Going through terrible highs and lows. Sometimes the high is so high, there is no time to write. And at other times, the low is o abysmal, that words become so sticky and morose. These are the days when I would rather not speak to anyone, rather not communicate at all.
In this death ward of this great silence, I float listlessly. I hear screams and tears flowing my way from far away, for the sins of a lifetime, mostly unatoned. I feel the fever of loss in my veins, sometimes for a moment, mostly for a lifetime. Memories grow and wither and I have nothing but a silent benediction for the dead, for the lost and for the overwhelmed memories in me.
I know these are the mornings when I see nothing but gray. Is there a poem in all this? I am sure there is, but a better person must write it.
Somewhere there is a buffalo stomping his feet, someone is weeping silently, a bundle of sorrows is unhurled in a room far away. It has been three years since he died. He was led silently to his slaughter by the disease that raged through his body, yet he held his head high and went with dignity.
I wish I could apologize everyday. There was so much I wanted to say, so much I wanted to do. But in the end, all that was left was a dream and a short phone call. Three years pass ever so quickly. My life keeps getting complicated. You are not there to teach me to be a man when I am challenged with the burdens and decisions.
I miss you dad. I really do. On a day like today when there is nothing more I need than to make a phone call and reach out to you.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Sunday, February 18, 2007
Nail Bites - Nonsense poems
It didn't start as a thought on poetry
Something stuck in my throat
It was just a silly memory
A discomfort in the evening
An overdose of migraine medication
A really dry throat from a word misspoken
A silent scream when slipping in the toilet
A line from a movie seen long ago
Not that I started to think about poetry
But now I am pacing restlessly
***
The soup had brown swirls
like the pictures of the solar system
From the new text books
The salad came in four different
square plates, red, white, yellow and green
Like a flag of a nation yet unborn
A boat went from one chair to the onother
with notes, mail and parcels
and little morsels of rationed feelings
By the time desert came
the ocean had caught fire
and the sky started bleeding
so all that was left for the boatman to do
was to play the riverdance songs
on a harmonica
***
type furiously
always the letter i
hit the spacebar
follow the sunshine westward
over the ocean
float by the snow-capped mountains
spacebar spacebar spacebar
capslock
through airport doors
waiting taxis
enter
apartments
unpacked boxes
new bills
old letters
spacebar
carriage-return
go to work
feeling light
over the cubicle
like a floating cottonball
hit the backspace
then enter
then ctrol-c and control-v
and keep going at
it
until
all that
is
left
in
the
whole
room
is
just
you
and
i
floating
like
the
cotton
ball
Something stuck in my throat
It was just a silly memory
A discomfort in the evening
An overdose of migraine medication
A really dry throat from a word misspoken
A silent scream when slipping in the toilet
A line from a movie seen long ago
Not that I started to think about poetry
But now I am pacing restlessly
***
The soup had brown swirls
like the pictures of the solar system
From the new text books
The salad came in four different
square plates, red, white, yellow and green
Like a flag of a nation yet unborn
A boat went from one chair to the onother
with notes, mail and parcels
and little morsels of rationed feelings
By the time desert came
the ocean had caught fire
and the sky started bleeding
so all that was left for the boatman to do
was to play the riverdance songs
on a harmonica
***
type furiously
always the letter i
hit the spacebar
follow the sunshine westward
over the ocean
float by the snow-capped mountains
spacebar spacebar spacebar
capslock
through airport doors
waiting taxis
enter
apartments
unpacked boxes
new bills
old letters
spacebar
carriage-return
go to work
feeling light
over the cubicle
like a floating cottonball
hit the backspace
then enter
then ctrol-c and control-v
and keep going at
it
until
all that
is
left
in
the
whole
room
is
just
you
and
i
floating
like
the
cotton
ball
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Sick
So, I have been deathly ill. OK, deathly is a little bit of an exaggeration. So, since today I have been able to stand up and walk and breathe through my nostrils, I thought I will post something if this is the last thing I do.
Happy Valentine's day everyone. Unless ofcourse, you think Valentine's day corrupts your culture.
OK, gotta go lie down. Ciao.
OK, gotta go lie down. Ciao.
Saturday, February 10, 2007
Post-modern
1. Brand Management
I postponed my suicide
For a day
Considering
The ratings
And negotiations
For a better sponsor.
2. Anna Nicole
How much
Valium and Methodone
Do you need
To qualify
As a celebrity death?
--------------------------------------------------------------
I postponed my suicide
For a day
Considering
The ratings
And negotiations
For a better sponsor.
2. Anna Nicole
How much
Valium and Methodone
Do you need
To qualify
As a celebrity death?
--------------------------------------------------------------
Untitled
Laughter is our language
Poetry our lifeblood
We come alive in the evening
I came this way by accident,
Poetry our lifeblood
We come alive in the evening
I came this way by accident,
like a bird retiring
And found my branch for the night
You came a decade later
To the next branch
With water and warmth
Some nights when I rose up
In nightmares of past sins
You sang me a lullaby
So say good-bye with a poem
Before the night is over
While we are still laughing
And found my branch for the night
You came a decade later
To the next branch
With water and warmth
Some nights when I rose up
In nightmares of past sins
You sang me a lullaby
So say good-bye with a poem
Before the night is over
While we are still laughing
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Turning Tricks
Outside the academy
The language that has many
Wonderfully empty words like
The language that has many
Wonderfully empty words like
-- Humanity
-- Kindness
-- Righeousness
Is calling the passerby
Enticing them with ideas
I watch the torn underwear of the language
Peeking from under its pretty skirt
Today she is quite flowery
But like a cheap whore
Standing around Paquis
For a quick fix
I kept walking because
Enticing them with ideas
I watch the torn underwear of the language
Peeking from under its pretty skirt
Today she is quite flowery
But like a cheap whore
Standing around Paquis
For a quick fix
I kept walking because
I had no poems to spare
Friday, February 09, 2007
Nevertheless
By mid-morning I was in the middle of a moderate panic attack. Perhaps the stress of everything that was beginning to catch up. I probably could have run away somewhere dark curled up under a bed. But I had meetings and had to act brave. I walked straight through a glass door and broke my nose and walked for an hour with my nose covered in ice to stop the bleeding.
The gift from that encounter? A massive headache.
***
Just because I don't say it doesn't mean I am not. After lunch, I sat in my car and watched the cold gray sky. I will learn to drive around the curves without making my passengers sick.
Take a deep breath. The day is yet not over.
***
I walked past the store twice. Each time, I would backtrack and return to the same spot. I was walking aimlessly around town for the last hour. I had enough quarters inserted into the parking meter to cover two hours. I don’t know what I was looking for. Perhaps a dark suit, as if I was going to a funeral. But I was not going to a funeral and I didn’t need a suit. There was a swimwear shop right next to Men’s Warehouse, and the ad displayed at the window, in larger font size and with a color picture read, “What a girl wants, To have the best swimwear.”
It showed a blond woman on the right side frozen in mid step with a wide smile on her face. There were beads of water around her spilling into the rest of the page and onto the letters without smudging them. Plastic beads of water danced around the page without falling off. She didn’t particularly look happy to have what she ostensibly wanted, the best swimsuit. May be the swimsuit she was wearing was not the best, I reasoned, and that is why she is coming out the water looking for what she really wants. The shopgirl came to the window and looked at me with a halfsmile.
The day was too cold and gray. I kept walking down the street away from the nicer part to the dodgier areas, past the nice-looking shops and restaurants until the place decidedly took a downturn. Pawnshops, adult book stores and seedy furniture stores took the place of boutiques and Thai restaurants. I looked out of place but I didn’t care. I looked out of place because I was dressed in a suit and I had no winter coat. I took a side street and walked in front of small single floor houses with iron grills on the windows. There was an eerie violence in the air, which I am sure, was all in my head.
I am going to a funeral, I said to myself, and continued walking. On the street corner, there was a tear graffiti painted on a wall. Under it, there was a photo of a young man left on the sidewalk by a grieving family member with assorted candles and dried flowers. This part of the city loses people regularly to senseless death; gang violence, police violence or getting shot by being trapped between a shooter and an intended victim. There was no method to this madness, people simply dropped dead at nineteen or twenty and their friends added another tattoo on their bodies as a living memorial to the fallen friends. The shooter probably added a tattoo too, as a memory of his act. The police went home and calculated their retirement income. The mothers grieved and left pictures on the sidewalk where their sons fell. Los Angeles Times covered these stories in the city sections sometimes where the stories were sandwiched between the ubiquitous anti-emigration and urban proliferation stories.
At the end of the road, there was a hedge that covered a boarded-up house and its unsightly overgrown yard. The road ended on a T-junction, and I decided to turn right. A woman came out of her door into the front porch and looked at me. She was in her fifties and wore a dark shapeless matronly dress. There was a picture of Jesus on the wall of the porch and an empty place where another picture had been. The empty spot was darker with a strange stain that looked like the forehead of a man. It felt like a house that was comfortable with loss.
I felt that this was the funeral that I was searching. The funeral of time and gray winters. I stood there for a minute not knowing what to do.
Then I turned around and started walking back to my car.
The gift from that encounter? A massive headache.
***
Just because I don't say it doesn't mean I am not. After lunch, I sat in my car and watched the cold gray sky. I will learn to drive around the curves without making my passengers sick.
Take a deep breath. The day is yet not over.
***
I walked past the store twice. Each time, I would backtrack and return to the same spot. I was walking aimlessly around town for the last hour. I had enough quarters inserted into the parking meter to cover two hours. I don’t know what I was looking for. Perhaps a dark suit, as if I was going to a funeral. But I was not going to a funeral and I didn’t need a suit. There was a swimwear shop right next to Men’s Warehouse, and the ad displayed at the window, in larger font size and with a color picture read, “What a girl wants, To have the best swimwear.”
It showed a blond woman on the right side frozen in mid step with a wide smile on her face. There were beads of water around her spilling into the rest of the page and onto the letters without smudging them. Plastic beads of water danced around the page without falling off. She didn’t particularly look happy to have what she ostensibly wanted, the best swimsuit. May be the swimsuit she was wearing was not the best, I reasoned, and that is why she is coming out the water looking for what she really wants. The shopgirl came to the window and looked at me with a halfsmile.
The day was too cold and gray. I kept walking down the street away from the nicer part to the dodgier areas, past the nice-looking shops and restaurants until the place decidedly took a downturn. Pawnshops, adult book stores and seedy furniture stores took the place of boutiques and Thai restaurants. I looked out of place but I didn’t care. I looked out of place because I was dressed in a suit and I had no winter coat. I took a side street and walked in front of small single floor houses with iron grills on the windows. There was an eerie violence in the air, which I am sure, was all in my head.
I am going to a funeral, I said to myself, and continued walking. On the street corner, there was a tear graffiti painted on a wall. Under it, there was a photo of a young man left on the sidewalk by a grieving family member with assorted candles and dried flowers. This part of the city loses people regularly to senseless death; gang violence, police violence or getting shot by being trapped between a shooter and an intended victim. There was no method to this madness, people simply dropped dead at nineteen or twenty and their friends added another tattoo on their bodies as a living memorial to the fallen friends. The shooter probably added a tattoo too, as a memory of his act. The police went home and calculated their retirement income. The mothers grieved and left pictures on the sidewalk where their sons fell. Los Angeles Times covered these stories in the city sections sometimes where the stories were sandwiched between the ubiquitous anti-emigration and urban proliferation stories.
At the end of the road, there was a hedge that covered a boarded-up house and its unsightly overgrown yard. The road ended on a T-junction, and I decided to turn right. A woman came out of her door into the front porch and looked at me. She was in her fifties and wore a dark shapeless matronly dress. There was a picture of Jesus on the wall of the porch and an empty place where another picture had been. The empty spot was darker with a strange stain that looked like the forehead of a man. It felt like a house that was comfortable with loss.
I felt that this was the funeral that I was searching. The funeral of time and gray winters. I stood there for a minute not knowing what to do.
Then I turned around and started walking back to my car.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Cranky Post
I am very cranky today. Personal life, work life, emails, and an unwanted (and ill-prepared for) work dinner/schmoozing session tonight.
I wish I was driving to the little chinese restaurant somewhere in the back of beyond of Versoix and having that carafe of terrible house red and eating some god-knows-what meat.
I am really stressed. I hope things go my way. Is that too much to ask for? Sorry for sounding like an idiot. I promise my mood will improve considerably by Friday and I will have a happy post by then.
I wish I was driving to the little chinese restaurant somewhere in the back of beyond of Versoix and having that carafe of terrible house red and eating some god-knows-what meat.
I am really stressed. I hope things go my way. Is that too much to ask for? Sorry for sounding like an idiot. I promise my mood will improve considerably by Friday and I will have a happy post by then.
In which he has a moment
He listens to Cesaria Evora as he drives around aimlessly. She fills the car with her unmistakable vocals. She makes him feel sad and guilty. She sings in her unmistakable warm and woody voice the virtues of Cape Verde Islands and how content her people are.
He feels sick. Then he remembers he hasn't had anything to eat the whole day. It is two in the afternoon.
The night falls all around him, and he is driving back from the old university place. On his way back, he stops after the bridge where the road turns into a single lane. He knows where to stop to smell country flowers. He knows this place. It is dark and chilly and the moon shows itself enough to light the shrubbery in eerie silver gray. He breathes in the smell of wild gardenias easily and comfortably with the air of someone who belongs. This is home. He drives on slowly.
***
He looks down from the airplane on his way back and sees Long Island Sound stretching like a narrow wall that separates the wild Atlantic Ocean from the prudish coast. He could make out little things in Block Island, and see the shore delving deep into the sound. Over him are purposeful narrow white clouds. And below him, a few puffy clouds float aimlessly without blocking the view. He thinks of his parents' hometown where he spent summer vacations as a child. The same blue sky. The same puffy clouds. The same world.
He feels sick. Then he remembers he hasn't had anything to eat the whole day. It is two in the afternoon.
The night falls all around him, and he is driving back from the old university place. On his way back, he stops after the bridge where the road turns into a single lane. He knows where to stop to smell country flowers. He knows this place. It is dark and chilly and the moon shows itself enough to light the shrubbery in eerie silver gray. He breathes in the smell of wild gardenias easily and comfortably with the air of someone who belongs. This is home. He drives on slowly.
***
He looks down from the airplane on his way back and sees Long Island Sound stretching like a narrow wall that separates the wild Atlantic Ocean from the prudish coast. He could make out little things in Block Island, and see the shore delving deep into the sound. Over him are purposeful narrow white clouds. And below him, a few puffy clouds float aimlessly without blocking the view. He thinks of his parents' hometown where he spent summer vacations as a child. The same blue sky. The same puffy clouds. The same world.
Monday, February 05, 2007
Death by blogging
I got this as junk mail today. Read Each Phrase Carefully and Think About It a second or two.
1. Love someone not because of who they are, but because of who you are when you are with them.
2. No man or woman is worth your tears, and the one who is, won't make you cry.
3. Just because someone doesn't love you the way you want them to, doesn't mean they don't love you with all they have.
4. A true friend is someone who reaches for your hand and touches your heart.
5. The worst way to miss someone is to be sitting right beside them knowing you can't have them.
6. Never frown, even when you are sad, because you never know who is falling in love with your smile.
7. To the world you may be one person, but to one person you may be the world.
8. Don't waste your time on a man/woman, who isn't willing to waste their time on you.
9. Don't cry because it is over, smile because it happened.
10. There's always going to be people that hurt you so what you have to do is keep on trusting and just be more careful about who you trust next time around.
11. Make yourself a better person and know who you are before you try and know someone else and expect them to know you.
1. Love someone not because of who they are, but because of who you are when you are with them.
2. No man or woman is worth your tears, and the one who is, won't make you cry.
3. Just because someone doesn't love you the way you want them to, doesn't mean they don't love you with all they have.
4. A true friend is someone who reaches for your hand and touches your heart.
5. The worst way to miss someone is to be sitting right beside them knowing you can't have them.
6. Never frown, even when you are sad, because you never know who is falling in love with your smile.
7. To the world you may be one person, but to one person you may be the world.
8. Don't waste your time on a man/woman, who isn't willing to waste their time on you.
9. Don't cry because it is over, smile because it happened.
10. There's always going to be people that hurt you so what you have to do is keep on trusting and just be more careful about who you trust next time around.
11. Make yourself a better person and know who you are before you try and know someone else and expect them to know you.
Drop Dead Inaccuracies
“This is not my job,” cried the under secretary to the additional joint commissioner of the water-waste water authority, Balasubrahmaniam, “This properly belongs to the Department of Body Disposal.”
“Technically this true,” additional commissioner for Departmental Persuasion, agreed. He agreed that this ought to be a job for no one. But he had a job to do. He had a circular from the Ministry of Political Affairs. He did not want to fail in his job and be transferred as the Officer-on-Special Duty to the Mine Controller of Bamfak, Arunachal Pradesh. So he cleared this throat and began again, “ You See Mr. Balasubrahmaniam, it is like this. You don’t have to do this job, this much both of us agree. You job is authorizing the conversion of water to waste water. In fact, for the sake of both our grand children, I hope no one has to do this job.”
Then he paused and observed with some satisfaction the positive response his mention of grandchildren evoked in the other man. Then he continued, “You see, but we have a small problem. See, the man properly in charge, Mr. Priyadarshan Singh is in suspension. He is being put under an enquiry by the Ministry of Prolonged and Pointless Enquiries for the failure to comply with circular 12.1345.98.”
Then both shared a knowing laugh at the poor old sod’s misfortune. They both knew it was bad news not to comply with the dreaded 12.1345.98. His case is under further consideration. By the time they are done, the old chap will be ready to retire.”
“But technically, as you very well know as a good Hindu chap yourself, blood is a very impure thing. And technically it also falls under your department. In fact the clarification letter number RR123IdiOT to the original law said this. Look”
He extended a photocopied page of a yellowing letter and Mr. Balasubrahmaniam went pale. His powder blue safari suit reflected the pale face with great aplomb. He knew his case was hopeless. He took a crumbled handkerchief from the pocket and wiped his forehead with great care. The visitor looked at this and said nothing. He used the time to comb his comb over for greater coverage.
“So this is what the ministry would like you to do. We will deliver bodies of political assassinations to your department at 3 AM. You will take charge of them and neatly place them on the train tracks near Sealdah. After the Utter-Paschim express passes by, we will notify the Autopsy Prevention Board and their people will take of the rest.”
“But 2 AM? I am an old man.” Cried Mr. Dasgupta.
“We know Mr. Balasubrahmaniam. We know. The minister sends his personal condolences. You see, we wanted an old hand like you, a battle tested warrior,” having surveyed the effective pause again, the visitor continued, “ Next week a very important person is thinking of meeting an accidental death on the tracks. We didn’t want the pesky reporters creating trouble. We know you will do the needful. I am leaving your this top secret memo for your perusal.”
Mr. Balasubrahmaniam instantly realized the gravity. After all, democracy is such a tricky business.
The visitor loudly slurped his tea and then slowly left.
Mr. Balasubrahmaniam read the memo very carefully. First to understand the text and then to see if there are any technical reasons, which would allow him to get out of the mess.
Mr. Balasubrahmaniam sat there silently and wept. He did not want to get up at 2 AM every day for this job. Then he suddenly saw something that lit up his whole face. Commissioner for Departmental Persuasion and Department of Body Disposal were not copied on the circular. This was clearly against the rules and highly irregular.
So he sat down and began writing a long memo to the concerned organizations.
“Technically this true,” additional commissioner for Departmental Persuasion, agreed. He agreed that this ought to be a job for no one. But he had a job to do. He had a circular from the Ministry of Political Affairs. He did not want to fail in his job and be transferred as the Officer-on-Special Duty to the Mine Controller of Bamfak, Arunachal Pradesh. So he cleared this throat and began again, “ You See Mr. Balasubrahmaniam, it is like this. You don’t have to do this job, this much both of us agree. You job is authorizing the conversion of water to waste water. In fact, for the sake of both our grand children, I hope no one has to do this job.”
Then he paused and observed with some satisfaction the positive response his mention of grandchildren evoked in the other man. Then he continued, “You see, but we have a small problem. See, the man properly in charge, Mr. Priyadarshan Singh is in suspension. He is being put under an enquiry by the Ministry of Prolonged and Pointless Enquiries for the failure to comply with circular 12.1345.98.”
Then both shared a knowing laugh at the poor old sod’s misfortune. They both knew it was bad news not to comply with the dreaded 12.1345.98. His case is under further consideration. By the time they are done, the old chap will be ready to retire.”
“But technically, as you very well know as a good Hindu chap yourself, blood is a very impure thing. And technically it also falls under your department. In fact the clarification letter number RR123IdiOT to the original law said this. Look”
He extended a photocopied page of a yellowing letter and Mr. Balasubrahmaniam went pale. His powder blue safari suit reflected the pale face with great aplomb. He knew his case was hopeless. He took a crumbled handkerchief from the pocket and wiped his forehead with great care. The visitor looked at this and said nothing. He used the time to comb his comb over for greater coverage.
“So this is what the ministry would like you to do. We will deliver bodies of political assassinations to your department at 3 AM. You will take charge of them and neatly place them on the train tracks near Sealdah. After the Utter-Paschim express passes by, we will notify the Autopsy Prevention Board and their people will take of the rest.”
“But 2 AM? I am an old man.” Cried Mr. Dasgupta.
“We know Mr. Balasubrahmaniam. We know. The minister sends his personal condolences. You see, we wanted an old hand like you, a battle tested warrior,” having surveyed the effective pause again, the visitor continued, “ Next week a very important person is thinking of meeting an accidental death on the tracks. We didn’t want the pesky reporters creating trouble. We know you will do the needful. I am leaving your this top secret memo for your perusal.”
Mr. Balasubrahmaniam instantly realized the gravity. After all, democracy is such a tricky business.
The visitor loudly slurped his tea and then slowly left.
Mr. Balasubrahmaniam read the memo very carefully. First to understand the text and then to see if there are any technical reasons, which would allow him to get out of the mess.
No.006x/VGL/1017mf
Government of Hindistan
Central Political Activity Vigilance Commission
*****
Merthod Bhawan, Block-Y,
GPM Complex, INSA,
New Delhi-110025
Dated the 22nd November, 2006
Circular no.400/13/06
Sub: Improving political transparency by leveraging rail technology: Increasing
transparency through effective use of rail tracks in discharge of political dead bodies, enforcement and other functions of body disposal using Govt. and semi-government organizations.
Dear Sir,
The Commission has been receiving a large number of complaints about
inordinate delays and arbitrariness in the processing and issue of licenses,
permissions, recognitions, various types of clearances, no objection certificates,
by various Govt. organizations when it comes to the speedy disposal of rail accident victims of political nature. Commission notes with great displeasure that the said persons who commit suicide by jumping in front of trains right after expressing unpopular political opinions do not choose the same spot to commit these heinous acts of cowardice. Majority of these complaints pertain to delays
and non-adherence to the process already laid out.
Taking this into account the commission orders that all the rail suicide victims be brought to the same spot in a pre-dead condition and be placed on the tracks with their necks on the right side of the track for speedy assistance. This would enable all the government and semi-government agencies to coordinate their activities.
In keeping with the respectful manner this republic serves its people, it is also important to prevent autopsies and other unnecessary police procedures on this process to enable the families to move on with their lives. The Minister of Grief will be required to announce Rs. 5 Lakhs (Five Lakhs only) compensation towards the families.
Instructions at para above shall take effect from 1st January 2007. All Heads of
Organizations/Deptts. are advised to get personally involved in the implementation of these important measures. They should arrange close monitoring of the progress in order to ensure that this done in a user-friendly manner before the expiry of the abovementioned deadlines.
They should later ensure that the information is updated regularly to all the appropriate persons.
This issues with the approval of the Commission.
(Bhayanak Singh)
Addl. Secretary
To,
1. The Secretaries of all Ministries/Departments of Govt. of Hindistan.
2. The Chief Secretaries to all Union Territories.
3. The Comptroller & Auditor General of Hindistan.
4. The Chairman, Union Public Service Commission.
5. The Chief Executive of Water Waste Water Authority
6. Joint Controller to the Autopsy Prevention Board
Mr. Balasubrahmaniam sat there silently and wept. He did not want to get up at 2 AM every day for this job. Then he suddenly saw something that lit up his whole face. Commissioner for Departmental Persuasion and Department of Body Disposal were not copied on the circular. This was clearly against the rules and highly irregular.
So he sat down and began writing a long memo to the concerned organizations.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Laptop! Never leave home without it.
Forgot the laptop in the car, so no posts until I flew back today.
Had an interesting dinner at a castle last night at the hunting palace of a former royal family in the middle of nowhere. The trek upto it was alone worth it.
I am really tired, no sleep.
I have an ethical question, comments welcome.
So a man pledges love to a woman and she does not respond either way. Next week in a freak accident, he becomes a paraplegic with no chance of recovery while she is away. She visits him and over time spends a lot of time with him. His friends assume they are seeing each other romantically. They get close but she is very confused about the relationship. But there has to be something that makes her visit him everyday.
Can one see this as a situation of love triumphing against all? Or does one need to see this as situation where the woman is trapped in a hopeless situation and the man being selfish for holding onto something in his otherwise dreadful situation?
I wonder.
Had an interesting dinner at a castle last night at the hunting palace of a former royal family in the middle of nowhere. The trek upto it was alone worth it.
I am really tired, no sleep.
I have an ethical question, comments welcome.
So a man pledges love to a woman and she does not respond either way. Next week in a freak accident, he becomes a paraplegic with no chance of recovery while she is away. She visits him and over time spends a lot of time with him. His friends assume they are seeing each other romantically. They get close but she is very confused about the relationship. But there has to be something that makes her visit him everyday.
Can one see this as a situation of love triumphing against all? Or does one need to see this as situation where the woman is trapped in a hopeless situation and the man being selfish for holding onto something in his otherwise dreadful situation?
I wonder.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
I like you just because ...
1. I like you
It was mid 80s I think; It was 11:30 PM, perhaps 12:00 in Dehradun that night. I was in an old house that belonged to an old Anglo-Indian lady who had gone away to Australia and the house was at our disposal. The fireplace was lit and blankets were laid out. I wandered into the old library and found a silly poem by Sandol Stoddard Warburg called "I like you" that I have always remembered with great fondness. It is a long poem and I found a link to it by doing a google search. Read it here in its entirety.
I like you
And I know why
I like you because
You are a good person
To like
I like you because
When I tell you something special
You know it's special
And you remember it
A long long time
You say
Remember when you told me
Something special
And both of us remember
When I think something is important
You think it's important too
When I say something funny
You laugh
I think I'm funny and
You think I'm funny too
[..]
I thought of this this morning as I woke up. Somethings just stay with you.
2. It was a dark and stomy night
It was 11:30 or 12 at night again, this time in the countryhouse of a friend in Chico, California in the 90s. I sat sitting in the guest bedroom speaking with him when he clued me in on Bulwer-Lytton contest. As you may recall, Bulwer-Lytton wrote the worst opening lines for a work of fiction ever when he started his novel Paul Clifford with "It was a dark and stomy night." Every year, this is celebrated with a contest to submit the worst opening line and winners are selected based on originality and cleverness. Read all about it here.
3. Mahabharata
Unfortunately, most Hindus do not read the Mahabharata. Their knowledge of the book comes primarily from comic books or TV serials. Even if you have read it, it is probably the abridged version stripped off all the fun and nuance. Most importantly, stripped off the endless additions and subtractions of the later periods. I highly recomment the University of Chicago editions with commentaries by J. A. B. van Buitenen and after his death, by James L. Fitzgerald. The best traslation of the work that I have seen so far, particularly because of excellent commentaries. You can order them here.
It was mid 80s I think; It was 11:30 PM, perhaps 12:00 in Dehradun that night. I was in an old house that belonged to an old Anglo-Indian lady who had gone away to Australia and the house was at our disposal. The fireplace was lit and blankets were laid out. I wandered into the old library and found a silly poem by Sandol Stoddard Warburg called "I like you" that I have always remembered with great fondness. It is a long poem and I found a link to it by doing a google search. Read it here in its entirety.
I like you
And I know why
I like you because
You are a good person
To like
I like you because
When I tell you something special
You know it's special
And you remember it
A long long time
You say
Remember when you told me
Something special
And both of us remember
When I think something is important
You think it's important too
When I say something funny
You laugh
I think I'm funny and
You think I'm funny too
[..]
I thought of this this morning as I woke up. Somethings just stay with you.
2. It was a dark and stomy night
It was 11:30 or 12 at night again, this time in the countryhouse of a friend in Chico, California in the 90s. I sat sitting in the guest bedroom speaking with him when he clued me in on Bulwer-Lytton contest. As you may recall, Bulwer-Lytton wrote the worst opening lines for a work of fiction ever when he started his novel Paul Clifford with "It was a dark and stomy night." Every year, this is celebrated with a contest to submit the worst opening line and winners are selected based on originality and cleverness. Read all about it here.
3. Mahabharata
Unfortunately, most Hindus do not read the Mahabharata. Their knowledge of the book comes primarily from comic books or TV serials. Even if you have read it, it is probably the abridged version stripped off all the fun and nuance. Most importantly, stripped off the endless additions and subtractions of the later periods. I highly recomment the University of Chicago editions with commentaries by J. A. B. van Buitenen and after his death, by James L. Fitzgerald. The best traslation of the work that I have seen so far, particularly because of excellent commentaries. You can order them here.
Monday, January 29, 2007
The Sow That Eats Her Farrow
1. The title of this post is a quote from James Joyce about Irish Nationalism. America has to look at itself a little bit more and ask some tough questions.
2. I think Sarah Silverman is quite attractive. She has the brains and the looks that make her quite ahem.. whatstheword... sexy. Jesus is magic is witty and at the same time gross. I wish she would spend less time talking about eating things off of her boyfriend's penis.
3. The thing I love the most about air travel, even after all these years, this the way the clouds look when looking down from the top. I love all those hills and valleys and often fantasize about running out of the plane and on the cloud top. It would have been convenient if I was made of cotton candy.
4. The oldest recording of music I have on my iPOD is a 1906 recording of Raag Bahar by Ud. Abdul Karim Khan that I got from the All India Radio archives.
5. So a certain state in the US has made it mandatory for all hospital patients to state their race so they can be "provided culturally appropriate care." I find this insulting and offensive. If I had the time and inclination, I would write to my representative. The only culturally appropriate care I expect and deserve is the best care the hospital can provide for all its patients. Is that so wrong?
6. Anyone who cannot come to terms with his life while he is alive needs one hand to ward off a little his despair over his fate... but with his other hand he can note down what he sees among the ruins. - Kafka
7. Prediction for 2008: Obama is going to self destruct with an affair or some other scandal. I can almost smell it. Hillary is pompous and self important; she will not get any grassroots dem support. But she will get nominated and Guilliani will eat the lunch out of her hand. It is bloody frustrating.
8. Are you thinking what I am thinking?
9. Current issue of Time magazine quotes a porn star, Stormy Daniels, on how high-resolution DVD format will accentuate physical imperfections. Does this elevate Stormy Daniels to a legitimate spokesperson of porn (and elevate porn to a legitimate business) or trivialize Time to what it has actually become, a terrible rag that reflects nothing but the absolute middle in all opinions? Then again, porn is a $57 billion industry worldwide ($12 in the US.) So, it stands to reason that everyone who owns a computer participates in the consumption of the industry in some way or the other.
10. I just wanted ten things for this. But I only feel like writing nine things. So this is just a bogus point just so it seems like a nice round set of well-considered observations. Shame on me!
2. I think Sarah Silverman is quite attractive. She has the brains and the looks that make her quite ahem.. whatstheword... sexy. Jesus is magic is witty and at the same time gross. I wish she would spend less time talking about eating things off of her boyfriend's penis.
3. The thing I love the most about air travel, even after all these years, this the way the clouds look when looking down from the top. I love all those hills and valleys and often fantasize about running out of the plane and on the cloud top. It would have been convenient if I was made of cotton candy.
4. The oldest recording of music I have on my iPOD is a 1906 recording of Raag Bahar by Ud. Abdul Karim Khan that I got from the All India Radio archives.
5. So a certain state in the US has made it mandatory for all hospital patients to state their race so they can be "provided culturally appropriate care." I find this insulting and offensive. If I had the time and inclination, I would write to my representative. The only culturally appropriate care I expect and deserve is the best care the hospital can provide for all its patients. Is that so wrong?
6. Anyone who cannot come to terms with his life while he is alive needs one hand to ward off a little his despair over his fate... but with his other hand he can note down what he sees among the ruins. - Kafka
7. Prediction for 2008: Obama is going to self destruct with an affair or some other scandal. I can almost smell it. Hillary is pompous and self important; she will not get any grassroots dem support. But she will get nominated and Guilliani will eat the lunch out of her hand. It is bloody frustrating.
8. Are you thinking what I am thinking?
9. Current issue of Time magazine quotes a porn star, Stormy Daniels, on how high-resolution DVD format will accentuate physical imperfections. Does this elevate Stormy Daniels to a legitimate spokesperson of porn (and elevate porn to a legitimate business) or trivialize Time to what it has actually become, a terrible rag that reflects nothing but the absolute middle in all opinions? Then again, porn is a $57 billion industry worldwide ($12 in the US.) So, it stands to reason that everyone who owns a computer participates in the consumption of the industry in some way or the other.
10. I just wanted ten things for this. But I only feel like writing nine things. So this is just a bogus point just so it seems like a nice round set of well-considered observations. Shame on me!
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Movies as manufactured pasts
In the lackadaisical summer afternoons of my early youth, during vacations, I was often stuck in places which were not fully towns yet not fully villages. They were backwaters of towns where the markets and sleepy town-stores thrusted themselves in the middle of fields and lost in the serendipity of provincial comfort. These places played a role in shaping who I am, my thinking and how I look at the world. The city, when I yielded myself back to its cavernous folds after the vacation, carried me up into them without ceremony and I was lost in its procession of movement. The summers on the other hand were not quite idyllic and yet not cacophonous; they provided me an outlet and time to synthesize the movements and events around me to create a reflected opinion of the world around me.
In the middle of these semi-rural places was always a temple that stood as the anchor point of their respective existence. These temples were the storehouse of shared and collective experiences of the whole place, that kept a record of the ethnography, migration, social history and political watermark of the population. Their festivals were the milestones by which events were marked and remembered. Temples were not about the religion at all, they were congregational places where people gathered to share gossip and ask after each other while circumambulating around the sanctum sanctorum. A sad death of a cow was noted with a nod, a birth was celebrated with an open smile and the secret story of an affair was shared with meaningful half-smiles.
This provincial memory is perhaps why I am a fan of Hrishikesh Mukherji and Basu Chatterji movies. Growing up in Bombay, I was not attracted to Hindi film as a medium. I avoided them as much as possible primarily because I did not "get" the sensibility of Indian movies. I discovered them with a passion when I came to America and slowly learned to go past the obvious and appreciate Indian movies as a genre, much like opera or nautanki and not compare them with movies from other places. Hrishikesh Mukherji opened the door to a hidden India that I appreciated from memory.
I find the heroes of those movies quite satisfying. They are members of the eternal class that is perennially becoming middle-class. They are at the verge of things happening to them; they are educated and decent and have jobs with full potential to become something very respectable. Most of them are not manly-men full of machismo and righteous anger, but they are accountants and officers with a flair for manipulating the truth and an appreciation for a good time not peppered with violence. They fall in love with women who have lazy hairstyles and casual habits in wearing their clothes, but are satisfied and happy. They are not horrible or mean, nor are they slutty or bitter. These women, while they work and are independent, are the perfect matches for the earnest yet lacking-in-confidence heroes.
And most of them, the leading ladies and leading men, do not have their mothers. If they indeed have mothers, they are conveniently not present in the movies. One gets the impression that the cheery disposition of the characters is partially due to the absence of the mother figure. Fathers are mostly absent too; if present they are benevolent absent-minded fools who are happy to float through life preaching values that they seldom hold that dear.
Of course, none of this would work in the absence of Utpal Dutt (and rarely Ashok Kumar). As far as I am concerned, Utpal Dutt remained the reason why these movies worked. To be happy in this world meant that one had to be in the company of Dutt, either as a potential son-in-law or as an acquaintance. He was a teacher, a boss or a police inspector who brings order to your life, not that the life these movies described were by any means orderless.
I also like the fact that they movies lack conspicuous villains. They don’t have dacoits waiting to rape fair maidens or urban dons smuggling gold biscuits through Versova beach. Most of the time, the only villain is the circumstance. Misunderstandings and misplaced expectations conspire to deprive our hero of his rightful access to the woman of his dreams. Yet, he does not resort to force; he uses wit and persistence (and a dash of chicanery) to win her from a more dashing and confident opponent or a stubborn and traditional father. You know that they are going to live happily ever after just as soon as they tie the knot.
Sisters also play a great part in these movies. They may be boring and annoying but they love their families and dot on their brothers. They are very proud of their brothers’ achievements and are quite selfless in the way they go about keeping the whole universe in order. In that regard, they act as the counterpoint to Utpal Dutt. The horrible fate of being raped and murdered (and murder right after the rape in a natural consequence in all the movies to preserve the modesty of these women) that befalls the sisters of Amitabh Bachchan and other more manly heroes escapes them. Their world lacks evil impulses of murderers and rapists. Their world is often populated by a greedy goldsmith or a drunken watchman, but such annoyances can be easily dealt with. In the 70s and 80s India of small towns were actually more like this than the world of Amitabh Bachchan anyway.
The fact that very little happens other than the micro-story in the micro-society gives these movies a certain familiar intimacy. It is like being part of a family story or attending the wedding of a relative. You know them almost. Even when the story is set in a big city like Bombay, the stories have a small town feel because the camera focuses on the few actors who make their small world, just as it dos in yours and mine. There is something to be said about doing well what you do best.
One day I hope to own the whole collection of these movies for my library. Not because I regard them as good cinema but because these movies are like chicken soup for the soul. In the real world where we face alienation and judgment and where the rush to make something out of our lives is so prominent, it is good to have something to turn to that comforts us even if it is the fake world of old movies. These movies take you back to a world that does not exist and perhaps never existed, but represent the best that existed at that part of the world at that point in time.
And for this short journey, past becomes our true companion. The past walks with us, carrying the memories, reminding us who we truly are even if we are not that and never were. The past itself may be manufactured, a phantom, yet it is a past that we need, like an imaginary friend. A friend that above all the real friends, would not abandon us when the going gets tough.
So here is to the movies for our collective manufactured pasts.
In the middle of these semi-rural places was always a temple that stood as the anchor point of their respective existence. These temples were the storehouse of shared and collective experiences of the whole place, that kept a record of the ethnography, migration, social history and political watermark of the population. Their festivals were the milestones by which events were marked and remembered. Temples were not about the religion at all, they were congregational places where people gathered to share gossip and ask after each other while circumambulating around the sanctum sanctorum. A sad death of a cow was noted with a nod, a birth was celebrated with an open smile and the secret story of an affair was shared with meaningful half-smiles.
This provincial memory is perhaps why I am a fan of Hrishikesh Mukherji and Basu Chatterji movies. Growing up in Bombay, I was not attracted to Hindi film as a medium. I avoided them as much as possible primarily because I did not "get" the sensibility of Indian movies. I discovered them with a passion when I came to America and slowly learned to go past the obvious and appreciate Indian movies as a genre, much like opera or nautanki and not compare them with movies from other places. Hrishikesh Mukherji opened the door to a hidden India that I appreciated from memory.
I find the heroes of those movies quite satisfying. They are members of the eternal class that is perennially becoming middle-class. They are at the verge of things happening to them; they are educated and decent and have jobs with full potential to become something very respectable. Most of them are not manly-men full of machismo and righteous anger, but they are accountants and officers with a flair for manipulating the truth and an appreciation for a good time not peppered with violence. They fall in love with women who have lazy hairstyles and casual habits in wearing their clothes, but are satisfied and happy. They are not horrible or mean, nor are they slutty or bitter. These women, while they work and are independent, are the perfect matches for the earnest yet lacking-in-confidence heroes.
And most of them, the leading ladies and leading men, do not have their mothers. If they indeed have mothers, they are conveniently not present in the movies. One gets the impression that the cheery disposition of the characters is partially due to the absence of the mother figure. Fathers are mostly absent too; if present they are benevolent absent-minded fools who are happy to float through life preaching values that they seldom hold that dear.
Of course, none of this would work in the absence of Utpal Dutt (and rarely Ashok Kumar). As far as I am concerned, Utpal Dutt remained the reason why these movies worked. To be happy in this world meant that one had to be in the company of Dutt, either as a potential son-in-law or as an acquaintance. He was a teacher, a boss or a police inspector who brings order to your life, not that the life these movies described were by any means orderless.
I also like the fact that they movies lack conspicuous villains. They don’t have dacoits waiting to rape fair maidens or urban dons smuggling gold biscuits through Versova beach. Most of the time, the only villain is the circumstance. Misunderstandings and misplaced expectations conspire to deprive our hero of his rightful access to the woman of his dreams. Yet, he does not resort to force; he uses wit and persistence (and a dash of chicanery) to win her from a more dashing and confident opponent or a stubborn and traditional father. You know that they are going to live happily ever after just as soon as they tie the knot.
Sisters also play a great part in these movies. They may be boring and annoying but they love their families and dot on their brothers. They are very proud of their brothers’ achievements and are quite selfless in the way they go about keeping the whole universe in order. In that regard, they act as the counterpoint to Utpal Dutt. The horrible fate of being raped and murdered (and murder right after the rape in a natural consequence in all the movies to preserve the modesty of these women) that befalls the sisters of Amitabh Bachchan and other more manly heroes escapes them. Their world lacks evil impulses of murderers and rapists. Their world is often populated by a greedy goldsmith or a drunken watchman, but such annoyances can be easily dealt with. In the 70s and 80s India of small towns were actually more like this than the world of Amitabh Bachchan anyway.
The fact that very little happens other than the micro-story in the micro-society gives these movies a certain familiar intimacy. It is like being part of a family story or attending the wedding of a relative. You know them almost. Even when the story is set in a big city like Bombay, the stories have a small town feel because the camera focuses on the few actors who make their small world, just as it dos in yours and mine. There is something to be said about doing well what you do best.
One day I hope to own the whole collection of these movies for my library. Not because I regard them as good cinema but because these movies are like chicken soup for the soul. In the real world where we face alienation and judgment and where the rush to make something out of our lives is so prominent, it is good to have something to turn to that comforts us even if it is the fake world of old movies. These movies take you back to a world that does not exist and perhaps never existed, but represent the best that existed at that part of the world at that point in time.
And for this short journey, past becomes our true companion. The past walks with us, carrying the memories, reminding us who we truly are even if we are not that and never were. The past itself may be manufactured, a phantom, yet it is a past that we need, like an imaginary friend. A friend that above all the real friends, would not abandon us when the going gets tough.
So here is to the movies for our collective manufactured pasts.
Na Jaane Kyun, Hota Hai Yeh Zindagi Ke Saath
Achaanak Yeh Mann, Kisike Jaane Ke Baad
Kare Phir Uski Yaad Chhoti Chhoti Si Baat
Jo Anjaan Pal, Dhal Gaye Kal, Aaj Woh
Rang Badal Badal, Mann Ko Machal Machal
Rahen Hai Chal, Na Jaane Kyun Woh Anjaan Pal
Saje Bhi Na Mere, Naino Mein
Toote Re Hai Re Sapno Ke Mahal
Wohi Hai Dagar, Wohi Hai Safar
Hai Nahin Saath Mere Magar Ab Mera Humsafar
Idhar Udhar Dhoonde Nazar Wohi Hai Dagar
Kahan Gayi Shaamein, Madhbhari
Woh Mere, Mere Woh Din Gaye Kidhar
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
From when I was 14
As I went to my basement to look for something, I found these two notebooks from when I was 14. And there was a lot of funny poetry in them. I read them and scaresely recognized the boy who wrote them. Here is a sample from one of the poems:
(They bombard me with questions
and answer themselves
while I look baffled)
The sibilating silence outside the classroom
reflects the mood inside
No one speaks, anxiety dwells
on every unfriendly face
The painted face of the afternoon gets pale
Evening gently takes over
with her red lips and eye shadows
As we stare at each other still sitting
How does silence sibilate? I wonder.
There was also a very long and heartfelt dedication. One day when I have nothing to write, I shall reproduce it for fun.
Is it OK to make fun of the 14 year old, even if he was me?
First Snow of the Season
The first snow of the year came too late. It is already late January. But there is something very happy about the first snow. A dusting fell in the morning and the evening brought a proper snowfall. All sins are forgiven under a blanket of white powder. It is disappointing like so many other things. Sometimes you are upset that things that could have been so much more didn't turn out that way. Things that may have had a way to bloom actually wither and all you can do is bear witness. Nothing more.
As Ginsberg wrote, yesterday I saw God. He was a lonely old man with a white beard. Except, this time, he was not in the country sitting in a cheap cottage. He was sitting outside the train station begging for small change. It was cold and he needed warmth.
I am dreaming of books showering on me. heavy thick folios falling on my head. Knowledge kills. Heavy knowledge kills instantly. Especially when bound in hard cover.
If only you could read everything I choose not to write today.
For the most depressing day of the year according to some sources, it turned out pretty good.
As Ginsberg wrote, yesterday I saw God. He was a lonely old man with a white beard. Except, this time, he was not in the country sitting in a cheap cottage. He was sitting outside the train station begging for small change. It was cold and he needed warmth.
I am dreaming of books showering on me. heavy thick folios falling on my head. Knowledge kills. Heavy knowledge kills instantly. Especially when bound in hard cover.
If only you could read everything I choose not to write today.
For the most depressing day of the year according to some sources, it turned out pretty good.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Calcutta, 1986
Where are you Sleeping away from all the pain?
thousands of miles away
those memories seem
like hollow apparitions of past selves
jaywalking over a railway track
near a mud pond where wives of fisherfolk wash their
dirty clothes ogling at the boatmen
urchins playing in the rain in grainy black and White of film-noir
paint-peeling green windows
flapping in the rainy wind
under the towering silhouettes of concrete
over a converted garage where toothless old ladies
sit staring at the night in the dark with nothing to do
you bare your face from stares of sleeping souls
tears in your eyes
lips quivering
fighting the heat
under the taxing noise of fans
away from an unused grand piano
that no one will ever play or give away
near which secrets were told
the mental patient
once broke down and cried
the middle-aged mother lost her life
right under those wndows where
I left a part of my soul
walked away into the cozy darkness
without knowing that it would be the
last of the sight
last of sound
last of life
thousands of miles away
those memories seem
like hollow apparitions of past selves
jaywalking over a railway track
near a mud pond where wives of fisherfolk wash their
dirty clothes ogling at the boatmen
urchins playing in the rain in grainy black and White of film-noir
paint-peeling green windows
flapping in the rainy wind
under the towering silhouettes of concrete
over a converted garage where toothless old ladies
sit staring at the night in the dark with nothing to do
you bare your face from stares of sleeping souls
tears in your eyes
lips quivering
fighting the heat
under the taxing noise of fans
away from an unused grand piano
that no one will ever play or give away
near which secrets were told
the mental patient
once broke down and cried
the middle-aged mother lost her life
right under those wndows where
I left a part of my soul
walked away into the cozy darkness
without knowing that it would be the
last of the sight
last of sound
last of life
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Bettiah, Bihar, Part 2
Under the influence of Gandhi, who was profoundly wrong in many things, modern India has embarked on a path that is not only disastrous but also non-sustainable. Gandhi was not an economist nor was Nehru, his intellectual counter-point in the thinking about making of the modern state. P. C. Mahalanobis, whom Nehru hired with great fanfare to be the chief economic strategist of the modern India was a traditional socialist who was under the spell of the Soviet-style central planning. Together this created a perverted set of beliefs that landed us in this current mess.This Gandhi-Nehru concept of state-building was opposed by Sardar Patel who was quickly and effectively marginalized by Nehru. The resulting system, that lasted for 30 years (and still persists in many ways and forms) has certain unique characteristics.
In a nutshell, this created a system where urban areas were allowed to decay and their resources were unevenly and inefficiently distributed to the rural areas for so-called development without any regard for sustainability. (For an interesting discussion on this topic just an example, please look at the budget figures break-up of the ministry of aviation for the top 20 airports in the country for the last 10 years. And compare the expense figures to the capital expenditure and you will find some interesting things.) Is there a different path forward? The rate of Indian urbanization is very low. At this time, I think the urban population is less than 30%. This is a huge contrast to all the other countries that dream of becoming world powers. Is it possible to grow to a strong industrial country through rural development? Lets look at an average Indian village:
In addition, with concentrated schools and non-agricultural labor creation (factories of produce) educational levels can go up significantly since factories can be (and have been) used as places for social development as well, such as literacy campaigns. With this and women's empowerment, basic mortality and birth rate statistics can be reduced and monitored better. The urbanization also helps in two other things. It helps increase land efficiency by cultivating more land with fewer people and increase non-cultivated land without reducing output. This has been done successfully in Maharashtra and Punjab. Once urbanization program starts, it is extremely important to destroy the villages and redistribute resources. This also eliminate the feudal structures and prevent relapse. Power theft and power line loss can be minimised through concentration. Eliminate cottage industry status in these newly urbanizing areas and suspend the trade unionizing to allow for basic growth to take place. It is also extremely important to break up the daroga system and hire professional policemen from all castes. patrolling becomes easier since the population is concentrated in a small area. Out of the rural population of 2.7 million, the target should be to redistribute 1.2 million to the newly urbanized zone in the first three years. And to complete the process of redistributing another 1.5 million over the next seven years. This will create a large city. But it will be a large city that can be self sustaining and is able to afford the development cost. And as the education levels increase and total local investment increases, the city can organically grow. Am I dreaming? Perhaps yes. But it has been done in other countries. And in dire ways, this scale of urbanization has been successfully tested in Tamil Nadu and Maharashtra without intervention. The biggest difference has been good governance. So before I shake my head, blame bad government and walk away, at least one thing is doable. Change the mind set of rural development and embrace urbanization as the real vehicle for growth. India is not going to grow through the spinning wheel and the village, but through massive local industrialization and urban growth. It is already evident if you look at the number of Biharis fleeing bad governance and moving to the mega cities. Lets face facts and do something about it before it is too late. Adios. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------- For a decent discussion on Caste situation in Bihar, please see Roy, Ramashray, Caste and political recruitment in Bihar, from Caste in Indian Politics, pp 215-244, Kothari, Rajni., Ed., Orient Longman, Hyderabad, 2004. More general discussion on Communinalism can be found in Pandey, G, The construction of commununalism in Colonial North India, Oxford University Press, New Delhi, 1990. For a decent discussion on the development of Bihar under the British, please refer to Yang, Anand A., Bazar India - markets, Society, and the colonial state of Bihar, University of California Press, Berkeley, 1998. A different model of development model can be found in Parayil, Govindan, Ed., Kerala, the development experience (reflections on sustainability and replicability), Zed Books, London, 2000. I find the papers by Shrum and Ramanathaiyer; Veron and Kurien particularly fascinating. |
Example of a Flawed Strategy: Rural Development Bringing pumps to people: A five-point strategy for poverty reduction by bring water pumps to villages The research summarized here analyzes factors that have influenced the success and failure of groundwater development schemes in India. Based on these studies, five points are recommended for policy action: _ Discontinue government minor irrigation programs and focus on private tube wells as the primary mode for bringing groundwater irrigation to poor communities. _ Improve electricity supply for agriculture by reintroducing metered charging, decentralized retailing of electricity, and prepaid electricity cards. _ Promote the modification of pump sets to improve the energy efficiency of groundwater pumping, reduce pollution and lower the sale price of water to poor users. _ Introduce small diesel pumps and manual irrigation technologies for vegetable growers and marginal farmers. _ Remove pump subsidies and open the market to the import of smaller micro-diesel pumps, such as the Chinese equipment used in Pakistan and Bangladesh. If this is not practical, a useful alternative is to redesign pump-subsidy schemes along the lines of the Uttar Pradesh Free Boring Scheme. (Taken from IWMI-TATA Policy Paper, this is for a place where water resource overuse is over 32% How this is sustainable is beyond me.) |
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Bettiah, Bihar: A case for Urbanization Part 1
West Champaran district in the northern part of Bihar is one of the worst places in the world to be in. Champaran’s only claim to fame was as the site of the Gandhian satyagraha named in its likeness in 1917. After the independence, when India embarked on five year plans and slow infrastructure development, places like West Champaran were forgotten. There are no navigable roads or electricity in most places. Where attempts at electrification were made (Bihar Government claims that two hydro electric projects were completed – Valmiki Nagar and Triveni Canal and 5 are in the pipeline), the power cut made it easier for local mafia to steal power cables and sell them there by robbing the local population of any benefits. But it does not matter anyway since most of the population cannot afford electricity. The actual consumption of electricity is well below national averageof 334.3 units at or below 54.9 units. The average peasant in Champaran makes well below the Bihari average of average of Rs. 2193 (compared to the Indian average of Rs. 8399.) Rural poverty is crushingly over 50%. Unfortunately, none of these statistics are reliable even though the truth lies decidedly in the grimmer side of the scale. By any index of human quality, this blighted district is at the bottom of the scale. If Bihar was a country on its own, it would have been a failed state.
Bettiah, the district capital is one of the worst in Bihar, which is saying something. The district is firmly under the control of half a dozen feudal landlords (Vermas of Shikarpur, Krishna Prasad and Om Prakash of Bhaisahi, Rajas of Ramnagar, Rai and Sharma of Vilaspur, Shahi of Dumaria and Singhs of Baragaon) each illegally possessing thousands of acres. Everyone of these families have members in the legislative assemblies or other elected bodies. The non-landed peasantry is uneducated and illiterate (60% of the population). Among females, only 26% are functionally literate. Both these are substantially lower than even the average for Bihar. Most residents are subsistence farmers where there is semi-arable land even though most are landless laborers under the slavish control of the landed families. They are oppressed and beaten and denied any and all the benefits of the land reform put in place by the Government in the 70s. In addition to this caste distrimination is rampant with at least a dozen cases are registered a year even though perhaps hundreds go unregistered.As is the case in the rest of Bihar, there is no law or order in Bettiah or nearby areas.
The politicians are hand in glove with the land owners and they use the mafia and the police to serve their needs. Peasants are beaten, imprisoned, raped and ravaged for asking for their rights or even for daring to vote.
So, why did I make this really long introduction?
We make a big deal out of the prosperous growth urban India has experienced in the last 15 years. The country had an average rate of growth of 2.2 (the so-called Hindu rate of growth) until 1995 from which point India grew at an average of 4.7% and if you take the last 3 or 4 years, the average rate of growth is perhaps 8 or 9 percent.This rate of growth has made a very prosperous urban middle-class and unemployment in the educated sector in the urban areas have become very low. This aspect of the urban India is celebrated by the whole world and Indians are justifiably proud of this. Yet, anyone who has visited India in recent years, it is impossible to ignore the squalor and filth of her cities. We immediately blame the Biharis and UP villagers for this mess and wish they would go back to their states. But where will they go? And what will they do there? What sort of governance can they expect in these places? And how do you create a sustainable development in these places so that they are not forced to move to Delhi or Bombay?
When it comes to places like Bettiah, while we may disagree on specifics, I don't think we will argue that the situation on the ground is any better than the description above unless your name begins with Laloo and ends with Yadav.
But that is how the agreement ends.
When it comes to discussing what can be done about this situation, the crackpot theories come out and in the end, we finish our tea and walk away blaming politics and shrugging that nothing can be done.Do we need to be that pessimistic? Is there a recipe that might work to solve the problems of West Champaran?
Is there a hope for that India?
He Visits When It Rains
Introduction
I wrote this in 1990 and found it on the web recently when going through the archives of Usenet. I had lost it while changing so many computers in all these years, so i was happy to see it again. I copied it back to the hard disk and decided to change nothing. Well, that is not entirely true, I changed the name of the character. It is sort of a pointless story with no clear anchorpoint. Perhaps I would have written it differently today. Some of the actual escriptions of events and places are true and it is how they happened. The rest of it, emotions and the connections I make (and it is a stretch I admit) are just fiction. It is just interesting rereading it after 17 years, just to remember how things were. So here it is, in its original form, a pointless story. As far as literary fiction goes, I would file this under Don't-quit-your-day-job category.
He Visits When It Rains
Sitting here waiting for my meeting, I am drawn to the ever-increasing feeling of desperation. This depressive episode started only a few days ago when the seasonal rains began. I have been battling these moods for years since I was fifteen. I still remember that warm-afternoon journey by boat to Elephanta caves with oldman Nanchibhai that I think of as the turning point of my happy life. I was sitting by the window close enough to touch the spray of seawater as the boat moved. On the opposite seat, sat a white tourist with a stern face that revealed no interest in any activity around him. His Indian lover kept trying to slyly arouse him by pressing his hands on her middle-aged breasts without much success. Her skin had the complexion of dried wood as it disappeared into her shirtsleeves.
I was barely out of my teens then. Even so, somehow I felt a great pity for her. She did try to look cheerful inspite of the lost-expression and the dark alienating clouds around her eyes. Their son, a tall child with a lot of determination, practiced jumping from the cracked wooden seat to the floor relentlessly. He was totally lost in the quest for perfection and was oblivious to the battle between disinterest and desire around him.
It was the first time that I realized I was depressed. The sight of the gray ocean around me, the gentle rocking motion and the silent disinterest of the passengers all brought home the lucidity of that feeling. Forever, I remember that moment with that family sitting across from me as the page-mark in the book of my life when depression first struck me. I could feel the chill in the air as it began to rain without warning. I detested the rain for the first time, as it played little beats on the tin-roof and poked the ocean surface with thousands of water needles. Nanchibhai must have been surprised as I wiped tears off my face while pretending to be wiping the raindrops away. But he said nothing.
Years later, sitting by the window last night, listening to the sound of rain drops splattering to the ground, I became conscious of that sadness in me that lasted all those years. It was as if the rains carried it for me and washed me clean with pain every time they visited the city. The indigo lines drawn across the skyline underlined the feeling of complete helplessness I felt at that time. The raindrops had collected under the window as small puddles on the concrete, where pearly bubbles formed and broke as each new drop fell and mixed into it.
This was my mood as I had my first meeting with Pink Floyd. His real name was Floyd Almeida but everyone just called him Pink Floyd, a name that he seemed to take to with some enthusiasm. He walked-in armed with a happy smile, determined to break the spell of sadness around me, or so it seemed.
"Puck", he called with a loud voice clear of uncertainties as he walked in. We had spoken over the phone and we knew of each other well from common contacts. I gave him a faint smile. Without looking for a particular reaction, he continued," I am Floyd, your field-partner". His smile had rings of rain to it. The joviality of his bearing stood out in rivalry with the helpless pain that rain had brought and the memory of the dark-skinned Indian woman on the boat with her white lover. He injected some soothing comfort of warmth to beak up the self-flagellating reverie I was in.
And that is how the friendship grew between us. Even in the fleeting moments
we sometimes passed each other through the damp corridor where algae drew green
patterns, he never failed to challenge my sadness with his smile.
As partners in the field experiments we started to travel together. Often we would visit small mining towns and abandoned coal mineshafts together. Most of these towns had very little life left in them an evenings brought nothing but boredom. We developed the habit of walking around under the blue vast skies and the desolate landscapes looking for interesting features and abandoned buildings.
We were in a small town that had been an army base for the soldiers. In the evening, tired of the hard work in the heat and the dust and the low-pitched humming of mosquitoes in the summer heat, we decided to take our usual aimless stroll. The walk took us to an abandoned church and a graveyard around it. The light had already faded and the white clapboard exterior of the church stood like a ghost against the dark Midwestern summer sky affixed with a million stars that came out of nowhere. Without even glancing at each other, we walked inside pushing the rusted gates open.
"Janet Nicholson", the inscription on the first marker read, "Born July 12, 1793 , Died September 4, 1812". All the inscriptions that we read by the faint torch light indicated that the gravesite was indeed full of those who departed young. We walked in complete silence through the unkempt space careful enough not to trip and fall. There was nothing we could say to each other. Sometimes silence has all the words you need. It took me a while to realize that the water drops that wet my eye lashes were indeed warm unseasonable prairie rain. The summer rain smelled like moths and sounded like a funeral songs of crickets. Water drops fell on Janet's grave with precision washing away accumulated dirt and grime, not wasting its sorrow. The rest of the night passed in a dream of crickets, moths and young women resting in coffins.
That was the last trip we took together. On our return journey he entertained me with a collection of lewd songs sang to the rhythm of his fingers tapping his fat thighs even as we drove through the night. Though we promised each other to travel together again in the near future, it was never to be.
Shortly, Floyd left school to pursue a career totally unrelated to his degree and I gradually lost touch with him. At that time, entangled in a relationship that brought golden fireflies in my dreams and yellow sunflowers in fantasies, I had little time or inclination to seek out old friends and remember old faces.
Then a year later, the monsoons came like a downpour of memories. I was all-alone again after the sunflowers suddenly withered and the fireflies lost their fire. I wandered in memories trying to seek refuge in the past and in revisited old friendships that appeared like shadows in the mist. It was time to graduate from undergraduate school. Nostalgia forced me to spend all my time with old friends, killing moments over tea or beer that was light enough to be tears or water.
Then one of those afternoons Floyd walked in unannounced and cheered us all
with his characteristic witty disposition. There was a girl with him who smelled like wild flowers as she sat next to me, smiling politely at every one of his jokes and not caring that he did not think it necessary to introduce her. She was dark and had wide eyes, and reminded me of the Indian woman on the boat.
Floyd asked me to accompany him to the gate as he took his leave. He was returning to his office in Nebraska and the chances were bleak that we would meet again, at least for a long time. I felt sad and so did he. We walked on the narrow pavement where yesterday's rain had left light patches of wetness. The purple flowers on the fence smelled like the young girl we were walking with, as the damp winds carried it all around us. There were students passing us by with backpacks and books. They looked like movie extras, just looking busy, walking around to add meaning to a street scene. Fat,happy, lean, moody, shabby, trendy, cruel, benign, their presence looked designed, as if an invisible director had yelled “action” out of our earshot. Floyd hurried as thunder announced rain. The girl smiled a silent farewell filled with the pain of an unknown past and wild flowers, as they hurried away into the beginnings of the rain.
That night, it rained all the time. The green prairies looked tired and bedraggled. There were puddles but no music of frogs. The giant cross, planted in front of the Baptist church, looked washed and solemn as I passed it on my way home. The street
lamps had tears on them.
In the student-common lounge, I stopped to shake water from my clothes which were sticking to my skin, cold and uncomfortable. In the dark corner I saw an Indian lady sitting on a suitcase, next to her white companion. It appeared that she had just arrived on the scene. She was in her early thirties and had a beehive for hair. Her companion was wiry with alabaster skin, as he sat in the shadows with a nonchalant expression. She kept pushing her hair away from her sad plump face with an air of annoyance.
I started as a feeling of déjà vu returned to me. I expected the rains to visit with the needles of pain any time soon. I wanted to weep. I hastened to my room as the man put his arms around his companion and laughed at a private joke.
When the darkness came like a silent intruder, I lost myself to yesterdays and to unrepentant guilt. In the midst of an uncomfortable sleep, I realized that I was no longer unhappy when Floyd came visiting me in a dream full of wet streets and unrelenting rain.
I wrote this in 1990 and found it on the web recently when going through the archives of Usenet. I had lost it while changing so many computers in all these years, so i was happy to see it again. I copied it back to the hard disk and decided to change nothing. Well, that is not entirely true, I changed the name of the character. It is sort of a pointless story with no clear anchorpoint. Perhaps I would have written it differently today. Some of the actual escriptions of events and places are true and it is how they happened. The rest of it, emotions and the connections I make (and it is a stretch I admit) are just fiction. It is just interesting rereading it after 17 years, just to remember how things were. So here it is, in its original form, a pointless story. As far as literary fiction goes, I would file this under Don't-quit-your-day-job category.
He Visits When It Rains
Sitting here waiting for my meeting, I am drawn to the ever-increasing feeling of desperation. This depressive episode started only a few days ago when the seasonal rains began. I have been battling these moods for years since I was fifteen. I still remember that warm-afternoon journey by boat to Elephanta caves with oldman Nanchibhai that I think of as the turning point of my happy life. I was sitting by the window close enough to touch the spray of seawater as the boat moved. On the opposite seat, sat a white tourist with a stern face that revealed no interest in any activity around him. His Indian lover kept trying to slyly arouse him by pressing his hands on her middle-aged breasts without much success. Her skin had the complexion of dried wood as it disappeared into her shirtsleeves.
I was barely out of my teens then. Even so, somehow I felt a great pity for her. She did try to look cheerful inspite of the lost-expression and the dark alienating clouds around her eyes. Their son, a tall child with a lot of determination, practiced jumping from the cracked wooden seat to the floor relentlessly. He was totally lost in the quest for perfection and was oblivious to the battle between disinterest and desire around him.
It was the first time that I realized I was depressed. The sight of the gray ocean around me, the gentle rocking motion and the silent disinterest of the passengers all brought home the lucidity of that feeling. Forever, I remember that moment with that family sitting across from me as the page-mark in the book of my life when depression first struck me. I could feel the chill in the air as it began to rain without warning. I detested the rain for the first time, as it played little beats on the tin-roof and poked the ocean surface with thousands of water needles. Nanchibhai must have been surprised as I wiped tears off my face while pretending to be wiping the raindrops away. But he said nothing.
Years later, sitting by the window last night, listening to the sound of rain drops splattering to the ground, I became conscious of that sadness in me that lasted all those years. It was as if the rains carried it for me and washed me clean with pain every time they visited the city. The indigo lines drawn across the skyline underlined the feeling of complete helplessness I felt at that time. The raindrops had collected under the window as small puddles on the concrete, where pearly bubbles formed and broke as each new drop fell and mixed into it.
This was my mood as I had my first meeting with Pink Floyd. His real name was Floyd Almeida but everyone just called him Pink Floyd, a name that he seemed to take to with some enthusiasm. He walked-in armed with a happy smile, determined to break the spell of sadness around me, or so it seemed.
"Puck", he called with a loud voice clear of uncertainties as he walked in. We had spoken over the phone and we knew of each other well from common contacts. I gave him a faint smile. Without looking for a particular reaction, he continued," I am Floyd, your field-partner". His smile had rings of rain to it. The joviality of his bearing stood out in rivalry with the helpless pain that rain had brought and the memory of the dark-skinned Indian woman on the boat with her white lover. He injected some soothing comfort of warmth to beak up the self-flagellating reverie I was in.
And that is how the friendship grew between us. Even in the fleeting moments
we sometimes passed each other through the damp corridor where algae drew green
patterns, he never failed to challenge my sadness with his smile.
As partners in the field experiments we started to travel together. Often we would visit small mining towns and abandoned coal mineshafts together. Most of these towns had very little life left in them an evenings brought nothing but boredom. We developed the habit of walking around under the blue vast skies and the desolate landscapes looking for interesting features and abandoned buildings.
We were in a small town that had been an army base for the soldiers. In the evening, tired of the hard work in the heat and the dust and the low-pitched humming of mosquitoes in the summer heat, we decided to take our usual aimless stroll. The walk took us to an abandoned church and a graveyard around it. The light had already faded and the white clapboard exterior of the church stood like a ghost against the dark Midwestern summer sky affixed with a million stars that came out of nowhere. Without even glancing at each other, we walked inside pushing the rusted gates open.
"Janet Nicholson", the inscription on the first marker read, "Born July 12, 1793 , Died September 4, 1812". All the inscriptions that we read by the faint torch light indicated that the gravesite was indeed full of those who departed young. We walked in complete silence through the unkempt space careful enough not to trip and fall. There was nothing we could say to each other. Sometimes silence has all the words you need. It took me a while to realize that the water drops that wet my eye lashes were indeed warm unseasonable prairie rain. The summer rain smelled like moths and sounded like a funeral songs of crickets. Water drops fell on Janet's grave with precision washing away accumulated dirt and grime, not wasting its sorrow. The rest of the night passed in a dream of crickets, moths and young women resting in coffins.
That was the last trip we took together. On our return journey he entertained me with a collection of lewd songs sang to the rhythm of his fingers tapping his fat thighs even as we drove through the night. Though we promised each other to travel together again in the near future, it was never to be.
Shortly, Floyd left school to pursue a career totally unrelated to his degree and I gradually lost touch with him. At that time, entangled in a relationship that brought golden fireflies in my dreams and yellow sunflowers in fantasies, I had little time or inclination to seek out old friends and remember old faces.
Then a year later, the monsoons came like a downpour of memories. I was all-alone again after the sunflowers suddenly withered and the fireflies lost their fire. I wandered in memories trying to seek refuge in the past and in revisited old friendships that appeared like shadows in the mist. It was time to graduate from undergraduate school. Nostalgia forced me to spend all my time with old friends, killing moments over tea or beer that was light enough to be tears or water.
Then one of those afternoons Floyd walked in unannounced and cheered us all
with his characteristic witty disposition. There was a girl with him who smelled like wild flowers as she sat next to me, smiling politely at every one of his jokes and not caring that he did not think it necessary to introduce her. She was dark and had wide eyes, and reminded me of the Indian woman on the boat.
Floyd asked me to accompany him to the gate as he took his leave. He was returning to his office in Nebraska and the chances were bleak that we would meet again, at least for a long time. I felt sad and so did he. We walked on the narrow pavement where yesterday's rain had left light patches of wetness. The purple flowers on the fence smelled like the young girl we were walking with, as the damp winds carried it all around us. There were students passing us by with backpacks and books. They looked like movie extras, just looking busy, walking around to add meaning to a street scene. Fat,happy, lean, moody, shabby, trendy, cruel, benign, their presence looked designed, as if an invisible director had yelled “action” out of our earshot. Floyd hurried as thunder announced rain. The girl smiled a silent farewell filled with the pain of an unknown past and wild flowers, as they hurried away into the beginnings of the rain.
That night, it rained all the time. The green prairies looked tired and bedraggled. There were puddles but no music of frogs. The giant cross, planted in front of the Baptist church, looked washed and solemn as I passed it on my way home. The street
lamps had tears on them.
In the student-common lounge, I stopped to shake water from my clothes which were sticking to my skin, cold and uncomfortable. In the dark corner I saw an Indian lady sitting on a suitcase, next to her white companion. It appeared that she had just arrived on the scene. She was in her early thirties and had a beehive for hair. Her companion was wiry with alabaster skin, as he sat in the shadows with a nonchalant expression. She kept pushing her hair away from her sad plump face with an air of annoyance.
I started as a feeling of déjà vu returned to me. I expected the rains to visit with the needles of pain any time soon. I wanted to weep. I hastened to my room as the man put his arms around his companion and laughed at a private joke.
When the darkness came like a silent intruder, I lost myself to yesterdays and to unrepentant guilt. In the midst of an uncomfortable sleep, I realized that I was no longer unhappy when Floyd came visiting me in a dream full of wet streets and unrelenting rain.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Chess Players
I did this last night after I came back from a chess game.
He was shy and reserved. And completely clueless. There was something endearing about him that defied expectations; may be it was his utter lack of self-awareness and decorum, or may be it was his endearing naïveté and ignorance. He has been living in this city for two years and does not know his way around. He complains that he doesn't understand anything because everything is in German even though the language is French. He slurps through his food and unconsciously picks his teeth and burps while sitting in the restaurant.
He is from a smalltown in South India and this is his first assignment outside India. He discusses his salary in public with complete strangers and is genuinely excited at the prospect of winning at a chess game.
I drink a cup of coffee and watch the players. I watch him intently because he is fascinating in an odd way. He is very young, in his mid-twenties even though he looks a lot older. His syntax and sentance construction are peculiar. I see him making his chess moves while letting his tongue dangle out.
Is it Ok to feel slightly angry that in spite of his two years here he has made no attempts to observe the local customs and adapt? Is it OK to feel a tinge of irritation at his complete lack of self-awareness?
In the end, I let the chess player dissolve into the darkness while driving away to the vast nothingness of the country roads.
May be I will meet him again.
He was shy and reserved. And completely clueless. There was something endearing about him that defied expectations; may be it was his utter lack of self-awareness and decorum, or may be it was his endearing naïveté and ignorance. He has been living in this city for two years and does not know his way around. He complains that he doesn't understand anything because everything is in German even though the language is French. He slurps through his food and unconsciously picks his teeth and burps while sitting in the restaurant.
He is from a smalltown in South India and this is his first assignment outside India. He discusses his salary in public with complete strangers and is genuinely excited at the prospect of winning at a chess game.
I drink a cup of coffee and watch the players. I watch him intently because he is fascinating in an odd way. He is very young, in his mid-twenties even though he looks a lot older. His syntax and sentance construction are peculiar. I see him making his chess moves while letting his tongue dangle out.
Is it Ok to feel slightly angry that in spite of his two years here he has made no attempts to observe the local customs and adapt? Is it OK to feel a tinge of irritation at his complete lack of self-awareness?
In the end, I let the chess player dissolve into the darkness while driving away to the vast nothingness of the country roads.
May be I will meet him again.
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