I have not read Chekhov.  I am ashamed and I promise to read his works ASAP.  But I have read Amos Oz.  Brilliant stuff.

Anyway, I remember seeing Amos Oz on TV, January 23rd, 2002 on
Newshour with Jim Leher to be precise. (I did a search on Yahoo! to
refresh my memory, in case you are wondering). Oz, an Israeli peace
activist and author, was commenting on his hope that the
Israeli-Palestinian conflict would be a Chekhovian tragedy.

ELIZABETH
FARNSWORTH (from the Newshour): You once said that you hoped that the
tragedy of the relationship between Israel and the Palestinians would
be Chekhovian and not a Shakespearean tragedy. What did you mean, and
is it becoming more Shakespearean?

AMOS OZ: Well, my definition of a tragedy is a clash between
right and right. And in this respect, the Israeli-Palestinian conflict
has been a tragedy, a clash between one very powerful, very convincing,
very painful claim over this land and another no less powerful, no less
convincing claim. Now such a clash between right claims can be revolved
in one of two manners. There’s the Shakespeare tradition of resolving a
tragedy with the stage hewed with dead bodies and justice of sorts
prevails. But there is also the Chekhov tradition. In the conclusion of
the tragedy by Chekhov, everyone is disappointed, disillusioned,
embittered, heartbroken, but alive. And my colleagues and I have been
working, trying…not to find the sentimental happy ending, a brotherly
love, a sudden honeymoon to the Israeli-Palestinian tragedy, but a
Chekhovian ending, which means clenched teeth compromise.

How
anyone can think in such elegant ways is beyond me. Well, it occurred
to me a few days ago that Indian cities are a Chekhovian tragedy – a
clenched teeth compromise. Everything on the road is slowed down to a
grinding crawl. Everyone is forced to accept the anarchy. In fact,
everyone, even the most gentle law abiding among us, is transformed
into an anarchist.  Not a violent one, but a meek one. Breaking road
rules meekly. While the traffic police looks the other way meekly,
pretending not to see. With clenched teeth, of course.

Even the joy of seeing new roads, laid just before the
monsoon season starts, is crushed when you see that it comes with
pre-fitted potholes. Smooth black tar roads with giant manholes
protruding into thin air. If by luck, the road has no potholes or
protruding holes, there comes the water or electricity department next
day. Or an arrogant nearby building owner. With pickaxes and shovels,
tearing into the fine shiny surface. Bringing the pickax down with a
callous rhythm in a manner only irresponsible, insensitive morons can.

Roads that flood at the slightest drizzle. Traffic lights
that conk out when someone sneezes. Forcing pedestrians, cows, cars,
cycles, cops, sewage, drainage, rain, auto-rickshaws, buses, minivans,
vendors, temples, protesters, bus stop waiters, beggars, nouveau
come-from-village-looking-for-jobber, sales-children selling at traffic
stoplight, lepers (you don’t see many of them now a days), gypsies -
well you get the picture – forcing all of them to move an inch to the
right, then to the left, inch by inch moving forward by sometimes
moving backward.  Watch out for the cyclist trying to slip into the
crack between two vehicles deadlocked.

Slums next to mansions. Mansions in the middle of slum.
All accepting the mysterious ways of the Lord. All accepting their
place in this society, in this world. Begrudging the other’s existence,
at least the proximity if not their very existence. Sometimes
acknowledging the other courteously, with clenched teeth. Other times,
pretending they don’t see.

I cautioned our American friend and her daughter on
holiday in India when I picked them at the airport. “Prepare to be
shocked and awed”. New comers to India can have only one of two
reactions. Either shocked or awed. Some vow never to return. Some stay
and become more Indian than Indians. The paradox is that with all the
extremes that is the Indian city, it is a compromise.

Long ago an Israeli colleague of mine described to me the
India he saw. He had visited Mumbai (Bombay) after his compulsory duty
in the army. He spoke about the man who slept peacefully on a bench in
the middle of the day. About the man, who when asked for direction,
walked for more than an hour with the Israeli just to make sure he
found his destination. About the peace and tranquility that radiated
beyond all the chaos and confusion. About patience and tolerance amidst
all the pushing and shoving. I wonder if the Israeli noticed the
clenched teeth.

I am very sure Chekhov was an Indian. If not, at least he
had visited the Indian city and that inspired him to describe his
tragedies. Amos Oz would appreciate the Indian city. As a man who
yearns for clenched teeth compromises, he will recognise it in the
Indian city.