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!

****************************************************************

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.

*****************************************************************

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?  

On Deepawali - and window shopping

Francios Gautier says that he is a Hindu, not by birth but by belief, since here is a religion that imposes no condition on its followers, demands no intellectual surrender as an entry-fee, and offers no ready-made answers to seriously complex questions. It has no holy book, and no final word on anything. In fact, for a Hindu, if I may say so, nothing is too holy and nothing is too final.

Hinduism is not a dogma, it's not a comprehensive manual of Dos and Don'ts, it's an attitude rather than a faith, and to repeat the platitude - it's a way of life; and it has an inalienable spirit of quest right at its core. That's why it is essentially sympathetic to the idea of pulrality of thought. That explains its inclusiveness and so-called tolerance, what it is best known for, despite so many external as well as internal forces acting against it for so long. In the end, a true Hindu is essentially a seeker, and the seeker is not only allowed but also encouraged to find his answers to his questions.

However, that is a white man's version, which is as much moral as aesthetic in nature. For others, there exists another aspect of Hinduism too, which involves what is worldly, which is cast in stone, and which is replete with suffocating superstitions and malpractices (ranging from as uncivilized and as repulsive as animal worship to animal sacrifice, and the hemartia - the caste system as-it-is). Also, this is one religion which has gradually but irreversibly tilted towards materialism, and subsequently shifted away from spirituality, so much so that an average Hindu can be pious without slightest spiritual disposition. Religion has been reduced to mere paraphernalia of religion, which at best consist of periodic and meaningless rituals, which make no real sense to anybody. Worse, the worst form of corruption is seen nowhere else but in the temples, where the degradation of religion has been almost complete, and can not worsen much. Our gods have been excluded from our lives, idealized in mind, and idolized in matter. Our prayers are thankless and demanding, and we are ever ready to make deals with the divinity, whosoever and wherever he/she is, if necessary.

This corruption and degradation is manifest in our festivals as well. For instance, Deepawali is a festival of light, but it's certainly no more about things that light symbolizes. It is more about what is to be bought, how much and how many, deals, discounts, and the worst of all - gambling, all in name of religion. A religious Hindu is, ironically, at his materialist worst on this day. He has little patience to stop, and refect on heavy ideas like inner darkness, inner light, and inner peace. He has little time to realize that the festival of light is meant to illuminate the inner self, and eliminate the inner darkness, as it were. However, Deepawali, as it stands, has unfortunately turned into a celebration of darkness, and everything that darkness stands for.

Hinduism is nothing without its beautiful, and equally powerful, language of symbols, which must be deciphered to begin the journey that every man must undertake. The seeker must wonder, must think, and must seek. He who opens his eyes, and looks, will see. Deepawali happens when God comes back to the place where he belongs, the place which can not be fought or defeated. Until then, this world will be shrouded in darkess, and Deepawali will remain just another day of deals, discounts, and shopping.

why do dogs cross roads?

1. Why do dogs cross roads?

I see Theater of the Absurd being played out when I see a dog crossing the road. Why, I wonder, it has to? Why can't it stay where it is? What lies there that is not here? How would crossing the road help?

That brings me to an existential question - why do we cross roads? Is our crossing roads any less futile? It came to my mind when I was driving to a nearby petrol pump.

2. What entertains me?

I liked that horrible movie - "Oldboy". Technically, however, it's a well-made movie. Plus it has everything that entertains a movie-buff like me - a distorted character (an ordinary guy who is a victim of circumstances), a contrived situation (with sufficient semblance to the reality that we know), some aesthetically shot scenes of sex (as per the demands of the script, of course), and some good old gore. That's what we watch movies for, isn't?

3. What do I think of Formula 1 (in India)?

I saw things like Tomatina and October Fest being brought to Hyderabad, to satisfy the growing appetite of Hyderabadi people for anything that is 'global'. They send their kids to global schools. They also celebrate beach parties on new year eve. It's another matter that the nearest beach happens to be about 300 kms away from Hyderabad.

But Hyderabad is still backward, and about 10 years behind cities like Bangalore. Hyderabad is Bangalore in making. Hyderabad is wannabe Bangalore. And Hyderabad is pretty upset to have lost the chance to host India's maiden F1 show to Noida, for a reason as pointless as Telangana!

Coming to F1, it is one of those global games, only more expensive, more exclusive, and more bourgeois. I don't mind F1, unless it thrust itself on my consciousness, which it does since F1 is all about ads, models, and logos. To me, F1 is an indulgance, not a sport. I won't analyze it any further. I don't feel like wasting my words on something as ridiculous as F1.

In the desi context, F1 reminds me of looking at a wedding album, in which the groom dons a suit and a tie, and flanked by his lesser relatives in chappals, looks rather out of place. In typical small town weather, in no time, the make-up gives in to the heat; the sweat washes away the foundation, smears the face, exposes the hidden complexion, and worse - the hidden complex.

Imitation - it's funny, it's awkward, and it's a profoundly sad thing to do. And of course it's demeaning. I am not sure if even French have Tomatina. Hyderabad has, as if we lack festivals!

On part of the middle-class metro-Indians, F1 is so desperate a pretense that it arouses pity. However, unlike the wedding photo, there is nothing innocent about it. Instead, it reeks of colossal callousness towards everything that should matter. Ironically, the F1 fanatics who are absolutely indifferent to fellow Indians claim to be proud of India (whatever that means), and the progress that their India (wherever that is) has made. And what's the index of that progress? HDI? No. Inclusive growth? No. Decreasing disparity? Decreasing deforestation? Rehabilitation of the dispossessed? No. None of them. What's it then? Well, perhaps progress of this India to these Indians means things like Tomatina, October Fest, and F1.

To those who can still think through rumors, F1 is nothing but a joke, and most of us find ourselves at the wrong side of it.

4. Mediocrity or Obsession?

That's the question. This is the dilemma of an IT coolie like me - to be or not to be the star. If one opts for the "Middle Path", which promises maximum happiness, or least unhappiness, mediocrity follows invariably. On the contrary, if one chooses to pursue excellence in something, he must be committed to the cause, and show off his passion whenever the camera faces him. Consequently, things like balance go for a toss. Keeping Jupiter aside, success is usually a by-product of persistent obsession.

If a life of obsession is success, what else is failure, one wonders. Is there a way to break away from this tug of war? What if one makes a bucket list, and do what he wants?

5. Anna verses Democracy

I agree with Arvind Kejriwal when he says that people are supreme, and they are above parliament. Parliamentarians are making a scandal out of it. But it's the other way round. It's nothing short of scandal to confine democracy to a periodic drill called election. Elected members, and more importantly, we the people, should understand this very clearly that democracy are election are not synonymous.

Besides, UK is a democracy. So is UP. As it is evident, democracy comes in different flavors. It's the flavor that matters. Just being a democracy is not enough, since democracy is not the ends in itself.

Anna is not an exception. From Aruna Roy to Arundhati Roy, people are losing confidence in Indian state. Status quo is no more an option, except for the beneficiaries of the status quo. We need reforms.

6. Steve Jobs

In "Over the Flames", I couldn't help noticing this young couple who was sitting in front of me. Both the man and the women were dipped in their respective phones. To me, that's the lasting legacy of Steve Jobs.

To me his iGadget is like one of many other toys, made for big boys and girls who are yet to grow up. And to me, Mr Jobs, no matter what media might say, was a maker of mental dildos, as it were, and that's how I see him. Still, I don't mind someone selling toys. But when someone starts selling myths, like Jobs was some sort of Edison, and some sort of transformer, then it gets funny. If Jobs was an innovator, damn such innovators, and damn such innovations. I am absolutely certain that the world would be rather better off without him or his likes.

Konkan - Monsoon - RE TBTS

Plan: to cover about 2830 kms in 9 days.

Route: Hyderabad -- Pune - Raigad Fort - Ganapatipule - Vijaydurg - Sindhudurg - Goa - Karwar - Gokarna - Murudeshwar - Jog Falls - Agumbe - Shringeri - Belur - Bangalore -- Hyderabad

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Day 0 (Aug 26): Hyderabad - Sholapur (300 kms)

The prelude set the tone for rest of the play. No mercy was shown from heavens for my maiden bike marathon. As we mounted our sacks, it was raining. It was raining when we kicked off, and it was to rain throughout, day and night, all the time. In no time I knew what we were up against, as all our stratagems to keep water out failed one by one. Soon it was apparent that the word - waterproof - is a joke. Before we could leave the town behind, rain was as much inside as it was outside.

And that was not the end of our problems. The highway had to offer a plenty. The visibility worsened after the dusk. The high beam would burst on the glass and leave you dazzled. When you lift the glass, the water needles would threaten to puncture your eyes. For a good deal of the road, riding was like making good guesses on the road.

The only respite was occasional cups of tea and steamy hot omlettes by road-side stalls. It was midnight when we decided to call it a day. By then, we were looking like a mess.

Day 1 (Aug 27): Sholapur - Baramati (200 kms)

A minor accident on the highway dented the course of our trip. After talking to locals in a repair shop, we dropped the idea of going to Pune. There was not much sense in riding on the highway with mud flying around everywhere. So we sneaked into the interior routes with a safer speed. Thankfully, we found that the state highways were in much better shape, and more pleasant to ride on, beneath the canopies of great banyan trees.

Meanwhile, it dawned on me that I was too ambitious in planning. Looking at the situation in hand - the non-stop downpour and an understandably demoralized co-traveler - I realized that it was high-time we rationalized our plan as per the practical realities. We stopped and talked over the lunch. And decided to take it easy and do whatever was possible.

All this while I could not stop wondering why would anyone want to ride in Monsoon.

Looking at the brighter side of the situation, despite (or because of) whatever we were looking like, we aroused lots of curiosity and awe wherever we passed by. People turned their heads, girls giggled, boys cheered, and adults asked questions. Traveling is incomplete without engaging with the locals. And it's impossible not to come across interesting people in such road trips. To our good luck, a veteran trekker bumped into us and helped us with useful information. Things were beginning to take a shape.

Day 3 (Aug 28): Baramati - Raigad (150 kms)

The journey through the Ghats was one of the things that I had in my mind when I had planned this trip. Just to remind again, it was pouring buckets all the time. The road (from Bhor, Pune to Mahad, Raigad) crawled like a snake through the forest. As far as I could see, it was lush green all around. The sound of the countless falls crashing, birds chirping, and wind whistling, left me absolutely mesmerized. As we rolled upwards, we were wrapped by clouds. We had arrived.

It's amazing that in a setting like these, even a simple thing like a cup of tea feels so very special. By a roadside dhaba on top of the hill, I enjoyed one of the most memorable cups of tea, along with steamy hot Vada Pao. Won't I ever come here again?, I asked myself. And that was the moment it occurred to me that I was rather wasting my time in Hyderabad, which is far from all the interesting places. At that moment, the microscopic details of urban existence seemed unnecessary in the larger scheme of life, which had lot better to offer to those who sought.

Indeed, biking in clouds is more than an experience. It's a perspective.

While coming down, I switched off the ignition. The bike rolled down the slopes on its own, leaving behind the clouds, and what followed was about 5-6 kms of absolute timelessness, in which oblivious to the whole world, I soaked the sound of nature, trying to store it somewhere in my memory, taking it back to where I need it the most.

Day 4 (Aug 29): Raigad - Guhagar (250 kms)

Konkan is the land of hills, beaches, forts, temples, and food. Apart from sea food, what it is well known for is Ratnagiri Hapus or Alphonso. We took the NH 17 and sped towards the land of famous Alphonso mangoes. From a place called Chiplun, we turned towards the state highway, which runs closer to the coastal line. And finally, we reached Guhagar in late afternoon.

Throughout this trip, we enjoyed riding more than anything else. The evenings were not happening enough, since there was not much to do outside with the rain playing spoilsport. And it was not fun to sit in a stuffy room watching your clothes not drying. I regretted not making a diversion to Pratapgad, which was just 25 kms away from the NH 17.

Anyway, we were in Guhagar. Apparently, it is one of the most gorgeous beaches in Konkan, though it is dangerous for swimmers. In Monsoon, it's insane to go inside water anyway, since the waves leap furiously and take away whatever they lay hands on. Moreover, the beaches are invariably dirty in rainy season. In any case, beaches were out of scope for us in his trip. I just wanted to see life in Konkan in an off-season.

This was another reason, apart from the sheer impossibility, for us to curtail the scope of our trip. The beaches deserved a better season, and it was a better idea to leave those places for another trip.

Day 5 (Aug 30): Guhagar - Ganapatipule (100 kms)

As recommended by our hospitable host, who painstakingly drew a detailed map of the whole coastal region for us, we decided to take an intimate route through the villages of the region. No wonder we could not travel much, but we saw a lot that day. Besides, it was a welcome diversion from a beautiful monotony of riding through vegetation. Thanks to Monsoon, we were allowed to do something different than wearing floral shirts and sipping lemonades at beaches.

Near Guhagar, there is a lesser known place called "Baman Ghal". It's a deep gorge in rocks, in which waves rush in and splash in air about 40-50 feet high. Standing there, it came to my mind that unless you have a two-wheeler, which approaches more, and makes you more approachable, you can not even think to explore a place as secluded as this. And that would be a huge loss.

We rode through habitations, and through places where there was no trace of man. There was nothing else but clouds, rains, and greenery. It was so isolated up there that one could even change clothes on road without been seen. But what would one do if his bike started acting up? That was a terrifying thought. At that moment I thanked the makers of the RE TBTS for making such a reliable piece of mechanical marvel.

By evening, we were in Ganapatipule. We strolled near the beach after dinner. In pitch dark, the sea looked menacing with the tides lashing and roaring. It was a sight to look at, and a sound to listen to. But we had to rush to our room since the drizzling was beginning to get heavier.

Day 6 (Aug 31): Ganapatipule - Goa via Vijaydurg, Sidhudurg (300 kms)

What could one say about the journey when hills are on your left side and sea is on the right? I was living the fantasy. As we rode along the coast, I saw nameless beaches, rocky shores, lagoons, and the life around the coast.

The first destination was Vijaydurg fort, which was in disrepair, and that left me disappointed. The second stop was Sindhudurg fort, which is build on an island. I couldn't see the fort from inside, since ferry service was not in operation. There was no point in going to Tarkarli beach. So we moved on, and reached Goa by night. We stopped by a dhaba for our regular cup of tea, but we were informed that no dhaba serves tea in Goa. All they offer was beer.

The road just before Goa was like a death-trap. It was late when we reached, and I was dead tired, and sick of water in any form. By the time we checked in, all I wanted was to go back home.

Day 7 (Sep 01): Goa

Though I am not one of the Goa fans, but I have to admit that there is no place like Goa. Even in rainy season, even on Ganesh Chaturthi, it was decently crowded, though the foreigners were not many. We used this day to relax, and bring back the spirit, which was dampened by rains, and stinking clothes.

In a shack, we talked to the shack owner, who had interesting things to talk about Indian tourists, especially Delhiites. I was amused to find out that they really had put "No Delhi People Allowed" board on their shacks, since these tourists were repeatedly found to be offensive and arrogant. Many of them were beaten up by the locals and even by foreigners. Sitting there in the shack, I saw a sample there and then.

- Don't take this drink near the beach. They'll fine you.
- How much?

Day 8 (Sep 02): Goa - Bijapur (350 kms)

The road till Belgaum was more challenging than I had imagined. After Ponda, as the forest area started, the road had veritable craters, and fog was dense, making it very difficult for us to ride. I had to turn into a mp3 player to distract my mind from the cold.

In a roadside dhaba, where we had taken shelter, the atmosphere was beautiful in a way. A bus was parked there, and the passengers were inside. There was no light inside, and the steam and smoke inside was mingling with the mist outside. I enjoyed a steaming hot, though bit spicy for my taste, lunch plate. And then we pushed off.

The state highway was like a dream, though the occasional bumpers were disorienting, and that allowed us to reach Bijapur on time. Meanwhile, I tested the limits of RE TBTS, which showed signs of swaying as I reached 100 km/h.

Day 9 (Sep 03): Bijapur - Hyderabad (350kms)

Bijapur is a town with rich cultural heritage. Relics are strewn on both sides of road. Though I had no intention to spend time in the town, I finally did since the places of interest were nearby, and they were picturesque. This was the first time when I could take out my camera and clicked few snaps.

By noon we left Bijapur. NH 218 was fun to ride on, and the bull touched its max - 110 km/h. By dusk we were having our dinner in a dhaba located at the outskirts of Hyderabad.

Overall, we did 2130 kms. I was happy to find out that the bikes and the riders were fine despite severe testing. Given another chance, I would do the same route again, with lighter packing though.

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There are two type of traveling. One could travel to heaven, enjoy, and remember the memories with fondness after coming back to the banalities of usual life. Conversely, one could travel to hell, suffer, and start appreciating one's normal life. My road trip was mix of both; it hurted and it healed, and that's why it's difficult for me to answer simplistic questions like how was the experience. The experience would have been worth nothing had it been a simple good or a simple bad.

One is supposed to look refreshed after coming back from a vacation. I guess I must be looking lost, and rather disoriented. The birds are still chirping in my mind. It will take me a while to adjust to the pace again. But as of now, this trance is my only payoff.

And finally, now I know why people make road trip to Konkan in Monsoon.

Realism: Meta Art

"Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way", said Tolstoy, and proceeded to write about a family he, being an artist, was wont to be interested in. The tragic fate of Anna Karenina not merely touched his sensitivity but it practically possessed him, consuming him over countless sleepless nights. Witnessing her travails would have been a cathartic experience for him, sometimes even amusing, but certainly not boring. That's how it is. Artists would rather brood over a dramatic failure - the orphan, the bastard - than toast a methodical success. Artists fail to appreciate anything poetic, or inspiring, in monotony of a happy family, which - as Tolstoy points out - are "all alike".

On the other extreme end, however, broken or complicated relationships arouse feelings more visceral than usual coffee-table stuff; and tales of impossible romance are immortal classics. Moreover, extraordinary situations foster extraordinary men (and women) - of compelling personalities - who, by sheer power of their character, rouse us and drag us out of our blankets. They challenge our understanding of the world we live in, and of the words we thoughtlessly speak. They expose us to ourselves, and liberate us from the platitudes of nine-to-five banalities, at least for a few awakened moments. These moments are poetic moments, and these men are the heroes worshiped by poets.

In every unhappy context, happiness is tortured in a different way, and it needs a elaborate supply of resources to look into the details. It's hard because the questions asked are typically confusing, and answers are never offered ready-made. It's like doing the sum without ever having a look at the examples. Worse, unlike in Math, reason doesn't help much in life. As every sensible man realizes sooner or later, rationality is but a state of mind - a mood - which is neither immutable nor unconditional. Reason, the keeper of laws and orders, works reasonably well within the band of "normal" situations - atmospheric pressure, room temperature etc. In other situations, however, the my-maximum-gain attitude can be transformed into his-maximum-loss attitude, with surprising ease. Madness is contagious, and often spreads like wildfire. In the heat of delirium, modern innovations - like reason - are charred to cinders, and collapse in the debris of their own remains.

As V rightly said in "V for Vendetta", the politicians lie to hide the truth, the artists tell lies to reveal it. So, a work of art is a lie told to reveal a truth. That truth is a greater truth, which involves pluralities of perspectives, and ironies of co-existing contrasts, realizing which demands more maturity than logic affords in isolation.

An artist explores the human nature by putting his characters to an abnormal situation - catch 22 or dilemma - where choices are not easy, yet they are to be made. He teases his characters, tempts them, tests them, and traps them in morally ambiguous situations. He situates them in the unhappy stories where emotions are denied, deprived, or worst of all - pit against each other, therefore burning with greater intensities. He digs into this debris to pick the parts that survive the fire, to find order in chaos, without trivializing any of these. He helps us realize that meaning can precede the word and word can transcend the scope of meaning. In his works, without trivializing relationships, he makes us see that feelings do exist external to relationships, but not always. Art subverts generalities, without intending to offer any of its own.

Does art holds mirror to reality? I don't think it does. And if it does, it shouldn't hold a plain mirror for sure, since a plain mirror can't correct the distortions inherent in reality. Art is not a superficial truth but an artful lie which helps us see the hidden truth. Art can't intend to be a mere mirror image of reality; it's a meta reality. Realism, the rather evolved but not necessarily better form of art, resembles life more but it depends on art rather than life itself. Ironically, a realist is farther from life than an artist, who seeks inspiration not from art, but from life itself.

And happy families hardly inspire any. That's a perversion artists live with.

a bull or an ox

Ox: I have fodder, shelter, a job in a big farm, and a company of beautiful cows. What do you have?

Bull: I have balls.

Most of us, ultimately, are what we choose to be. And regardless of what we possess, every Sunday evening reminds us that what matters the most is what we choose to be - a bull or an ox.

14th Feb - Goa

What could Goa mean to someone like me, whose vegetarian food preferences could turn the mouth-watering aroma of sea food into an all-pervading stink! That's what I was thinking while sitting in Republic of Noodles and flirting with their signature delicacy.

Let's ignore the ubiquitous stench, and guzzle on the famous Feni, one would suggest. Oops, I don't drink. And what more, I am not the party animal type who enjoys being in Tito's. What am I doing in Goa then?

Boring? May be. Bored? Never. Despite my rather superficial engagement with what all Goa offers, I came back satisfied. And equally dissatisfied, since three days are barely enough to explore even my fraction of Goa.

Ajanta Ellora

The murals and frescoes of Ajanta was "never meant to be seen", says Jonah Blank, a traveler and the auther of book I am reading - "Arrow of the blue skinned God." Speaking of Ellora, he says - "The caves I like most are ones that require the most work. there are five hermitages at Ellora that can be reached only by a crumbling path two feet wide, a track chiseled out of the mountain face, which drops thirty yards to bare rock pits below. The path looks more difficult that it actually is, so the family picnickers stay away. There the spirits of long-dead sadhus seem almost alive."

I understand and share the sentiments of the author. It's like going to watch a Satyajit Ray movie, and to find some front benchers whistling and howling and murdering the movie, and harassing the movie-goers. And you wonder - what on earth are they doing here? Do they even belong to this place? Those who run the world might have their reasons, but I feel that they are selling it cheap, in Rs 7.

Ajanta, however, is more accessible, and more vulnerable. Quoting the author again, "The path is wide and paved, so overdressed Bombay grande dames can ride up in wooden sedan-chairs, each hefted by four stoic bearers. At the cave mouth a servant holds an enormous mirror of polished tin, directing the sun's rays in to illuminate the chamber and slowly burn the frescoes into oblivion."

I didn't see mirror, but I did see numerous shutter-bugs throwing flashes, despite admonitions from guards, effecting the same effect to the precious paintings.

Those who created are dead. Those who protect are hardly ever seen, and those who destroy are omnipresent. They litter without guilt or shame, and leave their poly-traces to the corners that were "never meant to be seen". Hidden from the world for more than a thousand years, these caves lied unsullied in the custody of forest. But an accidental discovery changed everything. Hordes of monkeys ravage their steps and hoot in their halls.

What is left in Ajanta and Ellora is just a memory of a world that was out-of-the-world. With passage of eons, the colors have faded, and the shapes have dulled, and all we have is nothing but ruins. But here lies the magic - even the ruins are awesome! A look at Kailashnath Temple is enough to convince a sceptic.

But this marvel often dazzles and misleads. Being the gateway to Ellora, it gives the impression of the first cave, which it is not. Unless you are careful, or informed, you are likely to miss the Buddhist caves altogether. The arrangement for the tourists is abysmal. You are on your own.

Can I?

I need a comma, a round of confessional, to put a period to something that makes me look grotesque (without even making me look funny). I have realized that I cannot get away with "being myself" anymore. I can not afford the luxury of status quo any longer.

Time has moved on; and the young angry man of 70s has evolved. He is working his backside off, making lots of money and dreaming of Mediterranean. Meanwhile, the gender code has been changed. Anger is not manly anymore. Today's hero is Rocket Singh the salesman, who doesn't have to show his member to prove his manhood. He doesn't push around, and without arguing, he convinces us and makes us see that the expression of anger is medieval. It's a baggage-of-past we have to jettison to sail ahead.

The question is how. What follows is not an answer, but an attempt to find that.

1. Patience - a belief that some problems can be solved just by waiting. Let's say it again - just by waiting. If you try talking, you might end up prolonging the problem. One can not be agnostic about time almighty. One only has to learn how to pass the time while time is on job.

Take away point - it's wise, civilized, and manly, to listen out people and not cut them out. Wait for them to finish before you barge in. It's charming without being insincere.

2. Tolerance - a belief that imperfection is an existential condition. That implies even you will be wrong once in a while. And that makes forgiveness a mutual need, therefore a social contract in any civilized society. It helps to remember that what we deal with in everyday life is mood/state-of-mind and not people, and the former is often worse than the latter. In worst case, when nothing makes sense, you might like to thank your God not to make you like the next guy.

Take away point - the critic must introspect. He should smile more often. And he should take it easy unless it's a matter of life and death.

3. And the forgotten lesson - unless cornered, don't hit back, don't block, just dodge.

It's time for me to see and find out how young I still am.

Reluctant Fundamentalist

Today morning, as I was waking up, I discovered that in my bed I had been reduced into a black flag.

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All of a sudden, a verdict falls on mankind like a thunderbolt. Not for the first time and not for the last time. Court will pronounce peace and leave justice to the progeny! And historians and archeologists will be called upon to decide the matters of faith! Whether Lord Ram was born there or not! They might as well decide whether God exists or not.

That has never been just another place. And that is not just another case anymore. There lies a history in the background which gives a meaning to "whatever the hell is happening" today. It's a story of a haunted house. It's a burning emblem of a culture that needs to restore its vitality, its honor and its potency. The defeated needs to redeem himself. Tolerant he must be, but not unconditionally. His dignity he must not forfeit. And cowardly he must never feel. Forgiveness doesn't come for free; it has to be deserved and re-deserved. With the passage of time, peace will follow justice. But Justice must not be challenged again. Those who are fooled by the sight of olive branches must remember that there lies a gun in the right hand.

He has willed to come back, time and again. Had he been a man, one probably could have stopped him. Had he been a God, one possibly could have stopped him. But he is neither a man nor a God. He is an idea. And as learned men say, no army can stop an idea whose time has come.

What's happening is not new. His exile is yet another beginning of the old epic. He has always been betrayed by the throne. That has been his destiny. But the same destiny also marks the fall of evil, no matter how powerful, how assured. He will walk through the forests and the trees will bow. The clouds will scatter, the mountains will stand aside, and the seas will give way. His army will find him. Vain will be vanquished again. And he will again make his people believe in him. As history will be there to witness, the Ramayan will happen, yet again.

Monsoon Mess

NO city in India can stand 2 hrs of rainfall. "Civic Life" kneels down, and "civilians" are on all 4. While we negotiate our bikes/cars though the anarchy, through deepened trails (flanked by cakes of mud), pothole-lakes and gravel-hills, and while we issue noise-threats to all and sundry to give us our way, all we think of is "to get out of this mess". How often does it occur to us that we are part of the problem? How many of us feel that we are just too many? Because of over-supply, the value of life has fallen down to nothingless. We are not people, we are just market. We the Consumers have Harley-Davidson machines but alas! no roads to ride them. Individually, we order Aquafina in polished restaurants but collectively, we have no sense of sanitation! We live in a market, not society. How can we call ourselves civilized when we don't have a sewage system?

Ladakh 2010

Silence,
the echo of silence,
from far forests,
reverberating inside.





The Mahayana monestaries in Ladakh, speaking philosophically, would probably disappoint Buddha and his followers. But they still maintain an environment which is conducive to meditative mood. The experience that I had had there was not spiritual as such, but it was certainly therapeutic. The serenity of the place stays in your mind for long time. It seems you are sitting at the bottom of a lake, and the noise of world cannot disturb you. It's ineffable till it lasts. And incredible afterwards.


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Why I take pictures, I wondered.

There are two types of photos – one in which I am there, and other in which I am not. When I am there in a picture, I cannot turn blind eye to the one thing ugly in it. And since my appetite for self-ridicule is not unlimited, I would rather stay out of the frame. On the other hand, when I am not in a picture, it doesn’t interest me much. Even if there is any beauty in it, it is dead for me. The postcards and wallpapers don’t rouse memories. They don’t connect to moments or events. Besides, I know I am not the best postcard photographer alive. So, why click? And why travel, by the way? Why would one leave home, and all the comforts, and on top of all even pay for it?

Doubt, it seems, is a natural psychological response to physiological deficiency of Oxygen. And why not? After all, what do we travel far for, if not for some Oxygen? The questions are many, and one ponders out of breath while clicking in the meantime to capture pictures - the metaphors of experience.



Ladakh, however, looks like the pictorial representation of the word - Picturesque. The brown barren highlands canopied by the divine blue sky-scape with white Van Gogh-ish swirls makes you forget the travails of traveling - including sun-burns and frost-bites. Leh, the capital of Ladakh, has hitherto been a secluded haven for adventurers, trekkers and bikers (predominantly foreigners). It's only after the release of "3 Idiots", a Bollywood blockbuster, Ladakh caught the fancy of Indian youth. Result - the number of Indian tourists tripled this year.


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The map of world keeps changing. As of now, Jammu is Hindu, Kashmir is Muslim, and Ladakh is Buddhist. Thankfully, since it is difficult to misinterpret Buddhism beyond a point, Ladakh is peaceful. But with Kashmir in west and Tibet in east, with disturbances flowing in from both the sides, the prospects of peace looks precarious in future. Take this - our Kashmiri driver refused to take tea from our hosts in Leh, because they were Buddhists (as he confided to Farida, a friend and our trip organizer).

Ladakh is home to the thousands of refugees from Tibet, who make their living by selling "Free Tibet" T-shirt to the tourists. Their religious leader, His Honorable Dalai Lama, spends most of his time chit-chatting with white women and feeling great about it. His Ray-Ban photographs are worshipped in monasteries. He is second only to Buddha, or it may well be the other way round.

India's foreign policy is interesting. With natural enemies like Pakistan and Bangladesh around, they have to displease China by providing recognition to this phony coward and his so-called "government-in-exile". Tibet is a part of China, so is Aksai Chin*, and India can do nothing about it anyway. Going back in time, Mao was not the least unreasonable in rejecting the validity of McMahon Line, considering it a part of colonial legacy. 1962 happened because Nehru was blind to Reason. Still, despite winning the war, China didn't annex Ladakh, Sikkim, and Tawang, which are still part of Sino-India controversy. Today, when China is fighting against the ubiquitous Islamic separatist movement in Xianjing, and when India is emerging as the next Asian economic power, the motivation for their alliances is multifold and the potential benefits are immense. India simply cannot afford strained relation with China. But Delhi has its reasons that Reason cannot understand.

* China needed Aksai Chin to connect Xianjing to Tibet by Road.