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 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.
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 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.
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?"
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?
..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.
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.
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.
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.
Had heard Kailash Kher couple of years back but did not pay much attention and regret doing so. His voice is melancholic and sublime too. Above is one such song, but can lose the impact, if not heard correctly. Some more Kailash Kher, here.
... Mani Rao, from the Bhagavad Gita. (Link via some lit. list) and the note in entirety and on fidelity:
Your partner is faithful to you, it is conventional, she is obedient, you can’t complain. Does she love you? What if she had the freedom to betray and nothing to lose?
Your partner is unfaithful. Does she pity you, or think you so stupid you don’t know it? Her attention is elsewhere when you speak. Can you be with someone who is not with you? Love is problematic when faithless. Fidelity is a drag when loveless.
Love as translation. After all these years my love, you dare tell me that you merely did what I said?
No, it was not my hidden intention to "Orhan"ize this space with an overdose but it may seem so after this post as I attempt to make some sense of my own thoughts. So my apology in advance. *Traffic and Religion* is one such essay that stood out in Other Colours: Essays and a Story. It highlighted Pamuk's astute skills at observing environment inside one's mind and surrounding along with understanding and translating that into rationale thereafter. And to quote few passages from the essay:
To obey a NO LEFT TURN sign on a back street when there wasn't another car in sight, waiting for the light to turn green, was to bow down to an authority that made no allowances for the intelligent pragmatist. We had little respect for those who obeyed the letter of the law in those days; people only did that only if they lacked brains, imagination, or character. --- But as I sat on the edge of this square on the outskirts of Tehran, watching the driver waver between obedience and pragmatism, I could tell that this man, whom I knew well enough by then, had not the slightest interest in making a national statement. His problem was much more mundane: Because we were in a hurry it seemed a waste of time to go all the way around the circle, but he was glancing anxiously at all the other roads that led into it, because he knew that if he rushed the decision he might end up crashing into another car. --- When I went to visit Tehran and saw the chaos and destruction these drivers brought upon themselves as they fought the highway code with furious ingenuity for the preservation of their autonomy, it seemed to me that their little bursts of lawless individualism were strangely at odds with the state-imposed religious laws that dictate every other aspect of life in the city. --- Oddly, it's when you're battling your way through the mad traffic, fighting it out with the city's lawless drivers, that you feel the presence of religion most keenly. Here's the state proclaiming that all must bow to the laws laid down in the Holy Book, mercilessly enforcing those laws in the name of national unity and making it clear that to break them is to end up in prison, when meanwhile the city's drivers, knowing the state is watching, flout the highway code and expect everyone else to do likewise; they see the road as a place where they can test the limits of their freedom, their imagination, and their ingenuity. I saw reflections of same contradiction in my meetings with Iranian intellectuals, whose freedoms were so severely restricted by the Sharia laws the state had imposed in the streets, the markets, they city's great avenues, and all other public spaces. With a sincerity I cannot help but admire, they set out to prove they were not living in Hitler's Germany or Stalin's Soviet Union by showing me they could discuss whatever they wanted, wear whatever they liked, and drink as much bootleg alcohol as they pleased in the privacy of their own homes.
*** And this got me thinking about the way various religions organize themselves to offer prayers and wonder if it impacts its people in their thinking and hence their immediate surroundings and community fabric. Consider two examples, Christian and Hindu modes of prayers. They both conjure up very different images in mind. Don't they? One gives a sense of orderliness (in appearance externally at least) while the other chaos. The mode of prayers for Hindus offer freedom of choice and imagination to flourish and hence beliefs in Hindu prayers spill out on the streets, sidewalks, buildings and trees, stones, rocks, rivers and so on. This also baffles me about the existence of innumerable forms of deities and how each region has a slightly varied and modified mode of prayer and offering and related mythological tales associated with God that are shared, each with equal fierceness in beliefs. Can it have to do with the amount of freedom to think one's religion provides? Some Hindus pro-rate their wealth as offerings to God. Bigger the offering, bigger might have been the gains. Other way to look at it is, bigger the offering, bigger his/her expectant share in God's blessings might be.
Coming back to fabric of urbanization, think of ways civic bodies try to control peeing and spitting in the public spaces in Indian cities. One distinct example, is to put posters, tiles or scribblings of God's images on walls, where "Yahan thookna mana hai" (which translates to spitting is not allowed here) warning alone doesn't work. Religious symbols are used to feed fear in followers' mind. Though, this does not explain what excuses us to not provide public restrooms but this combative strategy works rather effectively. No God fearing human being would dare to mess with this system and that explain that how deep that belief (or fear) might be running. If it is blind faith or not, I will skip to say anything on it since I am no expert on this but merely an observer.
One possible explanation that comes to mind to this staunchness could be the degree of suffering. Despite the attempted hogwash of India's emergence as a superpower, large percentage of its citizens live in dismal condition. In such abject condition and state of helplessness, one may only turn to divine help.
One last thought, does one's religion and religious practices liberate his mind or provide basis for unfounded fears? And does this liberation or captivity, as the case may be, affect the way we organize ourselves in public and private spaces. And how does it impact our community and its development that may follow in hierarchy, structure, zoning, segregation of land, spaces and its organization and lastly of course, how do people with particular religion who inhabit such places behave in them?
*** As an aside, I peeked into two new books recently which looked promising. One being Museum of Innocence by Orhan Pamuk and second one which looked mighty intriguing from the few pages that I read was Pankaj Mishra's An End to Suffering: The Buddha in the World. I have started reading something thick and fat and if I do get to the last page, I will be delighted and also have stronger biceps and triceps (!) and there is one other place that I am spamming these days, twitter.
Orhan Pamuk'sOther Colours is a collection of his selected writings which brings out a glimpse of his intimate views on family ties, politics, writing, writers, ethos and it's related pathos. Unlike in work of fiction where author talks to readers through portrayal of characters , this takes a dip into author's own mind, his trepidations, feelings, fears, melancholy, arguments. In this plunge you do not come out empty handed. In fact, you gather those precious things generously with both your hands. Just to give a glimpse of this enriching book, I have reproduced two short write-ups below from the collection:
Dead Tired in the Evening
I come home tired in the evenings. Looking straight ahead, at the roads and pavements. Angry about something, hurt, incensed. Through my imagination is still conjuring up beautiful images, even these pass quickly in the film in my head. Time passes. There's nothing. It's already nighttime. Doom and defeat. What's for supper?
The lamp atop the table is lit; next to it sits a bowl of salad and bread, all in the same basket; the tablecoth is checkered. What else? ...A plate and beans. I imagine the beans, but it's not enough. On the table, the same lamp is still burning. Maybe a bit of yogurt? Maybe a bit of life?
What's on television? No, I'm not watching television; it only makes me angry. I'm very angry. I like meatballs too- so where are the meatballs? All of life is here, around this table.
The angels call me to account.
What did you do today, darling?
All my life...I've worked. In the evenings. I've come home. On television- but I am not watching television. I answered the phone a few times, got angry at a few people; then I worked, wrote....I became a man... and also- yes, much obliged- an animal.
What did you do today, darling?
Can't you see? I've got salad in my mouth. My teeth are crumbling in my jaw. My brain is melting from unhappiness and trickling down my throat. Where's the salt, where's the salt, the salt? We're eating our lives away. And a little yogurt too. The brand called Life.
Then I gently reached out my hand, parted the curtains, and in the darkness outside caught sight of the moon. Other worlds are the best consolations. On the moon they were watching television. I finished off with an orange- it was very sweet- and my spirits lifted.
Then I was master of all worlds. You understand what I mean, don't you? I came home in the evening. I came home from all those wars, good bad, and indifferent; I came home in one piece and walked into a warm house. There was a meal waiting for me, and I filled my stomach; the lights were on; I ate my fruit. I even began to think that everything was going to turn out fine.
Then I pressed the button and watched television. By then, you see, I was feeling just fine.
***
Rüya and Us
1. Every morning we go to school together: one eye on the watch, one eye on the bag, the door, the road. In the car, we always do the things: A) wave at the dogs in the little park; B) knock back and forth as the car accelerates around a corner; C) say, "To the right and down the hill, Mr' Driver!" casting a sidelong glance at each other and laughing; D) laughing when we say, "To the right and down the hill Mr.Driver!" because he knows exactly where we're going, as we always take taxis from the same taxi stand; E) get out of the taxi and walk hand in hand.
2. After I have hung her bag on her shoulder, kissed her, and led her into school, I watch her from behind. I have memorized the way Rüya walks, and I love watching her walk into school. I know she knows I'm watching her. It is as if her knowing I'm watching makes us both feel secure. First, there is a world she enters and explores every day, and then there is the world we two share. When I watch her, and she turns, and she turns around to watch me, we keep our world going. But then she breaks into a run and enters a new life where my eyes cannot go.
3. Let me brag a little: My daughter is intelligent and knows what she likes. She insists without a moment's hesitation that I tell the best stories, and on weekend mornings she lies down next to me and demands her due. Because she knows who she is, she knows what she wants. "It should be witch again, she should escape from prison but she shouldn't go blind and she shouldn't grow old, and in the end she shouldn't catch the little child." She doesn't want me skipping the parts she likes. She tells me which parts she doesn't like while I'm still telling the story. This is why telling her a story means both writing it and reading it as the child who wrote it.
4. As with all intimate relationships, ours is a power struggle. Who will decide: A) which channel to watch on television; B) what time is bedtime; C) what game will be played or not played, and how this decision, and many other similar decisions, discussions, disputes, tricks, sweet deceptions, bouts of tears, rebukes, sulks, reconciliations, and acts of contrition will be resolved after long political negotiations. All this effort makes us tired and happy, but in the end it accumulates and becomes the history of the relationship, the friendship. You come to understanding, because you're not going to give up on each other. You think about each other, and when you're parted you remember each other's smell. When she is gone I miss the smell of her hair terribly. When I'm gone, she smells my pajamas.
***
This book is worth glancing and sipping in bits next time you are at the nearest bookstore. For me it had turned into an impulse purchase after twenty minutes. Although, now, after finishing the book, I don't regret it and guilt laden self is riding on a backseat.
We would like to believe that we made slavery, a thing of past and in this talk below Cameron Sinclair of Architecture for Humanity shatters that very myth as he brings out the reality of who pays the actual price of accelerated "development". and not exactly the consumer at the end of the cycle. As poignant as it can get, he brings up something very critical, ethical footprint.
While we are still around UAE and it's recent rapid construction boom, Johann Hari brings out the suffering human element side of it in The Dark Side of Dubai. It's intensely troubling and the gloom and the doom in it are sure to break your heart, if at all. Snippet from the article below:
Sonapur is a rubble-strewn patchwork of miles and miles of identical concrete buildings. Some 300,000 men live piled up here, in a place whose name in Hindi means "City of Gold". In the first camp I stop at – riven with the smell of sewage and sweat – the men huddle around, eager to tell someone, anyone, what is happening to them.
Sahinal Monir, a slim 24-year-old from the deltas of Bangladesh. "To get you here, they tell you Dubai is heaven. Then you get here and realise it is hell," he says. Four years ago, an employment agent arrived in Sahinal's village in Southern Bangladesh. He told the men of the village that there was a place where they could earn 40,000 takka a month (£400) just for working nine-to-five on construction projects. It was a place where they would be given great accommodation, great food, and treated well. All they had to do was pay an up-front fee of 220,000 takka (£2,300) for the work visa – a fee they'd pay off in the first six months, easy. So Sahinal sold his family land, and took out a loan from the local lender, to head to this paradise.
As soon as he arrived at Dubai airport, his passport was taken from him by his construction company. He has not seen it since. He was told brusquely that from now on he would be working 14-hour days in the desert heat – where western tourists are advised not to stay outside for even five minutes in summer, when it hits 55 degrees – for 500 dirhams a month (£90), less than a quarter of the wage he was promised. If you don't like it, the company told him, go home. "But how can I go home? You have my passport, and I have no money for the ticket," he said. "Well, then you'd better get to work," they replied.
Sahinal was in a panic. His family back home – his son, daughter, wife and parents – were waiting for money, excited that their boy had finally made it. But he was going to have to work for more than two years just to pay for the cost of getting here – and all to earn less than he did in Bangladesh.
He shows me his room. It is a tiny, poky, concrete cell with triple-decker bunk-beds, where he lives with 11 other men. All his belongings are piled onto his bunk: three shirts, a spare pair of trousers, and a cellphone. The room stinks, because the lavatories in the corner of the camp – holes in the ground – are backed up with excrement and clouds of black flies. There is no air conditioning or fans, so the heat is "unbearable. You cannot sleep. All you do is sweat and scratch all night." At the height of summer, people sleep on the floor, on the roof, anywhere where they can pray for a moment of breeze.
The water delivered to the camp in huge white containers isn't properly desalinated: it tastes of salt. "It makes us sick, but we have nothing else to drink," he says.
The work is "the worst in the world," he says. "You have to carry 50kg bricks and blocks of cement in the worst heat imaginable ... This heat – it is like nothing else. You sweat so much you can't pee, not for days or weeks. It's like all the liquid comes out through your skin and you stink. You become dizzy and sick but you aren't allowed to stop, except for an hour in the afternoon. You know if you drop anything or slip, you could die. If you take time off sick, your wages are docked, and you are trapped here even longer."
He is currently working on the 67th floor of a shiny new tower, where he builds upwards, into the sky, into the heat. He doesn't know its name. In his four years here, he has never seen the Dubai of tourist-fame, except as he constructs it floor-by-floor.
Is he angry? He is quiet for a long time. "Here, nobody shows their anger. You can't. You get put in jail for a long time, then deported." Last year, some workers went on strike after they were not given their wages for four months. The Dubai police surrounded their camps with razor-wire and water-cannons and blasted them out and back to work.
Three hundred crores is plainly a very huge amount to be in question for lunatic ventures of MNS. I can now, conveniently say MNS is more of an eclipse to the city, it's people and most of all to the well-being of people of Maharashtra but who am I to say? Such act of cowardice and dementia cannot be now passed as politically driven, vote bank safety motivations when people are seriously suffering. Suffering for the need of basic needs, clean water & air, shelter, health care and I am not even talking about upgraded amenities of public libraries, public parks, community centers, old-age homes but who am I to say?
I am beginning to abhor my little knowledge of language Marathi which I learned during my schooling years when I chose it over French which was not out of compulsion but by choice.
There comes a time in any tyrannical period when people figure they have suffered enough and said leaders have mooched them off their rights of every kind is that then they bring about a revolution. They take over the reins in their own hands and crush the oppressors to nothingness. Bombay awaits for such a revolution from its people. Yes, as for my meaningless rebel I am not going to use Mumbai for Bombay, anymore.
Been reflecting on this for past few days and more so after Amit Varma of India Uncut verbalized the passive racism that may go on in Indian male head towards women of different races and their own. He says:
The ministry says it is doing this because it doesn’t want anyone to “show Nehru in a poor light.” That is bizarre: I don’t think his alleged affair with Edwina shows him in a poor light—the guy was human, after all. (Most Indian men would probably think more highly of him because he scored with a white chick, but leave that aside.)
And I couldn't leave that aside and would like to pose this question here. I would like to know Indian male readers perspective on this aspect. Come to think of it, I welcome female readers thoughts as well. If you are not comfortable casting your views along with identity attached then go anonymous, I will respect it. I do have my own set of observations on this and will share it here later.
Do colors (or lack of them) in images evoke emotions differently or rather evoke different emotions? I have one with colors next to it and looking at both of them together, I feel they communicate singularly, with different paces and visual noises. Been a massive fan of b/w pictures and have always ended up fidgeting with colors in them and personally feel that they upgrade the picture viewing experience and it so happens that with colors they do not speak to me the same way. Absence of colors, leave the viewers to paint and fill colors per their imagination or leave it, as is. That's always joyous! There is room for romancing with the image and imagination and things are always more charming in web of imagination with two steps of distance.
After much persistence, things have started looking better with gym visits. Run time has improved drastically and it has resulted in much niceness. If anyone cares, here is my little log of what it looks like so far:
Week of 7th September Running/Jogging 4.25 miles (55 min.) Cycling 5 miles (20 min.) Cross training, climbing (10 min.) Rowing, 25 cal. burn (15 min.)
Week of 14th September Running/Jogging 4.75 miles (60 min.) Cycling 4.5 miles (20 min.) Cross training, climbing 1 mile (15 min.) Rowing, 30 cal. burn (15 min.)
And, and, week of 21st September Running 5.25 miles (65 min.) Cross training, 1.5 miles (25 min.) Abs crunches (20 min.) Yoga (10 min.)
This is generally, 5 times a week now. And it has started to feel really strange (depressed would be more appropriate a word) if I miss a visit. Needless to say, I love running the most amongst everything when its coupled with good music. I think, if I could, I can do this forever, just like reading, without a break, till I am reduced to just bones, perhaps. I am at most peace while I am on treadmill, there is certain sense of clear thinking when I am on the go. To arrive and cross 5 miler wasn't easy. There were blocks, both mental and otherwise. It took time and efforts and I am happy nevertheless. I am starting to wonder if I can dream of half-marathon. May be, not a good idea to take big leaps in hope!
...just some dust from my ipod (figuratively as well) and discovered an old beautiful song, in my collection. As I recall, it was a one time wonder by a group called 'Partners in Rhyme'. Their glory faded with time. Although, it left an impressionable mark to those it mattered. It did.
It brought back few things that I had missed within me probably sorely. My quieter reflective self where I do not feel the need to talk in words to prove my physical presence and how much I cherish my solitude which is so different from loneliness. Often the two, mixed and misunderstood.
I love the serenity, quietude, pensive, distant closeness, inexplicable bonding and ethereal companionship to stars and dark bluish gray sky feel in the song. Perhaps, something similar to the mixed feelings gushed through while sitting by the window of a plane, in the night time, before it takes off to traverse over an ocean to reach another country?
The recent ruckus created by BJP over Jaswant Singh's book: Jinnah: India, Partition, Independence is not merely symbolic sensationalism but it's a showcase of many deeper failings that the party has chosen and tried to undermine independent thinking voices. A fine article by Siddharth Varadarajan in The Hindu, here.
The Jaswant Singh affair is first and foremost an oracle for the atrocious state of affairs in the BJP but it also forces us to ask: Can Indian democracy survive without the freedom to think and write? Can it flourish without the right to question and interrogate received wisdom? Can it be vibrant without being able to take irony, humour, irreverence and even a bit of disrespect in its stride? The individual fate of Mr. Singh need not detain us here but the manner and basis for his expulsion will further circumscribe the arena for debate and discussion within and between political parties. And if the Gujarat government’s ban on his book is allowed to prevail, it will have a chilling effect on a wide range of academic and cultural endeavours across the country.
Another excellent read, an article by Ramachandra Guha: The Absent Celebrant. Both the articles are somewhat related, I feel and I will leave it up to the readers to figure out the nuances. And I, for now, just want to mull over this:
Gandhi said he did not get time to read newspapers; in any case, he commented, "What does it matter, who talks in my favour or against me, if I myself am sound at bottom?"
So true and I wonder if that secured feeling comes that easy.
On a different note, I just begun reading India After Gandhi, after delaying it as much as I could because of my fear of subject, history. As a security blanket and to balance it out, I am trying to do a parallel read with Waiting for the Mahatma by R.K.Narayan (of Malgudi Days fame which I still thoroughly enjoy. Swaaaaaaaaaaami!!), for two reasons. One, its a fiction and two its a light reading.
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.
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.
