Desicritics Author: Anindita Sengupta

Us "Bra-Burning Harridans"

Anindita Sengupta — Fri, 20 Jul 2007 00:02:54 EDT

Have you noticed how, sometimes, even the most vociferous, soapbox-loving, liberal male, will tiptoe around women's rights? Apart from the cursory nod in our direction ("of course, I believe women are equal"), he will engage very little with feminist concerns and lend none of his (often formidable) intellect to it. I'm not making a generalization here, just talking about something I have noticed.

Anyway, there are two (!) substantial articles related to women's rights in the Deccan Herald today. One is an interview with Dr Rehana Ghadiyally who has edited an anthology called Urban Women in Contemporary India, which "explores the impact of globalization on Indian women and the struggle for gender equality".

Secondly, there's Polly Toynbee's column 'Only a half made revolution', borrowed from the Guardian, in which she says:

It is still an unfinished revolution, where women's attitudes changed fast, but men's only slightly, and society has done too little to accommodate this great eruption.

I believe that a huge part of the problem is this lack of willingness to engage on the part of men. In an Utopian frame of mind, I tend to wonder why men would not care about something that is about the safety and happiness of their mothers, wives, girlfriends, daughters etc. I am even more baffled when even men who otherwise display a reasonable degree of social responsibility, choose to maintain their distance - or silence. But it's all rather simple, of course.

Unlike other issues which often don't have an immediate impact on men's lives, feminism shakes the foundations of family life. When a woman starts wanting changes, it doesn't just upset the apple cart; it sends it toppling right over the cliff. Most of all, for men who pontificate outside but need someone else to fold their pyjamas at home, it simply makes life very uncomfortable. Which is why even decent guys - the kind who vote, don't drive after drinking and have lots of opinions about civic duty - will get a glazed expression in their eyes when women's rights come up. Or worse, say that women shouldn't wear revealing clothes lest they get raped on city streets.

Coming back to Toynbee's column, she also brings up the oft-asked question:

But the perennial question was asked then as now -- why do you need a women's page? Isn't it a harem that confines and diminishes women, as if the rest of the paper was not really women's domain?

And answers it later...

I might be on the women's page still if I hadn't unexpectedly been offered a job as social affairs editor at the BBC. Would I ever have made the jump from Guardian women's page to Guardian comment page without leaving first? The fact that I even ask this question shows that the word "women" still signifies what it always did -- "other", "second class", "not serious", "not one of the boys". That -- paradoxically -- is exactly why we still need a women's page. The revolution is only half made, and sometimes it seems to go backwards. Who else will keep banging the drum?

So keep banging the drum, those of you who do.

Security Tips From Delhi Police - Don't Cook "Smelly" Food!

Anindita Sengupta — Thu, 19 Jul 2007 08:01:20 EDT

This is disturbing at so many levels that I don't know where to begin. The Delhi police has printed a booklet titled Security Tips for Northeast Students/Visitors in Delhi , which among other things, advises them to cover up to avoid being raped and not cook their 'smelly' food so there is 'no ruckus in the neighborhood'.

Firstly, there is the issue of "othering". As many are pointing out, why on earth are people from the north-eastern states being singled out for this helpful advice? The comments about food and the insinuation that they dress in revealing clothes are totally unnecessary and indicative of attitudes that are, frankly, frightening. The fact that the police think like this essentially means that if there is a 'ruckus' in the neighbourhood, they will blame somebody for cooking what they want in their own house! Food habits are intensely personal and closely tied up with cultural identity and if people cannot eat what they want in their own house, we may as well trash all notions of being a multi-cultural, secular country.

Secondly, for heaven's sake, how long are women going to be told to 'cover up' to avoid 'inviting' rape? Delhi has a dismal record as the most unsafe city in the country for women. As usual, instead of addressing the perpetrators and doing more to make the streets safer, the focus is being shifted to the women. Don't wear revealing clothes. Don't go on dates. Don't party late. Don't walk the streets. What next? Should we just wear veils and stay at home since between the beastly tendencies of men (which they can't control, apparently) and the hoary patriarchal attitudes of our legal and political institutions (not to mention, plain inefficiency), we are bound to get screwed (literally or otherwise)?

I'm sure we're all very grateful for the father figure-ly advice but it would be nice if the police stopped printing paternalistic pamphlets and got down to some actual work.

Link via Anjulika.

What Women Want

Anindita Sengupta — Fri, 15 Jun 2007 00:05:01 EDT

I recently visited some villages on the India-Bhutan border and was particularly struck by the women of a particular settlement. They seemed strong, proud, free and independent - in ways that could put us city gals to shame. I thought they were eminently story-worthy. But the idea didn't fly with the editor of a popular women's magazine. All village women are content, industrious and easy-going, she said. What's so special about that? True enough. And this is a magazine I like reading, so I'm reading too much into it.

But I can't remember the last time a women's magazine gave an insight into the lives of women who live differently from its readers. Unless of course the difference is shocking or titillating in some way. Magazines can't really be blamed for providing what the readers want, I suppose. Which brings me to the question - what does the reader of women's magazines, i.e the average educated, urban woman want to read about?

If one looks at most of the women's magazines that do brisk business, the answer seems to be beauty, fashion, cookery, some gossip, sex tips, more fashion, more beauty. This then is the sum of a generation's interests, preoccupations and priorities. Fair enough.

Except that I strongly suspect that not all women want just this. They make do because really, what are the choices? In the West, the reaction to the excessive focus on beauty was Gloria Steinem's Ms Magazine, which proudly and firmly proclaims even today that they do not carry articles on "fashion, beauty, fitness, travel, food or of a 'self-help' variety". Slowly, a number of other magazines aimed at women who want to read something other than "Ten Sexy Outfits to Wow Your Client" sprang up.

So far, in India, there is no such move. Is it because Indian women clearly do not want to read about anything other than what is on offer? Or because we are conditioned to accepting what's dished out in this as in most other aspects of life? Or because those who want something different avoid the monthly subscriptions and trawl the Internet instead?

I don't particularly subscribe to the either-or mentality myself. I believe that feminist and fashionista don't have to be at opposite ends of the spectrum. You can be both. Or neither. Or a host of other things altogether. Why is it that the media doesn't recognize this? What's wrong with having a magazine that combines current affairs and cookery, politics and nail polish, summer dresses and serious literature? Why this need to pigeonhole women into neat, little boxes as if to tell us - here, this is where you belong. Now, fit in nicely.

What I'd like to know is what women really want. If you could pick and choose to make your own magazine, what would you choose?

Sexism, Threats and Internet Purdah

Anindita Sengupta — Wed, 9 May 2007 11:36:26 EDT

About two months ago, eminent tech blogger Kathy Sierra decided to stop blogging because of the horrific death threat comments she received, many of them explicitly sexual and violent. Last month, Jessica Valenti from Feministing talked about how the web became a sexists' paradise in her column at the Guardian. She mentioned her own experience with sexism in the blogosphere as well.

All of this leads me to wonder when this is going to catch up with us here in India. So far, women bloggers have been relatively safe because the blogosphere is dominated by a handful of left leaning liberals, many of whom decry bigotry at every opportunity. Not too far in the future, this may change. More people are becoming Internet-savvy. More people want a voice. More people are learning that blogging is an easy way to get one.

Feminism already has its share of urgent opposers in the blogosphere, some of whom hang out at Desicritics quite frequently. It may be only a matter of time before the rabid paranoia and misogynist hatred displayed against Kathy Sierra catches up with us here.

Even now, even without the threat of explicit sex or violence, many women bloggers tend to write under pseudonyms and refrain from using pictures. I don't have any statistics on the exact numbers of male bloggers who use their real identities either but I have a hunch that there are probably more. In her column, Jessica points out:

Some argue that the increased visibility afforded people by the internet - who doesn't have a blog, MySpace page, or Flickr account these days? - means that harassment should be expected, even acceptable.

and later,

"I think there's a tendency to put the blame on the victims of stalking, harassment or even sexual violence when the victim is a woman - and especially when she's a woman who has made herself public," says (Jill) Filipovic. "Public space has traditionally been reserved for men, and women are supposed to be quiet."

Ah, the old, timeless, tired argument. By showing themselves, being themselves, women are somehow 'asking for it'. The circumstances change; the specifics vary. The fundamentals remain the same. If you put your picture on Orkut, you are asking for a hundred hormonal boys to bombard your page with requests for friendship. If you use a real picture for your blog, you are asking to be judged on the basis of how you look instead of what you say. No wonder so many women feel that it's easier to hide. It's easier to lie. It is easier to choose purdah.

Some time last year, a rumour started doing the rounds about social networking sites. Posting your picture on the profile page was apparently dangerous because it could be stolen, tweaked and used by pornographic websites. Overnight, all my colleagues replaced their sunshiny, smiling photos with pictures of cartoon characters, flowers, birds, and faces edited to show just the eyes. Clever, yes. Creative even. Mostly, just afraid.

Undoubtedly, some people just don't want to be known because they like their privacy and this is their right. But I suspect that many women are uncomfortable with displaying their real identity--and certainly, with displaying their photographs--on the blogosphere because they are afraid of exactly the things that Kathy and Jessica have had to deal with: censure, criticism, judgment, sexual objectification and threats.

I have felt the fear too. I used to vacillate between posting my real picture and not posting anything at all until I started treading the middle path--using PhotoShop effects to obscure the features. Recently, the pictures have got clearer, truer.

Merely being oneself, showing one's true face in a public space cannot be, is not, an act of indiscretion or self-indulgence or exhibitionism. It's just somebody saying 'this is me', 'this is who I am'. It's important to remember that, no matter what space we are in. Even if it is just the Internet.

Movie Review: Maurice - Growth and Class in Edwardian England

Anindita Sengupta — Thu, 26 Apr 2007 07:48:33 EDT

The 1987 Merchant-Ivory classic film Maurice, based on the EM Forster novel of the same name, explores the delicate subject of homosexual love long before Ang Lee made it fashionable -- and does so with a touching bravery that one finds in few love stories. Maurice opens with a scene that is both telling and comic. A pale, fair-haired young boy (the young Maurice) and his well-meaning but garrulous teacher are at the beach. The teacher is trying to instruct the boy about sex and hastily draws a crude diagram in the sand to illustrate sexual intercourse. He emphasizes that having sex with a woman in order to procreate is one of the greatest joys known to man. The key words are 'woman' and 'procreate'. The boy looks unconvinced.

The movie then steps forward in time to show Maurice as an unsure and self-conscious young student at Cambridge University. This is Edwardian England where homosexuality, 'the unspeakable vice of the Greeks', is punishable by law and this all-boys college is a veritable stew of homo-eroticism, repression and hypocrisy. It is here that Maurice meets Clive Durham (a young and dashing Hugh Grant) and launches into what will be the pivotal relationship of his life.

The gradual evolution of their love is beautifully handled; its forbidden undertones traced with delicate fingers. Their individual personalities are carefully nuanced. Sexual tension is slowly built until it is a palpable force on screen. The difficulties that come with the realization are not glossed over either. The scenes that show them falling in love are almost always shot outside and are full of colour, noise (music), boisterousness and energy. It is plain that this is the texture of their love - everything pales when they are not with each other. With its rich, upper-crust interiors and almost suffocating stillness, the halls and quadrangles of Cambridge University form the perfect backdrop to their relationship.

*SPOILERS AHEAD*

Interestingly, Clive admits the truth about his feelings for Maurice first. Maurice's strict, church-going upbringing holds him back initially but once he lets go of these constrictions, Maurice's acceptance of himself is more whole-hearted. Clive insists that they keep their relationship platonic. It is as if he cannot make this final leap and seeks the safety of some boundary, unnecessary and hypocritical though it may be. This irony is largely indicative of the ways in which the two will evolve through the movie.

In the beginning, Clive is the rebellious, blaspheming, Tchaikovsky scholar who 'despises' his mother and laughs at Maurice's naiveté for believing in Christian tenets. Maurice, on the hand, is shy and uncertain. But Clive is the one who scares easy. Later in the movie, he is almost paralyzed with fear when a classmate is arrested and disgraced for homosexuality. He withdraws from Maurice, ostensibly to 'think about things', travels the world, comes back and breaks up with him within a shattering scene where his casual politeness is a far cry from the intensity of the earlier days. He goes on to marry a woman and settles down to the life of a staid country gentleman. He enters politics and, eventually, represents humbug in the worst possible way -- by refusing to even acknowledge the true nature of his relationship with Maurice. Clive is as central to the story as Maurice because he elucidates many of the key themes and provides the counterpoint to the other. Hugh Grant effectively portrays the journey of a beautiful young man on the verge of something who becomes a square, stuffy gentleman, capable of nothing.

While Clive represents landed gentry, Maurice is the ordinary, average man who works as a stock broker. Clive struggles towards social acceptance and is terrified at the thought of endangering it. Maurice, who presumably has less to lose socially, struggles with inner demons -- loss of love, loneliness and self-doubt -- and is more honest with others. This is evident early on. He is arduous in his love for Clive, even bordering on foolhardiness at times. He is expelled from Cambridge for one of his jaunts with Clive. In a weak moment, he kisses Clive on the mouth in front of his mother. When Clive is ill, he is insistent on nursing him, which elicits a snarky remark from the doctor. Though both are dealing with the same fears and censures, Maurice is more concerned with the truths of his own life.

After being jilted by Clive, Maurice goes through a troubled phase during which he tries to come to terms with what society expects of him. He hovers in between bluster and diffidence, individualism and pretense, intense efforts to forget or change (including hypnotism). One often gets the impression that it could go either way. James Wilby's measured performance bringS out the subtleties of Maurice's emotional, moral and physical struggle with clarity and pathos.

But Maurice is not completely devoid of snobbery. This is why he is slow to notice Alec Scudder, the under gamekeeper at Clive's estate despite the latter's attentions. Maurice may not be landed gentry but he is a guest. It hardly befits him to befriend the help and he is fully conscious of this. He is also more suspicious of Scudder even after their first night together because of his background. "What does his father do?" he asks Clive and worries that Scudder will blackmail him.

In the end, when he finally casts all social constraints aside, he does it spectacularly -- accepting his own homosexuality, leaping over class boundaries to be with Scudder, and telling Clive to finally go to hell. It is possible that sex becomes a liberating force for him at this stage. Remember, he is a virgin because Clive refused to consummate their relationship so Scudder is his first sexual experience; a first experience that undoubtedly plays a role in propelling him towards his decision. Maurice's beginning may be uncertain, and his middle often falters, but his end is triumphant. One almost feels like cheering.

Class plays an important role in the growth and choices of both men. Clive is trapped by his own class expectations, fear of ostracism and political ambitions. In the end, he is a lost man, living a life that is 'half-awake' as he himself described it to be before he met Maurice, and it is only through continued self-delusion that he can go on. His marriage with Anne is characterized by distance. They are rarely shown together and even the brief moments of intimacy are hurried and, somehow, false. In the last scene, when both of them are standing at the window, they gaze in different directions, each lost in their own thoughts and with no access to the other's. They are doomed to a life whose best quality will be politeness.

As a businessman, Maurice is less needy of social approval. He is not perturbed when expelled from Cambridge, and in the end, he chooses to give up certain things in order to reclaim himself. Interestingly, Maurice tries to practice self-delusion by visiting a hypnotist but is unable to do so while Clive does it naturally and easily. Scudder forms the extreme end of this triangle. A poor boy looking to take the next boat to the Argentine, he is least encumbered by social norms. His yearning for Maurice is simple; his move towards him, almost instinctive; his decision to stay behind in England, clean and unfussy. He is driven by his feelings and rarely vacillates or agonizes over the possible consequences. Perhaps, it is because he has so little that there is less fear of losing.

Theater Review: Anil Abraham's Gentleman - The Male 'Vagina Monologues'

Anindita Sengupta — Mon, 12 Mar 2007 00:25:40 EDT

Gentleman, Anil Abraham's new play, supposedly inspired by Eve Ensler's The Vagina Monologues, is funny in bits but completely misses its potential on the whole. As a 'hilarious look at the male viewpoint', it could have given us some rare insights into men; insights that remain elusive due to conventional stereotype or bias. Unfortunately, Abraham's 90-minute series of five monologues is amusing at best and disturbingly clichéd at best. Broadly, it depicts men as hairy, smelly creatures who revel in their own sweat and farts and are predictably obsessed with their penises.

The first monologue was a quasi-comic narration of performance anxiety punctuated with penis puns aimed at the lowest common denominator. After ten minutes of non-stop jokes delivered in a grating Keralite accent by Ashwin Mathews, I was tired of smiling and ready for something more. I was to be disappointed.

Rohan Malhotra took us through the joys and fears of male masturbation, trying manfully to rise above the unoriginal lines. Ajith Hande played a Hyderabadi barber puzzled about his wife's insistence on condoms, or perhaps it was about the refugee condition...er, or his pitiful lack of knowledge about AIDS. It was difficult to tell.

The most interesting monologue was delivered by Anil Abraham, who managed to infuse some pathos into the plight of an aging man who "just wants to pee" without a catheter. I was baffled by his high-pitched voice though, which reminded me of a Kerala maami rather than a mama. Since when do old men sound effete? Or was there some subtext about the man being gay that I completely missed?

Rubi Chakravarti's commanding presence salvaged the last monologue despite some terrible lines on how women actually like men but wish they would allow us to keep some under-arm fuzz and understand that we like to clean. Some banality on how rape is very, very bad and the victim should not be blamed and a rather entertaining jig to kajra re wound up the performance with Rubi proclaiming something along the lines of 'you men may have the penises but we women have the balls'.

If the aim was to get through to the masses with some unoriginal (but necessary) thoughts on safe sex and rape and use comedy as the spoonful of sugar to make the medicine go down, the play succeeded. However, it told me nothing new about the male viewpoint and didn't make me laugh so hard that I wouldn't care.

The attempt itself is laudable though. Very few works are written on the male viewpoint, especially as a direct take-off from the feminist perspective. I believe that men must have things to say. About not being able to cry or having to be 'real' men (whatever that means), about being expected to earn more than their wives or having less access to dating and easier access to prostitutes.

Abraham's play limits itself by being too literal a take-off on The Vagina Monologues. Perhaps, the masculine organ lends itself to less complex experiences than the vagina with its deep connection to women's empowerment, its implications of power and humiliation, its complex history of abuse and mutilation and its mythic associations (fertility, chthonic deities).

Or perhaps, it is just easier to deal in clichés.

Meeting Meena Kandasamy

Anindita Sengupta — Fri, 2 Mar 2007 06:27:32 EST

I recently interviewed Meena Kandasamy who released her first collection of poems titled Touch at Crossword Book Store.

I went for the interview expecting airs and graces. After all, publishing poetry at 23 is no mean feat, especially in this country where publishing anything at any age is reasonably tough. But Meena was refreshingly simple, innocent almost (I grow old, I grow old...) and disarmingly honest. Many of her thoughts seemed uncensored as if the internal mechanism of measuring diplomatic effect had been misplaced.

I was also impressed by her, well, guts for lack of a better word. By 23, she has not only written a huge number of poems but also won poetry contests, been published in journals, obtained Kamala Das's blessings and published! At that age, I was fooling around in coffee shops with some dim awareness of what I wanted to do with my life.

There she stood next to Githa Hariharan's piercing presence, gawky and fragile-looking in a plain salwar kameez, hair braided and boring black (no tints, no fashionably hippy togs). She read a selection of her poems. Her manner was slightly theatrical; her voice ripe with the inflections of her mother tongue. What really moved the audience, I think, was the honesty in her poems and her touchingly brave rendering of them. I can understand why Kamala Das comments on the "power of honest poetry" in the foreword to the anthology.

The most important thing I was left with is this thought: writers often talk about what it takes to be published; to affect other people with your words in some deep, almost tangible, way; to write, really. I think it is this combination of guts and honesty. The clear, strong and shattering sort. The sort that lets you say what you think even when it's embarrassing or not very nice. The sort that lets you put yourself out there, on a limb.

Most of us filter our thoughts all the time. For all our belief in freedom of speech, we censor ourselves constantly, even unknowingly. We compliment when we don't mean it; bite back words that may slight; brush things under the carpet and sweep thoughts deeper into the subconscious. We hesitate to write our thoughts or show our work or send our poems because we are worried about what people will think of them, and of us. Perhaps it is time that we, who mostly write (to paraphrase Meena's lines), stop doing this.

On her poetry

The activist thread runs through most of Meena's poems, many of which voice concerns on Dalit liberation and women besides the more usual ruminations on love, loss and sex. She uses colour effectively to delineate concerns about identity and race and to evocatively describe the symbols of an ethos. Her imagery is often powerful, sometimes even brutal, and draws heavily on Indian archetypes such as Kali and Eklavya.

Her award-winning poem Mascara is backed by potent thought and links a modern day call girl to the devdasis of yore, make-up to war paint, and women everywhere to the goddess Kali. Some of the imagery is haunting:

When she dons the mascara
The Heavens have heard her whisper,
Kali, you wear this too...

But she slips into a more prosaic style in some of her lines, which reduced the experience for me somewhat. I prefer the more dense language of My Lover Speaks of Rape, her other notable poem.

Colorless noon filters in through bluish grass
And coffee keeps him company. She chatters
Away telling her own, every woman's story;
He listens like for the first time.

Her more consciously serious poems hover dangerously close to cliche at times and one gets the feeling that the theme imposes itself on the lines as opposed to the lines springing from spontaneous poetic expression. But she produces some masterpieces when she avoids this. Their Daughters packs a punch with its picture of female angst across generations. This is a favourite theme with many women poets and Meena managed to hold her own with some distinctive imagery and the quiet strength of the last lines:

We, their daughters.
We, the daughters of their soil.

We, mostly, write.

Personally, I like her more irreverent poems - the ones written with tongue firmly in cheek, using humour to wield swords. Like her subtle diatribe against a borrowed language in Mulligatawny Dreams:

I dream of an english
full of the words of my language.

an english in small letters
and english that shall tire a white man's tongue
an english where small children practice with smooth
round pebbles in their mouth to spell the right zha...

All in all, a promising first collection with some very fine work. Definitely, someone to look out for as the fresh, new voice in Indian poetry.

Here is a link to her blog and you can read her poetry online here.

Travel Essay: Ranganthittu Bird Sanctuary

Anindita Sengupta — Thu, 1 Feb 2007 11:13:13 EST

Just three kilometers off the busy Bangalore-Mysore highway and 15 kilometers from Srirangapatna is an unexpected and delightful surprise for the nature-loving traveler. Surrounded by rich paddy fields and wet swamps where streamlets wind their slippery way through the foliage, Ranganthittu Bird Sanctuary is made up of six isolated islets on the river Cauvery. Formed in the 1700s when a dam was built over the Cauvery, these islets attract a different kind of madding crowd - migratory birds from as far as Siberia and Australia.

Ranganthittu Bird Sanctuary was established in 1940 when Dr. Salim Ali observed that the islets had become a nesting ground for birds and persuaded the Wodeyar kings of Mysore to declare the area a wildlife sanctuary. It is managed well by the Karnataka State Government's Forest Department. Entry and ticketing is organized and the well-maintained facilities do not encroach on the natural verdure.

A tree-lined path takes us down to the river from where one can take the 15-minute boat ride around the islets. It is four in the afternoon and the usual tourist families equipped with sunglasses, cameras and water bottles throng the pier. Ignoring the little boy who seems hell-bent on elbowing me every now and then, we climb into the rather shaky-looking, little wooden boat. Our boatman is a thin, old man with receding grey hair and a scraggly moustache. I wonder if he will be able to row ten rather 'healthy' people around for fifteen minutes.

In this sylvan refuge, nature seems less 'red in tooth and claw'. Diverse creatures co-exist in relative harmony. Perhaps, it is the ambience. Glistening waters teeming with abundant fish, banks heavy with lush green reed beds, soaring Eucalyptus and Acacia trees and dense foliage make it possible to imagine the earth in an older time. Thousands of fruit bats dot the trees on some of the islands, forming a sinister palate of dense black on green. Other islands are replete with birds of varying size, hue and plumage.

Our boatman points out the birds, reeling off the names casually. I find out his name is Sivakumar and he has been working here for 22 years. Over two decades of rowing every kind of tourist around these islands and watching the birds come and go with the seasons. What makes a person stay in one place for 22 years, even a place as beautiful as this?

Different varieties of storks seem to dominate the islands at this time of year. Painted Storks, broad-winged with pink tails, preen on high branches. As fussy as opera singers. Or bridesmaids. Asian Openbill Storks fly around busily, carrying leaves and twigs to build nests or swooping low over the waters to prey on fish. Spoonbill Storks (Chamach Baza in Hindi) with their beautiful black and yellow, spoon-shaped bills, squat on the banks paying little attention to their noisier cousins. A flock of Blackbirds watch with beady eyes as we pass by (I wonder if these will sing at dead of night). Sivakumar points out a few shy Night Herons waiting patiently for prey at the water's edge. They look gentle, timid almost. It is difficult to think of them as predators.

The air is filled with streamlined bodies, the graceful arc of black-tipped wings, the whisper of gentle landings, the annoyed cry of an Openbill Stork as it drops a twig by mistake and has to turn back for another. "During peak season in May, you will not be able to see the leaves. There will be so many birds on each tree," Sivakumar informs us.

The place is home to less friendly creatures as well -- Marsh Crocodiles. They glide by nonchalantly, their bodies dark in the water. Their swift, heavy tails cause the faintest ripples as they swim. We see one or two sunning themselves on the rocks that rear up from the water in places. Lazy and confident as kings. Their grey scaly skin almost blends into the craggy rocks. So sophisticated is the camouflage that it is hard to tell whether they have been made to resemble the rocks or it is the other way round. Sated by the abundant fish in the river, the crocodiles pay little notice to us.

"Do they try to eat the birds," we ask as we pass by one magnificent specimen that has its mouth open, displaying dull, yellow but unmistakably sharp teeth.

Sivakumar raises a scornful eyebrow. "No, they eat the fish," he tells us dismissively, perhaps wondering what they teach us in city schools.

The boat moves slowly and at some places, we are so close to the banks that we can almost reach out and grab the dense reed. There is much to see and capture but the fifteen-minute journey is over soon. I thank Sivakumar, eliciting the faintest twitch of a half-smile. As I clamber out of the boat, I am already eager to go back in May and see Ranganthittu in its full splendor.

Movie Review: Fight Club

Anindita Sengupta — Mon, 22 Jan 2007 07:13:59 EST

I finally saw Fight Club (1999) starring Edward Norton and Brad Pitt. This clever, brutal movie grabs hold of you and doesn't let go. In this adaptation of Chuck Palahniuk's book, Edward Norton plays a deadbeat, desperate insomniac who sleepwalks through his days and collects catalogue furniture to fill up his home. His refrigerator is as empty as his life - full of condiments but no food.

Then he meets Tyler Durden, a smooth-talking, nihilistic soap salesman who challenges all his ideas about life. Together, they start an underground fight club that becomes a social movement. Members of the Fight Club feel more alive than they have ever done before because they are tapping into primal emotions and reflexes. They also feel powerful in a way that the rest of their life denies them. Soon, the violence spills out of the basement and starts finding expression in the world outside.

The movie is a criticism of American values and a questioning of the things that we derive meaning from in a world where "we need somebody's name on our underwear". The discontent of a generation is captured well:

Man, I see in fight club the strongest and smartest men who've ever lived. I see all this potential, and I see squandering. God damn it, an entire generation pumping gas, waiting tables; slaves with white collars. Advertising has us chasing cars and clothes, working jobs we hate so we can buy shit we don't need. We're the middle children of history, man. No purpose or place. We have no Great War. No Great Depression. Our Great War's a spiritual war... our Great Depression is our lives. We've all been raised on television to believe that one day we'd all be millionaires, and movie gods, and rock stars. But we won't. And we're slowly learning that fact. And we're very, very pissed off.

The film does not serve up any pat answers on what the meaning of life should be. The only thing that's clear is that violence is both cathartic and comforting to a disturbing number of people who feel empty, devoid of purpose and devalued by society - and it is hard to hold this violence within bounds. While the Fight Club resorts to an unlawful, violent and drastic solution to consumerism and social inequity, the movie itself says (albeit subtly) that this is not the answer.

Pitt and Norton deliver strong performances and one's smooth savagery complements the other's whinging helplessness perfectly. Pretty boy looks notwithstanding, I think Brad Pitt is simply fabulous in some movies and this is one of them. While Edward Norton does a splendid job, it is Pitt's rendition of Tyler Durden that gives the movie it's teeth-chattering edge. Helena Bonham Carter is convincing as a neurotic, dissatisfied woman who befriends both men. However, she has little to do in this testosterone-charged roller coaster ride.

The movie has its flaws. The physical and psychological violence is difficult to stomach at times and the squeamish would not be advised to watch it. The denouement is spelled out a little too clearly (just in case people don't get it) and can be figured out in advance if one has read and watched enough in this genre. But it tells an intense and hard-hitting story with stylistic punch and wonderful performances. Many of the scenes will play in your head after the movie is over. You may even wonder if you haven't met Tyler Durden some time yourself.

Book Review: Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit: Jeanette Winterson RM

Anindita Sengupta — Sun, 21 Jan 2007 11:11:51 EST

Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit was British novelist Jeanette Winterson's ambitious debut, written when she was 26. The book won the 1985 Whitbread Prize for first fiction and is considered a seminal work in gay and lesbian literature although Winterson disagrees with this narrow view:

"It's for anyone interested in what happens at the frontiers of common-sense. Do you stay safe or do you follow your heart? I've never understood why straight fiction is supposed to be for everyone, but anything with a gay character or that includes gay experience is only for queers."

~ Jeanette Winterson

A coming of age novel with a difference, Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit explores the landscape of religious beliefs, sexual identity and where the two intersect. The protagonist of this semi-autobiographical work is Jeanette, a foundling adopted by Christian evangelists in the North of England and raised during the 1960s to become a missionary. Filled with passionate zeal for the Church and its teachings, she grows up comfortable in the world of church camps, prayer meetings and apocalyptic warnings. Then she turns 16 and her worlds collide when she discovers she is a lesbian.

In a world tightly bound by convention, it is terribly hard to define one's own destiny in any terms other than those that are passed down. This is the conundrum that Winterson explores, probes and tosses back at us. She weaves together myth, metaphor and allegory skillfully to offer up a narrative that explores some of the central questions of identity and destination--and has fun while doing it.

The quest for sexual identity is a central theme but what makes it a compelling story is the careful development of Jeanette's character. The author brings Jeanette to life--her seriousness and sincerity, compassion, intelligence and strong will--through different incidents and episodes insidiously woven into the story. Jeanette's growth into self-awareness is depicted beautifully through the changing maturity of her thoughts and and an evolving use of language rather than any obvious markers in the narrative. Her struggle to define, deny, understand and accept herself is moving and persuasive and along the way Winterson asks some very pertinent questions:

What is it about intimacy that makes it so very disturbing?

Religious zeal is the other major theme that the book addresses. There are vivid descriptions of religious enthusiasm and strong religious themes run through the book. Each chapter of the book is named after an Old Testament title and the beginning of Jeanette's journey is described in a way that almost likens her to Christ.

We stood on the hill and my mother said, "This world is full of sin."

We stood on the hill and my mother said, "You can change the world."

Winterson's criticism of religious zealotry is chiefly contained in her depiction of Jeanette's mother, a dour, mean-spirited woman who loves God and sees the world in terms of black and white.

My father liked to watch the wrestling, my mother liked to wrestle; it didn't mater what. She was in the white corner and that was that. She hung out the largest sheets on the windiest days. She wanted the Mormons to knock on the door. At election time in a Labour mill town she put a picture of the Conservative candidate in the window. She had never heard of mixed feelings. There were friends and there were enemies.

While Jeanette and her mother are lifelike and memorable, the other characters in the book are shadowy figures who exist on the fringes. We know Jeanette's father, a man "who was never one to push himself", only through Jeanette and her mother. Melanie with the "lovely cat-grey eyes" is Jeanette's first lover and Elsie, her loyal friend exist purely in relation to Jeanette.

The book also explores other themes such as the nature of stories and of history, battling inner demons, and the meaning of home through the evocative fables interspersed with the story as well as Jeanette's own ruminations.

Those used to sweeping sagas may find this difficult fare because the plot is fairly simple. The complexity lies in the many ideas that Winterson is grappling with and in the fundamental questions she asks rather than in clever twists to the story. But it's an easy book to read once you allow Jeanette to draw you into her world; the language is poetic at times and playful at others; and there are many passages worth savouring or going back to. While many readers may not agree with the author's thoughts on heterosexual love and her dark view of men, most will identify with her struggle for identity and recognition - because it is an universal one.