great fiction should challenge us. It should scare us, and drag us, kicking and screaming, from our illiteracy into the light. Great fiction should, god forbid, trigger us. Because the darkness of the real world is far more sinister than anything we are yet to see on our screens. These sorts of disclaimers are symbolic of the worst sort of corporate cover your ass behaviour. They are lazy. They are designed to stifle discourse. They are a surrender, a white flag to every nameless, faceless Internet troll hellbent on spreading fear and misinformation. But worst of all, these sorts of disclaimers do nothing but further coddle a society already enthralled by the cult of victimisation.
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