Sunday, December 28, 2008
Naseem : Grandpa's stories as history through a caravan of personal memories
While indexing a book on Partition Cinema, I came across a discussion of the film Naseem directed by Saeed Akhtar Mirza. Reading about the film compelled me to watch it.
The film mixes the personal and the political. It renders history through a caravan of personal memories and asks the audience to remember it alongside the pedagogical official histories.Tracking the everyday life of a Muslim household in Mumbai around the time of communal tension in 1992, the film with great nuance through each small incident/altercation makes one ponder over one's perspectives/views.
Watching Naseem, it is impossible not to note where films like Gadar and LOC go wrong, unleashing as they do at times a pornography of hypermasculinist(ic) violence to drive home messages, which seem to be limping over (secondary as they become to) the specter of high pitched rhetoric and bombardment at the audience of spectacular scenes.
Naseem portrays issues relating to religious conflict/amity, class conflicts, rewritings of history, and about a past which saw many futures for itself. This is the politics of the film (and it is wise in refining (and not prescribing) ways of coming to terms with trauma). The film also has an affective dimension.
In the film, Grandpa (played by Kaifi Azmi) tells stories to grand-daughter Naseem. While Naseem's brother and his friend continue to belligerently contend that the time for Grandpa's stories has come to an end in the midst of such communal strife, Naseem however, retains the innocence to imbibe the stories. Such an innocence means to understand the value of laughter while being told (so what if unscientifically so? that) the sky is blue because one painted it so and not yellow.
The main pivot of the film rests on these conversations between Naseem and her grandpa. Grandpa's stories are of those of his pre-Partition everyday life lived in Agra. Around the spectacle of the build-up to the Babri Masjid demolition, in a dim-lited room, dawn-fresh Naseem (the name translates as "morning breeze" in English) listens to her grandpa as he fades into the dusk.
On a personal note perhaps all of us start loosing our innocence when our grandparents' stories stop making sense. Rationality of "the history" which preaches the either/or logic needs to be seen alongside histories of Grandparents' stories. We need to re-member those stories.
Thursday, December 25, 2008
animating it
animating it
and he fell in love with her then...
little did she realize
he hardly knew anything
about the pain she felt...
mousing the eyelashes
setting the cloud free
on a blog page...
Monday, September 29, 2008
A visit to a friend’s house has its own secrecy
In book stores, it is quite probable that you might find “Midnight’s Children” seating next to“Freedom Song” under the shelf, Indian Fiction. If these two starkly different objects were to talk to each other, I fancy an antagonism. The former revealed Salman Rushdie’s magical genius putting him in the company of a Gunter Grass and Garcia Marquez, while the latter is Amit Chaudhuri’s most defining work. Both these writers however not only have differences in styles and sensibilities, but hold dissimilar views as to the use of the ‘English’ language in describing India, its Indianness – the term holding a certain amount of irony for Chaudhuri.
Chaudhuri’s fiction also does not showcase an overt attempt for ‘discussions on’ and ‘concerns about’ nations, ethnography, science and technology - that distinction would go to Amitav Ghosh.
In terms of prose quality and its inherent beauty, he is often compared to Vikram Seth; both of them seem to have a musical quality in their prose, almost poetry in prose.
Of the Indian writers, writing in English staying in India (Chaudhuri is now settled in Kolkata), he shares with Geetha Hariharan, the absence of any great resolutions taken by characters throughout the novel as also in the palpable lack of any great apocalyptic or climactic endings. The differences between the two do exist, but the one of greater significance would be that Chaudhuri believes even more in the “act of understating”, there is a conscious effort on his part for creating a lack of dramatic moments in his novels.
Chaudhuri found the address of his first novel “A Strange and Sublime Address” to be a house in Calcutta (most of his fiction has been on the city, three novels and a collection of short stories,barring ‘Afternoon Raga’ which was on the life of an Oxford student), its setting partly inspired by Sir V.S Naipaul’s “A House for Mr. Biswas”, where a school boy from Bombay, Sandeep, is visiting his relatives and here itself Chaudhuri through his very young protagonist, who also wants to be a writer someday, lays down the defining point of story-telling - “The 'real' story, with its beginning, middle, and conclusion, would never be told, because it did not exist.” The story will be about deviations and digressions, and so it was, following which Chaudhuri has with great linguistic preciseness, immense discipline, poetic subtlety, and an even greater courage in one novel after another demonstrated this obsession with digressions, echoing perhaps Italo Calvino’s assertion “Your first book already defines you, while you are really far from being defined. And this definition is something you may then carry with you for the rest of your life, trying to confirm it or extend or correct or deny it; but you can never eliminate it.” As far as my reading of Chaudhuri is concerned, he hasn’t uptil now, till his last fiction “A New World” ‘denied’ it.
Lets take up the story of “Freedom Song” – an elderly couple in their sixties Khuku and her husband Shib, Khuku’s younger brother Bhola’s family members especially his wife whom we know as Bhaskar’s mother, and Khuku’s childhood friend from Sylhet, Mini, make up the main cast. What happens over a wintry month following the Babri Masjid demolition, in Calcutta – Khuku and Mini spend a few days together in Khuku’s house which are a holiday for Mini who is a school teacher; Bhola’s household is planning to marry off their son Bhaskar. Ending notes – Bhaskar does get married and prepares to go to Darjeeling with his wife for a honeymoon, Mini resumes teaching and Khuku lying in bed thinks of golden old days, and yet “Freedom Song” has so much life to offer.
Is there any great drama – well there certainly were chances created but – Mini’s arthritis pain could have gone worse, could have made her bed-ridden, but after the vacation she is walking again with that usual pain and struggle. In the arranged marriage-setting scenario, Bhaskar could have been smitten by a girl and would have left his home for that girl, he infact does have some feelings for a particular girl but the girl’s mother feels a bit averse about Bhaskar’s socialistic leanings, his commitments for the party and so Bhaskar does not get the girl of his first choice, he is sad only for a day and relents as regards choosing the second one. In the wake of Bombay riots following the demolition, one could have expected a heated discussion between Khuku and Suleiman, Khuku’s tabla accompanist, but there is only a blush of shyness and embarrassment.
Authors are intuitive beings, they love to gamble. In Franz Kafka’s stories there is an obsession with the pursuit of a greater thing, the story mirroring life seems to be a ‘process’ of finally realizing something, the digressions there point to obstacles in addition to problems of communication. In Chaudhuri’s elliptical most befittingly realized prose in “Freedom Song” the digressions serve as distanced observation. There is an obsession here too, if Kafka’s gamble is to bank on a possibility to achieve the end, Chaudhuri’s is to observe and describe “lived experience” of unfolding lives.
In ‘Freedom Song’ he has worked with a greater number of characters than “A Strange and Sublime Address” or “A New World” bringing with it a sense of chaos and delineating the layers of middle class existence. The latter two have a tendency of being pushed into describing a more sheltered existence – a house or an apartment flat.
Sometimes characters move and as they move an evening in a locality gets described, as they get up from their bed a morning Azaan is interpreted. While peeping into the lives of his characters,Chaudhuri mentions musical maestros Tagore and Nazrul littered here and there are their lyrical compositions, adda and street theatre, saris and colors, the experience of living in cramped flats and servants, streets and the state of public sector undertakings, their drawing-room conversations hinting at soft-Hindutva feelings, dust on leaves and birds humming, critics wontedly point to the realism of Joyce’s Dubliners.
If there is a more taut plot in “A New World”, Freedom Song had bargained for poetic trajectories, the characters drifting in thought. As a reader, one becomes aware of the necessity for reminiscences similar to a novel like “Mrs. Dalloway” but not really in the technique of “streams of consciousness”. Plumbing into the lives of his characters in a very unobtrusive way, almost gliding, Chaudhuri tries to connect the disparate stories together and along with his lively evocations of feelings and places serves to stitch together a story of ‘the city’ and ‘the coming of old age’. It is difficult to map a few lines towards the end of a novel with surfacing of ideas, but I will leave you with them to perhaps gain an understanding of Chaudhuri’s concerns.
“A visit to a friend’s house has its own secrecy. Sometimes there seems no reason, except a slight sense of boredom, hint of life’s emptiness, a memory of familiarity and a promise of pleasure….she’d come to this city with some trepidation and uncertainty to make her home here in old age. The young leave this city if they can; the old it seems, return to it; and this had been the incentive for coming here – the possibility of experiencing in ripe old age, the buoyancy of visiting known houses through this roads, of watching the old apparently arrest and embrace time as children and grandchildren grow taller and older surprising one.” (pg 197-198)
Book referred here is Amit Chaudhuri’s Freedom Song, PICADOR, 1998.
Monday, September 08, 2008
that which has been <-> what has been
Coming from Ohio into California, you notice that continuous mountainous range as one drives in a car. Of course they are the "landscapes and sites", you would want to capture in photographs - telling the world, proving that you had been there, had felt it. Maybe "felt it" is a word not that readily associated with "images". Maybe "seen it" is, and again I guess, I am wrong, I am ambivalent.
"Images" and "Memory" are obviously bound together. Memory comes with, almost invites feelings. Marguerite Duras's protagonist in "The Lover" would qualify as a proof/witness, in her recounting life through seeing images from childhood.
So, dropping from Ohio into California, I recounted (not without a bit of that whimsical playful imagined memory-ing) the contrapuntal transitory scenes in "Annie Hall" from the interior snowing New York to sunny sunny California. That cinematic moment each time it came to my mind as we drove in California, gave another moment of joy.
So far, I have been completely "out of form" with my pictures, infact I was horrible in that "capturing act" of photographing because I never seemed to have the camera when the right image happened to be there - presented it-self in front of me. Leave alone that, when the camera was there, the battery was down or actually gone. So, when I was on the Amtrak Starlight coach, seeing the Pacific Coast and with nearly everyone of my fellow passengers clicking pictures of that wild vegetation, of those flying birds, the ocean and the mountains on an evening horizon, I had to figure something to cognitively fight my regret away.
I would never be able to say if I did not have the pictures that "i was there" , that "i had seen it". I could say, yes I did take a "picture" - picture in the way Ethan Hawke takes of Julie Delpy in "Before Sunrise". I could close my eyes, take a breath and let the image "sink in" :D, silly me.
I told myself, what Roland Barthes had said to the world a long time ago- the photograph is about the ‘that which has been’ and it certainly is not the "what has been". But "what has been" - will i ever be able to articulate it in words? - the beauty that I saw, and there you go because "what I saw" is not the same as "what was". My memory will be garbaged by trivial memory of route maps to remember, passwords I ought not forget, citations I better am able to cram for my prelims.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Washing Our Hands Off -- A Short Short
The child is giving final touches to a crossword, which has shaped into the form of a toy - a female body. The child is thinking on fifty-six down, the last word that has a hint - anagram “EITLYSXUA”. The child figures
Mother fumes at Father. The child resolves the anagram and puts the “Y” of “SEXUALITY”. The doll toy starts to talk and
The child makes his way through the rooms into the drawing room. Father is listening attentively to the latest sound byte. The president is in the middle of a speech, “…the
Long Jottings
Having the blog dead for a long time, I thought of thinking not too much and writing the largely un-happening things in short paragraphs.
We went to the Fourth of July celebrations. Families, Music and Fireworks. Heard and actually made sense of the music of the band there – thanks to a former university music student amongst us. She told us that both she and her husband now teach at an international school in Mussoorie. With
The weather in Mid West (in end-summer now I guess) is just about perfect. One could sometimes do with a little more of the breeze perhaps. Thursday night movies at the mall and the walk back home are pleasant. Thursday nights are the party nights.
I recently read a colleague’s auto-ethnography. The story there went like two South-Asian straight men apparently when they were returning from the mall walking; a couple of drunken college kids yelled at them as being “Fags”. When they later went to a restaurant that same night, and were waiting in line to order food, another incident occurred which made the incident a story for reflection, a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence. A boy and a girl couple came and were looking at another boy-boy pair there with a kind of look in their eyes. The boy-boy pair just reacted, “We are not gays.” The whole Heteronormativity thing plays out in interesting ways – eyes tell tales too. One of the South-Asian boys who witnessed it and then wrote the auto-ethnography also mentioned, “We could not afford a car and were labeled. The incident, which followed later made us think we could not blame it completely on postcolonial and race etc stereotypes. Cultural codes take a different turn and remain ambivalent too.”
A resilient fetish of the society with the “norm”. Auto-ethnography continues to be regarded by some as navel-gazing, similar to blogs. Coming to think of what stopped me from blogging for such a long time, a couple of thoughts had perhaps contributed to the hesitancy – some views that blogging is just navel-gazing, selfish self-sensitivity.
Some other quite striking incidents related to me by my friends could also have played the role.
A would be father-in-law dismissed his would be son-in-law – a guy his daughter loved, on the grounds that because he blogged, he was selfish and would be preoccupied with himself to take care of his daughter.
My writer friend told me that she quit blogging because she was unable to write any good five pages of a fictional story while she was writing blogs. She introduced me to blogging when apparently she enjoyed it and now she has not only stopped blogging but finished a novel as well. I can’t blog much anymore and instead of writing fiction, I am still investigating the tragic loss of my novel of my pre-blogging days. Obviously these are stray incidents and one could argue against the presumed interpretations drawn from these perhaps more idiosyncratic mentioned cases.
To end these jottings, I recently watched some fantastic films belonging to what could perhaps be called post-Third-World Cinema (I hope I did not use an extra hyphen). Relatively contemporary ones included Sissako’s “
Sunday, March 16, 2008
comparitive experiencing of Newsgames with critical literature, films
Various other pondering(s) find their place - Do such games betray too much of a political message from their producers?, What does it mean now for them to be freely accessible to a large number of Internet users? What happens when one no longer requires specific set of skills to engage with games?
Perhaps the question which is really at stake is ...Do such games help in developing informed critical thinking? Does reading a comprehensive article in NY times about the immigration problem and playing a game over allocating merit-based green cards develop similar consciousness about challenging and probing issues? Maybe the question needs to be worded differently. Obviously, different media forms are experienced differently and one is certainly not asking for superficial effects-oriented studies. Yet, one could very well interrogate the comparative experiencing of these new set of serious games with say critical literature, or film on similar subjects. Certainly questions worth pondering upon as one thinks of persuasive games/serious games/edutainment/critical simulation/ideological videogames...
Friday, March 07, 2008
cracking pass-word(s), yes
"I got up from my bed, and looked at the mirror, to look at myself. This act of mine is not much different from my experience of writing this blog today. I felt old today looking myself in the mirror and the same feeling stays with me as I write this blog. When I die, to write my biography, people shall look at my blogs I guess. People won't look for those diaries in stacked corners, in labyrinth cellars, or behind pillows. No diaries but blogs. Also, no correspondence through letters but they would be analyzing my emails, cracking passwords;cracking pass-word(s), yes."
Inspired by a reading of Javier Marias' "All souls"
Sunday, March 02, 2008
much like an editorial response...
Both the games certainly are critical simulations of situations, adding more meaning into them by reconstructing say the 'war' and/or 'bombings', however, it would be safe to presume that one cannot be expected to play the game more than ten times. It does not have repeat value for the same person playing it. However, it is a credible response against a position, an ideology...much like an editorial response...
derrida, lights, aesthetic, comma,,,
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
what is poetry but the joy of
Ironical to have not seen everyday life in normal curves
our statistics teacher gives us an opportunity
to write about a thing which gives us joy;
she must have had a hundred answers by now
and she must be exclaiming differently to each
the joy of visiting bolivia
the joy of sitting on a beach
the joy of imagination
the joy of sleeping for eight hours without an alarm
the joy of scoring a hundred out of hundred
the joy of getting to see a child smile
the joy of having done something for someone
the joy of having a cup of coffee after a walk on snow
the joy of teeth touch with ice-coffee
what is poetry but the joy of putting a misplaced metaphor amidst the order of language
what is music but the joy of putting a dissonant note in the sea of consonance
what is life but ...
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Nintendo Gamecube
I especially liked the ‘story’, which came in as a kind of ‘cut-in’ between two games when the Sonic or Metal Sonic (player character in the game) can go to Chao garden where eggs are kept. The story for the same goes like this – you can either choose to be Hero Chao (in which case you will be saving the world) or a Dark Chao (in which case you will be destroying the world). You get to have a hand in the Chao selection if you can make your way to the Chao garden where the eggs are reared. You have the Hero Garden and the Dark Garden for the respective kind of eggs. What was funny as well as clearly palpable and that drew laughs from both my young fellow players were the contrasting scenes of the two gardens. The Hero garden with flowers, butterflies, greenery and blue streams resembled ‘Heaven’ and the Dark garden with red black flowing streams and caricatures of devils dancing resembled ‘Hell’.
For my next Gamecube experience, I have decided to photoshoot Jojo and Lala playing, and improve my motor hand and finger skills with the control if I have to beat Jojo in the games.
Jhadoo Maro flash game
It is interesting to observe that the player is impersonating a woman and there is an identification that is being asked for from the player/audience because a majority of the survivors/victims of the Bhopal Gas tragedy have been women. One can also find pictures of women with Jhadoo in their hand protesting outside Dow Chemical office buildings in the earlier demonstrations undertaken by the Bhopal activists. Thus, while playing the game, one could experience oneself being an activist. In addition to that, I did experience a certain thrill in perfecting the art of hitting with the broom.
However, if it was meant to be a complete resemblance, one would have expected the woman in the game to be wearing a sari or a more authentic indigenous Indian costume. That is not the case. Though, one should be cautious of reading too much into this, the fact that the women is wearing an improvised ambiguous costume, it could mean that the character has been kept open and the player could fill in his/her own interpretation. It is also possible that with the local movement in Bhopal getting allied with transnational advocacy networks throughout the world, the representation of the woman is left ambiguous in the hope that more multiple fluid identities of the character can be formed, thus reaffirming that local disasters could have global answers and people in developed countries as global citizens can play their part in speaking against MNCs like Dow.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
and the book we could not read together
She wrapped us around a shawl
Her hands traced the alphabets in black slower than mine
and then she went to sleep
and the book we could not read together