Sunday, July 31, 2011

Why the greens miss Jairam Ramesh


Over the last couple of years, I’d often see press releases from environmental groups or an angry letter on a mailing list lashing out at Ramesh. He may have promised to rethink the Renuka dam, or allowed more construction on the Narmada. Whatever he did, Ramesh was making his presence felt, and a lot of people are wondering if Jayanthi Natarajan will follow suit.

What distinguishes a visible minister from an invisible one is that the former takes decisions that matter. Some turn out to be stupid decisions. Sometimes, they run contrary to the plans of the political party leadership. But a good minister must take contrary decisions and make frank statements. And the public must believe that the minister likes to use his brains. Even if his thinking is not in alignment with our own hopes and fears. But at least, let him apply himself to the task at hand, enforce rules, ask questions.

Ramesh seemed to have applied himself, as far as he was allowed to. But I’m not mourning his transfer to Rural Development. Visible ministers are desperately needed in every ministry. Already, after accepting his new portfolio, Ramesh has stressed the need to revisit land acquisition laws. Perhaps, he will once again find himself on the wrong side of POSCO.

Read full piece here

Monday, July 25, 2011

For the love of my ancestors:

I can’t remember the last time I noticed film credits roll in Devnagri. In fact, I too have switched to the Roman script when writing in Hindustani. And perhaps it’s better this way. Perhaps it doesn’t matter because all civilisations move from one script to another, one dialect to another. That’s how Urdu got made, a language that came striding in from the battlefield into bazaars, used first by rough-tongued soldiers and then by ferociously refined writers.


But film writers no longer write in Urdu. Film posters no longer advertise themselves in Urdu. Credits certainly do not roll in either Devnagri or Nastalik.


But what of audiences who have not made a smooth transition to Romanised Hindustani? Is there an automatic assumption that these people are illiterate — and therefore cannot read the credits anyway — or that they are uninterested in films?


Watching Paromita Vohra’s Partners in Crime, the English title also appearing in Nastalik, I was briefly distracted by thoughts of my grandmother. I remember watching films with her, late at night on TV. She wasn’t illiterate. But if she sat down to watch one now, she wouldn’t be able to read a single word on the screen — not even the title.
Read full piece here

Saturday, July 23, 2011

Street smart questions

"When motor vehicles bring in the risk of death, why are pedestrians given most of the responsibility of preventing it?"


That and some very pertinent points raised by Karthik in his new post where he writes:


The term “jaywalking” was introduced at this time, and pedestrians who cross mid-block were caricatured as being unsophistacted and boorish... It occurs to me that such propaganda bears remarkable similarity to the notion of the “white man’s burden” that European colonizers used to justify their tyranny.  The caricatures of jaywalking pedestrians correspond to early European prejudices about oriental people. In the meanwhile, streets that were used for several millennia by pedestrians and other street people (street vendors, for instance) were effectively invaded by automobiles. Rules advantageous to the colonizers were then enforced as a way of “civilizing” the “uncivilized”.


Read it here

Monday, July 18, 2011

Living like life matters

The tears come when the kachra-wala rings the bell. It is the son of the lady who usually comes. A boy in his late teens, hair plastered down, he says the usual morning word — “Kachra!
For the first time ever, I speak to him. “I didn’t think you’d come.”
For the first time, he smiles at me. There’s three feet of water outside our building. The rain hasn’t stopped. And this impossible city has just suffered a fresh round of terror. 
All night, I have been stubbornly, wearily silent. I snapped at my mother when she called after hearing about the blasts. I didn’t want to say a word at the time — not on Twitter, not on Facebook, not on blogs. Anything I said would seem platitudinous, insignificant. This is not a time for words. It is a time for… for what?
The question is on television, on twitter, on people’s minds. This can’t keep happening; why can’t it be stopped? Why can’t we… But what do we do?
Someone suggests: Hit back, like the USA. But the first image that floats into my mind then is that of a distraught father carrying the body of a little child.
Hit back at whom? Whose children? Bomb which bazaar so that we might have the satisfaction of saying: We killed as we were killed.

Monday, July 11, 2011

Respect comes as respect goes

What do you want, Mumbai? Who do you want as your neighbour, or tenant? You want ‘good’ people, yes? By good, you mean ‘respectable’, non-violent (not publicly violent anyway), quiet people (who don’t complain when you turn noisy during festivals). You want kids who work towards being accepted rather than causing mayhem. Yes?
And you want some do-gooders, yes? The old lady who plants trees. A retired uncle who ensures waterproofing of the terrace happens on time. A doctor whose doorbell you can ring at midnight. A collegian who tutors ‘weak’ students.
What you don’t want is a do-gooder who helps the most vulnerable of us all. Say, a neighbourhood ‘doctor’ who treats slum-dwellers at his home-clinic. What you certainly don’t want are girls like Trina Talukdar and Robin Chaurasiya.

Friday, July 08, 2011

Very mad (and a tiny bit maddening)

The blurb describes Ibne Safi’s Jasusi Duniya series as an “intricately demented world of larger-than-life villains, mad genius detectives and beautiful femme fatales”.

For once, the blurb does not exaggerate. Safi is one of the most popular Urdu writers of the 20th century and Blaft has done newer non-Urdu reading generations a huge favour by publishing at least a few of his translated works. Born Asrar Ahmad in undivided India, ‘Ibne Safi’ moved to Pakistan in the 1950s but continued to cater to readers on both sides of the border.
He sets his novels in a cosmopolitan city by the sea, which could as easily have been Bombay as Karachi. Here, there are plenty of bars and cafes, dancing halls and lavish house parties, picnicking families, plenty of nightlife. And some very unpretty lowlife as well.



His main detective, Colonel Faridi, is a mildly eccentric aristocrat but Hameed deserves his own star in the literary detective’s sidekick hall of fame. Here’s a police officer who not only lives with his boss, but also dresses his pet goat in neck-ties and hats. Sample this delicious bit from Smokewater: “Hameed’s billy goat, had he been human, would have committed suicide. Or, instead, he might have assumed the role of an Urdu critic, and pronounced a sentence of death on the ghazal that was now being read to him”. When he is admonished for such antics by his boss, Hameed retorts, “I have not the slightest interest in dignity… the bacteria of dignity is even more dangerous than the bacilli of phthisis.”

This combination of eccentricity, social critique, and the odd philosophical nugget is what makes Ibne Safi’s books so likeable.

In other respects, Safi sticks to the usual standards for pulp. The central detective (Faridi) is mysterious, uninterested in women and always a step ahead of the criminal forces he’s tackling — quite like Sherlock Holmes. The femme fatales are reserved for the eccentric non-genius Hameed, although his attitude to women is painfully real — he wants to flirt with them but he gets bored easily. The good girls are disoriented and exasperated by him. The bad girls pose serious threats to his life. Faridi always rescues him, of course.

Despite the stereotypes, Hameed is such an oddball that a turn of events is hard to predict. For instance, he wants to dance with a female colleague in a ballroom, but not in aid of an investigation. He just wants to escape from thoughts of crime. Hameed’s perpetual disgruntlement lends a dash of comic melancholy that is rarely seen in detective fiction. He sometimes seems to be carrying the burden of the writer’s soul.

But this is a writer who treats us to strange criminals like Dr. Dread and Finch (both make an appearance in all four books). Finch is a former circus performer while Dr. Dread is an international assassin who specialises in bizarre poisons — stuff that makes a respectable girl swear loudly in public and take off her clothes. But Faridi too has access to weaponry that 007 might covet, such as “a stun grenade, with the added capability of settling off a blinding flash and raising the ambient temperature dramatically within seconds”. This forces criminals to strip while rendering them incapable of violence.

Sex and gore are palpable elements of crime fiction but Safi doesn’t rub the reader’s face in it. A new generation of readers will also find it impossible not to read more into Faridi and Hameed’s complex relationship. But this awareness only lends an extra touch of pathos to the overall absurdity.


All in all, these books are a fun read. The translator Shamsur Rahman Faruqi has retained the humour and the cultural dressing that would have lent the original novels their tang and bite. The occasional snarky paragraph about the frailties of women will annoy some readers but fans of pulp have to be made of stone to resist Safi. 


This review was published in Forbes (India).


Thursday, July 07, 2011

Cheater-c**k

A friend's friend was cheated and threatened by a man who married her. He and his family disappeared when it seemed like their game was up. But he's still out there (on various marriage websites) cheating women, using them, milking their parents for all they can afford to spend at the wedding and afterwards.

The girl has bravely set up a blog, put up his photos from the wedding, and is trying to bring him to book. She also needs to track him down so that her divorce can be finalised and she can begin life afresh. Here's an extract from the blog:


"Her parents travelled to Bangalore to meet the boy’s parents and all seemed well... Before the engagement, in Decenber 2008 the girl’s parents asked the boy’s side to produce some certificates to be able to verify the claims made, but these were apparently locked away safely and were therefore not shown. They did not press for fear of offending the boy’s family.


During and after the wedding, in Jan 2009 the girl and her parents observed many small things like the heavy drinking habits of the boy & his family, going back on their word on marriage arrangements & delaying the marriage registration, the boy disclosing later his numerous affairs and also that his salary was actually less than half of what it was originally quoted etc.


the girl was supposed to join the family overseas only later, and on a student visa not on a spouse visa! During this time she was expected to live with the boy & his family without a registered marriage, without disclosing that they were married (apparently for visa requirements) and her family was expected to fork out an additional 24 lakh rupees as fees for the educational course that she was supposed to be joining!!! 


Humiliated, cheated, the girl knew something was wrong and asked her father in law who was still in India to send her to her husband on a spouse visa instead of the roundabout way that they were proposing as that would entail lying, an immoral humiliating living condition and an additional, totally unnecessary financial burden on her father. Her father in law then got abusive, threatening and violent."


For details, visit the blog. If you have any information, contact this girl. Or else, just contact the Bangalore police (080-22942552). 

Monday, July 04, 2011

Brazen Feminist's take on Slutwalk Delhi

It’s not as easy as choosing between a pink lehenga and blue jeans with climate control factored in. What-to-wear is a finely calibrated decision. I think of whether to take an auto or a cab, train or bus. I think of where I’m headed, at what station to get off, at what time.

And despite all this, even if my legs and arms are fully-covered, even if no cleavage or belly is on display, I’m afraid. Even this great bustling insomniac city will not let me be.

Nobody has accused me of dressing ‘slutty’. But every day of my adult life, I have had to protect myself from the aftermath of random strangers on the street attacking, abusing or threatening me. Note: I am not saying I protect myself from attacks. What I’m protecting myself from is the aftermath. From people who will say that my clothes were provocative, that the time of the night and my being alone was an invitation to assault.

So yes, I get the sentiment that makes a bunch of women in Canada declare: Yeah, we’re slutty, so what? So what if we sleep around? So what if we wear tiny skirts and high heels? So what if men look at us and want us? Is the police force trying to tell us that rape is alright? Are you saying we deserve to be hurt?
And yet, when I heard that someone was organising a Slutwalk in Delhi, a part of me went sort of quiet...

On the other hand, if boundaries are to be pushed, someone has to take some risks. Jasmeen Patheja, founder of the Blank Noise Project (a group I’ve been part of since 2006) points out that Slutwalks are a kind of performance. There is an element of fiction here. And it is a fiction that sells. The media is lapping up the story of provocatively-dressed women demanding their right to provoke. Cameras focus on women wearing bras (clearly, feminists with arsonist tendencies are ancient history) so that ‘skimpy clothes’ are not just the first thing we see. They’re the only thing.
... Meanwhile, the fiction has whipped up a storm even before the fact has materialised. Celebrity columnist Shobhaa De has dissed the proposed event for being an ‘attention-seeking protest … neither workable, nor desirable.’ Seema Goswami drew up a damnable analogy. She compares a woman who attracts attention to a house that’s unlocked and therefore likely to get burgled.

All of which is making me pricklier and pricklier.

I now find myself wanting to get into arguments about ‘workability’. Is the only workable solution finding a rich man who provides us with a glass bubble to commute in and bodyguards to fend off assaults? As for seeking attention, that’s the bloody point!

Anger and pain are at the heart of every movement, but when we march, we must sometimes wear the boots of provocation. Slutwalk is designed to provoke. 

Read the full piece here: 
http://business.in.com//article/recliner/sluts-walking-in-the-rape-capital/26532/1

what you don't know can hurt you


It’s been so long since I saw television that I’m stunned at the sight of a young man being insulted on national television. I’m squirming on behalf of this aspiring Roadies contestant, angry at the ‘judges’ who are calling him stupid to his face.
But the next minute, the young man loses my sympathy when he says that he agrees with the ‘Ayodhya verdict’, though he doesn’t know what the verdict is. He doesn’t know what the Ayodhya issue is. He thinks Ayodhya is where a ‘war’ happened and confuses it with the big one in Kurukshetra (which features in the Mahabharata). This strapping young man also doesn’t know who the president of India is, but assumes she is male.
By the time the video clip ends, the interview panel is falling about laughing. They are calling him ‘cute’. How else do we deal with the fact that young, school-educated, urban Indians don’t know a thing about themselves or the forces that are shaping their nation? They’re so ignorant, they’re like children.

Wednesday, June 29, 2011

The Outside Element

Blame it on the great Indian white skin fixation. Or, if you prefer, on a new body code that has corroded the flimsy wall between modeling and acting. Most of all, blame it on Katrina Kaif.

Years after she rode into Bollywood on the back of an oddity called ‘Boom’, she has blown away most of the criticism about her inability to speak Hindi, her disconcertingly foreign accent, her questionable talent. Half-white, slender and a ‘hit’ with millions of Indian men, particularly the ticket-buying middle class, what Katrina Kaif has given Indian cinema is debatable. But there is no doubt that she has given hundreds of non-Indian young ladies a generous dollop of hope. If she can do it, why not them?

Indeed, there is no reason why not. As long as a girl is pretty and can pass off as vaguely Indian, she’s got a fair shot at stardom in Mumbai. Giselle Monterio’s career took off with a couple of lines of (dubbed) dialogue in Love Aaj Kal, and now that she’s playing one of the female leads in Always Kabhi Kabhi, the Brazilian model is a lodestar for dozens of her compatriots, girls like Camila Granato, 22, and Taciane Matos, 18.

Both are from Brazil; both signed up with the Indian modeling agency, Toabh Talents; both share an apartment in Mumbai and both will be seen in the song from the forthcoming Mere Brother ki Dulhan.
Camila has been in a film before, where she was floating about in a party scene shot in Turkey, and Taciane has been part of Thank You. Neither watched Hindi movies before they came to India, although they did watch a soap opera called ‘Way to India’, which is quite popular in Brasil. Although they didn’t watch the show regularly, they realized that, culturally and socially, they have much in common with Indians.

That is part of the reason why several Brazilian models stay on, despite the fact that India is a bit of an “everything shock”, as Camila puts – cultural, civic, climatic and aural shocks await the models when they first arrive. Most of them are signed up with one of a handful of agencies that bring down international models to work in commercials and fashion shoots in Mumbai.

There is plenty of work available. Varun Katoch, business head at Toabh, says that he’s managing 31 models of which about 20 are foreigners. “But I could hire 200 models and still have work for all. There are tens of thousands of Indian brands and they all want professional models. The foreign girls often start modeling as young as 14 and by the time they come here, they are quite good at their job.”

Varun admits that a major factor for the foreign models’ presence here is their looks, but he says it is their height and clear skin that works to their advantage. He says, “We actually try and pick models who look a little bit Indian. Brown hair, tanned skin. They’re not all white white.”

However, once the models arrive, other windows of opportunity open up. It isn’t hard to find work in music videos and films. But Varun is measured in his enthusiasm when I ask about the models’ Bollywood prospects. “We do get queries from production houses. And there’s Katrina Kaif, of course. The girls hear about her and they want to try their luck. Sometimes, during ad shoots, directors will encourage them to try films. But then speaking Hindi is a must.”

What he does not quite say is that Hindi is the hurdle at which foreigners stumble. While shooting advertisements, the girls don’t really have to speak. It is enough that they look beautiful. Film requires a basic control over language, especially since very few Hindi film scripts have foreigners written into key roles.
However, another actress of mixed parentage (she speaks Hindi quite fluently) believes language doesn’t matter. “In Hindi films, a female actor just needs to look pretty. The only other thing that matters is who she’s hooking up with. They just get pedantic about the accent when it suits them.”

But the hopefuls are, well, hopeful. And they’re not leaving anything to chance. Evelyn Sharma, a half-Indian half-German 23-year-old, has enrolled in an acting course, is learning Hindi and taking Bollywood dance lessons. “I grew up in Germany and came to India as a traveling model. But I love acting. I have done some theatre and one American action film. But Inega, my agency, will not let me do bit roles in Bollywood. The first film is so important,” she says.

However, Evelyn admits that you’d have to be half-Indian or be able to pass off as Indian – “like Giselle” – to get a real break. “Bollywood is changing. More foreigners get lead roles. I know a Swedish girl who is playing the lead in a small production,” she says. After a pause, she adds, “I can’t wait for it to change.”

Whilst she holds out for a film break, Evelyn will be seen in a video with Daler Mehndi as he sings ‘Sheela ho ya Munni’. However, most agents are anxious that I get the right picture. More than one agency told me that their models may take on non-lead parts in ‘major productions’, but they’re not ‘dancers’ and they’re very emphatically ‘NOT extras’.

This little crisis of identity can be traced to the explosion of white skin in background Bollywood. All you have to do is hang around at Colaba Causeway and sure enough, a ‘talent’ scout comes along looking for foreigners. If you get cast, you might have to put up with a 12-hour shift, famously bad food, tacky costumes, and plenty of boredom. In return, you get paid between Rs 500 and Rs 1000. In fact, travel websites now ask tourists to hang around at Colaba as part of their ‘Experience Bollywood’ plan.

Clearly, this is not what they want to be – these cheerful, beautiful girls who have descended upon Mumbai from Germany, Brazil, Russia, or the UK. Yes, they’d like to be in Bollywood but not as props on a set, not as shadowy figures wiggling in the backdrop of a ‘classy’ video. They’re here for a sprinkle of stardust.

Or are they?

Taciane confesses there are days when she weeps. I ask why, and she has to remind me that she’s still a teenager. “Camila plays mama to me sometimes. She lets me put my head on her lap if I cry,” she says with a laugh. “Me and my sister used to sleep with our heads in mama’s lap, her fingers running through our hair.”

Camila explains that in Brasil, several girls start modeling not for the glamour but because they need to. Some of them support their families. Taciane, who grew up speaking only Portuguese, points out that unless you attend expensive schools, you will find it hard even to learn English. Camila was luckier and managed to attend drama and ballet lessons (though it is unlikely that her training will help her film career. Many Russian ballet dancers can find work only as background dancers in Mumbai). But both are excited about films. “It’s something different,” says Camila. “It’s more fun.”

I ask the girls why they don’t try to find work in movies back home. They say there is no film ‘industry’ there, and production values are worse than television.

Why not TV then? Taciane says she’d love to try her luck in TV – there’s money and fame, and she could be near her beloved mama. “But I’d have to go to Rio for auditions, and living in Rio is too expensive.”

Evelyn, who has already worked in an American production, says Bollywood is a bit easier to break into. “In LA (Hollywood), everyone is there to become an actor. It isn’t like that in Mumbai,” she says. A moment later, she shrugs and laughs. “I don’t know. Perhaps it is like that here too. But not everyone gets a chance.”

Mumbai, then, is a place where they do stand a decent chance. They’re already working in advertising and fashion. They already have half a foot in the door. Film work, of course, brings very little money. One agent reveals that Bollywood pays foreign models only as much – and sometimes even lesser – than Indian supermodels. “On an average, payments range between Rs 15,000 to Rs 50,000, for songs and minor roles. Sometimes, it might be Rs 1 lakh.” But no international model, he says, can afford to stick around in Mumbai unless they’re making at least a lakh a month.

Money clearly isn’t the main reason why the models are trying to work in Bollywood. Stardom, if it happens, is probably welcome but Evelyn says that a lot of her foreign friends are aware they may not become ‘superfamous’. They still want the film experience.

Why? I persist.

She comes up with a deeply insightful answer. “In commercials, you are always playing someone else. But it is only movies that let you be yourself even while you are acting. At least once in your life, you want that.”

Blame it on the medium then. Look at the way the camera lingers on the faces of actors, while it merely glances at dancers. The background girls make a living and are probably better trained, even more talented than the girl standing up ahead, pouting at the camera. But the dancers are reduced to flashing legs and silhouettes. It is the girl in the centre who is truly acknowledged. Because the camera loves her, so do we.

Ah well! Just go ahead and blame it on love.

A slightly edited version of this piece appeared here.

Monday, June 27, 2011

East or west, not quite the best


Try and imagine this. Take the names of eleven women you know. At the eleventh name, blink. That woman just disappeared from your life. Think of what it means to live like that, knowing that a pregnancy can so easily lead to a funeral. Or think of what it’s like to have your little sister killed by her in-laws.
Now think about your proximity to them. Not geographical proximity, no. Consider how close India is to her neighbours on the list of worst places to be a woman.


And think about how this could have happened to a nation that was created in the name of a religion that actually forbids dowry.
On that list, India is sandwiched between Somalia and Pakistan. Along with Afghanistan and DRC (Democratic Republic of Congo), we form a cosy club of Worst Five (for women), according to a recent survey compiled by Thomson Reuters foundation.
Because we’re so upbeat about India, we’re squirming. We would like to say: ‘That’s not fair!’ We want to find some fault with the data. We want to shout: ‘But on what basis?’
Not on the basis on what women wear or how many boyfriends they have. We were judged on the basis of health, discrimination, sexual violence, human trafficking and conflict-related violence. And we were found grossly, cruelly lacking.


Read full piece here.

Sunday, June 19, 2011

Force One, the only one?


I’m ashamed. Deep down in my cynical writer’s heart, I didn’t believe he would actually do it. But he did. And I am ashamed because I’d heard of him but never took him seriously until he died.
I’m signed up on an environment e-group and had seen a press statement about Nigamanand — a Ganga-bhakt who had been on hunger strike for 68 days, who was arrested, then moved to Dehradun after poisoning fears at the Haridwar hospital.
What we do to our rivers can only be described as abuse (if this wasn’t a family newspaper, I’d use stronger language). I knew this. Yet, I thought that if a sadhu has been on fast for 68 days — if a sadhu was arrested in Haridwar! — newspapers would have written about it. My cynical side began wondering about the veracity of the press statement.
Next I heard Nigamanand was in the mainstream press. He was dead. And everyone seemed to be leaning forward as if to ask: “What? Swami Nigamanand? Who?”


Read the full piece here.

Monday, June 13, 2011

No more phool-patti ke ishaare


Think about it. When was the last time you saw a romantic song where a couple dance — or even just circumambulate in a skippy, dreamy sort of way — around a tree?
I’m not joking. I’m serious. Look up old romantic songs on Youtube. Many outdoorsy songs (up until the 1990s) included trees. Picnics were always happening. Romance was always brewing. People went cycling, just for fun. Grassy hillsides were meant to roll about in. Trees were meant to lean against, and sigh, or hug, or hide behind as you tried to surprise a lover. Leaves could be torn off when lovers didn’t know what to do with their hands. Flowers were pure metaphor.
Even urban love stories got a fair shot at cosying up to trees. Watch Dev Anand in ‘Abhi na jaao chhod kar’. Watch Sharmila Tagore and Shammi Kapoor in ‘Isharon isharon mein’ as they arch backwards, swaying, holding a fir branch. Or watch Amitabh Bachchan in ‘Kabhi kabhi’, lying under a tree with Rakhee. That was romance personified.
Our heroes and heroines are still dancing. But not around trees. 

Monday, June 06, 2011

Lavzon ka pher badal

As long as you go on calling things by false names, there’s a good chance people will go on buying the lie. We can go on pretending that every morning our faces will be caressed by mist although we know it will actually be smog.



This is why no real estate developer calls his building ‘Smog Heights’. Instead, he peddles nature as if it were a byproduct of construction. This is why trash-incinerating firms give themselves names like ‘Ecopolis’ even though they are not recycling anything.
Language deceptions are all around us. Yet we rarely call people out on the deceptions embedded in their choice of words.
Photographers describe a certain model as being ‘comfortable with her body’ when they actually mean that she poses in bikinis without kicking up a fuss. Comfort has nothing to do with it. The poor model may well have undergone surgeries to change her body! Advertisers and fashion magazines call a woman ‘real’ when they actually mean to say that she’s not thin. We talk of mountaineers ‘conquering’ mountain peaks when we actually mean that they just about survived the climb.
And when we talk about how our small towns are getting ‘developed’, what we really mean is that they are starting to look more and more like bigger towns. But what does it mean anyway — development?

Friday, June 03, 2011

Because the courtyard is a mirror tonight

Abhinavgupta

Careful, Master!

The mirror lies
     all that is to our right
     it shows to our left,
     all that is to our left
     it tells to our right.

Thus
there is scope for doubt too
as to whether we are standing on our head
or our feet?

Or
is it not
that joining the sky and the abyss
an imaginary line
      cuts right and left at a point
              that is in fact truth's most sensitive point?


The poem above is a translation by Apurva Narain or the original one in Hindi, written by Kunwar Narain. I felt I just had to share some poetry with the world today. 


The poem is addressed to Abhinavgupta, who is supposed to be an ancient philosopher-aesthetician of the 11th century recognition school of Kashmiri Saivite monism' (which I don't know anything about).

Tuesday, May 31, 2011

To know her, if only a little

I'd recently done a brief review of: ‘I want to Live’ – The Story of Madhubala (by Khatija Akbar). I've been a lifelong fan of the lady and then I discovered these absolutely stunning photos. If you aren't in love with her already, I would urge you to look. I promise: Resistance will be futile.

Across a chasm of two generations, men and women and children continue to fall in love with that face.
Her face – even as a print on cheap glossy paper – remains compelling. But my generation knows little
about Madhubala’s life. We’ve heard about the giggles, the early death, the failed love, the disastrous
marriage to another man.

In fact, I’ve been getting invitations to join a Facebook group whose raison d’être is to make Dilip Kumar
visit Madhubala’s grave and say a fateha. One thing Khatija Akbar’s book does is to clear up a lot of
misconceptions. It’s good to know that Dilip Kumar not only visited her grave as soon as he heard of her
death, but was one of the few people who continued to visit her when she was very ill.

The book tells us a lot about Madhubala. Her professionalism and charity is commented on early. We discover that her beauty was matched by her generosity and loyalty. That as a 14-year-old leading lady, she was cast opposite Raj Kapoor, who was only a clapper boy then. That she learnt to drive when she was 12. That she had a phobia of strangers, and odd suspicions about food and water. That she was dragged to court after she backed out of ‘Naya Daur’, and that she wasn’t the first (or even the third or fourth) choice for Anarkali’s role in ‘Mughal-e-Azam’.

The author has clearly battled major odds – Madhubala has been dead for half a century as are most of her contemporaries. So the book relies heavily on old film magazines. But what one misses most here is insight. The author has written this book as a paean to Madhubala but hasn’t bothered to sift through the research to build a faithful image of a famous woman.

A major fault here is that information hasn’t been subjected to a proper, thematic organization in each chapter. One chapter is marked ‘Co-stars’ but it simply lists the actors she worked with, without much information of what they meant to her. Where was the point of crowding the page with a list of names, which are anyway included in the Filmography?

Then there are some irritants in the form of remarks like: ‘it was an exciting time to be in films’. Has it ever
been otherwise? Besides, the 1940s and 50s birthed several mediocre films and Madhubala herself acted in quite a few. Yet, this aspect of her work has not been paid much attention.

We are treated to glimpses of emotional integrity and a rare intelligence through Madhubala’s own words. But
in many chapters, her words have been cited without any context. Where did she say (or write) them, and to whom were they addressed?

However, the main failings of this book are its haphazard organization of material, its repetitions (entire paragraphs are repeated) and its contradictions. For instance, the author suggests that Madhubala and Dilip Kumar never met on friendly terms after the Naya Daur court case. Later, we discover that they did meet cordially. Also, her strict work schedule is brought up repeatedly, but later Akbar says those rules were often broken, seriously impacting her health.

The domineering father’s behavior is explained away easily by saying that Madhubala received good values from him, after all, and was ‘never left loveless’. Yet, Madhubala herself hinted at extreme loneliness. Readers are expected to swallow the rhetoric of ‘values’ in much the same way as poor Madhubala must have had to.

Akbar’s approach to this biography is guileless and starry-eyed. It is almost as if she is afraid of what she may find if she analyses in depth the circumstances that shaped – and destroyed – a beautiful woman. This is, finally, a book about Madhubala the star, not an examination of a life.

Published here

Sunday, May 29, 2011

Trading in toxins

The simple thing is to set fire to them. But that isn’t a good option, especially for plastics. Perhaps that was when someone came up with an idea — incineration. Then, someone came up with another idea — incinerate garbage and convert it into electricity. Then they took it a step further – “Let’s get carbon credits! Since garbage seems to be eternal, let’s just call it a renewable source of energy.”


So that’s why they began setting up WTE (waste-to-energy) plants in and around Delhi. Now, waste-to-energy sounds like a smart idea, but it isn’t. In fact, it is a failed idea. Timarpur had a WTE plant that had to be shut down after 21 days of operation (in 1990) because it wasn’t really generating much power. Delhi’s garbage was too wet — not good for burning.
...


So, naturally, Timarpur and Okhla people have been protesting. They fail to see why Delhi is subsidising and supporting WTE plants when the Supreme Court has already disallowed them in 2005. The Minister for Environment and Forests Jairam Ramesh has already written to Chief Minister Sheila Dikshit, pointing out violations by the Timarpur-Okhla Municipal Solid Waste Management Company Pvt Ltd (owned by the Jindal ITF Urban Infrastructure Ltd). Even the Delhi Pollution Control Board noted that “no public/public representative/any interested person/NGO attended the meeting for comments/objections on the Project” (sic). Sheila Dikshit apparently did go to meet ‘interested persons’ but stormed out of the meeting since they wouldn’t agree with her. Now ‘interested persons’ have taken their objections to the Delhi high court.


Read the full piece here.

Monday, May 23, 2011

Lessons of light & dark


I still remember with absolute clarity the day mom asked us: What makes shadows? In my mind, shadows were associated with darkness — with candlelight; with evening walks. So I answered: ‘Dark’. She switched off the lights and shut the windows. And hey! No shadows! Then she made us carry a desk into the blinding sunshine. Shadows!
I have never forgotten that lesson about light. That year, the class wouldn’t end when the bell rang. An experiment couldn’t be abandoned mid-way; a discovery was about to be made. Mom would always be apologising and begging the waiting Maths teacher for a few more minutes.
A few years later, Chemistry descended upon us. As did a new teacher. His modus operandi was to read out entire paragraphs, affix us with a glare and ask, ‘Is it clear?’ If you said, ‘No sir’, he would read out the whole paragraph again.
Then it was time to learn the Periodic Table with its codes/abbreviations for elements. I’ve forgotten the rest but I remember that Chromium is represented as Cr. I read it as ‘Crrrrrr’, as if I was a crow trying to imitate a motorbike. The teacher threw me out of the class. That is my most vivid memory of him. And of the Periodic Table.

Monday, May 16, 2011

The price of clean


Say, the PWD engineer decided he wasn’t going to attend this enormous cost-cutting party. Say, he fined the contractor or blacklisted the firm. Can you imagine it? I can: Engineer babu is out alone one evening when he finds himself surrounded. Or there’s the ratatatatat of machine gunfire. Or perhaps, he tumbles out of a high window in a public place.
That’s how it was for Yogendra Pandey, executive engineer with the public works department (PWD). That he ‘fell’ to his death from the collectorate is known. That he had fined and blacklisted some contractors (and was considering blacklisting more) is known.
That he was beaten up is known. That he asked for security cover twice between 2008 and 2009, but was not given police protection is known. Then in 2009, he either jumped or was pushed from the highest building in Sitamarhi.
Which was it? Jump? Push? Either way, he was killed.
Engineers working with the government have a bit of a reputation. One strong indicator is that they’re much in demand as bridegrooms amongst dowry-happy dads; in the north particularly, it is taken for granted that money will be made ‘over and above’. But on the other hand, there’s Pandey. And he’s dead.

Sunday, May 08, 2011

Facebook politics


Friend requests come from religious hardliners and right-wing chest-thumpers. Also from leftists, libertarians, atheists, humanists. Last week, I was surprised to see a request from a student whose political views were listed as democratic. Surprised, because it is so rare.
Very few people choose ‘democracy’ when asked for their political views. In fact, I’ve gotten used to responses like: ‘I hate politics’. Or ‘Nil’. Or ‘xxxxx’... And this, I worry, is at the heart of our crisis: this ‘xxxxx’ which allows us to shrug off all political responsibilities. A democracy, after all, must be ‘of the people, by the people’ before it can become ‘for the people’.
... A lot of opposition to the Anna Hazare-led campaign for an all-powerful Lokpal stems from this hold-my-nose attitude to politics. While Hazare hasn’t crystallised his political views into the cryptic ‘xxxxx’, he doesn’t think he could win elections. Perhaps he believes that only big money wins elections, and he isn’t the only one. I meet far too many people who have so little faith in the Indian masses that they advocate dictatorship as a form of governance.


But I’m surprised at activists like Medha Patkar backing a supra-democratic institution. 
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