it is arational..not irrational...but arational

What is poetry which does not save
Nations or people?
A connivance with official lies,
A song of drunkards whose throats will be cut in a moment,
Readings for sophomore girls.
That I wanted good poetry without knowing it,
That I discovered, late, its salutary aim,
In this and only this I find salvation

Czeslaw Milosz, lines from dedication

heres S. arguing with me that east european poetry might have its own individual characteristics but reading the poems from that region you feel as you feel while reading any other good poem...a quivering of sorts...he then turned to talk a little about czeslaw milosz as an exemplar

"sample this..i think milosz is good...his writings have that incisive quality...his prose especially....reading captive mind was like reading a textbook of logic..his talking about things in that manner..and then you approach his poetry..he no longer operates within the confines of logic..it is arational..not irrational...but arational....not bound by reason that can be located in space and time..in the way the most beautiful things are...no longer burdened by the signs and the symbolisms..it acquires a universal character...that is no longer east european..or post world war 2.. or communist-era..in fact it is outside history...totally untouched by the vagaries of history..yet it can not be anything but a product of his personal history..that is what makes it all the more fascinating..

but in the end..milosz is good.." (S. in a conversation with me, 2007)

fragments of stucco works, pavilions, arches supported on columns communicating with us

Certainly not one of the pictures which could do justice to Thirumalai Nayak Palace. We look for information boards and knowledgeable visitors to garner information - the palace was divided into two major parts, namely Swargavilasa and Rangavilasa. We try to make out the royal residence, the theater, shrine, royal bandstand, quarters, palanquin place - my sister remarks one of the songs from the film 'Guru' was shot here. She is ready to step into a dance when I have an urge to find out where the king would watch dance performances., hear musical evenings and literary discourses. Is it the same place where today people come to watch evening dance programs - maybe not. An interior palace museum opens up and I feel it is a more befitting place for the same. It was also a place where the wives lived with concubines - or did they not?

One cannot but think more about those individual construction workers who built it. More than the king, more than the architect he employed for the purpose. That during those days they shifted palaces My mother gives me snippets of vital information as we ruminate on them immersed in the palace - its fragments of stucco works, pavilions, arches supported on columns communicating with us - The harem and the queen's place has gone. The grandson of the king Thirumalai Nayak, Chokkanatha Nayak broke down the palace and took materials for building another palace in Tiruchirapalli.

I start remembering lines from Marquez's "the autumn of the patriarch" and again note india might have a different magic reality to present.

capture the fact that CMBT bus stand was ISO certified

Somebody recently told me he looked like Ajay Devgan. I said to her he was more of an Irfan Khan - equally intense but more handsome. ( all this when he grows a beard over this picture) . This is in Chennai's local train, we are on our way to City Center Mall , Mylapore near Marina Beach. After too many days of calm and sea in Pondicherry, one likes a day of seeing the city fare of multiplexes and shopping malls. Saw a forgettable movie that day and brought home a brilliantly absurd play by Ionesco. Landmark is turning out to be the best place for finding fictional treasures. To top it all, we had a lovely biryani in the evening and were caught by a policeman trying to capture the fact that CMBT bus stand was ISO certified.

they say 'money'....'money' ...'money'

Somebody told me - he could look at this picture and keep looking at it. Dhanushkoti for me was a place one could keep walking, on sand, straining to look at the sea on both sides amidst an old church, an old temple, some hamlets all in ruins. a whole village lived ( no thrived) we are told by the guide till 1964 - a cyclone came. My father tries to find his own people in the historical imprints of this place pointing to a narrow gauge railway track, barely visible covered by sand. He tells me grandfather came here on a train...I wander, hopping broken windows, wiping sand from my fingers as i support myself on rocks to come to smiling children engaged in a game. I take out the camera for a pic. they laugh, i think of taking another pic, end up taking three more, they pose for me in wrestling positions, they are in a battle in the next, and peep through a tyre for the third, when I am about to leave, they say 'money'....'money' ...'money'

sent us mesmerized and maybe rocking as well

After a month or so, a time to look back at some musical experiences.

Four weeks back on a weekend like this, a Sushila Raman concert at Dunes. A different world of black magic rendered not only in the richness of Tamil Voodo music but the symbolically rich attire of singers and accompanying musicians so central in creating the effect. A trip to Mumbai last week made it impossible to attend her next one at the Dunes, this one again bringing a fusion of sorts with Baul singers.

Three weeks back was Freedom Jam. A treat to watch if you are in Pondicherry. On the beach road five concerts happening together. A south indian violin jamming with western guitar, a Rajasthani musical cum folk play, American country music with a guitar and mandolin, a bangalore band desperately trying to get a 'Doors' song right. We finally settled for a French rock band. A French rock band looked like any other rock band except for the brilliance of a pipe instrument player. He played the flute, clarinet, horn, basson and what not that day and sent us mesmerized and maybe rocking as well.

regurgitated thoughts, or just impulses

Two cities in one – the cliché of a statement about Mumbai

You gape, what stops them from running with their crockery as weapons

From the adjoining slums to those concrete structures, the buildings

Banging the air-conditioned people out and taking their money away

What stops them –

Civilization, honesty, integrity, humanity…

Politicians, Media, NGO, Police, State

Du Mont, Gramsci, Gandhi…

Maybe “Absence of Realization that they can do it”

People who call them out to do it, their intentions

Such interrogation of intentions ends up in a confession

Solving the personal problem through political means

Sad, Sad, Sad, Sad…

Revolution, Mediation, compromise…regurgitated thoughts, or just impulses…

I could only tell about them, their problems

Wrapping up our field studies

We met her, almost by chance

Somebody said, she cooked for flood victims

It’s a walkable distance, another suggested

A Sunday afternoon,

Third Day of

Heat and Pollution in Mumbai

We crossed a garbage pool

And then came drains choked by plastics

Undulating pathways, cesspools greeted us

We negotiated them, also an oath from an elder ragpicker

We came to her settlement made on earth

Separated from a similar settlement by plastic, polythene and tarpaulin sheets

A lotus in bloom she was

Arms folded

She smiled

She offered us water

She told us to mind the ceiling fan

‘It is low, you might have an accident’, she said

‘Tell us a bit about yourself’

I am Lakshmi Mote

I do not believe in Hindu-Muslim divide

I am a Muslim married to a Hindu

Of my two children, one has a Hindu name, the other a Muslim one

My basti people are a smart lot, they also do not believe in such divides

We are poor, we cannot afford it

We do not have cards but does that mean we do not have a right to live

‘How she cooked food,’ we asked, ‘during those hard times’

As cooking always is

We got clean water, We got firewood, We borrowed cylinders

We got money, We got the vegetables, We cut them and We boiled rice, We had food

Somebody asked ‘any new design or technology solution

That might have helped you then’

She is pensive for a minute

Somebody else says 'our unity is enough'

She replies

People said we could put some things underground

Flood will come and go,

The things will remain; they will not be washed away

As she cooks tea for us,

Somebody tells her to narrate to us her WSF experience

She smiles, and then sighs

I notice the golden ring on her ear lobe and on her nose

She says

I went to Nairobi to tell them about us, our problems

Seeing the condition there,

I could only tell about them, their problems

Communication problems

I would argue that Priyadarshan has relentlessly brought out and addressed the problem of communication in our society. This problem of mis-communication or a lack of communication happens due to different reasons. In the latest ‘Bhagam Bhag’ the small mis-interpretation of ‘heroin’ for ‘heroine’ (due to a trick of hearing and the incomprehension of a ‘Dehati’ played by Govinda for the word ‘heroin’) leads two innocent guys into a mad world of deception and merry-go-around chase. In ‘Malamal Weekly’ greed and fear involving intertwined ‘murder and lottery prize’ become the reason for people ‘to lie’ and then ‘lie over a lie’ and so all three – ‘greed, fear and lies’ multiply and proliferate. It is the same fear which leads Paresh Rawal’s character in 'Hulchul' to go on lying in a comedy-of-errors manner to hide the fact that he is married.

Characters in his films speak a lot; they seem deeply perturbed, talking very little sense and giving vent to their frustration. Also, they are very bad listeners. Priyadarshan brings out the absurdity of over-communication as a lack of communication brilliantly. Rajpal Yadav playing Bandya is a luckless servant bound to Gundya (Paresh Rawal), an equally luckless master in ‘Chup Chup Ke’. He seems to be complaining all the time about his condition and ends up worsening it. Through all his garrulous talks, he only invites further wrath from the family of Prabhat Singh Chauhan (played by Om Puri) and their servants, the silent Jeetu (Shahid Kapoor) however gets away. Bandya’s dilemma is that nobody is prepared to listen to him, he just cannot communicate his suspicion about Jeetu or his observations about him, and he gets mixed up.

In Priyadarshan’s films, the supporting cast is important because through them he creates a world of total chaos. Films like, ‘Chup Chup Ke’, ‘Malamal Weekly’ are undoubtedly inspired form other flicks but they also show a director who has an eye for an ironically grotesque world - a world where people are driven by the weight of such compulsions that mis-communication becomes inevitable – a son thinks that by killing himself his father can use the money from his life insurance and pay off his debts, a poor person earning a rupee a day suddenly sees the possibilities of one crore rupees and ostensibly looses his head.

His side-kicks recall parodists like clowns in circus or cross-talk comedians in a music hall, and by showing the fact that they always keep getting kicked, Priyadarshan also symbolically poses the problem of the ‘Others’. The hero’s friend ironically named ‘Lucky’ played by Arshad Warsi in ‘Hulchul’, an incredulous guy who with great commitment helps his friend in carrying out pranks, always bears the brunt of people while mistakes are done by somebody else, many a times notably by the hero himself. The character of Gullu executed yet again by Rajpal Yadav has the same story to tell. An Indian taxi-driver in U.K., Gullu wants to help Indian guests coming to London but ends up getting cursed and beaten again and again.

Ivan Klima - Moments when love pops out unexpectedly

Chekov's short stories have travelled continents, inspired writers speaking, thinking , dreaming and writing in different languages. If the Chinese writer Gao Xingjian takes a leaf of minimalism from him, another genius, the Czech writer Ivan Klima is equally sparse and equally concerned about the brilliance dimly perceptible in banality.

He has a strategy in those collection of short stories "Lovers for a Day". When the two lovers fall in love, they seem so unlikely a match and their falling for each other happens in such uncertain circumstances, and yet, they do, then love flies away as quickly as it had come. Some compromise and stay, others get up from the bedside, leave the dim room and are gone into their early lives, there is a compromise here too. Through all this Klima gives hope too, a slight one.

He seems to be the asking the question - "Why do we talk about love all the time, when do we start talking about it, can it be the point where it has ended, can there be sympathy between two people after love between them has gone, can there be love-filled moments when we take calculated risks and then discover them to be blunders"

Elegant and he does not write even an extra irrelevant alphabet. Much less political than his earlier published novels, a lovely read.

biting sadness and happiness engulf you at the same time

It is surprising how I forget she has an impairment of sorts. It has been thirteen years since she got hurt and it stuck to her. We were shocked , traumatized and dismayed, then slowly with time, it left us for most of the time, revealed itself to us only in moments. During these times, I have been jealous, loving, condescending, arrogant and tender towards her. How should I react to her impairment?, has been a question I have asked myself. "Normalize Things" is what people say. Recently she has come to terms with her impairment and when she tells it very matter-of-factly, I miss a beat each time. I feel very proud of her then. When she told me recently, she has had it verified from the doctor that she has no vision in one eye and then asked me how does she look today draped in madurai silk, I told beautiful and she said the greatest moments in life are those when both biting sadness and happiness engulf you at the same time. I could only say yes -- sibling affection as we paired together to cross the traffic and have Biryani.

He replied "Saddam"

At Tanjore, we admired the Bhadisvara temple in a way that architecture illiterates are expected to do. We could see people around who did exactly the same thing. They were very eager like us to capture the temple and more so their visit in photographs and videos which they themselves were producing. While leaving, just at the temple gate, we were accosted by a sweet little bright boy, selling incense sticks. When asked about the price, he said "ten for the sticks and two my commission". "Please take the sticks" my mother said and I took them and gave him a ten rupee note. He repeated "ten for the sticks and two my commission", mildly complaining to my mother about her stingy son, it appeared. We could not help but smile.My mother gave his ruffled hair a maternal toss as he smiled taking in a breath and showing those broken newly growing incisors. Mother asked "what is your name".
He replied "Saddam".

Out came a butterfly, from another tree full of leaves

Too sweet, the tea today morning, an irritation as P. looked up from his crossword to complain to the bare tree overlooking us. Out came a butterfly, from another tree full of leaves, the winter wind so slight in morning sun, and soon in his eyes a doubt of whether it was a fly or the leaf itself flown by the wind.

That small incident, that ambiguity, was enough to create the mood swing as P. drank the rest of the tea and solved his crossword.

too much of it, now lets progress

After the erasure of ‘graffiti from the walls’ in the last Assembly elections, another quintessentially symbolic trait of West Bengal politics and everyday life of Kolkata – ‘the STRIKES’ it is felt need be engraved in fleeting nostalgia. People of the city seem to be saying or the purported mediated political rhetoric is – “too much of it, now lets progress”. The historical phantom of counter-cultural kitsch and the political satire of limericks and caricatures might yet again be a part of city walls, due to an amendment legalizing graffiti passed by the State Assembly lately, ‘the STRIKES’ however, seem to be an insignificant drone around the defiant hunger-strike of Mamata Banerjee.

sifted from them the one dream of dreams and interpreted it

I said...

I looked at your dreams, sifted from them the one dream of dreams and interpreted it. it was about you wanting to have a choco-dip. I wanted to laugh at you and then felt so sorry for myself, I was laughing at your innocence, that you were a small girl.

You said...

I looked at your dreams, sifted from them the one dream of dreams and interpreted it.it was about you interpreting my dream of having a choco-dip. I wanted to laugh at you and then felt so sorry for myself, I was laughing at your innocence, that you were an old man.

Imagination of a Disaster

The responses to the Bhopal Gas "Disaster" have been recurrent and multiple, sufficing it to be finally labeled a "Tragedy", with resistance against perpetrators brought in forth by empathy, imagination and crucially so, "bare need". A professor of mine recently recalled," how strange we have not been able to do better", considering "all Indians are Activists", I told him a bit stubbornly i believe "at least we are getting better and better". "Ah"...he said..."but its not enough"... and became lost and I left him to come with an "Imagination of a Disaster"

Woody Allen would make a film on us.

thought, really did, that
I will go to that small beach we discovered together

thought, really did, that
You will come today there in the morning at 5

thought, really did, that
I will come with my laptop and play you the tune of the sea kissing the rocks

thought, really did, that
You will come with your hair over your ears and listen to it

thought, really did, that
We will lie over the fisherman's raft and talk about Virginia Woolf's Lighthouse

thought, really did, that
Woody Allen would make a film on us.

act of aping

A fragmented screen. The visuals interpreting the text written between the communicators in its own hyper-real space with the text occupying half the screen. The screen had a de-centering effect. You were neither in the text nor in the screen and you knew it was not real. You enjoyed sometimes maybe trying to be puppetted by the visuals, in the parodying act itself you wanted to make fun of it, avenge your disgrace. You wrote the text as if you were the scriptwriter manipulating the visuals. Sometimes nobody cared. Nobody actually should get so psyched up; it is just a friendly tongue and cheek. Still, you did ask for it when it was offered. The rebellion of the powerless against the powerful - act of aping.

Excerpts from my unpublished novel.

thought again today why

real good Wine and yet I shall be a bit dissapointed with them . After those scent-filled sips and the sea so beautiful, they talked about work, brought it to dinner table after 5, then told me to eat it too with wine, it did not taste well, could it have?

A weekend so dreaded because of the boredom it brings, came and is passing by. A trip to Chennai cancelled, a plan for Mahabalipuram dropped in mid-air. sunday morning left with newspapers, cut a few of them across bylines, read a few lines in the literary review twice over coffee ( the only thing i made today), invented an idea for an article, lost it after having lost myself in Vanilla Sky...

thought again today why i read books? and then looked up the two paragraphs above this one...

comparative aspect - urban migration

the yearning for the lights and life(style) of a metropolis.

For Mahashewta Devi, it could be the yearning of a civil servant stuck in the tribal land of Palamu for Ranchi.

In Tamil cinema, it could be the idea of Chennai for a rural Tamilian.

In a Chekhov play, the secret desire of a pilgrimage to cities like St.Petersburg.

Ritwik Ghatak's Kolkata sucking refugees into its growing suburbia.

The city of Mumbai portrayed in Indian mainstream and parallel cinema.

The enchantment with the city, the migration to it, the ineluctable love-hate relationship of the dwellers with the city here.

and with it the call of the village , its nostalgia.

two things come out clear even in this muddled putting down of things.

The comparative aspect involved in the idea of a city - the migration of a person based in Palamu to Ranchi and migration of an inhabitant of Ranchi to Mumbai.

Secondly, initiation of this process of migration and resettling has long begun,
looking for greener pastures in concrete land is an age-old phenomenon.

throw their hands into the air in exasperation

It is strange how many people do it, scan a thing, summarize it and reproduce it down. Maybe they put in a something of theirs into it as well. Pollute it and also beautify it in equal measure. Then, another person does it, adds in something of his. When it comes to me, and as I read, see, hear and smell it, I am supposed to think about IT, try to make sense of IT. what an illusion and the absurdity of IT ? - All people throw their hands into the air in exasperation when this thought comes to them....