The stage was set on the 25th afternoon to receive L. K. Advani at a city bookstore for the launch of his autobiography. Social butterflies on thaw flitted around giddily excited at the importance of the occasion. There was ample talk about who is or not invited to the dinner later, what the publisher has got right or otherwise, how the Oberoi would have been a far better venue etc. but what united the self-proclaimed elite crowd was a much flaunted disregard for the majority at the book launch- clubbed under a broad suspect group called the media. The latter for its part, did what they could - exploit their ‘scheduled caste’ status to the hilt, push, shove and get their job done.
Amidst the near hilarious chaos the man of the moment walked in and took his seat. As all attention effortlessly shifted to him, over the next hour he spoke about why he wrote the book, what he sees for India ahead in time and some related anecdotes therein.
A lot is being said about how rare it is in India for an active politician to publish his memoirs. And Advani is not just active - he is the leader of the opposition and the prime ministerial candidate of the NDA in what is being widely perceived as a possible election year. Aside from inviting controversies galore, the book is bound to influence his chances for the big post. But then, Advani is synonymous with dynamism, individualistic acts of faith (no pun intended) and some well-calculated gambles beneath it all.
Only, it was hard to spot the seasoned politician in the man who sat on the dais. He was warm, witty and brief. What he spoke came from his conviction. His belief and pride in his country could move a cynic. Clearly he is one of the last remaining leaders in India who has at least partly been spurred by ideology, its merits aside. His persona as a happy man not confused by the current anarchy of vote -bank politics; as a thinking man’s politician still sensitive to ideas, was towering. As a precious legacy of this nation and as an insightful participant in its history he made an endearing impression.
Then came the final question of the day from an “admirer”- the one about Gujarat. Advani said that Modi’s ‘raj’ is ‘su-raj, the correct successor of ‘swaraj’ and that good governance had won the latter another election. He brazenly refrained from commenting on the massacre sections of this country are struggling to forget and the conference was called to an end. If you wanted to believe he could not possibly have condoned it, you would have to look elsewhere.
Earlier in the afternoon he had spoken of the essential conflict between happiness and meaning in life. Happiness lies in living in the moment; for meaning one must re-inhabit the past and contextualize the future. Happiness that afternoon lay in inheriting our past from a very grand old man without wondering how it might have been different.
Monday, September 8, 2008
PONDICHERRY- Comment Francais Est Cela
Pondicherry is part of the holy trinity of Indian tourism with Goa and Rajasthan. A former French colony, its relatively recent French past is trumpeted through glossy brochures that promise you a glimpse of the capital of food, film, fashion and ultimate European snobbery for an overall price less that the airport tax at Paris.
As you negotiate with the merciless Chennai traffic, street names you cannot pronounce or remember, and taxi drivers who are religiously rude, you clutch on to that Pondhicherry Guide for dear life and dream of the exotic French names that fill its pages. Names as difficult to pronounce as those in Chennai but infinitely more inviting to minds steeped in the charms of Godard, Voltaire, Flaubert and Proust (in fact one of the most prominent streets on the map is named after noted dramatist, author and Nobel winner Romain Rolland).
But after over three hours on the road when you finally read the sign ‘Welcome To Pondicherry’, the landscape doesn’t magically transform into a Parisian suburb or French countryside. Jayalalitha and Karunanidhi are still struggling to outsmile each other from lifesize hoardings and the street is clogged with ramshackle stores selling every conceivable coconut product. We had entered the city through its Tamil quarter, the wasteland of locals that once surrounded the island of French revelry within.
Fighting a surge of disappointment and doom, we made our way to the French quarter and were relieved to see a dramatic shift of cityscape. The filth gone, the streets neatly cobbled and rows of candy-coloured homes with white fences and romantic verandahs greeted our dreamy eyes and we began to ask our way to Hotel De L’Orient on Rue Romain Rolland in our best faux French accents.
Over the next couple of days we were to discover that not a single person you will encounter anywhere (except the odd French tourist wondering if all this is French what is he) can comprehend let alone pronounce the fancy French names unless they are broken into a catchword and heavily Tamil-ised.
Anyway, now settled in the breathtakingly restored and uniquely designed French property all that was left to do was seek the ghost of the foreign culture. Since the most foreign film running in the halls packed with gaudy Tamil capers was Jodhaa Akbar and the most fashionable item on sale a second-hand Marks and Spencer dress discarded by a broke Brit, our best way in was going to be food. Everywhere we were assured that the finest French cuisine is available around the corner at Rendezvous, the tourist Mecca in town. With visions of Champs-Elysees cafes and Van Gogh’s café at night floating in the mind we climbed the stairs to what turned out to be a Goa-beach-shack in Pondicherry. Plastic chairs, a blackboard scribbled with ‘specials’, tubelights and innumerable un-bathed foreigners- this was a repast to hippie-land, not French elegance. The most French dishes on the vegetarian menu were stuffed pancakes and a cucumber and tomoato salad with ‘french’ dressing (it is also amusingly their highest selling dish), so we settled for mash, fries and vegetarian gratin (of dubious ‘continental food genre’). The place is owned by the very affable Vincent Mathias from Mumbai who has managed to retain a chef or two from the French times to stir up the couple of French dishes, like baked oysters and fresh duck liver pate, that dot the meat/seafood menu. But even their flavour is greatly compromised by the paucity of authentic ingredients. The affordable pricing of the menu makes it impossible for him to source expensive ingredients from abroad. Satsanga and Le Club, the other two most populous haunts of the quarter are similarly done up shacks. While the former has a mammoth menu with a number of dishes sounding promisingly French, they are almost never available. Instead you’re served pasta, steak and garlic bread, edible only for their grease. Le Club used to be run by the Allaince Francais but the current management serves a multi-cuisine fare with Chinese, Indian and continental prepared apparently with interchangeable spices.
We figured we might have to turn to the posh hotels for a true experience and made our way to Le Dupleix. Chef Kumar at their restaurant admitted that authentic French food was hardly to be found anywhere in the city now. Influences from Europe, Vietnam and India had seeped into their dishes too and bearing testimony to his admission was the alarming curry leaf and lentil tarka on our custard fish. Next in line was the Promenade, a modern airy sea-front property, where we skipped the regular coffee-shop buffet and looked for the fare advertised as chef Lionel Wincent’s specialty. The menu again was multi-cuisine and the French dishes had been adapted to local tastes. The advertised chef was nowhere to be seen and had apparently left two years ago. The local chefs who claimed to have designed the menu were not sure how to define what they were serving.
Expectedly tired we gave up our pursuit and settled for a meal at our own hotel on the final evening. The co-chairman Francis Wacziarg, of the Neemrana group that owns the place being French we mildly hoped to be less disappointed. But that was settled as soon as our cheese platter arrived with a bottle of Indian wine from a very sparse wine menu (so much for French!). Even the cheeses were not from France and dominating the palette was a disgusting bland cheddar generously studded with roasted cumin seeds. The main course had a large section of ‘Creole’ food. Creole is a term generally associated with a kind of cuisine that is popular in Louisiana but the Puducherry-ites have appropriated it to describe anything they make with south Indian spices, which is not too rich and hot. Their claim to the term is derived from a group of people (of mixed Asian and European blood) called Creoles who were settlers in the French colony.
Sitting on the concrete seafront later that evening at the tourism department run La Café (snacking on croissants that tasted like egg-stuffed gujiyas) and watching children climbing a gigantic Gandhi statue, we talked of how much one could enjoy this very unique town if they were not burdened with expectations of French exotica. There was another thought that brought a smile- the idea of India might be elusive but one thing is for sure, wherever we go and whatever comes to us, we will steep in our colours till it is undistinguishable. We know no subtler love.
As you negotiate with the merciless Chennai traffic, street names you cannot pronounce or remember, and taxi drivers who are religiously rude, you clutch on to that Pondhicherry Guide for dear life and dream of the exotic French names that fill its pages. Names as difficult to pronounce as those in Chennai but infinitely more inviting to minds steeped in the charms of Godard, Voltaire, Flaubert and Proust (in fact one of the most prominent streets on the map is named after noted dramatist, author and Nobel winner Romain Rolland).
But after over three hours on the road when you finally read the sign ‘Welcome To Pondicherry’, the landscape doesn’t magically transform into a Parisian suburb or French countryside. Jayalalitha and Karunanidhi are still struggling to outsmile each other from lifesize hoardings and the street is clogged with ramshackle stores selling every conceivable coconut product. We had entered the city through its Tamil quarter, the wasteland of locals that once surrounded the island of French revelry within.
Fighting a surge of disappointment and doom, we made our way to the French quarter and were relieved to see a dramatic shift of cityscape. The filth gone, the streets neatly cobbled and rows of candy-coloured homes with white fences and romantic verandahs greeted our dreamy eyes and we began to ask our way to Hotel De L’Orient on Rue Romain Rolland in our best faux French accents.
Over the next couple of days we were to discover that not a single person you will encounter anywhere (except the odd French tourist wondering if all this is French what is he) can comprehend let alone pronounce the fancy French names unless they are broken into a catchword and heavily Tamil-ised.
Anyway, now settled in the breathtakingly restored and uniquely designed French property all that was left to do was seek the ghost of the foreign culture. Since the most foreign film running in the halls packed with gaudy Tamil capers was Jodhaa Akbar and the most fashionable item on sale a second-hand Marks and Spencer dress discarded by a broke Brit, our best way in was going to be food. Everywhere we were assured that the finest French cuisine is available around the corner at Rendezvous, the tourist Mecca in town. With visions of Champs-Elysees cafes and Van Gogh’s café at night floating in the mind we climbed the stairs to what turned out to be a Goa-beach-shack in Pondicherry. Plastic chairs, a blackboard scribbled with ‘specials’, tubelights and innumerable un-bathed foreigners- this was a repast to hippie-land, not French elegance. The most French dishes on the vegetarian menu were stuffed pancakes and a cucumber and tomoato salad with ‘french’ dressing (it is also amusingly their highest selling dish), so we settled for mash, fries and vegetarian gratin (of dubious ‘continental food genre’). The place is owned by the very affable Vincent Mathias from Mumbai who has managed to retain a chef or two from the French times to stir up the couple of French dishes, like baked oysters and fresh duck liver pate, that dot the meat/seafood menu. But even their flavour is greatly compromised by the paucity of authentic ingredients. The affordable pricing of the menu makes it impossible for him to source expensive ingredients from abroad. Satsanga and Le Club, the other two most populous haunts of the quarter are similarly done up shacks. While the former has a mammoth menu with a number of dishes sounding promisingly French, they are almost never available. Instead you’re served pasta, steak and garlic bread, edible only for their grease. Le Club used to be run by the Allaince Francais but the current management serves a multi-cuisine fare with Chinese, Indian and continental prepared apparently with interchangeable spices.
We figured we might have to turn to the posh hotels for a true experience and made our way to Le Dupleix. Chef Kumar at their restaurant admitted that authentic French food was hardly to be found anywhere in the city now. Influences from Europe, Vietnam and India had seeped into their dishes too and bearing testimony to his admission was the alarming curry leaf and lentil tarka on our custard fish. Next in line was the Promenade, a modern airy sea-front property, where we skipped the regular coffee-shop buffet and looked for the fare advertised as chef Lionel Wincent’s specialty. The menu again was multi-cuisine and the French dishes had been adapted to local tastes. The advertised chef was nowhere to be seen and had apparently left two years ago. The local chefs who claimed to have designed the menu were not sure how to define what they were serving.
Expectedly tired we gave up our pursuit and settled for a meal at our own hotel on the final evening. The co-chairman Francis Wacziarg, of the Neemrana group that owns the place being French we mildly hoped to be less disappointed. But that was settled as soon as our cheese platter arrived with a bottle of Indian wine from a very sparse wine menu (so much for French!). Even the cheeses were not from France and dominating the palette was a disgusting bland cheddar generously studded with roasted cumin seeds. The main course had a large section of ‘Creole’ food. Creole is a term generally associated with a kind of cuisine that is popular in Louisiana but the Puducherry-ites have appropriated it to describe anything they make with south Indian spices, which is not too rich and hot. Their claim to the term is derived from a group of people (of mixed Asian and European blood) called Creoles who were settlers in the French colony.
Sitting on the concrete seafront later that evening at the tourism department run La Café (snacking on croissants that tasted like egg-stuffed gujiyas) and watching children climbing a gigantic Gandhi statue, we talked of how much one could enjoy this very unique town if they were not burdened with expectations of French exotica. There was another thought that brought a smile- the idea of India might be elusive but one thing is for sure, wherever we go and whatever comes to us, we will steep in our colours till it is undistinguishable. We know no subtler love.
Friday, September 5, 2008
A MARRIAGE OF CULTURES
One of those best of Madan Mohan collections has him speaking about his craft. With a characteristic understated passion he recounted what it took to craft a melody. The result was work that was sophisticated and accomplished, popular at the time and classic ever since. Why is it that today’s Indian finds it so hard to create what might be popular and artistically/intellectually gratifying? Why has the gulf between sensible critical acclaim and mass appeal widened beyond comprehension when it comes to art in general and cinema in particular?
We are negotiating with a very important curb in our history where economic growth, dominance and discrepancy are the preoccupation in all quarters. Are we making any classics along the way though? In these times of the pettiest of bloody politics and a surging feel-good factor despite of it, what is happening to our art?
Bed and Board is a classic as nearly all films directed by Francois Truffaut are thought to be. It is a deceptively simple tale of a marriage and its graph principally. Antoine is married to a violinist and lives out his days in a quaint neighborhood dyeing flowers for a living. Their blissfully ordinary existence is threatened when Antoine embarks on a nearly inexplicable affair with a Japanese woman. Drawn apart (after a dramatic scene in which his wife on discovery of his infidelity greets him in a horrific madame butterfly getup), they are nonetheless unable to settle down without one another and come back together soon enough. This ‘end’ however is happy in only a skeptical sort of way as they are shown not to live ‘happily ever after’ but slip into a life of stable bickering indifference.
Truffaut’s classic brings to mind our cinematic middle class spokesperson Aziz Mirza’s Chalte Chalte or atleast the second half of it.
After reliving his Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge role in a less flamboyant, more vulnerable avatar, Shahrukh Khan(Raj again) who only ever plays a superstar, settles down in a middle class neighbourhood in Mumbai with his much different wife, Priya.
The ordinariness of their life is shown among familiar character sketches of ‘regular people’ reminiscent of the ‘Nukkad’ life. The wife cooks, cleans, shops for veggies while anda-walas and dhobis walk in and out of her tiny apartment. The husband does his job, hangs with his buddies, comes back home to bicker with wife or woo her with his boyish charm. The break here is not an extra marital affair but Raj’s brash, complexed mindset. He is jealous, loud and feels inferior at the drop of a hat. In both films the ‘fault’ comes from the husband but it was too much to expect a hindi film hero to cross the sacred line of sexual commitment up until Karan Johar’s rebellious but misguided Kabhi Alvida Na Kehna. Nonetheless Raj is grey and real. He broods dramatically and displays only melancholic shades of anger, depression and longing after the wife leaves. Naturally Truffaut is not given to such show of undiluted emotion. Antoine’s journey is highly personal and internal - his attachment to his wife is palpable but never obvious. Equally stark is the wife’s ‘forgiveness’ of her husband in the end in contrast to Chalte Chalte’s traditional teary climax (replete with sukhwinder singh’s heart rendering high pitch). The end is happier here despite bickering thrown in for good measure, but then anything would be happy after that melodramatic climax at the airport, no less.
It would be easy to see, Mirza made Bed and Board within the Bollywood formula (not implying he copied it. It is a theme often visited by writers/filmmakers and common enough not to attract insinuations of plagiarism). But beneath the obvious conclusion is another story - that of our cultural psychology and philosophy. Evidence is simply in the names of the films. Bed and Board, is as stoic as the film- a demystification on the institution of marriage. It intends to reveal the shallow waters of a much-touted social more and strengthens its case with a strong disillusioning end. Chalte Chalte is more poetic (borrowed from one hindi film song or another), conveying a sense of journey, its mystery and even a hint of fatalism, linking up with its own end brimming with ras. The significance of rasas infact is an Indian cultural obsession from time immemorial. Its unpopularity in the west can be gauged by considering there is no equivalent word in the language for it. the closest one can come is a literal ‘syrupy’ which has derogatory intonations. Bed and Board perhaps unintentionally addresses France’s, rather Europe’s fascination with existentialism. In the end it all means little. Chalte Chalte is rooted deeply in india’s unshakeable romanticism that springs from the abundant faith in our DNA. We are the children of God (and literally too, there are castes a dozen claiming descent from one or the other avatar of the holy trinity) and religion is our single-minded passion. Marriage like all else is tied up with it and therefore sacrosanct (to be fair there is little India that is not sacrosanct in some way or the other, even rats). In the final moments of the climax Raj gives away his Allah charm to his wife. This moves her sufficiently to return home and say, “my place in life is with you”. Religion, fatalism and an pursuit of emotional intelligence underpin the formula to audience appreciation. We go to the cinema “leaving our brains at home” (a popular phrase coined by Indian critics to deride/describe most Indian masala movies), but we take our hearts along and how. You can titillate us all you want but you’re not a bumper hit unless you move us, shake us. The difference in Chalte Chalte and Bed and Board is of bad and good cinema, undoubtedly. But the concept of good and bad cinema is derived intellectually in India from the west. But marriages were made in India. Like heaven was.
We are negotiating with a very important curb in our history where economic growth, dominance and discrepancy are the preoccupation in all quarters. Are we making any classics along the way though? In these times of the pettiest of bloody politics and a surging feel-good factor despite of it, what is happening to our art?
Bed and Board is a classic as nearly all films directed by Francois Truffaut are thought to be. It is a deceptively simple tale of a marriage and its graph principally. Antoine is married to a violinist and lives out his days in a quaint neighborhood dyeing flowers for a living. Their blissfully ordinary existence is threatened when Antoine embarks on a nearly inexplicable affair with a Japanese woman. Drawn apart (after a dramatic scene in which his wife on discovery of his infidelity greets him in a horrific madame butterfly getup), they are nonetheless unable to settle down without one another and come back together soon enough. This ‘end’ however is happy in only a skeptical sort of way as they are shown not to live ‘happily ever after’ but slip into a life of stable bickering indifference.
Truffaut’s classic brings to mind our cinematic middle class spokesperson Aziz Mirza’s Chalte Chalte or atleast the second half of it.
After reliving his Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge role in a less flamboyant, more vulnerable avatar, Shahrukh Khan(Raj again) who only ever plays a superstar, settles down in a middle class neighbourhood in Mumbai with his much different wife, Priya.
The ordinariness of their life is shown among familiar character sketches of ‘regular people’ reminiscent of the ‘Nukkad’ life. The wife cooks, cleans, shops for veggies while anda-walas and dhobis walk in and out of her tiny apartment. The husband does his job, hangs with his buddies, comes back home to bicker with wife or woo her with his boyish charm. The break here is not an extra marital affair but Raj’s brash, complexed mindset. He is jealous, loud and feels inferior at the drop of a hat. In both films the ‘fault’ comes from the husband but it was too much to expect a hindi film hero to cross the sacred line of sexual commitment up until Karan Johar’s rebellious but misguided Kabhi Alvida Na Kehna. Nonetheless Raj is grey and real. He broods dramatically and displays only melancholic shades of anger, depression and longing after the wife leaves. Naturally Truffaut is not given to such show of undiluted emotion. Antoine’s journey is highly personal and internal - his attachment to his wife is palpable but never obvious. Equally stark is the wife’s ‘forgiveness’ of her husband in the end in contrast to Chalte Chalte’s traditional teary climax (replete with sukhwinder singh’s heart rendering high pitch). The end is happier here despite bickering thrown in for good measure, but then anything would be happy after that melodramatic climax at the airport, no less.
It would be easy to see, Mirza made Bed and Board within the Bollywood formula (not implying he copied it. It is a theme often visited by writers/filmmakers and common enough not to attract insinuations of plagiarism). But beneath the obvious conclusion is another story - that of our cultural psychology and philosophy. Evidence is simply in the names of the films. Bed and Board, is as stoic as the film- a demystification on the institution of marriage. It intends to reveal the shallow waters of a much-touted social more and strengthens its case with a strong disillusioning end. Chalte Chalte is more poetic (borrowed from one hindi film song or another), conveying a sense of journey, its mystery and even a hint of fatalism, linking up with its own end brimming with ras. The significance of rasas infact is an Indian cultural obsession from time immemorial. Its unpopularity in the west can be gauged by considering there is no equivalent word in the language for it. the closest one can come is a literal ‘syrupy’ which has derogatory intonations. Bed and Board perhaps unintentionally addresses France’s, rather Europe’s fascination with existentialism. In the end it all means little. Chalte Chalte is rooted deeply in india’s unshakeable romanticism that springs from the abundant faith in our DNA. We are the children of God (and literally too, there are castes a dozen claiming descent from one or the other avatar of the holy trinity) and religion is our single-minded passion. Marriage like all else is tied up with it and therefore sacrosanct (to be fair there is little India that is not sacrosanct in some way or the other, even rats). In the final moments of the climax Raj gives away his Allah charm to his wife. This moves her sufficiently to return home and say, “my place in life is with you”. Religion, fatalism and an pursuit of emotional intelligence underpin the formula to audience appreciation. We go to the cinema “leaving our brains at home” (a popular phrase coined by Indian critics to deride/describe most Indian masala movies), but we take our hearts along and how. You can titillate us all you want but you’re not a bumper hit unless you move us, shake us. The difference in Chalte Chalte and Bed and Board is of bad and good cinema, undoubtedly. But the concept of good and bad cinema is derived intellectually in India from the west. But marriages were made in India. Like heaven was.
(This article originally appears on www.passionforcinema.com)
Friday, November 16, 2007
do read...
Narendra Modi is a good administrator.
One side of the political spectrum harps on this point.
The other dismisses it.
But the point is out there to nibble on doubts or provide ammunition to those who have none.
So let's turn it around.
Let's say Narendra Modi shall not go unpunished.
Not because he isn't a good administrator.
But because he is one.
The Armenian Genocide was carried under the government of the Committee Of Union And Progress In Turkey. This committee was the result of a radical revolutionary movement that bore the seeds of what Kemal Attaturk's government was to later fertilize. They were the stalwarts of the new and great administrative regime put into place by Attaturk. They were good administrators. The massacre on the other hand was the first of one of the greatest massacres modern politics was to stand witness to.
"Who after all, speaks today of the annihilation of the Armenians?"
A much quoted, and contested statement made a generation gap later by a gentleman named Adolf Hitler. It comprised the culmination of his speech ordering the attack on Poland, with instructions to "send to death mercilessly and without compassion men, women and children of Polish derivation".
Whether the historians who stand by the documents recording this statement are refutable or not is beyond the point. That Hitler was known to use the above reference to order many other racial attacks is spoken about, likely, and with it. The above quoted statement was the last one in his speech. The second last read thus: "Only thus shall we gain the living space (Lebensraum) which we need."
Hitler too was a good administrator. Documents stand testament to this as much as to his cruelty.
"Hitler, the Supremo" and "Internal Achievements of Nazism" are the names of chapters in the class 10 social studies textbook published by the Gujarat State Board of School Textbooks
"Hitler lent dignity and prestige to the German government within a short time by establishing a strong administrative set up. He created the vast state of Greater Germany. He adopted the policy of opposition towards the Jewish people and advocated the supremacy of the German race. He adopted a new economic policy and brought prosperity to Germany.
He began efforts for the eradication of unemployment. He started constructing public buildings, providing irrigation facilities, building railways, roads and production of war materials. He made untiring efforts to make Germany self-reliant within one decade. Hitler discarded the Treaty of Versailles by calling it just 'a piece of paper' and stopped paying the war penalty. He instilled the spirit of adventure in the common people".
This excerpt is taken from the same textbook. A sub-section in a chapter from the same textbook - "Gandhian Era And The National Movement" - is headlined thus: "The Negative Aspect".
One cannot use excerpts of speeches and school textbooks as platforms for any assumption, other than thought. But since so much of that commodity is being used presently, let's buy into the market.
Everyone remembered "the annihilation of the Armenians" at the time of the Fuhrer's momentous speech. That is why he chose to refer to it. What he meant then, with his renowned penchant for sardonic sub-text, was:
Even if everyone remembers the annihilation of the Armenians, who will do anything about it?
But the Fuhrer's penchant for sub-text was renowned for more than witty word jugglery (and thank god his emulators in today's India haven't learnt more than that from his speeches...). A further subtext in the same statement, rooting itself far deeper in psychological subconscious, ran thus:
Even if everyone remembers the annihilation of the Armenians, who will do anything about it, because the same movement which massacred and humiliated them, also uplifted another tribe of people... who happened to be in majority.
:-) (for those intellectuals not in the know... that's a sarcastic smiley) I feel sorry for the West. It doesn't matter whether we're deliberating on the Al Qaeda or the Holocaust... they will always find themselves on the wrong end of the intellectual pole. They've just thought too much. So they have much to be refuted (and considering belief in one's mind has always been more blinding than that in one's faith, who, pray, would glance therein?).
Reason for such railing:
"The greatest happiness of the greatest number"
Copyright Jeremy Bentham, English jurist, reformer and social reformer. Otherwise known as "influential utilitarianist".
Humanity was born within a 'tribe'. Then they re-discovered the 'other' and regressed. Every tribe leader subscribed to the principle of the protection of his lot, and delivered results towards this designated 'people' to deviate dissidents from the reason of their existence in the first place.
This goes on cyclically... so much so that some thinkers ascribe it to a 'process of purging'. Non-thinkers ascribe it to faith.
Copyright Thought. This means the obvious will not be stated because then it would become propaganda - which would be self-defeating.
One side of the political spectrum harps on this point.
The other dismisses it.
But the point is out there to nibble on doubts or provide ammunition to those who have none.
So let's turn it around.
Let's say Narendra Modi shall not go unpunished.
Not because he isn't a good administrator.
But because he is one.
The Armenian Genocide was carried under the government of the Committee Of Union And Progress In Turkey. This committee was the result of a radical revolutionary movement that bore the seeds of what Kemal Attaturk's government was to later fertilize. They were the stalwarts of the new and great administrative regime put into place by Attaturk. They were good administrators. The massacre on the other hand was the first of one of the greatest massacres modern politics was to stand witness to.
"Who after all, speaks today of the annihilation of the Armenians?"
A much quoted, and contested statement made a generation gap later by a gentleman named Adolf Hitler. It comprised the culmination of his speech ordering the attack on Poland, with instructions to "send to death mercilessly and without compassion men, women and children of Polish derivation".
Whether the historians who stand by the documents recording this statement are refutable or not is beyond the point. That Hitler was known to use the above reference to order many other racial attacks is spoken about, likely, and with it. The above quoted statement was the last one in his speech. The second last read thus: "Only thus shall we gain the living space (Lebensraum) which we need."
Hitler too was a good administrator. Documents stand testament to this as much as to his cruelty.
"Hitler, the Supremo" and "Internal Achievements of Nazism" are the names of chapters in the class 10 social studies textbook published by the Gujarat State Board of School Textbooks
"Hitler lent dignity and prestige to the German government within a short time by establishing a strong administrative set up. He created the vast state of Greater Germany. He adopted the policy of opposition towards the Jewish people and advocated the supremacy of the German race. He adopted a new economic policy and brought prosperity to Germany.
He began efforts for the eradication of unemployment. He started constructing public buildings, providing irrigation facilities, building railways, roads and production of war materials. He made untiring efforts to make Germany self-reliant within one decade. Hitler discarded the Treaty of Versailles by calling it just 'a piece of paper' and stopped paying the war penalty. He instilled the spirit of adventure in the common people".
This excerpt is taken from the same textbook. A sub-section in a chapter from the same textbook - "Gandhian Era And The National Movement" - is headlined thus: "The Negative Aspect".
One cannot use excerpts of speeches and school textbooks as platforms for any assumption, other than thought. But since so much of that commodity is being used presently, let's buy into the market.
Everyone remembered "the annihilation of the Armenians" at the time of the Fuhrer's momentous speech. That is why he chose to refer to it. What he meant then, with his renowned penchant for sardonic sub-text, was:
Even if everyone remembers the annihilation of the Armenians, who will do anything about it?
But the Fuhrer's penchant for sub-text was renowned for more than witty word jugglery (and thank god his emulators in today's India haven't learnt more than that from his speeches...). A further subtext in the same statement, rooting itself far deeper in psychological subconscious, ran thus:
Even if everyone remembers the annihilation of the Armenians, who will do anything about it, because the same movement which massacred and humiliated them, also uplifted another tribe of people... who happened to be in majority.
:-) (for those intellectuals not in the know... that's a sarcastic smiley) I feel sorry for the West. It doesn't matter whether we're deliberating on the Al Qaeda or the Holocaust... they will always find themselves on the wrong end of the intellectual pole. They've just thought too much. So they have much to be refuted (and considering belief in one's mind has always been more blinding than that in one's faith, who, pray, would glance therein?).
Reason for such railing:
"The greatest happiness of the greatest number"
Copyright Jeremy Bentham, English jurist, reformer and social reformer. Otherwise known as "influential utilitarianist".
Humanity was born within a 'tribe'. Then they re-discovered the 'other' and regressed. Every tribe leader subscribed to the principle of the protection of his lot, and delivered results towards this designated 'people' to deviate dissidents from the reason of their existence in the first place.
This goes on cyclically... so much so that some thinkers ascribe it to a 'process of purging'. Non-thinkers ascribe it to faith.
Copyright Thought. This means the obvious will not be stated because then it would become propaganda - which would be self-defeating.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
WHY DO I NEED A HELPLINE- in many parts
i sit and write.
about the woman forced into prostitution.
the kashmiri pundits who lost their homes.
the activist who was stoned to death.
the playwright who is not anti-dalit.
the filmmaker who was not selling india.
the filmmaker who is selling spain and is proud.
i have written well. i have greater plans for tomorrow. i could have called it a day.
instead i make myself a drink and let in my demon lover of yore who has been wanting to "catch up" for a while.
the inevitable happens. he catches up.
why. why. why.
can i not be satisfied living lives of others behind the insurance cover of my laptop screen.
why must i have my own?
about the woman forced into prostitution.
the kashmiri pundits who lost their homes.
the activist who was stoned to death.
the playwright who is not anti-dalit.
the filmmaker who was not selling india.
the filmmaker who is selling spain and is proud.
i have written well. i have greater plans for tomorrow. i could have called it a day.
instead i make myself a drink and let in my demon lover of yore who has been wanting to "catch up" for a while.
the inevitable happens. he catches up.
why. why. why.
can i not be satisfied living lives of others behind the insurance cover of my laptop screen.
why must i have my own?
THE REAL HELPLINE
...none knows so well as i.
and then there is another scenario. you live in mumbai. you have reached a point where your perfect life is threatening to make no sense. and you want a hasty exit. you have often made do with leaving the city for a day or two but now the city follows you everywhere. it screams in your ears when ure alone in the hills or in ure once upon a time quaint hometown. you want to see if it will help to leave the physical body and draw your kitchen knife out of the cockroached drawer. then you remember the drinking session youre supposed to have in mondegar later and wonder if you should let ure childhood friend know you wont make it atleast not in ure own body..because time is real money and you shouldnt waste your best friends money just coz u have to leave now. the thought of this friend melts your heart. you suddenly want to do more than call off the programme. you want him/her to talk you out of this or comfort you into it perhaps. you dial the number and it rings out. 5 times. you call the other childhood friend. the cellphone is unavailable. you call another not so close friend. his phone is available but he is doing his final edit and just cannot talk. you call the other not so close friend. she answers and is available bt not emotionally. she has a screen test this evening and must get the part. you tell her youre upset. she perfunctorily asks whats wrong. you suddenly feel like you must say something really big is wrong for taking so much of her time and ruining her optimism for the day. but you dont know if your the last straw that is currently breaking your back is big enough and the rest of the pile you cannot exactly unravel so you say nothing much make some polite coversation and hang up. you call up your parents. they must understand they should. but you hear the hello and the gap stares you in the face stronger than your will to end it all. there is nothing to say. the first childhood friend whose phone rang ot 5 times calls from a bad reception area. by the time he has heard you right you begin to have doubts. he sounds awefully preoccupied. he has a 5 pm deadline and a new editor. you ask yourself are you sure you will really do it this time coz otherwise you should really not call this guy over from town. he will give up on you and the day you really do want to do it he wont turn up. the answer is clear from within. today is the day. you have to go today. you tell him that but its too late. the last 3 times you had threatened but stayed back have taken their toll. he wont come. he wont even worry. he will just say hmm and sigh once or twice. add take care. he is writing a piece on dalit woes. they have overwhelmed his emotional space. he hangs up.
look. youre still sitting right beside your body. go back in. youre too tired. you spotjogged.
deliver the knife back to the bugs. you have no more use for it. you have died enough for a day.
and then there is another scenario. you live in mumbai. you have reached a point where your perfect life is threatening to make no sense. and you want a hasty exit. you have often made do with leaving the city for a day or two but now the city follows you everywhere. it screams in your ears when ure alone in the hills or in ure once upon a time quaint hometown. you want to see if it will help to leave the physical body and draw your kitchen knife out of the cockroached drawer. then you remember the drinking session youre supposed to have in mondegar later and wonder if you should let ure childhood friend know you wont make it atleast not in ure own body..because time is real money and you shouldnt waste your best friends money just coz u have to leave now. the thought of this friend melts your heart. you suddenly want to do more than call off the programme. you want him/her to talk you out of this or comfort you into it perhaps. you dial the number and it rings out. 5 times. you call the other childhood friend. the cellphone is unavailable. you call another not so close friend. his phone is available but he is doing his final edit and just cannot talk. you call the other not so close friend. she answers and is available bt not emotionally. she has a screen test this evening and must get the part. you tell her youre upset. she perfunctorily asks whats wrong. you suddenly feel like you must say something really big is wrong for taking so much of her time and ruining her optimism for the day. but you dont know if your the last straw that is currently breaking your back is big enough and the rest of the pile you cannot exactly unravel so you say nothing much make some polite coversation and hang up. you call up your parents. they must understand they should. but you hear the hello and the gap stares you in the face stronger than your will to end it all. there is nothing to say. the first childhood friend whose phone rang ot 5 times calls from a bad reception area. by the time he has heard you right you begin to have doubts. he sounds awefully preoccupied. he has a 5 pm deadline and a new editor. you ask yourself are you sure you will really do it this time coz otherwise you should really not call this guy over from town. he will give up on you and the day you really do want to do it he wont turn up. the answer is clear from within. today is the day. you have to go today. you tell him that but its too late. the last 3 times you had threatened but stayed back have taken their toll. he wont come. he wont even worry. he will just say hmm and sigh once or twice. add take care. he is writing a piece on dalit woes. they have overwhelmed his emotional space. he hangs up.
look. youre still sitting right beside your body. go back in. youre too tired. you spotjogged.
deliver the knife back to the bugs. you have no more use for it. you have died enough for a day.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
HELP LINED...
HELP LINED…
And all the woe that moved him so
That he gave that bitter cry,
And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats,
None knew so well as I:
For he who lives more lives than one
More deaths than one must die.
- From The Ballad Of Reading Gaol by Oscar Wilde.
Mumbai (or Mumbai’s media) has been continually registering an alarming increase in suicides. The best thing for a potential suicide victim to do at the nth second, they say, is call a helpline. Some months ago, when this disturbing trend was pointed out by experts, I was asked to write an article on the same. What better place to look for real life case studies, than the helplines, I thought. On getting a few bizarre reactions as journalist, I decided to call up them up as a suicide victim instead, thinking this would incur more kindness.
After trying endless numbers listed online and hearing a "This number does not exist" or "Please check the number you have dialed" one gets through to the Good Samaritans. The conversation goes thus:
Caller (C): Hello, Samaritans?
Operator (O): Haan bolo?
C: I want to commit suicide.
O: Saab nahin hai. Baad mein.
C: Arre, lekin mujhein abhi karna hai. Kisise baat kar sakta hoon?
O: Paanch baje ke baad.
C: Lekin, kya ye khudkushi ka helpline nahin hai?
O: Nahin ye clinic hai.
C: Aur helpline?
O: Kya?
C: Agar suicide karna hai aur kisi se baat karna hai to?
O: Baad mein karo baad mein...
One then tries the Just Dial Services for a suicide counselor, or helpline that’ll work:
C: I want the number of suicide helplines.
O: I'm sorry sir?
C: Suicide. I want to commit suicide. I want a helpline to talk to so that they'll counsel me.
O: What kind of business are they into sir?
C: No business! Dude, suicide! You know, whom do I call if I want to commit suicide and need to talk to someone?
O: If you like I can give you the name of some counsellors sir.
C: Suicide counsellors?
O: Yes sir suicide counsellors and helplines. You’ll be receiving an instant sms for this information, and an instant email for the same.
On calling these numbers too, the first few ring out, then a few don't connect. Finally:
C: Hello, is this a suicide helpline?
O: Kya?
C: Aatma hatya, khudkushi, suicide karna hai... to yahaan pe baat kar sakte hain?
O: Humein samajh mein nahin aa raaha hai aap kya keh rahe hain... ek minute...
(Sound of things being shifted around)
O: Yes please?
C: Hi. Is this a suicide helpline?
O: No, sir. This is a diagnostic centre.
Another call:
C: Hello, is this a suicide helpline?
O: I'm sorry?
C: If I want to commit suicide and I need counseling, can you help me?
O: Tell me?
C: You'll counsel me for suicide???
O: Yes, sure. One minute... say?
C: See, I want to commit suicide... and...
O:
C: Umm, I'm in
O: Oh! Sorry, we only provide counseling for the
C: What?
O: Further studies? You want counseling on further studies in the
C: No I want to commit suicide!
O: Oh! You don't want to study further at all?
C: Well, I guess not!
O: I'm sorry, we only provide counseling for further studies to the
One notices other numbers, sent through the Just Dial messages and email, listed under 'Training'. One presumes a suicide helpline wouldn't advertise itself such. So one calls Just Dial again:
C: I just called here and asked for suicide helplines. I didn't get suicide helplines. I got trainers, career counselors... ring outs… dead ends...
O: Suicide helplines. What kind of business are they into sir?
C: They're NGOs probably man...
O: One minute sir, you're looking for suicide counselors? You’ll be receiving an instant sms for this information, and an instant email for the same.
C: But I've gotten your email. You're numbers are wrong! I want to commit suicide and have no one to talk to!!!
O: Just a minute sir. What business did you say they were into?
C: Forget it.
O: Sir, please could I inform you about our special offer today?
C: Huh?
O: Only for today special, we have an offer. Registration on Just Dial is totally free.
C: Dude, I want to commit suicide. Why would I want to be registered on Just Dial?
O: It's totally free sir. Only for today. Offer ends tommorrow.
C: SUICIDE! BOSS, IF I DIE WHY WILL A FREE OFFER MATTER?
O: Then you’ll have to tell me what business they’re into sir…
What's narrated so far is fact. Let’s imagine that the following conversation took place:
C: I'm into suicide. Could you list that?
O: Suicide sir? What this means exactly sir?
C: It's a business by which we manage suicides for a living. Please take the number down.
O: Okay, sir, one minute. Yes sir, we’re listing you as ‘suicide management’. What is the location of your office sir?
C: Just take down the number
O: Okay sir...
Imagine further:
C: I want the numbers of suicide helplines.
O: Sure sir, one minute. Yes sir one has just recently been listed with us. Would you like the number sir? You’ll be receiving an instant sms for this information, and an instant email for the same.
A new article:
Mumbai (or Mumbai’s media) has been continually registering an alarming increase in suicides…
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