Jamna Teere

An existential frog in the Delhi fog + the unreliable sun + yet another Happy New Year

2012-01-10T23:09:00.004+05:30

My lovely friends,

I hope you enjoy this greatly factual and partly imaginary, but completely true, anecdote.
--

For whatever it is worth Delhi has been having the coldest winters, and the sun was gone for many days in a row. It was foggy every morning and evening for many days in a row. Places have got snow or sub-zero (celsius) temperature after six-seven decades. On one such evening, yours truly went out for a run in the park that he has been going to since he was in high school. It was foggy. And then pitter-patter happened all of a sudden, and there was rain and drizzle. The run got over and it was time to stretch etc. Willy-nilly. Then it was time to do pull-ups and hang upside down.

Suddenly, I started to hear a frog croak. In such winter, and from my batman position on a cold steel rail, I started rotating my neck just as much as I could in any direction. Then I saw a little movement on the ground beneath. It continued. I jumped down from my perch and saw the frog. I peered closer, and it was still a frog. I wondered and wondered and was muttering under my breath -

"C***sucker, what on earth are you doing here? Am I presiding over evolution in the cold dark? What is a frog doing here?"

The frog looked up and rolled its button eyes. I rolled my eyes. Then it opened its mouth, and belched out these words -

"In the depth of winter, I finally learnt that within me lay an invincible summer." I was stunned.

"You had only read that before?"

"Yes," I said.

"Well, now you've seen it."

The frog winked, and started hobbling away in the direction it had to go in. Slowly, the croak became less audible, and the frog disappeared into the fog and dark. I came home with ... wonderment.

Late in the next afternoon, I looked up as I was walking through my daily life. It looked like it would rain again. Two-three bolts of lightening showed up on the horizon, and it dutifully started drizzling. I love winter rain, and was not complaining in the first place. To complain against the weather was my mother's vocation. Her only complaint. She dutifully complained.

And then the next day arrived. I was walking through my daily life yet again. Yet again, the sky was grey, but not laden with moisture. Suddenly, the sun came out. It winked at me, and said - "How do you like this game?" adding "Dude" to the question.

"Just fine," I said. "Keep at it. Keep playing, son of a b***h. Don't you ever stop." Making my deep baritone slightly threatening, I added, "Some people hang clothes to dry. They hope every morning that you'd come out later in the day."

The happy wink quickly turned into a smirk. A big haze was nearby. The sun quickly took cover before I could say anything else.

--
Have a great 2012, a greater month of January, a perfect tomorrow, wonderment, winter rains and sunshine.

Two Balls of Love

2011-09-16T03:51:00.007+05:30

only once did the lover show his hand to a fortune teller. she was drunk and it was dark in the night by the holiest river of the biggest mountain. she told him that his hand read three long love affairs to be followed by a lonely death. he had two with two lovely, dark krishnas and then had to say

you, darknesses,
your tresses,
your caresses.
i was sugar
now i am molassis.

to avoid a lonely death, he had to live a lonely life. or, ensure that he loved four times. eitherways, the milestone to be crossed was that of 'three'. then he put a classified in the matrimonial column of a news-paper. it said

a joker,
strung by two balls.
on a tree.
stoke her
to cut them.
he be free.

(Tirath)

2011-07-10T11:19:00.002+05:30

Dug out from a notebook from Feb 1999.

Kamla Nagar (1) ilaakaa.
Mahavidyalaya kaal.
Ek nav-yuvak.
Duniya ki khoj mein.
Duniya Jahaan ki anta-heen khoj mein
paidal hi nikal pade,
rudra dwar (2) se.
Do kadam chalte hi
tirath raam (3) mil pade.

1) kamla nagar is the general area of Delhi University.
2) Rudra dwaar or Rudra Gate, is one of the gates of st stephens college
3) Tirath Ram was the fellow who sat at Rudra Gate, and sold cigarettes. At some point he had to leave coz educational institutions could no longer have people like him. He can still be seen roaming around at Rudra Gate etc, selling cigarettes on the sly. 'Tirath' means pilgrimage. I cant really figure out how to translate 'Tirath Ram'.

Poems for Jay Mack: Three

2011-07-05T12:12:00.001+05:30

Poems for Jay Mack: Three

Stop flattering me.
Writing in verse
isnt a waive of my hand.
I am not being terse.
Such is the Somaliland
of my heart.
A thought is a dart.
Every minute gets
seventy to start.
You, be my American,
at peace in Red County.
Climbing saguaro cactii
for want of easier bounty.
Gobbling peyote
by the mouthfuls.
Tripping alongside
The moon in full.
I bet,
a scorpion is your pet.

Peg back every thought
that thought
to part
from this Somali heart.
Bring order
here, to the land in shreds.
He, who once was pirate.
Now he dreads
disorder.
Is lost but not irate.
The future spins.
Nobody wins.
Somaliland's safety?
It grins.

Poems for Jay Mack: Two

2011-07-05T12:05:00.002+05:30

Poems for Jay Mack: Two

Madam,
Ain't Adam no more.
Palindromes(1) are on cure.
There was once,
a thought with this dunce.
Having coffee
with Delighted Mack.
She needed to be free.
Sent me an old jazz song pack,
saying the same to me.
I left the freedom.
drank the song for the better.
But with no telecom to put together
the voices of dunce and mack.
How can I find out if she is back?
I wonder if she is free of Marana(2).
Is she now an urban lounge piranha?

1) Palindrome refers to the palindrome - [Madam, I'm adam]. Palindrome being phrases that read the same back and forth.
2) Marana is a small town near Tucson, Arizona.

Poems for Jay Mack: One

2011-07-05T12:00:00.006+05:30

you scare me with your little french.
i am not french.
not even a dog.
but my tongue lolls out
coz i am looking at your bench.

from india they kidnapped me
in tucson they let my tongue out
nevertheless it was only for a bit. a wee
for beyond that i was not even worth a shout

in case you want a bout
for a man who was out
on the streets of az
in the excuse of being lazy.

or do you want a man,
who can say amen
to the ladies who say
i was watching the navajos
in the indian pose

but the indian was the wrong kind
he took me on the long grind
dancing all the time
not letting rid of the slime
adding to the grime
pretending to mime
but lending to the crime

find out who is the criminal, coz i talk in pome
to the ladies who like slick chrome.

walk in the desert of class

2011-05-22T04:26:00.014+05:30

this year, yours truly finally went trying to score chicks again. he had been devoid of love and TLC way too long. he had been missing soft flesh way too long. so beneath is the story of what happened to him on one of those occasions that his desire for love and soft flesh took over his memory of the same. you can enjoy reading while listening to RHCP's Californication. I dont know how to embed videos.

Viktor Oliva's The Absinthe Drinker

the month is march. or maybe april. 3-4 days after i cleared comps and took my viva. katrina has defended. megan wants to party coz andy is in town. people generally decide to go pubcrawling on the friday concerned. i play along. many hours are spent at no anchovies. then many more at gentle bens before people reach a new bar called Mr Heads (on 4th). by now i have been drinking since 6pm and it is midnight for sure. one lady whose face and name i cannot recollect got to the fancies of my imagination. i chat her up and she agrees to join me when Historians are going to shift to the next bar. Historians shift. Me and her are at Mr Heads waiting for her to finish her drink. I decide to finish one more drink to give her company and it is 1am in the night. I am happy and satisfied at my accomplishments. Clearing the comps. Presenting two different papers at two different places (one each on the two coasts) in one semester. Smug. Because I thought I had too much style and content. That I was too good for the world. I thought I was picking up the chick and that too with such speed. However, someone smarter was watching me and what was going on. It was not my friends, who were trying to call me as I was fast sinking into the quicksand. I still needed to learn some lessons. And from that point when smugness descended upon me first, from there on I have no memories. i had a black out. from 1am to 3 am, i had no recollection of anything. at 3 in the night i 'woke up' and found myself walking in a strange part of town i had never seen before. i checked out the streets and it said swan and 36th. i had walked for two hours and for almost 10 miles or more (i found on checking the google maps next day). this meant that i had to walk at least 13-15 miles to get back home. i had crossed 10 miles of road in my sleep. i was aghast. there were thick scratches on my thighs from rubbing my cigarette pack in my pocket. i did not know where i was and how to get back anywhere. nevertheless i kept walking. the neighbourhood was full of barking dogs, trucks, stuff strewn outside and inside the houses. i saw no guns but I knew they were there. i kept meandering and meandering and then i saw the train tracks. train tracks dont meander. it said aviation highway thereabouts and i knew that the train tracks lead to tucson. train tracks dont mislead. they can only send you in the right direction or in the opposite direction. i knew which way tucson was. so i did not leave them and kept walking on aviation highway next to the tracks. the hobo would never die. its a rule of the world. i kept walking and walking. i became the mad dog who had walked wherever there is heat and dust in this world. in north india. in arizona. and i think i can proudly say that i can take any kind of heat and dust. it shall not bother me. my mouth was dry and so was my body. i would try and hitchhike on aviation, but nobody stopped. rightly so. i am sure they were equally scared of me, as i was of them. i was lucky that i encountered no cops and no border patrol. i had no id on me. i was only carrying my beat up phone and some money. i called two people not knowing what to say on the phone. they thought i was drunk. i was not. not any longer. miraculously, nobody stopped me to take my money either. so much for the violence in mexico (and south tucson). slowly, i made it to Kino which soon became Campbell. then i reached the Los Betos at Broadway at 530 am and it was still dark. i was gunning to get there and was happy to have got there. i recalled that Los Betos opens 24 hours. i went inside and there was no one in there, except for one guy on the counter. i went up to him and said 'i want to sleep'. then i realised i cant say that and added 'and i want a ..... (looked up at menu) chorizzo'. i had no idea what a chorizzo was. that was the first name i thought i could pronounce properly. so he said yes sir. and i slept for 30 mins before the Labour Forces of the United States of America started arriving in hordes to get some food before they headed out north to white Tucson to work. lots of spanish. beautiful hard-working girls, slowly becoming round and losing their figures from sitting at a place. or from rearing too many kids and men. men with morning faces, broken dreams, beat-up trucks and american t-shirts. trying to buy their little corner in the vast field of the american dream. steadfastly being told NO and confined to south of broadway and to los betos. this bourgeois kid from india smiling and pretending to sleep in the face of the non-sense that passes on in the name of the world. while the mexicans worked, most of my friends would be doing exercise and yoga. i was no different. i wanted to exercise in the mornings, but was too lazy and lackadaisical. so i told myself that i should get out. i got up. the buses were running in town by now. i went on to the bus that goes on Grant. got down near my house. i walked two blocks. i was sick of being on my feet and had cut out the last couple miles thanks to the bus. i had no clue where my housekeys were. stealthily i opened the back door of my house. i caused no commotion and did not wake up my room-mate and his lady. it is 6am. the sun is rising. i sank into my bed. i did not dream. i do not dream. i only have nightmares.

random pics of the roads of tucson. i think i walked all of these. last is Country Club at Aviation. the light is green ;)

The cup broke and the liquor fell

2011-05-04T13:51:00.002+05:30

THE CUP BROKE AND THE LIQUOR FELL

mughanni o saqi b-ham sakhtand

z yek nai do aatish-i 'ilm saakhtand

The singer and the saqi (cup-bearer) together,

with the reed (ie, pen) know the two aatish (fire; here, wine and song) better

do aatish z yek khas bar afrokhtand

z har aatishi 'aalami sukhtand

yek aatish z maikhaane-ha sar kashid

be har khaane-ayi z u sharaari rasid

The two aatish do something amazing

Each aatish sets a world a-blazing

In the tavern the first aatish raises its head

Razes every house down to the coaly bed

chu az lab zind aatish naghma-i josh

chasan mi-tawan kard u ra khamosh

How can one silence

the song of aatish's strength

mughanni tu ham naghma-yi saaz kun

nawa ra chu aatish-i sar afraz kun

be yek naala-yi zaar kaar-m b-saaz

zani kun chu aatish mora sarfaraaz

Minstrel, you also get along with your stuff

Play your thing and let aatish puff

One does the lament with the guitar

And aatish is my lord and supreme power

daf o nai bud hamchu sifar o alif

ke bashand ba yek digar mukhtalif

Tambour and reed are a binary

Without one, another is not free

tawan naqsh har naghma kardan raqm

ke hast az daf o nai dawat o qalm

And keep giving each song a strum

Reed Inkpot Pen and Drum

n-manad nihaan harf in anjuman

ke nai chun zabaan-st o daf chun dahan

The alphabet cant be hidden in this gathering

The mouth is the drum, reed becomes tongue.

az an mai ke be u kasi pak nist

mughanni agar mast shud baak nist

The mai is sublime and pure

when the singer is fearless to the core

mughanni z yek naghma mansur shud

be yek kasa tambur-i faghfur shud

Hey Singer, let not the fear stay

Send it away with the drums of Cathay

section on sukhan (poetry, conduct, writing, many many meanings, here it is mostly poetry)

sukhan ra kunam naql in bazm-i khas

ke az mai shuwand ahl-i majlis khalas

And sukhan is here in the special assembly

For the people of the congress it is deadly

sukhan shahid-i gusha-i khilwat-st

sukhan saqi baada-i wahdat-st

Sukhan is witness to the loneliness

Keeps me with mai in togetherness

sukhan sho'la-i aatish-i dil bud

sukhan sanj ra shama'i mahfil bud

Sukhan is the ember of the fire of my heart

The chime of the lamp of this (solo) mart

5 sukhan jauhar-i zaat-i insaan bud

sukhan maya-i kufr o iman bud

Sukhan is the art of the tribe of men

The basis of kufr (infidelity) and momin (sincere believer)

8 agar chashma-i dil ni-ayid be josh

dahan-ha shud khushk wa lab-ha khamosh

If the the heart gets no rush

Mouth goes dry and the lips say hush

section on majlis/bazm/maikhana/khamkhana (assembly, tavern)

gahi saqi bazm rindaan shuwam

gahi shahid mai parastan shuwam

At times the saqi is with rinds (sufi, debauch, knave)

Other times with worshipper of drinks

b-deh saqi an atish-i nakhl-i tur

ke bazm-i harifan shud bagh-i nur

Saqi, give us the atish of Sinai (refers Musa/Moses)

And make this assembly well nigh

be majlis kunad har dam afshayi zaar

dahaani gushaada, zabaani daraaz

In the majlis we lament

With mouths open and tongues spent

be raqs amad az shauq dar bazm-i daf

jalajal zad az har tarf kaf be kaf

daf az naghma dar bazm jaan dar kaf ast

kaf-i dast tambur goya daf-st

The assembly of drums causes a dance

Chimes ring with the clapping palms

Cymbals Songs Applause on the stage

Palms come together for the mouth that is taped.

wa gar ne z majlis zanad fitna-i sar

nai o daf kunad kaar tir o sipar

If you want the majlis to never yield

Let the reed and chime be bow and shield

section on revolution (failed, dedicated to TRex)

dar in bazm gardam z bas inquilaab

gahi jaam o gah shisha o gah sharab

Right here will come the revolution and uproar

Let the glasses out and start to pour

zanam az dar sulh-i kul (universal peace) baske dam

daham sulh-i ahl jahan-ra b-ham

Sulh-i kul shall spread with my breath

Peace with all is the connecting thread

biya saqi an mayi-e sulh-i kul

be man dah ke khandaan b-nosham chu gul

Come saqi, get the wine of sulh-i kul

It gives me the blossom of a gul (flower, rose).

gah az didan ghuncha-i khandaan shuwam

gah az yaad-i sambal parishan shuwam

And when I see the blossoming flowers

I miss sambal (hyacinth) and tears come in showers

be bagh-i in do aatish chu roshan shud

chaman rishk waadi aiman shud

'ajab nist gar khaane-ha shud kharaab

ke yek sho'la ba dast o yek sho'la-i ab

n-darad 'ilaj atish maikada

ke in atish az ab roshan shuda

If these two aatish (ie, wine and song) get illuminated

The garden and the valley get sedated

Its no surprise that the whole house got a firestarter

one is an ember in hand, another is in the water.

There is no cure for the fire that leads out of the tavern

It shall cause light and it will burn.

be man dah ke sozad rag o resha-am

kunad khali az khwesh-i chun shisha-am

chu mom az taghi narm saazad mora

kunad shama' o sar garm saazad mora

Give to me the wine that cuts and eats my veins

For other than him (friend, yaar), from my body everything drains.

The wax that on heat goes mellow.

Light that candle, that makes my head the burning yellow.

butparasti (idol worship)/ka'aba (blackstone of Mecca, the heart of Islam)

dil-m ka'aba o dida dariya o man

z bakht siyah hind karda watan

magar jaye dar kashti-i mai kunam

ke dar wai rah-i ka'aba ra tai kunam

~~My heart is Blackstone Kaaba, Saqi~~

~~Misfortune hit me. I made this country (Hind/India) my tepee~~

~~Nevertheless, I made space for the cup of wine,~~

~~For travelling the road to Ka'aba in the line~~

be chashm-m shud ka'aba o mikada

do virana mulk gharat zada

Kaba and the whiskey bar

Both are lonely countries after the war

b-guyad be har kas pas az khair baad

ke baad-m wali hamchu baad muraad

Everybody says after the hot windy barb

After Wali's turn, came the turn of Murad

(Wali was the ruler of Balkh, in present-day north Afghanistan, who had a copy of the poems of Fani, the original Persian poet of these verses. Balkh was briefly conquered by the Mughals in 1640s, and Wali routed by prince Murad Bakhsh. Murad ensured that Fani, the poet, was expelled from Mughal service. In the War of Succession for the Mughal throne in 1658, Aurangzeb despatched all his brothers, including Murad, to the slaughterhouse. )

These are random verses that I have translated, very faithfully. They are from the poem called saqinama by Muhsin Fani Kashmiri (d. 1670). Fani was a partisan of Dara (Darius, in English) Shikoh, the greatest tragic figure of Indian history. Dara and Fani were disciples of Shaikh Muhibullah of Allahabad, India. They are supposed to have stood for an Islam that was inclusive. Dara was hunted down by Aurangzeb, paraded in the streets of Delhi with a blackened face, astride a donkey, and then beheaded. Many people take Dara Shikoh to be a just, well-read, nice, non-military, peace for all, kind of a person. Many others take him to be the heir apparent of the Mughal throne, since he was the eldest. I find Aurangzeb, a far more interesting figure. Aurangzeb is today remembered as the Muslim bigot par excellence.

Lorca and Pan's Labyrinth

2011-04-14T07:01:00.004+05:30

There is little left in the battery. I am coming back from Santa Barbara after presenting a paper for the first time. India or US. More importantly, I read a bit of Lorca (not in Spanish). I remember watching Pan's Labyrinth. A beautiful and sad film. More often than not, I think that beauty has to be melancholic. And melancholic too is a strange word. When I saw Vertigo (the only Hitchcock I have seen) recently, I noticed that melancholia was used in the sense of an illness. Funny that the word is now a non-technical one. Pan's Labyrinth is a great tribute to Lorca. Every word of Lorca's that I have read so far inevitably reminded me of Pan's Labyrinth. There are insects, fantasies and illusions. There is incredible beauty and sadness tailgates. Crashing into each other. Beauty and sadness. Lorca calls frogs muezzins of the darkness. Then he talks about cups. The cups of life. Crashing. Persian poets talk of cups. Sometimes crashing. At other times invigorating. Lorca can invigorate. Alice in Chains invigorate. Lorca is dead. Persian is dead. Layne Stayly is dead. I am a wannabe historian. A digger of the graves. Searching for beauty in the most horrible places. Here is some Lorca (translated by many people; published in 'Selected Verse' of Lorca by Farrar, Strauss and Giroux, NY; ed Christopher Maurer).

AND THEN (is this what inspired PAN'S LABYRINTH)

The labyrinths

that time creates

vanish.

(Only the desert

remains.)

The heart,

fountain of desire,

vanishes.

(Only the desert

remains.)

The illusion of dawn

and kisses

vanish.

Only the desert

remains.

Undulating

desert.

Dry land,

quiet land

of immense nights.

(Wind in the olive grove,

wind in the sierra.)

Old

land

of oil lamps

and sorrow.

Land

of deep cisterns.

Land

of death without eyes

and of arrows.

(Wind along the roadways.

Breeze in the poplars.)

Building of the Santa Barbara Municipal Airport from the outside.

(roughly) A Long-Winded Defence of The New Western, and other things

2011-04-14T06:38:00.004+05:30

Once upon a time I used to read lots of literature. I read so much that even today (long time after I lost interest in the books of fiction) when I am in the mood of playful hubris, I can introduce myself as 'one of the most well-read people you have met'. Then I started watching lots of films. Then I slowed down again. Nevertheless, I would never indulge in calling myself a movie afficiando. Of late, I have made a subtle return to the world of fiction. Not from the backdoor. But from the back of the beyond door. Somehow, I no longer read English language fiction, even though all that I write is in English. But then the question is Hindi script and language any more or less amenable to a Jat? My community has still got no literature or a script so to speak, and how does it matter whether the language that I got naturalised into (for expressive purposes in writing) is Hindi, English or Urdu? My grandparents who could write, wrote in Urdu. Parents in Hindi and English. I use English.

I am loathe to read even Indian English fiction or even the so-called 'St.Stephen's school of literature' that I really used to dig. In fact, I pursued an Honors Bachelors degree in History at St.Stephens (Delhi Univ) as a field, in the hope of stacking up some odds that would enable me to shine with luminaries who did the same and became masters of Indian writing in English. That list is too long to be mentioned here. And this is the longest celebratory ode to St.Stephen's College that I have ever thought or written up in my head in the longest while. Amongst the many relics of the past that I need to be on comfortable terms with, Stephens (I am always tempted to call it St. Stiffens College) is in the top five. I did make good friends there. Perhaps I dont like that phase of my life, more than the college itself. Of course there were pompous asses at Stiffens, but again every place is full of them. A round of applause for talking! Coming back now. The literature I have been trying to read is often in Urdu, Hindi (rather in five or six of its dialects) and Persian. Occasionally I read a foreigner translated to Hindi or English (oh the shameless culture vulture). The one dollar (fifty rupees) copy of Lolita in Hindi I read in 2002, having bought it from ISBT (bus station in chief of Delhi), remains the last book I read in one sitting, and that too in the cheapest UP Roadways bus to Rishikesh. To use that phrase 'it set my lions on fire'.

The point was not to blow my trumpet. I was just setting up stage. Having ploughed through various kinds of fiction and now in semi-retirement vis-a-vis literature, I occasionally wonder how reality and fiction (or history and literature) are different. Certain happenings reported in news often make me wonder whether man can differentiate between fiction and reality. How does human reaction to the earth-quake in Japan differ from the reaction to Godzilla the film? More pertinently, certain news items make this distinction seem like it is of no importance. Bizarre news are far more bizarre than bizarre literature or film (including Cannibal Holocaust; I dare you to watch it without pressing forward or turning your eyes away). One of the earliest (first or second) entries in this blog was about an Indian Army scam in Kashmir whence young Kashmiri men would be promised recruitment in the Army (or other para-military forces), asked to dress up in Pathan suits and then gunned down in jungle, where recruitment tests were taking place. Some people even got medals for shooting down terrorists. This was so similar to Borges' story (if i remember the title correct) The Cruel Redeemer Lazarus Morrell, in which Lazarus Morrell would take money from slaves in the American South and promise to take them North, only to sell them as runaway slaves to the authorities.

One of the best films I have seen in a long while was not by David Lynch, but by his daughter, Jennifer. This film was titled 'Surveillance'. Meanwhile, here in Arizona along the border, we have now a tradition of vigilante groups trying to protect the US-Mexico border from illegal immigrants. Their modus operandi is still unclear to the larger public, and I would not like to speculate on a sensitive topic. There are those who say that these vigilante groups really hunt down illegal immigrants, or ensure that they get no water, or turn them into the police after catching them. I have reason to believe all of the above is true, but since I am writing this off-line, I would not go online to find incriminating or alleviating evidence. Of course, it is ironic that all of Southern Az ranches are farmed by the illegal immigrant as well. I do have a friend from the town of Catalina, who claims that he has been shot at (as target) while mountain biking or off-roading (same thing in Catalina) near Catalina. The other day yours truly, and his two friends (including the one from Catalina) did a near 100-mile biking day. The route was Tucson – Oro Valley – Catalina – OFFROAD – Tortollita Mtns – ONROAD – Missile Base Rd – I-10 (bw Picacho Peak and Marana) – Marana – Silverbell Rd – Tucson. The number of empty bullet shells I saw in the Tortollitas that day far exceeds the number of empty bullet shells I had seen before or since. That the entire side-track above is useless must be mentioned coz the Tortollitas are far from the border. But am I trying to portray a gun crazy place? I dont care. I like it that way.

Now here in Southern Az, there was this 43-year old woman who was running a vigilante group. She needed more money to finance the operations of the group. She had two younger men as her assistants. The three decided to intervene in the illegal smuggling operations (presumably marijuana) on the border to raise that money. Corollary, they went in and shot an entire Hispanic family to pick up the consignment from across border in their house. Some court sentenced one of her younger henchmen for life yesterday. The others have already been sentenced if I remember correctly. Sam Peckinpah would have made a cracker of a film about this. Idealism. Poverty. State. Migration. Older woman. Two younger men. Love. Race. It was Sergio Leone who made the film C'era una volta il West (commonly known as Once Upon a Time in the West, but the Italian translates as Once Upon a Time There Was the West). The West is still here. With the guns. The horses are less visible. There is no spaghetti. The battle is on. An irony is that when there is Jared Loughner or Shawna Forde that commits a crime, they no longer represent the 'White' race, but are dubbed as 'not one of us' from the word go, but a Muslim woman is always in an Islamic veil.

Surveillance by Jennifer Lynch (Julia Ormond in a stunning role, Bill Pullman is her poodle) has a very similar story and theme but is based in West Texas. It is a powerful, terrifying and real film. I would not reveal the plot. Another was No Country For Old Men. These are the new Westerns. No cowboys. Films that desperately search for beauty but find only dogs and wolves, heat and dust. Miraculously, they manage to find a way to say that in the doghouse, roses do not whither.

Bunny Love by Lawaris

2011-03-03T15:11:00.001+05:30

BUNNY LOVE

Lawaris

The air punishes me.
Solitude is not lonely.

Sleep has been put to rest.
Little love have nights expressed.

With the drops of rain,
fondle your breaths. Yet again.

Those winds embracing you.
Ask them to get a song which is not new.

The soldiers of moisture waiting in the flanks
Decapitate their entire ranks

Life was always like this. Frozen.
Have you only just woken?

Air Traffic on these pathways
blows no horn. Directionless,

Energiser Bunny, goes on and on.
Landing on runways with boots gone.

Striving to lose and forget,
whatever it wanted.
Many-a one moment is still set,
in stone. Still haunted.

Constantine Kavafy's The City

2011-03-03T15:06:00.001+05:30

The City

by C. P. Cavafy

You said: “I’ll go to another country, go to another shore,

find another city better than this one.

Whatever I try to do is fated to turn out wrong

and my heart lies buried like something dead.

How long can I let my mind moulder in this place?

Wherever I turn, wherever I look,

I see the black ruins of my life, here,

where I’ve spent so many years, wasted them, destroyed them totally.”

You won’t find a new country, won’t find another shore.

This city will always pursue you.

You’ll walk the same streets, grow old

in the same neighborhoods, turn gray in these same houses.

You’ll always end up in this city. Don’t hope for things elsewhere:

there’s no ship for you, there’s no road.

Now that you’ve wasted your life here, in this small corner,

you’ve destroyed it everywhere in the world.

Translated by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard

Agha Shahid Ali's Tonight

2011-03-03T15:01:00.002+05:30

Tonight

by Agha Shahid Ali

Pale hands I loved beside the Shalimar
—Laurence Hope

Where are you now? Who lies beneath your spell tonight?

Whom else from rapture’s road will you expel tonight?

Those “Fabrics of Cashmere—” “to make Me beautiful—”

“Trinket”—to gem—“Me to adorn—How tell”—tonight?

I beg for haven: Prisons, let open your gates—

A refugee from Belief seeks a cell tonight.

God’s vintage loneliness has turned to vinegar—

All the archangels—their wings frozen—fell tonight.

Lord, cried out the idols, Don’t let us be broken;

Only we can convert the infidel tonight.

Mughal ceilings, let your mirrored convexities

multiply me at once under your spell tonight.

He’s freed some fire from ice in pity for Heaven.

He’s left open—for God—the doors of Hell tonight.

In the heart’s veined temple, all statues have been smashed.

No priest in saffron’s left to toll its knell tonight.

God, limit these punishments, there’s still Judgment Day—

I’m a mere sinner, I’m no infidel tonight.

Executioners near the woman at the window.

Damn you, Elijah, I’ll bless Jezebel tonight.

The hunt is over, and I hear the Call to Prayer

fade into that of the wounded gazelle tonight.

My rivals for your love—you’ve invited them all?

This is mere insult, this is no farewell tonight.

And I, Shahid, only am escaped to tell thee—

God sobs in my arms. Call me Ishmael tonight.

“Tonight" from Call Me Ishmael Tonight: A Book of Ghazals by Agha Shahid Ali

Harman's Book: A free-wheeling review of Chris Harman's A People's History of the World

2011-02-03T16:00:00.003+05:30

HARMAN'S BOOK – February 3, 2011, 0323 hours, Tucson

A review of Chris Harman's A People's History of the World

Harman's book is written with noble (keep in mind that noble has other meanings too) intent. It is quite close to the marxist/socialist vision of history. However, more than his historical method, the closeness hangs in the goal that Harman sees to be worth pursuing, viz., the emancipation of the working class. Amongst the terms and categories employed, there is a sheer absence of many classical Marxist ones. 'Materialism', 'thesis', 'anti-thesis', 'mode of production' and many other terms are conspicuous by their absence. How might this be explained? This could be a sign of an author both influenced by and catering to a culture/readership that is no longer interested in knowing such long gone, derided and 'defeated' concepts, or perhaps where 'the left' had taken a different trajectory long back (maybe the 1920s). Here, I am supposing that Harman is writing for the US and Britain.

Harman does not give up the hope of a working class revolution and the entire book is written in the classical marxist-influenced historian's story of increasing pressure, oppression and concentration of power that inevitably explodes. The build-up is towards this impending explosion, which apparently could and should happen anytime. The way events in Egypt are being reported would certainly prove his point. However, a bigger lacuna in the work, one that he tries to tend to, remains the question of who or what is 'working class', especially given the position of Britain and America in the 'organisation of production' in the present-day world. With manufacturing largely focussed on highly specialised and hi-tech items, and the export of production, and even services, to the Third World, I fail to understand who might be called 'working class'. Looking at race and community relations in Europe and North America, it is tempting to say that the immigrant (Mexican, Central American, North African, South Asian, East European, ex-Ottoman Empire) and their descendants are the only 'working class', and if that is not the case yet, it soon would be given the slow, but steady, bourgeois-ation of working class in the older populations (including the Black, the Italian and the Irish) of Europe and North America. Most people in Europe and America would happily self identify themselves as 'middle class'.

Doing world history does not imply giving equal 'agency' to anybody, and the book is quite obvious in its Eurocentric bias, whether in terms of the language (English), concepts (post-Marxist?), in terms of the site and substance of major events and so on. Moreover, agency is also now acknowledged to be socially, and not individually, constituted. The issue of Eurocentricism or agency does not bother me as long as the world is the object of the book/author. Everybody is entitled to their opinions on the world. Powerful concepts and ideologies (in this case Marxism?) often carry their own geographies and cosmologies with them. Historical precedents may be found in the spread of Islam, Christianity, Buddhism, Hinduism, the Roman, the Spanish and the Mongol Empires and so on. The existence of Zion National Park in Utah, Palestine TX, the many Ayodhyas/Ayuthiyas (the mythical capital of Rama) in S-E Asia, the multiple shrines holding relics (hair, teeth, footprints, etc) from the bodies of Muhammad and Buddha across the Old World, the cities of New Orleans, the many Cordobas in the world, are all signs of the ability of human beings to willingly and happily adopt and recreate concepts from the outside in their own world. Democracy, Marxism and other Western concepts might also be recycled and turned into something else. Just like New York has exceeded York many times over. Just like the Haitian Revolution is and was an embarrassing bastard child plus blind alley for the French Revolution. Just like the shogun started dressing in a business suit. Moreover, the audience of the book is not a Maoist squad in Peru, Nepal or India. Nor is it an extremist Hindu, Muslim or Sikh organisation. It is probably directed at people on Fleet Street, Bahadur Shah Zafar Street (newspaper street of Delhi) or the Shakespeare Sarani (Calcutta). All of these people already believe in these concepts. If the hero of the book was the 'middle class man' (which actually is the case) none of them would have a problem. That part of me has no problems with this book.

Zakir Naik, Arya Samaj and the Non-believer Hindi film hero

2011-01-17T23:00:00.007+05:30

Here is a piece on Zakir Naik, the original and most successful Indian televangelist for Islam. Zakir is a Maharashtrian Muslim, as his name would suggest. What I find strange about his TV glory is the stress on the use of English, which is unlike TV Hinduism (a very diverse community) and TV Sikhism (a less diverse community). I have seen Christian Indian TV use Hindi as well. His tactics might be compared (stress on debate, which deals with issues of theology and interpretation, reducing religions to competing truths of the 'pure knowledge' kind) to those of Swami Dayanand and Arya Samajists tactic of debate in general, from the 19th century. Of course, it is ironic that Dayanand was developing Hinduism into something akin to a codified Semitic religion, closer to Islam (Peter van der Veer says Christianity) and devoid of Brahmin priests coz the most ancient and original Hindu texts never provided room for them. Zakir is being targetted for a kind of Protestant-isation of Islam, where you can read and interpret the Quran on your own.

http://www.outlookindia.com/article.aspx?270066

My ancestral paternal village was a leading site of Arya Samaj reform in early 20th century Jat-land and my grandpa had nirguna/formless names for all his kids. Nowadays, my dad is safely and soundly with Kabir, followed by other medieval bhaktas and has told me that he finds Dayanand simple and simplistic. My father's interest in Kabir and the bhaktas has had a great influence on me, but I am still searching. I still find respect for the Arya Samaj, especially its booting out of the priests and dismissal of a lot of ritual. It can be very comforting to say (and get away with it) that I don't believe in this ritual. I recall the scene from Satya, where Satya is casually asked if he believed in Bhagwan. The reply is a blood-curling No. It might sound perverse, but in this age of some kind of religion-based majoritarianism, Indian audiences love the hero who can say I dont believe in God, and whose relationship with any kind of God teeters on the edge. The other one was Vijay Verma in Deewar. The success of these films is an ode to the power and allure of (in terms of Persian/Urdu poetry) a kafir and a skeptic.

The angry young man focuses his attention. A case of but-parasti in the form of mai-parasti.

A poster for Satya (exactly synonymous with 'Haq' in Arabic Persian Urdu). While, Satya could have been a man without roots, in anonymous Bombay, his lady friend was a fair and simple Maharashtrian Brahmin girl. Satya becomes the protector and benefactor of her Brahmin household. To serve the Brahmin is an age-old trope in Indian myth etc.

Recalling the Bengal Armada

2011-01-09T04:28:00.008+05:30

Recently, P Chidambaram, Home Minister of the Govt of India, termed
the cadre of CPI (M), the ruling party for the state of West Bengal,
to be 'harmad'.

http://www.dnaindia.com/india/report_harmad-right-word-to-describe-cpim-cadre-mamata-banerjee-says_1489368
http://www.dnaindia.com/india/report_cpim-using-harmads-for-killings-mamata-banerjee_1491569

Days of my MPhil-writing came running back to me, for I had written about the making of Mughal rule in Bengal, c.1575 - c.1627. The word 'harmad' stems from the Iberian word 'armada', and the 'harmadis' are infamous agents of terror in Bangla lore as kidnappers and slavers. 'Harmad bahini' means 'Armada army'! There is truth to this. Bengal
was great grounds for slaving (surely during the 16th and 17th
centuries), and the slavers were the Portuguese (most probably, topazes, or mixed breeds) and the Arakanese (locals from today's Burma, SE Bangladesh). I am unsure but if I recall correctly then the Dutch and the English (whether officially or privately) also
indulged in this trade. So did officials of the Mughal regime. Of
course, the English would later on (19th c) deny anything to do with
this. However, the Mughal emperor, Shah Jahan raided the Portuguese
controlled port of Hugli in 1632, and had a painting made and
circulated pertaining to how he was led a holy war against the Franks
(the renegade Portuguese of the Bay of Bengal in this case) recalling the age of the Crusades in West Asia. Perhaps, it has been surmised that this painting was obliquely addressed to the Ottoman sultans, who were equally, or more, glorious rulers and dealt with the Franks (Firangi, Feringhi in South and SE Asia) on a more regular basis. I hereby put forth this idea now!

Incidentally, the Portuguese had gone native enough to have spread Catholicism in the Bengal delta for almost 200 years. Richard Eaton details Catholic miraclemen in Bengal who spread Catholicism and agriculture in Bengal. Nicola Manucci (c.1700) writes in his Storia (means 'history' not 'story' in Italian) di Mogor' about various Portuguese freebooters in the Bengal delta. Dhaka still has a 'Firangi Bazaar'. Those claiming Portuguese descent formed the underworld of the buzzing metropolis of Calcutta in the 19th c and the English were loathe to call them fellow Europeans.

And perhaps of no relevance here is this painting of the Dutch facory
at Hugli from 1665

Further reading could be Ghosh, JM, Magh Raiders in Bengal, Calcutta, 19xx; Sarkar, Sir Jadu Nath (ed.), History of Bengal, 2v, Patna, [1973]; Subrahmanyam, Sanjay, Improvising Empire: Portuguese Trade and Settlement in the Bay of Bengali, Delhi, 199x; Campos, JJA, Portuguese in Bengal, xxxxxxx, 19xx; Eaton, RM, The Rise of Islam and the Bengal Frontier, Berkeley/Delhi, 199x; Manucci, N, Storia di Mogor, tr. xxx, xxxxxx, xxxx.

Walnut Torpedos, Dal Lake, Srinagar

2010-10-08T03:59:00.009+05:30

It has already been proven as per the Sardar on the Moon joke that the Sikh diaspora had planted a seed in every possible place right after the great exodus stemming out from the Partition of 1947. Now, I met this guy, Ted, from Beirut, here in Tucson. And then we went to the Bay Horse Tavern and were happily having beer and playing fuss-boll and pool and behaving like single men in a foreign country. Conversation meandered and meandered further. At some point he started telling me some jokes about the Gulf Arabs, and how their uncouth habits stand out in Beirut. And then we started talking about Kashmir and politics. It is in this context that he began

'Veekaas, what is problem in Kashmir?'
'I don't know. They certainly have 1:8 soldier to civilian ratio. That sounds like a problem.'
'But why?'
'I dont know brother. People are obviously not happy there with the Indian regime. But dont ask me why?'
'You know when I was in Beirut the last time, there were these Sikhs working ...'
'Wow. I didnt know they could find even Beirut attractive!'
'No they were there, and I asked one guy the same question, and you know what he told me?'
'What?'
'He first started scratching his beard and then he thought and said I really dont know, but I asked him again, and he thought again. Then he said again with gravity that I dont know. And then I asked him again what does Kashmir have, there must be some reason for all this conflict. And then his eyes lit up and he said you know what ...'
'What?'
'... Kashmir has a lot of dry fruits and that might be the reason.'

Little girl at a walnut stall on the Dal Lake, Srinagar

Is this teenager using the very same walnuts to strike at the nuts of the Indian Army? Were the walnuts being sold on the Dal Lake waterfront a part of Pakistani assistance to Kashmiri protestors? Does this catapult carry the watermark of a Chinese arms factory?

A 1000 lemmings

2010-09-06T03:13:00.005+05:30

A 1000 lemmings

Twisted twigs.
Broken wings.
Pushing forth
like a thousand
lemmings

Pair of lovers.
Sundry lovers,
thrown to the wolves
of skies, waters
and airs.

Naked ambition.
Veiled frustration
at terrapin station.
Rooted feet.
Train in motion.

Feminist wives
control and connive.
Freedom is abstract.
Chains are real.
Beauty survives.

Neither braves,
nor the heroes.
New age turtles
hide in shells.
From Calcutta to Hell.

- Vijay X Lawaris, September 5, 2010, Sunday, 1447 hrs, Tucson

My grandma

2010-07-19T23:17:00.005+05:30

I was born in Rani Bagh, a lower-middle class resettlement colony for migrants from Pakistani Punjab on the edge of Delhi in the late 70s and 80s. I suppose my father took up a place there because it was close to Punjabi Bagh (the upper class resettlement colony) and Shakur Basti station, from where the highway and the train to Rohtak district left Delhi. Soon, my daadi (paternal grandmother) came to live with us. I don't remember any time she was not there. That is till she left us for that abode for good. I was 13 or 14 then.

Me and her would usually be together because my parents were both working. Her favourite places to walk were on the other side of Rani Bagh, which was still open fields and forest, and was to become Delhi later in time. Other times we took stock of Rani Bagh. In the buzy market and the narrow lanes that she could never feel at home in, I often had to take care of both of us. And we often got lost. And we often found the way back. I still do this. All alone now. As I grew older, and we moved from lower middle class to midlle class, I tried to alienate myself from her. Refusing to go for a walk with her. She had no one to speak to in the neighbourhood, because none could speak our language (Hindi- Khari Boli or Hindi - Haryanvi), and she could not speak standard Hindi. Thankfully, relatives kept visiting us. There were times when I thought that she was out of place and a pain. Once even letting her go to her favourite unani doctor, who sat far away, without me. She used to hate the tubelight and I made that a big issue to fight with her. At another time I was sweeping the muck off the floor of an improvised table tennis table made of stone, and she beat me up for doing that, since that was a fall from my ritual honour as a Jat. On the contrary, I thought she was causing me to lose face with my friends.

She was tall, strong and hard-working. She raised 4 boys and 2 girls, and gave birth to more. She could carry a 100-kg wheat sack on her back. She was an adopted child, and the name on her wrist said Dil Kaur, which somehow morphed into Dillo Devi. She saw extremes of wealth and poverty. An upright husband who lost all his money twice, and died a decade and a half before she did. A son who was a record holding sprinter at the all-India Inter-University level, but who was found dead in a well. And another who went mad serving the BSF on the Indo-Pak border. She had a girl who was married to a rich dude (for rural Rohtak distt), who slowly sold all his land to the bottle. The male grand-children followed the father to the tip. My father and his younger brother did well in their respective careers, and thankfully she lived her old age in comfort.

Nargis in and as 'Mother India'.

She always refered to our neighbours, often migrants from Punjab, in Delhi as 'Pakistanis'. For her generation in rural Rohtak, a Pakistani was the Punjabi non-Muslim migrant to post-partition India. I found this strange for a long time. The word is still used to describe migrant Punjabis in rural Rohtak by all age groups. Ala Mother India, she taught me to be careful with members of the baniya caste, who were the second most numerous community in the neighbourhood. I took a really long time to make my first baniya or Marwari friend. I was only a wee bit faster with their girls. Both of these people were nice to me. It is another issue that the Jat is now trying hard to become the neo-baniya.

I missed her today. I hope she is happy and smiling, and continues to be with me.

The Story of European Hate: How Polanski put a burqa on Europe

2010-07-14T18:15:00.004+05:30

I have seen three Roman Polanski films and liked them. All three films – Knife In the Water, Chinatown and Bitter Moon – reminded me of an imaginary biologist who conducted an experiment on how the creature called love behaves in captivity. About how love becomes everyday and boring, from being once in a lifetime dream kind of thing. About how different conjugal partners react to this transition, and what happens to the people who get winded up into the story of the couple. The women in his film have good bodies, style, and have intense emotion. The men are either upright and honest, because they are not adventurous enough, or they are bored, heartless and foxy. Of course, my memory could have led me to mis-attribute all of the above to the three Polanski films I watched. More importantly, this Polish Jew was hitched as a 'genius from Europe' and bought into Hollywood at some point in the 1970s. He continued making films in Hollywood and got married. I remember feeling bad for him when, I read in his bio on Wikipedia and found that his wife was one of the victims of the Manson murders.

Emmanuelle Seigner and Peter Coyote have breakfast in Bitter Moon. Polanski's film could have been one of the earliest to imbibe imagery from the great Californian porn industry.

The twist in his 'yet another East European Jew makes it big in America' story came when he committed a sexual act on a minor as per the US/California law in the mid-70s, and ran away to Europe. The Americans tried to have him brought back to the US every once in a while, but they failed, or maybe did not try hard enough. I am no one to judge whether he was right or wrong in engaging sexually with a 13-year old girl. Neither am I interested in the issue of 'how minor is minor'. Polanski never went back to America after his escape at some point in the mid-70s. In the meanwhile, he kept making films. 'The Pianist' or 'The Piano' or 'The Piano Player' got an Oscar as well. Admittedly, I have not seen the film. Now, a child (less than 16/18) molester is a serious offender in England and North America. I remember a mother taking away a child from near me in the Rillito Park, Tucson, and a White friend jokingly told me that I have been accepted as a 'suspicious character' in the neighbourhood. I am assuming that Continental Europe is equally obsessed with the safety of its young ones.

Recently, some small-time California politician sprung a coup by having Polanski detained in Switzerland, when the latter had gone there. The Americans and the French battled hard for the custody of Polanski. The French managed to keep the Americans away yet again, and brought Polanski, the film-maker whose films touch upon various contentious issues like incest, murder and the death of love in conjugal life, back to Paris. Also, Polanski is a man who has committed sexual acts on at least one minor. I have seen so many people from the West complain that the Prophet Muhammad was a pervert and a child molester, and here Roman Polanski has sailed through the difficult waters of Western mores of sexual behaviour with remarkable elan. Nobody said a thing, even as both Western morals and laws are broken. Seventy years ago he would have fitted the stereotype of the perverted Jew with ease. Today, he is a case of the French patronising the freedom of speech, and protecting the artist. It can be said with certainty that the Muslim has become the new Jew to be hated in the West.

The British had defended the freedom of speech of Salman Rushdie in the 1980s. The Danes and the Dutch displayed their love for the freedom of speech during the Jyllands-Posten Cartoon Controversy, and by providing police protection to Ayaan Hirsi Ali, respectively. Of course, it is not another issue that denying the Holocaust remains a crime sufficient for incarceration in Canada, Austria, Germany and a dozen other nations. Yesterday, the Lower House of the French Parlement voted 336-1 in favour of imposing a national ban on the burqa, the full-body cloak which many Muslim women prefer to wear. One would expect this to become a law soon. A month or so back, the Belgian parliament had legistlated a similar law. Switzerland had banned (not mosques!) the construction of minarets early in this year as well. What is the purpose of these laws? I believe these laws are legislated purely in tribute to the xenophobic currents passing through Western European societies. After all, less than 2000 women wear a burqa in France, a country of 7 crores or 70 million people. The law was passed because supposedly the burqa disrespects a woman, and makes her less free. Therefore, as per Sarkozy of France, the ban on the burqa is a step towards promoting Freedom. What does Freedom mean? It means little or nothing. The same French and Swiss governments which have banned the burqa and the minar, continue to defend Polanski from American efforts at extradition. The only reason for this defence of Polanski, given the nature of his crime and that too in America-Europe, could be the higher importance accorded to the 'freedom of speech'. Polanski's right to speak is obviously greater than the right of a woman immigrant from North Africa to wear a burqa in the slums of Paris.

Europe and America need to take a 'long, hard look (Aussie English)' at themselves thanks to their immigrant populations. While, on the one hand, these countries claim to be torch-bearers of the so-called Universal values of freedom, equality and liberty, they have forgotten that everybody has a different notion of freedom, and they are imposing their particular values of freedom, democracy and so on. To wear a burqa or a veil or a chunni or dupatta is not non-freedom. To keep a long beard is not non-freedom. To conform is not non-freedom. If a head-scarf is what defines freedom, then Louis XIV save the French, and their minions in Belgium and Switzerland. Clearly, Europe believes in freedom for an individual, but does not recognise freedom for social groups. If you want to seek European Freedom, you are supposed to break away from your group, whether it be Paki, Muslim (North African), Indian, Punjabi, Bangladeshi or XYZ. That is certainly not happening with non-White immigrants to Europe. Ironically, you are supposed to leave your particular group and join the society of Free individuals, which is recognised and respected in the West. The West simply forgets that the society of Free individuals is also a particular society (whose memebers happen to be White!), just like the society of Pakis or Sikhs or Muslim North Africans, and is equally conformist. The French (and other Western) efforts at the spread of Freedom make them sound like new missionaries out to spread some new-fangled religion.

I wish to end this with a suitably trite turn. Freedom is not out there. It does not come with travelling. Nor with exposure to other cultures. Nor with sharing your body with many, many people. It is inside you, and you cannot find it. Freedom is kasturi. The musk of the musk deer that it keeps chasing. The West (or the East for that matter) only wants to slaughter the musk deer and gain the kasturi. Ironically, as the amount of per capita Freedom has increased, the musk deer is almost extinct. Kasturi is now made in factory. Let us hereby devour it.

Film - Saraswati Chandra

2010-07-03T21:38:00.005+05:30

Saraswati Chandra (1968) is touted as the last Hindi hit film to be made in Black&white. Its quite a beautiful film. The story of Kumud, played by Nutan, and her efforts at being a good human being. I have seen few films of Nutan in her youth, but if this one is anything to go by, she was a brilliant actress.

Why do I like the film?

The film shows the possibility of a person, here a woman, to live life on their own terms, in an environment that is understood to be against the idea of an individual. The environment is an idealised Hindu one, which is more often than not, upper caste and patriarchal. The case of Kumud shows how somebody at a disadvantage in a particular society, or a system of knowledge and thought, can impose their terms on life by inhabiting those very norms of behaviour that are supposed to constrain. Another question that might be asked is whether it would be fair to use the word 'feminist' for Nutan in this film. On the face of it, that is a wrong question, for Nutan is not aware of the term. She does play the role of a strong individual. One feminist might say that she is a woman who furthers patriarchy, and, another might say that she breaks patriarchy by imposing her will on it. Kumud (Nutan) would have said neither of the above.

The film reminded me of 'Erin Brokovitch' and 'Eklavya'. Both are stories of people who have the dice loaded against them, but conquer odds not by defying convention, but following it perhaps a tad too strictly. Same for Nutan in Sara... Ch... .

The songs are beautiful, and the cinematography is good.

Should Warren Anderson be punished?

2010-06-10T22:18:00.001+05:30

The Bhopal Disaster and its fall-out have been no less than a sign of the times we used to live in, and now live in. There are no visionary leaders or universal-ist ideologies in sight for miles. The world is fragmented, and issue or money based support seems to be the sign of the times. To fix responsibility is hard and almost impossible. Governments are trying to shed responsibility. Corporates are taking over, and claim to be not responsible. In many ways, the question of responsibility, is the same as the question of sovereignty. In this age of a fragmented world where, you never know what will hit you from which direction tomorrow, the idea of sovereignty has indeed taken a beating. Critics are simply saying that governments should not shed responsibility, without realising that governments and politics (not counting separatists) in general are also losing legitimacy. The case of Bhopal, the khap panchayats, the Maoists are all a sign of this. Whether all of these issues will eventually come back to strengthen the governments and politics is for the future to tell.

Who is responsible for say a government school bus falling from a bridge into the Yamuna on a supremely foggy winter morning in 1997 in Delhi? The courts decided that the Principal of the school was responsible, and sent him off to the jail, and took away his retirement benefits. As a fall-out, my uncle who was also a government school Principal at that time, withdrew school bus services for his poor students, many of whom stopped coming to school, and missed one year of schooling. He was unwilling to be responsible, and rightly so. For when a bus goes outside the school premises it is also outside the sphere of the Principal's jurisdiction. Thus, people refuse to be titular heads, where they only have responsibilities without any powers. My mother has refused promotion from being a teacher to the Head-mistress of her school for the same reason. There is no point in being responsible for everything, when you are incapable of being in control of everything. However, the problem arises when people are forced to be responsible for actions beyond their control. That has always happened everywhere. Scapegoats must be found. And have been found all the time.

The tragedy with the Bhopal gas tragedy of 1984 is that the scapegoats were simply not found. It is correct that it is impossible to fix responsibility. Who should we blame? Those who planned an industrial area in Bhopal? Keep in mind that industries get jobs, and prior to 1984 (and today?), transport infrastructure was weak even in the best of India, so an industrial area close to or in the city was not such a bad idea. Or, is it Union Carbide who is responsible? Or is it Union Carbide India Limited? Or the state govt of Madhya Pradesh? Or some poor fellow who pressed the wrong lever? Perhaps illegal slum clusters mushroomed around the Union Carbide plant. In that case the municipal authorities become responsible for letting them spring up as well. Sadly, there is more reason for us to believe that at least some people in the managements of Union Carbide and Union Carbide India Ltd were aware of the possibility of a disaster at the site. Maybe, that is the same as saying that a disaster could hit you on the road if you are driving. Maybe its not. I am not technically or legally qualified on such counts.

More importantly, this country, like every other, has a history of finding scapegoats. Whether deserving, or undeserving, these people have paid the price for the foolishness, carelessness or greed of others, or/and of their own. I believe Warren Anderson, as the CEO of Union Carbide, and as a white American male (okay, maybe not on this count), both of which are supposed positions of advantage in this day and age, must be held accountable for this disaster. Whether he deserves it, or not. He should not be able to beat the Russian roulette of justice, simply because of what he is.

And we are moving from strength to strength in inviting even worse disasters, in the shape of the Nuclear Liabilities Bill. I am certain that the Bhopal incident is only a trailer of what might be in the offing with the nuclear power of the future. A cartoon from today's The Hindu

Film of the Week - Murphy's War

2010-06-09T13:44:00.001+05:30

British films are a relatively rare commodity today, especially if one is speaking from the largest cinemocracies in the world. I often relish them. Yesterday, I saw Peter O'Toole's Murphy's War. Superb entertainment. Lots of action and suspense, with the direction and future of mankind being the lingering issue far in the back of the spacious Venezuelan tropical forest. A really good action film. Seaplanes. U-boats. ... All from close quarters. All of them real, and serious life-threatening stunts in remote locales featuring Peter O'Toole amongst others. No over the top studio improvisations. No fake gun sounds. No fake hyper nationalism. No freedom. No slavery. Given that the film holds your attention and keeps you on the edge despite its simple storyline, it must be termed good.

A memoir about the making of the film
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/tvshowbiz/article-474721/Free-inside-Mail-Sunday-weekend-Murphys-War-awesome-movie-director-Bullitt.html

The film is about Peter O'Toole trying to wipe out a U-Boat and its crew at the end of the World War II in the Orinoco river in Venezuela. The director, Peter Yates had previously made Bullitt.

Available for sharing on The Pirate Bay.

A poster

R Prasad - the maker of cartoons

2010-06-06T09:26:00.000+05:30

Mail Today has become my news-paper no.1 by quite a distance, and that has been the case for quite some time now. As a new entrant in the market of English news-papers in India, it has to try hard. It is probably the first Delhi paper in the tabloid format. Purists and elitists might say a tabloid is for low-brow Englishmen who pronounce their 'h's and like reading the Daily Mail, but I am tired of reading the Hindu and don't read the Indian Express out of respect for two friends who worked with it. The Hindustan Times and the Times of India are nothing but utter trash. They are neither good tabloids, nor good news papers. Plus, I have been subjected to them ever since I could count 84.

But then the Mail Today is a joint venture between the India Today and the Daily Mail. And considering that the India Today's name was inspired by the USA Today, the etymology of the name 'Mail Today' is indeed eclectic, and it should not be surprising if it approximates them in style. Nevertheless, this is the only news-paper which is willing to poke fun at and ask difficult questions from the party and people of the Congress including Sonia, Rahul, Mannu (the PM), PC (the HM, head master or home minister). It does the same to the BJP, the RSS, the Communists, the Maoists, or whatever else might be the credo you go by.

However, all this is accentuated by the cartoons of R Prasad, who is the best cartoonist I have seen on news-paper. Totally irreverent he is. The one beneath was his reaction to the Israelis killing of the Gaza Aid ship recently. The Simon Wiesenthal Centre for Swatting Flies and Hunting ... (who? shhhh Nazis, they are still alive at 116) ..... found it objectionable.

Then you had this one about the Madhya Pradesh chief minister Shivraj Singh Chauhan's order of taking down a lingerie bill-board in Bhopal early this year.

Or this one about hate crime in Australia.

The beauty of R Prasad's cartoons perhaps lies in his minimal use of speech or the bubble. It is his deployment of the true and the self-evident that makes him so hard-hitting and humourous. He does not seem to claim any hallowed moral grounds. Liberal or other. He is fearless (perhaps an over the top compliment :) . Neither does he claim to speak for the mythical creature called 'Common Man' or the 'Aam Aadmi', who perhaps is nothing more than a votary of the middle class, whatever that means. What is the Common Man is a question that deserves a book. Beneath are some of his cartoons from his years at the Outlook magazine, which is also one of my favourite peddlers of news and other allied opinions.

I would keep posting his work on a more regular basis.

The next post shall connect to cartoons. In a very oblique way though. Wait for the next post!

Why this blog?

2010-06-03T00:01:00.002+05:30

I am writing this to find out the answer to this question as much for myself as for the reader who might stumble upon this piece. At one level, the rationalisation of this blog follows the spontaneous act of having it out in the public. Ergo, the explanations would always be contrived, and post the fact to an extent. However, that is not sufficient excuse to not try and explain this act. Historians and futurologists (sci fi writers, palmists, numerologists and other such) keep finding new meanings in the past and the future to have a better present. People, in general, keep planning the future which might never come. Continually, they ruminate over the past to understand something or the other.

What of me and this little act of having a blog then? Lets see

1. I have been thinking for a while that I do have something to say. This is a good way to test this assumption. Do I really have things to say? Would my laziness and procastinating tendencies get the better of me yet again? Pray, what exactly is it that I think I have got to say that I could not resist this action. This could clear up the clutter in my head and give it some shape.
2. Friends and lovers have told me that I write well. Were they being true to me, or just being sugar? Did they simply have bad taste? That too can be found out.
3. I am too bored and locked up in life these days, and if even some of the above can be attained it wont be a bad thing for me.
4. There is enough third, second and first grade flotsam and jetsam bobbing up and down the eddies of the internet and print. The de grade needs to find out whether it swims or sinks.

Now Jamna Teere, or the Banks of the Jamna, or the Jamna Banks. That owes to Agra, Mathura, Brindaban, Delhi, Panipat, Kunjpura and Hanumanchatti. Places of little or great importance to me or the world, and which are all near, or on the banks of the Jamna. Hazrat Nizamuddin Auliya, Dara Shikoh, Shah Jahan, Mirza Raja Man Singh, Krishna, Radha, Akbar and a gazillion others tried to leave a mark on the Jamna Banks. If the architecture next to the Jamna; the stories and literature around it; and, the miniature paintings featuring it were made to disappear, the world would indeed be a poorer place. The flood plains of the Jamna continue to provide the ground for battles which determine the course of time. Environmentalists in India would lose bread if the Jamna was made to disappear. Oh, and now its Yamuna. Officially.

Lazarus Morrell in Kashmir

2010-06-02T07:59:00.003+05:30

The first Borges story I ever read was 'The Cruel Redeemer Lazarus Morell', or was it 'The Universal History of Iniquity'? Dont remember. It has been adapted to life in Kashmir. Unbelievable is the similarity with this news item. But then reality is round, lest we are talking of death or taxes.

The news item first

http://www.thehindu.com/opinion/editorial/article454797.ece

Lazarus Morell
http://www.nytimes.com/books/first/b/borges-fictions.html

If you cant log into this website, then read the story or search the net for it. You will find it.