When 'the other' is born: Identity politics in Hari Bhatnagar's 'Talwar'

By Ravi Ranjan 

In an era of rising polarisation, Hari Bhatnagar's short story 'Talwar' (Sword) offers a chilling exploration of how hatred, fear and prejudice are transmitted from one generation to the next. The story does not depict direct scenes of communal violence—there are no riots, no inflammatory speeches, no violent mobs. Instead, Bhatnagar enters that subtle social sphere where society shapes the consciousness of its future generations, revealing how a child learns to see the human being before him not as a person but as a hostile identity.

The narrative centres on a simple yet profound encounter. In a city still trembling from riots elsewhere, a narrator ventures out to buy kerosene and encounters a young boy—perhaps eight or ten years old—sharpening a sword. What follows is a confrontation that exposes the deep ideological structures underpinning communal consciousness. The child, his face showing both innocence and cunning, does not recognise the narrator as a fellow human being. He sees only a category: "You are not of our caste, you are a murderer."

This moment crystallises the story's central concern. The child has no personal grievance against the narrator. He has suffered no harm, experienced no conflict. Yet his hatred is absolute. The sword in his hands is not merely a weapon; it is the symbol of an ideology that has already taken root in his consciousness. Bhatnagar emphasises that "a child is not born communal; he is made so." The story raises the uncomfortable question of how violence enters the mind before it ever reaches the hand.

The power of Bhatnagar's narrative lies in its ordinariness. Communal hatred here does not announce itself through extraordinary events but manifests in everyday social life—in the child's language, his reactions, his self-confidence. The mother's approving laughter and the scooter mechanics' amused applause reveal how family and community actively reproduce prejudice. Violence becomes normalised not through explicit instruction but through cultural complicity.

Antonio Gramsci's theory of hegemony provides a valuable framework for understanding this process. According to Gramsci, dominant ideologies achieve their staying power not through force but by becoming part of society's 'common sense'—people begin to accept them as natural truth rather than ideology. The child in 'Talwar' exemplifies this: he expresses hatred not as something learned but as an unshakeable certainty. His consciousness has already been organised within an ideological framework where the capacity to see the other as a human being has become weak.

Louis Althusser's concept of Ideological State Apparatuses further illuminates how institutions like the family, community and cultural environment shape individuals into particular kinds of 'subjects'. The child has been 'interpellated'—addressed by ideology and established within a particular identity. His language, his self-confidence and his image of the enemy tell us that ideology has soaked so deeply into him that he considers it part of his natural understanding.

Michel Foucault's work on power-discourse reveals how power operates through subtle structures rather than visible institutions. The child's 'knowledge' that the narrator is dangerous is not neutral but power-constructed. He classifies, names, accuses—performing a discursive act that places the person before him in a predetermined moral and social position. Language here performs symbolic violence that precedes real violence.

Edward Said's theory of 'Othering' shows how the child has learned to divide the world into 'us' and 'them'. The narrator's real existence dissolves within his communal identity. The child does not see a human being, a passer-by or a neighbour; he sees the representative of a collective identity against whom hatred is already justified. This process destroys the very capacity to see and understand human beings.

The story also challenges romantic notions of childhood as a state of innocence free from prejudice. Bhatnagar demonstrates that childhood is itself a social construct. Children absorb the languages, memories, aspirations and hatreds of the society in which they live. Their consciousness becomes a miniature version of the wider social consciousness. The child protagonist is not the cause of violence but the result of a culture that has made hatred normal and enmity natural.

Hannah Arendt's concept of 'thoughtlessness' offers another crucial perspective. Arendt believed that the most terrifying form of violence arises when ordinary human beings act without thinking, without moral self-examination. In 'Talwar', the child acts without questioning. He does not consider who the person before him really is or why he should be considered an enemy. Conclusion has taken the place of question. This normalisation of violence—where hatred becomes not a moral problem but a social habit—is the story's greatest concern.

René Girard's 'Scapegoat' theory reveals how society projects its fears and insecurities onto an 'other'. The narrator becomes the symbolic enemy despite having done no harm. The child knows nothing about him but knows he must hate him. The sword is the visible form of that collective desire directed against an imaginary enemy.

Perhaps most poignantly, Emmanuel Levinas's ethics illuminates the story's deepest tragedy. Levinas argued that the birth of ethics occurs when we stand before the face of another human being, recognising our responsibility towards them. In 'Talwar', the child cannot see the narrator's face—only the communal identity imposed upon him. The ethical relationship that should have been established has been replaced by prejudice, fear and hatred. The narrator is present yet invisible, his real existence buried under a pre-fabricated image.

The story reaches its climax when the narrator, trembling, realises that the real danger lies not in the rusted sword but in the idea implanted in the child's mind. He is not afraid of a child but of the future that child represents. If society is giving swords instead of books, toys or dreams to its children, what will the coming time be like?

The title 'Talwar' becomes richly symbolic through multiple critical lenses. For psychoanalysis, the sword represents power and masculine aggression. For postcolonial theory, it embodies the conflict-ridden memories received from history that continue to shape present consciousness. For childhood studies, the sword signifies the social colonisation of childhood—where violence, hatred and communal divisions of the adult world enter the child's world.

The story's universality becomes evident when compared with Shirley Jackson's iconic 'The Lottery'. Both narratives expose how societies reproduce violence through seemingly ordinary mechanisms. Jackson's village ritual, where the 'winner' is stoned to death in defence of tradition, parallels Bhatnagar's community that passively accepts and encourages a child's hatred. Both authors demonstrate that innocence is not innate but socially constructed and easily corrupted. The most dangerous violence is the one normalised in everyday life and passed to the next generation.

The true subject of Bhatnagar's story is not the riot but the mentality that remains after the riot. It is a narrative of ideology, identity, power, culture and the construction of childhood. The story ultimately asks whether society is handing its next generation a culture of coexistence, compassion and dialogue, or the legacy of fear, division and enmity.

The narrator's final trembling embodies a palpable fear for the future. He knows that the genesis of any violence occurs not with the weapon but with vision—the moment we cease to see a human being in their unique experiences and limit them to a pre-determined category. This recognition transforms 'Talwar' from a story of communal prejudice into an exploration of the erosion of human relationships.

In an age still troubled by communal tensions, Bhatnagar's work remains urgently relevant. It compels us to examine the uncomfortable channels through which hatred becomes normalised and childhood becomes its vessel. The armed child becomes a haunting symbol of what happens when identity takes the place of person, prejudice takes the place of dialogue and 'the other' is placed instead of the human being.

The story's permanent significance lies in its ability to confront us with a sobering truth: the future of society is not shaped merely in schools, policies and institutions, but in the consciousness of those children whom we acquaint every day with our prejudices, memories and values. Only by addressing these miniature hegemonies can we hope to build a future grounded in genuine humanity rather than inherited division.

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*Professor and former Head (Retd.), Department of Hindi, University of Hyderabad. This is the abridged version of the author's original paper