Reparation

When gaps get filled,
surface is created.

Orwell on Mahatma Gandhi

Of late years it has been the fashion to talk about Gandhi as though he were not only sympathetic to the Western Left-wing movement, but were integrally part of it. Anarchists and pacifists, in particular, have claimed him for their own, noticing only that he was opposed to centralism and State violence and ignoring the other-worldly, anti-humanist tendency of his doctrines. But one should, I think, realize that Gandhi's teachings cannot be squared with the belief that Man is the measure of all things and that our job is to make life worth living on this earth, which is the only earth we have. They make sense only on the assumption that God exists and that the world of solid objects is an illusion to be escaped from. It is worth considering the disciplines which Gandhi imposed on himself and which — though he might not insist on every one of his followers observing every detail — he considered indispensable if one wanted to serve either God or humanity.

Full essay here.

Its refreshing (an old essay, it just resurfaced. I might have shared this here earlier) to see a critical view on Mahatma Gandhi in a world of psued-activists who have found it fashionable to quote him and talk hastily about his philosophy.

...

Saying 'certainly' without confidence,
or,
having values without conviction,
are both ineffectual.

Design Like You Give a Dump

Where all that is toxic, is annihilated to green clouds and green thoughts.

Annie Leonard's newest addition, Story of Electronics.



Amusing thought: Imagine, Bill Gates, Gordon Moore and all those honchos taking a nice swim in a pool of same warm toxic water and saying to each other, "how are we gonna get out of that one, man!"

Orhan Pamuk's My Name is Red

I haven't gone too far with this book yet, thanks to several failed attempt to revive reading it. However, this time, it looks like I will make it and who knows without a failure. Grouses aside, little bit from the book where Pamuk through his narrator in Chapter 'I am called "Butterfly", explains about Style and Signature:

As long as the number of worthless artists motivated by money and fame instead of pleasure of seeing and a belief in their craft increases, we will continue to witness much more vulgarity and greed akin to this preoccupation with 'style' and 'signature'. I made this introduction because this was the way it is done, not because I believed what I said. True ability and talent couldn't be corrupted even by the love of gold or fame. Furthermore, if truth be told, money and gold are inalienable rights of the talented [...]

Detail review shall follow once I finish the book, whenever that may happen. Or so I hope!

As a bonus, to all you handful but wonderful followers of my blog, I would like to pose this quote by Mario Vargas llosa. (See, I can be very kind and generous too, at times).

Prosperity or egalitarianism- you have to choose. I favor freedom, you never achieve real equality anyway. You simply sacrifice prosperity for an illusion.

Wonderwall

Wonderwall by Ryan Adams remains my most treasured song, probably, in all my lives. The composition gets even more special because it belonged to Eternal Sunshine of a Spotless Mind.



I haven't been able to keep count of how many times I have seen this movie or others in which Kate Winslet has acted. Revolutionary Road, The Holiday, The Life of David Gale, The Reader. She is a bliss, she is magical. Her performances are powerful. Burnt-orange color haired, free spirited Clementine of Eternal Sunshine remains my personal favorite and somewhere in that space also belongs April Wheeler of Revolutionary Road.

In Broken Images

Happen to read this poem, In Broken Images by Robert Graves. Sharing it here for greater common good. Its about our perceptions and of two or more facets of anything and our penchant to pick and stick to our very own version.

He is quick, thinking in clear images;
I am slow, thinking in broken images.

He becomes dull, trusting to his clear images;
I become sharp, mistrusting my broken images,

Trusting his images, he assumes their relevance;
Mistrusting my images, I question their relevance.

Assuming their relevance, he assumes the fact,
Questioning their relevance, I question the fact.

When the fact fails him, he questions his senses;
When the fact fails me, I approve my senses.

He continues quick and dull in his clear images;
I continue slow and sharp in my broken images.

He in a new confusion of his understanding;
I in a new understanding of my confusion.

~Robert Graves

Dostoevsky's Notes from Underground

I recently managed to understand what Orhan Pamuk was implying when he said,

It was as if Dostoevsky was whispering into my ear, teaching me secret language of the soul, pulling me into a society of radicals who, though inflamed by dreams of changing the world, were also locked into secret organizations and taken with the pleasures of deceiving others in the name of revolution, damning and degrading those who did not speak their language or share their version.

Above is quoted from Pamuk's views on Notes from Underground in Other Colours and how deeply he was impacted by it and how it was also one of the key readings early in his life to shape and shook his thinking. Pamuk's Other Colours remains one of the most important book that I have read to say, if, I have to be economical with words. Returning to Dostoevsky's Notes from Underground, sample these.

Man has such predilection for systems and abstract deductions that he is ready to distort the truth intentionally, he is ready to deny the evidence of his senses only to justify his logic.

And what is it that civilization softens in us? The only gain of civilization for mankind is the greater capacity for variety of sensations- and absolutely nothing more. Have you noticed that it is the most civilized gentlemen who have been the subtlest slaughterers?

Our choice is usually mistaken from a false view of our advantage.

For if a desire should come into conflict with reason we shall then reason and not desire, because it will be impossible retaining our reason to be senseless in our desires, and in that way knowingly act against reason and desire to injure ourselves.

And finally the notes that struck me the deeply,

You know the direct, legitimate fruit of consciousness is inertia.

All "direct" persons and men of actions are active just because they are stupid and limited. How explain that? I will tell you: in consequence of their limitation they take immediate and secondary causes for primary ones, and in that way persuade themselves more quickly and easily than other people do that they have found an infallible foundation for their activity, and their minds are at ease and that is the chief thing.

George Orwell's 1984

Much has been written about this classic, 1984 by George Orwell and in all its sanity, justifiably so. I am glad to have it read and honestly it was easy as the book seemed to pace itself and pages turned swiftly and effortlessly. I hope no one misses this book in their lifetime. I was struck with its finesse, right from the beginning, where in opening pages, Winston Smith, the protagonist, contemplates about and pen and yet to be written creamy paper. He goes on to think:

The pen was an archaic instrument, seldom used even for signatures and he had procured one, furtively and with some difficulty, simply because of a feeling that the beautiful creamy paper deserved to be written on with a real nib instead of being scratched with an ink pencil.

To mark the paper was a decisive act.

All he had to do was to transfer to paper the interminable restless monologue that had been running inside his head, literally for years.

But he realized, even in his panic he had not wanted to smudge the creamy paper by shutting the book while the ink was wet.

And what follows in the remaining pages is nothing but similar genius quality. Don't miss it.

Inverted

With clear sky under your feet,
you will always be head over heels.

Something that works...

...for those who are working towards to get that perfect waistline. Here is a tested food formula that has worked and can make you feel that universe is working perfectly with you in magical ways to get you what you want, bite by bite. Its simple, quick and delicious. Its a salad. Ingredients like sprouts (moong), onions, cucumbers, de-seeded tomatoes, carrots, beetroots, corns, fresh lemon juice, olive oil and black salt are simple to assemble. Just finely chop all the veggies and toss them altogether with sprouts. Add black salt, lemon juice and a dash of olive oil and add in fresh coriander/cilantro leaves for all the benefits it promises. For the time I have tried this recipe, I can vouch for two things, one it did not make me feel that I made a compromise to a foodie that I have become and two, the results have been sweet and surreal.

Try it. And if this salad works for you too, I prefer cash. I can settle for something less controversial, say, good books. Jokes aside, wheeeeeee for it!

Distant Relations: Orhan Pamuk

At quitting time, while buses and streetcars as old as Satsat’s clerks rumbled down the avenue, shaking the building to its foundations, Sibel, my intended, would come to visit, and we would make love in my office. Despite her modern outlook and the feminist notions she had brought back from Europe, Sibel’s ideas about secretaries were no different from my mother’s. “Let’s not make love here. It makes me feel like a secretary!” she’d say sometimes. But, as we proceeded to the leather sofa in the office, the real reason for her reserve—that Turkish girls, in those days, were afraid of sex before marriage—became obvious.

Little by little, sophisticated girls from wealthy Westernized families who had spent time in Europe were beginning to break this taboo and sleep with their boyfriends before marriage. Sibel, who occasionally boasted of being one of those “brave” girls, had first slept with me eleven months earlier. But, by this point, she felt that the arrangement had gone on long enough and it was about time we married. I do not want to exaggerate my fiancée’s daring or make light of the sexual oppression of women, because it was only when Sibel saw that my “intentions were serious,” when she was confident that I was “someone who could be trusted”—in other words, when she was absolutely sure that there would, in the end, be a wedding—that she gave herself to me. Believing myself a decent and responsible person, I had every intention of marrying her; but, even if I hadn’t wished to, there was no question of my having a choice now that she had “given me her virginity.” Before long, this burden cast a shadow over the common ground between us, which we were so proud of—the illusion of being “free and modern” (though, of course, we would never have used such words for ourselves), on account of having made love before marriage—and in a way this, too, brought us closer.

Full story, here.

Amitav Ghosh's The Hungry Tide

To me, The Hungry Tide, came across as a manifesto of complex relationships we human beings form with each other and also with, nature and its fury, as the circumstances unfold. Portrayal of intricacy through each characters ambition seems like Ghosh's proficiency he was born with which he uses with supreme poetic and romantic yet remains somewhat mellow in approach.

The backdrop, a vast archipelago of islands, the Sundarbans. Characters, Piyali Roy mostly referred as Piya, a scientist who hails from Seattle and comes looking in Lusibari (evolved from Lucy's abode) for rare kind of dolphins and not looking for love, at least, that's what she thinks. Kanai Dutt, a Delhi based businessman, who comes to Lusibari at a request by Nilima to fetch a packet written by her husband Nirmal and has been instructed to be given to Kanai only. And finally, Fokir, an illiterate man but who possesses deep unique knowledge of river and wildlife like no one else does. Fokir, rarely, almost never speaks directly to readers, since he only speaks Bengali and his words are often translated to Piya and others and thus to us readers. Yet, he manages to bind you with an emotional and enduring sympathic bond since not many understand his fiercely true soul. He, with his depth of knowledge and integrity to his work, persuade you that being truly adept and deeply involved in your field of work knows no barriers. His impassioned connection to the river, tides, wildlife have a spellbinding impact throughout his presence and even in his absence towards the end of the novel.

Once, during a conversation with Kanai, Fokir tells him, "truly honest people have no fears and have nothing to worry about." And this captures the essence of his character and his superiority over worldly matters and Kanai. who is once described in Nilima, an elderly and experienced woman's words,

"Kanai's problem is that he's always been too clever for his own good. Things have come very easily to him so he doesn't know what world is like for most people." Piya could see that the judgment was both shrewd and accurate but she knew it was not her place to concur. Nilima said, "Just a word of warning, my dear- fond as I am of my nephew, I feel I should tell you that that he's one of those men who liked to think of himself as being irresistible to the other sex."

To Kanai, Fokir once explains his inexplicable bond that he had and still has with his mother. To a nonplussed Kanai, a question like, "where do you see her face?" seems really appropriate. To which Fokir simplistic response says it all.

"He smiled and began to point in every direction. Here, here, everywhere. The phrasing of this was simple to point of being childlike and it seemed to Kanai that he had finally understood why Moyna (Fokir's wife) felt to deeply tied to her husband, despite everything. There was something about him that was utterly unformed, and it was this very quality that drew her to him: She craved it in the same way that a potter's hands might crave the resistance of unshaped clay."

The Hungry Tide has much to be cherished for its words craft and few things that cannot be captured in words, all said and set in a world away from this industrialized world which is again not devoid of multiple layers of human emotions. In his own words, Ghosh tells us, that words are like the winds that blow ripples on the water's surface. The river itself flow beneath, unseen, and unheard.

Outdated

Not so long ago, a teenager girl threw this below message in a missive, my way with much profundity and I gasped as if each word in it was meant to hurt me. Deeply. I read the message several times over. With each attempt, as I tried to decipher this new language, I felt like an obsolete crazy woman who is unnecessary obsessed with words, complete words, correct sentences and spellings. Buh.
Do people wonder why their results were never ever slutty? It could be that we didn't watch too many muvys. :wink: :wink:

hmm...k......cet resluts wer gud...score ws decent enuff...i think ill get in2 vet college:D....nd... vll go 4 a muvy wid frenz.

Quote unquote

"Too many women, in too many countries, speak the same language, of silence."

"There is no bigger hoax than the fidelity of a man, married or otherwise."

I cannot recall the sources of either of them but remember them very distinctly. Missed writing down the names, so if you know it, do share it. And another quote, its source I do know:


"The most beautiful people we have known are those who have known defeat, suffering, loss and have found a way out of the depths. These persons have an appreciation, a sensitivity and an understanding of life that fills them with compassion, gentleness and a deep loving concern. Beautiful people do not just happen." ~Elisabeth Kübler-Ross

I did finish reading The Hungry Tide and I am hoping to write on the book sometime soon, not the extended review though, mainly because I feel incapable of doing justice to the book. It got really engaging after the half mark. Sigh.

Amitav Ghosh: The Hungry Tide

Somewhere around half mark of the book, The Hungry Tide by Amitav Ghosh and it occurs to me that for me one long story goes much slower than long book of multiple shorter stories. I do not know why that is. Perhaps, some quirk about myself that I am unaware of. In any case, I am finding that Ghosh's writing is rich in texture created out of subtle texts and interrelated nuances and makes you want to go slowly, ruminating it, savoring it, bit by bit. I cannot say for certain that I will be writing a review later but few lines that I jotted down so far are here, shared:

The true tragedy of a routinely spent life is that its wastefulness does not become apparent till it is too late.

***
We were on the river, heading home, when the wind suddenly started up. Within moments it was on us- it attacked with that peculiar, wilful malevolence that causes people to think of these storms as something other than wholly natural.
***
In my mind's eye I saw them walking these thousands of people who wanted nothing more than to plunge their hands once again in our soft, yielding tide country mud. I saw them coming, young and old, quick and halt, with their lives bundled on their heads, and knew it was of them the Poet had spoken when he said:

"Each slow turn of the world
carries such disinherited ones
to whom neither the past nor
the future belong."

...

Saajnaa, a noteworthy song from upcoming movie Lamhaa, a breathtaking ensemble of lyrics, voices and all else, all added with a perfection of a measuring spoon, after a long long time. Whole album looks very promising.

04 - Saajnaa.mp3

Sea. Silence. Solitude.

Sea. Silence. Solitude. Yet, there was something missing in this serenity that he had longed for.

He had watched the vastness, deeply with empty soulless eyes. It was both liberating and enthralling for some reason. He had traveled his gaze as far as those gloomy gray clouds spanned, up to that straight line at the horizon. Multiple thoughts were gushing to his mind beneath that calm façade to seek refuge and a reply. In any event, he wanted to deny both.

He thought, "Isn't it ironical that a moment will arrive when both will collide and clouds will shed all that they held for so long, purging to achieve that lightness? Lightness that will bring freedom, freedom from this chase." Peace was often fragile and transient and simmered underneath, he had come to understand.

A quick wave had approached under his feet making a clean slate of sand urging him to scribble something on it. He resisted, effort-fully. Brackish wind had bothered him as couple of more waves milled around him and slapped his feet leaving remains of sparkling sand crystals on his toes. He had disliked the clingy nature of wet sand. And dry sand had slipped way too quickly every so often.

Previous betrayal had not fatigued him. Ideally, he should have been battered by now. Strangely, he was not. Part of him was damaged. And life's unpleasant truths were all too clear and corrosive. He wasn't as uniquely strong as he often projected himself to be. He was neither excited nor morose about it. Just the fact he knew more clearly, now. Appearance of peace on the surface seemed uncanny.

Musty heaviness in air had come along with this quietude. He hadn't quite enjoyed this bargain, this moist feeling that had settled heavily on skin of his face and hands. Few strands of hair had decided to stick to his temple. He had raised his finger to brush them aside without breaking his gaze from the horizon, as if all the answers were to be found there. And as if finding difficult answers in life were all that easy.

The Thing Around Your Neck: Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

Last month, I reread Adichie's The Thing Around Your Neck and had to make minor adjustments to my previously held perception of the author whom I had mistakenly put in same genre as Jhumpa Lahiri. The similarity seems small now between the two except for that both write immigrants' stories, their bottled tragedies, implicit sufferings and paradoxical anxieties that unfold in pursuit of a seemingly better life in USA albeit with very different methods. While Jhumpa is a pro in creating stories in the form of slow motion, detail by detail, never ending affliction, so much so that you feel gloomy and tortured during and after the end which certainly end but do not get over. That is probably her expertise and she does it with poised dexterity. Ngozi, on the other hand, produces sharp and witty narratives in a powerful story-telling format and you will feel like feeling amused at her sarcasm and subtle humor but you hold it as she brings it out along with profound understanding of cultural nuances and you muster your understanding for a right reaction. Sample this, from one of the stories, On Monday of Last Week in which Kamara, a Nigerian woman who has joined her husband in America takes up a job as a nanny to an upper class family and becomes obsessed with the mother:

She was still holding the phone; it had started to buzz noisily. She touched the PROTECT OUR ANGELS stickers that Neil had recently placed on the cradle, a day after he called, frantic, because he has just seen a photo on the Internet of a child molester who had recently moved to their neighborhood and who looked exactly like the UPS delivery man. Where is Josh? Where is Josh? Neil had asked, as if Josh would have been anywhere else but somewhere in the house. Kamara had hung up feeling sorry for him. She had come to understand that American parenting was a juggling of anxieties, and that it came with having too much food: a sated belly gave Americans time to worry that their child might have a rare disease that they had just read about, made them think they had the right to protect their child from disappointment and want and failure. A sated belly gave Americans the luxury of praising themselves for being good parents, as if caring for one's child were the exception rather than the rule. It used to amuse Kamara, watching women on television talk about how much they loved their children, what sacrifices they made for them. Now, it annoyed her. Now that her periods insisted on coming month after month, she resented those manicured women with their effortlessly conceived babies and their breezy expressions like "healthy parenting."

For those who want to know more about the author, I would recommend her talk on TED which will mesmerize you, that much I am certain: The Danger of Single Story.

In Captain's Defense: MS Dhoni

If one decides to seek depression these days, the simplest and surest way is to read current Indian media's outburst over Mahendra Singh Dhoni and his team's early departure from Twenty20 International. It's thoughtless, abrasive and if simply put very pedestrian. And with all it's glorious mediocrity, it has managed to demand Dhoni's captaincy out of vengeance. The reaction is quick, rushed and more often than not, with no due diligence and lacks analytical perspective. Allegations are thrown at his competency with unsubstantiated emotions and flashy news items are nothing more than another way to sensationalize the readily marketable commodity, cricket, in a cheapest possible way. So much so that former players have also unleashed, speaking in a manner as though they never played cricket or any other game in their lives. Ever. Most amusing has been from Mohammad Azharuddin, here. Has he forgotten his own dismal performances and many controversies that he was mired in? Get out, toil and till in the sun and develop (or at least try) all the tricks, tactics, stamina and game skills before having a strong opinion. It's different to spit opinions sitting in a nice air-conditioned room and give thousand advices on how things should have been done in that game and those conditions. The silliest (albeit dublew tee efff) comparison I have stumbled across is "Dhoni and co - please take some lessons from Anand on performing on the "big stage" under pressure." quoted verbatim. I almost rested my case here. Almost. This reminds me of an apt reply by Rachel Green of Friends when a doctor calls her Braxton Hicks contractions as mild discomfort. She quips, "no uterus, no opinion."

Update: Found an article by Kunal Pradhan that echoes my sentiments, here. A passage from it, below:

Next was the fairly regular, but usually standalone, players-have-become-too-fat-because-they-make-too-much-money angle. I’ve always loved this one, especially because it comes from pot-bellied former cricketers who haven’t gotten over the fact that they missed the party by a couple of decades but are trying to make it up by random TV appearances which they want to regularise.

Hummus and hiccups

I have been making hummus at home and to my great surprise it turns out pretty decent and its freshly made at home. So, I make my own hummus. Wish I could make it sound as cool as 'I brew my own beer'. But all would agree that its not quite the same. For the recipe, its not much of a recipe, its pretty much getting all the ingredients, some roasting and blending it all together to a smooth outcome called hummus. You need chickpeas (chole) (soaked overnight and boiled only till its half cooked), sesame seeds (roasted), dried red chillies, salt, garlic (dry roasted) and olive oil. Take them all together and blend it until its rather uniformly smooth and add a tiny drops of olive oil and chilly powder to garnish and its ready to be eaten.

***
Lately, I have pondered about hiccups a bit, the real ones and how meaningless, inappropriate and untimely they can be. They come anytime, anywhere, unannounced. You may be in a formal setting and you may end up hiccoughing relentlessly. There is no explanation and excuse that can make hiccups look discreet and less obnoxious. People turn around and offer that hollow unsympathetic nod since its not coughing which can demand those sympathetic gestures of water and comfort advice. It would be interesting to hear how different people have handled hiccup in public settings and if they have improvised the strategy to deal with it any better.

India: A Wounded Civilization by V.S.Naipaul

India: A Wounded Civilization is Naipaul's second book in his widely acclaimed Indian trilogy, the other two being, An Area of Darkness and India: A Million Mutinies Now. This book can make any Indian feel devastated through his incisive, unsympathetic and unpretentious portrayal of India, just what it is and why, just by sheer honesty in analysis. This book is not meant for Indians and NRIs who are foolishly sentimental, romantically heady about their esoteric country of million rituals, several religions, customs and its very many fall-outs, and it's perpetual suffering and for those who announce every now and then in an American hippie like proclamation, "I *love* India". And who come to India once in every year or two for cute elephant or manual rickshaw rides. He calls filth, dirt , degraded human life and squalor just what it is. He investigates the facts that despite the Britishers departure several years ago, India has not overcome the confusion, poverty and misery. He says:

The turbulence in India this time hasn't come from foreign invasion or conquest; it has been generated from within. India cannot respond in her old way, by a further retreat into archaism. Her borrowed institutions have worked like borrowed institutions, but archaic India can provide no substitutes for press, parliaments and courts. The crisis of India is not only political or economic. The larger crisis is of wounded old civilization that has at last become aware of its inadequacies and is without the intellectual means to move ahead.

Through simplistic work of R.K. Narayan and Vijay Tendulkar, Naipaul points out how theater and literature of their time did more disservice by portraying placidity in themes and characters, like everything was going alright and "India will go on" with pride in its feudalistic garb and temperament. He points out:

India had depressed Tendulkar especially. He had seen things there that he had never believed existed. But he didn't speak more precisely: it was as though he still felt humiliated by what he had seen. He said only, 'The human relationships. They're so horrible because they are accepted by the victims.' New words, new concerns: and still even for writer like Tendulkar, the discovery of India could be like discovery of a foreign country. He said he had travelled about Bihar by boat, down the Ganges. And it was of serenity that came to him on this river, sacred to Hindus, that he spoke, rather than of the horrors on the bank.

He tries to explore the idea of Indian 'having his being' which is always in the background of other people and the chaos and blankness that is brought about by props of family, clan, caste, sub-castes, languages. He, through the work of Dr. Sudhir Kakar, a psychotherapist, points out that Indians have underdeveloped ego which is an outcome of complex social structure, a derivative of rules, regulations, rituals, taboos. He goes on to say that how religion and religious practices, magical aspirations and animistic though simplistic mode of thinking- institutionalizes a structure, albeit weak in the wake of need for individual observation and judgment and how it leads to purely instinctive life. Per Kakar:

At a time of change, the underdeveloped ego can be a dangerous luxury. Cities grow; people travel out of their ancestral districts; the ties of clan and family are loosened. The need for sharper perception increases; and perception has to become 'an individual rather than a social function'.

Such changes are bound to overthrow individuals from their comfort zone and more so if you are nestled in between security of unexplained rituals, unfounded social expectations. Reminds me of an example, a real while ago, a friend made a sweeping announcement that she would like to immediately move back to India and settle there. But that was not it, she went on to explain her reasoning, 'in US you have to do all the menial work, clean your own rest room, wash your own dishes and clothes. Back in India I can have all the hired help in the form of servants to do all that I don't want to do'. I was amused but mostly disturbed. And figured that sense of tyranny and abuse cannot be dispelled which runs so deep in her assumed superiority. Before I digress too far, want to wrap it up by the portrayal that ensues in this book by opening sentences of the book, India is for me a difficult country. It isn't my home; and yet I cannot reject it or be indifferent to it; I cannot travel for the sights. I am at once too close and too for.

Women's Reservation Bill: India

I am inundated with celebratory voices about Women's Reservation Bill which got passed today a bill to reserve a third of all seats in the national parliament and state legislatures for women. Some women have tears and hurray and all that jazz. I respect the sentiment of those women but its not something historic and logic driven that will change the status quo merely by women being present there. I see it as more of a or merely a symbolic victory and most likely a political gesture. Well understood and then I question that if reservation is an answer to all that is happening and if it this any solution?

Don't we need excellence in leadership at that level where being male, female, bisexual, homosexual and what have you is of less importance than the work that is required to improve things. As I say this I realize, what about the whole bi's and homo's population representation. But that's for another day. Today let's talk only about women. Reservations and quotas are really for needy people and which so often happens that in India it rarely reaches them. Same issue, I saw in well meaning reservation for SC/ST. But this reservation was mostly enjoyed by privileged middle class, aware folks who had all the resources and money and yet got reservation benefits whereas they should have done things on their merit. Suppressed remained ignoramus and exploited and continue to do so.

If women's representation had to change anything then why hasn't it changed it already? We have had woman prime minister and have a woman president. Paradigm shift and attitude change does not happen merely by placing symbols. Rather by inculcating excellence and implementing result driven schemes and awareness and education and that's neither a man nor a woman's job but a collective conscious team effort. This whole deal sounds more like two female compartments reserved in a Bombay local train. Sorry about the frivolity.

Have a heavy duty scheme which attempts to change the mindset of people that women should not be a victim of social expectations, arbit mores, rules, regulations which all leads to self abuse or external abuse in one way or the other. Lift those restrictions and set them free. Enable them to make their independent choices, wrong or right and then let them learn from them and become a more able person. Have a bottom up approach reach the most neglected and abused section of women. Enable them, give them tools. They will fight for themselves and teach you how to do things better in next step. This top down symbolic gesture for now is for amusement. Only.

Art is very old- Margaret Atwood

Art must be as old as human existence (I think) and as long as we strive to exist art will too in one form or the other. Be it in temporal celebration of inscrutable happiness or savored permanence of inextricable suffering.

An excerpt from her speech that she would have given at Davos this year:

Like you, I wait with eagerness to see what new sorts of art the younger generations will produce. Whatever astonishing forms or media they invent, they won’t stray far from their age-old themes, which are those of humanity itself: its struggles, its tragedies, its relation to its biological home, its loves and triumphs, and above all, its sense of wonder. I wish for these young artists what I wish for all of us: a cool head in a crisis; a knack for lateral thinking; grace under pressure; and a sackful of good luck. We will need all of them.

Full text on her blog, here.

Update: Happened to brush with some more of Atwood on optimism. Was too clever and timely to not include here.

"Anybody who writes a book is an optimist. First of all, they think they're going to finish it. Second, they think somebody's going to publish it. Third, they think somebody's going to read it. Fourth, they think somebody's going to like it. How optimistic is that?"

Chinese Whispers

As children we all played Chinese Whispers at some point of our childhood. We huddled and sat in a circle and one person, to begin the game whispered a sentence of his/her choice into the ears of the next person. Then that person whispered the same into the ears of next. The last person in the circle had to speak that sentence loudly converting what it had been a whisper so far. And surprisingly, the final sentence had been modified from the original version. Something like life, where we change from what we had started as through various communications with different people and different stages of life. Each association and communication left us with one of the Ms. We meandered, modified, mollified, mocked, menaced, maneuvered, messed, mended, managed, mangled, manufactured or made peace with it. But somehow, each association with its communication (verbal or not) with another human being or cluster of human beings left us transformed, good or bad. Essentially, we transformed from where we had begun originally with myriad of changes, each time we crossed path with others. Does it mean that we as a race are organically connected clusters? And our every action and deed makes it better or worse not just for ourselves but others as well who may be connected with each of us with one or more degree of separation?

So, how we started as children and then went through series of whispers connections in the form of learning, unlearning and growing up into something we are today and what we will be tomorrow. No?

A cook can cook...

..as Yan could. Could never understand how he could maintain such cheery facade while doing something as intense as cooking. Because when I cook I am nervous, petulant and focused. I find cooking deeply introspective and have had many realizations cooking many things, ranging from Palak paneer, Baigan bharta, Thai curries, Coconut stew, Mooli Parathas, Banana bread, Kheer, Pastas, Pulav, Sambhars, Steamed modaks, Gulab Jamuns, Masala bhindi and so many more things. I have come to an understanding that yours truly is a very snobbish cook and hardly follow a recipe as is. I like to organize my ingredients in the vicinity (a characteristic of organizing things similar to Jack Nicholson in As good as it gets) and and find chopping onions (finely) to be the most fulfilling task. I need a good knife or things become deeply unsatisfying and annoyance may rise. I do not particularly enjoy people advising me on how it should be done or modify some steps. My ego is most prominent while cooking.

I tried Penne Pasta in mint, basil and garlic sauce with sauteed corn and carrot. It was accompanied with caramalized onions and mushrooms. Whole things was then embellished with roasted peanuts and walnuts. Accompanying picture is not the very best visual illustration but presented nonetheless. If anyone is interested in the recipe, do ask me and would be happy to share and if I am happy at that moment, may invite you over for dinner as well. No. Just messing.

An End to Suffering by Pankaj Mishra

In middle of Pankaj Mishra's An End to Suffering: The Buddha in the World and while not sure about the book's promises yet but realized that he is a stunning writer to be reading. He may sound masochistic at times but remains profound, if nothing more. And that would be an understatement about him. A very brief excerpt from the prologue below:

I had taken to Delhi my provincial ability to be quickly impressed, and a hunger for new adventures, possibilities of growth. In well-protected enclaves, there were libraries and bookshops, cultural sections of foreign embassies, film festivals and book readings. there were even- if you had the money and the confidence- a dozen five-star hotels. But these excitements were temporary- best possessed at a high level of wealth and security, and maintained beyond the first few minutes only if, after the new European film, you were returning in an air-conditioned car to house with high walls. For to emerge into a humid night from the pavement with the limbless beggars; to push and elbow then to watch with a foolish little twinge of privilege the stranded men at the bus stops, was to be robbed of the new and fragile sensations of the previous few hours; it was to have yet again a sense of hollowness of the city's promise and the mean anonymity of the lives it contained; it was to know the city as a setting not of pleasure but of work and struggle.

I guess, I will have a lot more to say about the author and the book when, once I calmly slide the bookmark in between the thin last page and the thick rear cover. More to follow. Hopeful.

Two movies and Shreyas Talpade

Been meaning to write about two movies that have been on my mind for past few months and after watching both the movies more than once I can assure you that they are worth all your time. They being: Nagesh Kukunoor's Iqbal and Shyam Benegal's Welcome to Sajjanpur. Only common factor between them is Shreyas Talpade (yes, both movies are really that different yet magnificently charming) who imho, is a very fine actor and have a feeling that Bollywood may not be giving him sufficient or right opportunities to exploit his true potential. I admit that it is my biased opinion. May be if Big B and King Khan decided to abandon the B-world there would be less greed from audience to see larger than life portrayals and movies. Trust me, I do not have anything against them but in my limited experience, I never got a sense that they are playing a certain character which is a part of the whole ensemble but it feels the exact opposite, its the character playing them. Something to the effect of: there is this whole movie on one side and there is this big star in it who is playing one major role in it, and that big the disconnect can be(exceptions might apply but haven't been convinced enough). In essence they always end up being larger than the characters they play. The best quip that I have heard about Shahrukh Khan is from Naseeruddin Shah: "I like Shahrukh but not his acting."

Back to Talpade, he played a teenager village boy from a poor family, Iqbal Khan whose grit and determination is only to play cricket and to shine in it as a fast pace bowler. At first, one may argue that one with such dismal background and in addition who is handicapped too (deaf and dumb), any aspiration seems unachievable or rather ambitious. But the way , story unfolds itself, and the way its crafted, it leaves you mesmerized, extremely moved and albeit convinced to a dream that every Indian boy carries (almost all), to play cricket and be part of that blue uniform team. Each role has its significance in the movie and so beautifully played so as to only embellish in such a way that his/her absence will render the ensemble unpolished.

In Welcome to Sajjanpur, Shreyas plays Mahadev Khuswaha, who makes his living, reading and writing letters of uneducated people of his village. And as the story unfolds, it takes many twists and turns and leaves you tickled at times while provoking to think at other times. Movie stays a light comedy throughout and yet manages to deliver some nuanced experiences and raises some deep issues of social fabric.,along the way. Shreyas's simpleton grin is unmatched for. And his personal moral struggle showcases many shades of honesty and dishonesty (sometimes) and his getting past with all that eventually to realize his dream to become a writer is a journey you wouldn't want to miss.

p.s: this post is written in a very haphazard and piecemeal manner so you might find some rubbish sentences and typos, please ignore, I plead.

Mohsin Hamid's Reluctant Fundamentalist

Browsing through books in library or bookstores can be a fulfilling activity and it can turn out to be bonus delight when you lay your hand on something and end up finishing it right there. Such that it does not linger on your mind later and the memory of it does not haunt you.

Something similar happened with Mohsin Hamid's The Reluctant Fundamentalist. It's a 200 odd pages book which thankfully I could finish in one sitting in roughly about 3 hours. I found the prose gentle, beautifully sensitive about the inner struggle of a person at places and never felt it whined for longer descriptions. You either relate, sympathize or simply understand the conflicting commotion he might be going through.

The story is about a young Pakistani man Changez and his growing turmoil in adapting to a full-fledged American way. He attends Princeton and goes on to join a prestigious firm where it is slowly leading him to immerse completely in to the American dream of wealth and success. His love affair happens to be with an American girl, Erica. Identity, perception of love in one's culture, turbulence in the process of belonging to your roots become even more intense because all this happens in the background of 9/11 attacks on US.

The sensitivity with which Hamid paints the love (or almost love or lack of) between Changez and Erica is elegant and beautifully sophisticated. His simmering anger over estrangement and victimization of identity that follows is felt throughout the story.

The story is moving and while being sympathetic to the catastrophe that hit America you are also made to see a viewpoint as an outsider from a country which may live in the wrath and growing animosity that would follow. This alternate viewpoint scurries over imperial capitalistic power and its serious repercussions and how it can dilute the sympathy on the other side of the line.

I would have loved to share few quotes from the book which made me move from mere glancing to finishing it but I do not have a copy of it with me but I found few reviews of the book online: here and here.