Desicritics Category: Culture: Dance

A Postmodern Wedding

Zia Ahmad — Mon, 29 Jun 2009 10:35:12 EDT

"Hope is a dangerous word" - just like any other pearls of wisdom that I am only too eager to pass on to the next available ear, this too has been derived from the ever-wise and reflective dream factory that is Hollywood. Do we ever pause to consider how drastically films have affected our humdrum lives, and how in moments of joy and sorrow some of us look up to movies as templates that our real-life actions and words should subscribe by? No other art form in human history has provided us with as many pertinent points of comparison in our lives as films (or for that matter TV shows) have.

How many people would you expect to quote a line from Shakespeare (with the exception of to be or not to be...)? If you're a testosterone-pumped dude with delusions of machismo, The Godfather and Scarface lend an almost scripture like importance to govern your make-believe life by. You even pick up the mannerisms and gestures of movie people (Robert De Niro and Al Pacino being the oft-employed culprits to any number of Bollywood actors). You name your children after your favorite movie/TV characters (ever wondered why so many Sanas that you know were incidentally born in the early 80s in the wake of Ankahi?). You revere your favorite movie and TV heroes more than real life heroes. No matter how joyous and ecstatic your happiest moment is or how harrowingly gloom-ridden your saddest, it always pales in comparison to the highs and lows of the lives that you see on screen. There is no appropriate music to play in the background when she breaks your heart; the mise'en'scene isn't quite appropriate for the struggle within you which demands more drama.

Therefore, our passions are not strong enough; our anger lacks the correct amount of resentment; our grief is not heartbreaking enough; all our emotional outbursts come out too strong or too weak - never quite spectacular enough to fit the definition of a cinematic emotional outburst. We are not filmy enough. We will never win any Oscars.

When we want to drive a point across, our diction and body fails us. Either the body language is not right, or we're forced to think up the right word in an increasingly claustrophobic moment of heated, unabated passion, or worse - we get stuck on a word and have to put considerable amount of effort to get past that debilitating fix. Unlike, actors on screen who do it flawlessly and with conviction, our faces and bodies are not trained and we are never given a strong script. It is upon us, and only us, to get by through this life that we desperately want to measure up to the films that we feed on.

However, occasionally our cultural climate doles out opportunities to compensate for the cinematic inadequacy of our lives. This prospect is delivered in the form of the greatest festival in one's life - his or her wedding. This is the one day you get to be the star of your film. During the circus show that is our desi wedding, you as the hero/heroine get center stage (literally) and the culmination of your love story (even if the wedding is arranged) is captured on video. Professional cameramen are sought to shoot these "films", and get professional editing and mixing jobs done on them. However, the finished product is by no means a proper three-hour film. Replete with a title sequence where the cast of the wedding is introduced. The bride, the groom, the parents, the in-laws, the siblings, the cute wretched Babbloos, Tinkus, Munnis... the lot.

The plot of the film may be predictable: the ultimate genre film, and most likely will have no dialogue, the ultimate genre film being the ultimate musical, and lacks seriously in the character development department, no mention of the wooden acting all around, but the film according to its budget may boast of decent production value: make up, costumes, sets and etc. It even has fancy dissolves to make it look slick. Elaborate song and dance sequences are choreographed for weeks and executed on the confetti laden pre-show that is mehndi. The emotional culmination comes at rukhsati which marks the teary eyed conclusion of the festive proceedings. And after two, three weeks of nauseating reruns of the film, real world awaits the stars of the film to go on with their tick tock lives.

Changing Perspective

rads — Sat, 27 Jun 2009 09:08:52 EDT

You know how we say "you wouldn't know what I am going through, because you aren't in my shoes.", in an apologetic tone mostly, or occasionally snapping at folks who try to comfort us, to empathize and even to reason, make us see better, feel something apart from what we feel?

I'd imagine it is hard? Unless, of course we have been in their shoes or similar pairs of shoes, it is a challenge to take that step and understand what they are going through. Not for the lack of trying, but then again, we hope to throw different perspectives n the same situation because for starters, we cannot convincingly look at it like how the person does.

Forget real life for a second and for a moment think of all those movie actors and artists that we watch on screen. They play a wide variety of characters, ones that we love to hate, ones we adore, and all in between. There are many who are known for their exemplary performances including facial expressions, the tears on demand - the ones that heave the shoulders and the ones that stop short teetering along the eyelids, the guffaws that need to look natural during the 36th retake of the scene, the rage the camera needs to capture to rile the audience, and the love and romance that needs to look real between two strangers to convince the real couples watching them.

It's easy for us to play critics I suppose. Much easier than wanting to take that time and reflect on the challenge that the artists face.

For the most part, I'd imagine to laugh, smile, kid, horse around is a lot less challenging. It should come naturally, and it doesn't require much prep work. Except of course if one's a sad sack. Then well, that's work. But for the most part, I'd think the darker, deeper, thoughtful, tragic roles, require some spadework. It requires understanding the character, the mode of thinking, the situation and the reaction that's expected of the character and then to be able to hold it all together and portray it convincingly enough.

That's a heck of a lot of brain cells firing if you ask me.

Many challenging roles come to mind, and among the stalwarts who portrayed them, my favorites include Savitri, Smita Patil, Suhasini. These actresses can show angst at a depth that can reach right into you and rip your heart out. There are others of course, but I am partial to these wonderful ladies.

A true artist's resume covers a variety of roles that harnesses their capabilities to be versatile and malleable enough to pick up a character and own it. Many real life roles are based on well, today's living breathing persons. Situations are easier to imagine, we see shades of people and minds around us all the time. The urchin, the job-seeker, the loner, the loser, the snobbish rich kid and so on.

What if you were playing a role that is very hard to understand and relate to. Like mythological roles:

For instance, Bhaktha Sabari. To play a staunch devotee of Lord Rama, immersed in the love and affection of the divine Lord. To show it all, while acting like one was thousands of years old, the happiness, the satisfaction and the happy tears, when one cannot understand what it is to be her. How does one think and imagine the range of that role. When the audience is mesmerized into believing that they are indeed transported into

Similarly, think of Draupadi. How about Surpanaka? How about a woman abused and raped. The mother whose son has died. The female artist who plays a man's role. The man who plays a female (and not look like he stopped mid-way)

Some roles are just difficult to imagine yourself into. Some roles you wouldn't want to imagine yourself into. Under both these instances, an artist would probably imagine the next best situation that could bring the same kind of emotion onto the foreground.

Like for instance, there's a lady called Kisa Gowthami who loses her son, and bemoans the loss in an intensity that a mother only could. She runs to Buddha to ask for a miracle, she needs her son back. It's an attachment that she is bound to. There is deep angst, there is an unfathomable situation, one that a mother in real life will not and cannot bring herself to imagine. Yet, the show must go on. The artist reflects and brings to the surface a pain that's close to her heart, one that will mimic the agony of the character onto her face and body.

I know what I will be thinking of. The misery will be real. It cannot be anything but real. The lips will quiver, the eyes will brim, the voice will choke and the agony will show. It isn't hard if the pain's real. ..and that is precisely the secret of how those actresses manage it all.

One must be true to the art they are passionate about. If not, it's time to pack their bags.

The Death Of A King: Michael Jackson Passes Away

Aditi Nadkarni — Fri, 26 Jun 2009 10:53:13 EDT

Michael Jackson is gone. He was my very first introduction to pop music, our generation's pop music. If it weren't for him, our times would not have had any star to show for itself, no Elvis, no Beatle mania. We from the 90s would have passed by without a craze. Instead the 90s gave the world its King Of Pop. His biggest and best selling albums were made popular by my generation. We were the teenagers who followed his moonwalking footsteps and filtered his lyrics through the funnels of our walkman headphones. I remember hearing the scream, the sounds of shattering glass weaved into his music, the irreverant howl, the vulnerable quiver of his voice and the startling hiccup that punctuated his songs so in contrast to the steady, unbroken, melancholy notes of Indian music. It was different, like nothing I had ever heard before and so a pre-teen eager for something to define me, I fought valiantly for rights over the sole music system which my father's Jagjit Singh and Ghulam Ali albums had monopolized for preceding years.

At my all girl's convent school, every annual function had a dance on a catchy Michael Jackson number. Girls dressed in black and white, with big plastic hoops for earrings performed what could not really be called a break dance but when the famed "crotch" move came along, howls ensued from the crowd and loud clucks came forth from the nuns. In an otherwise solemn classroom, when Sister Maria asked us who was the first man to walk on the moon, our whispered answers amidst suppressed giggles included "Michael Jackson". In India, somehow we never saw Michael Jackson as Whacko Jacko. For us, he was merely this one representation of what the West itself was: eccentric, different, crazy and laden with bling-blings. If you asked a kid off the streets what America was to him, he would promptly say "Michael Jackson" and bust a break dance move. Johny Lever even created an Indian counterpart including "Mai-ka Lal Jaikishan" (Mother's pet, Lord Krishna) for one of his comic routines and everybody in audience, young or old knew whose name he was parodying.

When Michael Jackson arrived in India, even the usually Hindutva and nationalistic fervor ridden Bal Thackeray was smitten, raving to delighted news reporters about how MJ had stopped at his home and used his toilet. The concert was something I could not even dream of attending. Instead I fed on the remnants of the wave that his arrival set forth in Bombay. Riding on the buses the next day, we pointed to each other, flyers and posters of the concert and the places that we speculated MJ must have surely passed through on the way to his hotel. "Look", we cried excitedly, "They said he stopped there before they drove from his hotel to the concert!". Street children wore the one white glove symbolic of the King's visit and street hawkers made a killing selling MJ hats with a lock of curly hair attached. I was one of Bombay's teeming middle class. being part of the concert was not for us unless its traffic manifestations counted. We only took pride in the fact that MJ had decided to visit our city. He knew he had fans here, we told ourselves and therefore he knew us at some level. He had come all that way to our city and bathed it with his music, matched the beat of our crowded local trains with the rhythm of his songs and even put in a bharatnatyam dancer in his album. He acknowledged us and we loved him for that. He folded his hands and said namaste and even the grandmothers dismissive of his moves were touched. Mai-Ka-Lal-Jai-Kishen.

At my own grandmother's house, there lived a beautiful new god that had just made its way into India: cable TV. This tele-caravan of non-stop entertainment brought with itself, MTV and VTV. I watched MJ move around Naomi Campbell crooning "In The Closet" and that to date remains my favorite dance MJ number, its sensuality somehow ripening with age, mine and the song's. At thirteen, this to me was sex in the West. A voluptuous, scantily clad woman sashaying with a tall, frail man clutching his crotch. One monsoon day on our way to a movie theatre, the shattering of glass and a well-delivered scream in Jam, startled my dad when maneuvering our fiat through Bombay's tricky traffic. And much to my dismay MJ was banned from playing in our car.

"Do you even know what he is saying? Can you even tell?" my mother asked one day, challenging my adoration as I stared into the TV and let the the beats consume me. I turned up the volume and pretended to ignore her but her comment set me off. Up until then I did not understand his accent. I only knew that the beats of his songs excited me and made me want to dance. So the next time I made sure to look through the little lyric booklet that came with the cassette and learned a new language, his language. Suddenly, I was even more in love, not just moving with the beats and humming the tune but singing with the song. My mother immediately regretted having unintentionally led me into this karaoke phase. As I recognized the words, the message in "Black or White" and the angst in "Stranger In Moscow" were delivered with the beats. When our richer cousins bought a gigantic stereo system with speakers in every corner of the room, consumed with a mixture of pride and envy,I feigned nonchalance but only until "Blood On The Dance Floor" made its way into my tapping feet through their shuddering marble floor. I had never heard an MJ song being played like that before, at such a dangerous volume.

Through all his legal trials and the plastic surgeries, it became somewhat shameful or embarassing to admit that you liked him and adored him. And yet his music remained his one true face, untarnished and whole bringing discotheques alive when the 90s were called upon. Yesterday, I got back after a long day at work and just as suddenly as the shattering of glass and his trademark howl had entered my world, startling me years ago, I found out he was dead. I felt an urgency to listen to one of his songs. It is amazing how a tune can transport one back into the time to which that music belongs. Last night, I sat on my sofa, turned up the volume, closed my eyes and was a teenager again.

"Do you remember the time, when we were in love. We were young and innocent then"

Gaddar, a Legend

Amitabh Mitra — Fri, 17 Apr 2009 19:47:07 EDT

Hundred Flowers was a literary organisation aligned to a Maoist group which sprang up in Delhi in the seventies. The socio-political changes along with literary and cultural aspirations of that time brought me close to a feeling that was even closest to my heart and mind. Protest poetry, Protest ballads and Protest street theatres was the order of the day.

I look back and wonder, yet each poem recited, each theatre performeD, each irregular underground paper we brought out and distributed did make some dent in the routine flow of ideas of the common man. Was it really worth it?

Somewhere we lost the rage and urge in an urban jungle and melted into an everyday mediocrity. Gaddar instead carried on with the movement that we all once dreamed of.

Gadar popularly known in Andhra Pradesh as Gaddar is the Balladeer Extraordinary who has survived assassination bids, his songs and performance poetry has extolled millions of dalits and the underprivileged.

‘No death for the song of people’s war’
- A Slogan condemning the attack on Gaddar.

Gummadi Vittal Rao, popularly known as ‘Gaddar’ established himself as a household name in Andhra society. Vittal Rao changed his name to Gaddar as a tribute to Gadar Party of Punjab under the leadership of Hardayal who gave a stubborn resistance to British colonial exploiters between 1913 and 1930 From mid seventies to eighties he wrote songs on martyrs of revolutionary struggle.

One of his popular songs that he sings with gusto –
‘in spite of being born into a blacksmith's family I don’t have sickle and hammer...’

Another song –
‘this village is ours and every work is done by us .Then, who is this Dora (landlord)? What is his greatness? What right does he have to exercise power over us? ‘

Another song in Hindi
Jago re…
Jagore jago jago
Duniyame-majuduro
Ekvo-ekvo
Duniyaka dushman hain Amerika Rashya
Unke dalal hain Tata Birla
Unkee gulam hai deshkee netha
Unkke chenche hai gavkee jalim
Inke ladana hai jagore’

Gadar and his Jan Natya Mandali (JNM) used folk lores, folk tunes, dholak and dappu. He gripped his audience through his powerful tunes. On February 18, 1990 at Nizam College Grounds in Hyderabad, a staggering 200, 000 people came to watch Gaddar and his group performing.

Since then he has travelled fearlessly to Chhattisgarh, Orissa, and Maharashtra and recently to Pune where he was given a hero’s welcome. At a press conference in Pune, accusing the Left parties of straying from their original philosophy, he said, “Communistonka jhanda lal hain lekin unka dil kala hain”

A salute to a people’s hero at a time during the elections when the common man is made to believe by the ruling establishment and the so called opposition that they are the best to lead them, a man wearing a shawl, dhoti and wielding a stick gives them hope by singing and asserts to a nonviolent struggle for their just rights.

Poetry: another poem

temporal — Sun, 22 Mar 2009 00:51:47 EDT

Painting by Ferkhanda: Balochi with Surando

aao
          aa ga'aye
ro'w
          rO di'aye
piyo
          pee liya
haNso
          haNs di'aye
ruko
          bhag ga'aye

***

ran towards the sun
(bad move)
ran east and at noon
respite
then ran west
going nowhere

in this journey
from nowhere

milestones

disappeared

school, sex, college
love, children, travel
finally
the other womb

and another poem

Poessay: Rosary 26 - Trancing Segues

temporal — Thu, 19 Mar 2009 21:13:18 EDT

walls - head - contact - stillness
words - alluring - arresting

enchanting -- enthralling
utterance - distressing - disquieting
ominous -- onerous
                    quietus
silence - sky - stars - splinter
                    karma
pauses - phrases - awol

bridges - mirages
illusions - delusions - dichotomy
deceptions - dreams - discourse
words - encroaching - stifling
                     exacting - expecting
explosions - deafening - quiet - still
soundless - prelude - blizzard
storm - eye - peace - death
death - rebirth - circle
walls - head - contact - stillness

Poetry: drop's whirl

temporal — Mon, 16 Mar 2009 05:30:12 EDT

credit moin

queries go abegging
                     folded away
in the timeless embrace
of slapping waves

emerging from the icicle
                     falling
on the blade's edge
                     sliding
to the hungry vortex
of parched throats
                   dry eyes

is the drop aware
it is neither a way-post
nor a destination

yeh qatra hO ya woh qatra
qatrON ki gardish maiN
qatra qatra ker daita hay

undeterred, journeying
from lip to eye to
ocean, cloud, snow, rain
spring, river, sea
endless circumambulation
the drop - a querysperm
in the enduring waltz
of fermenting queries
doing rumiesque whirls

Ishq-Mohabbat-Pyaar-Vyaar: A Tribute to Filmy Love

Seema Dhindaw — Sun, 8 Mar 2009 03:42:39 EDT

Now that the controversies surrounding Valentine’s Day are in the past, I thought it would be fun to have a glimpse at the strange, comic and unusual things that love compels us to do. Catchy toe-tapping Bollywood tunes, the occasional romantic comedy, and sometimes corny poetic expressions have encouraged many of us to perform otherwise unthinkable, highly embarrassing acts of love. We can look back and laugh at spectacles that love or the illusion of it has inspired. The influence of the film industry, particularly Bollywood, hasn’t made matters any easier for those who have been pierced by Cupid’s arrow. In fact, many a times it is the sole culprit for implanting those bizarre and unrealistic ideas about love during those vulnerable, young growing years.

I grew up listening to Hindi film songs and religiously watched one Hindi movie a week with my family. When we were too young to know the implications of romance or love, my brother and I would act out the parts of hero and heroine, using trees at the park to play hide and seek which was followed by a high speed chase. We would eventually find ourselves running towards each other only to end the charade in a playful sibling fight instead of breaking into a song. When we didn’t know lyrics we would make them up. If we didn’t know the steps to a dance, we would choreograph our own crazy moves and our parents would watch sometimes in shock and at other times in dismay.

At home, it often felt like our parents were either villains in our lives or the stars of an ongoing Hrishikesh Mukherji film about complex marriages. When mom got upset over something, dad would sing and dance in a comical attempt to cheer her up. My brother and I would laugh in amusement, squeal in embarrassment or even play along. On Saturday mornings, mom made delicious parathas while melodious tunes played on the weekly Indian radio program. We anxiously counted the minutes, our eyes on the clock for the parathas and for the eagerly awaited weekly Namaste America television program that aired with previews of latest Bollywood movies, top ten songs and sometimes a special treat: an interview with one of the stars. Every week, I had a new crush depending on who was being interviewed and my brother had a new fight scene or dance move to play out. When Prabhudeva came on the screen we lost quite a few porcelain items. One of my first crushes was Salman Khan. I had a shirtless poster of his on the wall of my bedroom. That poster made a long journey with me from a small back alley in Rourkee, India and lived through my teen years in L.A. I remember my cousins hollering at me then for picking Salman over Shah Rukh. Today, if I make it back to Rourkee, I know for sure I will bring back a Shah Rukh poster instead. Tastes have changed.

In my teens, thoughts of how I would meet my knight in shining armor and what he would be like were always at the back of my mind. When I looked at Bollywood films for answers, the romances and love stories were fun and exciting, full of song and dance sequences, offering me hope but none or little practical advice. Hollywood portrayed a completely different perspective. Issues surrounding religion, career, premarital sex and race were at the forefront. Titanic, Father of the Bride, Sliding Doors, Sleepless in Seattle and many of Woody Allen’s films made things either too simple, fairytale-like or way too complex for me to grasp. Movies like Silsila, Lamhe and Chandni gave me hope that even if my soul mate was much older, married, missing after an accident or suffering from a predictable bout of amnesia, somehow miraculously and by defying every righteous principle, moral value and perhaps by way of nothing short of a miracle, he would end up being with me.

After watching Kuch Kuch Hota Hai, the prospect that I could have a guy best friend who would suddenly start to develop feelings for me years later when I grew my hair out, lost some weight and played basketball in a saree was extremely exciting. After a few years of shooting hoops, it didn’t take me long to realize that wasn’t happening. You’ve Got Mail offered hope of a promising fairytale romance which began after meeting a faceless stranger in an internet chat room. Thereafter began my brief and dangerous love affair with virtual chat rooms. I had my share of terrible experiences and realized that in the online world everything wasn’t as perfect or safe as the movies portrayed. As an adult, when I watch my nieces online, I feel a protective urgency come over me.

I slowly began to lose hope of finding my Prince Charming when one day I watched Dil to Pagal Hai. It suddenly all became crystal clear to me. Learning how to dance would lead me to the love of my life. I had to become just like Madhuri Dixit. A famous Kathak teacher was coming to Southern California for two months and taking her class was my only hope. I begged and pleaded with my parents. My dad made a few ill-timed jokes about California being earthquake prone and my mother politely suggested alternate hobbies that did not require much grace or rhythm. But they finally gave in to my childish whims and soon I was practicing tapping my feet to “tha thayi thayi” and undulating hand movements.

I observed in dismay that the Kathak classes were going too slow and I wondered if all this foot-tapping would break into a full-fledged dance any time soon. I figured I would have to be dancing to a song and not just these random beats in order for the love story to proceed smoothly. Nothing of the sort happened of course and the lessons were aborted within six months. I was left dolefully massaging the blisters on my soles.

After watching Maine Pyar Kiya, I turned to my amused parents and asked them if we had family friends that I could visit for a vacation in India. They did! And they even had a son. But as luck would have it, before my flight even took off, their beloved son had announced that he was in love with the girl next door and by then I wasn’t into love triangles any more. So I spent my vacation falling in love….with India and its people.

Recently, Hollywood, after years of criticizing the blatant escapism showcased by the Hindi film industry, finally caved and embraced the rags-to-riches, love story of Slumdog Millionaire. While controversies over the depiction of poverty in Slumdog continue, as an American, I was more taken by the moving story which spans several years and brings us a saga where tragedy, separation, loss and hardship, are all conquered by the one relentless pursuit of love. In India, love trumps all and I felt like this film captured that spirit.

I find consolation in knowing that I wasn’t alone in my filmi craze. Cousins, friends and siblings were also influenced by the love stories in the popular movies of the time. Unrealistic expectations and dreamy romantic ideas had infiltrated their minds as well. They too have sung in the shower, practiced pick up lines in front of a mirror and danced around the room in a towel like Kajol. I remember watching as my cousins practiced the famous pose of Kate Winslet and Leonardo DiCaprio in Titanic, standing on the edge of a balcony above a sea of busy city traffic amidst the beautiful symphony of random honks. Much to my delight, on one trip to India, I helped a cousin plan many a secret rendezvous with her lover. Objections of their being together by their parents didn’t stop them from eventually eloping. The rage and tragic aftermath they faced from their families caused them much grief but their ambitious first steps together set off a trend in the family. Five other elopements followed in quick succesion within the next three years. Inter-cultural, inter-religious and inter-racial marriages were becoming more common. Old barriers fell away over the years. Thanks to inspiration from the popular films of the time, stale prejudices began to dissolve, bringing together soul mates across these divisive lines.

So all in all, these filmi influences have had the power to unite, bring positive change and offer hope to all of us who wait patiently to find that one true love. In addition to the cute, comic and sometimes foolish things that films have inspired all of us to do without their influence, life, both in love and looking for love, would not be as much fun.

Ramakrishna: A Lover of God

Dr Bhaskar Dasgupta — Sun, 1 Mar 2009 10:22:23 EST

The Ramakrishna Mission has been an integral part of my growing up. My grand parents, uncles and aunts, my parents, my wider family all have been associated with this mission. And singing in front of Ma Kali and slipping into a near trance was quite common back then. While I was growing up, two things happened which are pertinent. The first related to the regular visits to the Mission in Bhopal. At that time, it was in the middle of a vast stony rocky field. A temple of calmness in the midst of a very stark landscape. And you would get a sense of peace as soon as you entered the temple grounds. The teachers over there were wonderful, they wore simple clothes and their laughter was so wonderful. A childlike wonder at the world all the time and infinite patience to deal with zillions of questions. I regret to say that I do not remember their names. Singing the bhajans and the trance like state one would enter while singing to Ma Kali, just wonderful. Even now, it brings a strange sort of peace to myself and tears to the eyes.

The second related aspect was my visit to Vivekananda Rock. If somebody asks me if I have met God, I say in the affirmative and that is one of the places I met him face to face. Strange no? So when I read this paper: Kali's child and Krishna's lover: An anatomy of Ramakrishna's Caritas Divina by Narasingha P Sil of Western Oregon University, published in Journal of Religion, 2008, I felt the tug of memories so badly. I quote the abstract:

The famous 19th-century Bengali saint Shri Ramakrishna Paramahamsa has almost universally been regarded as a Shakta (sometimes confused with Tantrika) devotee of the Mother Goddess Kali. His association with the Kali temple at Daksineshvar, in the northern suburb of Calcutta, has no doubt been a powerful argument behind his Shakta/Tantrika affiliation. This paper argues that Ramakrishna was essentially a bhakta (devotee) in the Vaisnava tradition and his cultural and family inheritance. His idea of the divine and his career and logia as a priest and a saint provide ample justification to consider him essentially a Vaisnava whose spiritual battle-cry was to demand to have dalliance with God.

The paper tries to decompose his feelings and his religious leanings by a variety of references, ranging from references to tantrik aspects to Vedanta to you name it. After reading the rather bewildering variety of references and attempts to decompose his faith, I was lost. But in the middle, the author hits on the precise nature of this wonderful man and I quote:

Nevertheless, it is important to bear in mind that Bengali folk culture essentializes simple fiducia and that Ramakrishna, an untrained and unread temple priest (although initiated into Shakti or Kali mantra by a professional priest named Kenaram Bhattacharya) cannot be pigeonholed neatly in any one sect formally. In other words, he was basically a lover of god

That is it. You really do not need a full fledged scholarly paper to know what he was, he was a lover of God. He investigated Islam and Christianity, delved into Buddhism and found that at end of the day, all paths lead to the same God. Sometimes, I think we make our relationship with God far too complicated. It is not, it is very simple. She loves us and we just need to love her back. Be like a Chaitanya Mahaprabhu, just love her.

It is very difficult to explain this feeling of wanting to be one with God or personally speaking, one with Ma (whether it be Kali or Shakti or Durga, or what have you, they are all the same) but it is an indescribable feeling and I tear up every time I experience it. But still, the article is good, if nothing else for the good discussion on tantric scriptures and practises, Vedanta and Ramakrishna’s life.

Oh!, the references are good as well.

Technorati Tags: Hinduism

Music Review: Trickbaby's Chor Bazaar

Aspi — Mon, 9 Feb 2009 00:29:24 EST

Trickbaby are an Asian fusion band who are precisely two albums old. Their first - Hanging Around - a delectable collection of amped down fusion of Punjabi and low key British house beats came out in 2004.

It was a year later that they broke big for fans in India when Rohan Sippy invited them to reboot "Sabse Bada Rupaiiya" for his movie Bluffmaster. In a CD full of highlights composed by Vishal and Shekhar, Trickbaby's composition was a standout. A few of their songs also made it into the background score - "Neelaa" (which samples Silsila's "Sar Se Sarke"), "Indi Yarn" and "Nine Parts of Desire".

One more year went by and Trickbaby did more Bollywood - composing the title track to the Fardeen-Vivek Oberoi-Esha Deol-Amrita Rao starrer "Pyare Mohan".

Now, two years later, Trickbaby have their sophomore CD - Chor Bazaar - out. And it's got its own India release on the Saregama label.

What exactly is Chor Bazaar like? It's a signature Trickbaby album, which means it's full of synth beats, seductive vocals and Indian percussion via dhols, tablas and drums. There are some clean guitar riffs - there is only selective feedback laden picking on a couple of songs to fill out the beat. The whole thing is very melodious - each song has multiple hooks that prompt sing alongs.

On "Fighter" which opens the CD, Saira talks about getting into arguments without intending to. She narrates an addiction to auctions just because she wants to win the final bid. As in all songs, she drains the emotion of the song in favor of sexy, breathless vocals. And combined with Steve Ager's smooth production - it sets the tone for the rest of the material to come.

There are twelve tracks on Chor Bazaar - two are remixes: Nine Part of Desire gets the cowboy guitar treatment and Neelaa has some minor tweaks. The other nine tracks are new songs. And while I'll let you discover the CD for yourself, there are a few worth highlighting.

On the title track, Trickbaby invite Gogol Bordello's Eugene Hutz (vocals), Sergey Ryabtzev (Violin), and Yuri Lemeshev (Accordian) to create a zany, Russian flavored tribute to India's one of a kind, dubious-goods markets. It's a bold move - perhaps even a confounding one. But it works really well because it not only captures the fervor of a chor bazaar but the Russian lyrics reflect the phoren-maal nature of the items usually found on sale.

There are plenty of genuine fusion tracks as well. Trickbaby use a clap driven percussion to power "Babu" which is sung in Hindi. "Broken Dreams" is in English and Punjabi and uses faded Bollywood influenced backup vocals.

Chor Bazaar is so groovy its well worth the wait. But next time, guys, please don't take so long between CDs.