CultureCult [Winter 2015-16] by CultureCult Magazine

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JAGANNATH CHAKRAVARTI MADHURIMA BASU DIPAN CHAKRABORTY SUNDAR RAGHAV

ARIJITA DEY

JAGANNATH CHAKRAVARTI SUHAS KRISHNA

JAGANNATH CHAKRAVARTI TRII-RA

Â© CULTURE CULT

অআইঈউঊঋ৯এঐ ওঔকখগঘঙচছজ ঝঞটঠডঢণতথদধ নপফবভমযরলবশ ষ স হ ড়ঢ়য়ৎ অআই ঈ উ ঊ ঋ ৯ এ থথকক শুরু ঐ ও ঔ কখ গ ঘ আরশশ পত্র ঙ চ ছজ

আ ন ব ব ষষ

১৪২২

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SHAMIR CHANDRA DEBNATH

AYE AYE MAUNG

A Magazine of the Arts, Literature and Culture

THE SPIRIT PAGE

JAGANNATH CHAKRAVARTI

91 WILLIAM JAMES

FEATURES

ARCHITA MITTRA

DIPAN CHAKRABORTY

MARK ANTONY ROSSI

SUNDAR RAGHAV

MARLEEN S. BARR

ANALYSIS

THE BAN CULTURE

MADHURIMA BASU

SUNDAR RAGHAV

JAGANNATH CHAKRAVARTI

POTHIK BAGCHI

CultureCult Magazine - Winter 2015-16

LITERATURE

WRITE TO US We would greatly appreciate your feedback and comments regarding any of the pieces published in this issue. We will be printing a selection of the letters in our forthcoming issues.

KUSHAL PODDAR

AVA BIRD

Mail your letters to CultureCultin@gmail.com. Connect over Facebook at www.Facebook.com/CultureCult.in

STEVE WERKMEISTER

BRANDON MARLON

If you wish to contribute to our publication, you are more than welcome to WRITE FOR US. Please refer to page 78 for details regarding how to submit.

TRIVARNA HARIHARAN

ANDREW SCOTT

NICK ROMEO

ROLLO NYE

NOTE: Letters may be edited before publication for clarity purposes. We would abstain from ‘expurgation’.

CultureCult Magazine will have six issues each year, following the natural etiquette of the Indian cycle of seasons. This Winter issue will be followed by Spring, before the transitions of Summer, Monsoon, Fall Festive & Autumn.

65 MARGARET ELYSIA GARCIA

JOSEPH RUBAS

74 TOTI O’BRIEN

SIDDHARTH PATHAK

70 J. E. NELSON

AMAR DEBNATH

The Demarcation [CC] indicates the end of a particular segment [CC]

CultureCult Magazine - Winter 2015-16

EDITORIAL

Resolving Resolutions

A contemplative cycle of reboot is what marks the start of every new year for a sizeable majority of the ‘thinking’ populace. It is marked less by the commencement of brand new values or resolutions, but by the reaffirmation of whatever one has come to believe in an entire lifetime. In a larger sense, these breaks in the seasonal cycle essentially work as points or centres of gravity around which the world can turn every year, no matter whether the rotational properties of the individual components themselves are up to date or not. The turns in the screw may not always be for the better but they are certainly a ‘necessity’ in the course of time to keep the rust off the surface. A change – the sense of a new beginning, is a constant component in the annals of evolution – infusing hope in the myriad characters who have dared to brave the best and worst of times. It is true that we merely mirror the transition of the seasons and movement of the planets in our obsession for calendar years. However, it happens to be a necessary pre-requisite for survival all the same. Busy in

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the art of living, we forget to count the number of times that our heart pumps blood to our extremities and thus, breaking time down along the lines of celestial objects help us keep track of our respective days and age, enjoying the wonderful impressions of ‘kaal’ after managing to shed off its destructive connotations – becoming ‘time’ that is to be set in mechanical clocks or on papyrus to be hung in a public place. Counting years helps us break eternity into coherent segments in which we can enjoy a semblance of ‘living’, despite the nagging nihilist within trying to convince us otherwise. In an unfathomable universe devoid of scales and rules explaining the same, we have, as a collective race, decided to embrace time as a means of making sense of our very existence. The best thing to do now, therefore, is to make the best use of the compartments we have tailored for ourselves, inspired by the cycles of what lay around us and above in the stars – the very ones we had come to idolize as a primitive race of doe-eyed children.

Counting years helps us break eternity into coherent segments in which we can enjoy a semblance of ‘living’, despite the nagging nihilist within trying to convince us otherwise.

It is that time of the year again to remind ourselves to make each such compartment a room of our own; to transform it into one which will introduce us to this world or define success; where we endure the throes of internal conflict or embark on the quest of our lifetimes; where we eventually perish or manage to pull off a phoenix. The possibilities are as many as one can imagine. Let this year be the one in which we can finally call ourselves ‘happy’. Thus, it is only proper that we draw the line at the moment wishing all of our readers a very happy new year. [CC]

PHOTOGRAPHY

AWAITING MOTHER SHAMIR CHANDRA DEBNATH Homna ● Comilla ● Bangladesh

PHOTOGRAPHY

TRAVERSING THE FALLS AYE AYE MAUNG Amiyakhum ● Bandarban ● Bangladesh

CultureCult Magazine - Winter 2015-16

FEATURE

Of Classics & the neo-littérateur Archita Mittra

Archita Mittra revisits a fascinating childhood replete with memories of Poe and Dickens & measures the strokes of a Shakespeare or Eliot in tandem to explain exactly why classics are necessary to forge a young connoisseur of literature

One of the many advantages of having an English major for a mother was the introduction of classic literature at an age when most toddlers confuse their fairytales or stumble on their names. Besides, the Victorian manor I was lucky to grow up in had libraries filled with ancient leather tomesantiquated books with faded gold lettering along the spines, parchment-like pages detailed with illustrations and calligraphy (all first editions no doubt)-a heady, shimmering flow of word and image, disrupted occasionally by the tragic motheaten page. Then of course, was my mother’s prized revolving bookrack-the crème de la crème, sourced from our library’s finest treasures and the compulsory gradcourse acquisitions from second-hand bookstores. As a child I couldn’t read them, but my mother reminisced about her college and university years often enough, sometimes swapping Cinderella with a simplified Nicholas Nickelby for the bedtime tale. My dad too, politically-inclined and blessed with a deep voice was well-read and brought alive Shakespeare’s historical dramas with an intensity

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no production could ever capture. And with his fascination for the morbid, he ingrained in me a life-threatening fear for Poe. Thus, although I didn’t actually read the books until much later, the authors and their characters were as familiar as the imaginary friends I called to tea, recreating (based on my parent’s memoirs) in vivid detail their faces and personalities. For instance, writing term papers dissecting Victorian decorum hadn’t been pleasant for my mother, especially while wading through Pride and Prejudice, so I naturally reasoned that Jane Austen was one of those fat grumpy old women who live off salacious gossip, needlework and stale tea, someone who if born in this day and age would probably spend her time complaining to her granddaughters or watch reruns of sentimental English soaps. The huge heap of notes for Ulysses and ambiguously titled “stream-of-consciousness”, longer and fatter than the novel itself and my mother’s distaste at the writer’s name being mentioned, convinced me that James Joyce was a mad man and Virginia Woolf his equally-deranged wife. John Keats with his Adonis looks and doomed youth might have been a suitable bridegroom for the Lady Of Shalott, a personal favourite. Meanwhile Robert Browning was surely a murderer and it was

Oscar Wilde’s infamous life history more than his books that I shamelessly devoured like celebrity gossip. Much later, when I took to devouring the novels myself that I realized how flawed and inaccurate my conjectures had been. It also occurred to me, like a Frostian epiphany, that classic literature, this mythical wonderland, that I’d regularly revisit during those precarious years of growing-up was this rare magical place, where you enter and leave as different persons. That once you come to the last page of the last chapter and are seconds away from reading the last sentence, knowing it is the end yet not wanting it to end, you realize you are in many ways changed from the person who opened that same book on an idle afternoon, a million years ago. But the influence of classic literature is more farreaching. If it hadn’t been for my father’s rendition of Julius Caesar or my mother summarizing The Tale Of Two Cities, I’d never have got through history. Much of Victorian London for me was shaped by Dickensian cityscapes and inhabited by characters from Vanity Fair. Meanwhile my view of the Sec-

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ond World War and the Dresden fire-bombings were never the same after I’d ventured into Kurt Vonnegut territory and neither was the affluence and the decadence of the Jazz Age after I got lost in Fitzgerald’s achingly beautiful language. I realized that classic literature was relevant today not only from a linguistic perspective-but also from a historical perspective by acting as a record of our past, and chronicling the evolution of language and culture, right from the Aesop Fables to the Grimm’s and Perrault fairytales to this age of Dr. Seuss and beyond. Like species subjected to the Darwinian Theory, languages too either evolve or die and tracing their development is always a fascinating process. The tales of Homer and Aeschylus offer a language suffused with myth, magic and bloodshed. Fast forward to the Elizabethan age, where Shakespeare’s and Marlowe’s repeated allusions to the Greek and Roman myths in their storytelling offered a language still rich in metaphor, bawdy undertones and culturally more empathetic. The English of today, stripped of its archaic Latin-ish complexity and refined to oversimplicity is, like the transition of human beings to Homo sapiens-a wondrous and ever-changing process, whose milestones are engraved in the ink of classic literature. In my high school years, when we first took to seriously analyzing our reading-lists, my teachers introduced me to another vital role of literature mirroring society, and thereby mirroring human nature and all its frailties. By offering a revealing insight to one’s flaws, Shaw and Hugo and countless others provided a chance for the audience to introspect and rectify their own shortcomings and move a step closer towards building a Utopian society for real. In another sense, classic literature engages readers at a subconscious, subterranean level in a way Twitter fiction can never compete with. Be it Hemingway’s deft economical strokes or Maugham’s wry sarcasm, great literature fosters a spirit of empathy in its faithful readers. Thus disseminating classics is not only a physical delight, but a life-altering experience pointing towards self-actualization. Someone said “Great poetry makes things happen”. Similarly, classic literature is a human-like force that pleads to the core of our being, imbued with the

On Page 13: A tableau of classic Dickensian Illustrations On Page 15: The Letter By Arthur M. Hazard (1903)

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cherished power to sink us into despair and lead us back into the path of light, like the protagonists of Milton or Dante’s epics. Thus contemporary literature can never emulate the power wielded by the classics in their pantheon. In fact, contemporary literature can only be critically understood in the context of the classics that preceded it. A close reading of the anti-racist novel, The Help calls forth references from To Kill A Mocking Bird. John Green’s teen angst and alienation begs Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye to begin the discussion. While the success of twenty-first century free verse owes its origins to T.S Eliot’s Prufrock poems and Whitman’s Leaves Of Grass, the contemporary experimental novels are incomplete without the contribution of modernist fiction. The Muse of the contemporary authors who recycle and reinvent the past are in most cases the writers of classics. Children’s literature too is incomplete without a healthy contribution from Carroll, Lewis and Tolkien. It was the classics that converted me to a full-fledged bookworm. From Wind In The Willows, Heidi and The Wizard Of Oz, the appeal of these books is timeless. My mother read them, and preserved them in a trunk as a child, for her daughter to gasp in at the same dog-eared pages and I know my children will do the same, albeit on an ipad. They took us to worlds that the best CGIdrenched 3D movies can never transport us to, opening doorways in our imagination that we never knew existed. Maybe it was to this transfixing, alluring power that Ben Jonson referred to when he said of Shakespeare that he was “not of an age but for all time”. All great literature too, is as immortal and cherished. [CC]

1947 - 2016

Dipan Chakraborty takes a considered dip into the ocean of art, eccentricity and knowledge that comes to define every great artist that has walked this planet; stealing a glance into the world of David Bowie, whose death may have created a vacuum that is not to be filled, but which also makes it the perfect time to look for clues to immortality in a universe of inspired verses.

THE

LAZARUS OF BRIXTON “I'm not a prophet or a stone aged man, just a mortal with potential of a superman. I'm living on.” 10th January, 2016, sometime in the afternoon,

I woke up. An unusual time to wake up I admit and it was made all the more unusual by what followed. A brief browse through social networks while still lazing in bed, found me confronted with the news of the death of David Robert Jones, known to pretty much everybody as David Bowie. So what made this unusual? The fact he was a celebrity? Well, not quite. There’s more to him than that.

A basic internet search tells you David Bowie (8 January 1947 – 10 January 2016) was an English songwriter, singer, record producer, actor and painter. His work in popular music over five decades, particularly the 1970’s era led to him being considered as an innovator by critics and fellow musicians. His impact was enormous, having changed the nature of rock music and frequently, his own approach towards the same. As a person, Bowie was noted for his wit and

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wisdom – you know it just from his sly and sassy remark on being labelled the ‘Chameleon of Rock’, to which he said “Doesn't a chameleon exert tremendous energy to become indistinguishable from its environment?” It is interesting how the sudden death of an influential person in someone’s life can have them revisiting over the course of a few hours or days, how that person touched their life. I found myself thinking of how I discovered Bowie’s music, got curious about him and was eventually won over by him. It’s said that a song can become ‘yours’ if you can find yourself in it - be it in a line it contains, a scenario it explores or even a feeling you get from hearing it. By this logic, a few Bowie songs have the potential to trigger memories of certain moments in my life. The first song to strike me was the Queen and Bowie collaboration ‘Under Pressure’. As a child, one doesn’t initially comprehend how the world is going downhill with the ubiquitous need to be successful, popular and living to expectations leaving little room for failure and divergence in modern

society. The song depicts how growing up, one faces a moment of initial terror upon realizing the world is far less accepting and open than is made out to be. People use the term ‘love’ as being the answer to the problems of the world but I found Bowie’s argument that people are usually too selfish or selfless in their love to care about the people of the world to really hit the mark with its naked realism. Yet, he ultimately concurs that love, along with higher perceptions with regard to us and each other, is possibly the way forward. During the climax of the film ‘The Perks of being a Wallflower’, we see one of the central characters reminiscing about how she discovered ‘The Tunnel Song’, a song she claims makes a person feel ‘infinite’. It did just that for me – made me feel alive and in the moment. I was overwhelmed and the ‘tunnel’ visuals in the film only bolstered the experience. ‘The Tunnel Song’ is ‘“Heroes”’ by David Bowie. Here I pose some questions: Have you ever fallen in love? A love which was never to be? Then looked back on the precise moment you became enamoured with the other? Then this song is likely to move you, in ways similar to my own.

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‘“Heroes”’ is primarily a reflective fantasy about two doomed lovers whose desire for happiness and love keeps them defying all odds in order to be together – just for a day. Elsewhere, the narrative allows for brief instances where reality breaches the walls of fantasy and one questions whether the love described is forbidden love, perhaps hinting at Bowie’s own experiences as a bisexual man at that time. In the end, Bowie implies that the lovers weren’t suited to each other. Echoing Robert Browning, he however requests ‘the one day’ leaving the listener to ponder over whether it’s the right action to take. The aforementioned songs urged me to seek out more of his music. As I made my way through the Bowie canon, it became increasingly apparent to me that the songs I gravitated towards tended to explore rather personal feelings, provided apt social commentary and if not anything else, contained good old story-telling. This didn’t come as a surprise since by Bowie’s admission, he was primarily a writer who wanted to contribute to the culture he was living in and relished the challenge of taking it in interesting directions. His writing finesse is also very apparent on the song ‘Life on Mars?’ which tells the story of a young girl’s disillusionment with reality whilst also painting a variety of surreal images. The song continues to be regarded as a masterpiece.

of control over the direction it’s headed, respectively. In later years, particularly on the song ‘Ashes to Ashes’, Bowie revisits Major Tom and says that he’s a junkie, which throws an entirely new light on ‘Space Oddity’. On further analysis, one can draw a parallel between the narrative and a drug/acid trip. The song can now be interpreted as Major Tom taking drugs of some form, having an out of body experience, traversing on a downward spiral and getting stuck in some sort of drug limbo. Oh, the symbolism!

I find Bowie’s first hit in ‘Space Oddity’ to be another example of his story-telling abilities in songs, boasting of a story which takes on multiple interpretations. It explores the journey of a fictional astronaut named Major Tom and his journey from Earth to space, his feelings upon leaving his vessel to float in space, gazing at the stars which look different and then deciding to not return to Earth. It can be interpreted as a satire on the then British space programme, a metaphor on leaving one’s comfort zone to embrace risks, a subtle take on achieving stardom, giving up on life owing to lack

In 1972, fuelled by his ‘repulsive need to be more than human’, Bowie created his alter-ego Ziggy Stardust, a flamboyant and androgynous rock star. ‘The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars’ is a concept album shedding light on the artificial nature of rock music. The intellectuality, depth and sophistication in the writing still make me feel this to be the seminal Bowie album. It tells the story of Ziggy – from his transformation into a sexually promiscuous, drug abusing rock superstar in ‘Moonage Daydream’ (a song I believe mirrors Bowie’s metamorphosis itself – as if he’s a

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manifestation of his own art), him becoming a messenger for extraterrestrials in “Starman” (arguably the most influential song in his repertoire), to his eventual demise at the hands of the Starmen in ‘Rock ‘n’ Roll Suicide’. Unique and controversial, the character and the album along with a widely acclaimed live performance of the song ‘Starman’ on British television programme Top of the Pops catapulted Bowie to popularity and sold the world on him. Coming back to present day and the time of writing this article, news has spread of how Bowie, in the knowledge of being diagnosed with liver cancer, kept working and intended the recently released album ‘Blackstar’ to be his swansong. With quite a few lines revolving around his impending death, the album serves as a final goodbye to his listeners, acting as further proof of his indomitable spirit and passion towards his craft. I sit here now, struggling to define the man who unlocked the door to a never-ending road and asked one to be as mad as possible, as deviant as imaginable. I ask - Can one define the man who bore testimony to the fact that if one stands for what one strongly believes in, there remains no need to defend oneself? Should one even need to? If you ask me, all I will say on the matter is that the legacy Bowie left behind is a supernova of infinite eccentricities giving birth to a million stars shooting themselves in every possible direction, leaving behind a trail of dust, that will go on to enlighten the lives of those it touches. As I type these last few words, my lasting visual is that of Ziggy claiming his stage once again as he so loved to do, amidst a cheering crowd and spotlights. As he walks to the centre stage, the lights go out, casting a hollow darkness and in that moment - the silence becomes louder than the cheers. Suddenly a spotlight is cast upon the man standing tall, arching his brows and giving away a smile from the corner of his lips...and then...Ziggy plays guitar! I leave you with a Bowie quote which perfectly sums up my feelings towards this moment -

“The truth is, of course, that there is no journey. We are arriving and departing all at the same time.” [CC]

CultureCult Magazine - November 2015

CultureCult Magazine - Winter 2015-16

A column that defends what are generally regarded to be afflictions, plaguing the extant cultural setup. Of course, the magazine does not necessarily subscribe to the views expressed in the article. Remarks/counter criticisms can be mailed to CultureCultin@gmail.com for publication in our next issue.

The many Voices of Intolerance “Opinion” and “Truth” – the coexistence of these

Pothik Bagchi

two words in the same vocabulary largely implies the multiplicity of perceptions that forms the backbone on which to rest what we generally come to term as the ‘truth’ – often tipping the real thing to the larger vat of ‘collected opinions’. This seemingly unfair fate of what is the ‘absolute truth’ in respective eyes isn’t easy for many to accept who are driven by deep-seated conviction after they become aware of what they will eventually come to regard as the ‘truth’.

le e ran c

Convictions being a byword for belief, it is confounding to note how ‘personal’ awareness can transform into rabid dogmatism, after being inculcated into the usual ‘kingdom of belief’.

The queer feature of dogmatism is that it tends to feed itself off a sense of ‘collective’ belief. The worst dogmas cannot be content to merely occupy a pride of place in the heart of the one person with the concerned opinion. It has a morbid need to reinforce itself in times of doubt, owing to the shabby construction job that goes into creating the ruse of ‘truth’ in the

CultureCult Magazine - Winter 2015-16

Left: A negative propaganda poster from a Facebook ‘page’ equating present Indian Prime Minister Narendra Modi’s regime to the Nazi Empire. The Hindu religious symbol for ‘Om’ has been fused With the Naxi Swastika, another ancient Hindu symbol.

Right: Comedian Kiku Sharda was arrested for mimicking a self-styled religious guru

first place. The belief itches to spread its wings and demark a ‘kingdom’ for itself – the proverbial ‘kingdom of faith’. Faith, when it comes to matters of God/s and religion/s (as seen in cases of faith in apparently sound systems of thought) can spiritually elevate a person towards being a better individual – an objective ingrained in the very core of most religious beliefs and guiding philosophies. They are yet a far shot from being systems impervious to pitfalls. The people in control at the top of the pyramids that are these systems, are often drenched in the sweet nectar of measurable influence that they hold over the people beneath them in the arrangement. It is not the venerated Lord/s or the divine words inscribed in memories or ‘holy books’ (which are quite often open to any interpretation) – it is the collective thirst of a power hungry panel of thinkers who twist human spirituality and turn it into a misguided ‘cause’. They would often master the art of oratory to brainwash gullible human beings at the altar of faith who are confounded by the sheer

disparity in the number of questions floating around in the universe to the few answers that can be unlocked at once. Since time immemorial, religion and/or philosophy has been abused for the sake of wielding power and territorial expansion. At their worst, they have been termed ‘anarchy’, ‘religious autocracy’ and in case of India at present, a ‘democracy in disarray’. This state of confusion has, naturally enough, given rise to a multiplicity of voices that are all speaking in unison but speaking things that are diametrically opposite to each others’ – turning voices into instruments of chaos – burying the very notions of ‘civilized discourse’ beneath a pile of rubble. These voices, whether Marxist or Democratic, whether Muslim or Hindu, whether far right or liberal left, are all speaking in unison to try and turn the scale on their favour – accusing each other of intolerance while basking in the seemingly innocent self-declaration of being ‘right’.

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Anupam Kher

Paresh Rawal

Human beings, as a race, are yet to learn to influence without conquering first. Their assertion of strength is irretrievable from the clutches of subjugation, which becomes their very cursor of power. In a day and age when the internet has become a playground for bullies and laws are twisted in interpretation so as to silence the drowning voices of reason, the propagators of absolute intolerance bordering on violence, whichever camp that they may belong to, are nothing but agents of humanity’s primitive power play. There are but only a few alternatives in such situations. One is to drive headlong into this ‘free-for-all’ by signing up with one of the aforementioned ‘camps’. All one needs to do after that is become intolerant in due course of time to (ironically) defend the cardinal truth of a ‘functioning’ democracy – the acknowledgement of multiple voices. The saner thing, of course, is to ignore. To ignore is to elevate oneself to a plane of silence that is unfathomable for most. For others, however, silence is where one eventually finds the light of the ever-evasive ‘truth’. [CC]

Aamir Khan

Shah Rukh Khan

The extensive, nationwide debate on ‘intolerance’ has not spared the popular, mainstream personalities from Bollywood who have chosen to speak out on the topic from time to time, inviting the wrath of each other, those in politics and media as well as the common people who have not been shy about voicing their opinions in various ways.

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or scientific circumstances that lend an aura of fortune-telling to the work. A zone of uneasiness opens when zealous admirers begin to link creative literature to astounding feats of “prophesy.” These claims are better understood as extensions of fanclub hyperbole than mystical messages emanating between pages. Neither interpretation does the art nor the author credit. The facts compiled regarding the lives and views of such “prophetic” writers dismiss new-age nonsense with unequivocal dispatch. Huxley and Orwell were already respected writers before major success entered their lives. They had no reputation for hucksterism of any kind or much regard for organized religion and spiritual matters. These were simply men of tremendous talent and conscience deeply concerned about the world’s state of affairs. I declare that any prescience emerging from their work is derived from natural creativity and honest investigation. The very thought of some vainglorious attempt at stargazing should be put to rest. It serves only to devalue their intentions and mythologicalize manuscripts whose sole purpose is to cause reflection upon an often-cruel world. The superstitious among us may rest safely in the knowledge that history records no dictator ever able to see into the

The year was 1932 and Aldous Huxley, a British writer, released a futuristic novel entitled Brave New World. In it he describes a dictatorship that maintains supreme control over society through sinister means involving genetic and pharmaceutical manipulation. Coined a “satirical novel,” of which Huxley did write a few, Brave New World became a critical success and was praised for its unique imagination. No one, including the author, truly realized how close to reality a great many of the book’s technological devices and developments would come. Their eerie reverberations are still felt eight decades later. “Visionary writing,” a label best suited to ecclesiastical subject matter, is uncomfortably attached to books such as Huxley’s Brave New World and Orwell’s 1984, primarily due to future historical and/

future. Their predictions are forever bound to be products of predatory self-interest; not special insight. If forces in the universe exist to grant temporary glimpses into the future, those revelations seem to be restricted to people of good will. THE DICTATORSHIP established in Brave New World is uniquely original in the annals of politically inspired fiction. The average thinker assumes fascism must punish and deprive in order to successfully control its population. It’s a fair wager that Huxley understood this and sought to create a new fascism that stripped humanity of its freedom by allowing it to indulge in formerly forbidden vices. The foundation for this brave new world was based upon first genetic manipulation. Test-tube fetuses were selected and altered into genetic castes programmed for specific societal duties. Three groups were developed: Betas, Alphas, and Alpha-Pluses. This biologically predestined process guaranteed society had adequate supplies of upper, middle, and lower class specimens. The second ‘foundational’ fascist

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evsky masses are aware of the opposite; forced to choose between the two. The Huxley masses were tampered with before they even left the womb. They have truly been robbed of any choice; their intoxication is artificial whereas the Dostoevsky masses are drunk with the necessities of life provided by the State. Dostoevsky could not have imagined, as Huxley did, the creation of a perfect fascism through scientific technology: a future society of babes born without choice and given drugs to eliminate any remaining curiosity.

principle was daily conditioning of the groups through sleep teaching, gratuitous entertainment, and doses of soma, a drug that produced thoughtless joy. Huxley obviously possessed a keen understanding of human psychology. For humans naturally assume freedom is pleasurable thus never question the illusion of freedom carefully orchestrated in the brave new world. It’s also important to note my disagreement with lazy commentators who casually write off Brave New World as merely a sophisticated stepchild of Dostoevsky’s “bread and circuses” philosophy. This poor analysis neglects core social truths Huxley has played upon. Dostoevsky’s scenario is an either-or situation wholly dependent upon the masses accepting gross restrictions of their liberty for decent supplies of food and frolic. The Dosto-

Science had not made any serious technological leap since the airplane in 1932. Einstein’s theories were found interesting but not applied until nearly a decade and a half later. So it should surprise no one why critics found Brave New World to be unique and interesting, as if they were reviewing a new breed of science fiction novel. In 1932, humanity had nothing to fear regarding Huxley’s freedomless brave new world. In 1958, Huxley followed up with ‘Brave New World Revisited’, a short but powerful collection of essays that examined his fictional brave new world through the eyes of real-world 1958 technology. Twenty-six years later in his Revisited collection Huxley’s ideas were beginning to be taken very seriously. His concepts of sleep teaching were all the commercial rage in the 1950s. Phonographs with pillow speakers played records purported to teach people how to be successful, speak a foreign language, etc. LSD trials were common in testing human reactions to this mind-altering drug. A new field called “psycho-pharmacology” exploded throughout laboratories promising the eager public ‘elixirs’ to cure depression, madness, and so forth. His cursory but informative examination of Hitler’s propaganda tactics convinced many of the horrible future role technology will forever play in a dictator’s quest for power. Brave New World’s notion of genetic manipulation was not lost upon a Nazi scientific community that regularly experimented upon prisoners in the immoral pursuit of perfecting a “master race.” Those notions don’t cause a chuckle today, eight decades later, when test-tube babies are as common as chicken soup. BY REVISITING the Brave New World with a book of non-fiction essays, Huxley forced his readers to look beyond the fiction and into the realm of definite

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possibility. He aptly described world ills that still plague us today such as overpopulation, pollution, and poor education, and pointed out these grave problems could be potential catalysts for ‘brave new world’ implementation of evil technological methods promoted to “improve” the planet. In various regards Brave New World Revisited did much to provide the world with keen insights and vital information intelligently laid out to help restore individuality. Huxley felt the erosion of individuality was the first warning sign of a coming dictatorship. His criticism of democracy and its commercial propaganda hubs of television and radio accurately points out what today’s average citizen feels when sampling the news and commercials—wondering what has been left out. While acknowledging their economic usefulness in promoting products that keep the masses employed, Huxley warns us not to bet on the proverbial ‘farm’ upon messages purposely drawn up to reach the common denominator. The super-rich commercial corporations have great influence in democracies; thus it is not always in their best interests to admit error, truth, or manipulative pacts with a government designed to be peoplerepresented. The novel Brave New World packed with colorful methods of the gluttony of pleasure has its literary polar opposite in the 1949 novel 1984. George Orwell, its author, felt it necessary to approach the dictatorial society in the traditional form taken throughout the centuries, which almost always involves ruthless control by means of strict curtailment of liberties and various forms of punishment. I briefly touched upon how Huxley’s world created the illusion of freedom as its road to total control. In the most ironic of terms Huxley’s world is the more positive of the dictatorship management styles. Excessive pleasure is pumped daily in the lives of the population overriding any sense of thought, discontent, or dissent. The masses are distracted by feel-good processes. Like animals born in a zoo they soon become accustomed to their surroundings and do not fear handling. This society though a scientific pseudo-Garden of Eden, devoid of free choice, is not as terrible as dictatorships come. George Orwell’s Oceania in his novel 1984 marches the ugliest face of fascism down the sentimental streets of unprepared readers. Oce-

ania is a super-modern police state most secure when its population is the least secure. It enforces this universal insecurity through psychological and sexual tension. Thoughts against policy or about sex are crimes punishable by torture and re-education. Information is tightly controlled and consistently revised to fit the most current mood of the State. The population is on an eternal war footing with two other continent-states on the planet. Food is severely rationed, and universally installed twoway video screens watch the movements of the people. The differences between Brave New World and 1984 are too numerous to describe in detail. BUT A FEW significant ones stand out to expound upon: Brave New World’s fascism relies upon internal manipulation through technology while 1984’s is clearly an external use of technology that merely aids in mass suppression. Brave New World is a scientific-based police state that requires no police. The people have been converted into their own watchdogs. 1984 is a classic political police state wrought with spies honeycombing society, cameras watching daily and enemies in need of extermination. The leadership in Brave New World depends upon empty-headed smiling people in order to maintain their control. The leadership of Oceania must exercise brutal iron-fisted punishments and propaganda to instill fear in the masses to maintain control. In simple-minded political parlance it may be accurate to label 1984 as right wing in nature and Brave New World as left wing. Extreme examples in both cases; yet their outcomes are essentially the same. THOUGH entirely different philosophies, Huxley and Orwell operating their fictional fascist states arrive at vital fundamental factors in the human condition: pain and pleasure, the duality of stimuli running its course through our lives. Call it what you may—night/day, right/wrong, good/evil, love/ hate—these competing forces are at the very heart of humanity. A humanity that tries ever so hard to reach godlike status by designing technology capable of great pleasure or destruction. The deep strain of vanity, one of our myriad collective character flaws, seems intent on abolishing one or the other of the duality. In the foolish hope that singularity, be it political, racial, or scientific may yet be the key to world domination. This tragic error continues in parts of the world today. Idiotic

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dictators reign terror upon the innocent, ignore history, and somehow expect eternal victory. Mankind is aware of how easily police states are able to break the human body; yet breaking the human spirit is a far more difficult task. Huxley understood that tomorrow’s builders of Utopia could extinguish free will at the fetal stage. Persons born through such a process are nonpersons to be used and thrown away like a disposable diaper. They learn what they “need-to-know” to complete a menial, possibly dangerous task. By utilization of super advanced reproductive technology the fascist State does not need to proclaim itself God, Supreme Ruler, or High Royalty—it shall become a Parent; imbuing a far deadlier meaning to the term, child abuse, than has ever been known. The Future belongs to the Youth. Or does it? [CC]

Aldous Huxley

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FEATURE

TELEVISION Charting the evolution of the idiot box may be an idiotic endeavour in itself. And yet, braveheart

Sundar Raghav embarks upon tracing the threads that may very well be in the process of weaving the onset of a â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;simpler-to-conceiveâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; future that will play host to an uncharacteristically smart TV

Back in the middle years of the previous century, the mode of popular, private entertainment that began to eat its way into the pantheon of human leisure had been a little thing called ‘television’. The ills and ails of the medium have been a focus of discussion even as sweeping terms such as the ‘idiot box’ or the trusted consort of the proverbial ‘couch potato’ failed to deter its popularity and keep it from drawing rooms across the globe. A victim of rampant exploitation it has certainly been – several times more abused than any other medium of ‘art’ that has preceded its coming. Giving birth to the chaotic vagaries of advertising bent on earning the ‘quick buck’, desensitizing generations to mindless drivel via soaps or skewered depictions of reality, even neutralizing the magical allure of the silver screen – its crimes have been as true and as many as its virtues. Television has been a tough nut to crack for many who have excelled and set gold standards in cinema or theatre. Yet, for more than form or content, it has been the ‘dumbed down’ culture of popular TV, amenable to the diktats of advertisers and a shady ‘ratings’ system, that has resulted in television being a haven of mediocrity. It may be true that even in a sea of insignificance,

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one can easily spot a ‘Game of Thrones’ or a nifty ‘Modern Family’ among the millions of cloned copies of ‘Keeping up with the Kardashians’. Nor can one deny the surfacing of ‘cult classics’ – critically acclaimed gems, shut down post a season or two thanks to a decision solely by numbers. Numbers do not lie, they claim, and the little truth that they do propagate is that of an unfair assumption, where success is too often its popularity index, diluting or putting in jeopardy the very possibility of the niche and space for something that would go on to be an ‘acquired taste’. The emergence of the uber-digital age, where many has come to regard the computer as a one-stop for all of one’s entertainment requirements, threw up a surprising alternative to television viewing as audiences have come to know it for decades. The inception and subsequent popularity of streaming services for network TV shows not only sent the entire ratings system into complete disarray but also created a virtual platform for shows that could nigh get produced thanks to business decisions that are neither sound on paper nor in private. These shows, the majority of which has been commissioned by either of the two streaming giants in the business – Netflix or Amazon video, vary tremendously as far as their subject matter is concerned. While there have been critically lauded and awarded, sensitive comedies such as ‘Transparent’ (featuring the brilliant Jeffrey Tambor) & ‘Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt’ (co-created by Tina Fey), there is also space for an alternative take on post World War II history that re-imagines the fate of the world where the axis powers have won the war (‘The Man in the High Castle’, based on the Philip K. Dick novel of the same name) and a saga of power play in the highest echelons of the American government – the Kevin Spacey-starrer ‘House of Cards’. Progressive studios such as ‘Marvel’ has already recognized the potency of handing over the reins

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of episodic viewing to the final viewers instead of whimsical networks and their schedules, choosing to test the waters by releasing two highly anticipated and acclaimed shows via Netflix – ‘Daredevil’ and ‘Jessica Jones’, while Amazon has succeeded in pulling off a coup of sorts – convincing veteran auteur Woody Allen to take the first step into the world of episodic storytelling.

A painstakingly constructed glimpse into an alternate history of North America in a world where the Axis powers have defeated the Allied forces in World War II

Not only did Jeffrey Tambor’s transgender act fetch him both the Golden Globe and the Emmy, the show was the first, produced by any streaming service, to win Best Series at the Golden Globe Awards.

Resuscitation of cult but cancelled shows such as and went a long way in defining the role of streaming services.

Whereas Mr. Allen’s vocal concerns and nearly neurotic criticism of his own work reemphasizes the notion that smarter intellect does not necessarily measure up to the consistent pressure of television which calls for necessary ‘compromises’ on several planes, it can be said without much room for debate that ‘content for television’ supplied via the internet has put an ultimatum in the court of the big networks, whose employ of simple mathematics when it comes to artistic decisions has signaled the premature demise of countless potential works of higher art. A disturbing fact remains that such tyranny of network TV is not restricted to the US alone and exists in nearly every part of the globe, including India. Even though YouTube has inculcated the habit of ‘streaming’ in erstwhile tele-addicts in this part of the world, one is yet to see the emergence of a service dedicated to tread the unbeaten path such as Netflix, Amazon or Yahoo! has done on the other side of the world. The Star Network’s presence on the internet – ‘Hotstar’ being an extension of the network’s extant policies rather than a revelation, and the fact that Netflix’s recent entry into India is presently restricted to the bouquet of its existing shows sans quality local content, means that the pie that may very well be Television 2.0 is up for grabs for the next bright era of executive decisions and entertainment par excellence. [CC]

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Marleen S. Barr iterates how U.S. Presidential aspirant, billionaire businessman Donald Trump sounds eerily like a cast member of The Real Housewives of New York City

Jeb Bush’s campaign ad’s overarching accusation, though is that Mr. Trump is from New York. Within the span of one minute and 21 seconds we are reminded of where he comes from three times, his provenance presumably his greatest sin. The next time someone asks Donald Trump if he is a real Republican, he might answer, ‘Of course I am. Don’t you know where I live?’—Ginia Bellafante, “G. O. P. Can’t Stop Thinking About Gomorrah,” New York Times, September 6, 2015, 1,6.

Bravo’s Andy Cohen used his appearance on Real Time with Bill Maher on Friday night [November 20, 2015] to discuss politics, and ended up comparing the candidates to stars of The Real Housewives. This was, surprisingly, a pretty good way of

explaining what’s happening. . . . Here’s how Andy Cohen explained Trump: “I’ve been watching Donald Trump—who came, obviously, from a reality show. He reminds me of a first-season Orange County housewife. I know you may not be familiar with the show, but he really does. Because: They have delusions about their place in the world. They will say anything—they will say any damn thing and there aren’t always repercussions. . . . Considering that the media can’t figure out how to deal with Trump when he says irrational, untrue things, maybe thinking of him as a House-

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Left: Trump’s finest moment in World Wrestling Entertainment Shaving the head of WWE boss Vincent McMahon as wrestler Bobby Lashley helps. Down: Donald Trump’s Induction card into WWE Hall of Fame

wives star might make that interaction easier?— Andy Dehnart, “Andy Cohen’s Surprisingly Astute Real housewives-Candidate Analogies,” Reality Blurred, November 23, 2015, http://www.realityblurred.com/realitytv/2015/11/ andy-cohen-housewives-presidential-candidates-debates/

“I’m not a housewife but I am real,” proclaims Bethenny Frankel during the opening segment of The Real Housewives of New York City. She signals that “housewife” has lost its denotative meaning. Frankel, a divorced highly successful entrepreneur, is categorized as a “real housewife.” Six of the eight New York “housewives” are either widowed or divorced. The two married cast members work outside the home. All of the “real” New York “housewives” are really not housewives. To add further lack of clarity to “real housewife of New York City,” I wish to apply this term to a particular man: Donald Trump. New York Times critic James Poniewozik positions Trump in terms of Survivor, The Bachelor, and The Apprentice (“Trump’s Campaign Classroom: Reality TV,” New York Times, October 10, 2015, C1, C5). It is important to add The Real Housewives of

New York City to Poniewozik’s reality show list. Trump’s “attention to surface appearances” and his “idea of wealth that was brazen and crass” (Poniewozik C5) smacks of the New York Housewives. He causes “real housewife” to become

synonymous with “real Republican” presidential race candidate. Trump is bringing New York style verbiage to presidential politics. Unlike polite and controversy avoiding real politicians, Trump, true to his outer borough roots, says exactly what he thinks about everyone and everything. Using a lower tone male voice register, he echoes Frankel’s quick witted directness. Trump is the ninth “real housewife” of New York. Michael Newman, a City University of New York linguistics professor, notes that Bernie Sanders and Trump’s “similarity is how they talk. Not what they say, but how they sound: Like they’re from New York” (“Voters May Just Want to ‘Tawk,’” New York Times, October 5, 2015, A23). Like Poniewozik, Newman also misses the point. Trump, in addition to speaking like a New Yorker, is using New York female speak; he mouths political discourse which adheres to the worst characteristics of stereotypically feminine conversation. His emphasis upon the catty and the back biting is girl talk—Joan Rivers’ “can we talk.” No hormone popping Caitlyn Jenner, Trump has transitioned to female speak, a language which differs from conservative Republican science reality denying double speak. Georgetown Univer-

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sity linguistics professor Deborah Tannen, in You Just Don’t Understand: Women and Men In Conversation, explains that women and men speak differently. Not so for Trump who talks like a New York “real housewife.” Bethenny, who does not reach the rhetorical heights of, say, Mario Cuomo, would certainly say something to the tune of Trump’s opinion that Carly Fiorina is too ugly to be President. Trump’s “[l]ook at that face! Would anyone vote for that? Can you imagine that, the face of our next president” sounds just like it emanates from Bethenny’s direct New York female mouth. Real Housewife cast members dress well, live well--and argue well while engaged in endless trivial verbal pursuits. Trump acts in kind. This similarity holds true for what he sells as well as what he says. Like Trump, Housewife cast members Sonja Morgan, Kristen Taekman, and Heather Thomsonhave clothing and accessory lines. Clothing and accessories are not the interests of real he men. Echoing the latest spat between “housewives,” Trump specializes in banality. His response after Megyn Kelly asked him why he has called women he doesn’t like “’fat pigs,’ ‘dogs,’ ‘slobs,’ and ‘disgusting animals’”: “Only Rosie O’Donnell.” He translates a serious charge into gossip girl speak. He spews trivial invective instead of focusing upon important issues. Trump’s version of The Real Housewives’ opening self-descriptive sound bites: “Make America great again.” The “housewives”are known by their first names. The Republican Party front runner is called “The Donald.” “The Franklin” was not an appellation for FDR. Yes, Mrs. Clinton goes by Hillary. Hillary, a presently unemployed

Up: A promotional still for Donald Trump’s appearance on the weekly comedy show Saturday Night Live On Page 38: A promotional still from Trump’s presidential bid for 2016 On Page 39: A typical still from Trump’s very own reality show ‘The Apprentice’ that went on to make him a Reality TV personality.

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married woman, is a more real housewife of New York than Bethenny and her seven compatriots. Hillary does have viable future employment potential, though. Hillary, unlike Trump, is a real politician from New York. Reality television is now ensconced in American culture to the extent that a front runner presidential candidate metaphorically cast as a male “real housewife” is as American as apple pie. Trump’s feminine reality television sodden speaking style is perhaps useful. His unreal “real housewife” stance deflects attention from the garden variety Republican candidates’usual departure from the reality community. When Trump says that Megyn Kelly had “blood coming out of her wherever,” he at least is not denying scientific fact or trying to establish a Fundamentalist theocracy. Instead of saying something presidentially profound such as “ask not what your country can do for you,” Trump speaks in terms of Eve Ensler’s The Vagina Monologues. No harm is done when Trump proclaims that Heidi Klum is no longer a “10.” He explains that he knows about the military because he watches generals speak on CNN; Bill Clinton and Obama also lack military experience.

More power to this self-obsessed blow hard who is taking the wind out of Republican candidates’ sails. The Donald has saved us from The Jeb. Successful business man—and New York ”real housewife”-Trump deflects attention from deleterious Republican business as usual. Trump is no John Kennedy. But John Kennedy hails from a bygone era. Turn on the applause sign if Trumps’ trivial “real housewife-esque” diatribes relegate Jeb to past history, then turn on the applause sign. Trump becomes a new thing under the politicalsun by casting himself as a male who speaks fluent ”real housewife” language. A presidential race frontrunner who expresses himself in the manner of a Bravo network star is concomitant with present American media reality. If Trump’s political candidacy newness--his feminized male “real housewife”language--results in Hillary becoming the first real female President of the United States, then bravo The Donald. During The Real Housewives’ reunion show (August 18, 2015,) Dorinda Medley said that Hillary’s campaign called to say that Hillary enjoys watching Dorinda. Perhaps Dorinda enjoyed watching Hillary

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appear on Saturday Night Live (October 3, 2015). A very large audience had the opportunity to watch Trump host the show (November 7, 2015). Efforts to mimic Jewish New York speak—to echo, say, Bethenny Frankel--pervaded the telecast. Kate McKinnon, when imitating Hillary, said, “I also love New York with their ah bagels and their lox as I could never forget about it.” Shiksa incarnate McKinnon as a linguistic stand-in for someone who sounds like Bethenny? Forget about it. Host Trump spoke in the manner of McKinnon/ Hillary’s Jewish New York cadence wannabe. His response to the appearance of the second Trump imitator to appear on stage: “Oy yui look at this.” And his response to Larry David yelling “you’re a racist”: “Who the hell is oy I knew this was going to happen. Who is that?” Despite the fact that his non-Jewish inflected “oy” emanates from a native New York mouth, it goes over as well as a led balloon—or a frozen bagel. Trump the male Real Housewife linguistic clone is no Larry David. His comedic command is not huge enough to equal the uproarious impact of David’s impersonation of Bernie Sanders. David/Sanders, after explaining that the United States’ infrastructure needs to be fixed and it is too dangerous to drive over bridges and through tunnels, says, “I keep a kayak strapped to the top of my car. Whenever I get to a bridge, I park, abandon my car, and paddle to the other side. So if you ever see a soaking wet man pulling a kayak out of a river and screaming about bridges give him a hand because he’s ya next president.” Outsider candidate Trump cannot speak as far outside of usual presidential tone as David/Sanders. David’s comedic trumping of Trump underscores that Donald is no comedian. Donald is also no politician. While playing himself in the Saturday Night Live skit called “White House 2018,” he enacts a science fiction scenario which is as unreal as The Real Housewives. The skit portrays a Trumpian utopia in which the President of Mexico hands President Trump a check for the wall. Secretary of the Interior Ivanka Trump (played by herself) revamps the Washington Monument using a golden glass façade. The future truth of a Trump presidency would be more dystopic.

In Language and Neoliberalism Dublin City University Professor Marnie Holborow discusses the “commodification of language” which describes how the ideology of the marketplace finds expression in language. A Trump presidency, the ascendancy of the un-politician who sounds like a “Real Housewife,” would signal the new age of unprofessional commodification. In other words, President Trump would travel in an Uber limousine and the Trump White House’s rooms would be for sale on Airbnb. Bethenny and her colleagues could head out to Washington and hang out with the Trump family while fighting over which White House room they will rent. Hopefully “White House 2018” will fail to become Trump’s dream come true. Perhaps the American public will fail to buy the vacuous Real Housewife speak commodification of language he is selling. Live from “New Yawk”--it’s The Donald as real male housewife. Or, in David/Sanders’ true New YorkJewishundulcet tone: “Live from New York, eh you get it.” [CC]

2016 www.CultureCult.in/CultWords-Press

POETRY SHORT STORY SERIAL TRANSLATION Literature

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POETRY

Artwork: Suhas Krishna

Three Pieces Kushal Poddar

Folding Objects into some other Objects Maker folds a paper house. Lantern. Birds. Soft moon-glow door. And I, callow in origami, fold my mind into a crumple. A child may find a form there, but she is the maker.

Unequal Music Inside a small room, one in his skull, he plays the tune they used to love, and he moves his tenement when I build a town of grief. She is dead, I say. Shush yourself, he says, we are slow-dancing.

In Front of The Fire Winter Lit Yesterday I strolled home, my hands wrapping my being, darkness fresh on everything, lean moon, traffic, and I thought about you. How are you at the advent of winter etc. And then walked some more thinking nothing.

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POETRY

Andante

Lucubrations Brandon Marlon

Trivarna Hariharan

Nightfall dispels the shrill trill of day

silence. 1. we don't talk to each from across the room. you call it a habit but I don't think it's that.

2. You had once insisted we did away with the barricades that partitioned the room into two. There are none now. But we feel claustrophobic, still.

3. The silent metronomes of our hearts sound familiar. Perhaps it's raining outside.

4. I open the windows to let the breeze pour in. I can't hear you over the phone. You're talking too loud.

5. Silence subsides, but only outside. The breeze has turned into a wind. That's all. Artwork: Jagannath Chakravarti

along with its niggling concerns; now the stars glister and throb overhead, startling the distracted sopped in uncertainty from unworthy preoccupations till even hardened recusants turn querists, second-guessing beloved tenets, wandering the wings in the gallery of memory, contemplating the cosmos as bricolage. Dazzled by the bedizened firmament's fallal, we sorely lament abortive endeavors and regret miscellanea, suddenly in dread of nothing but time, universal adversary, nourishing tombs with mortal remains.

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POETRY

Walk in the Woods Andrew Scott

I am facing, hearing the gargoyles of fright, guardians of the silent forest perched on each tree. The sights and sounds of walking the woods at night Blind here. Dark emotions have taken all of my sight. Turning my mind into anger that I do not like to be, I am facing, hearing the gargoyles of fright. Hands are sore from holding tight, clinched, readying for what mystery here that will approach me. The sights and sounds of walking the woods at night. Hear hissing. Why are these tunnels not bright? Shakes of nervous sweat is what now binds me. I am facing, hearing the gargoyles of fright. Screams in my head, cutting through with a piercing knife, locked doors busting with a hurt possibility. The sights and sounds of walking the woods at night. Cannot stop my skin from shaking, Wish the end of branches would stop touching, whispering. The sights and sounds of walking the woods at night. I am facing, hearing the gargoyles of fright. Artwork: Jagannath Chakravarti

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POETRY

he’s at the bar every day, drink in hand hard-wired, programmed to be the life of the party 6’-5 all chrome, titanium he has such magnetism to so many people especially the women on his arm one gal pulls his lever one hundred dollar bills fly out of his mouth another lady turns his knob his eyes roll like a slot machine and flash that night’s winning lottery number he unscrews his finger pours everyone a shot then hits the dance floor he’s doing “the robot” down a “Soul Train line.” while they chant, “Go Robot Go,” his moves are smooth, well-oiled with a snap of his fingers the music goes static all movements freeze tired of the rock classics he twists his wrist the music switches to Industrial, Aggrotech the dancing resumes with The Robot in the middle he effects a break dance head spin an act of art and science the vortex he’s creates throws people off their feet and flings debris the spinning increases, momentum swells everyone grabs hold as the floor breaks open he makes a spiral decent like a giant cork screw through butter when the bar settles, and people gather them Artwork: Jagannath Chakravarti

The Robot Nick Romeo

they realize The Robot has disappeared then the women cry, “Where is our sexy machine” several theories regarding his whereabouts exist: 1. he hit an aquifer and rusted 2. he entered a wormhole and transported to an unknown dimension 3. this was all a setup to enter the “witness protection program” 4. he went to China nevertheless he will be missed by many friends and fans each year the bar holds a vigil they light candles, retell stories, and have live bands this festival lasts several weeks the bar adopted his image as their brand t-shirts and beer steins are for sale in the gift shop and online an annual “Miss Robot Pageant” is held after the bikini paint ball competition the champion is crowned and given the sought after embroidered sash the proceeds go to The Robot Foundation for inventions to benefit humanity such as, sound activated lingerie with LEDs

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POETRY

Without Sin Steve Werkmeister

They put the question as a test, hoping to frame a charge against him. Jesus bent down and wrote with his finger on the ground.

You hope for a man with a strong arm

and a good aim. One well-placed rock will take you to the dark, then you ride it away, like just-drunk-enough sex. Even a gaggle of gimps, though, sun in their eyes, will only take a few minutes. We’ve all seen it. If you love her, it might seem to last hours, but then you’re surprised to find the bread still warm on the table when you get back. A few minutes, a fall, oblivion. You’re free. What you don’t expect is a messiah playing in the dirt, but you know Pharisees. If they get a chance to score a point, they take it. God knows they don’t want to do anything useful like setting hands to plow or stacking bricks into actual walls. And this new one, this sideshow refugee squatting in the dust— I’m looking closely to see if there’s a dent in his head, but worse, he’s doing the calculus of morality. And out he comes with it, Let he who is without sin, etc. And freedom pops like a bubble on the surface of a spring. You think you’re doing me a favor? I’m not an idiot. It wasn’t love, but it was a break. He was nice to me, and sometimes for awhile is all you’re gonna get. He wasn’t going to save me, but he wasn’t going to beat me, either, or spit my food on the floor or piss himself in bed after coming home from the wine and the whores. This is my life. This is my life. Blood and scrub and bruise and bruise and blood and scrub. This is my life, and you really think it’s stones I’m afraid of?

Artwork: Suhas Krishna

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SHORT STORY

Formals & Fingers Margaret Elysia Garcia

We borrowed Cathy’s mom’s Dodge Dart and my grandmother’s Broadway credit card and headed to the mall afterschool to buy junior league formals. Half-way down the boulevard, the sky boom cracked, exploded like an earthquake shaking us or a bomb going off. “What the hell? You think that’s an earthquake?”, Cathy yelled and looked in the rear view, the side mirrors and out the driver’s window all at once. She fluffed up her hair in the rear view till her bangs felt high enough and frowned at the ring of coloured mousse on her white collar. It didn’t feel like an earthquake to me. They rumble quickly and set off sirens on used cars that no one wants to steal. “It sounds more like a bomb,” I offered. “Okay, army brat. Everything is always bombs with you.” Whatever. I knew the difference. When a bomb goes off you are startled and silenced by its horrific beauty, its sound barrier boom that comes on at once and goes away just as fast. You are left with fire and orange and then the gray smoke of aftermath. “But it probably is.” “Well, Mariesella, I’m FROM here.” I was from here too. But I was also from everywhere not there too. Nobody at school seemed to get that. I know in earthquakes that the sky goes silent and the birds leave and that everyone prays it won’t be the big one. Cathy drove on and we started to hear people

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screaming, so I turned up the radio louder and we sang along to Duran Duran’s Wild Boys and I told her how Nick Taylor was going to be mine someday. The air started to get smoky as we passed Alondra. On the boulevard in front of us were bloody clumps, like a run down rodent but fleshy like human skin and no tire marks. “Oh my god,” Cathy said, “what is on the windshield of that truck? “Oh gross. Oh god. It’s someone’s shoe ---with part of their leg and foot still in it.” “Ewwww!” We said in unison. Cathy ejected the Duran Duran tape and started fiddling with the radio to get a news station on. But I put the tape back in. “We gotta find out what happened, weirdo!” Cathy said ejecting the tape again. “WE gotta get dresses in the next few days or forget about the dance.” Cathy stuck the tape back in and played it loud. We sang along to Girls on Film. Only a mile from the mall and it had rained fingers and shoes on the boulevard. We knew those things and yet did not know those things the way we saw them now, so my girlfriend and I just drove on. A house to the side of the boulevard caught fire and there was smoke and I saw sneakers strewn on telephone wire like the kind bullies steal from the weak and string up out of reach. Only there were still feet in them. Sixteen and we turned off the boulevard in the opposite direction of the fire and took side streets away from the sirens. Sixteen and we drove on a parallel street and kept the tape deck with Nick, John, and Simon to keep us company instead of the news. Sixteen and we kept the windows rolled up so as not to smell that eerie new smell of ill-prepared meat loaded on a grill and burned plastic. Ash. Electrical wire. Parts of the boulevard were roped off now as well as some side streets. We drove passed the auto dealerships and then parked in front of where we knew the Charlotte Russe was on the other side of the high concrete walls of the mall. My formal was to be a pink and silver spaghetti strapped dress that twirled and glittered when I danced. Cathy’s would be a strapless lavender taffeta with dyed matching pumps. We hoped the guys would make an effort to match our dresses and we took business cards from the tuxedo shop to help them with that. “Like, there’s like no one here!” I said. “Great! No one to bug us shopping,” Cathy said. “Total perfect day to shop,” I said. She nodded and pointed to an acid wash mini-skirt with a silver-studded belt . We walked through the mall like we owned the place. Like

“Oh my god,” Cathy said, “what is on the windshield of that truck? “Oh gross. Oh god. It’s someone’s shoe --with part of their leg and foot still in it.” “Ewwww!” We said in unison.

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“Did you guys hear what happened? A private Cessna crashed into an Aeromexico jet. Decapitated the Cessna people!” He said it with that glee that nerds get when they finally get to talk to girls and the girls almost pay attention.

Graphics: Jagannath Chakravarti

when celebrities rent out something for a couple of hours just so they can do it. Like Michael Jackson did with Disneyland. We found a pay phone and called Cathy’s mom after an older saleslady yelled at us. “Don’t you girls know what just happened?” The lady bellowed. We told her mother we were at the other mall across town. We didn’t tell mine anything. In the mall, the stores got emptier and emptier. We stopped for Orange Julius’ and the zit faced boy made them almost too fast and kept trying to talk with us. “Did you guys hear what happened? A private Cessna crashed into an Aeromexico jet. Decapitated the Cessna people!” He said it with that glee that nerds get when they finally get to talk to girls and the girls almost pay attention. We started to wonder if there was another way home. A mall cop said yeah, but it was through a bad neighborhood. There were Mexicans in it. Possibly some black people too. Cathy was half-black and I was halfMexican so we thought we’d take our chances. The billboards took a turn for Spanish. The street corners at the stop lights became full of black boys with white t-shirts and loose pants. We stopped for gas nervous and excited. I stared at the cigarette butts in the gutter while Cathy pumped gas. Men watched us, not high school boys; we felt it. Cathy and I grinned at each other over the hood of her car as she pumped the gas and I went to get the squeegee to wash the windshield. We smiled back at those young men. “We could have any of those guys we wanted,” Cathy whispered to me out the corner of her mouth and I knew she was right. I dipped the squeegee deep into the solution. I pulled back the wipers and stuck out my chest and felt their approval and heard the hmmm…mmmm of them. I breathed in. The air still smelled of orange fire ball and gray ash. Cathy shrieked and pointed to the windshield. She shook her head no and hid her head in her arms so that only her giant bangs seemed to stick out from her head. I heard her gulp and she grabbed paper towels from the dispenser and handed them to me with a look that said you do it. I picked up the finger stuck in the grate with the paper towels and felt through the paper towel to the piece of bone stuck out a bit in the middle. I didn’t look real, none of it did. It had the most beautifully manicured rosy nail. We threw it in the trash. I heard it grip the side of the can like pasta being thrown to see if it’s ready. We shuddered and drove on. [CC]

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POETRY

Bar Haiku Ava Bird

bar patrons request: please respect the drunks please let us smoke and curse you out til tomorrow then we'll practice love and forgiveness recycle recycle

bar flies request: please respect all drunks even if we smoke secondhand on your dress curse you just trying to make sense of the pains from hangovers and fights dance floors and bathrooms just trying to fix the pain just trying to forget about it all please respect all drunks

Graphics: Suhas Krishna

silly bar smiles everywhere piercing laughter bellowing voices foul smells bleach and stale vomit yet that first sip ahh, home at last

crowded bar happy hour getting warm and fuzzy brimming sips smiles games starting

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POETRY

The World The world has grown tired of all the

Two Poems Rollo Nye

spinning. It resents each revolution and has turned winter lose, stopped our preconceived notions in their own tracks, and proclaimed its intention to no longer rain or shine on cue. In fact, it shall go dry or drown us by whim. The world's slave is what you may call its lonely lovers and, consequently, wants us to know that it needs to take a protracted break. Its apparent lack of concern is most probably an indicator of burn out. So you see, the world isn't cruel, just exhausted. The most recent rumor holds that the world has sent out feelers for a business partner, and that is why we are always waiting. Just waiting while it goes through the motions.

Design: Suhas Krishna

Should Have Known Better Before getting married She had heard reports From reliable sources That her fiancĂŠ and His unstable mother Had appeared on A reality TV show In which its star Pretended to talk To his recently departed father Which led to A flood of tears And uncontrollable expressions Of both sorrow and rage Before a live audience Interrupted only by Intermittent commercial breaks for A variety of Medications to treat Both psychiatric and Psychosomatic conditions Several of which Both he and his mother Plausibly possess Leading all Who love her to Overwhelmingly conclude that She should have known better.

SHORT STORY

Narcissus

Narcissus Toti O'Brien And of course the whole thing about vanity was an artifact. A

Artwork: Caravaggio

cheap gossip or else a lame excuse. They all reveled in those bits and pieces of talk: so they vented the trouble lingering in the secret folds of their bellies. They kept saying he was vain and death had been his punishment. “Vanity doesn’t become boys,” they whispered over and over - for the legend to take a life of its own, for the myth to enthrone itself and bear responsibility, shaking fear off their shoulders. They had been unkind to him: they knew but they couldn’t help it. Maybe… if chance had allowed private encounters besides their daily meeting at the pond – where they arrived with their loads of laundry and their garrulous mood. Well, their chirpiness wasn’t properly happiness. Contrary to commonplace, youth is rarely contented. It is busy with ripening: all that stretching of cells itches when it doesn’t hurt. They itched – all of them – with a vague wish to claw at something other than their own skin.

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So they scratched at him: not badly, on the surface. I’m not sure he noticed. When they arrived he was there. He must have come early in the morning. He stood planted on a large rock, his line cast, fingers loosely wrapped around the fishing pole – with no tension, just a matter of balance. He was balance itself: probably his most irritating feature. Especially since their own equilibrium had become precarious, bodies sprouting in unexpected directions at a disconcerting rate. They envied him, in fact. He stood still like the oak tree whose roots came close to the water, knotted like rheumatic fingers but tenaciously gripping the soil, crumbling it, claiming territory. The roots touched at the rock, wood and stone melting in mossy communality - just like muscle and bone. The oak shaded him, it wrapped him with obscurity he certainly didn’t need. His skin - olive – his pitch-black hair, luscious, oily, his mud-colored eyes already singled him out. No: his darkness didn’t need accentuation.

He stood still like the oak tree whose roots came close to the water, knotted like rheumatic fingers but tenaciously gripping the soil, crumbling it, claiming territory. The roots touched at the rock, wood and stone melting in mossy communality - just like muscle and bone.

Narcissus wasn’t his name. Well of course. Boys don’t get named after flowers, the most female of symbols. So that’s where malignity started: with the nickname they picked, for his name they couldn’t pronounce. Strangers get annoying - don’t they - from the beginning. You are still well intentioned, neutral at least, when you shake hands and trouble starts. They introduce themselves, as if nothing was, with some gibberish you try to reproduce out of courtesy, and your tongue stammers, and your brain cannot piece together that weird sounding nonsense. They couldn’t pronounce his name. Who said Narcissus first? Not sure... They were muttering flowers’ names and giggling – more giggling than muttering – covering their mouth with their hands as they were taught. Daisy, Pansy, Lily. Chrysanthemum, Amaranthus, Narcissus. The last one stuck, for they laughed so much they could no more talk. They were embarrassed, of course: no boy besides him would come to the water and remain in sight. That was where girls should be among themselves. He purposely tagged along, they thought. In fact he arrived first, but that didn’t count… he still managed to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. They named him the day he passed them on his way back to the village, basket full of fish and pole on his shoulder. Long cadenced strides and not a nod, not a smile (was he too shy? too proud?) They were struck by the waft of scent he left behind – an intense flowery smell. Did he perfume himself? That fired the irresistible giggling. Whispers went up and

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down their tight rows, hands squeezed hands, elbows punched neighboring hips, waists, rib cages. Did he perfume himself? He oiled his hair – that dark nappy jungle –each morning, from the jar mother left on her bed stand with other belongings. With a mirror: a triangular shard he often held in his hand, turning it around. Such a useless thing: it reflected no more than a fragment at a time. An eye maybe, or a mouth but in sections. Upper lip. Lower lip. Stupid shard of glass, only good for cutting your wrists. Was it why mother kept it there? He didn’t ponder. Three gold ringlets in a large coral colored shell. A chain, long and thick. A folded napkin embroidered with a single letter L. A very long-teethed comb that he used as well, dipping it in the oil that lasted and lasted... thickening a bit through the years, caramel, honey like. Quickly he plunged the comb in the jar, which was wide and tall. The stuff spread like a magic potion, loosening off his knots. He took care of tightly closing the lid, then he passed his fingers through hair slick as ribbons. Now he could weave it in one long braid as he had seen mother do. He tied it with a piece of rope. What did mother put in the jar? Mirth and rosemary, clover and sage. No narcissus, of course. Narcissus… come on. Mother died three years earlier, while father survived a while. He went only at the end of last winter, when the snow started melting. He did not see the spring. That was better. If there is a good time for dying, that is not spring. Though dad probably didn’t care: not about seasons, the weather, anything at all. He had been sick for too long. More spent since mother passed -although it didn’t make such a difference. He was sick before she was. Illness got him as soon as they arrived. A slow poisoning of the blood: his skin yellowing like parchment, his strength sucked away. Mother took care of him…and she did the washing for people. At the pond, but she didn’t go with the girls. She went on her own at the crack of dawn. She brought him along as far as he remembered. Always: from the moment they arrived she brought him along. She helped him on the rock where he stood till she finished. He liked fishing. They didn’t talk: he heard her sing now and then, bits of tunes interrupted with no reason. Never mind: he loved those songs in a language he no more understood. To him it was nonsense, still he liked the songs. Mother didn’t teach him how to fish. Someone else must have. Dad, before he got sick? He didn’t remember. He knew how to fish with a pole since they had arrived. Before? He didn’t remember. After mother passed he kept coming. He always caught

… a triangular shard he often held in his hand, turning it around. Such a useless thing: it reflected no more than a fragment at a time. An eye maybe, or a mouth but in sections. Upper lip. Lower lip. Stupid shard of glass, only good for cutting your wrists. Was it why mother kept it there? He didn’t ponder.

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some: that’s what they ate, lunch and dinner. Father only wanted soup: he sipped a bit then he turned towards the wall, leaving a half full bowl on the bed stand. When his breathing grew louder the boy picked the bowl. He eagerly drank what was left.

Every night she kneeled on the rug for prayer. Well, he couldn’t really tell. She squatted on the rug, her face tensely facing the door - where she had spotted a crack, long and thin. That is where she looked, mesmerized. A blade of moonlight sipped in – sometimes dim, sometimes almost blinding.

He was thin but muscular. As we said balance was at home with him. If you’d pierce a bullet hole at the very top of his head and drop something in - a coin? a marble? a tear? - it would hit the ground right between his feet. Now… why would you want to pierce such a hole? You could feel the line, straight but flexible like his fishing rod. Who gave him the rod? He didn’t remember. It must have been with their stuff when they came. Father didn't give it to him, just as he didn’t teach him how to use it. He fell ill as soon as they arrived, as if he had preferred not to. As if he would have liked it more to die at sea. Or earlier, over there, before they fled. Daddy’s soul didn’t make it through, it got stuck somewhere: that was clear, but it took them time to understand. Understanding wouldn’t have helped anyway. He wrapped mother inside the striped rug that came with the fishing pole - in the bundle daddy had carried during the voyage at sea. Then on land, until they reached the village. Because dad used to be very strong, he remembered suddenly. He rolled her into the striped, thick, prickly, colorful rug. He knew she would have liked it. Every night she kneeled on it for prayer. Well, he couldn’t really tell. She squatted on the rug, her face tensely facing the door where she had spotted a crack, long and thin. That is where she looked, mesmerized. A blade of moonlight sipped in – sometimes dim, sometimes almost blinding. Just a shard, like that piece of mirror she kept on her stand - a large crate she had managed to barter or buy, from whom she didn’t say. She brought home three of those, over time, to go with their mattresses. She and father didn’t sleep together. Never had since they arrived. Every night she looked at the luminous crack - that scar breaking the darkness, fissuring its compact embrace – and she muttered in a language he no more understood. Prayers, or something else. He stared from his bed, eyes wide opened and perfectly still. He liked rest more than he liked unconsciousness. The sick one – dad – made the air stuffy. That dampness was familiar, securing. Its sour odor meant home. Before dawn mother arose with a cat’s swiftness. Sitting up in bed she opened the jar, she combed and braided

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her long hair. He woke up at the scent embalming the room for a while – a draft of prairies in bloom. They stole out in minutes: the laundry was already stacked by the door. While he grabbed it she carried board, soap, bread wrapped into the L embroidered towel. They ate on their way: two slices, large and fresh. She had carefully wrapped them the night before. She had kept them on her bed stand like a sacred thing. They bit hungrily, chewed slowly. He wrapped mother into the rug, then he dug under a pine tree, on a naked hilltop surrounded by the widest view – kind of infinite. Swept by wind: he knew she would have liked it. He could tell by the way she looked at the crack, at that secret window. He could tell by the way her nostrils flared when they walked to the pond each morning. As if she sucked in the crispiness, the chill. He didn’t ask permission for digging. No one saw him. Someone might ask later, or not. She died after three days of cough and great weakness, while she lay in bed and sweated profusely. He cooked food that was already in the house - he didn’t go fishing, didn’t leave the two of them for a moment, feeding both but they needed little. Mom turned on a side, quiet as always. Breathing became hard but never got labored. She passed fast, with no agony he could detect. She slipped between his fingers. When he knew, it was late evening and he didn’t touch her. He lay in bed until dawn cleared the sky: time to wake up, their time. He rolled her in the carpet. Then three years went by: father took his time. The boy kept the same routine: fishing provided most of their food. In the afternoon - when he came back to the village - he worked, mending nets. That came easy as a breeze: someone must have taught him though he didn't remember. Mending supplied all the money they needed. He was good at sewing and that made the girls giggle. Sewing was women’s work. But he really was better than them all. He worked fast to get done before sunset. Leaning against whitewashed walls, sitting over a bench or a barrel: they would never call him inside, where they got ready for dinner. Mending was an outside job. The girls peeked at him from the windows. They whispered half words. But he focused, head down, and he didn’t notice. He had never gone out with a boat. No one had invited him. He had no friends, though he could speak the language, of course. Also mother did, since she had started the washing… Mother could understand but only talked in case of necessity. Otherwise she sang things incomprehensible. She murmured things inaudible, looking at a single string of moonlight. Now she was under the pine - that smelled almost like the oil she

He wrapped mother into the rug, then he dug under a pine tree, on a naked hilltop surrounded by the widest view – kind of infinite. Swept by wind: he knew she would have liked it. He could tell by the way she looked at the crack, at that secret window.

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left in the jar. He had never been on a boat (besides, sure, the one that brought him there) for high-sea fishing. He only cast his line in the pond for freshwater fish –good enough, and he always caught some. During winter the pond froze. During winter all nets were thoroughly mended. He had grown very tall, not a man yet. Although perfectly aligned and straight like an arrow. Not a man. Will he ever be one? Lingering at the pond where the women-in-bud came to wash their laundry. And he didn’t see, didn’t mind them. As if they meant nothing to him. He did not engage in teasing, conversation or games – sulking in pride or timidity, they believed. Not a man, uncaring of other boys’ company, quietly sewing his nets or staring hypnotically at the water, waiting for the subtlest whirl - then ready to snap up the line with a tinge of ferocity no one saw. His long braid, his exotic perfume made his maleness doubtful: scent was the culprit. It was what earned him the fame of being frivolous– that of course he wasn’t.

He had looked at his handsome face and he had fallen for himself, since he didn’t care for lassies – so they gossiped to unleash the fear grabbing at their guts, because of that mystery. In fact he might have levitated. Disappeared in thin air. Disembodied.

Someone said, when they came back to tell he had vanished from the rock… He was there, they could swear, and a minute later he wasn’t. Then he was nowhere. No splash? How could they tell? They were washing laundry. They were splashing to their heart’s content, also chatting, yelling and laughing. No splash that they heard, and no motion over the greenish surface: not that they saw, but did they watch? Pole and line were left askew on the large stone where he had perched all morning –the basket leaned on its side, and no fish. He was there, his skin glistening its fawn leather hue, sharply singling him out. Still and mute – a statue, a tree. Then a moment later he wasn’t. One of them said he looked down to fix his hair –leaned too far, lost his balance and fell. But we know he was balance itself. The pond was said to be bottomless. They believed it communicated with the ocean through an invisible channel. The old folks said it: they must have some kind of proof. Something was lost there (a sandal? a tunic? a bird cage or a wedding ring?) then was found stuck inside a net. The pond flushed its secrets at sea. He had looked at his handsome face and he had fallen for himself, since he didn’t care for lassies – so they gossiped to unleash the fear grabbing at their guts, because of that mystery. In fact he might have levitated. Disappeared in thin air. Disembodied. They had never learned his real name. They couldn’t recall it.

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Later, when spring truly marched on, narcissi were all over the hill with the lone pine. Where he had buried father as well, wrapped in nothing. There was only one rug – sheets and blankets were worn, soaked in dried sweat. After mom went not much laundry was done. He had buried dad in his clothes: it did not matter. Wild narcissus is white as china and nicely shaped. Its perfume is acute and pierces you like a bullet. It spreads your nostrils open, shoots into your brain and bursts like a single stabbing of longing. As for what, you have the choice. Or you don’t. Wild narcissus’ scent is strong but it doesn’t travel. It stays put. You have to come close. You have to crouch on dirt - on this naked hill it might be unpleasant. You have to kneel and lean forward, face down. Higher up the pine scratches the air with a pungency that spreads far and wide – like a wish, an invocation, a song or else a lament. It comes in gushes, then is gone. All of this is immaterial. Intangible. None of this lasts. [CC]

Wild narcissus is white as china and nicely shaped. Its perfume is acute and pierces you like a bullet. It spreads your nostrils open, shoots into your brain and bursts like a single stabbing of longing. As for what, you have the choice. Or you don’t. Narcissus by Caravaggio Graphics: Suhas Krishna

CultureCult Magazine - Winter 2015-16

SHORT STORY It started benignly. Just a car, abandoned on the side of the highway, left out in the night to be found by the police the next morning. Hundreds of cars drove past and were blind to the sight that had been seen a thousand times before. The ones that thought of it, the few of them, figured it was just a stolen car being dumped after its purpose had been fulfilled. The towing company hoisted the small, dull-red beater onto their flatbed with little fanfare or concern. After running the plates the police found the car was registered to a Bernard Halpern, a local man who lived alone in a small apartment in the poorer part of the town. All attempts to reach Mr. Halpern were unsuccessful. The police inquired with his neighbors and found that he hadnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t returned home the night the car was abandoned. They ask about his job, surely his supervisors at the manufacturing plant he cleaned would know where to reach him. But they did not, what was more, Mr. Halpern had been let go the week prior for showing up drunk one too many times. A missing person report as filled for Mr. Halpern, but the

J. E. Nelson

The Shapes in the Woods Photography: Jagannath Chakravarti

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After months of searching, the police returned to inform her that they were calling off the search, that Esk must have skipped out on her, only to find her missing too.

search, with no lead and no concerned party waiting for Halpern’s safe return, soon sputtered out and the case went cold. A few weeks later, another car was found abandoned, this time on a small town road through the woods, out where few people lived and the ones that did all knew each other and everything about their business. There are no secrets in small towns, just hushed voices and polite smiles. The car was an old Ford pick-up in a faded blue with dim taillights. Police were called because the truck was stopped in the middle of the lane, still running, with its driver side door ajar. Witnesses that first encountered the peculiar sight said they had seen movement in the trees ahead of the truck, but couldn’t make out if it was David Esk, the owner of the vehicle, or not. All they saw was movement. Esk’s girlfriend, three months pregnant, was hysterical when the police showed up at her door saying they didn’t know where David had disappeared too, just that he couldn’t be found. After months of searching, the police returned to inform her that they were calling off the search, that Esk must have skipped out on her, only to find her missing too. With the winter came the tracks. A hunter, Nathan Riggs, had been looking for deer out of season but felt compelled to come to Fish and Game with his discovery. In the paper he was quoted saying “Something was so wrong, I didn’t mind getting fined. Just… someone had to do something about this,” with his picture next to that of a colossal footprint, vaguely ape like in nature, but with a cruel turn of claws at both the back and front imprinted in the forest snow. There were immediate whispers of “bigfoot” around the town and parents forbade their children to play outside where they couldn’t see them. Fish and Game released a statement explaining away the prints as bobcat tracks that had grown and warped with the repeated thaw and snowfall. No one really believed it, some continued to watch the trees for an ape, while others had a feeling that it was something else. A bad feeling that they just couldn’t explain. The next car was found a week after. There had been a significant snowfall and concerned motorists approached the grey sedan wedged in the snow with its door open expecting to find an unconscious and freezing driver in need of help. What they found was an empty car with a set of the same mysterious tracks from the forest nearby. The motorists called the police who arrived quickly, beginning to suspect that these car instances were all connected somehow, but unsure of in what way, and together they followed the tracks. They led away from the car, through the blinding snow, a left and right foot stumbling forward and seemingly growing in size, but the accumulation made it difficult to tell for certain. The tracks lead the group to a creek about six feet across. The

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trail traced right up to the edge of the frozen stream and continued through. The broken ice implied whatever they were following had walked straight into the freezing water and carried on walking. The search party was forced to find another way around and by the time they had returned to the spot they left off the snow had covered the tracks. The trail was gone. The owner of the car, a 35 year old cancer patient named Jessica Strough, was never found. An emergency town meeting was called to address the disappearances. Most people chose to attend, although a few were too frightened to leave their homes when the sun began to set, even though there was no reason to believe the sun had anything to do with it. The meeting was scheduled to start at seven o’clock, but seven thirty had come and gone without the mayor, Thomas Block, arriving. After another hour of waiting, a search party was sent out to find Block. His car was discovered down the street with the exterior torn open. The metal was twisted and gnarled, with splashes of blood and clumps of a strange white hair dangling from the torn frame. The police arrived on the scene to take photographs and procure evidence. It was the crime scene photographer that first noticed: the car wasn’t torn open from the outside—the angle of the metal was inconsistent with a tear— but burst open from the inside. There were so cinders or ashes, no sign of an explosion. It was as if something monstrous had pushed its way out from the inside, leaving only blood and hair behind. The silence that followed this revelation was broken only when Block’s wife, Emilia, arrived on the scene. Her scream echoed through the gathering dark. One week latter police received a call from Emilia Block, she was frantic and out of breath, screaming that she was seeing moment in the trees just beyond her backyard. There was a deep moaning sound in the background as the 911 dispatcher fed her instructions and tried to keep her calm. The sound grew louder and the dispatcher asked Mrs. Block what was happening. “They’re coming toward’s the house,” she said, growing very quiet over the moaning, “Dear God, there are so many of them. So many…” The line went dead with the dispatcher still yelling into the receiver. When the police arrived at the house minutes later, they found that the back facing window and most of the wall around it had been smashed out from the inside. The phone was found in the backyard, trampled by dozens of the mystery tracks. They led into the woods. No one suggested following them. The Rothbergers were woken in the night by their youngest daughter, Erica, screaming. They rushed into her room and joined her screams with their own. In her window was a face, one they refused to describe, only saying that it appeared to be stretching, peering through the glass at them. Smiling. Erica said she had been up late, talking with school-

After another hour of waiting, a search party was sent out to find Block. His car was discovered down the street with the exterior torn open. The metal was twisted and gnarled, with splashes of blood and clumps of a strange white hair dangling from the torn frame.

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One occupant was thrashing about wildly, punching and hitting the driver, seemingly imploring them to drive on. The driver, however, was perfectly still and staring out into the darkness held by the trees. Smith began to approach the vehicle when a loud crunch issued from the tree line, followed by a rising chorus of moans.

mates online when she noticed a shadow from the window on the wall next to her. When her parents came she clutched them tightly and looked away. She didn’t see the face turn from her window and walk away. Footprints were found in the snow, both lead to and from her window, back into the woods. Her bedroom was on the second floor. State Trooper Andrea Smith was working late—every night had become late— when calls began pouring in about motorists spotting shapes in the trees bordering the highway. She responded and sped to the mile marker noted in the calls. When she arrived an SUV was pulled onto the shoulder. Looking through the rear window, Smith could make out the shapes of two people inside. One occupant was thrashing about wildly, punching and hitting the driver, seemingly imploring them to drive on. The driver, however, was perfectly still and staring out into the darkness held by the trees. Smith began to approach the vehicle when a loud crunch issued from the tree line, followed by a rising chorus of moans. The sound started low at first, like it was coming from miles away but quickly grew to a cacophony so immense that Smith was forced, against her better judgment, to plug her ears with her fingers. The sound grew louder and closer, driving Smith to the edge of her sanity, when it suddenly cut out and silence fell on the scene. From the silence came a series of loud crunches in the snow. The sound came at regular intervals, like footsteps. Then, on the edge of the light, seven towering black figures began to emerge from the woods. They swayed side to side with each step like a drunk on the verge of losing his balance and tumbling to the ground, but there was something about they gait that assured they would stay upright and mobile. The passenger of the car opened their door and came running toward Smith, screaming for help. Smith instructed her to get in her cruiser and radio for back up, forgetting that this civilian wouldn’t know how. Smith wasn’t thinking about that. She wasn’t thinking about anything but the colossal shadows lumbering toward her. When the shapes hit the light on the edge of the road, Smith couldn’t help but scream at their ghastly countenance. They were impossibly tall, maybe fifteen feet, and were vaguely human in shape, but the shape is where the humanity ended. The creatures’ skin was loose and mottled, hanging from their exposed muscles in large clumps with tufts of gnarled white hair. In some places bone was visible and large sores stood open and oozing blood with every step. The face was the worst. The skin sagged sickly from the skull as if it were melting, revealing the bone and teeth behind and the eyes were sunken deep within the skull, with only faint glimmers of an iris in the dark cave. The creatures shambled up to the stopped car and stood around it at even distances in a perfect circle. The moaning started again, but lower, almost conspiratorially,

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like they were only moaning for that gathered audience now. Smith soon realized that they were swaying in unison, back and forth, around the car which stayed motionless inside their circle. The engine did not roar to life, nor did the horn call out for help. There was no attempt to escape. The moaning continued, in unison as before, but then Smith noticed an addition to the chorus: a voice, distinctly human, was echoing each note of the creatures. At this addition the creatures grew louder and swayed more intently, nearly crashing into each other as they rocked left and right. The human voice grew louder and all the hair on Smithâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s body stood on end, something was happening, something sick that defied the laws of nature. A loud crunch and snap shot out from the center of the circle followed by the sound of breaking glass. The swaying stopped simultaneously with the moaning. Another loud crunch followed and then an eighth figure, covered in fresh blood and raw-red skin erected itself in the center of the circle. The eyes of the circled creatures popped out from their sockets with a sickening thock and they surveyed the new member of their ranks. Each layer a single gnarled hand on the newcomer, then turned and staggered back into the woods, leaving the

The engine did not roar to life, nor did the horn call out for help. There was no attempt to escape. The moaning continued, in unison as before, but then Smith noticed an addition to the chorus: a voice, distinctly human, was echoing each note of the creatures.

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The creature held out its hand in a gesture so eerily human it could not be anything other than beckoning.

stranger for last. He turned and gazed toward Smith, but she knew he was looking past her to the car, which currently held the passenger from the now mangled SUV. The creature held out its hand in a gesture so eerily human it could not be anything other than beckoning. The woman in the car began to plead, no no no. The creature took a single step toward them. Smith drew her weapon and unloaded the clip into the creatureâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s midsection. Bits of skin and muscle flew off but the monster showed no signs of pain. Instead it simply turned and joined its brethren in the woods, walking with the shake legs of a newborn animal. Every so often these days, State Police receive a call about an abandoned car on the side of the highway near the exit for the town, but the troopers know to leave it until daylight and never go alone. The town itself stands empty now. After Smithâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s story was repeated to the remaining town folk, exaggerated and changed depending on which iteration of the story was being told and by whom, the general, unspoken consensus was to run. Escape. Abandon the town to the unknown terror stalking the woods. Families crammed all they could not live without into their vehicles, yelled hasty goodbyes to people they had known their entire lives, and fled. The exodus was biblical in its tone and execution, for not a single person dared look back, lest they catch sight of the shapes in the woods.

Photograph: Jagannath Chakravarti

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Accompanying the piece: A series of propaganda posters for ‘Hitler Youth’ - an organisation whose mission it was to inculcate the poison that is Nazi Values among the young.

SHORT STORY

The End of the World Joseph Rubas

Never give up, never surrender.

Photography: Jagannath Chakravarti

As dawn crested on the morning of May 2, 1945, casting tendrils of feeble orange light through the shattered remains of once proud Berlin, Gerhard Shultz tentatively emerged from his den, his Panzerfaust cradled gently in his arms. Smoke hung heavy in the air; blasted buildings loomed darkly from the haze, their shapes strange and menacing. Somewhere, gunfire rang out, followed by an explosion, and Gerhard flinched. The fighting had died down some during the night. Now, like a nightmare, it was beginning again. “Come on,” Gerhard whispered. In the trench, the old man glanced nervously up at him, his eyes the color of faded mud. “The Russians...” he whispered. Gerhard had found the old man hours before, lying on his stomach behind a collapsed bank of walls and firing on a Russian tank unit. Had Gerhard not appeared with his trusty Panzerfaust, the old man would be dead now.

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“Forget about the Russians. We can beat them.” The old man was Volksstrum, militia. Gerhard didn’t trust Volksstrum, especially the older ones; he doubted their loyalty to Hitler. “No we cannot,” the old man said, his words striking Gerhard like shrapnel. “Look around you. The war is lost.” Lost? Lost? “You are young,” the man said, perhaps sensing his shock, “and you are naïve.” “I am not naïve,” Gerhard growled. While it was true that he was barely a week into his sixteenth year, Gerhard had been to battle many times. In fact, less than two weeks ago, he was at the Seelow Heights, where the Wehrmacht held the high ground and the Russians charged from below. He killed a dozen men, destroyed twice as many tanks, and suffered just as much as a regular soldier. Where was the old man then? Hiding in the safety of the city, that’s where. “They’ve won,” the spiteful bastard said. “We should...” His voice trailed off as the grumble of an engine rose in the distance. Gerhard snapped to attention, his eyes scanning the mist. The sound grew louder. Tank. Instinctively, Gerhard dropped to his knees. Less than a minute later, a massive green tank emerged from the smoke, a three man column flanking either side. Licking his lips, his heart pounding, Gerhard waited until the tank was closer. When he saw the strange writing on its turret, and the obscene hammer and sickle flag painted on its face, loathing shot through him. Russians. Gerhard lifted the Pazerfaust. It was down to one round. “Don’t,” the old man said, his voice weak, “it’s over. Don’t make any more bloodshed.” Gerhard fired. The tank went up in a ball of flames. The men advancing alongside of it were thrown to the ground. Someone screamed. Like a smooth, well-oiled machine, Gerhard produced his MP40 and fired, raking the ground and killing the men along the side closest to him. On the far side, a man popped up and shot back, his bullets whizzing past Gerhard’s head. Unmoved, Gerhard shot him. The old man cowered. Reaching into his belt, Gerhard grabbed a stick grenade and lobbed it at the tank. The explosion was accompanied by an agonized wail. Gerhard put a fresh magazine into the MP40, but it was over; the smoke swirling in the street was alone. He looked at the old man. His disgust was now hatred. “You are weak,” he spat, getting to his feet. “Where do your loyalties lie?”

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“To Germany,” the old man said. “Where are yours?” “Hitler.” The old man’s eyes shone. “Look what that madman’s done! And you follow him! You’ve been hypnotized by his magic. The Hitler Youth! Ha! You haven’t got your own mind, you...” Gerhard shot him. How dare he speak of Hitler that way? Hitler was the savior of Germany! Coward. That’s what the old man was. A low down coward. And killing him was a service to the Reich. “Cowards hiding behind frontlines must be executed,” Goebbels said on the radio...two days ago, was it? The old traitor was the second coward Gerhard had killed. Just the day before, he found a boy of eleven or twelve hiding in a pile of blasted concrete, his face dirty and his clothes rotting from his meager frame. His clothes, Gerhard noticed instantly, were civilian. “Why are you not in uniform?” Gerhard asked. He was still with the remnants of his unit then, four boys, counting himself; before the Russians knocked them back from the Lederstein bridgehead, there were thirty. “I-I’m scared,” the boy said, his eyes wide and doe-like. “Why are you not on the frontlines?” “I-I’m scared,” he simply repeated. Hot rage rose in Gerhard’s stomach. “You are a coward,” Gerhard said. He stepped back and aimed the MP40. The boy jerked and threw his hands up. “Don’t,” one of the others said, his face wan. “It doesn’t matter.” “Of course it matters,” Gerhard spat. “He is a disgrace to Hitler.” With that Gerhard pulled the trigger, spraying the boy with a dozen rounds. Though the sound of war was deafening around them, the reports echoed enormously. The three other boys looked nervously about, unable, it seemed, to meet each other’s eyes. An hour later, when Gerhard came back from relieving himself behind a section of freestanding wall, they were gone. Most likely ran crying to the Russians. Trembling with anger, Gerhard presently started back toward the city center, picking his way over heaps of blasted rubble and twisted iron. Shells blasted in the south, and small arms fire rattled north and west. As he climbed, crawled, and struggled, Gerhard began whistling the Horst Wessel Song. He remembered the grand parades, the waving flags, the swastikas and the music. Hitler standing on a balcony, a massive oak of a man in brown. He remembered being swept away by love and patriotism, and saluting the great leader of the German Reich. Those were the good times. And they would come again,

Look what that madman’s done! And you follow him! You’ve been hypnotized by his magic. The Hitler Youth! Ha! You haven’t got your own mind, you...

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Several men were hiding behind a wall of debris; Gerhard could only see their heads, their shiny black helmets, glowing even amidst the ruins around them. SS men.

no matter what that old coward said. At an intersection, Gerhard turned left just in time to see a man running across the street. Snapping to attention, he raised the MP40. “Don’t shoot!” someone cried. “We are Germans!” Several men were hiding behind a wall of debris; Gerhard could only see their heads, their shiny black helmets, glowing even amidst the ruins around them. SS men. Gerhard lowered his gun. “Have you any news?” he called. “No!” one called back. “A red flags flies over the Reichstag!” another said. Coming closer, Gerhard paused. A Soviet flag? Over the Reichstag? Amazement washed over him. How was it possible? Most of them didn’t even have guns! At the Seelow Heights, every other Red died with a stick in his hand, cut to resemble a gun. “Many are sent into the fight with no arms,” one of his commanders said. “They are told ‘when your comrade with a gun dies, pick it up and fight on.’” How could they have taken the Reichstag? Now among the SS men, Gerhard took stock of them. There were seven. Their faces were dirty and their uniforms tattered. Even so, Gerhard could not suppress a rush of fierce admiration. One day he, too, would be an SS man. “The Russians are assaulting the Reich Chancellery,” one of them said. “We were just there.” “Hitler?” “We don’t know.” “We have to go there,” Gerhard said. “We have to stop the Russians.” “They cannot be stopped,” one said, “they are many.” “I will stop them,” Gerhard said, cold hate moving in his stomach. “If you want to cry and surrender, go do it that way.” With that, Gerhard started toward the battle. Smoke and fire poured into the sky. The gunfire was sporadic now. A massive explosion rocked the street, and a building, barely standing anyway, crashed down in a heap of dust and rock. Several streets over, Gerhard froze as a man appeared through an open doorway. Not seeming to notice him, the man looked left, right, and then darted into the street. When Gerhard recognized his uniform, he stayed his rising gun. As the smoke cleared and the cannonade sounded, Gerhard recognized the man himself. It was Martin Bormann, the head of the party chancellery. One of the highest men in the land. As Bormann approached, a sense of wonder came over Gerhard. The Martin Bormann. “Mr. Bormann,” Gerhard said, saluting.

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Bormann, still not having noticed him, jerked in surprise. Realizing Gerhard was a friendly, Bormann relaxed. “Where are you going?” Bormann asked. “The battle, sir,” Gerhard said. “You’d stay away if you’re smart,” Bormann said. “The Russians are too powerful. The war is lost.” The words, coming from a man like Bormann, struck Gerhard like a bullet. “But...we still have Hitler. With him...” Bormann was sadly shaking his head. “He is gone.” For a moment Gerhard didn’t understand. Then it hit him. Hitler...left the city? “Where did he go?” Gerhard asked. Bormann shook his head and placed one hand on Gerhard’s shoulder, squeezing. “He is dead.” Gerhard’s blood turned to ice water. “D-Dead?” he asked. “He shot himself. Two days ago.” The Führer dead? It couldn’t be! Hitler couldn’t die! “You’re lying,” Gerhard said, ripping away from Bormann’s hand. “Hitler’s not dead!” Bormann looked tired. “I swear that he is. I burned his body myself.” “No!” Gerhard screamed, tears suddenly springing to his eyes. “It can’t be!” “I’m sorry, but...” Gerhard lost control of himself. The MP40 was in his hands. Bormann was stumbling back, raising his hands. The gun was firing. When the gun was empty, he threw it aside and ran back the way he had come, so lost in grief that he didn’t realize he’d gone all the way to the fox hole he’d left that morning until he was there, on the ground, sobs wracking his thin frame. Hitler was dead! The Third Reich was ruined! The war was lost! The chanting, the saluting, the waving flags meant nothing now. It was over. It was the end of the world. Still crying, Gerhard reached into his coat and removed his Lugar. Fight to the last bullet, his commander said on the 18th, as the Russians advanced on the city. And then hit someone over the head with it. What point was there now? All was lost. Gerhard put the gun to his temple. [CC]

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TRANSLATION

ADWAITA MALLABARMAN Translated by Amar Debnath

Three poems

Poems of Plassey Adwaita Mallabarman (1914 - 1951) has the rare distinction of being immortalised in the annals of Bengali literature by a single work of momentous significance. Mallabarman’s novel ‘Titas ekti Nodir Naam’ (A River Called Titas), published posthumously, shot him to literary immortality. The novel was later adapted into a motion picture by the auteur Ritwik Ghatak. Mallabarman dabbled in poetry and short stories as well, besides writing a slew of features for several magazines for which he worked, including Mohammadi, Navashakti & Desh. Canvas - Plassey, 1757 by E. S. Hardy

Note - Plassey is the anglicised form of ‘Palashi’

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The lament of mohanlal The babbling Bhagirath at twilight. Here lay the chopped, bloody corpses, There the sun has set. The dark, arachnid web of conspiracy And the inky hopes of evil – Dozing astern the mango coppice as if a battered baby bird, The dead battlefield seeped in an endless dark. Like a melting corpse, the eyes of the earth they erode. Only awake are the two eyes of Mohanlal, Along with the final rays of the apocalypse. Today’s sun will emerge tomorrow as well – This day will come tomorrow But the sun won’t shine as such. There won’t be the vigour of the day – Buried under bedimming glow and a faint murmur They will dance – the ring of Jagat Seth and Mir Jafar. That Siraj of passionate heart, distressed soul and dejected eyes, Who left the proscenium of evil with a pain, Is revered by Mohanlal; the wildfire of agony In his stricken eyes, Waits still for the day these times will end – The hushed howl resembling a vixen – the new conspirators, That vitality is what aided his Nirvana ages back.

siraj In a deathless throne of memory You reign, o king of kings. Your seat is in the heart of Bengal. Death has cloaked you in immortal robes, Siraj, Oh Siraj.

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The bird says it has not left yet But is one within the lap of mother earth. Formless flowers are born in the scent of The secret king of essence on the edge of The Unseen, Siraj, Oh Siraj. The martyred Siraj will be hailed forever. Oh history, that scripts the ignominy of lies. Death cannot erode an infinite life – The soul of whom wishes liberty for its nation. Oh Palashi – your green wood Have signalled the setting of the proud sun. Jahnvi* cries, the eyes of Bengal they water. Who will protect the honour of the imprisoned mother? Siraj, Oh Siraj.

*another name of the river Ganges

palashi You played the flute of the epilogue Palashi, Oh Palashi, Quelling the light, put out the smiles in a blink, Shedding tears – Palashi, Oh Palashi. Fading the wildflowers before it’s time, The birds they have lost their songs, The households they lose their lights, Extinguished joy, smiles – Palashi, Oh Palashi. The queen of war wipes the vermillion, Her garlands she replaces with chains. Clouds of death fill the skies of time, Siraj – he sleeps in a mute grave; The grand pilgrimage of great death you are, Kissing Mohanlal’s forehead in death, What history have you scripted in blood, Drifting in a sea of tears, Palashi, Oh Palashi.

The Battle of Plassey was the first consolidating victory of the British East India Company over the Nawab of Bengal and his French allies on 23 June 1757. The battle secured the Company's presence in Bengal, which later expanded to cover, rule and exploit nearly all of India for 190 years. Nawab Siraj-ud-daula was overthrown by a conspiracy between Siraj’s own commander in chief Mir Jafar, the merchant Jagat Seth and Robert Clive of the East India Company. Mohanlal was a trusted commander of Siraj.

get initiated...

/CultureCult.in

CultureCult Magazine - Winter 2015-16

SERIAL

Cross Eyed Sleep Siddharth Pathak

Cross-Eyed Sleep Siddhartha Pathak PREVIOUSLY Initiated to a life of violence and crime at an early age, David Mondal has worked his way up from being a pickpocket to a professional assassin. Davidâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s whimsical adaptation of different personas during each assignment hits a roadblock during the train journey to Mumbai, the venue of his next job. Davidâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s co-passenger, whom he overhears during a phone call expressing his desire to have his wife murdered, distresses David by coincidentally suggesting that he would be better off being a professional killer than the Advertisement executive David had been pretending to be. David also recounts a terrifying teenage memory of his where he teams up with a diabolical associate to brutally murder a group of people who had wronged David, and an innocent woman along with them.

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RETREAT As he looks out the taxicab and views the Mumbai morning vista, washed awake by a warm, deep orange shawl of newly threaded sunlight, David turns back at the day before with a grim dissatisfaction which is, interestingly enough, laced with a modicum of relief. What occurred was primarily a fruitless experience, with repercussions that follow a shock, a ‘jerk’ of the senses that sets the whole body on motion for a time; the bafflement, the realization of the absurdity that words would often come at a trajectory and speed to wound, with an intent to disturb – sway the straight traveller’s compass north with a distressing riddle to solve. It had been a start as inauspicious as one feared and David may still be ashamed about the “character’s path” he took, but he still cannot invest much of his recovering common sense to hypothetically court some other path and subsequent situation where he could not have been exposed. Unless, of course, he has been exposed already. A certain gesture, a nervous withdrawal of eyes, even a mere syllable is often potent enough to expose a world unto a person. And with the secret that David carries, it is impossible for him not to be concerned about keeping his cover intact come what may. He is not a gangster, a common goonda who would flex muscles to generate power. He is a criminal of a higher echelon and a graver sentence awaits him once exposed. Since he is not a goonda, he would abstain from striking out doing what he (professionally anyways) does best; and

yet circumstances – there were circumstances which can be too tricky to manipulate to the final block of the crossword. So he had retreated. David decided to retreat with a curt nod to his fellow thespians and invisible spectators, faking a harrowing headache which compelled him to spend the entirety of the journey, till the train entered the Lokmanya Tilak Terminus this morning, holed up in his upper bunk . He wrapped himself up in an off-white shawl, effectively keeping at bay the cold of the AC and the prying eyes of his fellow passengers, especially the doctor on board. He is afraid of the needles that are the man’s eyes. The doctor had attempted to help, urging David to elucidate his problems so he can diagnose the cause of his mysterious headache, before David spoiled the mystery by linking it to an old case of the migraines his mother would have. She would lie, holed up in bed, for hours – sometimes days on end. The father being an honourable absentee, David would try to cook and fail, while the mother would apparently survive on, and drug herself with a strange white powder that she claimed was afeem. Of course, she would claim it made her recover faster. It was not fast enough. David ends up travelling the entire route of the taxi from the Kurla railway area to the urban quarters of West Goregaon, via a vivid morning dream. It had him back in his home, opening an envelope to find a spoonful of white powder within. The child that he was in the dream, he innocently picks up a pinchful and brings it near his nostrils.

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Unable to detect much, he tastes it and finds the taste to be a curious mix of sweet and something predominantly chemical. He does not mind it, and has a few more pinches, before his mother shows up: rude, wild and cranky as ever and snatches the envelope off his hands. His subconscious realizes that he has just dosed himself with a large quantity of whichever remedial hallucinogen it was, and that David is about to plunge into a high the like of which his poison of choice alcohol can never prepare him for. Then somebody goes on to seat him on a wooden plank, which turns out is from a cubicle of a ferris wheel gracing the mela grounds beside the massive Kali Puja canopy of Mukshudpur. The ferris wheel starts to move. In a deep sleep paralysis, the wheel moves and begins to bring him closer to the stars. The circumference a mystery for the ages, the cubicle means to travel in a circle but never touches the downward curve. The endless bottom mirrors the sky above as the wheel takes him to the stars, ignoring his fear of heights, ignoring the fact that the wax on his wings were on fire. It is daylight, and it is night. The winds they are brewing up a storm to stretch time till eternity. David ends up spending what seems like all of time... rising, or perhaps falling, deeper into an abyss in his deep sleep that managed to obliterate the forty odd minutes it takes to travel from Kurla to Goregaon. “It may not be that long in real time”, David remembers on waking up, “it is considerably long in dream states.” - he concludes, missing his reflection in the rear view mirror that is clearly showing the undiscovered tuft of grey hairs that seem to have aged overnight, shielding his left temple. The taxi drops him off at his destination – The Palm Retreat on the New Link road. David does catch sight of a pair of weak date palms adorning the entrance but they are a shabby sight at best. It is certainly not a place to pride upon its natural beauty. It is rather a haven of hospitality, which shows the deepest devotion by turning the other way and allowing you to unleash whatever monstrosity you wish to within its fortified walls.

David prides himself enough upon his research acumen to know these details for certain; to have booked this place in advance for the duration of the three days that he would spend in Mumbai. David believes in letting the stage define his persona. David believes in the adage that the Father would often use as a means of imparting education; a Bengali translation of the idiom ‘When in Rome, do as the Romans do’ – Jaswin deshe jadachar. The Father still believes, in his heart of hearts, that David is the finest protégé of his. David cannot disagree with the belief for some reason, and that prompts him, in particularly severe moments of self-doubt, to castigate the Father for being a blind old fool. He would email David from time to time, in which he would categorically thank him for sending such generous donations and wishing that, whoever he or she was, would be welcome at any time at his missionary, whether in times of joy or crisis. The man who has the right to claim that he is the closest among all mortal beings to God is foolish enough to not know that it is David and his blood money that feeds the Father’s Godforsaken orphans. It is he, a murderer for profit, who has been funding God’s work since the great flood of 2010. What an irony! The Father would not refuse his money, David knows. But what David will not stand is the fate of the poor man on the day he could come to know of what earned that money. It is easy for David to slip into any character since he believes, deeply enough, that he is one of the worst specimens of humankind that ever walked this earth. It is not deep enough to elude him at all times, especially when he loses control, but that had not happened since that summer in Mukshudpur, Father Lucius’ ancestral home by the river with that strange name – Ankh-bhasi, was it? The etymology could have been off, but the river had taken a simple meaning in David’s life by making him cry his heart out on its banks one fine evening. It had been the first and only time in his

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life that he had shed actual tears for a fellow human being. During the brief interlude in that idyllic setting, beneath a canopy of ancient greens tucking in as the sun wheeled towards the horizon, David had seen himself in that old man. The robe, the glasses, the sophisticated diction, the beard and most importantly, the silver cross that hung across his neck – they were barriers no more as David became one with Lucius Biswas’ griefs. Beneath the pageantry lay a man who, despite differences of age and faith, was unknown no more to David. The sins of the Father were his as well. David is chaperoned up to his room by an overtly friendly individual whose mousy facial expressions and a joker-like smile gives the indication that he is someone in whom David’s persona can conspiratorially confide in. David begins, “Dekho abhi, I’m here for fun, you understand? Nothing but masti on the card for three days! Will travel, drink, bring some women over, if you know what I mean...” David’s wink does not elude the sly man, whose smile broadens at the very mention of women. “We can certainly help you in that department, Sir. Barhiya maal milega.” “That’s great!” David approves jovially, “As endowed as the woman is, so shall be your pockets!” The man pockets the five hundred rupee note that David extends and gives him a real salaam. David can feel the genuine gratitude behind that bow and it calms him for the first time since that wretched train ride. David sits himself down upon the sofa and sets his laptop on the table as the grateful man takes his leave. It does not take long for David to get online and log into his encrypted emails. The attachments, which arrived a good 48 hours ago, are finally opened. As the photo of David’s next victim loads gradually on the browser connecting David to the slower, but nefarious ‘dark web’, he reads the particulars accompanying the attachment.

It is rather brief and confusing: Name: Anita Bakshi Address: 67/2, Shahu colony, Santa Cruz east, Mumbai. Standing instructions: keep it clean. No bloodshed. Make it look like suicide, or accidental poisoning. Keep it peaceful for her. Even as David muses over the strange instructions of the actual ‘killer’, the photo finishes loading and what stares back at David sends a sheer bolt of lightning down his fraying spine. It is the face of a teenager, barely thirteen years old, is she? Strangely for David, however, that is not the terrifying part. The girl in the picture is a spitting image of the girl he had forcibly deflowered behind an abandoned factory some sixteen years ago. He had been all but a hormonal lad of seventeen then. How old was the girl? Thirteen, was she? Even as David stares dumbfounded at his laptop screen, the mousy haired man shows up unannounced at the open front door with a bottle of unopened ‘Indian Scotch’, mouthing, “Compliments of the hotel, Sir” The man goes on to put a fat, pink photo album on the table beside David’s computer and says, “The manager sent this. You can choose as many as you like and we will be arranging everything as per your convenience. Off the books, of course.” Confounded by David’s lack of reaction, the man steals a glance at the photo on the digital screen and adds clandestinely, “The younger ones are at the back of the album, Sir! I’m sure you’ll find that rare combination of young and endowed somewhere in there... Aap bolke toh dekhiye, we can fetch you absolutely anything!”

... To be continued ... The characters and situations depicted herein are fictitious. Any similarity that may be found with any real life incident/ person is co-incidental and unintended.

WRITE FOR US CultureCult is a magazine of the Arts, Literature and Culture and we need you, the writers, with a deep enough desire to express, experienced or otherwise, to help us out in our little endeavour. The initial call for submissions received more response than we had imagined but we are guilty as a glutton to read more from you. If you liked our heartfelt effort and wouldn't mind terribly to extend a friendly hand, the doors are open for you. We are accepting fiction as well as non-fiction pieces with practically no restrictions on form or subject matter. However, we only wish to read and publish your best and thus, would greatly appreciate any and every â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;best foot forwardâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;. Submissions are accepted electronically, both via email and our online Submission Manager. The Complete Set of LINKS and GUIDELINES can be found at www.CultureCult.in/Submissions

CINEMA BOOK Analysis

CultureCult Magazine - Winter 2015-16

CINEMA

Queer Inversions Madhurima Basu

Simple inversions often present a perspective that, in spite of retaining their inherent capacity to disturb the general notion of affairs, does not fail to generate a ‘general’ sense of novelty when presented in a pink little package for the very first time. A deferred ‘coming out’ tale will obviously imply the ‘tragic’ trajectory of a heterosexual couple, half of whom will eventually discover his/her predominantly homogenous predilections as far as sexual preference is concerned. The tragedy of a ‘broken’ couple does reside at the core of ‘I kissed a Girl’ as well. Thankfully, however, it is presented in a cotton candy cocoon of burgeoning romance that follows classic tropes of any memorable romantic comedy including (but certainly not limited to) weakening knees, chasing one’s object of desire across geopolitical borders and the usual dose of Shakesperean comedies of errors. A plot that could very well be inspired from the Katy Perry song ‘I kissed a girl’ (the male, French version sung by Matthieu Chedid even accompany the closing credits), it ingeniously reverses the premise of the Perry song as we find the gay, engaged Jérémie Deprez (Pio Marmaï) accidentally indulging in a one night stand with the debutante Swedish beauty Adna (Adrianna Gradziel). The ‘accident’, as Jérémie desperately hopes it to be,

Film: I kissed a Girl Written and Directed by Noémie Saglio, Maxime Govare Released in 2015 Language: French

begins disrupting his 10 year relationship with his boyfriend turned fiancée Antoine (Lannick Gautry), a charming doctor and a nice person to boot, who is as excited about their upcoming social union as the family of Jérémie. Things begin to go haywire when Jérémie’s confidante-cum-business partner, the playboy Charles (Franck Gastambide) ends up hiring Adna for a temp job in their office, setting the premise for the one-night stand to turn into a full-fledged affair. Adna’s lack of knowhow regarding Jérémie’s sexual orientation, stemming from his desperate bid to keep it from her, coupled with Antoine’s mounting frustration with Jérémie who has suddenly developed an indifference towards homosexual lovemaking (thus the intimacy issues) generates a few of the funniest sequences in this delightful little French romantic comedy. Hilarious yet profound is the reaction of Jérémie’s family to his ‘going straight’, especially the father’s reaction who is livid at Jérémie’s change of heart. Having taken years to come to terms with his son’s sexuality and accepting Antoine as a second son, his wariness at retracing his steps and reversing the process makes for stellar dramedy. The failed relationship is portrayed in as tender and sensitive way imaginable—Antoine’s initial

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reaction of rage giving way to the subsequent acceptance of the inevitable was necessary to render the decade-long relationship a sense of genuine closure. Even as all is well in the end and the feel good ‘feel’ of worthwhile romantic comedies bidding its viewers adieu, the little nagging at the back of the head can make one wonder whether at all a similarly entertaining ‘comedy’ can be construed out of the classic ‘coming out’ act, not unlike its inversion, keeping at bay the sympathetic expenses of a Ross Geller from ‘Friends’, to extend loving preference to the ‘queerly’ touching love story of an LGBTQ couple instead. It has only been around two years that France has legalised gay marriage and it is high time that the entertainment sectors of the countries that have taken the step forward gradually welcome homosexual characters and situations therein in their mainstream productions which are aimed at the masses.

Top, right: Pio Marmaï and Adrianna Gradziel in the film Top, inset: Lannick Gautry as Antoine

The financial success of an ‘I kissed a girl’ and the spontaneous acceptance of a ‘Mitchell and Cameron’ from a popular and critically acclaimed show such as ‘Modern Family’ will hopefully traverse a marked distance in the long path that is meant to initiate change in the social status quos, fostering a sense of not only acceptance but celebration. [CC]

CultureCult Magazine - Winter 2015-16

CINEMA

Death in the Land of Faith Jagannath Chakravarti

Mysteries in matters of faith are certainly not as uncommon as celluloid adaptations of mysteries centred in the great city of faith; the religious capital of India, Varanasi. Director Arindam Sil’s imagining of Saradindu Bandopadhyay’s classic Bengali sleuth Byomkesh Bakshi, ;Har Har Byomkesh’ is no doubt affected by Satyajit Ray’s classic mystery ‘Joy Baba Felunath’. While the predecessor derived its name from its source – the novel of the same name by Ray himself, Har Har Byomkesh is based on Bandopadhyay’s ‘Banhi Patanga’ (Firefly), set in Patna. The title is an effective nod to the Ray film, both phrases being plays on Hindu religious chants in the name of Lord Shiva, Har Har Mahadev and Joy Baba Biswanath. There is also, of course, a penultimate sequence which is a delightful homage to the work of the master. That is where the affectations come to a stop, however, if one discounts a strange coincidence embedded in the nature of mysteries themselves. Both Ray’s celluloid adaptation and Saradindu Bandopadhyay’s story (and thus, Sil’s film) are guilty of using human life as collateral damage without blinking an eyelid. The murder of elderly artist Sashi Babu in Joy Baba Felunath for stumbling upon what would eventually turn out to be a cheap copy of a priceless artefact is echoed in the climax of Sil’s film, where a surprising lack of proper detective (or as Mr. Bakshi would prefer, truth seeking) work results in lack of foresight and a

Film: Har Har Byomkesh Directed by: Arindam Sil Story: Saradindu Bandopadhyay Language: Bengali Release: December 8, 2015

reckless move on the part of the seeker. It results in the unmasking of the criminal, yes, but also the death of a woman who could as well have been more a victim than a co-conspirator and, more importantly, the demise of an unborn child. Cruelty in works of art is easy to explain away in the name of realism but the best use of this trait by any ‘creator’ can often be traced to follies inherent in the characters involved, rather than any preconceived tendency to be macabre on the part of the creators themselves. Bandopadhyay’s text can be read in terms of the post-Independence euphoria that expressed itself in hues not exactly pleasant to the human eye. Expressions of overaggressive, assertive ‘freedom’ manufactured a sense of apathy towards law and order, especially among those who were prone to criminal activities. It had, in turn, affected the figures of law and propagators of truth, toughening them up to an extent where every single crime was part of a bigger, post-independence war - the war to establish democracy and the rule of truth in a burgeoning nation-state. Collateral damage is nothing but a grim reality in such a war. Sil’s Byomkesh is in the midst of this war, but he also happens to be on his honeymoon. A honeymoon in Varanasi (with writer and dear friend Ajit Bandopadhyay tagging along) is a rather charming

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Top: Adil Hussain and Nusrat Jahan in the film Next page: The trio of Byomkesh, Satyabati and Ajit: (from left): Abir Chatterjee, Sohini Sarkar, Ritwik Chakraborty

plot device to not only explore themes of love without discounting religion, and where they overlap and lose themselves in each other. The frequent allusions to Sanskrit poet Joydev’s epic poem Geet Gobinda (an ode to the romance of Radha and Krishna, elevating the former over the latter) act in the background of Byomkesh and Satyabati’s blossoming romance while the tragic elements in classical Sanskrit playwright Kalidasa’s Abhijnanashakuntala serves to expound upon the plight of Shakuntala Devi, pregnant and trapped in an adulterous setting with a merciless man lying outside in wait. The failure of Sil’s Byomkesh to realise the true nature of Shakuntala Devi’s lover, co-conspirator and (quite possibly) the mastermind of the crime could easily be attributed to primal distractions but it could as well be a different matter altogether. Byomkesh’s inability to comprehend the darker aspects of love for the time being could also be a result of him being saturated in newfound conjugal bliss and the deeper resonance of Joydev’s depiction of ‘divine love’. Sil’s version of the popular, largely overdone Bengali sleuth is the fourth film of 2015 to feature Bandopadhyay’s ‘truthseeker’ Byomkesh Bakshi. All three, however, have featured three different actors sporting Byomkesh for the first time. Sil, though, has on board the man who has played the character more times than any other actor on the silver screen. Reinventing Byomkesh was a task cut out for both Sil and Abir Chatterjee but they managed to hit the note that worked without making it seem as if Chatterjee was simply teleported from an archetypal Anjan Dutt-chamber drama set to the diametrically different

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setting of Varanasi. The exquisite production design and Soumik Haldar’s delicate sense of cinematography sets this particular production apart from its predecessors. The script, even though it could do with a little less repetition of particular allusions, manages to instil visual coherence to a multi-layered narrative involving a bevy of characters. Sohini Sarkar as Satyabati and Ritwick Chakraborty as Ajit manage to carve out significant places for themselves even within the extant frenzy of Byomkesh adaptations. While Sarkar, a significant actor of tomorrow, brings the precise amount of poise and vulnerability to the character, Chakraborty craftily reimagines Ajit as a ‘modern’ writer and observer showing subtle traits of a bohemian first, before being a friend, confidante and associate to Byomkesh Bakshi. The supporting acts, especially those of Harsh Chhaya as Inspector Purandar Pandey and Shadab Kamal as Inspector Ratikanta Chowdhury are worth noting. Adil Hussain predictably breezes through his cameo. The music by Bickram Ghosh, influenced by North Indian classical traditions, is particularly noteworthy for the worthwhile dimension it lends the narrative. Crafting a film on crime detection may have become an act in vogue but that has not taken the

novelty out of creating mysteries on screen. Sil continues the work he had commenced in ‘Ebar Shabor’, his previous ‘crime’ film which was applauded unanimously for its sheer ingenuity of storytelling. He has not shied away from using Hindi as a primary language and has even come up with an interesting dream sequence that delves deeper into the process inside a searching mind, whose subconscious appears to be closer to the truth. The closed format of Bandopadhyay’s tales has been overcome in parts but even then, Sil’s film is quite a straightforward adaptation rather than being anything markedly different, such as Dibakar Banerjee’s adventurous conception of Byomkesh Bakshi in Bollywood. This has primarily kept Sil within a structure that has been a staple of nearly all mysteries produced in Bengal in the past few years. Despite so, Har Har Byomkesh is easily the most impressive and suave Byomkesh Bakshi film made in the original tongue till date. A distinct care towards the craft is apparent in nearly every little treatment that the film has on offer. Beautifully designed and rendered with unmistakeable passion, Har Har Byomkesh is a commendable successor to Ray’s classic, which also had a little mystery to unravel and a dangerous criminal to unmask in the Indian capital of faith. [CC]

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CINEMA

Bollywood at its finest Sundar Raghav

Celluloid storytelling of epic proportions, both in terms of grandeur of subject and lavish nature of productions, is a hallmark of filmmaker Sanjay Leela Bhansali, adored in the annals of Bollywood history as the maker of the sublime ‘Khamoshi’, the extravagant tragedy ‘Devdas’ and the beautifully poignant ‘Black’. After employing the duo of Ranveer Singh and Deepika Padukone to bring his tragic love story ‘Ram Leela’ to life, he selects the same duo and also ropes in Priyanka Chopra (who had a cameo in the last film) to realise an epic chapter of Indian history featuring the enigmatic Peshwa Bajirao I and his lady love, Mastani. Peshwas (Prime Ministers) have occupied a pride of place in the history of this nation with and at times, without the standard reference of their respective monarchs. Such is the legendary reputation of these warriors that versions of court and future historians would be worked upon and canonized by common citizens themselves – the keeper of stories from the ravages of time. The human tendency of making such histories a part of one’s own existence by infusing details which are seldom historically accurate but have a truth arrived at by the ‘writer’ is what enables a filmmaker exercising the right of creative leeway to script a saga that, despite its historical inaccuracies, can stand the test of time. Bajirao Mastani certainly appears to be such a classic that should not only stand the whims of time

Film: Bajirao Mastani Directed by: Sanjay Leela Bhansali Written by Prakash R. Kapadia Language: Hindi Release: December 18, 2015

but has proven to be contemporary enough to exert a meaningful statement in its time with regard to the extant societal and cultural scenario. Peshwa Bajirao I is imagined to be an enigmatic soul indeed, keeping with the legend circulated by resuscitators of past national heroes at a time when the entire nation was striving to unite itself against a colonial power controlling their lives. His quest for perfection in his ideals, sheer success of his warrior persona and tumultuous romance with the half-Muslim Persian beauty Mastani became as much a stuff of legend as a subtle nudge at the turn of the twentieth century to understand one’s roots and speak against a burgeoning divide among religions by pointing out that at its worst, bigotry is the very enemy of what makes life worth living in the first place: Love. Bajirao’s happy family consisting of a singular wife (Kashibai) and a child, with no shortage of venerated recognition from all quarters of family and the society at large, suffers a severe blow after Mastani surfaces as a petitioner for Bajirao’s love, which he is ready to bestow upon her willingly. Bajirao Mastani is, in essence, a tragedy in the making throughout. Even if one is unaware of the fact that their respective names are uttered in the same vein as that of Laila-Majnu or the fictional Romeo and Juliet, it is understandable why writers,

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Top: Ranveer Singh (right) and Deepika Padukone as Bajirao and Mastani

playwrights, filmmakers and even television producers have resorted to this timeless tale time and time again. It is the chance to explore a true ‘hero’ in the most primal sense of the word, winning battles at will, stooping to conquer love but lose all that awaited him to feed the bottomless ego. It is yet another chance to explore intolerance purported by religion as well as the cosmic tragedy of unfairness, which Bhansali explores in myriad hues by painting Priyanka Chopra’s Kashibai at will – two minds of brilliant sensibilities coming together in one of the finest supporting acts in recent times. The plight of the sidelined first wife is mitigated certainly by Bajirao’s kith who chose to stand beside her, but that does not excuse the subhuman treatment meted out to the outsider Mastani. Wars are waged to end conflicts but the nature of tragedy is that this war never ends as an enraptured audience would like to. The catharsis is in the suffering, but it cannot be reached at via mere logic. It should be garnered by logic-defying, intricate musical performances accompanied by dance, elaborate romantic set pieces in lavish sets and locations, words that come out of characters’ mouths in conversation but flow like crafted poetry, dripping wit and beauty from every single syllable. This is how Bollywood used to do it, but this is how Bhansali does it still. He can make them as spellbinding as they used to make them! Ranveer Singh and Deepika Padukone have outdone each other (yet again) in Bajirao Mastani. They are each getting better at their crafts with every single outing and we can only hope that they keep mesmerising us with such moving performances. The script by Prakash R. Kapadia follows a lucidity commendable for

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Top: Priyanka Chopra as Kashibai Right: Deepika Padukone in a still from the film

historical epics of this scale, while Sudeep Chatterjee’s cinematography has left no stone unturned to visualise every single frame with the utmost care and pomp. Even as the film is based on Nagnath S. Inamdar’s Marathi historical novel ‘Rau’, Bhansali has invested a good part of his life into this magnum opus of his, in development for 15 years. This is also his most accomplished work as a music director yet, seamlessly blending classical philosophies and borrowing from the Islamic musical traditions to create a grand soundtrack fitting for a cinematic experience of this scale. Bajirao Mastani is, without a doubt, Indian cinema at its dazzling best. This may not be an avant-garde alienator or a typical public pleaser, but the stupendous success of the film has proved that at least for the time being, the signature elements of classic Bollywood dreams have not vanished yet. Connoisseurs of art in this nation must thank their stars for having a Sanjay Leela Bhansali in their midst who can deliver a strong statement for the times in the grandest manner in which it can be envisioned by the best of the dream merchants of Mumbai. [CC]

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THEATRE

Aberrations, or facts of life... Jagannath Chakravarti

Drama: Pornomochi Written and directed by Koushik Kar Group: Kolkata Opera Premiere: December 25, 2015

Pornographic discourses have ceased to be as scandalous or hushed as they used to be if we turn back the clock a little. It has, however, become even more ironical that a modern society which has so readily accepted sexuality in myriad avatars still has an unfortunate image in front of the world of being a ‘rape nation’ and is effectively a shut-off fortress of Victorian prudery when it comes to discussing sexuality instead of ‘porn’. Thus, young thespian & writer-director Koushik Kar takes the onus unto himself to weave a comprehensive narrative meant to explore both porn and the dreaded ‘s’ word in a framework featuring a cast of identifiable character, headed by the teenage protagonist Anal (Shantanu Nath). Anal’s decline into a confused state of inner desires and addictions stems from the untimely demise of his father and his subsequent discovery of intimate video footage featuring his father and a former girlfriend, shot by the deceased who had a documented passion for filmmaking. The video instantly becomes Anal’s prized possession, an exclusive voyeuristic black hole among his collection of High Definition pornography. Adolescent psychology resides at the heart of Kar’s script with equal emphasis given to the abysmal state of sex education in schools to the prosaic vulnerability of teenage angst, made worse by a world culture that commodifies ‘sex’, further compartmentalizing the case of ‘love’. The desensitization and the descent is starkly brought to life in

tropes of both ‘fantasy’ and reality, even as the bereaved chooses to see his father in the darkest light that his own impressionable soul can emit. Billed rather wrongly as a piece of ‘bold theatre’ presumably for adults, the script compensates the buzzworthy and detailed fantasies (that even includes a near-striptease) with weighed accounts of a symptomatic, patriarchal police officer torn in the throes of countering social evil during the day and that of his desires during the night, when virtual Russian beauties become as much a source of respite for him as alcohol. The fact that he fathers a teenage daughter and harbours grave contempt for those who dare commit atrocities against women & even expresses deep frustration at the tight leash of law when it comes to imparting justice, make him a character of note indeed. Satish Shaw turns out to be a revelation in the act of a dealer in pornography, a role that is as much a comic relief as a stringent indictment of society who link their inner demons to the people who help them feed that darkness within, overlooking any shred of light that may flicker beneath the darkest of facades and ‘criminalizing’ them when one is overwhelmed by the realization of personal follies. The conflict of Freudian ‘truths’ and markedly different human values comes to the fore in a

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Top: A moment from the final act

rather ingenious, yet seemingly unnecessary twist which lends the play a markedly ‘Oedipal’ effect without conventionally resorting to the Hamletian model, remaining closer to the Sophoclean legend instead. The final message of ‘hope’, wonderfully articulated after shedding the inherent pun in ‘Porn”omochi (deciduous), works as an oasis for the confused state of mind, equating overcoming preconceptions to the annual shedding of leaves among deciduous species. A largely engaging script with infusions of humour and (dirty) play of words (the very names of the protagonist and that of his girlfriend ‘Parno’) forms the backbone of the first production of this new theatre group ‘Kolkata Opera’. While many in the production are stage professionals, a few more rehearsals would benefit the entire production and especially address the concern when it comes to a handful of peripheral characters. Shantanu Nath is suitably intense as Anal, never breaking the illusion of ‘teen spirit’ during the process. Kar is adequate on stage but appears more at ease on screen during the visuals. Tannishtha Biswas pulls off the teenage act without drifting into overt theatrics while Satish Shaw definitely takes away the cherry of the pie. Rahul Sengupta makes a fine case of the angry police officer. Ankita Majhi is without a doubt ‘bold’ in her rendition of Anal’s fantasy but effortlessly transforms herself into a stark opposite by the close of play. A special mention must be made of Madhumita Sengupta who plays the bereaved woman

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Top and right: Shantanu Nath and Tannishtha Biswas in the play

and mother to Anal, to clinical perfection. The drama would definitely improve as an overall production as more shows are staged but it had been apparent on the evening of the premiere itself that Kolkata Opera has a relevant production on its hands; one that would probably benefit parents and young adults alike for its deft handling of vital social problem. For that, though, ‘Pornomochi’ needs to shed off the misleading ‘branding’ of being a piece of ‘adult theatre’ and speak for what the playwright truly wishes to communicate. [CC]

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A column that proposes to switch theological prisms in each issue to understand life as we know it in a light unseen as yet. Harvard philosopher and the foremost exponent of modern psychology, William Jamesâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Gifford lectures in Edinburgh (pub. 1902) stem from his interest in direct religious experiences.

The Divided Self,

and the Process of its Unification The last lecture was a painful one, dealing as it did

William James

with evil as a pervasive element of the world we live in. At the close of it we were brought into full view of the contrast between the two ways of looking at life which are characteristic respectively of what we called the healthy-minded, who need to be born only once, and of the sick souls, who must be twice-born in order to be happy. The result is two different conceptions of the universe of our experience. In the religion of the once-born the world is a sort of rectilinear or one-storied affair, whose accounts are kept in one denomination, whose parts have just the values which naturally they appear to have, and of which a simple algebraic sum of pluses and minuses will give the total worth. Happiness and religious peace consist in living on the plus side of the account. In the religion of the twice-born, on the other hand, the world is a double-storied mystery. Peace cannot be reached by the simple addition of pluses and elimination of minuses from life. Natural good is not simply insufficient in amount and transient, there lurks a falsity in its very being. Cancelled as it all is by

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death if not by earlier enemies, it gives no final balance, and can never be the thing intended for our lasting worship. It keeps us from our real good, rather; and renunciation and despair of it are our first step in the direction of the truth. There are two lives, the natural and the spiritual, and we must lose the one before we can participate in the other. In their extreme forms, of pure naturalism and pure salvationism, the two types are violently contrasted; though here as in most other current classifications, the radical extremes are somewhat ideal abstractions, and the concrete human beings whom we oftenest meet are intermediate varieties and mixtures. Practically, however, you all recognize the difference: you understand, for example, the disdain of the methodist convert for the mere sky-blue healthy-minded moralist; and you likewise enter into the aversion of the latter to what seems to him the diseased subjectivism of the Methodist, dying to live, as he calls it, and making of paradox and the inversion of natural appearances the essence of God's truth. (1) The psychological basis of the twice-born character seems to be a certain discordancy or heterogeneity in the native temperament of the subject, an incompletely unified moral and intellectual constitution. "Homo duplex, homo duplex!" writes Alphonse Daudet. "The first time that I perceived that I was two was at the death of my brother Henri, when my father cried out so dramatically, 'He is dead, he is dead!' While my first self wept, my second self thought, 'How truly given was that cry, how fine it would be at the theatre.' I was then fourteen years old. "This horrible duality has often given me matter for reflection. Oh, this terrible second me, always seated whilst the other is on foot, acting, living, suffering, bestirring itself. This second me that I have never been able to intoxicate, to make shed tears, or put to sleep. And how it sees into things, and how it mocks!" (2)

Recent works on the psychology of character have had much to say upon this point. (3) Some persons are born with an inner constitution which is harmonious and well balanced from the outset. Their impulses are consistent with one another, their will follows without trouble the guidance of their intellect, their passions are not excessive, and their lives are little haunted by regrets. Others are oppositely constituted; and are so in degrees which may vary from something so slight as to result in a merely odd or whimsical inconsistency, to

a discordancy of which the consequences may be inconvenient in the extreme. Of the more innocent kinds of heterogeneity I find a good example in Mrs. Annie Besant's autobiography. "I have ever been the queerest mixture of weakness and strength, and have paid heavily for the weakness. As a child I used to suffer tortures of shyness, and if my shoe-lace was untied would feel shamefacedly that every eye was fixed on the unlucky string; as a girl I would shrink away from strangers and think myself unwanted and unliked, so that I was full of eager gratitude to any one who noticed me kindly, as the young mistress of a house I was afraid of my servants, and would let careless work pass rather than bear the pain of reproving the ill-doer; when I have been lecturing and debating with no lack of spirit on the platform, I have preferred to go without what I wanted at the hotel rather than to ring and make the waiter fetch it. Combative on the platform in defense of any cause I cared for, I shrink from quarrel or disapproval in the house, and am a coward at heart in private while a good fighter in public. How often have I passed unhappy quarters of an hour screwing up my courage to find fault with some subordinate whom my duty compelled me to reprove, and how often have I jeered myself for a fraud as the doughty platform combatant, when shrinking from blaming some lad or lass for doing their work badly. An unkind look or word has availed to make me shrink into myself as a snail into its shell, while, on the platform, opposition makes me speak my best." (4)

This amount of inconsistency will only count as amiable weakness; but a stronger degree of heterogeneity may make havoc of the subject's life. There are persons whose existence is little more than a series of zig-zags, as now one tendency and now another gets the upper hand. Their spirit wars with their flesh, they wish for incompatibles, wayward impulses interrupt their most deliberate plans, and their lives are one long drama of repentance and of effort to repair misdemeanors and mistakes. Heterogeneous personality has been explained as the result of inheritance—the traits of character of incompatible and antagonistic ancestors are supposed to be preserved alongside of each other. (5) This explanation may pass for what it is worth—it certainly needs corroboration. But whatever the cause of heterogeneous personality may be, we find the extreme examples of it in the psychopathic temperament, of which I spoke in my first lecture. All writers about that temperament make the inner heterogeneity prominent in their descriptions. Frequently, indeed, it is only this trait that leads us to ascribe that temperament to a man at all. A "dégénéré supérieur" is simply a man

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of sensibility in many directions, who finds more difficulty than is common in keeping his spiritual house in order and running his furrow straight, because his feelings and impulses are too keen and too discrepant mutually. In the haunting and insistent ideas, in the irrational impulses, the morbid scruples, dreads, and inhibitions which beset the psychopathic temperament when it is thoroughly pronounced, we have exquisite examples of heterogeneous personality. Bunyan had an obsession of the words, "Sell Christ for this, sell him for that, sell him, sell him!" which would run through his mind a hundred times together, until one day out of breath with retorting, "I will not, I will not," he impulsively said, "Let him go if he will," and this loss of the battle kept him in despair for over a year. The lives of the saints are full of such blasphemous obsessions, ascribed invariably to the direct agency of Satan. The phenomenon connects itself with the life of the subconscious self, socalled, of which we must erelong speak more directly. Now in all of us, however constituted, but to a degree the greater in proportion as we are intense and sensitive and subject to diversified temptations, and to the greatest possible degree if we are decidedly psychopathic, does the normal evolution of character chiefly consist in the straightening out and unifying of the inner self. The higher and the lower feelings, the useful and the erring impulses, begin by being a comparative chaos within us—they must end by forming a stable system of functions in right subordination. Unhappiness is apt to characterize the period of order-making and struggle. If the individual be of tender conscience and religiously quickened, the unhappiness will take the form of moral remorse and compunction, of feeling inwardly vile and wrong, and of standing in false relations to the author of one's being and appointer of one's spiritual fate. This is the religious melancholy and "conviction of sin" that have played so large a part in the history of Protestant Christianity. The man's interior is a battle-ground for what he feels to be two deadly hostile selves, one actual, the other ideal. As Victor Hugo makes his Mahomet say:— "Je suis le champ vil des sublimes combats: Tantôt l’homme d’en haut, et tantôt l’homme d’en bas; Et le mal dans ma bouche avec le bien alterne,

Comme dans le désert le sable et la citerne."

Wrong living, impotent aspirations; "What I would, that do I not; but what I hate, that do I," as Saint Paul says; self-loathing, self-despair; an unintelligible and intolerable burden to which one is mysteriously the heir. Let me quote from some typical cases of discordant personality, with melancholy in the form of self-condemnation and sense of sin. Saint Augustine's case is a classic example. You all remember his half-pagan, half-Christian bringing up at Carthage, his emigration to Rome and Milan, his adoption of Manicheism and subsequent skepticism, and his restless search for truth and purity of life; and finally how, distracted by the struggle between the two souls in his breast and ashamed of his own weakness of will, when so many others whom he knew and knew of had thrown off the shackles of sensuality and dedicated themselves to chastity and the higher life, he heard a voice in the garden say, "Sume, lege" (take and read), and opening the Bible at random, saw the text, "not in chambering and wantonness," etc., which seemed directly sent to his address, and laid the inner storm to rest forever. (6) Augustine's psychological genius has given an account of the trouble of having a divided self which has never been surpassed. "The new will which I began to have was not yet strong enough to overcome that other will, strengthened by long indulgence. So these two wills, one old, one new, one carnal, the other spiritual, contended with each other and disturbed my soul. I understood by my own experience what I had read, 'flesh lusteth against spirit, and spirit against flesh.' It was myself indeed in both the wills, yet more myself in that which I approved in myself than in that which I disapproved in myself. Yet it was through myself that habit had attained so fierce a mastery over me, because I had willingly come whither I willed not. Still bound to earth, I refused, O God, to fight on thy side, as much afraid to be freed from all bonds, as I ought to have feared being trammeled by them. "Thus the thoughts by which I meditated upon thee were like the efforts of one who would awake, but being overpowered with sleepiness is soon asleep again. Often does a man when heavy sleepiness is on his limbs defer to shake it off, and though not approving it, encourage it; even so I was sure it was better to surrender to thy love than to yield to my own lusts, yet though the former course convinced me, the latter pleased and held me bound. There was naught in me to answer thy call 'Awake, thou sleeper,' but only drawling, drowsy words, 'Presently; yes, presently; wait a little while.' But the 'presently' had no 'present,' and the 'little while' grew long. . . . For I was afraid thou wouldst hear me too soon, and heal me at once of my disease of lust, which I wished to satiate rather than to see extinguished. With what

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lashes of words did I not scourge my own soul. Yet it shrank back; it refused, though it had no excuse to offer. . . . I said within myself: 'Come, let it be done now,' and as I said it, I was on the point of the resolve. I all but did it, yet I did not do it. And I made another effort, and almost succeeded, yet I did not reach it, and did not grasp it, hesitating to die to death, and live to life, and the evil to which I was so wonted held me more than the better life I had not tried." (7)

There could be no more perfect description of the divided will, when the higher wishes lack just that last acuteness, that touch of explosive intensity, of dynamogenic quality (to use the slang of the psychologists), that enables them to burst their shell, and make irruption efficaciously into life and quell the lower tendencies forever. In a later lecture we shall have much to say about this higher excitability. I find another good description of the divided will in the autobiography of Henry Alline, the Nova Scotian evangelist, of whose melancholy I read a brief account in my last lecture. The poor youth's sins were, as you will see, of the most harmless order, yet they interfered with what proved to be his truest vocation, so they gave him great distress. "I was now very moral in my life, but found no rest of conscience. I now began to be esteemed in young company, who knew nothing of my mind all this while, and their esteem began to be a snare to my soul, for I soon began to be fond of carnal mirth, though I still flattered myself that if I did not get drunk, nor curse, nor swear, there would be no sin in frolicking and carnal mirth, and I thought God would indulge young people with some (what I called simple or civil) recreation. I still kept a round of duties, and would not suffer myself to run into any open vices, and so got along very well in time of health and prosperity, but when I was distressed or threatened by sickness, death, or heavy storms of thunder, my religion would not do, and I found there was something wanting, and would begin to repent my going so much to frolics, but when the distress was over, the devil and my own wicked heart, with the solicitations of my associates, and my fondness for young company, were such strong allurements, I would again give way, and thus I got to be very wild and rude, at the same time kept up my rounds of secret prayer and reading; but God, not willing I should destroy myself, still followed me with his calls, and moved with such power upon my conscience, that I could not satisfy myself with my diversions, and in the midst of my mirth sometimes would have such a sense of my lost and undone condition, that I would wish myself from the company, and after it was over, when I went home, would make many promises that I would attend no more on these frolics, and would beg forgiveness for hours and hours; but when I came to have the temptation again, I would give way: no sooner would I hear the music and drink a glass of wine, but I would find my mind elevated and soon proceed to any sort of merriment or

diversion, that I thought was not debauched or openly vicious; but when I returned from my carnal mirth I felt as guilty as ever, and could sometimes not close my eyes for some hours after I had gone to my bed. I was one of the most unhappy creatures on earth. "Sometimes I would leave the company (often speaking to the fiddler to cease from playing, as if I was tired), and go out and walk about crying and praying, as if my very heart would break, and beseeching God that he would not cut me off, nor give me up to hardness of heart. Oh, what unhappy hours and nights I thus wore away! When I met sometimes with merry companions, and my heart was ready to sink, I would labor to put on as cheerful a countenance as possible, that they might not distrust anything, and sometimes would begin some discourse with young men or young women on purpose, or propose a merry song, lest the distress of my soul would be discovered, or mistrusted, when at the same time I would then rather have been in a wilderness in exile, than with them or any of their pleasures or enjoyments. Thus for many months when I was in company? I would act the hypocrite and feign a merry heart but at the same time would endeavor as much as I could to shun their company, oh wretched and unhappy mortal that I was! Everything I did, and wherever I went, I was still in a storm and yet I continued to be the chief contriver and ringleader of the frolics for many months after; though it was a toil and torment to attend them; but the devil and my own wicked heart drove me about like a slave, telling me that I must do this and do that, and bear this and bear that, and turn here and turn there, to keep my credit up, and retain the esteem of my associates: and all this while I continued as strict as possible in my duties, and left no stone unturned to pacify my conscience, watching even against my thoughts, and praying continually wherever I went: for I did not think there was any sin in my conduct, when I was among carnal company, because I did not take any satisfaction there, but only followed it, I thought, for sufficient reasons. "But still, all that I did or could do, conscience would roar night and day."

Saint Augustine and Alline both emerged into the smooth waters of inner unity and peace, and I shall next ask you to consider more closely some of the peculiarities of the process of unification, when it occurs. It may come gradually, or it may occur abruptly; it may come through altered feelings, or through altered powers of action; or it may come through new intellectual insights, or through experiences which we shall later have to designate as 'mystical.' However it come, it brings a characteristic sort of relief; and never such extreme relief as when it is cast into the religious mould. Happiness! happiness! religion is only one of the ways in which men gain that gift. Easily, permanently, and successfully, it often transforms the most intolerable misery into the profoundest and most enduring happiness.

Left: St. Augustine: Original Sin by Philippe de Champaigne Below: Annie Besant Down, Left: John Bunyan Down, Right Leo Tolstoy

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But to find religion is only one out of many ways of reaching unity; and the process of remedying inner incompleteness and reducing inner discord is a general psychological process, which may take place with any sort of mental material, and need not necessarily assume the religious form. In judging of the religious types of regeneration which we are about to study, it is important to recognize that they are only one species of a genus that contains other types as well. For example, the new birth may be away from religion into incredulity; or it may be from moral scrupulosity into freedom and license; or it may be produced by the irruption into the individual's life of some new stimulus or passion, such as love, ambition, cupidity, revenge, or patriotic devotion. In all these instances we have precisely the same psychological form of event,â&#x20AC;&#x201D;a firmness, stability, and equilibrium succeeding a period of storm and stress and inconsistency. In these non-religious cases the new man may also be born either gradually or suddenly. The French philosopher Jouffroy has left an eloquent memorial of his own "counterconversion," as the transition from orthodoxy to infidelity has been well styled by Mr. Starbuck. Jouffroy's doubts had long harassed him; but he dates his final crisis from a certain night when his disbelief grew fixed and stable, and where the immediate result was sadness at the illusions he had lost. "I shall never forget that night of December," writes Jouffroy, "in which the veil that concealed from me my own incredulity was torn. I hear again my steps in that narrow naked chamber where long after the hour of sleep had come I had the habit of walking up and down. I see again that moon, half-veiled by clouds, which now and again illuminated the frigid window-panes. The hours of the night flowed on and I did not note their passage. Anxiously I followed my thoughts, as from layer to layer they descended towards the foundation of my consciousness, and, scattering one by one all the illusions which until then had screened its windings from my view, made them every moment more clearly visible. "Vainly I clung to these last beliefs as a shipwrecked sailor clings to the fragments of his vessel; vainly, frightened at the unknown void in which I was about to float, I turned with them towards my childhood, my family, my country, all that was dear and sacred to me: the inflexible current of my thought was too strongâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;parents, family, memory, beliefs, it forced me to let go of everything. The investigation went on more obstinate and more severe as it drew near its term, and did not stop until the end was reached. I knew then that in

the depth of my mind nothing was left that stood erect. "This moment was a frightful one; and when towards morning I threw myself exhausted on my bed, I seemed to feel my earlier life, so smiling and so full, go out like a fire, and before me another life opened, sombre and unpeopled, where in future I must live alone, alone with my fatal thought which had exiled me thither, and which I was tempted to curse. The days which followed this discovery were the saddest of my life." (8)

In John Foster's Essay on Decision of Character, there is an account of a case of sudden conversion to avarice, which is illustrative enough to quote A young man, it appears, "wasted, in two or three years, a large patrimony in profligate revels with a number of worthless associates who called themselves his friends, and who, when his last means were exhausted, treated him of course with neglect or contempt. Reduced to absolute want, he one day went out of the house with an intention to put an end to his life, but wandering awhile almost unconsciously, he came to the brow of an eminence which overlooked what were lately his estates. Here he sat down, and remained fixed in thought a number of hours, at the end of which he sprang from the ground with a vehement, exulting emotion. He had formed his resolution, which was, that all these estates should be his again; he had formed his plan, too, which he instantly began to execute. He walked hastily forward, determined to seize the first opportunity, of however humble a kind, to gain any money, though it were ever so despicable a trifle, and resolved absolutely not to spend, if he could help it, a farthing of whatever he might obtain. The first thing that drew his attention was a heap of coals shot out of carts on the pavement before a house. He offered himself to shovel or wheel them into the place where they were to be laid, and was employed. He received a few pence for the labor; and then, in pursuance of the saving part of his plan requested some small gratuity of meat and drink, which was given him. He then looked out for the next thing that might chance; and went, with indefatigable industry, through a succession of servile employments in different places, of longer and shorter duration, still scrupulous in avoiding, as far as possible, the expense of a penny. He promptly seized every opportunity which could advance his design, without regarding the meanness of occupation or appearance. By this method he had gained, after a considerable time, money enough to purchase in order to sell again a few cattle, of which he had taken pains to understand the value. He speedily but cautiously turned his first gains into second advantages; retained without a single deviation his extreme parsimony; and thus advanced by degrees into larger transactions and incipient wealth. I did not hear, or have forgotten, the continued course of his life, but the final result was, that he more than recovered his lost possessions, and died an inveterate miser, worth ÂŁ60,000." (9)

Let me turn now to the kind of case, the religious case, namely, that immediately concerns us. Here is one of the simplest possible type, an ac-

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count of the conversion to the systematic religion of healthy-mindedness of a man who must already have been naturally of the healthy-minded type. It shows how, when the fruit is ripe, a touch will make it fall. Mr. Horace Fletcher, in his little book called Menticulture, relates that a friend with whom he was talking of the self-control attained by the Japanese through their practice of the Buddhist discipline said â&#x20AC;&#x201D; "'You must first get rid of anger and worry.' 'But,' said I, 'is that possible?' 'Yes,' replied he; 'it is possible to the Japanese, and ought to be possible to us.' "On my way back I could think of nothing else but the words get rid, get rid'; and the idea must have continued to possess me during my sleeping hours, for the first consciousness in the morning brought back the same thought, with the revelation of a discovery, which framed itself into the reasoning, 'If it is possible to get rid of anger and worry, why is it necessary to have them at all?' I felt the strength of the argument, and at once accepted the reasoning. The baby had discovered that it could walk. It would scorn to creep any longer. "From the instant I realized that these cancer spots of worry and anger were removable, they left me. With the discovery of their weakness they were exorcised. From that time life has had an entirely different aspect. "Although from that moment the possibility and desirability of freedom from the depressing passions has been a reality to me, it took me some months to feel absolute security in my new position; but, as the usual occasions for worry and anger have presented themselves over and over again, and I have been unable to feel them in the slightest degree, I no longer dread or guard against them, and I am amazed at my increased energy and vigor of mind, at my strength to meet situations of all kinds and at my disposition to love and appreciate everything. "I have had occasion to travel more than ten thousand miles by rail since that morning. The same Pullman porter, conductor, hotel-waiter, peddler, book-agent, cabman, and others who were formerly a source of annoyance and irritation have been met, but I am not conscious of a single incivility. All at once the whole world has turned good to me. I have become, as it were, sensitive only to the rays of good. "I could recount many experiences which prove a brand-new condition of mind, but one will be sufficient. Without the slightest feeling of annoyance or impatience, I have seen a train that I had planned to take with a good deal of interested and pleasurable anticipation move out of the station without me, because my baggage did not arrive. The porter from the hotel came running and panting into the station just as the train pulled out of sight. When he saw me, he looked as if he feared a scolding. and began to tell of being blocked in a crowded street and unable to get out. When he had finished, I said to him: 'It doesn't matter at all, you couldn't help it, so we will try again to-morrow. Here is your fee, I am sorry you had all this trouble in earning it.' The

look of surprise that came over his face was so filled with pleasure that I was repaid on the spot for the delay in my departure. Next day he would not accept a cent for the service, and he and I are friends for life. "During the first weeks of my experience I was on guard only against worry and anger; but, in the mean time, having noticed the absence of the other depressing and dwarfing passions, I began to trace a relationship, until I was convinced that they are all growths from the two roots I have specified. I have felt the freedom now for so long a time that I am sure of my relation toward it; and I could no more harbor any of the thieving and depressing influences that once I nursed as a heritage of humanity than a fop would voluntarily wallow in a filthy gutter. "There is no doubt in my mind that pure Christianity and pure Buddhism, and the Mental Sciences and all Religions fundamentally teach what has been a discovery to me; but none of them have presented it in the light of a simple and easy process of elimination. At one time I wondered if the elimination would not yield to indifference and sloth. In my experience, the contrary is the result. I feel such an increased desire to do something useful that it seems as if I were a boy again and the energy for play had returned. I could fight as readily as (and better than) ever, if there were occasion for it. It does not make one a coward. It can't, since fear is one of the things eliminated. I notice the absence of timidity in the presence of any audience. When a boy, I was standing under a tree which was struck by lightning, and received a shock from the effects of which I never knew exemption until I had dissolved partnership with worry. Since then, lightning and thunder have been encountered under conditions which would formerly have caused great depression and discomfort, without [my] experiencing a trace of either. Surprise is also greatly modified, and one is less liable to become startled by unexpected sights or noises. "As far as I am individually concerned, I am not bothering myself at present as to what the results of this emancipated condition may be. I have no doubt that the perfect health aimed at by Christian Science may be one of the possibilities, for I note a marked improvement in the way my stomach does its duty in assimilating the food I give it to handle, and I am sure it works better to the sound of a song than under the friction of a frown. Neither am I wasting any of this precious time formulating an idea of a future existence or a future Heaven. The Heaven that I have within myself is as attractive as any that has been promised or that I can imagine; and I am willing to let the growth lead where it will, as long as the anger and their brood have no part in misguiding it." (10)

The older medicine used to speak of two ways, lysis and crisis, one gradual, the other abrupt, in which one might recover from a bodily disease. In the spiritual realm there are also two ways, one gradual, the other sudden, in which inner unification may occur. Tolstoy and Bunyan may again serve us as examples, examples, as it happens, of the gradual way, though it must be

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confessed at the outset that it is hard to follow these windings of the hearts of others, and one feels that their words do not reveal their total secret. Howe’er this be, Tolstoy, pursuing his unending questioning, seemed to come to one insight after another. First he perceived that his conviction that life was meaningless took only this finite life into account. He was looking for the value of one finite term in that of another, and the whole result could only be one of those indeterminate equations in mathematics which end with 0 = 0. Yet this is as far as the reasoning intellect by itself can go, unless irrational sentiment or faith brings in the infinite. Believe in the infinite as common people do, and life grows possible again. "Since mankind has existed, wherever life has been, there also has been the faith that gave the possibility of living. Faith is the sense of life, that sense by virtue of which man does not destroy himself, but continues to live on. It is the force whereby we live. If Man did not believe that he must live for something, he would not live at all. The idea of an infinite God, of the divinity of the soul, of the union of men's actions with God—these are ideas elaborated in the infinite secret depths of human thought. They are ideas without which there would be no life, without which I myself," said Tolstoy, "would not exist. I began to see that I had no right to rely on my individual reasoning and neglect these answers given by faith, for they are the only answers to the question."

Yet how believe as the common people believe, steeped as they are in grossest superstition? It is impossible—but yet their life! their life! It is normal. It is happy! It is an answer to the question! Little by little, Tolstoy came to the settled conviction—he says it took him two years to arrive there—that his trouble had not been with life in general, not with the common life of common men, but with the life of the upper, intellectual, artistic classes, the life which he had personally always led, the cerebral life, the life of conventionality, artificiality, and personal ambition. He had been living wrongly and must change. To work for animal needs, to abjure lies and vanities, to relieve common wants, to be simple, to believe in God, therein lay happiness again. "I remember," he says, "one day in early spring, I was alone in the forest, lending my ear to its mysterious noises. I listened, and my thought went back to what for these three years it always was busy with—the quest of God. But the idea of him, I said, how did I ever come by the idea? "And again there arose in me, with this thought, glad aspirations towards life. Everything in me awoke and received a

meaning. . . .Why do I look farther? a voice within me asked. He is there: he, without whom one cannot live. To acknowledge God and to live are one and the same thing. God is what life is. Well, then! live, seek God, and there will be no life without him. . . . "After this, things cleared up within me and about me better than ever, and the light has never wholly died away. I was saved from suicide. Just how or when the change took place I cannot tell. But as insensibly and gradually as the force of life had been annulled within me, and I had reached my moral death-bed, just as gradually and imperceptibly did the energy of life come back. And what was strange was that this energy that came back was nothing new. It was my ancient juvenile force of faith, the belief that the sole purpose of my life was to be better. I gave up the life of the conventional world, recognizing it to be no life, but a parody on life, which its superfluities simply keep us from comprehending,"—and Tolstoy thereupon embraced the life of the peasants, and has felt right and happy, or at least relatively so, ever since. (11)

As I interpret his melancholy, then, it was not merely an accidental vitiation of his humors, though it was doubtless also that. It was logically called for by the clash between his inner character and his outer activities and aims. Although a literary artist, Tolstoy was one of those primitive oaks of men to whom the superfluities and insincerities, the cupidities, complications, and cruelties of our polite civilization are profoundly unsatisfying, and for whom the eternal veracities lie with more natural and animal things. His crisis was the getting of his soul in order, the discovery of its genuine habitat and vocation, the escape from falsehoods into what for him were ways of truth. It was a case of heterogeneous personality tardily and slowly finding its unity and level. And though not many of us can imitate Tolstoy, not having enough, perhaps, of the aboriginal human marrow in our bones, most of us may at least feel as if it might be better for us if we could. Bunyan's recovery seems to have been even slower. For years together he was alternately haunted with texts of Scripture, now up and now down, but at last with an ever growing relief in his salvation through the blood of Christ. "My peace would be in and out twenty times a day; comfort now and trouble presently; peace now and before I could go a furlong as full of guilt and fear as ever heart could hold." When a good text comes home to him, "This," he writes, "gave me good encouragement for the space of two or three hours"; or "This was a good day to me, I hope I shall not forget it", or "The glory of these words was then so weighty on me that I was ready to swoon as I sat; yet, not with grief and trouble, but with solid joy and peace"; or "This

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made a strange seizure on my spirit; it brought light with it, and commanded a silence in my heart of all those tumultuous thoughts that before did use, like masterless hellhounds, to roar and bellow and make a hideous noise within me. It showed me that Jesus Christ had not quite forsaken and cast off my Soul." Such periods accumulate until he can write: "And now remained only the hinder part of the tempest, for the thunder was gone beyond me, only some drops would still remain, that now and then would fall upon me";—and at last: "Now did my chains fall off my legs indeed; I was loosed from my afflictions and irons; my temptations also fled away; so that from that time, those dreadful Scriptures of God left off to trouble me; now went I also home rejoicing, for the grace and love of God. . . . Now could I see myself in Heaven and Earth at once; in Heaven by my Christ, by my Head, by my Righteousness and Life, though on Earth by my body or person. . . . Christ was a precious Christ to my soul that night; I could scarce lie in my bed for joy and peace and triumph through Christ."

Bunyan became a minister of the gospel, and in spite of his neurotic constitution, and of the twelve years he lay in prison for his nonconformity, his life was turned to active use. He was a peacemaker and doer of good, and the immortal Allegory which he wrote has brought the very spirit of religious patience home to English hearts. But neither Bunyan nor Tolstoy could become what we have called healthy-minded. They had drunk too deeply of the cup of bitterness ever to forget its taste, and their redemption is into a universe two stories deep. Each of them realized a good which broke the effective edge of his sadness; yet the sadness was preserved as a minor ingredient in the heart of the faith by which it was overcome. The fact of interest for us is that as a matter of fact they could and did find something welling up in the inner reaches of their consciousness, by which such extreme sadness could be overcome. Tolstoy does well to talk of it as that by which men live; for that is exactly what it is, a stimulus, an excitement, a faith, a force that re-infuses the positive willingness to live, even in full presence of the evil perceptions that erewhile made life seem unbearable. For Tolstoy's perceptions of evil appear within their sphere to have remained unmodified. His later works show him implacable to the whole system of official values: the ignobility of fashionable life; the infamies of empire; the spuriousness of the church, the vain conceit of the professions; the meannesses and cruelties that go

with great success; and every other pompous crime and lying institution of this world. To all patience with such things his experience has been for him a permanent ministry of death. Bunyan also leaves this world to the enemy. "I must first pass a sentence of death," he says, "upon everything that can properly be called a thing of this life, even to reckon myself, my wife, my children, my health, my enjoyments, and all, as dead to me, and myself as dead to them; to trust in God through Christ, as touching the world to come, and as touching this world, to count the grave my house, to make my bed in darkness, and to say to corruption, Thou art my father and to the worm, Thou art my mother and sister. . . . The parting with my wife and my poor children hath often been to me as the pulling of my flesh from my bones, especially my poor blind child who lay nearer my heart than all I had besides. Poor child, thought I, what sorrow art thou like to have for thy portion in this world! Thou must be beaten, must beg, suffer hunger, cold, nakedness, and a thousand calamities, though I cannot now endure that the wind should blow upon thee. But yet I must venture you all with God, though it goeth to the quick to leave you." (12)

The "hue of resolution" is there, but the full flood of ecstatic liberation seems never to have poured over poor John Bunyan's soul. These examples may suffice to acquaint us in a general way with the phenomenon technically called "Conversion." In the next lecture I shall invite you to study its peculiarities and concomitants in some detail.

Footnotes

(1) E.g., "Our young people are diseased with the theological problems of original sin, origin of evil, predestination, and the like. These never presented a practical difficulty to any man—never darkened across any man's road, who did not go out of his way to seek them. These are the soul's mumps, and measles, and whooping-coughs, etc.” Emerson: Spiri-

tual Laws. (2) Notes sur la Vie, p. 1. (3) See, for example, F. Paulhan, in his book Les Caractères, 1894, who contrasts les Equilibrés, les Unifiés, with les Inquiets, les Contrariants, les Incohérents, les Emiettés, as so many diverse psychic types. (4) Annie Besant: an Autobiography, p. 82. (5) Smith Baker, in Journal of Nervous and Mental Diseases, September, 1893.

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shown by an analysis of Augustine's writings immediately after the date of his conversion (A.D. 386) that the account he gives in the Confessions is premature. The crisis in the garden marked a definitive conversion from his former life, but it was to the neo-platonic spiritualism and only a halfway stage toward Christianity. The latter he appears not fully and radically to have embraced until four years more had passed. (7) Confessions, Book VIII., Chaps. v., vii., xi., abridged. (8) Th. Jouffroy: Nouveaux MĂŠlanges philosophiques, 2me edition, p. 83. I add two other cases of counter-conversion dating from a certain moment. The first is from Professor Starbuck's manuscript collection, and the narrator is a woman. "Away down in the bottom of my heart, I believe I was always more or less skeptical about 'God;' skepticism grew as an undercurrent, all through my early youth, but it was controlled and covered by the emotional elements in my religious growth. When I was sixteen I joined the church and was asked if I loved God. I replied 'Yes,' as was customary and expected. But instantly with a flash something spoke within me, 'No, you do not.' I was haunted for a long time with shame and remorse for my falsehood and for my wickedness in not loving God, mingled with fear that there might be an avenging God who would punish me in some terrible way. . . . At nineteen, I had an attack of tonsilitis. Before I had quite recovered, I heard told a story of a brute who had kicked his wife down-stairs, and then continued the operation until she became insensible. I felt the horror of the thing keenly. Instantly this thought flashed through my mind: 'I have no use for a God who permits such things.' This experience was followed by months of stoical indifference to the God of my previous life, mingled with feelings of positive dislike and a somewhat proud defiance of him. I still thought there might be a God. If so he would probably damn me, but I should have to stand it. I felt very little fear and no desire to propitiate him. I have never had any personal relations with him since this painful experience."

The second case exemplifies how small an additional stimulus will overthrow the mind into a new state of equilibrium when the process of preparation and incubation has proceeded far enough. It is like the pro-

verbial last straw added to the camel's burden, or that touch of a needle which makes the salt in a supersaturated fluid suddenly begin to crystallize out. Tolstoy writes: "S., a frank and intelligent man, told me as follows how he ceased to believe:â&#x20AC;&#x201D; "He was twenty-six years old when one day on a hunting expedition, the time for sleep having come, he set himself to pray according to the custom he had held from childhood. "His brother, who was hunting with him, lay upon the hay and looked at him. When S. had finished his prayer and was turning to sleep, the brother said, 'Do you still keep up that thing?' Nothing p. 175 more was said. But since that day, now more than thirty years ago, S. has never prayed again; he never takes communion, and does not go to church. All this, not because he became acquainted with convictions of his brother which he then and there adopted; not because he made any new resolution in his soul, but merely because the words spoken by his brother were like the light push of a finger against a leaning wall already about to tumble by its own weight. These words but showed him that the place wherein he supposed religion dwelt in him had long been empty, and that the sentences he uttered, the crosses and bows which he made during his prayer, were actions with no sense. Having once seized their absurdity, he could no longer keep them up." Ma

Confession, p. 8. p. 175 I subjoin an additional document which has come into my possession, and which represents in a vivid way what is probably a very frequent sort of conversion, if the opposite of 'falling in love,' falling out of love, may be so termed. Falling in love also conforms frequently to this type, a latent process of unconscious preparation often preceding a sudden awakening to the fact that the mischief is irretrievably done. The free and easy tone in this narrative gives it a sincerity that speaks for itself. "For two years of this time I went through a very bad experience, which almost drove me mad. I had fallen violently in love with a girl who, young as she was, had a spirit of coquetry like a cat. As I look back on her now, I hate her, and wonder how I could ever have fallen so low as to be worked upon to such an extent by her attractions. Nevertheless, I fell into a regular fever, could think of nothing else; whenever

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I was alone, I pictured her attractions, and spent most of the time when I should have been working, in recalling our previous interviews, and imagining future conversations. She was very pretty, good humored, and jolly to the last degree, and intensely pleased with my admiration. Would give me no decided answer yes or no and the queer thing about it was that whilst pursuing her for her hand, I secretly knew all along that she was unfit to be a wife for me, and that she never would say yes. Although for a year we took our meals at the same boarding-house, so that I saw her continually and p. 177 familiarly, our closer relations had to be largely on the sly, and this fact, together with my jealousy of another one of her male admirers and my own conscience despising me for my uncontrollable weakness, made me so nervous and sleepless that I really thought I should become insane. I understand well those young men murdering their sweethearts, which appear so often in the papers. Nevertheless I did love her passionately, and in some ways she did deserve it. "The queer thing was the sudden and unexpected way in which it all stopped. I was going to my work after breakfast one morning, thinking as usual of her and of my misery, when, just as if some outside power laid hold of me, I found myself turning round and almost running to my room, where I immediately got out all the relics of her which I possessed, including some hair, all her notes and letters and ambrotypes on glass. The former I made a fire of, the latter I actually crushed beneath my heel, in a sort of fierce joy of revenge and punishment. I now loathed and despised her altogether, and as for myself I felt as if a load of disease had suddenly been removed from me. That was the end. I never spoke to her or wrote to her again in all the subsequent years, and I have never had a single moment of loving thought towards one for so many months entirely filled my heart. In fact, I have always rather hated her memory, though now I can see that I had gone unnecessarily far in that direction. At any rate, from that happy morning onward I regained possession of my own proper soul, and have never since fallen into any similar trap."

This seems to me an unusually clear example of two different levels of personality, inconsistent in their dictates, yet so well balanced against each other as for a long time to fill the life with discord and dissatisfaction. At last, not gradually, but in a sudden crisis, the unstable equilibrium is resolved, and this happens so unexpectedly that it is as if, to use the writer's words, "some outside power laid hold."

Professor Starbuck gives an analogous case, and a converse case of hatred suddenly turning into love, in his Psychology of Religion, p. 141. Compare the other highly curious instances which he gives on pp. 137144, of sudden non-religious alterations of habit or character. He seems right in conceiving all such sudden changes as results of special cerebral functions unconsciously developing until they are ready to play a controlling part when they make irruption into the conscious life. When we treat of sudden 'conversion,' I shall make as much use as I can of this hypothesis of subconscious incubation. (9) Op. cit., Letter III., abridged. (10) H. Fletcher: Menticulture, or the A-B-C of True Living, New York and Chicago, 1899, pp. 26, 36, abridged. (11) I have considerably abridged Tolstoy's words in my translation. (12) In my quotations from Bunyan I have omitted certain intervening portions of the text.

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