Desicritics Author: Vivek Sharma

Book Review: Moby Dick

Vivek Sharma — Sun, 6 Apr 2008 10:55:22 EDT

Moby Dick by Hermann Melville is considered by many to be the greatest American novel ever written. To come up with such credentials is no meek achievement for a novel, that was floating in wilderness for first sixty years of its existence. The 1851 novel was at best ignored by readers and critics alike, till in the beginning of twentieth century, D. H. Lawrence declared it to be "An epic of the sea such as no man has equalled." Thereafter two critics, Carl Van Doren (1921) and F. O. Matthiessen (1941) managed to convince the generations that followed that Moby Dick was not only a great novel, but perhaps one of the greatest work of fiction ever written.

My only intention to quote this history before I write my own review is to point out that this whale of a book comes with contexts and content that make it a remarkable study. If I were to judge the book with dead objectivity, I think I would have sided with the reception this book got in the first sixty years of existence. Now I am burdened by biases created by people in last hundred years. But in what follows, I will speak my mind, in spite of what impressionists, critics, symbolists and literary hoi polloi might have inferred due to an imposing reputation that this novel has begun to acquire.

Moby Dick is an encyclopedia on whaling. It is an almanac about how the products that can be extracted from the body of a whale. It is a tome that contains endless entries about ships, whaling, oil business and zoology of a whale. As an epic, which it is touted to be, it cannot light a candle to the epics of the ancients, say Homer or Ved Vyas. There is an obsessive Ahab, captain of the ship Pequod, whose only motive is to kill the white whale, Moby Dick. He sets out on the journey with a set of "barbarian" harpooners, and the book presents the imperialistic, (White Man's Burden) thoughts of the age, in an honest portrayal of the non-white races. The ocean roars in the background, sharks chase dead whales, the hunting of whales is described without creating much adventure and then it is usually a notebook entry about this or that.

The story in itself can be told in a few lines, but Melville choses to take us on an endless journey, where interlocking ships converse to fill in the interminable sailing time. For all the diversions and digressions into the plethora of facts and rumors Melville manages to supply us with, I would have liked him to put little more effort into those celebrated elements of novel as a form of fiction: plot, characters, story, climax and drama. The characters are "flat", i.e. they don't get altered by experiences. If I would wish to read a fable, I will always prefer the ones by Aesop or the ones by Vishnu Sharma (Panchtantra).

On the whole, Moby Dick is a readable book, for it does contain some remarkable passages. With some editing, it could have risen in my estimation, and fared better in the era before symbolists explained that what is presented is not as important, as what metaphors, what allusions, (what illusions) it can inspire. Since the book is sold as the battle between the whale and Captain Ahab, I must add that the face-off between these occurs only in the last thirty pages of a six hundred and fifty-five page version I read. The build-up to the battle begins so far into the novel, that by then most people who read for readings sake, would have given up. The reader is as exhausted as maybe Melville was when he brought his epic struggle of writing this to an end.

Surprisingly, while I did find that I had marked at least hundred pages as worth revisiting (and that in my typical estimation makes it an awesome novel), I was more disappointed than not, after finishing the novel. Even in translation, the Russians and the French find favor from me and I feel transformed after reading them. I prefer and prescribe Lawrence, Maugham, Hemingway, Nabokov, Victor Hugo, Virgina Woolf, Dickens, Joyce, Marquez, Tolstoy, Tagore, Dostovesky, Prem Chand, Pamuk, Gogol, Austen, Forster, Rushdie, and many more over Melville. Be it for entertainment, word play, historical or mythical content or for sheer imagery or all together, I will recommend at least a hundred novels that must enter your reading room before this Whale rams its way there.

Age-Based Reservation in Indian Politics

Vivek Sharma — Thu, 24 Jan 2008 06:42:03 EST

Saurav Ganguly is out of the one day cricket team. I suppose a golden duck is enough to throw him out of the reckoning, though age and agility have been touted as the underlying reasons. I wish we were as strict with the non-performers in government offices. I wish we followed the policy of sacking politicians on age and non-performance basis. There is no fool proof method of ensuring that senile leaders don't win election. In a country where we use the excuse of age to let the batsman in best form and other two with their proven record sit out in a series against Australia, it is too incredible to see bare chested Shah Rukh Khan being accepted in role of twenty year olds, and Rajnikant gross billions as young and dashing protagonist in Sivaji. Yet I am here not to praise the aged, but bury them.

Looking at Indian demographics, we have the age based statistics of India for coming years:

Table 2: Population Projections (in millions)
Year Under 15 15-64 65+ Total
2000 361 604 45 1010
2005 368 673 51 1093
2010 370 747 58 1175
2015 372 819 65 1256
2020 373 882 76 1331

Source: Based on P.N. Mari Bhat, "Indian Demographic Scenario 2025", Institute of Economic Growth, New Delhi, Discussion Paper No. 27/2001.

In a country where we have reservation for everything, including communities that together constitute the majority of population, it is disheartening to see the minority -- old people -- are ruling the nation. While people above the age of 65 constitute only 5% of Indian population, they hold most of the offices of value, including ministries and the presidency. The 33% people, all below the age of 15, are totally unrepresented. Their daddies and mummies (who are fighting against >65 saasus or mothers-in-law) are also under-represented. I suppose and propose age based reservation to get rid of the bias.

The lack of age based equality has lead to gross miscalculation of India's needs and priorities by a minority, age-old political community. No wonder they harp about things that ended with fall of Berlin Wall or crumbling of Russian Empire. No wonder they still think of subsidies in government ration shops and caste-based reservation as the only viable means of making a large section of people happy. Wake up! The share of government as an employer of value has dwindled to the degree that was unimaginable twenty years ago. (I guess they woke up to that possibility, so the brand new education and industrial policy wants to impose caste-based affirmative action everywhere).

We need young leaders. Nearly half of India in 2015 will comprise of people who were born and grew up after the onset of globalization. Nearly half of the Indians by 2015 will have no connection or sentimental attachment to Gandhi family and so candidature of Rahul Gandhi and policies of Congress party that revolve around him are doomed. Nearly half of the country would have no recollection of the fall of Babri Masjid or Advani's Rath Yatra and so BJP needs to reinvent itself. Nearly half of the country would have grown up with hundreds of channels to choose from (including MTV and Fashion TV), will have no televised Ramayana or Mahabharata serials in their memory, and with Tendulkar as their only cricket icon since their birth. The country's morals and regional values would have plummeted beyond recognition.

Most of the working class in the next decade will comprise people who would have no recollection of waiting lines for telephones, cars, scooters and so on that existed in pre-globalization era. Most educated ones will lack capacity to read and write well in their local, ancestral languages, and most would have no recollection of wars with Pakistan, China or riots/blasts in Mumbai. Many would have studied from politically correct bland textbooks and many would have dropped out after high school for high paying BPO night shifts. Many would have grown up in nuclear families, many without siblings and too many with digitized dreams. Most wouldn't know of the Emergency, the lack of Coca Cola for over a decade, the militancy in Panjab and that Pandits ever lived in Kashmir. To give them representation, to give them a voice, to address their concerns and needs requires a fresh breed of leaders, that can be nourished only by age based reservation.

For centuries, people of young age have been kept under the rule of old people. Old people have always had a position of privilige that they have ever used in promoting more old people. Old age is hereditary. The improvement in health services has only increased the potency of old age. Viagra is perhaps responsible for many old leaders continuing to rule even after their retirement age is past due. Even where the father has been minister or politician for thirty to forty years (intermittently at times), the children have to wait till they reach necessary old age to become leaders. The injustice that has continued for centuries must be addressed in a fashion similar to how caste based divisions have been repressed (or was it re-stressed) by reservation. It is high time that the young ones in India launch a struggle to disband the tribe of the minority old people who are occupying the positions of worth. The time has come for the young to truly snatch what is rightfully theirs. In the democracy the majority must rule, and by reservation, we ensure just that. So be it the realm of caste or age, we must follow the policy of affirmative action. The under-represented, under-valued youth in India needs empowerment.

The youth need their rightful say in the governance and decision making. We must re-prescribe the Hindu tradition of Vanaprastha (leaving material life for life in forests) for old people. This will force new blood in the political world of India, and simultaneously increase the number of people leading pious and religious life in the country. Well, for the benefits of Vanaprastha and Sanyasa (total giving up of worldliness), I will ask you to refer to Vedas, Upanishads or maybe their German translations that have been subsequently translated into titles like "Hinduism for Dummies" (or will be translated into such titles). This is no time to let the old lurk as rulers and hurdles in the progress of the majority, the vibrant, the young in India. An age based reservation in politics is the need of the hour.

Satire: BPO Idea: Sir, I'll Sleep for You

Vivek Sharma — Thu, 13 Dec 2007 12:17:50 EST

"Sir, for five dollars per hour only, I'll sleep for you. I don't need to know what you do with your extra waking hours sir, and I will keep my sleep secret," says a yawning Ram to a caller from Unites States.

Ram opened his sleep BPO in the sleepy nineties. People who laughed at him back them, were caught napping when the Y2K boom came. Ram had hired a team of five hundred sleepers by then. The company has grown like Kumbhkaran by now, and is voted as the best company to work for by the entire employee world.

"It wasn't easy to find the right people for the job. Most of the sleep deprived customers demand that their consolation sleep must be peaceful and natural. No sedatives, no drugs must be used. Plus, I need to ensure that the sleep starts and ends at the designated hours. To have the sleepers report at the right time requires a team of fifty strong men, assisted by fifty women who have the best irritating high pitch voice that can be found in the whole of our state."

The software boom and doom came and went, and the whole sleep business continued to flourish. The company went public in early 2003, and the initial responses were very sluggish. Yet by the end of 2003, Ram had become one of the youngest sleeping billionaires of the world.

"The nature of my business is such that I cannot worry too much about how markets are behaving. Our product is unusual, but it is the demand of our time to have a collaboration between sleepers and non-sleepers to take the world economy forward."

Ram has set high standards in the business. He still keeps at least twelve hours of sleep for himself, making sixty dollars a day from his own naps.

"My best employees work up to one hundred and fifty hours a week. I don't allow them to go beyond the magical figure of seven hundred and fifty dollars per week. These employees wake and sleep as required and eat in intermissions that last anywhere between twenty to thirty minutes."

Ram chuckles when I ask him about his Sleep Research Institute.

"We call it the Awake Section of our company. The scientists were hired from some of the best universities of the world. Cheng-Fu is a Complexity and Synchronization PhD from MIT, and models the influence of Dollars versus Euro on sleep patterns. John is a biologist, who is interning with us, and he has taken a year off from his doctoral studies at Harvard. He has been buying our sleep for last ten years, and when he was selected for internship, we agreed to give him a lifetime sleeping partner in return. Lee is a social anthropology graduate from Columbia and is here to examine sleep in his pursuit of the complete understanding of "The Sleeping Races: Historical perspective, regional influences and patterns of slumber evolution". His book with be published by my flagship company, "Neend" (Hindi word for Sleep) and the company is owned and managed by my daughter of the same name. Last year our Sleep Research Institute issued ten patents, and published hundred articles in world renowned journals in science, arts and mathematics. Neend published five best sellers, all written to ensure that half a page is enough to induce a nap."

There is a huge team of support staff that manages cleanliness, food, health and sound respectively.

"I personally slept through auditions of over five hundred lullaby singers, before hiring our current team of twenty. We have an American Idol finalist and an Indian idol winners in our team, and their salaries match the record deals most companies condescendingly offered to them.

The sound team has worked very hard to ensure that lullabies reach the person in question. We eventually helped Apple to develop I-headphones, which are a rage in world market now. Also our sound engineers have developed a device to convert the snores of our on-duty sleepers into a hum that is mixed with harmonies from the classics written by Mozart (in his sleep), and recycled into the sleeping quarters.

Doctors conduct routine check-up to keep all ailments that keep sleep away. Our doctors are resident experts on insomnia and earn extra bucks in consultancy.

Since we are a socially conscious company, we have ensure that our employees are between age of twenty one and sixty-one. For just two dollar per hour surcharge, we can match sleeping partners by age or sex, if the need be. "

When I ask him about food that is offered to his employees, he insists that all the food is home-cooked, low on oil and fat and induces good sleep as it is very very very tasty.

"We cannot compromise on two things: sleep and food. I think the modern age has turned eating into an act similar to filling in gas or petrol. We seek the old ideal in sleeping and eating. This is our contribution to the mankind. Our company has been recognized by WHO , UNESCO, Indian Government as well as World Yawn Sleep Yawn Sleep Council for our attempts at keeping the world average of sleep at levels comparable to the happiest time in the world history. The fact that there was hardly a time like that ever, means my small but dedicated team has kept the average going. We are of course helped by scores of people around the world who take sleeping as seriously as we do. The only difference being that we are paid to sleep."

After finishing the interview, I am offered the most exotic, yet simple diet of home-cooked Indian food. A huge glass of buttermilk, lassi, is placed before me as an appetizer. I eat with relish and after the large meal, I am offered a very relaxing massage. Thereafter, I am lulled into repose by a melodious, sensuous voice that fills my ear with darkness and peace. When I wake up ten hours later, ginger tea is served, to get me going. I leave with five books from Neend publishers, twenty CDs with lullabies in every major language, and a Gift card worth three hundred hours of sleep . I came in with a smirk, for the idea of Sleep BPO seems so ridiculous at first. My interview opened my eyes to the wonderful world of Sleep Studies, Sleep Sociology as well as economic benefits of sleep.

Yawn!

I leave Ram's headquarters on a tip-toe.

Poetry: How Can This Belief Yield?

Vivek Sharma — Thu, 6 Dec 2007 00:18:46 EST

With a belief that one day my poems and songs will reach a wider audience, (a belief every aspiring artist shares), I present you with a translation of one of my favorite songs penned by Mir Ali Hussein. Dor is a beautiful movie, written and directed by Nagesh Kuknoor, and apart from the song I translate here, has two more gems: Kesariya Balam (a classic melody) and Iman ka asar (a lilting tune, awesome lyric).

Yeh honsla kaise ruke (How can this belief yield?)

How can this belief yield?
How can this want cease?
It's a stiff goal: so what?
Fogged is the shore: so what?
This hearts' alone: so what?
Ho...

If thorns are strewn on path,
you still need to walk on,
The evening might cloak the sun,
but the night has to end as dawn.

This season will pass,
Your valor will bloom
Sunshine will resume

How can this belief yield?
How can this want cease?
If good-will is granted to us,
The summer will pass in shade
I pray to God this way:
May our goals embrace us.

May there be darings hundred
And steep be getting accepted
Yet may all loves survive to end
Ho...

How can this belief yield?
How can this want cease?

यह हौन्सला कैसे झुके,
यह आरज़ू कैसे रुके

मंजिल मुश्किल तो क्या,
धुन्धला साहिल तो क्या,
तनहा ये दिल तो क्या
हो हो

राह पे कांटे बिखरे अगर,
उसपे तो फिर भी चलना ही है,
शाम छुपाले सूरज मगर,
रात को एक दिन ढलना ही है,

रुत ये टल जायेगी,
हिम्मत रंग लाएगी,
सुबह फिर आएगी
हो

यह हौन्सला कैसे झुके,
यह आरज़ू कैसे रुके
होगी हमें जो रहमत अदा,
धूप कटेगी साए तले,
अपनी खुदा से है ये दुआ,
मंज़िल लगाले हमको गले

जुर्रत सौ बार रहे,
ऊँचा इकरार रहे,
जिंदा हर प्यार रहे
हो

यह हौन्सला कैसे झुके,
यह आरज़ू कैसे रुके

Googlies: India-Pak Series, A Nervous Tendulkar and A Mis...Bah!

Vivek Sharma — Thu, 15 Nov 2007 20:04:12 EST

Tendulkar has missed six centuries in this year, after crossing the score of ninety. Today, it was another instance where a drinks break dented the set batsman's concentration. It was just enough for him to be out in the over that followed it. The jinx is in the drinks maybe. Tendulkar was playing beautifully today and also the other day, when he failed to cross the thresh hold.

Tantalizingly close and yet not there! Maybe Yusuf regretted his watchfulness when he finished on 99 not out today. Maybe Tendulkar has an anxiety attack as soon as his score approaches 100. He has too many already. But we know, our friend waited for more than seventy one day matches before he got his first century. It is the circle of life then!

Dhoni and Yuvraj form a formidable combination on any day, against any team. But I guess they have a knack of doing it most often as partners against Pakistan. We have made a Butt of jokes about the Pakistani who score centuries only against India. Today he made a duck that was cheered more loudly than his score which has only an extra zero and a limp one in front of it.

I have loved every moment of Kamran's batting in this series, for he has been the most insipid wicketkeeper ever from Pakistan. Moin Khan and Rashid Latif had given Pakistani wicketkeeping a vigor that got under the skin of batsmen, when they were behind stumps, and defied the most batting textbooks when they were wielding the willow. Akmal has been spot on, in India's favor.

Afridi took us out of the game in Mohali, but Pathan got him in last match. This time it was Ganguly, who scored his slowest century today. While he reached 100 wickets, Zaheer Khan crossed 200 mark. The bowling was quite good today, and Harbhajan was exceptional. Pakistan hasn't dominated in any game, and India has bounced back from difficult positions with the elasticity of tennis ball.

I remember that as a child growing up in Himachal (Himalayas), any six, four or misfield meant that we lost the ball downhill somewhere. So the best balls were made out of sacks or socks and these showed uneven bounce at its best. When a bowler was under attack, he could just wet the ball, and it would die without a bounce. India cricket team under attack used to behave like those wet sack balls, but this new team is made of sterner stuff.

When Bhajji was bowling, the bounce was quite uneven, and there was an instance or two, where the ball refused to get to one third of the expected bounce. I guess the dew factor helped us, else that bounce could have got us. Anyone remembers the India-Sri Lanka World Cup semifinal, where India was supposed to chase on such a dying, dusty, dead pitch. I thought that was a lesson enough for pitch-makers!

Let us return to the Tantalizingly Close, but Not There. Mis....Bah! I guess the problem is in his name. The ul-Haq helps him score runs, and dominate the bowling for some time. He gathers runs from every inconceivable stroke and rushes towards a victorious score. He punches, pushes, nudges, edges, pulls, loops, glances and clubs the bowlers. He gets his strike rate up and up and up, the required run rate down and down and down. And then, when he is finally there, so close to the goddess of victory, he is as helpless as a teenage lover, tongue-tied before his beloved, who needs that last expression, that last stroke before the dance of delight can begin. He hits hard, he runs fast, he steals fours, he finesses threes and then, when he is almost there, its a Mis....Bah!

I am inspired to write a poem about him, but I just parody a poem by T. S. Eliot. (original poem is Macavity: The Mystery Cat)

Misbah's a Mystery Bat: he's called the Hidden Paw -
For he's the crafty hitter who can defy every Newton's Law.
He's the bafflement of Twenty-two Yards, at the Death, Bowler's despair:
But when Pakis approach the victory line - Misbah's not there!

Misbah, Misbah, there's no one like Misbah,
He's broken every batting law, he breaks the law of gravity.
His powers of levitation would make a fakir stare,
But when Pakis reach the finishing line - Misbah's not there!
You may seek him in the replays, you may look up in the air -
But I tell you once and once again, Misbah's not there!

Misbah's a ginger bat, he's very tall and thin;
You would know him if you saw him, for his eyes are sunken in.
His brow is deeply lined with thought, his helmet is highly domed;
His trousers dusty from neglect, his hair nicely combed.
You meet him in the forty ninth over, you may see him when score is square -
But at the last hit, there's the wonder of the thing!, then Misbah's not there!

Misbah, Misbah, there's no one like Misbah,
There never was a Bat more devout follower of Allah!
He always has a stroke, and maybe one or two balls to spare:
But whenever the winning single was needed - MISBAH WASN'T THERE!
And they say among all the Bats whose last minute heroics are widely known
(I might mention Javed Miandad, I might mention Michael Bevan)
Were not half as remarkable as this Batsman of our the time
Who races Pakis to the edge: never across the finishing line!

Interview with Suchitra Vijayan: Lines of Grey and Social Change Through Photography

Vivek Sharma — Mon, 29 Oct 2007 14:55:55 EDT

Lines of Grey is a project of social change through photography conceptualized and cultivated by Suchitra Vijayan. The idea is to provide cameras to the children, enabling them to capture their world in pictures. The concept is similar to the award winning documentary film Born in Brothels, where children of the red-light district in Calcutta recorded moments of their lives through cameras handed out to them. Using the donations from friends and volunteers around the world, Suchitra supplied disposable cameras them to the street children in Tanzania. Cameras in the hands of these children first flicker a smile on their lip. A dream flourishes when their camera captures what any eye merely glances over, never stops to see. The idea rests upon a slogan associated with the project, called Every child is an artist.

Suchitra is a barrister by training and works for the UN. After schooling from Padma Seshadri Bala Bhavan in Chennai, Suchitra moved to UK where she graduated with a LLB and European Law (Hons.) in 2004. Since then she has worked for UN War Tribunal for former Yugoslavia and UN War Tribunal for Rwanda. Suchitra is as young and relentless as she is passionate about her NGO effort. She epitomizes the modern Indian woman, who is global not only in her aspirations and achievements, but also in her pursuit of her dreams and ideals. Her own photography is quite fascinating, and she recently was awarded with the Nikon Imaging - Emerging Talent of the Year award. Suchitra is very well read, widely traveled, and immensely inspiring person, and I am sure this allows her to be an exemplary mentor.

I owe my friendship to Suchitra to our shared love for poetry and literature. Back in 2004, when she was still a student, we exchanged several emails, discussing authors, philosophers and poems. Even back then, I was amazed at her intensity, work ethic, and nature of her will to effect change. Many of us are able dreamers, capable but lazy poets or many times, well meaning mortals trapped in our daily circle of money, education, career, love, relationships, parties and movies. It requires a strong sense of purpose to go out there and try to organize something voluntarily, without a material gain in sight. Suchitra has been actively harvesting creativity in form of images from the children in Tanzania, and has managed to get to a point where some of these will be exhibited in Bay Area in US, and in Chennai, India.

While the intentions are noble, the effort is charged with single-minded devotion, the approach is based on aesthetic, the labor is of love, there are many hurdles in realization of real goals. Let us assume that such an effort can indeed empower kids to channelize their creativity. Yet to make a significant change, one needs volunteers around the globe to carry this effort. The whole issue of logistics is baffling one, and so far Suchitra has limited her scope to Arusha, Tanzania. One might argue that what the kids need most is education, clothing, housing and means to earn a livelihood. The photography seems like a distraction, as if, from those goals. Having worked with children in slums in Delhi, I figured that most children were motivated by play, by humor, by adventure. Poverty molds the scope of their imagination, but does not curtail it. The richest tales would surface through conversations with these children, and the only lesson I learned there was this: No amount of money or schooling distributed randomly to these children can help them as much as a personal attention, where both their angst and amazement at this world are interpreted, addressed and cultivated. Suchitra has been working to provide the flash of hope, a snapshot of creativity and joy to these children.

I shot a few Questions to Suchitra and here they are:

Why lines of grey?

To answer why “Lines of Grey “ I need to talk about my fascination with the colour grey. This goes back to my own love affair with black and white photography. Like all great love affairs, it started with this heady feeling of getting the winds knocked out of me and I was in an expedited hurry to learn and discover everything there was to know about this medium. In that process I came to understand this subtle but complexly layered colour called “Grey”. Grey is an achromatic colour between white and black that exist in the state of great lightness, caught between the lighter side of black and darker side of white. Grey is a shade of remarkable gradation, it is its own complement. Grey remains grey when its colour spectrum is inverted, and therefore has no opposite and alternately is its own opposite.

Lines of Grey represent the street children who are a part of this project; each shade with its complex mixture of shadows, highlights and mid-tones. They are the product of economic and social injustice that is rampant in this world. These children are prisoners of prejudice, social attitudes and numerous negative associations. Just like the shade grey, these children live on the marginalized edge of extremes. They are the existing reality and the beautiful abstraction.

How long do you plan to carry out this project? What happens when you move from your present appointment?

The photography project was designed to last for a period of six month. Then the process of compiling the children’s images, their stories and thoughts begins. This will culminate with the launch of our website and series of exhibitions. The money generated from this project will go back to these children. The website is also geared toward having individuals sponsors for addressing the education and other economical needs of these children. Since I no longer live in Africa, I am planning on getting my friends from that area and some of the older kids form the Project to co-ordinate and continue the project.

What is future of lines of grey?

Right now 24 hours of sleep doesn’t seem enough to accommodate the collective dreams and aspiration of everyone who is a part of LOG. Not surprising since most of us are dreamers first. Left to our devices we would conjure an imagine where LOG would solve all of the worlds problems. (Chuckles) . On a more serious note, there are plans underway to start similar projects in India. In June 2007, Lines of Grey was registered as an NGO in India, and plans are underway to launch the NGO in the United States. Right now the projects focus on photography as the medium. If every child is an artist, then art should also take different forms.

Honestly I am not sure what future lies for Lines of Grey. I am not sure if we can generate enough interest, enough momentum to sustain the NGO. I am not sure if it will make any sustainable change. But Lines of Grey is not just a project, it’s an idea. Everyone who is a part of this project decided to be a part of an experiment that seeks to make a difference at a personal level. The project runs on the inherent belief that individuals still possess the power to make that little difference that will one day become a part of the critical mass required to change this society and change it fundamentally.

Do you have plans of expansion outlined for your idea or project?

Expansion is a big word for the small acts we do. When I think in terms of expansion, I think about mainstream awareness about this kind of work. Every time I return back to India, I feel the phase at which the country is heading towards its intellectual death has been hastened. We have become a celebrity hungry society tuned only to the stories of rich and famous. We have become characters in soap opera in search of an author. Series of reality shows with “celebrities” shaking their legs to the latest bollywood number has become the nations pre-occupation. Urban India with its increasing disposable income has become deaf and indifferent to the stories of the “other” India and the underdogs of this world. If these stories do surface from time to time they become marketable commodity in a culture of sensationalism. True voices become buried and often do not have a platform. In this context Lines of Grey is a form of social documentary through the eyes of the “others”.

For instance, imagine giving cameras to the kids from various fishermen villages affected by the Tsunami. Imagine the powerful images these children would harvest from their reality. Their images have the power of self. If there is an expansion, that expansion to me is not kick starting more projects all over India and other parts of the world. But merely getting enough people interested to look and maybe think.

Have you noticed any change in lives of kids over last many months?

I wish I could say with brimming confidence that “yes I have”. But the harsh reality is not so. This project hasn’t altered their life drastically. But I can vouch for the happiness and joy that I witness every time I handed over the camera. I remember the immense pride, I felt when I saw the first set of pictures when it was developed. How they reacted when they saw their pictures. But these are not tangible and I am very aware of that. Inheritances of fond memories cannot be converted to currency. But they are nonetheless inheritance everyone should have a stake in and I can but only hope that LOG is contributing towards this in some measure.

On the more pragmatic side, in the great Indian art of self justification, I often tell my self the project just got over. When the website is done, when the exhibitions happen things will be different.

Here are a few websites that provide images and information about Suchitra and Lines of Grey:
Photos from Suchitra
Sulekha.com

Book Review: Ganesha Goes to Lunch by Kamla K. Kapur

Vivek Sharma — Tue, 16 Oct 2007 00:37:45 EDT

Ganesha Goes to Lunch by Kamla K. Kapur is a collection of 24 stories drawn from the oral tradition of mythical tales in India. The stories are retold in contemporary language, and maintain the essential structure and characteristics of the folklores. Kamla's choice of stories ranges from tales about why Ganesha has an elephant's trunk, to the marriage of Shiv-Parvati to the creation of Brahma and the universe. The story of the friendship of Sudama and Krishna is retold as is the tale of the Vishwamitra-Vashisht rivalry.

The Bharatiya (Indian) tradition thrives on stories passed on from generation to generation. Each generation adds its own experience to knowledge and reinterprets the understanding passed to them. The Hindu myths by their very nature don't have absolutes. They represent Gods or men trapped in their vices, roused or limited by their virtues, acting in response to the demands that existence as humans on earth demands from us. The attempt is to create examples as prototypes to deal with contradictions and complexities that daily strife, be it in war, peace, family matters, need, greed, valor, and amorous desires lead us to. This has lead to several epics about avataars or incarnations, and as humans Gods lead exemplary lives, faulting at times, and suffering for them. In Kamla's collection, the gems from the boundless sea of folklore are picked, polished and repackaged to lure Western audiences as well as those Indian readers who have learned most from English education and English Literature.

The book has a number of pictures and illustrations, which allow a non-Indian reader to visualize the God or character in question. We Indians grow up with these tales, and somehow we imbibe their lessons into our being without realizing when or how. The modern age has brought a slew of stories and media into our household, and in these times, it is easy to be overwhelmed by the shallow characterizations and sensationalist serials. The demands of materialistic modern life make it even more important for us to connect to the spiritual wisdom of centuries. The philosophy, both rich and humbling, is present in highly entertaining form in these stories. Kamla Kapur's effort is commendable in both the spirit and the style of execution.

While most of these stories can be read out to children, a few characterizations are a little more sensual than I would have hoped for. The discussion about Shiva and Shakti, the male and female powers, is done quite boldly, whereas my encounters with these stories as a child were in understatement and in euphemisms. Perhaps the retelling must respond to the contemporary world, where the Victorian writing, the euphemisms are considered trite and clichéd.

The tale from Ramayana incorrectly mentions that Hanuman brought Sanjivini (or the hill with that herb on it) for reviving Ram (I am certain that it was needed for Laxman). Aside from these quips, most of the stories are brief and well written, and will form a good reading for people of all ages.

Myths by their very nature appeal to the heroic, and the virtuous elements of our being. Kamla's rendition ensures that the heroic and mystic elements are distilled into a reader's consciousness. The simplicity of language, the delightful imagery, the translation as if of the whole oral tradition of myths into this eclectic collection speaks volumes about Kamla's craftsmanship and reverence for these tales. While the tales are derived from Hindu myths, the structure, the impact, the ideals, the virtues they inspire transcend time, space and religion. I enjoyed these, and so I hope you will too.

Another take An interview with Kamla Kapur

Too Hot to Handle

Vivek Sharma — Mon, 15 Oct 2007 11:19:27 EDT

What she lacked in looks, she supplied with her taste. Bold like a mushroom growing on a garden track, she called for attention at places where none of her kind could venture. Spilling skin like cracked shells of peanut, she sashayed through the malls, the local trains and poorest sections of the city. Her boots cover more legs than her skirts. Her shirts tested the bulging ability of eyes that followed her like dogs wagging tongues and tails. She was protected by her own wantonness. Her beauty was not of a well-designed nose or a nicely chiseled body. It was something else, indefinite like her promises, unexplained like her smile.

When I first failed her, I was a twenty-year old confused intellectual. Raised to conservatism, that valued books over looks, veil over skin, meekness over boldness. She was like a thorn on a stem, and I, who valued no roses, was disturbed by the red drop that came out of my flesh. She made the room around her shrink, such that bodies whispered around her, dancing to her voice, steps around her fell into a rhythm where she was the centerpiece, the piano in the sonata of sensations that unfolded in the drumbeat hearts of the dancers who were numbed by their free fall around her perfume that was an aphrodisiac. I was a twenty-year-old confused self, who felt the sensations grip me like a vice, and instead of feeling exhilarated, I felt choked. The commotion in my mind cursed her as a witch, for wasn't it her witchcraft that was rapturing the crowd with a touch, without a lick, without a whisper?

Five years later, I was in a strange city, traveling in my designer suit, packaged to please the buyers and sellers, as I represented my company that overpaid me for my craft. My craft was in my words that pleased the men like a balm on their tired backs, and touched the women like wind on their necks. My craft was in talking through wit and nuance, unfolding in them a curiosity for what our company was to offer, and leading them into a decisive yes, mainly by intonation of my voice, the demeanour of my hands and body, always inviting and promising control, release and future. I was the cupid sales director as my co-workers called me, and my University of Chicago MBA found me inside doors that businessmen dare not enter.

In an evening party, dressed in a dazzling evening gown, she sauntered down the stairs. I watched her drift into the consciousness of the crowd, with a smile in their eyes, hum of approval on their lips. As an aftertaste, she had fashioned into a respectability that glided with her; her husband, proud and powerful, carried her like a trophy, displaying his joy like a guild of gold. Years ago, she was a sonata, and now her personality oozed as if a melody from the flute of Himalayan tribals, so unadulterated in its rendering, flowing like a hill stream, surging force at a pace that makes your heartbeat hear itself trickle into peaceful delight.

This was the second time I failed her, for what I just said is what I understood after the night was over. Her entry into the room trembled like a memory that is not easy to shake off, and roused my five years of want into a pledge of making her some kind of offer. I was still in the spell that a twenty-year-old boy made appear even more surreal. Her picture to me was of the vice I wanted in my veins and all my recent successes made me even more tempted and assured and hungry. I approached her with a pride in my shoes, flash in my tie-pin, and gurgled my words before saying, "Hello." Her recognizing me made me hope. I splurged compliments, laden with metaphor and meaning. Her cheeks reddened, a color that encouraged me further, and then suddenly, her words, "Are you in your senses? Go home. You are drunk!" fell like a hammer on a glass-box, shattering the protected toy house shrine I had built for her.

It was only a chance that I went alone to the symphony. In ten years after that party, I had evolved from a world of pleasure to that of luxury. My pride had become a fine representation of my class, my words were now folded and pocketed like an advice from an expert and my social position made me watchful of my every sigh or smile at a body or a voice. My personal space was shared with a pretty wife and two kids. The two year old and five year old hunted from my back, told me their own stories so rich in dialogue, so flourishing in detail and yet words that came out like blossoms in the wild, standing up for their own pleasure and perhaps my own. It was only a chance that my wife was not accompanying me. And she, she of my youthful fancy and failings, was present, draped in a black, lace shawl. I saw her first, in a row behind me, as I sat down, to hear Pavarotti slam his youthful voice out of his decaying body, till music of eternity silenced every breath and movement.

Yet here I was sitting rather unsymmetrically, with a hand over my face, and my face eyeing her changed self. The music had faded into a drab hum, only her profile was ebbing and echoing. Like a painting made softer over time, like childhood memories made more delightful by the effect of nostalgia, like a completed poem or picture or symphony, she sat there, ever so beautiful in her own distinguished way. The face lacked what it lacked fifteen years ago, the forms were still common, and yet like always, she carried an attraction for me, and maybe it was always so, maybe it was always for me that she carried an attraction so vigorous, and violent, that I was ready to risk my smile and sigh for her.

We talked in the intermission of her deceased husband and my lovely wife. The third time I failed her, was perhaps my last, was that day as she offered to meet me for dinner and tell me her story. I cited a promise I hadn't made to the kids to keep me away. A curiosity flashed like a momentary flinch at her brow, and a smile rushed to conceal it. She bid me farewell, leaving me gaping after her. She left with words, "A dinner with your wife and kids would have served for a lovely introduction."

Book Review: A Day in Spring by Ciril Kosmač

Vivek Sharma — Sat, 13 Oct 2007 13:51:40 EDT

A Day in Spring is a beautifully narrated tale by Ciril Kosmač, a Slovene poet, author. The book that first appeared in 1953 is a terse account of nostalgia and life of a writer who returns to his homeland after spending fifteen years away at wars. The story progresses through reminisces the writer has about his childhood. It yields, in a poignant and heartwarming detail, the development of narrator's personality through the two world wars in the backdrop. Essential to the story is the character of Kadetka, who the writer remembers lovingly as a child embedded with his nostalgia. His Auntie narrates some bits of the novel, and the contrast between the voices reveals what difference in insights experience, age, travel and education brings to us.

Several parallel tracks come together in this mature and modern novel. The affair of a Slovene girl with a Czech soldier, and years later another affair of her daughter with Italian soldier bring out the complexities and absurdities of war out in a very taut novel. The writer reveals his love for the mountainous country, the river Idrica and his people through descriptions that are lyrical and border on poetry. The personalities of the characters in the novel are revealed mostly through events, and the dialogues are kept to minimum. There are occasions in the novel when the reader feels sheer joy or compassion or love and in creating these occasions nearly a dozen times through the novel, Ciril Kosmač manages to arouse my whole hearted admiration, applause and appreciation. It was indeed a pleasant surprise to find this 169 page novel to be so aesthetically pleasing and rich in imagery and experience.

I have to quote the following extract from the book, for I think if it was relevant to Yugoslavians in 1950s, it is even more relevant to young nation of Slovenia now. It must be remarked that Slovenia is young nation in Eastern Alps, with population of two million. It is located close to Italy and Austria, and in the World War II, was the arena where partisans fought against Germans and Italians. Here is the quote, that is both a homage to his country and in some respect to his own terse novel:

"Yes,it seems to me that we small nations love our land more dearly than great ones do, or at least in a manner different from theirs. Our native land is small, and as we cannot sing of its greatness, we celebrate and sing of the details which are full of beauty. Because beauty is like truth. Truth does not require bulky tomes to make herself plain, nor does Beauty need a wide, boundless space wherein to unfold herself, to thrive and blossom. Let Expanse thunder forth its mighty song, true Beauty grows in silence. We know our country as we know our mother's face. Her lines and wrinkles are familiar to us, her expressions of joy and happiness, her furrows of grief and anxiety. We are always aware of the clasp of her hands, rough as a peasant's but kindly and warm; we cling to her and have defended her for a thousand years, often with simple means, yea, often with bare hands, but with success - because the chief sponsor of our victory is impassionate love, which does not calculate and therefore does not yield, even when faced with overwhelming odds."

Googlies: India beat Australia in Fourth ODI at Chandigarh

Vivek Sharma — Mon, 8 Oct 2007 11:18:41 EDT

India kept her nerve, and won by eight runs. This headline is enough for certain people. It shuts them down, and it lets you start your day with happy relief of having watched a tense and thrilling encounter, and reached the triumph in style. The drama is in the detail. Tendulkar, for example, batted either circumspectly, (we can say that in retrospect), or maybe batted in fear of losing his spot at the top order. So did Ganguly maybe, for he is thrown out of the equation quite easily these days. Twelve half-centuries in this year, and a string of good batting have kept Ganguly at the crease, against all odds. To have Tendulkar on the other end, and to see him play a dot ball after dot ball, meant that the onus of scoring fell on Ganguly. He perished attempting a slog shot, but he had ensured by then that India had their first good start of the series. Even in the match where rain saved us, we had lost Tendulkar's wicket within the three overs that Australia bowled.

The approach was full of grit, patience and focus. When you see Tendulkar (and to some extent Ganguly) fight like that, you must praise the quality of bowling. But I write Googlies, and they turn into corners where they are not expected. So today when Tendulkar batted with that grit, the question that really bothered me was, until when my friend, until when?

Like in most dramatic movies, the demise of the better looking guy, or departure of the more obedient son, brings the other hero to stage, it was Ganguly's dismissal that helped Tendulkar realize that a batsman at the crease is a mortal. He started showing signs of actually knowing where the ball is coming from, and where it is going, and piled on runs. Ganguly silenced his critics, and so did Tendulkar, and India won in the end. But the next ten matches will be perhaps best in terms of how Saurav and Sachin bat. They have the caliber, experience and skill to dictate terms and of course, filling their shoes is still a hard task. But until when my friend, until when?

Gambhir, in spite of his scores in Twenty20 and Sehwag, in spite of his occasional brilliance are the horses that I wouldn't buy for a long haul. Dinesh Kartik has been good, but the bullock cart of Indian team requires a pair to pull it. Could Mr. Parthiv Patel, the man of 22, who has scored five consecutive centuries (four as part of India A team, and most recent 179 fighting knock in Iranian trophy) be that buddy? As a batsman, Patel should make the cut, given his string of scores. The baby boy has grown up, bats much better and like Kartik and Dhoni, can be in the team just on the merit of his batting. Another friend who must return is Manoj Tiwari, the little dada from Bengal, who helped himself to another important knock of 130 in the Iranian trophy. Last time he was included in the team, an injury forced him out. His return is imminent, given how well he bats and how heavily he scores in all the important matches. But if he returns, who shall be replaced?

Dravid did not get the time to redeem himself today. He would have loved to blast off a few more fours, but he was trying to play to the galleries. Playing to galleries gets you roars of laughter and claps for sure, but if that is your criteria for success, then you are headed to doom. A great artist thrives not on the instant roar of laughter, but on a memory that his performances stamp on those watching. Dravid is great for batting with a correctness that is hard to emulate, and pretty to watch. This requires patience, waiting for right balls before scything them, slices at cute angles and wrists of supple nature. For the moment, by giving up the captaincy he has increased rather than reduced the pressure on himself, and I hope he will get out of the shell soon. We definitely will need his best form for Tests, but we will like to see our third God to battle and win as well.

The stars of the day were the young guns. Yuvraj had certainly become a commodity after the Twenty20 World Cup. Batting at the home ground, he made boundaries look so easy. I realized how symbolic that display was. Ganguly, a left hander is replaced by another lefty in Yuvraj. Then even though Tendulkar is batting on the other end, everyone is expecting everything from Yuvraj and he looked more in control than his senior partner. When Uthappa walked in to replace Dravid, I had a similar relief, and I argued with myself for behaving like that. Yet both Dhoni, the new captain, and Uthappa only confirmed why my subconscious self was pleased with their presence. Uthappa was brilliant once again, hitting a string of much needed fours. He just walks out of the crease like Hayden, and dumps the ball out of the boundary. Dhoni led from the front, with brilliant innings and a six on last ball to get his half century and then superb fielding to top it off. This was his first win as Captain, and it came with a Man of Match worth performance from him.

Lastly, India bowled well in the last ten overs to achieve an unlikely victory. When India had 187/2 after 39 overs, predicting a final 291 seemed unreasonable, for the best bowlers of the innings had some overs left with them. When Australia were 190/4 only after 34 overs, Australian victory seemed likely. The opening spells of Indian bowlers had got them hammered and the situation was saved only by some good spin bowling. But again RP Singh bowled a remarkable 47th over to turn the tide in India's favor, and we won. The script, as I wrote it, doesn't do even a whit of justice to the bowlers, who put up a more improved performance than last four times. Hopefully they will bowl even better in the next match, and we will get to sing their praise.

Cheers and beers till then.