Dawn (Pakistan)
중도 성향
기타
"MADMAN" · 총 8건
필터 보기현재 지수
50.3
0 = 부정 우세
50 = 중립
100 = 긍정 우세
최근 7일 기준 87,453건을 분석한 결과, 뉴스 심리지수는 50.3(균형)입니다. 긍정 4,386건(5.0%)·중립 81,019건(92.6%)·부정 2,048건(2.3%)이며, 중립 비중이 뚜렷하게 높습니다. 성향 지수는 종합 14.9(중도 균형)입니다.
American President Donald Trump is often described by many as an ‘irrational’ man. Yet, there are those who claim he is instead an over-the-top practitioner of the ‘Madman Theory.’ This theory encapsulates a political concept suggesting that a leader can gain a significant advantage in international negotiations or crises by convincing opponents that he or she is irrational, unstable, or downright ‘crazy’. Former US President Richard Nixon coined the term during his tenure, even though the underlying strategy had been present in modern politics long before Nixon gave it a formal name. Looking to force the communist forces in North Vietnam to sign a peace treaty that would guarantee an honourable exit of American troops from South Vietnam, Nixon told his Chief of Staff, H.R. Haldeman, that he had shaped a Madman Theory for this precise purpose. He explained that he wanted the North Vietnamese to believe he had reached the point where he might do absolutely anything to stop the war, wanting his ministers to intentionally drop hints that he constantly had his hand on the nuclear button. Indeed, it is quite common for hubris to emerge within a regime or in the person leading it. But, according to the noted political scientists John J. Mearsheimer and Sebastian Rosato, hubris is not really about irrationality. They argue that states are fundamentally rational actors that rigorously hypothesise scenarios through sound theories and information, from which they develop their policies and strategies. Nixon’s strategy was entirely rational. States and leaders rarely act without reason, and it’s usually flawed assumptions, rather than irrationality, that drive policy failures and political crises However, Mearsheimer and Rosato place heavy emphasis on the fact that state rationality does not automatically guarantee successful outcomes. Their analysis suggests that policies are typically forged by leaders who act as “homo theoreticus”, relying on structured, evidence-based theories to navigate the immense complexities of international relations. These may work or fail, but their formation is a rational process. In their 2023 book How States Think, Mearsheimer and Rosato focus primarily on the mechanics of foreign policy. But I posit that the heightened interconnectivity characterising the modern digital age necessitates an acknowledgement that internal policies are no longer insulated from global consequences. Illustration by Abro In this context, domestic choices can alter the course of a nation’s foreign affairs as well. During the conflict between Iran and the US, in which Pakistan is an active mediator, Pakistan found itself accused by India and Israel of being a ‘fanatical’ Islamist state that was siding with Iran. The Pakistani government and state recognised the threat these narratives posed to its international standing. To mitigate this, the Pakistani state accelerated the abandonment of its post-1970s ideological narrative, choosing instead to actively promote a new national identity. This new narrative frames Pakistan as a moderate, pragmatic Muslim-majority civilisational state. Here we see how internal policies can impact or be impacted by geopolitics. On the foreign policy front, the Indian and Israeli states hypothesised that, if they could successfully proliferate the perception of a ‘fanatical’ Pakistan, they would create enough doubt in the White House about the wisdom of having Pakistan act as a go-between for the US and a ‘fanatical’ Iran. On the other hand, the Pakistani state hypothesised that, given Israel’s growing reputation as an aggressive state and India’s declining reputation as a secular democracy due to its shift towards a radical Hindutva state, the Pakistani side can now convincingly bolster its new contrasting narrative of being a moderate, dependable nation. The Indian, Israeli and Pakistani policies in this case were all entirely rational. Mearsheimer and Rosato are firmly of the view that scholars who accuse leaders of irrationality often conflate the concept of irrationality with that of failure. Failed policies are routinely blamed on flawed decision-making processes. To Mearsheimer and Rosato, though, this is a mistake, because even failed policies are meticulously shaped through empirical information and theories. A state is considered rational if its actions follow logically from a coherent theory, even if that theory is proven to be incorrect. The theories are constructed through a deliberative process, requiring the careful gathering of information, the assessment of alternatives and the debate of potential outcomes, rather than being a product of mere impulse or emotional reaction. So, does that mean there have never been states/ governments/ leaders that were truly irrational? Mearsheimer and Rosato use the word “non-rational” in this regard, meaning governments, states and leaders who fail to employ a credible strategic theory, relying on wishful thinking instead. Most Western media outlets describe Russian President Vladimir Putin and North Korea’s “Supreme Leader” Kim Jong Un as irrational leaders. To Mearsheimer and Rosato, this is a flawed understanding. Putin’s and Kim’s policies are rooted in rational processes, as are those of Chinese leader Xi Jinping. In Mearsheimer’s recent commentaries, he does not see Trump’s decision to plunge into a war with Iran as an irrational move but one based on an ill-informed hypothesis. According to the Lebanese-American academic Fawaz A. Gerges, the decision to attack Iran was built on an illusion heavily fed by Israeli security components, which insisted that Iran’s internal architecture would crumble immediately under direct kinetic pressure. Nothing of the sort happened. Trump’s decision was rational but based on a flawed hypothesis and inaccurate information on the reality of Iran and of contemporary geopolitics. Therefore, one can suggest that Trump isn’t ‘mad’ as such, but simply not very well-informed. What about Imran Khan? Khan was not irrational, nor was he a crank. His decisions, especially to antagonise the military establishment after he was ousted in 2022, were based on a theory that he believed in. The theory suggests that a large-scale political movement scares the military establishment who then immediately submits to its demands. This theory was formed after Khan saw how troops had refused to confront violent protests by the Barelvi Islamist outfit, the Tehreek-i-Labbaik Pakistan (TLP) in 2016. This theory mutated in 2023, largely under the influence of the then pro-Khan former head of the Inter-Services Intelligence (ISI), Lt Gen Faiz Hameed. Allegedly, Hameed believed that since there were pro-Khan officers in the armed forces, targeted riots would trigger a mutiny to force out the then military chief, Gen Asim Munir. This was not a delusion. It was a theory based on information Khan and Hameed found sound, meaning the rational thing to do was to trigger the riot. However, despite the riots, the military’s chain of command remained intact. The mutiny theory failed because it completely ignored the fact that, historically, mutinies have been almost non-existent within the armed forces of Pakistan. The attempt was what Mearsheimer would call a “rational failure.” From then onwards, though, Khan’s strategies became increasingly non-rational, based on an ever-weakening understanding of Pakistani and international politics. The state’s strategy was rational as well: to keep him behind bars and gradually isolate him, leaving his subsequent moves increasingly detached from reality and thus triggering non-rational and even irrational thinking processes in him. Published in Dawn, EOS, June 7th, 2026
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The forgotten art of Bengali advertising miftahul@theda… Sun, 05/17/2026 - 14:05 Image The forgotten art of Bengali advertising I have never seen someone at a rustic village market, anklets jingling, shouting slogans for "Khol Company’s Ringworm Ointment." No smooth-talker has ever leaned in, fanning out thin booklets like a deck of cards, whispering rhythmically, "Here are the mysteries of Gopal Bhar, and here—the secret love letters." I never hid colourful advertisements of a reclining Gauhar Jaan, cigarette in hand, between the folds of shirts in my drawer. I did indeed rummage through my grandfather’s pockets to collect old tram tickets, but none of them bore that curious notice for "Ashtavakra Toothpowder." Perhaps the elders of the house witnessed a tram tearing through the heart of a half-awake city, bearing the Khadi Pratisthan’s pledge for cow protection—but there was no question of me witnessing such a sight. An iconic early 20th-century advertisement for Bukhsh Ellahie & Co., featuring classical maestro Gauhar Jaan holding a cigarette to promote their brand Someone’s great-grandfather might have known which drummers came beating the kara and nakara to announce, "Tonight at seven, the Chaitanya-lila folk play commences." I never heard the name of a young "lad" like Dhiren Bal, who reportedly painted the advertisement for "Himkalyan Hair Oil" at a three-way junction in Dinajpur. While searching the Panjika (almanac) for the auspicious moment of a wedding, I never had the chance to chuckle at the suggestive illustrations for "Libido-Enhancing Tablets." On a morning shortly after Mahatma Gandhi’s assassination, I didn't sit with a newspaper wondering which artist, known only as "Munshi," had used swirling brushstrokes to sketch a portrait as a final tribute on behalf of some bankrupt cotton mill. I saw none of this because I hadn't been born yet. Most of those who witnessed it are now gone forever. Yet, even without being born in that era, I have managed to 'see' it all. The old, withered newspapers and digital archives acted like Alibaba’s cave, revealing to me a lost jewelry box. To me, those vintage advertisements were not just pages of history; they were the precious Sita-har, the Jhumko, and the Nak-chabi themselves. I saw those 'ornaments'—the lost illustrations—and through them, I glimpsed a world that has otherwise vanished. Actually, on a sudden whim, I spent a long time digging through ancient newspapers and periodicals. My eyes kept getting stuck on the bizarre advertisements still surviving on the faded, brownish-yellow newsprint of yore. I was looking, most of all, at the illustrations. As I tasted this history, I remembered a book I read long ago: The Lost Tribes of Israel by Tudor Parfitt. Many believe that since the foreign invasions of Israel in the 8th century BC, at least twelve tribes went missing. Mr. Parfitt scoured the planet in search of them—a search that reportedly continues today. Some even believe the signs of those lost people are visible in the Afghans. Looking at the drawings for old advertisements, I felt I found a resemblance between those legendary lost tribes and these forgotten illustrators. That is why the book came to mind. It also felt as though there was no such mismatch that could prevent us from linking these unknown artists’ ghosts to their successors, even without a DNA test! The connection might be clear, but can we not grant them even a small corner in the history of Bengal's illustrative arts? Renowned figures like the artist Raghunath Goswami continue to say—no, those advertisement drawings or ideas are not even worth considering. They claim it is a "mindless and indiscriminate simplification of art objects." They say the expression has neither grace nor form. Artistic value? Far from it! For some reason, despite respecting the scholars' verdict, I grew stubborn. As I weighed the pros and cons, even the "ugly" artworks of those who drew advertisements for ringworm cures or hair-growth tonics began to pull at my eyes. I saw in them plenty of humour, and plenty of heartache too. Nevertheless, I began looking for a way to have a long conversation with those early advertising artists. A representative of a "vanishing species" like O.C. Ganguly (Arun Kumar Gangopadhyay) introduced me to a certain "madman." He had a crow's nest of hair. His lower garment was draped over his chest like a shawl. He wore a striped vest. His hands were shackled in massive iron rings. It is precisely these kinds of advertisements that art critics have referred to as brainless and ugly art. The advertisement regarding the cure for insanity, however, dates back to 1952. Yet, long before that, a group of young artists from agencies had completely transformed the face of Bengali ads. Apparently, such a madman would no longer need to be restrained. Why? Because the illness would be cured simply by administering "ABD Pills" and "Dutta Oil." Such was the claim of the "Bengali Asylum" of Dutta Nagar, Dum Dum, whose head office was at 29-A Vivekananda Road (Phone: Jorasanko 5220). Seeing the address "Jorasanko" in that illustrated ad, I was immediately reminded of the Tagore family—specifically, their members who struggled with mental health. One was Birendranath Tagore, the fourth son of Maharshi Debendranath. He was brilliant at mathematics but suddenly fell victim to "wind-disease" (mental instability). The other was Somendranath, another brother of Rabindranath. The Nobel laureate poet knew well which medicines helped the "insane." I learned of another advertisement—not for the ABD Pills of Dum Dum, but a special notice from "S.C. Roy & Co." at 167/3 Cornwallis Street. They advertised Dr. Umesh Chandra Roy’s world-famous "Great Cure for the Mad," priced at five rupees per bottle. The ad claimed that for over 70 years, this medicine had cured "millions of violent madmen and all kinds of nervous patients." This advertisement would appear with a quote from the poet himself, saying: "...I have been aware of its efficacy for a long time." Was the "Great Cure for the Mad" then used on Birendranath or Somendranath? I know bringing up Rabindranath's name is somewhat irrelevant, but seeing these old drawings makes my mind wander in a thousand directions! The illustrated advertisement I mentioned was published in 1952—the day I saw the picture of the shackled madman in the paper. That drawing was made several years after legendary artists had already begun to dominate Bengali advertising. By then, Bengalis had seen hundreds of fantastic drawings for various products. A legend like O.C. Ganguly was earning forty rupees a month at Calcutta’s "Stronach Advertising" as early as 1937. An agency named "Paradise Advertising" existed in Calcutta in 1928. No one can really speak of agencies in East Bengal (now Bangladesh) before the Partition. We mostly know of the birth of agencies like Bitopi, East Asiatic, or Interspan in the 1960s. Clearly, advertising production in both Bengals (undivided India at the time) was centred in Calcutta. Be that as it may, an agency required an artist—someone to present the matter attractively to lure customers. But not all sellers went to agencies. Instead, they took "ugly" creations (by today’s standards) made by local artists to make printing blocks for newspaper offices. The madman illustration is a classic example. The calligraphy in that ad was purely amateurish—something no professional agency would ever approve. Whether that ad ran before 1952 or if that was the first, I do not know. It is undeniable that finding artists from the era before the establishment of agencies (pre-partition) is extremely difficult. Only a handful of artists signed their names on those ads, and even then, it was just a tiny first initial of their name and surname, usually in English. Pranabesh Maity, who drew ads in the 60s and 70s, had a more bitter experience. He claimed that even if artists signed, agency bosses would often erase the signature to imply that the agency was everything and the artist didn't matter. This makes me think of the "Lost Tribes" and a piece by Premendra Mitra about the Patuas (traditional scroll painters). Premendra once had a great desire to find the lost Patuas of Kalighat. Briefly, the story goes like this—a young boy walking the streets of Kalighat would watch with wonder a specific style of indigenous painting. Ordinary men in dirty clothes sat cross-legged on mats in small roadside shops, painting those pictures. Yet, the walls of the shops were adorned with framed, colourful photographs of gods and goddesses. People coming to the temple preferred to buy the framed photos. Even so, the Patuas would sit down to paint whenever they found a moment’s respite between sales. Then came a day when not only the scroll paintings but even the expensive printed pictures of deities vanished from those shops. The Patuas disappeared too. I don't know if that young boy was Premendra himself—since his childhood was spent in North India, having been born in Varanasi. But for a creative man like him to imagine that boy while thinking of the Patuas is not far-fetched. When a kind soul eventually went looking for those Patuas, he was utterly disappointed. He learned that they had been pushed out of the city. Their descendants had not become "useless" painters; some took jobs as labourers in jute mills or chose other professions. At most, unable to ignore the "blood connection," some practised their hand at painting the chalchitra (background canopy) of idols. Premendra tracked down a few of these "unfortunate" descendants and asked to see old scroll paintings. He was shocked to find they had almost nothing left. One or two pulled down a bundle of papers tucked into the thatch of their huts. Premendra saw the pathetic state of those soot-stained, discoloured papers—they were ready to crumble at any moment. Calling the insects "connoisseurs of art," a somber Premendra described how those paintings were being destroyed. The author was accompanied by an art collector. His friend bought some paintings that were in good condition from the descendants for an unexpectedly high price. Later, he and others wrote about them. Premendra noted how his "self-satisfaction" was bruised. He commented that while many were becoming famous artists by adopting the Patua style, and those paintings were selling at major exhibitions to decorate drawing rooms—even impressing Pablo Picasso—the Patua sitting on a dirty mat in a narrow shop and the ordinary customer buying them for a pittance are nowhere to be found today. Thinking of the early artists of Bengali advertising, I am reminded of Premendra Mitra's essay "Barbar Yuger Pore" (After the Barbaric Age), just as I was of The Lost Tribes of Israel. In it, I found no real difference between the forgotten Patuas and the nameless illustrators from the dawn of Bengali advertising. The artists whose work I later came to know and appreciate were giants like Annada Munshi—whose ideas and illustrations revolutionised the look and feel of Bengali advertising. But I wanted to see what kind of "ugly and tasteless" creations (as labelled by later critics) Annada and his peers had replaced. Without seeing those, how could I understand the evolution of style? Here, I must mention the artist Hemen Majumdar. He is never known to have drawn for advertisements. Everyone knows that when art lovers discuss him, his paintings of "drip-wet Bengali women" inevitably come up. Who that woman was, was once a subject of intense speculation. A few know that he often painted while keeping a photograph by his side. Hemen had taken photos of his wife, Sudharani, in various poses as she returned from bathing in the family pond. His wife was his model. When giving the picture its final form, he would simply change Sudharani’s face and paint the face of a relative instead—much like modern-day Photoshop! Essentially a romantic artist, Hemen Mazumdar never illustrated advertisements himself. Yet, his signature style of depicting women was extensively adapted by other advertising artists. Though Hemen was skilled at copying photographs, he knew the magic of glorifying them with colour. But that wasn't all. This was a man who was invited to design the gateway for King George V’s visit to India, who was a pioneer in publishing art journals, who painted the landscapes of Kashmir at the invitation of the Maharaja, who was the "Court Artist" of the Maharaja of Patiala, and who gave an artistic form to Mahatma Gandhi at the spinning wheel. He didn't just paint wet clothes! At the same time, it is true that his skill at painting beautiful women was so popular that other artists, while drawing women for advertisements, often mimicked Hemen’s postures—or those of the women painted by Raja Ravi Varma. Thus, even without drawing for ads himself, Hemen was "present" in this branch of art through the figures of women drawn in his style. Of course, bringing out the "wet-clothed" look or suggestive sensuality in black-and-white newspaper ads was a difficult task! It’s worth mentioning that Hemen’s own work was occasionally used in advertising. An organisation called "Bengal Autotype" used to run ads featuring a sketch of Rabindranath Tagore by Hemen, accompanied by the Poet’s message. The advertisers even sold prints of that picture. The ad read: "A Wonderful Picture of Poet." Each print cost one rupee, with an additional 50 paise for postage. This ad appeared in the Visva-Bharati journal in the late 1930s, detailing the paper quality and dimensions. In the eyes of some critics, the work of the "erotic painter" Hemen began to gain popularity in 1926 after a commercial firm in Mumbai bought his paintings to make calendars. The "forbidden" sword of the Hemen-style became a weapon for advertising illustrators too. One could easily call them followers of Hemen’s "voyeuristic" work. However, no matter how they were drawn, it's not as if the artists of the Battala press or the Patuas hadn't used such "swords" long before! Based on the consumer's mindset, this tradition seems never-ending—at home, abroad, and everywhere else. (To be continued) Sandip Dasgupta has spent nearly three decades working in the editorial offices of newspapers and news portals. He has authored several history-based books, and a subject particularly close to his heart is the illustrations created by Bengali artists. Send your articles for Slow Reads to slowreads@thedailystar.net. Check out our submission guidelines for details.