Alvibest Vol 1 Issue 4 (May 2006) by Eroteme Thinks

Editor’s Page It was just after the last issue was released, when the Editorial Board had this to ask of the Editor: So what are the plans for the next one? It was a simple question which was answered equally simply but left a lot confused. All I had to say was, “It will deal with the matters that relate to the contemporary world.” Rarely have I seen 12 words demand grand debates. What do the following pieces have in common? Satanic Verses (Salman Rushdie), Breast Stories (Mahasweta Devi), And the Truth Goes Marching On (Don Cincone), Everybody Loves a Good Drought (P. Sainath), I know why the caged bird sings (Maya Angelou), The Crucible (Arthur Miller), Guernica (Pablo Picasso) and The Grapes of Wrath (John Steinbeck). They are, undoubtedly, works of art but they are also concerns raised about issues that mattered to the human heart. These works of art (fiction, nonfiction, poetry, plays, painting) are not poorer in their creative wealth compared to others which do not pertain to a social concern. Often artists believe that creating as a social statement is not really creating and it defeats the purpose of spontaneous creativity. Artists have always felt divided between capturing beauty (and leaving the world to others) and doing so in order to fire the human heart to reflect on matters that concern them. Now what do the following bear as resemblance? On the Road (Jack Kerouac), Matrix (Wachowsky Brothers), “Airtel ringtone” (A.R.Rahman), iPod (Apple), “Blogs” (innumerous authors), Tumhari Amrita (Directed by Feroz Khan) and The Vagina Monologues (Eve Ensler). In their times they created a sensation, which lasted longer than what was imagined as a possible lifespan for such phenomena. They went ahead to mould and redefine a lot in their fields. Many more examples lined up without helping the Editorial Board decide as to what is contemporary. Would the qualifiers be only scathing issues of social value or would present day trends, contemporary novelties, common idiosyncrasies and the like find a place here? One thing we were sure: Politics and economics would mostly stay out! This debate raged and shows least sign of abatement even while we prepare the final drafts of this issue. Coupled with this mayhem (and the fiction piece, Serious Whims makes an interesting observation about the types of mayhem) was a nagging issue which was quite “contemporary” to Alvibest (given that the magazine is but 4 issues old!): what is the core of Alvibest? As each day was rushed through in the urgent need to get Alvibest out on time and keep our lives running as it did before Alvibest, we struggled with the demands of deadlines, quality, content (what is literature?), etc. What is it that we wished to serve the family of Alvibest (you and us)? In a world filled with rapidity of all sorts, where worth and weight are made synonymous, where passion and ambition merge into an incomprehensible blend, what is the core of Alvibest? And equally importantly, what isn't? Alvibest, to us, is not about meeting deadlines. Most of life has become that, but our passion (which we often call Alvibest) is about love, quality and pleasant satisfaction. So this is what we did. We simply walked out into the woods. We decided to stop press and rid ourselves of this plaguing need to release Alvibest on time. We decided to release Alvibest on quality (and if such a phrase wasn't ever defined, here goes: on quality: adj. 'än 'kwä-l&-tE. Something passionate, done in all honesty). We would feel hollow had we delivered it in the first week of the quarter but had failed to make it a memorable experience. At least that is one contemporary issue well resolved! This issue and every fourth issue of Alvibest will focus on raising non-political and non-economic issues (though the line is blurred) and presenting them through various media. Alvibest will utilise this issue for raising awareness about the world around us in a way we best can: creating with a cause. This isn’t a theme as much as an instinctive necessity for us. In this issue we have November 15th, a piece told differently about romance well lived beyond the chat room where it originated and Weight of Honour, the tale of a woman who feels the loss in war. While the fiction piece, Games, talks about the plight of women, The Weakening Sex talks about the troubles of the male author in Chennai. We have a new column called Projector Room. Reading. Pour Your Heart Into It is enthusiastically (Reading) Reminisced! Included at the end are the updated submission guidelines. We would be very interested in reading your work and including them in future issues of Alvibest. Readers, who are interested in contributing time and effort in reviewing submissions, working on the design (we thank the kind folks who shared various articles of concern, which we used on this issue’s cover design) and layout of the magazine as well as the logistics, are welcome to write to editor.alvibest@gmail.com. Suggestions and ideas are welcome at feedback.alvibest@gmail.com. We hope you enjoy this experience and join us on this journey. Happy reading.

Games

Colour the Streets

The Weight of Honour

Pour Your Heart Into it

Going Nowhere

Retrosexual snoitcelfeR

Outward Bound

Tulips

Choreography: Vanessa-Mae

The Idol

Limbo

Serious Whims

The Lady and the Monk: Pico Iyer

Skin Deep

Fast Forward

The Weakening Sex

Means and Ends

R for Riveting

The Void

Silent Pains

Writers of the Issue: Nadine Gordimer, Harold Pinter, Gao Xingjian, Shirin Ebadi

Folly in the Run

November 15th

Lila

Trinity

Submission Guidelines

Fiction

Games

Shalini It’s quarter past six and time to start playing my games for the day. I wave goodbye to my colleagues at work and pull my handbag over my shoulder. I straighten my hair, letting the sweat remain on my face. I need to warm up to the first game. I catch a glimpse of sumptuous breast salaciously scraping against my handbag. I pull my dupattaℜ carefully over them. I pick a quick stride and use the flight of stairs to gain momentum. The distance between my office and the train station is a measured four hundred steps – usually less, but rarely more. The sultry heat of Churchgate washes over me leaving a sheen of sweat coupled with fine dust covering my skin. The wetness raises the odds against me, but it is all part of the game. I step into the arena and look around. A game of such scale is rarely played in a stadium. It can only be done here. I spot the young college boys near the magazine stall and I do not slow down. Speed is a key weapon in my hand and unlike my trump cards, needs to be used continuously. A group of bank clerks and peons walk hurriedly. Hotel managers and investment bankers skirt the commoners. The first game starts now. Without slowing down I continue walking towards the ladies compartment. Bags and swinging palms are the predictable hurdles on this stretch. Someone calls out to a friend – distraction. A salesperson begs me to buy from the new stock of handkerchiefs he has but I walk on. The space between the bench and the hawker is just enough for one person. I spot him – quite a handsome guy in a sports jacket. He approaches the hawker pretending to buy something. I walk as if I will bump into him and at the last minute dodge to the side evading his innocent hand. I go and seat myself between two old women. The game continues on a harmless even keel. I fish out a magazine. They continue to stare, but passive gamers are ignored. I read my magazine and shuttle my glance between the Churchgate clock and the far mouth of the station. My train arrives and I expect little action now. I lodge myself carefully between women and it’s usually the older and bolder on the outer fringe: so much like a herd of elephants. Has the animal instinct in us died at all? Everyone pushes and sticks to each other and the men play only on the outer rim. Once, I remember, a man tried to make his way through the diameter of the feminine mass. What happened to him left me frightened of my own sex. The next twenty-five minutes are a blur of sweat, gossip, songs of a beggar girl and little else. The security of an all-ladies compartment is occasionally threatened by some hooligans who manage to get in. Doesn’t happen always and I always avoid traveling later than 21:00 hrs. It’s like not picking a Rover on your favourite dirt track video-game – slim chance of winning.

ℜ

Stole

On certain days the eunuchs board the train and caress your chin and bless you with a wonderful husband all for five rupees. Are they really eunuchs? Their hands are still rough, and the drool that shines on their mouth cannot always be a figment of my imagination. But something about them make them less harmful and it was strange when a Gujarati lady next to me once said, “Bangles and breasts make a lot of difference.” Is that what gives us our sense of security? It is so unfortunate that we cannot simply trust and live respectably. Someone is reading about dance bars in Bombay and how some woman was arrested for pimping young girls. Dadar station. This is the final phase of the first game for me. I rush out of the train, lest the crowd thins and the game gets riskier. The knuckles around my bag tighten and I hope there is no one out there with a fetish for whitened knuckles. We rush out like a herd of goats from a barbed enclosure. In the midst of women, brushes and caresses are ignored. When we reach the top of the staircase, I dare not turn around to recognize the hand on my derriere. The pressure is constant and cannot be accidental. Have you ever felt your insides pull away from your skin? It is ironic that your own flesh deserts your skin. The heat of his lust hangs from rusted iron hooks on my skin. The pain – or is it the sickening concoction of shame and weakness – gets heady and I feel tears burning the insides of my eyes. No amount of playing this game can wipe the dizzying disgust that I feel as my back cringes and folds inward. My mouth curls involuntarily into a scowl. I lunge forward and jump to the right and then to the left. He is an old gamer and follows me well with only occasional disconnects to fire his lust. Real gamers will never leave their hand on you for long. A touch is less luring when it stays too long – too familiar. I spot an old woman. Grey hairs usually do not attract strange hands. I recognize my trump card of the day and rush towards her slowing down in front of her. “Aunty, do you want me to help you with the bags?” She pulls the bags closer to herself, for that is what Bombay has taught her. I care little for her trust today. I quickly put my hand around her trying to support her and walk just a little in front of her. With the bridge girders on one side and the old lady on the other, he hesitates and I feel the ugly warmth around my rear dissolving in the cool relief of an escape. I disallow air between her and I; lesser chance for a hand or a groin. I walk with her till I reach a taxi and jump inside. I give her a quick bow from within the free confines of the Bombay taxi and she gives me a puzzled look. Then she smiles at me and walks on. Did she ever play these games in her days? I reach home and toss my handbag and dupatta on the plastic chair. Mom looks up. “How was your day?” Should I tell her? I wash the dirt off my face and look at her in the mirror above the basin. “Fine.” Thus, starts game two.

Photography

Colour the Streets

Manikandan

Poetry

The Weight of Honour

Anonymous

People called her, The lady who stooped. There she was, in the middle of the road, Waiting for her son to arrive, From where the sun set. Arrive he did With myriad children and youth Following him And hoping to follow him. Nubile faces peeped from windows And bit their lower lip when he saw them too. He rushed to her, And stopped to salute her With all the stiffness That he had learnt, In the huge classroom Of mountains, ravines and barking guns. He plucked something from his breast A guilty heart? she thought. No, a heavy medal of honour. But weighing the same. “How many?” she asked. “Two more awardees” he beamed and added, “But they knew people up there.” She shook her head and asked, “How many did you kill? How many women widowed? How many mothers’ breast burnt? How many children left without a sire?”

“It’s for my country and it’s an honour.” “Then let it mingle with this country’s sods.” She ran towards the river A hand aloft, holding the medal. And the other, holding her clothes together. Everyone cried but so did she. She drew her hand back to hurl, But the crowd jumped on her, Breaking her back, While he wrenched his medal From her trembling hand From the hands of the lady who stooped.

Dedicated to those who killed in any war, and realized the hideousness of their act.

Reading Reminiscence

Pour Your Heart Into it Lavanya Gopinath Friends are such a pain sometimes. Don't let anyone convince you otherwise. Maybe you are already saying, “Her friends must be a pain; certainly not mine!” Perhaps you are right. At least you wouldn't want to trade your friends for mine! Particularly the one friend, let us call him NitPick, who gifts me books every birthday and then expects me to not just read them, but also to send him a long email commenting on my favourite parts of the book. What is wrong with that, you ask? Well, he corrects my comments and expects me to rework on my email! This birthday he gifted me Pour Your Heart Into It and told me he did not want an email, I could just enjoy my book. In all enthusiasm and relief, I plunged in right away and finished the book in two days flat. There were two reasons why I read that book immediately – one, it was about Starbucks, my favourite coffee place; two, it had a great title that appealed to my senses. There was one more obvious reason; I did not have to send NitPick an email. We aren't always sensible; at least, I am not. Otherwise, why would I send the NitPick an email anyway, praising the book, only to have him reply that I had missed mentioning the fact that Starbucks' store design theme is based on the five elements – air, water, fire, earth, space. Some people! I like gushing about really good books that I read and I cannot resist sharing with nice folks like you some of what I enjoyed in this book. Coffee There is something very basal about coffee – the aroma of roasted beans, the bitter taste, the instant alertness a sip causes...and coffee shops, I think, have come to symbolize a certain vibrancy that draws one like a magnet. Starbucks has become synonymous with not just strong coffee or icy Frappucino, but also with Jazz, Kenny G, choice, friends and social gathering. Howard Schultz nurtured this amazing enterprise by sticking to solid principles, not compromising on the quality of coffee and innovating to retain the freshness of customer experience. Pour Your Heart Into It narrates the living of a dream. Jointly written with Dori Jones Yang, Bureau Chief of Business Week Seattle, Schultz indicates that the purpose of this book is not to make

money or share his life story. Instead it is to inspire people to dream big, pursue them and create winning teams. This is how Schultz recalls that epiphanic moment: It wasn't until I discovered Starbucks that I realized what it means when your work truly captures your heart and your imagination.

The difference between a quality product and a great product is in the mind of the customer. A number of customers drive out of their way to a Starbucks store to collect their morning coffee because of the 'romance of the coffee experience' and the warmth of a 'Third Place' that Starbucks has become for most people.

Origin While Starbucks was born out of the love for coffee shared by three enthusiasts â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Gerald Baldwin, Gordon Bowker and Zev Siegl - who founded Starbucks because they wanted Seattle to enjoy great coffee (Their interest in good coffee was nearly matched by their interest in literature and as a toast to the kind of classic literature they read, the word Starbucks was the name of the first mate on the ship Pequod in Moby Dick). It was with Howard Schultz's entry as a sales and marketing manager and later in his role as its Chief Executive, that Starbucks really captured the imagination of people. Transformation I couldn't stop thinking about Starbucks. Although it was much smaller than the multinationals I had been working for in New York, it was much more intriguing, like a jazz tune you can't get out of your head. I could see so many ways I could contribute.

Schultz needed a lot of determination and perseverance to convince the Starbucks founders that he would be able to add value to Starbucks as head of sales and marketing. It took him a number of meetings and one outright rejection before he made headway. The manner of entry into the organization was an indicator of things to come; at every new step that he attempted, Schultz had to doggedly pursue his bosses before they approved his idea. One of his first big ideas was introducing Cafe Latte in Starbucks' coffee bars. Howard Schultz found his inspiration for the Cafe Latte at the espresso bars in the colorful and bustling streets of Milan; the passion of Italy soaked him completely. As I watched, I had a revelation: Starbucks had missed the point â&#x20AC;&#x201C; completely missed it. This is so powerful! I thought. This is the link. The connection to the people who loved coffee did not have to take place only in their homes, where they ground and brewed whole-bean coffee. What we had to do was unlock the romance and mystery of coffee, firsthand, in coffee bars. The Italians understood the personal relationship that people could have to coffee, its social aspect. I couldn't believe that Starbucks was in the coffee business, yet was overlooking so central an element of it.

However the transition from the seed of an idea to an authentic Italian espresso selling store was arduous for him because the founders were convinced that a cafe was not in line with Starbucks' commitment to coffee. Schultz says that his belief in his dream and his persistence was what brought his idea to fruition. He grandly states that as far he knows, America was introduced to Cafe Latte on an April morning in 1984 at Starbucks’ first espresso counter. Life is a series of near misses. But a lot of what we ascribe to luck is not luck at all. It's seizing the day and accepting responsibility for your future. It's seeing what other people don't see, and pursuing that vision, no matter who tells you not to

Conflict Soon after Starbucks opened its espresso counters, Schultz reached an impasse with Baldwin and Bowker. He decided to move out of Starbucks and start his own cafe Il Giornale. He sourced his coffee from Starbucks but expanded and marketed his vision of a coffee place. Again, his perseverance stood him in good stead as he struggled to raise capital to fund Il Giornale. Some years later, by a funny twist of events, Il Giornale bought Starbucks and rechristened itself Starbucks International Corporation, and Howard Schultz became its CEO. Howard Schultz came from a very modest background and grew up in a Housing Project in Brooklyn, New York. His father's poor work situation was a permanent fixture in Schultz's growing years. Perhaps those difficult memories were responsible for Schultz's strong drive to achieve. It also created in him the firm belief that employees must be provided with the best of benefits, something that Starbucks has always been committed to. Crisis & Values As every growing public company learns, 'Wall Street measures a company's price' and not its value. Starbucks survived a few sudden dips in its stock price caused by factors that had nothing to do with its own performance but sometimes to do with frosts in Brazilian coffee fields or dips in Christmas sales across the US. “Howard,” Orin said, his normally calm voice pinched, “there's been a severe frost in Brazil. Coffee prices are going crazy.” Brazil? Starbucks didn't even buy any coffee from Brazil. Most Brazilian coffee ends up in cans. But I understood the significance of that frost immediately. Brazil produces more than a quarter of the world's coffee, and a serious shortfall there would send up prices for coffee everywhere.

This book covers a lot of incidents that were inflection points in Starbucks' growth. Not only do those incidents make for insightful reading but they also show that a company must never sell out its values, particularly in a crisis.

Pour Your Heart Into It could be called a business book in the sense that it talks about one of the most popular brands in the world today. It could be a self-improvement book too because Schultz offers several well-meaning suggestions for his readers. It could be an inspirational book that teaches people to believe in their dreams and themselves. What I think makes this book special is that it is all of these, yet if there is one defining factor evident in every paragraph, it is passion. Schultz signing off says: As a kid in Brooklyn, I was afraid to look into the crystal ball. After half a lifetime, I have come to realize that we all have it in our power to shape the image we see in that ball. If we envision it, plan it, are smart about acting on it, we can will amazing feats to happen. But we need to make sure it's a vision worth bringing to life. If it has a noble purpose, the rewards are far greater.

Truly, a man with his heart in the right place.

Photography

Going Nowhere

Shivani

Fiction

Retrosexual snoitcelfeR

Agnibarathi ‘Pleasant night, eh? Full moon, sweet drizzle, champagne – do you see the bubbles winking… Keats said something about that. I tell you, Cupid is in the air with his arrows going berserk.’ Slightly agitated breathing. Eyes flutter about like an anxious doe. A stray strand of hair is pushed back in style despite the tension. ‘Of course, it is difficult to talk. I would find it difficult to talk in a situation like this. Gosh, I almost feel shy, you know, never done this before and all that. I guess you must be more worked up than me.’ A sweat breaks free on the forehead. More follow suit. No attempt to wipe. ‘Oh yes, it is pretty humid. You know something, the rain it reminds me of sad…no not sad… poignant… that’s the word, poignant things. I remember sometime not long ago, I was lost, in some dark void. But then I found you, my calling, my purpose.’ Head bent down. A tear or a raindrop - something falls down from very close to the face. The atmosphere is charged with emotion, with romance… with love – love so pure and white like a baby’s feet. Angels are descending. It’s all bliss. ‘Ah, but enough of all that. It’s getting late – you have to leave. You understand what I say, don’t you? I’ve been with you for so little time…but it seems like I know you for ages. It’s there in everything I say, everything I do… it is love…virgin love. I hope you understand. Anyway, got to go. Bye.’ I tighten my fingers. The first bullet takes a portion of her ear. A tuft of her hair and maybe tissue fly out from the behind as the second bores through her head. It’s not instantaneous, not painfully slow. She dies as her brain forgets to tell her heart to beat. I read some beautifully sad Chinese poems as the rain runs her blood down. §§§§§§§§§§§§§§§ ‘Give me the veggie delight combo please. And a Fanta instead of the Coke.’ ‘Sure, sir. That’ll be 84 rupees’’ ‘There you are.’ ‘Thank you sir, hope you enjoy your meal.’ Then I turn around. Then I see her. She is perfect. She is…not just pretty; you get a lot of that in the mall. She is cherubic. There is something absolutely innocent in her face, her expression. The kind that would have made Shakespeare clutch his beard in madness before he wrote ‘Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear.’ Indeed beauty too rich for use – you could never imagine her being employed, doing something. She is like the Mona Lisa, the Pieta, the David, the Ancient of Days, La Belle Dame Sans Merci… she is Chapman’s Homer. She is just meant to be there, a flower of spring that cheers the heart and makes you yearn for deeper, spiritual things. She is a walking Jesus Christ.

I sit two tables away from her, watching her in an unobtrusive fashion. And yet, she must have realized it. She looks up at me, at my eyes, in a kind of searching way before getting back to her fries. This is providence, a sign, a veritable sign from the holy heavens. I shouldn’t delay. I rise exactly forty five seconds after she leaves. She looks behind as I trail her. A smile possibly flits on her face. She walks in what is called the ‘come hither’ gait. The car lets go a double whistle as she nears – you could have never noticed her pressing the remote key, so graceful. She stops with one hand on the car door. Her hair flies behind as she tosses her head and gives me the look. It’s now or never. ‘Hi!’ ‘Hello!’ She speaks like angels ought to. ‘I was just wondering…’ ‘Yes…’ a coy expectant expression settles down on her. ‘Err… I was wondering if you know, we could…’ She’s about to laugh. It’ll be like heaven’s bells if she does – I know it. ‘Hmm…we could…?’ ‘I wanted to show you something very dear…very close to me… right from the moment I saw you in the there. Can we walk to a better place? I know a park, 50 meters away.’ She hesitates. A faint shadow of doubt comes into her face. I shuffle my feet nervously and scratch my head. She puts one hand inside her handbag. ‘Ok.’ The park. It’s deserted – I hadn’t expected this. Providence is still on my side. I shall be amongst the blessed. ‘Well…here we are…and you said…’ ‘Yes. Something very dear to me. It means everything to me, besides you, right now. I’m kind of that old world guy you know who believes in soul mates and all that. And when I saw you there with your eyes fluttering like joyous butterflies, I knew it was you.’ ‘Oh! Don’t make me blush. But you said you would show something dear to you.’ ‘Yes, yes, meet my friend, philosopher, guide and the person who brought me to you.’ I pull out the smooth sleek shotgun from my trench coat. The rain clings to its smooth barrel with lust. She gasps, shivers, but her feet refuse to move. ‘Shall we talk? Perhaps you want to sit down…this won’t take long.’ We talk. §§§§§§§§§§§§§§§ I take off my coat and shirt. There is nobody next door tonight. This would be easy, in spite of the noise. I set to sawing off the barrel of the shotgun. In case you’ve seen a shotgun, at least in photographs, you would know that you can’t hide it on your person easily, even with a trench coat unless you saw it off. The accuracy, of course, is reduced – there is a lot more of scatter – but I don’t need accuracy right now. I sweat and breathe heavily as the metal filings drop to the carpet. It’s almost like making love -divine, tiring and orgasmic. Especially right at the end when the sawed off portion drops to the ground with a dull thud. Now to the slugs. I pick up the electric drill from my tools box. The bullet is placed tight between the teeth of a pipe wrench held in place by my hand. The drill whirrs in smooth rhythm leaving a gaping hole in the bullet. The bullet looks like the dead eye of a beautiful lady; perhaps that of Ophelia embracing cold death in the bottom of the pond. I set to work with the next one.

I clutch my coat tight. It’s drizzling outside. The rain, it seems almost prophetically beautiful, pouring down like a Messiah’s words. The streets are mean and you need a mean machine to fight them. I swing my feet over the Royal Enfield Thunderbird. I’m ready to take it all on. The mall glitters. I wait with a smile in the parking queue. The guard doesn’t ask me to put my bike on the center stand – no guard has asked that to be done on a Thunderbird. Trench coats might be odd in a public place, but here it’s all fine. Anything deliberately, blatantly out of place is the only thing accepted. The doors slide open automatically as I cross the threshold. This is a great moment. There he is. The perennially happy man, the darling of kids made in unbreakable plastic, sitting on the bench. I’ve envied him every time I came to McDonalds. He is so happy…and I, I am happy as well, but it’s not the kind of happiness that brings calm and peace. But all that is about to change. The queue snakes up to the counter. I wish those annoying kids would shut up. The place seems to be full of them. And full of bald bloated men in shorts, gaudily attired aunties and the general tripe that comes to a place like this. And yet, something tells me it is here, it is here that I shall be blessed. It’s so close – my deliverance, my purpose… I’m close to the counter. ‘May I take your order, sir?’ §§§§§§§§§§§§§§§ I sign the bill with my fountain pen. ‘Your card sir. And be careful with it.’ ‘Of course. Don’t worry.’ I smile. I caress my baby. Never knew purchasing a gun, a shotgun would be this easy. Knowing people in the city police always helps. ‘You forgot the slugs, sir.’ ‘Oh yes, thank you.’ This is it. My answer, my calling, the forty-two to my question about Life, Universe and Everything. The gun snuggles on to my chest like a newborn puppy. This is what I always wanted, only never knew. My life would change tonight. The Thunderbird whispers to the asphalt as I press on the brakes rather suddenly. Mike’s hardware store. ‘Holy shit man, is that a real fricking gun there?’ ‘No. It’s a toy one, fires BB rounds. Like to try a shot or two?’ ‘Nah, they all give me the creeping crawlies running down the behind. So what do ya want?’ ‘Do you have a saw, a good strong one?’ ‘Bloody good ones I have. Ha! Ha! Ya seem just like one of those guys who would appear in those thrill flicks, ya know the ones with the screaming babes and bearded men carrying pick-axes… Geez, if I were a fricking director I would have signed ya right fricking now man.’ ‘I’m charmed by your conversation, especially your choice of vocabulary. But, the saw…I don’t have much time.’ ‘Oh yes. Busy old buster, eh? Just like my fricking uncle in the Orient, Hong Kong I guess. Anyways, how about this one? Cuts through steel like it were bloody butter. See the ergo-holy shit-nomic grip? It feels like getting a Thai massage while you saw with this one.’ ‘Perfect. I’ll take it. How much?’ ‘Fifty bucks and the fricking son of a bitch is all yours.’ I grin as I ride back. I would be a formidable sight. The apartment security gives me an understanding smile. Only men can understand how it feels carrying a shotgun and a saw at the same time.

The teak door opens without saying a word. I flick on the lights and put my equipment on the bed. I need a cold drink, a beer, perhaps, to steady the nerves. I have a combo - two cigarettes and a cold beer. I burn and assuage the steam inside simultaneously. There is work to be done. A man’s work. ‘On the dark desert highway…’ the radio croons at 91.5 MHz. Hotel California and a shotgun possibly beats Vodka and Pink Floyd. §§§§§§§§§§§§§§§ Dawn passes into dusk and dusk starts graying to night. I skip office. What purpose did this wretched perfect life of mine serve? It made no difference if I stay alive or not. I slump into the beanbag in my apartment. I feel like some kind of potted plant. Before I even notice, I have the television on and had flicked through 4 channels. My left hand has the remote and the right hand opened beer. I look around. It is all around me – the void of perfection. The carved teak door, the oval glass table, the ivory ash tray, the Chinese girls in the wall hangings, the music system with the woofers, sub woofers and tweeters…it is all perfect. And towering over all this is the meticulously carved crystal angel sitting on the bookshelf. The epitome of perfection, a face chiseled to beauty, a form engineered to aesthetics… I jump from my beanbag and in one quick motion push the crystal down to the floor. It shatters to a thousand pieces. My furious face is reflected in the debris. I look on for sometime. Then it comes to me. This is what I needed to do. Edward Norton is on the television…Fight Club. ‘I felt like putting a bullet between the eyes of every panda that wouldn’t screw to save its species…’ I draw a deep breath. ‘I wanted to breathe smoke.’ I light myself a cigarette. ‘I wanted to destroy something beautiful…’ Heck, I wanted to destroy something beautiful. I hate perfection…the perfection of these malls, these houses, these jobs…this bloody damned usual life. I wish them all gone, gone in a nasty way. Ten minutes later the living room is littered with broken glass bits, shattered porcelain and splinters. It feels good. I step on the floor letting the glass and the feeling sink into me. One more swig of the beer can before it is crushed brutally. And yet I am not satisfied. No, far from it. I have only begun. I close my eyes. It all makes sense to me. I was sent, sent with divine word to destroy all this – all the beauty; all the order. As I set about to deep-frying my mobile phone on the stove, I feel it. This is a feeling very different from what I felt while smashing the porcelain. I feel a strange bliss, a calm as I see the sleek mobile getting charred before it explodes and hits the ceiling. It rings just before it got fried - incoming call from office. The sound is divine, like it’s crying in pain. I close my eyes and replay the sound…feels like Jesus being crucified and the world bathing in the blood of His grace. I am in love. In love with ugliness, with the horrible. For the first time in my life I am in love. The mobile has shown me something wonderful – it had died with life in it. This is virgin love and I have to share it. I need something beautiful, something living, something that would scream as I put a bullet between its eyes… her eyes perhaps. The very thought sends waves of ecstasy inside my nerves. And then I draw up the list, my first really good shopping list.

1 Shotgun 1 Box of slugs 1 Saw 1 Trench Coat Pretty rummy list. Not the kind of list that I would prepare, even though I’m a list maker. But this list is the list that I should have prepared the day I was born. I slip the paper into my pocket. Fifteen minutes later I am driving downtown against the rain in a trench coat. I stop in front of the store. ‘That should do perfect. Can you get me the ammo for that as well?’ ‘Of course sir. That would make it 7596 totally. Cash or credit sir?’ ‘Credit card.’ ‘Sign right here sir, you know the usual place.’ §§§§§§§§§§§§§§§ It all started with the guy at the office canteen. But hey, starting there would be a bit confusing. I’m just another guy. The typical dude of this generation with the regular supplies from the big guy in the skies. You know like a job, an apartment, a mahogany plaque that says ‘Employee of the Month’, a good deal of Vodka and beer, machismo bike, Levi’s jeans, credit cards, annual taxes… you get the drift. I attend status meetings, give the savvy reports, motivate the team, discuss George Bush and Sharon Stone in the coffee place and haggle for a 12% annual hike. The same thing day in day out; rather swipe in swipe out. Happiness is something that I do not lack. Heck, there are companies in my line that mail the pink slip on an hourly basis. I have everything. I am the modern consumer; the guy who pays his homage at every new mall that crops up in the city. I spend compulsively – video phones, digital cameras, Swiss army knives, sports shoes, pullovers, tracksuits, burger dinners…you name it. So much for character introduction. As I said, it all started with the guy at my office canteen. I work the night shifts you see and you can’t do that without caffeine in your system. I walk down to the canteen for my usual 2’o clock dose. ‘Err…’ ‘I’ll get the usual sir, double espresso with the muffins.’ ‘No maybe I’ll go for the cappuccino?’ ‘Something wrong sir?’ ‘No, really, give me the cappuccino.’ ‘Ok sir.’ Five minutes later he comes with a steaming double espresso and two muffins both placed behind the coffee. ‘I asked for a cappuccino…’ ‘Oh sorry sir. Must have missed. It’s become a habit I guess.’ I take the double espresso and smoke till it gets cold. Am I so predictable? Are things so much of a routine? But how? How did I get so mechanical? ‘Hey dude, everything going usual?’ I look up. Colleague. A sudden surge of anger, hate goes through me. So I’m a dude. I’ve got a name, bloody damned name. And yes things have to go usual with me…

The espresso slides down my throat leaving the bitterness in the mouth. I crush the plastic cup. The cubicle suddenly seems very small and cold. ‘The usual 2’o clock dose, eh?’ Another one of them. I punch my password into the keyboard. I need a break. ‘You know what, you’ve got a perfect life, I mean, everything that you need is right there…’ ‘Lets just the do the usual Saturday night boogie – dance, drink, drool and then doze, what say?’ ‘As a manager I’m proud to have someone like you in the team. You are so reliable, so predictable.’ ‘I mean you are just the perfect guy for us new kids to look up to.’ It all comes back in a kind of infuriating way. This is what my life is; a program that ran every time you called it, only the program at least had a purpose, an objective. I thump the cubicle desk for the third time, leaving a mark this time before grabbing my keys and swiping out early. The receptionist gives me a perfect cherubic smile. ‘Pleasant night, eh?’

Poetry

Outward Bound *

Joan Carol Urquhart This morning was a flooded rose that would not spill, was filled with lyred light and wet-winged shadows pried from mist a petalled bell that would not ring. This morning held no rush of doves, withdrew no ripple to the touch, released no patient sigh from softly floating silk nor misplaced kiss to bury in the heart. No! These early hours would not sing an alabaster angel into sight, would not flood dusty dreams across the brow, nor press a tiny cheek to fortressed chest like fallen night. Instead, this morning was a headless horse that raced across the sky in quick retreat a faceless silhouette, a coward who refused to bless her with the rest of May.

*(For K, brave soldier of Leukemia, 2001-2006)

Artwork

Tulips

Music Musings

Choreography: Vanessa-Mae

Raju There are few instruments that can resonate with the human tone and emotion as truly as a violin does. Great violin gurus are known to "speak" with their favourite stringed instrument. While most maestros use their bow to "speak" their native tongue, Vanessa Mae, considered a child prodigy, brings together a wonderful collection of compositions which spans the globe as much as it covers the entire length of the fingerboard. This album is appropriately christened "Choreography" as the emphasis seems to be on the coordination of various tastes and tongues, all spoken in the voice of a violin. This album is simply magnificent and deserves to be amongst your collection. Why? Read on. In this album we find ten wonderful compositions from various parts of the world. Some flow like an autumn rustle in the woods while others stomp around with gusto. This is Vanessa Mae's first recording for Sony Classical. The first piece is called Sabre Dance. It is composed by Aram Khachaturian and the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra is orchestrated by Julian Kershaw. This piece is full blooded and starts off on a brisk note with a lot of percussions accompanying it through the length. The sheer force and energy of this composition makes it ideal as an accompanying score for a pulsating dance. This composition is arranged, conducted and produced by Tolga Kashi. The use of heavy drum beats drowns the violin often and could have been avoided as one would prefer more violin in an album which features Mae on the covers. What follows is a wonderful track composed, arranged and produced by Vangelis. This track, called Roxaneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Veil, is also included in the OST of Oliver Stone's "Alexander" and Roxane is a reference to Alexander's wife, Roxana of Bactria. This piece is soft and mildly punctuated with mellow beats which present themselves like bevels on the surface rather than spikes and totems as in the previous one. This track is wonderful for a quiet evening. Bolero for violin and orchestra is the longest name any piece has in this album! It starts in soft dulcet tones laced with ominous percussions. The entire piece appears to be conducted by the flight of a swift in air. Quick crescendos and dips and a flurry of instruments precede a brief portion where all, save the violin, cease to play. That fragment in this piece is very dear and there are few captivating notes before the piece ends softly. This piece is composed by Walter Taieb of the Alchemist's Symphony. Tango de los exilados is a high adrenaline piece and might sound like a composition done for and by the military. This piece is perfect for a lively tango. This is another Walter Taieb piece but very different from what we heard earlier. There is a freshness throughout this piece and it also ends with a flourish. A perfect piece to liven oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s spirits at any time of the day. If Caribbean is your taste then the Havana Slide is the one for you. This piece, composed by Jon Cohen, is very energetic but not loud. Sprinkled with the apposite amount of vocals, this piece will surely get you to your feet and twirl you with a salsa you never thought you knew. The bass is

very well executed and adds the right zing to this composition. The violin in this piece is quite pronounced and gives it a perfect sunny touch. My personal favourite in this entire album is Emerald Tiger. Personally, I find this the most brilliant composition in this entire album and if this is what Bill Whelan is capable of composing then a few more pieces would have made this album a jewel unparalleled. This piece kicks off with a chorus chant followed by a lazy tune from the violin. Some interludes sound Oriental but the piece is essentially western with a good share of Irish dance music. A brief portion towards the beginning of the piece is pure vocals and, with a rumble, the violin takes over with a magnificent tune. Here, the composition is like the background score for a vigorous ball dance - the kinds where the lady is lifted by her waist and tossed in the air and couples twirl in a frenzied zest. A flourish of piano, violin and bass render the air as the composition nears its end and with shrill plucking the curtains are drawn on this one. Tribal gathering follows and leaves something to be desired. It is well placed in its order and allows us to be lenient with the lack of violin and the presence of heavy beats and sheer loudness. This piece does mimic African tribal music, and as it is, there isn't much place for violins in there. Nevertheless, this composition by Walter Taieb is pleasant to the ear and cannot be discarded as trite. Raga's dance is composed by India's musical genius A.R.Rahman and carries a heavy touch of Hindustani classical music. The vocals, singing the swaraasℜ, are not placed in harmony with the violin and hence give a feel of clashing, although it has been very well composed and conducted. The mirthangam forms a low background base of beats. Rahman has put together too many facets of Indian music and would have done better to hold just a few under reins here. The typical style of Indian classical music, which pairs a rendering of swaraas followed by an instrumental rendering of the same, is well captured here. The plaintive notes of the violin are best heard in this piece. Moroccan Roll has noticeable signs of the Eurasian and west-Asian style of music, especially from the Arabic world. The roll of drums and the accompanying violin bring out a good composition. Handel's Minuet is one of the only western classical pieces in this album – a very sweet and pacifying composition by George Frideric Handel. This is the perfect piece to end this album and Vanessa-Mae does a brilliant job of showcasing her talent as a classical violinist. Such is the brilliance of this album captured by the radiance of each piece that it understandable to have a sultry Mae holding up her Guadagnini, on the cover – a true tribute to the violin and this album is a treasure worth possessing.

ℜ

Notes like Do Re Mi Fa and in the Indian context, Sa Re Ga Ma.

Fiction

The Idol

Karthikeyan O’er the knoll they all run; Chasing his music to the sun. There he stood the piper tall, watching as the kids did fall It was huge, immense; the blinding light and the thunder. The stage, the sets, the host, the adrenaline running through his body; everything was overwhelmingly huge to the point of being unreal. He was standing there, cold and desensitized by the euphoria. He was aware of hands patting him on the back, the crowd screaming, the glittering streamers settling down like miniature crowns on his jet black hair, the spotlight bathing him in a light of glory – he was aware of all this and more. Merely aware and nothing more, but yes, he had done it! Every TV set in every home of every city in this country was now beaming his face. Tears rolled down his eyes as he held the trophy up. He raised the mike to his mouth, trying to articulate his thoughts, but the fact was there was no thought in him now. He ended up wiping the tears on the cuff of his designer suit while still clutching the mike. He stood there, every bit the clichéd image of an idol – the country’s idol. He closed his eyes for a second, transported to some other place some other time; not too far, not too long ago; in fact very near, very recent. ‘Tis a dream, sweet and ripe! The pied pier’s tempting pipe! There he goes o’er the knoll. There you sell your dear soul He opened his eyes to find Madhulika shaking him. He had become used to it in these few months – the feeling of being touched by anybody; everybody. It had become tolerable after sometime. He wondered who had pushed him into the green room. ‘Call for you. From your town.’ Congratulations, he thought, I hope it is amma1. How wonderful it would be to speak to her now, to hear her voice! ‘Hello!’ ‘Kanna, amma here!’ ‘Amma! Amma!’

Tears, which on camera, obeyed glycerin now flowed in abundance voluntarily. He could hear voices shouting and trailing off in the background. His mother had not spoken, yet. Calamity betrayed itself even before she did. ‘Kanna, the temple…the Goddess…someone defaced Her…’ ‘Shut up you stupid woman, is this the time to tell him this?' The call got disconnected pretty soon after a flurry of happy voices shouted their congratulations. ‘Amma! Amma!’ he mouthed stupidly. The tears, which were copious a few moments ago, had all dried up. The Goddess defaced! k

Oh you thought it would be glad Oh you thought he’s a pretty lad Oh but see he’s a wicked elf Oh but see he’s taken your self It was in the Goddess’ presence that Madhulika had found him. It was in Her presence that he had yielded to her persuasion of entering the competition. That was a glorious day, a fine one – the last of such days that he had had in a long time. The temple was an ancient one, extending into the river. It gave a feeling of warmth that a house, well-lived in, does. The Goddess was a kind accessible lady. She was cared for royally by the priest and Kannan. A queen within the limits of Her village, but that was about it. No one disturbed Her with gala festivals or special sevas2. There were no convoluted queues running around with people waiting to see Her. She offered no special entrance or VIP privileges. She was a Mother, standing with Her doors, Her arms and Her heart open to Her children. k

He was sitting right in front of his Mother, singing as She was being bathed. He poured out a Varali3 that held every living being in the vicinity enthralled. The priest himself stood transfixed with the Goddess half bathed. The very bricks of the temple glowed with a divinity that seemed to belong to a forgotten Golden Age. The peacocks stood with their heads held high in attention. The resonant bell of the temple rang in a fervent note of devotion. The pauses in the song were punctuated with the gentle murmur of water running down the Goddess. The hands of the priest passed all over the Goddess bathing her not just in milk and honey but in love and devotion. Just as he finished his song and the priest pulled the curtains on the Mother, Madhulika entered the temple. She looked at him with awe. Here was this kid, singing the way Gods should, in a forgotten temple, when the most popular playback singer in the field today would be croaking compared to this guy. He looked handsome as well. His chest and forehead, both broad were covered with streaks of the sacred ash. Right in the center of his forehead was a small but potent circle of kunggumam4. A black thread with a locket carrying a small figure of the Mother clasped his neck tightly. She looked on. This guy must be brought out; his talent displayed to the entire world. People all over the nation should be enthralled by his voice. The Goddess was a statue, a piece of sculpture, dead history and myth; something that she had to document as a part of her project. Kannan on the other hand was real. She had found the singer in him just as he had found the Goddess in the sculpture. Her project was turning out very well; she had found more than one treasure. Once you smiled and loved me true You had me and I had you

Then you heard his magic call And you left me in a silent pall His hand went involuntarily to the locket around his neck. In all his life he had removed it only once, yesterday. And the Goddess was defaced today. His Goddess; his Mother. It was a gift, his singing; a gift from this Goddess of Mercy. How else could he, the son of a cowherd sing so divinely without learning as much as the seven notes? She had it all for Herself, his songs, his music, his imagination, his love. And today She had not even a face of Her own. He looked pitifully at Madhulika who was having a hard time keeping the cameras, the mikes and the people behind them out of the room. ‘What?’ ‘The Goddess. Someone has defaced Her!’ Madhulika considered the best way to react. He looked at her, searching for some solace, like a guilty kid. Her eyes softened. ‘It’s ok Kannan, don’t worry.’ She emphasized the ‘don’t worry’ with a hug. For the first time in the past few days Kannan shuddered; shuddered at the touch of another person. He pulled away from her violently. Ah you ran with so much glee! Yes, you ran despite my plea! And you ran lost in a trance. And he led you to the dance. ‘No, no it can’t be!’ he cried shrinking back with every word. ‘What have I done? Oh my God, what have I done? I’m tainted. Look at my body! It’s all tainted!’ he looked at his own hands in horror. He looked at the marks on his wrists and shrunk in revulsion. ‘Listen Kannan, its ok. You’ve won, you came this far. You couldn’t go back now. You’ve got glory for your village, for your temple, for your Goddess! You’ve made use of her gift to you!’ ‘You did it. You brought me into this gutter. I was happy in my village with my Goddess. Happy and innocent. You brought me here…you talked me into…into…that…horrid thing… You are a devil, a witch!’ ‘Kannan, calm down. Relax!’ ‘What else is left now? She’s gone, my Goddess. She has left not just me but my entire village. What mistake did they do? I’ve brought misfortune on us all!’ He slumped into the chair clutching his hair. It was as though some unnamed fear, some monster from which he had long been running away had now suddenly reared its ugly head demanding sacrifice…sacrifice; and sacrifice of what kind! He had already given his sacrifice to the terrible

Gods… and to the Demons. What did it mean the Goddess being defaced? Did he not know the answer? Did he know it and yet shrink from it? He thought his worst pain had passed yesterday. But this was nothing compared to that. He thought he had faced the Devil himself, but he was wrong. He still remembered that music director’s oily smile as he pulled him a bit too close for comfort during dinner. He was disgusted the way he hugged, abdomen thrusting into his and palms all over his behind. It was revolting at that moment, but worse was to follow that night. Then you broke our trust of truth All the promises of pristine youth Then I watched with tears in eyes As you ran after his prize ‘Kannan, you’ve got to understand, that man out there can make it happen for you. You could be the winner tomorrow.’ ‘But Madhulika, the audience poll…that is what decides it…’ ‘Oh Kannan, you really believe that, having come so far? I know it is horrible Kannan. It is disgusting enough for me as a woman… for a man like you…well… But think of your mother; think of her hopes; her hopes of a life of luxury after all her toil. Think of how much you’ve been through to get this far. It is a sacrifice, but think of what you get in return. Think!’ ‘But you are not allowing me to think… with your constant chatter…how can I…can real men be so…Amma!’ ‘Think of Her Kannan, think of the Mother who showed you the sign that day, with her pachai paavaadai5. Think of how far She has brought you!’ In the few dark hours of the night, he was broken – he did the unthinkable, the unspeakable. He spent the rest of the night crying in a single wordless, soundless wail. His body hurt; his mind and ego hurt, but above all that tiny half an inch of space, hidden somewhere inside all that made him tangible, that bit called his soul built on the foundation of principle – that is what hurt most. Off you went over the hill Off you went falling still Falling into the pit below As he played so mellow He looked at the mirror. He had assumed his sacrifice made last night. But his Goddess demanded more. In fact he had not made a sacrifice last night. He remembered how he sang at the finals – in a voice that seemed so distanced from all that he knew; a vacant hollow voice that had enthralled the entire nation. It was blasphemy. That was what it was. He had sold his soul and his song to the Devil. But it was not too late. His Mother had taken the brunt of his deed. She had lost her face.

He could yet salvage his Mother. He only had to walk away from it. He closed his eyes once more. He went out of the room, brushed aside the teeming cameras, gave an angry stare at all present and walked out, walked out into the darkness. He was back in his village before you could blink shedding tears in front of his faceless Mother. His voice was back, his soul was back. Everything would be normal. He opened his eyes; the mirror stared at him. Madhulika’s face showed just over his shoulder in the reflection. The cameras were winking with their bright flashes even through the closed door. The golden light of glory crept in through the crevices of the closed door. Everything was normal. Then I called your name in vain Hoping you would come again But alas the piper stole your soul As you fell o’er the knoll Five minutes later the door opened. He came out arm in arm with Madhulika. He smiled at the cameras. ‘What is the first thing that you want to do now that you are the nation’s idol sir?’ ‘The idol of the Goddess in my village has been defaced. It’ll be replaced with a golden one.’ A year later, a long queue snaked up to see the golden idol. Special entrance tickets cost thirty rupees. VIPs paid ten thousand rupees to touch, bath and dress the idol with their own hands. The new priest hardly touched the idol. Loud speakers blared out songs from Kannan’s latest devotional album. 1

– Tamil word for mother. – The different rituals of worship offered to the deity. 3 – A Raagaa that is usually not by the teacher. For Raagaa refer http://en.wikipedia.org/raga 4 – Vermillion worn on the forehead. 5 – The green dress worn by the Goddess which signifies consent or blessing from Her. 2

Photography

Limbo

Andy

Fiction

Serious Whims

Anand Krishnaswamy So here is how we were placed: Kranti, my wife, was held (for she wanted to rush into the cockpit) in 10-A, Kavita in 15-K (because it reminded her of her boyfriend Kevin who was turning 15 in a few days), Karan was urged to sit down in 12-J though he was found galloping through the aisle holding his toy plane up and flying against the grain of the BA-Boeing 777. At the epicenter of this wonderful cast of a family, I was seated in 12-E with a pillow and Valium. The airhostess thought it necessary to let me know that my wife insisted on meeting the captain and that wasn’t allowed. I asked the lovely lady to do with her as she deemed fit. Fifteen years in wedlock and you know that there is no point reacting to your wife’s itching need to tell the driver – any driver – to go faster. The airhostess actually stood guard beside my wife. The plans were made about four weeks ago – rather Kranti made the plans four weeks ago. Bangalore had caught her fancy or so I thought till she let me into the real reason. “Swami Krishnaprasadaananda is planning to conduct a one month course in breathing.” A what? “Dad, No Swami Krispy is going to keep me away from Kevin’s birthday bash. I have to be there, dad. You don’t get it how much I have to be there. Jennifer will be there. Jennifer Simpson! I have to be there. I have to.” “Sweetheart, mom might hear you. Let’s work…” “I heard her, Kumar.” Damn!! “I heard that too.” “But I didn’t say a thing.” “Swamiji says that not everything is mouthed. This world is all Maya and hence, one can sense it without involving the senses.” That sure is nonsense. I hope she hears this, too. “Mummy, why do you want to see that man? Is he powerful? Strong with muscles?” Karan always had his checklist ready to measure anything’s worth. “Yes, Karan. He is very powerful. He is very intelligent and can do a lot which no one else can. He is…” “Can he jump off the Sears Tower? Does he wear a mask? What is his favourite weapon? Does he…” “He is not a DC comic hero, Karan. He is like god; actually he is an incarnation of god.” “Oh!” Karan went back to his toys but continued, “Why one month’s course in breathing, mom? I do it anyway.” Four weeks were witness to more confusion than calm planning and packing. In the last minute Kranti put her foot down (and Karan still blames her for crushing his DareDevil). She decided for all of us that we were going to Bangalore and all of us needed some cleansing.

“All of you are narrow-minded and shallow. What you need is the Guruji’s grace and blessing to lead better lives. How can you live like this?” “Mom you have been living like this until the Krispy bug bit you.” “Don’t you dare talk about Guruji like that. How disrespectful! That is it, she needs to be more disciplined and learn about our kalaacharℜ. I have decided, we are all going to Bangalore.” That was it, as simple as she had once said “Tonight we will make a baby.” We got Kavita for that exercise; I wondered what we’d get this time. Bags were stuffed, calls were made, all fighter planes were warmed up and six inch heroes briefed about Mission Bangalore. I wouldn’t want to go over the mayhem that preceded our boarding the flight for there is little joy in confessing to an inability to control one’s family. The flight was mostly uneventful except for Kavita’s whimpering (and she seemed to choose times when everything was quiet) and Karan’s critique of the pilot’s flying abilities. “What? Only 25,000 feet?” he turned to the airhostess, “Tchah. Boring! My B-2 Spirit goes with a service ceiling of twice that.” My B-2 Spirit? And what on earth was a service ceiling? Where did he learn such things? Fortunately, Kranti found some fellow Krispy-followers and they immersed themselves in deep reflection about life and how breathing could have saved the Iraq war. Damn it! The god-forsaken world was breathing while it rained bullets, missiles and lies! Bangalore arrived with an announcement of the weather and some chants and deep wheezing, which, I later learnt, was another breathing technique. Kranti had already made arrangements for stay. The ashram had some cottages for those who had enrolled in the month long course. We got into the bus which was painted with the Swamiji’s pictures and those of his devotees dancing in a wild tizzy. “Dad, how the shit am I going to sit on these?” I ran my eyes along the direction she pointed and saw that the bus seats had no cushion on them – they were row after row of polished wooden planks! I turned around to ask someone whether we had gotten into the wrong bus. “Dear brother. Is there some problem? I heard your divine child mutter unwords. What is her grievance?” asked a hirsute young man who was surely not from India. “Unwords? Actually, you see, these seats are… well… how should I put it?” “These goddamn seats have no cushions. I don’t want a washboard butt.” “Swamiji, swamiji. May the divine Guruji cleanse my ears! Child, what is ailing your soul? Pleasure and comfort are the roots of corruption. By sitting on these seats you will not be distracted by comfort and you will have enough energy to contemplate on the divine Guruji.” “I don’t want to do any contemplating. I won’t sit on these.” “Kavita, please…” “Kavita? Is her name Kavita? A poem and you speak such unwords? If the seat is too hard for you, you may sit on my lap. If my suffering can give you…” “Dad, keep me away from him. Keep him away from me.” Kavita – the poem – traveled on my lap while Karan used a large space on the boards as a jujitsu training centre for his combat warriors. Kranti was in deep conversation with the unwords-man. She kept nodding her head and then raising both her hands while she shook her head in some unknown awe and wonder. Is that all I have to do to make her listen to me? Grow long hair and say “divine” or “unwords” or something similar?

ℜ

Culture and customs

The ashram was a sprawling place, spanning about 20-30 acres (as one man who sat beside me on the bus said, “20 acres, Sir. So great.” After a while he said, “25 acres, Sir. So great.” and kept shaking his head in wonder. Had we not reached our destination quickly we would have had a 100 acre great thing), and was very well maintained. The gardens were well manicured with spurts of blue foxgloves and whispers of jasmine. The entire expanse was made to rise and fall in emerald mounds with cobbled paths snaking through the vast speckled viridian belly. If this beauty was perchance, I thank the gods above and the proprietor who sat calmly inside. We were lead to our cottages with the devotees briefing us about the history of the organization and their Guruji. Kavita was made responsible to bring Karan along with us and to leash him from building an airstrip in the midst of some innocent patch of green. I was glad about giving her that responsibility. One look inside the cottage and I rushed back to her. “Sweetheart, let’s go for a walk.” “Dad, wassup?” she looked at me suspiciously. “Nothing, I wanted to explore the beautiful gardens with you, and check out…” “Dad, what happened now? My report card isn’t out, nor have I crashed the car into Mr. Geckle’s fence. It has to be something I don’t like. What is it? A forced lap-sitting session? No bathtubs? No air-conditioning? What, dad? Things can’t get worse, can they?” “Sweetheart, we need to let mom enjoy this trip. She’s wanted this…” “Dad,” she held me by my shoulders, “let’s cut the crap and get to the point.” “Honey, there are no beds. We have to sleep on the floor. It’s just one big room for the entire family. I don’t know whether there are bathtubs. I am sure we can arrange for one. And the breeze is so good…” “...that we do not need air-conditioning? Dad,” she shook her head and squatted on the ground. “Why are you doing this? Why can’t you simply”, she sighed, “forget it.” I sat down beside her with my hands on her knees. “Some day I hope you’ll know why.” She started to cry and reached over to hug me and we sat there for a few minutes before walking all over the lawns only to be instructed not to crush the divine grass. We looked at each other and burst out laughing. After standing in the queue for the bath, I entered the stall between the ones which my son and daughter occupied. I kept staring at the aluminum bucket and mug with the Guruji’s name imprinted on it. I turned towards my daughter’s stall to ask her if she was alright, but I had barely opened my mouth when she called out, “Don’t worry dad. I’ll manage. One mug at a time.” I turned to my son’s stall and heard sounds of splashing water and the mug hurled around the wooden stall. “Take that Dark Lord. You can’t beat the Hulk with your Fluid Vortex.” We assembled near the annexure to what I thought was the main hall. The registration process was sprinkled with a few devotees and residents walking up and down asking people whether this was their first time and whether they considered donating to the Guruji’s fund. Conversations were sprinkled with “divine”, “souls”, “holistic”, “grace” and “bliss” using the word “Guruji” like punctuation and gasps of wonder. Kavita was reading a book she had brought along and when a lady-devotee urged her to read the Guruji’s works, she responded with a “Is it a thriller or maybe chick-lit? No? Then leave me alone. Now!” I smiled and didn’t bother to intervene. I watched Kranti far ahead of us with other followers chanting and singing from a thin pink booklet. When we entered the large hall I was impressed by the amazing bas-reliefs and massive Gothic pillars. The walls had crevices where lamps were lit (even during the day) and large photo frames of the Guruji hung in ornate frames.

“Dear brothers and sisters please sit down,” a man’s voice boomed from the front. “Now we shall all sing the morning prayer song.” No one was asked whether they wanted to. The appointed singers started singing into the microphone and people all over were swaying or clapping their hands softly. A woman beside me sang the words that she knew from the song and made painfully failing attempts at guessing the words she didn’t. Whenever she made a mistake (on a usually hurried and off-key note), she would look at me, smile and then raise her hands heavenward. I spent most of my time rolling my eyes in the same direction. Karan kept bouncing on my lap and Kavita was busy with her book. Once the song ended, the booming voice spoke to the audience. “Due to some unavoidable circumstances, Guruji will not be with us for this course but he blesses each one of us because he is always here”, and he lightly placed his palm on his breast, “with us.” The hall was a cascade of whispers and mumbling. The unrest being obvious, the core group of devotees started chanting into the microphone and the cascade split like spoilt milk and soon everyone was chanting. “Now, we shall proceed with the breathing exercise. This exercise is copyright of our Swamiji and this organization.” “Really, dad? They are patenting breathing now?” What followed was to become a blur in my memory, or I intended it to be so. Memory is the sin of time and that which is forgotten can cause least pain. There was no point remembering this trip beyond that evening when we returned to our cottage. “Dad, I hear that Krispy is actually conducting a month-long breathing course for the members of parliament in Delhi.” “Where did you get this?” She told me that the gardener had told her about this inside news. How long could it have been kept so? It was all over the papers in a few days. On one session that followed, a few people started questioning the representatives. “Why were we not informed before? Did you not tell us that the Guruji would be leading this course?” There is mayhem that is bad and then there is mayhem that is delicious. People went on a riot and demanded their money back. One devotee, an investment banker before he grew a beard, questioned this notion of returning things – “Can you return the bliss and divinity that you got in the past few days?” Kavita couldn’t stop herself any longer. “All I got was a shabby room, a bucket and a mug. I will give you 2 sets more, if you return our money.” As an increasing number from the audience grew against the devotees, Kranti sensed defeat and quickly rushed to our side. The representatives fought with all their divinity but failed. We collected our luggage and rushed out. As we sat in the auto-rickshaw, Kranti sighed loudly in relief as she settled down on the torn rexine seats. Kavita smiled and settled down on my lap. “Feels better, doesn’t it?” Kranti hardly spoke for the rest of our stay. As the auto-rickshaw revved to head towards Le Meridien, Karan tapped on my wrist. “Dad, who is Hanuman? A man at that breathing place told me that he lifted mountains and flew over seas? Really? You’ve seen him? Is he powerful? Strong with muscles? Does he have something like a Batmobile?”

Reading Reminiscence

The Lady and the Monk: Pico Iyer

Kannan In a world rendered smaller with every passing day, mostly by technology, it comes as a delight to find a wonderfully well written book about a man spanning large distances the old fashioned way – by traveling there. It comes as a greater delight when the writer happens to be one as eloquent and expressive as Pico Iyer. He captures the mood of traveling with childish glee and enthusiasm and gives a wonderful portrait of his travel to a land where people worship a god – Jizo – common to travelers and children. Japan has always been an enigma to those who are gaijin – foreigner – as well as those who have lived there for a large portion of their lives. Japan reveals itself only to the chosen few. This book is for readers who would like to soak themselves in an experience of a foreign country and not merely in pages after pages of information. Like life, there is little plot and planning and we are readily enthralled with the simple quotidian occurrences which, were it not for Pico's sharp eye and expressive quill, would usually pass unnoticed. He lends a touch of humour to the many incidents that happen to a foreigner and immense beauty to his description of the many wonders of Japan. He is often found to compare and contrast the ways of modern Japan with those of traditional Japan and most comparisons aren't a figment of imagination or a storyteller's craft, but, at times, stark truth in the way Japan has formed and constructed itself over the years. Where else would one find modern convenience stores presented in traditional ethnic style and custom? Where else would one find stores with American names selling items which are packaged and handed over in a typical Japanese manner? Japan for all its technological advancements and aggressive economic moves, is portrayed as a country of women and children. Iyer quotes Kazantzakis: “Every city has its sex,” Kazantzakis had pronounced unequivocally. “This one [Kyoto] is all female.”

Iyer’s choice of staying in Kyoto was, hence, not accidental. Iyer is unconsciously drawn into the romantic facet of life in Japan as well as the artistic, cultural and traditional world, which is what draws many a foreigner. Although Iyer, at various points in the book, states that this notion of life in Japan is at times fictional and a work of the human thirst for a utopian romanticism, he is victim to the invisible charms of Japan. While repeatedly denying the illusions that the Western world has about Japan (and the Orient at large) and gathering conversations about how foreigners come to Japan with an idea “for a good life or a good wife”, he is inadvertently drawn into the same, which reveals the true nature of Japan. “The East, of course, had always been filled with Bobs, with Western men seeking Asian wives, as well as Asian wisdom, and not always troubling to distinguish between the two.

Here is a story of life through the four seasons in Kyoto; a life at once real – for it is – and deep down, mystical and romantic like how many of us would like our lives to be and that very pursuit of the gossamer world of dreams, which helps us live through many years, draws our very life from us. This book is an honest look into Iyer’s mind and the world and people that surrounded him for a whole year in Japan. What follows is a brief summary of the book with a few memorable snippets to help the reader decide for herself regarding the beauty that is well captured between covers. The cover itself is very well designed and quite Japanese. Pico Iyer made a few visits before finally deciding to stay longer in Japan. His was a wish to try two things, one within and the other without. "...the emotional Japan – the lunar Japan, in a sense, that I had found in the poems of women and monks – was increasingly hard to glimpse. If this imaginative Japan existed only in my mind, I wanted to know that soon, and so be free of this illusion forever; [...] In Japan, moreover, I wanted to put another daydream to the test: the vision I had always cherished of living simply and alone, in some foreign land, unknown."

With these in mind and the same announced to the reader, he reaches Kyoto and finds a place in a tiny old temple which houses an albino monk and an eunuch. Thus, starts his relationship with Japan. His early days were filled with walking around and getting his bearings which, as he puts it, was next to impossible. “It did not take me long, in the autumn afternoons, to find that whenever I tried to find any particular place in Kyoto – to locate, that is a specific site on a map – I ended up wandering around in circles, through riddles of dead-end lanes, thoroughly defeated by the maze of Japanese planning. There was, I thought, a metaphor in this: one cannot plan epiphanies any more than one could plan surprise visits from one’s friends. Expectations would only defeat themselves.”

Iyer meets the wise Mark at the Kyoto Connection, which was a once-a month happening where foreigners and Japanese met and had a gala time of singing, dancing and drinking. Mark was an artist who learnt and painted in the traditional Japanese style of Sumi-e (a remarkable style of painting named after the ink employed). Iyer and Mark find a common link: Mark was once a student of Iyer’s mother. Mark grows to be Iyer’s closest associate during his stay and often showers him with the wisdom of Zen and Japan. On Mark’s invitation, Iyer accompanies him to a ceremony where Mark’s friend was to rise to a new rank in the Zen temple. Iyer makes himself comfortable in the gaijin corner and finds himself next to a graceful Japanese lady who showers a dozen standard questions from some workbook! “Beside her, and next to me, sat a seamlessly elegant Japanese lady in a flowing dress, who apparently found it incumbent on her to make conversation with me. Where did I come from? She began hesitantly. How long had I been here? What was I doing in Japan? […] Again I found myself next to the decorous Japanese woman. Again the obligatory questions began. Who was my favourite musician? What was my age? How did I like Kyoto?”

A single paragraph that follows reveals the meticulous hands and mind that characterise Japan. After the function ends at the temple, everyone is presented gifts and a furoshiki – a stylish

lavender cloth – in which to pack the presents. The lady helps Iyer pack his and when he returns home he describes his experience thus: “Later, back home, I peeled back layer after layer of the elegant cloth. Simply opening the temple’s treasure was an almost sensual experience. Caskets of Japanese cake sat inside, and bottles of expensive sake; a poem in flowing calligraphic script, written by the roshi himself, and a screen on which to mount it; and, of course, the purple cloth, touched now with the lady’s perfume.”

Sachiko, the lady Iyer met at the temple, invites him to her child’s birthday party and Iyer’s visit is wrought with confusion. Sachiko in her attempt to speak in English mixed names of days and invites him a few days later. “Ah, please,” said Sachiko-san, smiling happily. “Please you see. This my son, Hiroshi. This Yuki.” They stood in silent shyness at the door. “And today’s her birthday?” “No. Today no birthday. Two day before.” “I see,” I said, though of course I didn’t.”

Iyer has a wonderful time entertaining the children and they bond very well. The children play all their games with him and Yuki enjoys bouncing her dolls off Iyer’s chest. Sachiko, in customary Japanese politeness, spends all her time apologizing for the kids’ behaviour and thanking Iyer for the fun. Iyer discusses Japanese poetry and script at length in this book. His knowledge about the various forms of Japanese poetry as well as the styles employed by various poets is astonishing. It doesn’t appear like he could have gathered it all after arriving in Kyoto. Several portions of the book enthrall the reader in the historic details of certain writers and anecdotes pinned to them. Iyer seems to alternate chapters or significant portions of chapters between his personal experiences and ruminations about Japan, Zen or Japanese poetry. This provides an interesting blend of dynamic scenes and slower paced discussions. Undoubtedly he presents mostly what interests him, but he does it so well that it is feverishly infectious. One of the many love poems he quotes (and he quotes, oh so many) caught my eye and heart (and this book makes it difficult to distinguish between the two): The mists rise over The still pools at Asuka. Memory does not Pass away so easily.

and another one he quotes of Akiko reveals the sumptuousness of the lyrics: O this heaviness of spring Surrounding Maiden and priest, From her shoulders a lock of hair Over the sutra

His occasional rendezvous with other foreigners and some of Mark’s friends are described in great detail, sprinkled with Iyer’s reflection on the unsaid. One incident when he meets with Mark’s best friend Joe, is very interesting to read and ponder over.

Sachiko accompanies Iyer to several places and accepts the role of a tour guide. Their conversations on these trips are hilarious with Iyer trying his best to convey his thoughts in Japanese and Sachiko doing the same in English. Sachiko accompanies Iyer on all his trips over Japan, as a friendly gesture as well as in an attempt to revive her dreams of her younger days. The fond ties that develop between Iyer and Sachiko are neither deified nor denied and Iyer is extremely honest in sharing even the dreams that wake him on certain nights. As they spend time together learning more about Japan and themselves, they stumble over words that they use and put the ones they learn to the funniest usage. Her childlike mannerism and her ever-rejuvenating vigour and youthfulness add wonderful bright strokes to the canvas that Iyer presents to us. Iyer doesn’t exaggerate but doesn’t spare a chance to paint a recalled conversation in bright hues of humour. “…she tucked her fork, delicately held between two fingers, into the rice and offered brightly, “I like Kali.” I was wondering what kind of demon I had roused within her to get this demure lady to champion the goddess of destruction – a less useful figure, I recalled, than the spirit of Fertility – when she repeated, with more heat, “Kali, I like very much,” motioning to her plate, and I realized that it was only the curry she was extolling.“

And another time, when Iyer introduces her to a friend of his: “What country you living?” “Italy, actually,” said Matthew in his telegraphic way. “Living in a hill town – very charming, actually – just north of Milano.” Sachiko looked terrified. “Hill?” “Yes, yes.” Matthew gave her an encouraging smile. “You live in hill?” “Not quite. You see…” “But my friend say, Italian man very dangerous. She standing street, man come here. He say, “Please you come together me, hotel.” Matthew looked at me, perplexed. “She means that her friend got propositioned by a man in Italy.””Oh yes, yes, quite.” Matthew beamed back. “Awfully embarrassing. Must be terribly careful. Very roguish types all around. Can’t trust them at all.” Sachiko smiled in incomprehension. “You very good smell,” she assured him. Taken aback, Matthew began sniffing around at his clothes. “No, no. She means you have a good smile.”

Iyer covers nearly all there could be about Japan: technology, pornography, shopping malls, poetry (Renga, Haiku and every other form), Zen, Sumi-e painting, cherry blooms, autumn, winter, tea (and an elaborate discussion it is) and the kindling of romance. The sheer range of topics and the quick in-depth accounts and reflections about the same are the wealth of this book. His relationship with Sachiko-san is at once funny as it is calmly romantic and makes dear reading. This book is a perfect companion on any trip, be it to a faraway land or to your favourite hammock. Iyer doesn’t tire the reader with too much of opinion, information, gimmicks or romance. There is a touch of everything for nearly everyone. If you enjoy reading about how it would be to live in an enigmatic place like Japan, about how people are essentially human no matter where they go, about Japan, about Zen, about Japanese poetry then this is the perfect book to give you all that and more, especially in a tongue-in-cheek tone. I think I read this book about seven times, and ended up finding something new every time. I’ll read it once more.

Photography

Skin Deep

Ilan

Poetry

Fast Forward

Agni There she goes in a sleeveless top, Clicking heels down the book shop. Swaying to the streaming hip hop, Manicured nails and hair close crop. Here he comes in a leather jacket, Stud in the ear hands in his pocket. Jolly roger hanging in a locket, Plastic money and high income bracket. A brush of arm, a whiff of scent, Words spoken in a false accent. Fast track love and quick consent. Ronald smiles at the money spent. Pink coloured cards with clichĂŠd lines On the tiled floors under neon signs. Happiness is sold in pack of nines, In restaurants where ambience shines. Then a marriage if she insists Then a baby if he persists But if they are to coexist, Don't forget the grocery list. Parent's love at discount cost Kids learn at the crĂ¨che too fast Lunch and dinner, cold breakfast Offer valid till stocks last. Branded clothes and ego swells Who cares as the bill too wells. Dark circles and cleansing gels Master's card for everything else. A family run, just part time. Off to the mall as pastime. Life is now a pantomime. Shut up! Now its closing time.

Nonfiction

The Weakening Sex

Govindarajan Of medium height, dusky complexioned, about thirty years old, firm and wrapped in a maroon saree. That was what I noted when she started swearing. Not vulgar words, but she was rebuking a man. I shifted my focus to this man. Lanky, wiry haired, his lungiℜ folded and wrapped above his knees and his whole self carrying the smell of the factory or mill in which he must have spent the entire heated day. He wasn’t aware that he was at the butt end of her ire. I could see it coming as he had brushed past me. I have to have a bath when I reach home. But I am sure he had no such thoughts as he had kept walking on, calling out to someone. Then it had happened. He had bumped into her and as he lifted his leg to cleave through the jungle of feet that seemed to grow out of the floor of the bus, he had hit her thigh. He had kept moving and only stopped when he held the hand of a little boy who was waiting for him. The lady turned around to see who had gotten so physically close to her and had spotted him moving away. As has become the convention amongst women, she assumed that it was a lecherous move. Scorn rose to her face and broke out in the form of harsh rebukes. “Country swine! What do you think of yourself? No decency, rubbing against a woman like that? Desperate pig!” I fail to capture her exact phrases in cultured English. I was stunned at the depth of her disgust and was surprised to find the man continue in ignorance. Then she said something that annoyed me more than anything else: “All these men always look out for a chance to behave indecently.” At that minute I decided to write this piece. Not all men are evil pigs on the lookout for innocent women. More importantly, all women are not innocent. I felt sorry for that man who wasn’t even aware of what he had done. He was singularly driven to reach his son, after collecting the tickets from the conductor. I fail to see why this cannot be recognised as an accident. I decided to hunt more such incidents and keep a note of them. I still do. Often, people are quick to classify an entire race, community or geographical area based on the activity of a set number of individuals representing them. This finds manifestation in what the uninformed world of late seems to say about the Muslim community or what American citizens have for years said about alleys and zones predominantly occupied by Afro-American population. I remember an episode of Boston High where Harvey Lipschultz says something to annoy a colleague (I think it was Scott Guber played by the wonderful Anthony Heald). Someone mentions ℜ

A coloured, straight skirt worn by men.

that there was a crime committed in the neighbourhood, and Harvey responds with, “Was the criminal black?” or something like that. He justifies that question on statistical grounds. It is unfortunate that we lose track of what is right on the grounds of the prejudices that we hold. What I feel is that every incident should be treated on a case by case basis and we shouldn’t be driven to judgment based on biases and prejudices. If an avenue of thought (like this article) is put forth, it makes rational sense to give it its due rather than shut it off as something impossible or all trash. This article wishes to awaken intelligent readers, especially men, to take note of any injustice or unequal treatment meted out to them and speak out instead of being wrapped in the self-mocking garb of a macho image. Atrocities remain so and shouldn’t be made more important or less based on sheer volume or statistic. There is enough literature about the injustice done unto women. This article represents the less discussed but nevertheless prevalent issue of injustice towards men. Before I go into the incidents it would be worth observing some unconscious habits and practices. I would request the reader to conduct this exercise for himself, preferably in Chennai. Some of these might appear alien to the reader, but they are immediately recognized in a place like Chennai. Notice when a woman is touched physically, she always turns to check who it was. If it is a woman then she returns to what she was doing. If it was a man then she glares at him or moves away. Notice when a woman brushes against someone, she rarely bothers to notice it. It is still skin against skin/clothes. But now the act is no longer noticeable. Notice that in Chennai, where a whole side of the bus is reserved for women, it is absolutely fine for them to occupy seats which aren’t reserved for them, even when their seats are empty. This is usually done because they want to sit in close proximity with their man (husband, son, brother, et al). Notice that if a man wishes to sit with his wife/daughter/mother on the ladies’ side then he has to get up and give way to a woman who has just entered the bus. His wife/daughter/mother would actually ask him to get up. Notice that a woman sitting on the other side, need not do that and would actually turn to the person who requested her to rise and scold him for being so inconsiderate. Her husband might also join in to support her. Notice that a man, no matter how tired or aged he looks cannot continue to sit on the ladies’ side and should only appeal to the kindness of the gents sitting on the other side. Notice that a woman no matter how energetic and fresh she appears always has a right to the seat. Now going beyond a bus; Notice how men and women, almost always, are softer in their speech towards women. Men do so out of a sense of chivalry and women do so because they feel one with other members of their sex. Notice how a bank teller or a person at the checkout counter is scolded at if he gets annoyed at a lady and raises his voice against her. Notice how difficult the boss feels in demanding that a female employee stay long hours as the rest of the team does. “Personal reasons” take on a magnitude of difference when claimed by a female employee.

In India, notice the extent to which reservations for women are done. Reservation based on caste is becoming an issue, and people are calling out to respect merit, but this aspect of the reservation is hardly spoken about. Harassment of women in wedlock is splashed across so many pages of the tabloids. Notice how few tabloids ever talk about henpecked husbands or husbands whose lives are destroyed by their wives. One should read full reports on domestic violence and the statistics they report to know the exact spread of violence and the assaulting party. Notice how women spurn men they aren’t interested in. It is their choice, but when men reject a woman, it is considered rude. Men won’t speak up about this, since it is a matter of shame for them. A sense of shame applies to men too. Notice how a woman is usually considered the more caring and hence fitting parent to gain custody over the children in a divorce, although more women file for divorce than men. Now I shall describe two incidents that happened to me, or rather, that I allowed to happen in order to prove a point. I was traveling by a bus (and they have become temples of research for me) and it was just before lunch-hour. The stickiness of Chennai at that hour is world-renowned and requires very little need to elaborate. If the texture of molasses flowing down your hair and falling off your high cheek bones onto your shoulders can give you an idea, I would consider it a job well done. Make it hot molasses. Something about raw heat brings out the animal in a human being. I enjoyed reading Ray Bradbury’s story about how people become murderers when the temperature crosses 102 degrees Fahrenheit (or something like that). The narrator pushes a harridan to the edge by trying to be reasonable with her (but ends up annoying her) and then the story takes an interesting twist. So, in walked a few women carrying their wicker baskets and sundry. I kept the smile for the right length. It was bound to happen some time soon. I stood as I should and the ladies placed their wicker baskets on the floor of the bus and brought out their cloth purses to buy the ticket. The bus lurched and they lost their balance and fell right on me. I glared at them. They didn’t even notice my reaction, but I knew it wasn’t wasted; I needed it as preparation. As the crowd increased, these old ladies decided to lean on me for support as they were unable to use the bars overhead for support. I moved away but they kept leaning further. Then I blew my top. I demanded that they move away from me and not behave thus. And what followed was what I expected. “Why are you shouting? This can’t be helped in a crowded bus?” “I don’t care. I do not want you people touching me.” “Why are you creating a scene? I am old enough to be your mother.” “My mother doesn’t lean on strangers.” And then the predictable characters that plague every agora started reeling out their usual lines. “Why can’t you be nice to them?” “They are just old women. Why create an issue about it?” My job was done and a couple of entries happily crawled into my little notebook. In college I was equipoise in my treatment of men and women and was, hence, not very popular with women who preferred men fawning over them. I recall this one particular incident that happened in the early semesters. A very popular girl, whom we shall call M, had this habit of throwing her arm around people and nudging them playfully or kicking them in their heels (this was usually done with the guys in the class). She was very vocal about women’s rights and women’s liberation. Nevertheless, she was the woman of the batch. I hung around with a bunch of

girls who made sense to me and M decided to join us in one of our conversations. We were talking about some lecture that had gotten over. She tried joking about the professor and slapped me on my stomach. I gently but firmly told her that I did not entertain that. Later, on some other occasion she repeated a similar physical contact and I reminded her of my preferences. The last incident had a music score to it too. We were listening to a newly released movie’s soundtrack and she walked in. The discussion turned to styles of singing and I happened to crack a joke regarding a playback singer’s style. She apparently loved it and put her arm around my shoulder. That was it. I sternly made it clear to her that I would have nothing of this ever and if she couldn’t keep her hands off then she’d rather not talk to me. “What? What is wrong with you? I was just being friendly? Who do you think you are?” I didn’t have this notebook then, else it would have earned a separate page for itself. She hissed and whispered around her friend circle (which was a very influential one as most of them had boyfriends in the batch who had small gangs to themselves) and made me the worst guy to be with. Maybe I was, but I am glad I stuck to what I believed is right. These are not incidents of imagination. I thoroughly enjoyed these and more for I learnt a lot about inherent biases. I personally take great pleasure in informing women that they should occupy the vacant seats on their side and allow men to sit. I usually do this by pointing to an old man in the bus. Hence, very few people fight back (they spend a lot of time weighing chivalry and respect for elders) and my objective is achieved. I tactfully inform my boss that the team will leave when the ladies in our team leave. Men have always been painted as beasts, cruel and lecherous. None of what I have said so far attempts to deny what they wrongly do to anyone, women included. What is wrong is obviously so and, if most wrong deeds seem to be statistically perpetrated by men, it is mere statistic. We cannot, thereby, deny all men the right to a uniform demeanour. Each incident should be addressed individually and not bypassed in the wake of something larger or gruesome. If such be the law for men, then so be it for women. Why do we cry loud for equality when it is purely based on convenience (a.k.a. chivalry)? Co-existence of equality and chivalry is nothing more than a mockery of one’s intelligence. Men will rarely come out and scream their throats sore, because it becomes a matter of prestige, of retaining their macho image. Complaining against what is wrong is something we owe to our selves, to our integral selves. Every single human being (man and woman) needs to stop behaving irresponsibly. The issue of violation of personal space is common to both men and women but for some strange reason sexual harassment has become a women’s-only issue. In every matter, it makes sense to investigate completely without affixing the female party as the victim ab initio. A movie like Disclosure should have opened eyes against holding prejudices. The reaction to this is not to hold women as the cunning vixen but to approach every matter afresh and with the genuine urge to uncover the truth. Till the world reaches that level of objective maturity, it makes sense for men to realize that silence and lethargy in addressing pertinent issues would only lead to a gradually overwhelming prejudice against them, which would become too enormous to deal at a later date. It is, hence, wise for men to condemn destructive acts, whether they are done unto women or men. It is up to the weakening sex to fight for truth and equality in the true sense.

Photography

Means and Ends

Swaminathan

Projector Room

R for Riveting

Sriram C S It’s sometimes easy making a book or a movie; very easy once you’ve got a riveting story behind it. Once you have that, then even a flawed execution, a slacking narration can still produce a good piece of art. But when a riveting theme is combined with bite-your-nails execution, a screenplay tauter than the hangman’s rope, what you get is a classic, a work that would give rise to newer ideas, a work that would stay back as a symbol, a recurring image in the minds of people. That is what it takes, a mind-blowing idea and a wave of the magic wand. An idea – a bullet proof idea – is what gives you a movie like V for Vendetta. The reputations had been established. Wachowsky brothers had already broken all tradition with the Matrix. Hugo Weaving had won hearts with his cold suave dialogue delivery as Agent Smith (who can ever forget the ‘Mr.Anderson’ intonation!). Natalie Portman had got star status with the Star Wars trilogy. Alan Moore (who requested that his name be taken off the credits) had already defined a new era in comic book history. I wondered a bit if all this hype could possibly affect the movie before I entered the theatre. Two frames into the movie I was still wondering – the kind of wonder that leaves you gaping. The story is very quixotic, which actually makes the whole thing more enjoyable. There is a ruthless government headed by a tyrant very similar to the Big Brother in George Orwell’s 1984. People lead lives of terror bound by curfews, rationed by government orders and vegetated by the television. Then there comes a caped crusader (what is it with men in masks that makes them so endearing?) who is out for both personal revenge and justice; a single hero who fights armies with nothing but ‘bloody knives and fancy karate gimmicks’. And of course we can never forget the heroine, the charming young lady whose beauty and brains come second only to the depth of her own character. This young lady opens a different perspective to the masked avenger, which he never knew existed. All in all a tale of hope, justice and truth. We’ve seen this so often – right from Robin Hood to Neo. But where V for Vendetta stands apart is in its imagery and dialogue. The movie nails your attention right at the beginning with Evey Hammond’s (Natalie Portman) voice going ‘Remember, remember, the fifth of November,…’ and the very nicely made footage of Guy Fawkes getting caught in his attempt to pull off the Gun Powder plot. From then on it presents a dystopian vision of England ruled by the High Chancellor Adam Suttler whose tyranny monitors, controls and terrorizes the entire population by means of CCTVs, totally empowered police men referred to as

fingermen and a long past Soviet Stalin-esque assassination squad which makes people disappear into thin air. The revolutionary, who calls himself as codename V rescues Evey Hammond from the fingermen who attempt to molest her when she ventures out during curfew. He totally flatters her with his debonair manner and intelligent conversation. Imagine having this conversation with a man who wears a perennially smiling mask on his face and is draped in a long cloak. Evey Hammond: Who--who are you? V: Who? Who is but the form following the function of what... and what I am is a man in a mask. Evey Hammond: I can see that. V: Of course you can. I'm not questioning your powers of observation, I'm merely remarking on the paradox of asking a masked man who he is. From then on he persuades her to join him for a music concert that he is to give that night. The concert turns out to be blowing up of the Old Bailey building exactly on the Bonfire night, the 5th of November when Guy Fawkes could have blown up the parliament. After this, many members of the Party are killed by V. Evey is in two minds after she is taken to V’s lair, the Shadow Gallery, when she is hit unconscious by a policeman. She sees sense in what V is doing and wants to help him while at the same time the dread of the Government holds her back. She escapes V during one of his assassinations of a Party member to find refuge in her colleague’s place. But she is captured by the fingermen again, tortured and interrogated by the inclement Mr.Creedy, one of the officials of the Party to reveal V’s whereabouts. She survives the torture by the support of a letter written on toilet paper, hidden in a crack by a former inmate of the prison - Valerie Page, which gives her the courage to face the Government’s instruments of fear. The movie then spreads out on a broad canvas introducing complex characters while gradually revealing just about enough of V’s history before culminating in a grand finale…’as only celluloid can deliver’. Before actually analyzing the movie, one thing any viewer will have to bear in mind is that this is V for Vendetta the movie, very different from V for Vendetta the comic book. It is based on the comic book but it is a totally separate work of art. The comic by itself presents a myriad set of ideas and has lots of characters that have been totally dropped in the movie. In fact, Evey’s characterization itself is very different from the book. Therefore, it is best to treat the movie separately while drawing a few comparisons here and there from the book. The movie has much to offer. And as mentioned before, the specialty of Wachowsky brothers, dialogue takes the lion’s share of the applause. V becomes more than a brawny knife-throwing super hero every time he quotes Shakespeare. The lines selected for this purpose definitely need commending, especially the one from Twelfth Night which V quotes to Evey as they dance: Conceal me what I am, and be my aid For such disguise as haply shall become The form of my intent – Act 1, Scene 2. The original comic book has some riveting conversations, but the movie surpasses the book in this area. I could quote the good dialogues here, but that would possibly cover half the screenplay.

A movie made on a grand scale has to have scenes that are larger than life and stand as an everlasting image. The scene where V reaches the crescendo of his concert with Old Bailey going up in fireworks, the sequence where Valerie Page narrates her story and the small footage of V jumping over the roof of the Bishop Lilliman’s church while Evey distracts the Bishop all stand apart. The final knife fighting sequence between V and Mr. Creedy and his men is excellent. But the one sequence that will remain etched in every viewer’s mind for ages to come is the sequence where Inspector Finch, the officer investigating V, begins to realize what is happening and V walks about in his Shadow Gallery creating the Domino Effect to display the V logo in red and black. This particular scene involved 22,000 dominoes, was assembled by four professional domino assemblers, and took 200 hours to set up. The other characteristic of a Wachowsky brother’s movie is their symbolism and writing between the lines. There is enough fodder in this one for the movie buffs to debate on internet forums. For example the way V overcomes his fear at the concentration camp to start his Vendetta and Evey’s reaction after she overcomes her own fears – V walks through fire and Evey gets drenched in water, an obvious biblical reference to baptism by fire and water. And the ubiquity of the letter V lends a romantic charm to the entire movie. Codename V introduces himself in a long statement that alliterates with V (Verily, this vichyssoise of verbiage veers most verbose so let me simply add that it's my very good honor to meet you and you may call me V. – to quote the conclusion of his introduction). He is tortured and imprisoned in room number 5, the Roman representation being V. Evey, has a name that sounds very much like V. The lady who inspires both V and Evey is Valerie Page, her name again starting with V. And to top it all, the Gunpowder plot was planned on November the 5th. Hugo Weaving and Natalie Portman stand apart in their performances. Weaving has essayed a very tough role with a magic that few can equal, let alone surpass. As V, the man in the mask, he has nothing but his own body language and intonation to bring life to the character. His face portrays a menacingly happy smile all through the movie. His slightly raspy voice presents every dialogue perfectly. His tone resembles that of a connoisseur who his expressing his appreciation after having tasted the best wine ever in all life – here, my friends, is a man who can bring drama to the movie theatre. Portman charms as the totally English Evey. Her accent is captivating and her performance when she finally ‘commits to the most important moment in her life’ takes one’s breath away. And after V has achieved his dream of blowing up the parliament, she adds that deft finishing touch that was needed to the movie as she stands on the tower where V gave his first concert along with her talking to Finch.

Of course there are flaws as in every human creation. The fascist terror imposed by the government does not hit hard. The citizens seem to lead peaceful lives not very different from the current day world. Evey’s torture apart from her tonsuring does not look very much like torture. It does not give you that sick feeling in your stomach which you get when you see Mel Gibson being tortured in Braveheart or Winston Smith shivering in Room 101 in Orwell’s 1984. But then, the few flaws do not in any way hamper the amazing experience that the movie is. The Wachowsky brothers, I must say, have achieved what they already did with Matrix. A movie that provides complete entertainment, a movie that makes it imperative to have a jumbo pop-corn with you as you watch it but at the same time leaves you asking a few very pertinent questions – questions that bear relevance today, more than ever. Televisions ruling minds of people, aggressive speakers who manipulate the viewers very much in the style of religious bigotry that has become common today, surveillance that invades privacy, biological weapons and human experiments – not very far, perhaps. But what those questions are is something I’ll leave for you to ask yourself after you’ve seen the movie, because beneath this movie reel there are more than just actors and plots. Beneath this movie reel there is an idea and ideas are to be experienced.

References V for Vendetta the movie http://vforvendetta.warnerbros.com/ http://imdb.com/title/tt0434409/ http://www.themoviespoiler.com/Spoilers/vendetta.html

Poetry

The Void

Panchajanyan

The breeze does not play today He ruffles no leaves. The water in the pool is still, No sun is reflected in it. No birds fly today. The distant marketâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s noises are still. The door of my room does not move. The pen stays open and dry. The dancers in the painting are frozen. The scene outside the window does not change. The sheet on the bed remains crumpled. The vermillion on the sheets is not cleaned. The half eaten apple gathers rust. The milk lies spilt on the floor And the glass is overturned. The dead lamp remains unlit. The ashes of the sandalwood incense Still bear the mark of a finger. The stalks of the betel leaf lay strewn about. The tear on the pillow remains open. The crushed jasmines are yet faded. Nothing happens now.

Photography

Silent Pains

Singaravelan

Column

Writers of the Issue: Nadine Gordimer, Harold Pinter, Gao Xingjian, Shirin Ebadi

Lavanya Arundhati Roy, in a recent interview to the Deccan Herald said, “Sometimes you have to fight for people who have no space for you in their imagination.” She has transformed from a Booker winning novelist to an activist-writer whose essays have been evoking strong criticism as well as open appreciation. Perhaps, “transformed” is a narrow, misinformed usage and conveys an unintended meaning of Roy developing strong political opinion, post-Booker popularity. Maybe “switched roles” is a better descriptor. Roy's line sums up beautifully why some writers, very few considering the large number who write, are strongly compelled to use their voice to raise awareness about human rights violations in various countries across the world. John Pilger, in an article for Mail & Guardian Online, (South Africa) writes, “In the postmodern, celebrity-driven world of writing, prizes are allotted to stylists and those who compete for the emperor’s threads; the politically unsafe need not apply” indicating the scarcity of authentic and powerful voices that focus on issues threatening human life in the contemporary world. A quick look at the list of Nobel Prize for Literature / Peace winners is reassuring though. While there are not many writers who use their literary gifts to espouse worthy causes, the few who have chosen to do so have made a remarkable difference to the lives around them and have been recognized and awarded the highest laurels for their tireless effort. Nadine Gordimer was the first South African to be awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature. She was conferred the honour in 1991; the Nobel Prize website says of Gordimer "who through her magnificent epic writing has - in the words of Alfred Nobel - been of very great benefit to humanity". Gordimer was born in 1923 in Springs, South Africa and continues to live there. From a very early age, due to being labeled a 'delicate' child by her mother, Gordimer spent her time indoors with adults and cultivated a voracious reading habit. She started writing in her teens and was a strong voice against apartheid, “A truly living human being cannot remain neutral.”

She wrote about a South Africa that was behind a political and geographical veil for several years. Post-apartheid, she has been actively fighting against AIDS. A lot in the news in 2005 for winning the Nobel Prize in Literature and for his anti-Bush stance on Iraq, Harold Pinter has championed many causes over the years – Nicaragua, Serbia and

Kosovo, Turkey, Iraq and others. His website carries a quote that says Pinter remains a “permanent public nuisance, a questioner of accepted truths, both in life and art.” “...the search for the truth can never stop. It cannot be adjourned, it cannot be postponed. It has to be faced, right there, on the spot.”

Pinter has been a very popular playwright since the late 1950s after the success of his sixth play The Caretaker. His ideas and language are like pinpoints – sharp and affecting. A French citizen now, Gao Xingjian was born in eastern China in 1940. He relocated to France in 1987 as a political refugee after it became increasingly risky for him to remain in China. He was declared persona non grata and his works banned by the Communist Chinese Government soon after. Gao was allowed to publish by the government only between 1980 -1987. During this time he wrote short stories, plays, and essays. In 1986, when his play The Other Shore was banned in China, Gao undertook a ten-month walking tour along the Yangze river in order to avoid harassment. He became the first Chinese to be awarded the Nobel Prize, which he won for Literature in 2000, for his “bitter insights and linguistic ingenuity.” His most popular book is Lingshan (The Soul Mountain) - a voyage of discovery, which he started writing in 1982 and published in 1990, in Taipei. Last in this profile is Shirin Ebadi – a practising lawyer, former judge (in fact Iran's first woman judge), writer, and social activist. Ebadi was awarded the Nobel Peace prize in 2003 for her effort towards democracy and human rights (particularly those of women and children) in Iran. Following the Islamic Revolution and the establishment of the conservative, theocratic government of Ayatollah Khomeini in February 1979, Ebadi and other women were removed from the position of judges and assigned clerical jobs. Ebadi opted for an early retirement from the judiciary and, for many years, stayed at home and wrote books and articles for Iranian journals. Eventually, when she obtained the licence to practice law privately, Ebadi boldly represented many people who had been labeled dissenters by the hard-line Iranian judiciary. Each of these writers – Gordimer, Pinter, Gao, Ebadi – has made the world sit up and take notice of how humans are being treated in fundamentalist pockets and what it means to live without freedom. We hope you will spend a few minutes getting to know these writers, using the links below. Reference: Several links of relevance are collected at the following link. http://alvibest.blogspot.com/2006/05/beyond-art.html

Poetry

Folly in the Run

Mani

I wake and rise and start to run From waking up every day. Tho' days are nice and nights are fun, But Time holds me in its fray. Flit like a bird, and dart around, Drop like a stream and gurgle; Waft like a memory, lost and found, A dream so hard to burgle. Covered with dust of laughing trees, And the down of dancing birds. Till dusk I'd run 'midst the greens, And 'neath stars the black engirds. I'd sip fresh dew from a rose And click on green mango's rind Strike a bell and tickle my nose A belly laugh in my mind. Much to do, much to yearn Is it an either-or-none? For once I stop, so I learn The deep folly in the run.

Fiction

November 15th

Valliappan November 15th. Morning – eyes open, blinking at the sun. No alarm, woke up by myself. Eyes still blinking at the sun – rather bright today. Today… November 15th…50 years, that’s how long it’s been. November 15th – my origin of reference. Bathroom door creaks, possibly asking for some oil. Groggy face in the mirror. Water. Splash. Not so groggy now. Toothpaste on brush. Brush on teeth. Rinse. Scrutinize. Brush again. Rinse. White enough. Water on face. Better. Eyes blink. Flash. The face with that laugh. That beautiful face that looked at me like the sun’s shadow as I held it in my arms. November 15th… COMMENT-AUTHOR: Anonymous COMMENT-DATE: 12:24 AM COMMENT-BODY: hi..I came across your blog while blogging..pretty interesting. Btw,this post is not really "haiku" in the real sense cos haiku follows the 5-7-5 syllable pattern..and I dont see that in these verses..Pardon my smart aleck comment,but cudn't resist it:).. I think you are a great abstract thinker,btw:) Just another blogger. The first visit on my BLOG.

Water spirals down the drain. Towel against my body. New silver hair, same old fragrance – the fragrance of two souls. Bathing together is a pleasure, especially at 70. I peer into the mirror. No signs of sickness, not even a red eye that will get attention. Badly concealed smirk from the bathtub. Am I crying for attention so obviously? Staying healthy is a pain, especially at 70. Coffee and idli – life saving inventions. My seat is drawn away from the table. Just one plate in front of me. This is how we eat on November 15th – one seat, one plate, one heart. I alternate between eating and feeding. Amused expression as I sip coffee – been so for fifty years. Breakfast in your lover’s lap at the age of 70, not bad for someone found on the Internet. Not bad at all. jab: hi ab: hmm...so the charming JAB turns out to be a woman, how fascinating jab: haha! jab: why did you think JAB was a amn? jab: man ab: brb jab: ok

My handicap. Could never make conversations clear. 54

Divans in the garden – great idea. Romance always brings out the best ideas. I stretch back and watch the hide and seek, with grandchildren; nimble and spry for that age – moving almost like the wind. ‘Patti, thatha enge (Grandma, where is grandpa?)?’ the eldest one pulls a joke. The brat. Inherited nose; inherited naughtiness. ab: have u read Shakespeare? jab: not a lot…vaguely… ab: Here come and sit, where never serpent hisses, And being set, I'll smother thee with kisses; 'And yet not cloy thy lips with loathed satiety, But rather famish them amid their plenty,20 Making them red and pale with fresh variety, Ten kisses short as one, one long as twenty: A summer's day will seem an hour but short, Being wasted in such time-beguiling sport.' jab: god.. jab: my imagination is running riot ab: hmm jab: hmm jab: i will go sleep now ab: Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast! Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest! Romeo and Juliet Act II, Scene II jab:….. jab: take care,gud nite ab: sweet dreams jab: tahnks,you too! ab: good night! :)

Slightly uncomfortable. Would someone talk so on the second day? I’m surprised…at myself.

European like Briton Gaul with men confused in physically mild weather (7)*. That is how the weather is now. Pencil in hand. Smile as the boxes get filled. Walk? Of course. Its time. The old stone seat, I guess. Annual pilgrimage. Chivalrous, as always. Doors held open, caring hands everywhere. Quite a habit isn’t it? Swept of the feet - that is the term for our love story. I wonder, as we walk, at the rapidness with which the crossword was done today. Very sharp. ab: u have a brother! :) jab: yeah..how do you know? ab: and a sister as well jab: how? how? how? how did u find out?????? ab: magic!! :) jab: am I to believe that? ab: u can… ab: brother mentioned in XXXX post in ur BLOG. sister - YYYY post. :) jab: ohh!!!! jab: great!I'm impressed! ab: actually i was impressed with the posts, hence the attention to details! :) That was clever. You do that often, don’t you… and it did help this time…it helped a lot.

The seat. I wonder why it is always free on this day. I’ve seen it totally crowded on all other days. Chivalry again, sitting after seating…nice pun. 50 years, never tired of it. The lake; so similar to your eyes. Calm, deep, with a God inside. The wind rushes through. Clothes don’t flutter. Wonder why. Hand in hand, eyes lost somewhere in the horizon. It all started here right, this place. I remember, in the classic position, beaming smile…smiles jab: so, shall i look for a girl for u…i like doing that for my friends. wat do u look for in a woman? ab: ohhh, dangerous question… ab: :”> (blushing smiley) jab: well, wat r u blushing for???? ab: nothing…just wondering…should i say or should i not… jab: well, just say it nah… ab: hmm… jab: yes? ab: i don't know (or care) how the person in the other end of the chat looks or speaks. i don't know (or care) if the person is real or an impersonation. i don't even know (or care) if it is just an automated program on the other side...but i want a girl like u. will u marry me? No, no this is not happening…this did not happen… I’m not in no fairy tale...

The same act again and again. Every year. Knee bent, face raised. The question is asked, even though the answer is known. I don't know (or care) how the person in the other end of the chat looks or speaks. I don't know (or care) if the person is real or an impersonation. I don't even know (or care) if it is just an automated program on the other side...but I want a girl like u. Will u marry me? A gentle ruffle of the hair before the reply. Yes! Yes! Yes! Shall we turn back? It is getting late. A cozy bed and a warm hug wait in the house. Gentle smile. The house is calm, tranquil. Just the soothing music of loved ones sleeping peacefully. This is it. All promises kept. Time to sleep. Gud night and sweet dreams. Lots of luv. *Solution to the clue – Clement

Translation

Lila

Vaidehi The evening breeze calmed the wild passions of the earth. The day was now ready to yield to the enveloping blackness of the night. Mothers put out the lamps in their houses and the whole of Brindavan echoed with the music of their lullabies. The lamp at Yashoda’s house still flickered, however. ‘Krishna, why do you worry me so? I cannot talk to Radhika or even ChampaFor all I hear are complaints about you; Do you not love me, your mother? Won’t you ever tire of your endless games?’ The cherubic Krishna smiled and uttered but one word: ‘LILA’ Lila - The Divine Game. Across the realms of time, in a different place, visions of the same Lila flashed through the mind of a poet-seer. A man who would later be considered one of the greatest visionaries that India had ever seen; a man who ‘experienced a rapid flow of poetry’ because of his spiritual experiences. Sri Aurobindo - poet, patriot, philosopher and yogi. A man who grew up as far away as possible from all things Indian, yet, whose heart throbbed with a love for his Lord, the One with the flute, enchanting the world with His music. England gave him a love for literature; India gave him a love for life. Not very familiar with his own mother tongue (Bengali), he took upon himself the task of learning it along with Sanskrit. He studied the scriptures and re-discovered his Lord. His pen could no longer wait to chronicle the games of the Lord he so loved and thus, he wrote the poem ‘Lila’, in a language alien to the Indians, the concept being comfortingly familiar to them at the same time. This poem is unravelled here. Lila. En nous est l’Esprit multiforme qui est un, Eternel penseur calme et grand et sage, Voyant dont l’oeil est un soleil au regard partout, Poète des mystères cosmiques.

Un Témoin-critique assemble toute chose Et lie les fragments dans sa gerbe éclatante ; Un aventurier-du-Monde porté sur l’aile de la Destinée Joue la mort et la triomphe, la joie et la peine. Roi de majesté et esclave d’amour L’hôte des étoiles et le convive à l’auberge de la Nature, Esprit spectateur suprême entrôné là-haut, Un pion de passion dans le jeu divin, Lui qui par plaisir a fait les soleils et les mers Reflète en notre être son immense caprice.

Word for word translation • • • • • • • • • •

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En nous = within us est l’Esprit = is the Spirit multiforme = having many forms qui est un =who is One eternel penseur calme = a calm, eternal thinker et grand et sage = and great and wise voyant =all-seeing.(This word has many meanings. It could mean flamboyant or expansive. The poet has made good use of the word to mean that His eye is All seeing). dont l’oeil = whose eye(the word is pronounced almost like the English ‘eye’). est un soleil =is a sun. (‘Le soleil’ means ‘the Sun’. This is a derivative from the Latin word ‘sol’, meaning ‘sun’. The English word ‘solar’ is a derivative of the same root). au regard partout = with a regard everywhere.(On first glance there seems to be a redundancy here-because the poet has already called Him the All-seeing One, but the phrase is being used to describe the sun that He has for an eye, an eye which can see everywhere.). poète des mystères cosmiques = a poet of cosmic mysteries.(‘poète’ is one of those French words which has only one gender, regardless of the subject it is used to describe. ’Poète ‘is, therefore, always feminine. Yet another example within the same poem is the word ‘calme’, which is again, always feminine. Most of the other adjectives used in the poem are in their masculine form.) un Témoin-critique = a Witness who judges. assemble toute chose = pieces everything ( the word ‘assemble’ actually means ‘to bring together’. Here the poet has used it intelligently to mean “to break into fragments’, underlying sense being bringing together) et lie les fragments= and links the fragments together. dans sa gerbe éclatante = in His brilliant sheaf( éclatante is derived from ‘éclat’ which could mean either ‘bright’ or ‘fragment’. The poet has used the word to connect with the previous ‘fragment’, at the same time mean “brilliant’). un aventurier du Monde = a World-adventurer porté = carried

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sur l’aile de la Destinée = on the wing of Destiny. joue la mort = playing with death et le triomphe = and with victory la joie et la peine = joy and sorrow. Roi de majesté = king of glory et esclave d’amour = and a slave of love. l’hôte des étoiles = the host of stars ( use of chapeau(^) means an ‘s’ has been dropped from the word, so the word would have been originally spelt as ‘hoste’, similar to the English spelling). et le convive à l’auberge de la Nature = and a guest in Nature’s inn. Esprit-spectateur suprême = supreme spectator-Spirit. enthrôné là-haut = throned high above un pion de passion = a pawn of passion dans le jeu divin = in the divine game. Lui qui par plaisir = He, who out of pleasure a fait des soleils et les mers = made the suns and the seas. reflète en notre être = reflects in our being son immense caprice = His grand caprice.

We have the translation of the poem in English by Sri Aurobindo himself, which goes like this. Lila In us is the thousand fold Spirit who is one, An eternal thinker calm and great and wise, A seer whose eye is an all-regarding sun, A poet of cosmic mysteries. A critic Witness pieces everything And binds the fragments in his brilliant sheaf; A World-adventurer borne on Destiny’s wing Gambles with death and triumph, joy and grief. A king of greatness and a slave of love, Host of the stars and guest in Nature’s inn, A high spectator spirit throned above, A pawn of passion in the game divine, One who has made in sport the suns and seas Mirrors in our being his immense caprice.

This poem talks about Lila with passion and intensity. The poet has used contradictions for maximum benefit. The word play left me staggering.

In the first stanza, you realize how the thousand-fold Spirit can still be One; a thinker who knows all, being wise and calm, yet, mystically enough, one who makes the mysteries of the cosmos a living poem. The poet calls Him, ’poète des mystères cosmiques’, a poet of the cosmic mysteries. The second stanza presents some powerful imagery. The All-seeing Spirit, a great adventurer, carried on the wing of Destiny. Sri Aurobindo refers to him as one who gambles with death and triumph, joy and grief. The poet excels with the next few lines of the poem, where the qualities of the Divine come to us wrapped in a cloak of opposites. The glorious king who succumbs to love, one who has the stars under his spell and yet, longs for the comfort of Nature’s hospitality; a divine Spirit who is throned high above and is still a pawn of passion in the game divine. The expression ‘un pion de passion’ is at once intriguing and remarkably beautiful, indicating His dual nature. The poet also describes Him as one who made all the suns and seas as a sport and manifests Himself in all of us with his immense caprice. The poet has used capital letters to begin words like Destiny, Witness, Spirit and Monde, subtly indicating the oneness of it all and the divinity manifested as One. Perhaps one can conclude that the whole of humanity has but one Destiny, taken care of by the great Witness above. The layers of wisdom buried in the lines of the poem are boundless. The concept of the many manifesting in one helps to demystify the concept of the Divine. Philosophies apart, maybe what we actually need to understand is how each one of us is connected to the Eternal, in what Sri Aurobindo has called ‘le jeu divin’, the divine game. As Yasodha looked wearily at her beloved son, Krishna said, Mother! In you I live, manifest though in many; They call me a thinker, wise, calm, and eternal, Who has for an eye the resplendent sunBut I love to sing verses of this cosmic cacophony. I play with things I pull them apart Bringing them together in magnificent symmetry; I travel the world on Destiny’s wing And write your joy and sorrow, your beginning and depart. My head is high in pride; your love makes me yield I enslave the stars and partake in Nature’s feast; I have a throne regal, studded with precious stones, Yet, Mother, like yours is my fate similarly sealed. O Pure One! I enjoy this game, of tossing the suns and the seas And I know you love too, my immense caprice.

FOOTNOTES The poem draws inspiration heavily from the following lines of Bhagavad Gita, (chapter X) O Arjuna! I am the Self residing in the heart of every being. I am their beginning, their life span, and their end. I am the dicing of the deceitful, the power of the powerful and the goodness of the good. I am victory, determination and constancy too. The use of opposites, as done by the poet, is apparently not new. Subramania Bharathi, a Tamil poet, in his poem Naan, has used this technique. Naan talks about the different attributes of the divine as well. viNNil therigindra mEnellAm nAn vetta veLiyin virivellAm nAn, maNNil kidakkum puzuvellam nAn vAriyiluLLA uyirellAm nAn. In the above lines, the poet talks about how He is manifested both in the stars above as the well as the worms found in the earth below. The poet also says that He manifests Himself in all living things. The idea is very similar to the one in Lila. The same Krishna charms people with his adorable pranks in a poem by the same poet, Theeratha vilayattu pillai. Prancing about with the gopikas (lady-cowherds), teasing them and deriving pleasure from it, He is the child that never tires of its games. Rabindranath Tagore has also talked about divine games. The following lines are from his Sadhana. There is a remarkable saying in the Upanishads: I think not that I know him well, or that I know him well, or that I know him, or even that I know him not. Here the author talks about the unfathomable nature of the divine Spirit. It is interesting to read these lines of Osho in this context: (from his book, Bauls: The Singing Mystics) It is a great play of hide and seek between the energy that God is and the energy that you are. It is the same energy in a great hide and seek .It is a great play. He calls it all a game as well. Source and references • • • • •

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Bulletin of Sri Aurobindo International Centre of Education (August 1983 issue). Aurobindo: The Hope of Man (By Keshavmurthi) Bhagavad Gita. Sadhana (by Tagore). Bauls: The singing mystics (By Osho) www.tamil.net/projectmadurai

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Trinity

Shivani

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