Tea-gardens and Back-waters

Belaboring on the beauty of Munnar and Backwaters would be a tautology, no matter how it is done, interestingly or otherwise. I would rather refrain.

Today, I am in mood for writing something of some utility, for those who might plan to make a trip to the backwaters. In popular imagination, Kerala backwaters are synonymous with this huge lake called Vembanad Kayal, the largest backwaters lake in Kerala, though very few people know the name of the lake as such. This lake has Alapuzha and Kumarakom on its periphery, which are two most popular points hosting houseboat jetty. Most of the tour operators offer packages starting from either of the two, latter being costlier owing to swanky resorts mushrooming on its side, and ending usually at the same point.

They are quite popular options, and reasonably good too. On the flip side, one might be subject to traffic jams and noise of honking, especially in peak season. The other issue being the size of these houseboats, which are too big to sail into smaller canals, around which a unique backwaters civilization prospers.

There are alternatives though, thankfully. 

One could opt for smaller boats to explore the innards of backwaters. Still better would be to try another lake, like Ashtamudi, from Kollam. Unlike Vembanad, Ashtamudi is a salk water lake, but less crowded, and probably cheaper too. But the best option would be a cruise from Alapuzha/Kumarakom to Kollam, or vice versa.

This was my second trip to kerala, first being this. Many more should follow.

Animals

I think I could turn and live with animals,

They are so placid and self-contained,

I stand and look at them long and long.

They do not sweat and whine about their condition,

They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins, 

They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God,

Not one is dissatisfied,

Not one is demented with the mania of owning things,

Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of year ago,

Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth.

- Walt Whitman

Kumaon, 15th August, and Teachers' Day

Kumaon is an interesting place in an interesting way. Though situated high on hills itself, offering breathtaking scenery and unforgettable memories to come back with, it primarily offers a loci of vantage points, from where one gets to see the panoramic views of distant located hills and peaks. In other words, Kumaon is a beautiful place that draws your attention towards other beautiful places.

Not in Monsoon though. The views are shrouded by dense clouds that refuse to go away, leaving Kumaon rather introspective, to be enjoyed in its purity and solitude. The long walks, for those who enjoy walking, is blissful, among the peaceful noise of birds and waterfalls. Once you have enough of a place, you move on to another.

Provided the roads are clear. The landslides are lesser scourge in Kumaon than in Garhwal, but frequent enough to play a spoilsport.

Coming to spoilers, for a regular traveler, it doesn't take much (except traveling) to be convinced that natural disasters (including landslides, which are virtually man-made) don't hold a candle to the onslaught of capital. The surplus income of NCR is being pumped into the region in order to spoil develop the area, with a frenzy reminiscent of a Dalal Street afternoon. Consequently, natives are being bought by hook or crook and trees are being sold, only to be felled in order to clear the land for mushrooming resorts and vacation homes. The whole thing, apart from being outrageous, is utterly ridiculous. At the end of the day, in those damned vacation homes, one urban bastard will have another urban bastard as his neighbor. What will remain in what used to be a Kumaon is an extension of NCR. What else could be worse? 

No wonder Kumaon is far from what it used to be in the charming stories of Yashpal. The quaintness and the mystery is thing of past. NDTV is trying to "save the hills". Perhaps we want the same. But we have to do more. The next time your friend buys a plot in hills, don't say congrats, say damn you!

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I have no doubt in my mind that 15 August 1947 was the most unfortunate day in the modern history of India. 

The last thing I intend to do is to shock anyone. Look around you and you'll see for yourself, unless you want to be blind. Whatever good has happened in last 100 years in India, it happened well before freedom. Whatever we have of any worth today is whatever we had been given by British, from sewage system to railways. After that, it's a story of betrayals and tragedies, beginning with the division of the subcontinent, followed by mass exodus and relentless riots, which many believe could have been avoided or at least contained. Far from avoiding it, we expedited the division in the name of independence.

I can't imagine any other country that celebrates its bifurcation the way we do, in the name of independence. And what independence? I don't think we are very independent, politically, economically or culturally. I don't think we are particularly free either. Yes, perhaps we are free to mock at at our representatives and leaders, but who wanted this type of freedom anyway?

Despite divide and rule policy, which couldn't have been a success without our support anyway, they managed to integrate us into a nation. We could have done better than going back to square one. They gifted us democracy when they left, and we degraded it into Indian Democracy. And this adjective - Indian - has nothing to be proud of. if it's "Made in India", it has to be mediocre.

I have no doubt that a British subject had more access to justice than an Indian citizen. And he had more dignity and much more opportunities. We never deserved independence, or democracy, or even the light bulb. How can we understand democracy if we don't understand the concept of queue, if we don't have basic civic sense! Not yet! No wonder we are where we are!

Today we stand squarely defeated, from Kashmir to Kerala, and we are not even good enough to play for pride. Today, after 65 years of independence, millions of Indians are living outside India for better living and they don't want to come back, unless they can buy a little US for themselves here in India. Thousands are lining up in foreign consulates for visas. And most of those who can't escape feel trapped, imprisoned by borders, and they dream to break away from this prison at first chance that comes by.

And why not? Those who can make choices repeatedly choose West for education and medical needs, including those shameless bastards who have been ruling India for decades. They can't accord minimal respect to the institutions they have built and controlled. What scam can be bigger than this - Mr Gandhi studying in a college in UK or Mrs Gandhi flying to US for her treatment! What breaking news could be more sensational! You won a world cup and your cricketer can't be treated here! It's like getting a designer hairdo while your bottom is bare.

I don't want to lay everything down on the mat. I think I have said enough. Persuasion was not my agenda anyway.

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Teachers day is basically a birthday of a gentleman who was knighted in 1931 and ceased to use his title after independence. If he teaches anything to us, it has to be expediency.

I would imagine this day to be in honor of someone in the league of Buddha, Chanakya, Gandhi, or even Tagore who left a wealth of knowledge to us. But unlike Radhakrishnan, they were not buddies of Nehru, whose birthday is called children's day for reasons only a congress-man could guess. Nehru wanted the Sir be the 1st president of India so that they could do their pseudo-intellectual chit-chat in their colonial palaces. By the way, his choice for party president was Rajgopalachari, another anglicized gentlemen who was perfect for drawing-room chit-chat. Sadly, both these guys were rejected by the party, to the chagrin of Nehru. But that's a different story. 

However, this is the only day dedicated to our teachers. Let me use the occasion to express my gratitude to the people who made me what I am today.

1. My parents, who allowed me to disobey them.

2. Master Moinuddin, who said I was a good boy. 

3. Vijay Kumar Mathur, who taught me that you got to do what you got to do.

4. Pratyush Singh, who made me believe that ghosts blink when you stare them into their eyes.

5. Rajesh Kumar, who showed me why martial art is an art and not a sport.

  

Hyderabad Weekend Destinations: Araku & Konaseema

My idea of traveling has always involved forgetting and frontiers. That makes sense - to forget one must escape, as far as possible, to the farthest, remotest corners of one's world, of one's imagination, in both space and time. That's where one forgets; that's where one gets healed; that's where one finds solace.

However, in reality, traveling is something more, or something else, than mere romantic meandering. To me, as I have realized lately, traveling means negotiating with something that goes wrong in the way. What goes wrong? Something, or something else, which can't be per-determined. I believe that traveling involves responding to a surprise, and enjoying the response as it unfolds. Later, what matter is only the response; and years down the line, when rest is forgotten, it forms the theme of the trip. What remains in memory is not where you traveled but how you traveled.

Stay home if you seek comfort, or can't live without your air-conditioned bubble. For as soon as you step out of your home, your comfort is more or less compromised. What do you get in return then? Nothing, if you don't enjoy the experience of stepping out.

At the same time, quite ironically, we travel only to feel homesick. It took me years of restaurant tourism to realize that the hackneyed saying - that home-made food is best - might be hackneyed but not hypocritical. There is something in our banal existence that we decide to settle for it despite its banality. Traveling is as much about coming back home as about leaving home.  

Having said that, we do try random cuisines on weekends, indulge in harmless flirting once in a while, and take occasional flights off our perches. 

We took one such flight last weekend, to the place hailed to be the most fertile, the greenest, in Andhra, an otherwise barren land for travelers, excluding pilgrims. Konaseema is like a dash of Kerala in Andhra, minus the sea and the backwaters, of course. Still, you can enjoy staying in a houseboat, which is not as ornate as its richer backwater sisters, but houseboat nevertheless, technically speaking, and far less annoying.

Dindi, Konaseema

As I write this post, the moment that has frozen in my memory finds me entranced, sprawling on the roof of our humble houseboat, which swam in the vast waters of Godavari, brimming with seasonal voluptuousness. The banks were flanked by a vegetation that reminded me of the opening scene of Coppola's "Apocalypse Now". Soon after, I had to try not to think about "The End" sequence.

There was hardly a man in sight. The weather was charming, drizzling now and then, and the wind was blowing kisses in air. No wonder flowers were flying around, having colorful, designer wings fluttering with delight. I tried to think something poetic to honor the occasion. But all I could think of was this - that oxygen must be actually 21% there in that atmosphere. Too much for poetry! I gave up with a resigned smile and closed my eyes to see how much of the sight I can see with my eyes closed.

Later in the night, well past sunset, when I sat by the side of the boat, while staring into the river aglow with mysterious light coming from luminous horizon, and waves slapping against the sides, I remember to have seen something that I can only call reverse mirage in want of a better expression. After looking long enough, I saw our boat being stuck in a desert, and the waves of sand shifting in direction of wind. The black magic of night had transformed the dirty water into sand dunes. As promised in zmm*, the more I looked, the more I saw. Many years back, by the side of Mine, I had felt similarly.  

I must have been high on something. How else I would have thought this - that the sound of water is not only soothing but also therapeutic, to the extent that if two felon-enemies are to cross a river in a boat, and they happen to listen to the music in silence, as I was listening, they will end up forgetting their enmity by the time the boat crosses the river. If water cleans the body, the sound of water cleanses the soul. If only we could sit by a river everyday, I am positive there will be no sin in the world.

The next day was spent on road, which ran beneath canopy of trees, casting running shadows on the glasses of our cab. Looking out, it would seem that the whole world was made of banana and coconut trees.

At this point I would like to contrast Konaseema with Araku, another popular weekend option from Hyderabad. I had visited Araku a couple of years back, and I don't feel like writing about it in length. Unlike the former, latter is hilly and good for trekking. For bikers, both are paradise; both are green, Araku a shade more, but Konaseema is Kerala-esque, and more gorgeous therefore. Ultimately, it will be a draw since Araku has Borra Caves, something that I have seen nowhere else.       

*Zen and The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance (Robert Pirsig)     

10 Less-Known Hindi Songs

For me, this post is not only about the joy of selecting 10 songs but also about the pain of not selecting many others. In the end, it has primarily been an exercise of elimination, based on certain criteria, most importantly accessibility. For instance, I had intended to add couple of K.L.Saigal gems but later decided against it. Thanks to Google, he is still reachable if you want to reach him. In comparison, I believe that the likes of Pankaj Mullick are relatively inaccessible to this generation because we don't even know how to search them. You can't search unless you know the keyword, can you?

Also, what easy to see is easy to miss. We feel rather, forgive my choice of word, saturated with Lata that we hardly bother to find out how she might have been 60 years back. After all, she started early and lasted as long as she wanted. She couldn't have been the same artiste all through these years. 

Finally, selecting something based on some romantic sentiment, and not respect, would have defeated the purpose. The purpose is to realize that there are many melodies that we have lost in the noise, and they are worth looking for. In the end, this post aspires to be but a beginning for those who happen to enjoy these songs and would like to explore further. The keywords will still not be there but perhaps there will be desire. These unsung people have made great songs, and there is no reason for them to remain lesser-known in the age of information overdose. After all, time has to level things.   

1. Yeh Raatein Yeh Mausam (?, ?)

Music - Pankaj Mullick

Lyrics - ?

Singer - Pankaj Mullick

Evidently, I don't know much about the who's who of this one. For a long time I used to believe that this song is sung by Lata. Later I came to know that her version is just a tribute to the original. Hers is also good, but but the original is precious.

Here is the link. Enjoy.

2. Dil Ko Hai Tumse Pyaar Kyon (?, ?)

Music - Jagmohan Bakshi

Lyrics - ?

Singer - Jagmohan Bakshi

Ditto for this. I don't know much about this one either. And truly, what matters is experience, not trivia. Here is the link. Let the song speak for itself.

3. Tumhare Bulaane Ko (Ladli, 1949)

Music - Anil Biswas

Lyrics - ?

Singer - Lata Mangeshkar

1949 was a landmark year in Hindi Cinema. With Mahal arrived Lata Mangeshkar, and charmed the nation with her ethereal Libran voice. In coming years, the landscape of female playback singing was going to be changed forever. Such was her force that the reigning queen, the sublime Geeta Dutt barely managed to float. No wonder not much is known about others.

There is another gem by her in the same year. The music is composed by Shyam Sundar for Nargis starred Lahore. But between the two I would go for this.

4. Tere Baghair (Jahaan Tum Wahaan Hum, Unreleased)

Music - Madan Mohan

Lyrics - Raja Mehdi Ali Khan

Singer - Md. Rafi

Of all the songs composed by Madan Mohan that never saw the light of day, this is my pick.

Rafi has sung many songs that can be included here. But I can't add all of them. Let me add this one for you. This is not the best, but certainly different. At this point it's difficult for me not to share this too, another differently rendered masterpiece, this time with Lata joining the party.

5. Khayaalon Mein Kisi Ke (Baawre Nain, 1950)

Music - Roshan

Lyrics - Kedar Sharma

Singer - Geeta Dutt, Mukesh

Geeta Dutt is at her mellifluous best in this duet, complemented well by Mukesh. Notice how their voices blend in the background music. And the occasional strum of Veena (or Sitar) is divine. Enjoy. 

6. Lehron Pe Leher (Chhabili, 1960)

Music - Snehal Bhatkar

Lyrics - Ratan S

Singer - Hemant Kumar, Nutan

Nutan is a revelation in this song. And nothing soothes like the baritone voice of Hemant Kumar. Together, they are absolutely mesmerizing in this full-moon melody. Check this out.

There is a solo version too.

7. Kitni Haseen Ho Tum (Yeh Dil Kisko Doon, 1963)

Music - Iqbal Qureshi

Lyrics - Qamar Jalalabadi

Singer - Md. Rafi, Asha Bhosale

This song contains both honey and moon, lot of it. The usually earthy Asha is unusually ethereal here. And Rafi sounds rather besotted. It's geriatric to remain sober when something like this is poured into your senses.

8. Woh Tere Pyaar Ka Gham (My Love, 1970)

Music - Daan Singh

Lyrics - Anand Bakshi

Singer - Mukesh

Mukesh sounds sincere and vulnerable. That's why, despite his technical failings as a singer, his sad songs hardly ever fail to move. This song is neither an exception nor exceptional. But, you might not like to miss this anyway. 

9. Tere Khayaalon Mein Hum (Geet Gaaya Pattharon Ne, 1970)

Music - Ramlal

Lyrics - Hasrat Jaipuri

Singer - Asha Bhosale

I am not absolutely sure about this one. But certainty is elusive while doing what I am doing.

10. Khamosh Sa Afsana (Libaas, Unreleased)

Music - Rahul Dev Burman

Lyrics - Gulzar

Singer - Lata Mangeshkar, Suresh Wadkar

I am a steady fan of RDB-Gulzar compositions. They are not just the best in their league, they are only one in their league. There is a lot to be said about them, which warrants a separate post.

Libaas was never released. Perhaps that why this song remains relatively anonymous. The music is typical RDB and the lyrics is typical Gulzar. And the effect is typically magical. Rendition-wise, I would rather have Lata one note down, but Suresh Wadkar hits right on the spot. 

The little party is over. Or may be the party is yet to begin. This was just a teaser, as it were. It couldn't have been anything more than that. However, in the end, one can't help feeling frustrated.

Watch Man

She opened the door, tossed her bag on the bed, and flung herself on the sofa. As I followed her, she sank within, and her hands rose up to hide her face. Knowing her well, I knew that she would try hard not to lose control. However, her anger steamed out hissing through her breath, and her pain escaped through the veil of her fingers.

Sitting there, I felt like a voyeur, an unwanted witness to something I was not supposed to see. After all, pain is a personal thing. Her pain was hers, not mine. Yet, surprisingly, I could not stand her pain. It seemed to have come between us, alienating me, incriminating me for the crimes I had not committed. It was a difficult situation - I could not help but see her pain, and then I could not share it. I have always believed that there is something intimate about sharing pain. Pleasure is shared with all, but not pain. I just didn't have the rights.

I was obliged to wait.

- Come on, forget about it.

- I have been trying for a long time to forget it.

- May be he was just following the rules..

- Which rules? Written or unwritten?

- What do you mean?

- Leave it, you won't understand.

- Let me try.

- You get a congratulatory salute when you bring in a woman guest. But when the same woman invites you, she gets a stare, and a rule-book.

- Oh come, it's not like that.

But I knew she was right. That's how it was like. There were unwritten rules being followed all over. And we could do little about it. I felt like hugging her to console her. That's all I could do. Or I couldn't do even that. I didn't have the rights. 

RSS and Indian Culture

What is culture? I don't really know. I don't remember anybody telling me about it in school. But we all talk about it, perhaps without knowing what we are talking about. Or perhaps we do know it, but we can't nail it down in exact words. In that way, culture is like love. Just because one can't define love doesn't mean he doesn't know what love is. Romeo loved famously without perhaps knowing (or caring to know) about love.

Can someone be called cultured without him/her knowing what culture is? I'm not sure.

Based on my experience, my understanding of culture involves cultural relativism relativity, meaning one is more cultured than other. Frequently, those who talk more about culture are usually considered more cultured. That makes many of us culturally talkative, as it were, to win the cultural argument. The talk of White Man's burden obviously makes the white man look cultured than a colored man. Similarly, an upper caste Bengali gentleman raised on Ray and Tagore, and more importantly, talking about Ray and Tagore, is likely to look more cultured than a lower caste peasant. 

At this point, it's pertinent to wonder how's culture different from civilization? In school, these words were used often either together or interchangeably. I have a vague understanding that civilization primarily involves application of technology and architecture to build civil infrastructure - and that's why West seems to be more civilized than us, since our cities don't even have decent drainage systems or proper pavements for pedestrians. On the other hand, culture involves the human elements, apart from the more visible works of art and aesthetics.

The visible works of art - that explains why there are many who believe that culture is something to be reached out to, and to be seen, in art galleries, in theaters, and in musical concerts. This is the type of culture they show in those incredibly misleading "Incredible India" campaigns, in which you see snapshots of our cultural bestsellers like Ravi Shankar, Kuchipudi and Tajmahal. This is type of culture that the business class people collect and display in their drawing rooms. 

On the other side, many believe that culture is something that reaches out in to you and that you can't run away from. It's in the air; it's something you breathe in and breathe out all the time. It forms you and shapes you. For instance, in Hyderabad, much more than Kuchipudi, what shapes you is the sound of beggars knocking the window panes of your car at every other traffic signal, and your learning to look away in strange mix of pathetic exasperation and indifference.

That way, one's cultural health depends on one's cultural environment. The culturally conscious could afford to keep cultural hygiene to some extent by confining themselves to galleries and keeping away from what's going around in culturally polluted world, but complete cultural immunity is impossible. Culture, or lack of culture, is uncannily contagious.

Then there is an interesting divide between cultural practice and cultural precept. What is Indian culture - what we practice or what we preach? Female feticide or "Yatra Naryastu Pujyante, Ramante Tatra Devata"? Or both? Or is this duality absurd?

Well, the thought of absurdity takes me to RSS. 

I have met many of them, in different stages of my life, and all of them had one thing in common - they were all very difficult-to-like people. Without exception, they came across as supercilious and pig-headed to me; and their know-at-all and morally presumptuous attitude towards others seems grating. Worse, they manage to prick the worst in you, again and again. Long back, when I was in intermediate, I bumped into one of them in train. As revealed later, he was not at all impressed with my appearance, since I was wearing a pair of denims. Besides, I had music plugged in, which he might have assumed to be loud and anarchic. After exchanging a few casual words, if that could be called exchange at all, he handed me over my cultural report card which had reds and crosses all over. He commented that I belonged to a culturally dislocated generation. Valentine's Day had passed recently and he had a thing or two to say about that too. He hardly bothered to believe, ever listen to, my opinion. I tried to reason with him but after a point I felt that I had had enough and I decided to stop his juggernaut of nonsense.

I said it's rather cheap on his part to enjoy all the blessings of West and cursing their culture at the same time. Why didn't he mount a bullock cart instead, if that was Indian enough? As for the Indian railways, railways had been given by the British, and whatever was Indian in the Indian railways was rather unflattering - infernal filth and stink, beggars and eunuchs and pickpockets harassing the hell out of you in their own unique ways, occasional news of robberies and horrible accidents, outrageously frequent delays and people sleeping like dogs on platforms, not to mention deafening noise, theft of public properties ranging from rails to fans to even mugs that they keep in lavatories and finally, people, people all over, tides of people pushing and stepping on one another in mad rush of everyday Indian life. 

That's what you see all around yourself and that's Indian culture for you! What is kept in museums is not culture; it's a mere showpiece. Moreover, the defeated races like ours should retrospect and effect a comprehensive reform instead of hanging on to some imagined history and preserving the very things what led to our defeat at first place. Otherwise, extinction is just a matter of time. 

I knew I was not completely correct. But I had to offset the wind to hit the target. He retreated into his cocoon. After that, I don't know why, I felt sorry for him.

 

IIT - Autonomy without Accountability

There is a much-hyped tug of war being played out in media between HRD and IITs about JEE. IITs don't want to tamper with their tried-and-tested formula. Why change something which has been working well all these years? HRD, however, intends to shake the status quo, and democratize the admission process, by any which way.

The IIT fraternity is more or less united in bashing HRD. How dare they, these good-for-nothing politicians, enter the hallowed precincts of the academic mecca without leaving their shoes out? They have already done enough damage, haven't they, by opening God-knows-how-many IITs in every little town of India. Now they are hell bent on breaking the very backbone of IIT system!

Well, it's a pity that after more than 50 years JEE remains the backbone of IITs. To say the least, it's a failure. One could go ahead and say that IITs as a whole involve a systematic theft of public money. Where is the taxpayers' money going? Where is the ROI? Where is the accountability? What the hell is happening?

IITs' ready-made explanation that expat alumni are pumping money back to economy is, well, lame. It's like shooting first and deciding the target later. The system has clearly deserted its stated responsibilities and have been pandering to the ambition of the bania* class. It's a failure, if not an outright scam. And scam it surely is, if you ask me. Nothing has been working well all these years. It's high time this titanic of a  failure was acknowledged. It's high time something was done about it.

May be we are racially infertile when it comes to technical innovation. May be IITs can't be reasonably held responsible for it. May be they can't be held responsible alone. May be our education system needs wholesale overhaul. They alone can't help too much. Even in that case, when the issue is not lack of intention but lack of competence, what justifies what they have been demanding - autonomy without accountability, and boatloads of subsidies?

There is no shying away from the fact that these institutes have hardly been known for their accomplishments in technology. They might be a fantastic names to have in your CV, to network, to prepare for CAT, to recruit or to get recruited, but they are anonymous in the world of technology. There might have a few exceptions, but exceptions only prove the rule. There are questions to answer - why the same students do better abroad? How many students who come through JEE aspire to complete their masters or doctorate from IITs? How many of them stick to their discipline? And how many don't? Why the IIT management is so acutely touchy about the entrance exam and not so about their archaic pedagogical practices? Given the degree of autonomy and the quality of students they manage to intake, not to mention the number, their output is nothing short of pathetic.

But the booming market and the skyrocketing starting packages have kept these issues hidden under the carpet. Indian middle class is too backward to make an educated inquiry about what goes on in campus; or perhaps too busy feeling proud and dreaming big. Besides, Indian media have more urgent issues to cry about. This is a happening place, by God's grace. You get to see five star scams everyday on TV. Who has time to count how many men (and women) of technical consequence have been produced by these institutes in about 300 years of their combined history? How many Nobel laureates walk in those sacred corridors? Which IIT APJ Abdul Kalam is from? 

IITs do have their success stories. I remember a few myself, and most of them someone selling something, now on internet. The rare ones include the legend of Infosys, the idea whose time had come in 1990s. I don't know what Infosys stands for - business of technology or technology of business. At this point the only exception coming to my mind is the firm where I had started my career - Geometric - since they started with an innovation in CAD-CAM as their USP. Anyway, in the classic genre, one of the most memorable stories involved his highness Mr. Rajat Gupta, who has fallen from great highness height. I will come to him later, but my definition of success will stick the objectives of IIT - to promote technical innovation. Sounds rather out of tune in 2012, isn't?

Coming back to our dear Lucifer, no IITian could truly believe that what he did was an aberration. He was not wrong as such, he was just not discreet enough. Or he was bit unlucky, poor chap. Remember your lab courses; fraud is practically taught there. While seniors teach you to speak foul language so that you could survive in the real world, the lab assistants harass you till you learn to make wise adjustments with readings to survive their scrutiny. Aberration! What the hell are we talking about! Our integrity is regularly sold cheap, and it's a well known fact in market. Witty they might be, but ask any walking female in DU, and she will tell you that the last word she will associate with the IITians is character. Too bad! Even from her standards!

Coming to the least talked - the curriculum, which was dated even a decade back. Thanks to the killer combo of inertia and hubris, it's unlikely to change without twisting arms. The bania breed is opening e-shops and reaping rewards of soaring sensex, bringing random glory to all and sundry - their alma mater, their schools, their family, their friends and their pets. What is there to complain about? What else do you want? Why to change? Any change in entrance exam is likely to keep out the Kota and bring inside bunch of rustics who have no idea how the world works. They will waste lots of time time in useless things before realizing the truth. What good will come out of that! 

Many IITians would hate to admit that IIT is a moribund system, which needs to be reformed to be revived. The prospect of being ordinary, and earning reputation again, and again, from zero, is dreary. For me, what was dreary was my encounter with IIT Delhi, where I always felt out of place, and I have been waiting for a change. However, the choice of change is rather weird. Even the harshest critic will concede JEE was the only thing that was good in the system. Not just good, anyone who has taken this exam knows how beautiful, beautiful, that exam used to be. Let's hope that the removal of JEE will serve a purpose. It will warn the people who are in charge, the fat headed lot, that the next change is waiting at the next corner. And that could rock chairs and kick asses. So mend ways; in no circumstance autonomy can be gifted without accountability. 

I wish they wake up. They better wake up now. Throw water if they don't. Or acid for all I care.

* the closest desi word for bourgeois. As I had written long ago in this blog, in post-1992 India, we all live in market and we are all bania. It has no reference to a particular caste per se.  

Shanghai - Not a Movie Review

Shanghai is for adults only.

At this point I must clarify - though pornography etc are rated, apparently for adults only, they are majorly patronized by minors and sophomores. In all likelihood, they are made mainly for non-adults. The restriction is, I believe, just a marketing ploy.

Shanghai is adult in adult-like way. That's why, perhaps, kids might not be able to appreciate it. You don't have to challenge their sense of thrill or appeal to their juvenile curiosity by imposing fake restrictions. This film is not very filmy, and could taste rather bland to those who are used to spices. It's an ordinary movie in which, to the utter dismay of audience, nothing dramatic takes place. No revenge, no redemption, no catharsis, not even gunshots. Besides, Shanghai is a world without heroes; mere survival takes all. And there is no justice, no explanation, and no escape. Worse, there is no "The End" to it. The script ends but the story goes on; inside your mind, and outside the theater, the story goes on. It's not unlikely that the your own multiplex was part of the story. You couldn't muster courage to order popcorn in the interval.

Shanghai is a scary movie.

Again it's time to clarify - though horror flicks typically involve cartloads of ghosts and gore, they don't really scare. The better ones manage to shock or disgust. Others just bore. The fault lies in their premise - that death is inherently horrible, and there can be nothing more horrible than a horrible death. For starters, I doubt that death is inherently horrible. And I have no doubt that a horrible life is by no means less horrible than a horrible death. A horror movie ought to depict life in its gory details, without offering escape or even hope of escape. From that point of view, life itself seems horrible, and our existence terribly lonely and helplessly futile.

The individuals in Shanghai are horribly lonely. And why not? Their relationships, with anyone or anything, are fragmented, contractual, and often disposable. They are either uprooted or being uprooted, all of them. They are condemned to live with strangers. And they themselves live like strangers all through their lives. Meanwhile, world around them changes faster than they could get a hang of it. They run breathless only to find out the ground beneath their feet has turned into a treadmill. Life goes on humiliating the weak and outsmarting others, making one feel perpetually betrayed and cheaply traded. Even destruction is reduced to a mere job. Ironically, but not unusually, one is killed by the very people who one fights for.

Final Comments

To me, Shanghai was like an underground Fight Club, where I had gone to get punched in my gut. I did get punched, and it did hurt for a while. I enjoyed the pain too while it lasted, but the punch had landed at wrong place. And that left me a bit upset.  

In the final analysis, the movie fails in bringing home the horrors of mindless development. Instead, it strays into the easy path of showing how corrupt our politicians are. As if we didn't know!

As if we didn't know that it was inspired by Costa-Gavras' masterpiece 'Z', which is a classic political thriller. Unfortunately for Shanghai, Z is a film about systematic suppression of freedom of expression under junta-rule and not about wholesale destruction under the aegis of economic development. Dibakar Banerjee, one of the most intelligent film-makers of Hindi Cinema, manages to localize the story well, but fails to fit into perspective.
 

Memoir - Rajasthan I

I went till the remotest corner of the world; I went as far as I could go without falling off the cliff; far off from the mainland India, in an unknown desert hamlet called Khuri, Rajasthan happened to me, in the last month of last year. The January wish - Happy New Year - finally got realized in December.

And how!

Picture this - I walk alone, in the earliest of mornings, towards the dunes that glow in anticipation of their sun, and suddenly I see peacocks, many of them, walking around, and flying above. There is no other sight that could match the majesty of that sight. It was dreamy, that scene, that time, that place, and everything about it. I walk further, and I see herd of antlers towards my right. That sight was beautiful, this sight was awesome. I took my camera out, and put it back in no time. You can either feel or record, and blessings are not to be recorded.

On top of the dunes, with sun rising in background, I had had a cup of tea, and a plate of Maggi, which tasted like defeat, for Maggi was not to be eaten like that.

Last night, we had planned to carry out a madness - to cook Maggi on the dunes, and eat it out in the open, under the thousand twinkling stars of the rural sky. In the midnight, we set out to make that night unforgettable, and we did make that night unforgettable, not once but twice, both unsuccessfully. I had never imagined that I would see mirage in pitch-dark midnight. We just couldn't find the dunes!

Hours before, we were there, right on the top of the dunes, dancing to the tunes of a gypsy boy, who conjured up music, nay magic, out of nothing but four flat pieces of wood. Can I ever forget that? The setting sun, the gilded land, the camel shadows, the bright red-yellow turban, the charming smile, the tuk-tuk melody, the rhythm, the steps, the hoots, the laughter... oh I must have been drunk.

But Rajasthan is much more than sand and dunes. If I realized one thing, it was this. Rajasthan after a visit emerges as a very different, and much greener, landscape.

Bikaner, where we started from, is a bhujia bazaar. Junagarh Fort is good, may be great, but other forts have been sold out to those who run hotels. 

Have I said this before - that Bikaner is bhujia bazaar? That's what Bikaner is. Period. And yes, they don't serve Rajasthani in their restaurants. They serve chinese and pizzas and even south Indian, but not Rajasthani. If you want to try Rajasthani cuisine, better go to Jodhpur. 

Jodhpur, for me, means Nai Sadak, which is an interesting place for foodies and shoppers. I would not mind another visit there. The other attraction - Mehrangarh Fort - is awesome. 

But nowhere close to Jaisalmer Fort - which is a civilization bubbling inside a boundary. Yes, there are pests too, like Tibetan refugees, who sell "Free Tibet" T-shirts to white women, and expect them to fight for their freedom, but I will talk about these parasites later. Despite them, and pestering locals posing as guides, this fort is a place without parallel. Unlike all other forts that I've seen, this fort lives in present. It does have a past, but it's not a museum.

Jaisalmer sees itself as a desert town, with locals poaching tourists for Sam cottages and Camel Safari etc. But to me, Jaisalmer would mean Jaisalmer Fort, since you can find dunes elsewhere, but there is no place like Jaisalmer Fort anywhere else.

I can not explain why. Perhaps because of our experience - the folk singer we bumped into, as soon as we stepped out of some palace, which was good but monotonous. If music can move you, he would move you, nay stun you, freeze you, and hold you in trance. You can hardly move unless he allows you to, with a grand-fatherly smile on his royally wrinkled visage. In my mind, all hyperbole is taken care of by his "Padharo Mhare Des" alone. 

The topic of music takes me to that night in Osiyaan, where we spent the 31st, the last day of last year. This place is a resort. The folk music program had started and most of the guests had gathered at the venue. Far from there, I was sitting outside my cottage, laid back on a chair, gazing at the moon, reflecting on the moment claimed by both memories and hopes, sipping tea, and soaking the faint music.

The last memory of Rajasthan has to be the "Happy New Year" moment, when I did what I always thought I couldn't do - dance. I danced, and I danced well, meaning I enjoyed. The new year began with a new experience, and it continued for the whole day, since I did another unlikely thing - I went to the Dargah of Nizamuddin Auliya in Ajmer. Perhaps Jan 1st was prophetic; who knows?