Desicritics Category: Culture: Desi

Aamchi Sarkar Raj

thedeskjockey — Sun, 4 Jan 2009 04:53:17 EST

There is something uniquely mystifying about visionaries. They think on a level we take years, decades, perhaps even generations to understand. But when we do, we are awestruck with the grandness of their plan. Which is why you should all think twice before dissing one of the grandest visionaries of our time – Raj Thackerey.

Seriously, who thinks of a party name which includes the word “Navnirman” whose prime motto is to drive out anybody who can do “nirman” but cannot speak Marathi? Who can think of doing something more symbolic than digging up cricket pitches just because they hate Pakistan and hence Pakistani cricketers? Who dares to dream beyond the unscrupulous secularism of our country that forces us to live with those geeky Madrasis, loud Sardarjis and unintelligible Bengalis? It requires a special kind of visionary and orator to feed such grand plans down the throats of people who call themselves soldiers or “sainiks” but yet resemble the neighborhood gang who breaks windows and vandalizes walls just because they believe in their brand of coolness.

Other such visionaries that come to mind are Osama Bin Laden, Pol Pot, Benito Mussolini and of course Hitler, who the venerable Balasaheb, Raj’s uncle and one time mentor, admires to such an extent that he made statements to the effect "I am (the Hitler) of the whole of Maharashtra and want to be of whole of India." and my personal favorite, "If the Muslims of India behave as the Jews in Germany did, they will deserve the same treatment". Priceless wisdom!

To understand Raj, you would have to understand his grand visions right from his younger days when he wanted to take his skills as a cartoonist and film maker to Walt Disney Studios. However, his love for the Marathi Manoos kept him within the confines of Maharashtra. The world’s loss of Walt Disney Marathi themed cartoons was the average Marathi Joe’s (lets call him “Joe-kar”) gain. The sacrifices the man and his family have made! Think of a conversation his little son Amit might have with him

Amit: Dad, I want to have a birthday party for all my friends!
Raj: Sure buddy, now who do you want to call?
Amit: The Khans?
Raj: Nope, we hate them. None of them speak Marathi.
Amit: The Bachchans?
Raj: Are you kidding? After we threw bottles at their house and called Jaya an old witch?
Amit: Sigh. How about the Tendulkars?
Raj: Dude, unfortunately we don’t like Gujjus either! You know, Anjali is one. I mean really, those fat businessmen eat undiyo-jalebi-fafda and fart all day in an AC train compartment with no outlet for all that smell.
Amit: Never mind dad! Let’s just do a family thing.
Raj: Now that’s my boy. See you are picking up on our family motto already…”All in the family”.

Shame on all the political commentators, media persons and so called experts who claim that the man is a divisive force in a united India. Really? Come on here to the US in any university and you’ll see the Tamilian share a 2 bedroom apartment with 10 other Tamilians but won’t live with the 2 Delhi-waalas across the street. The Mumbaikar prefers to live with his fellow denizens ‘coz he can’t quite understand the frugality fuss of the Andhra dudes. And the Gujarati Patel won’t even live with the Shahs ‘coz his daddy told him they are not nice people. So if people naturally confirm to the people within the people theory, why decry a man who calls it like it is and encourages other people to do the same? You can imagine my angst at all this when I’ve used the word "people" 4 times in the last sentence.

So what if he encourages taking out anything and everything related to Pakistan? For e.g., nobody seems to like Atif Aslam’s quivering voice [video link 1][video link 2]. And how many books from famous Pakistani authors can you name anyway?

So what if he wants migrants from UP and Bihar to leave the state? Isn’t the average gunda in the movies always portrayed from these states?

It’s about time we got a guy named Raj who has some balls and breaks the unfortunate image we have associated with that name. It’s about time we got someone who cared enough to bring the plight of his people out in the open. And it’s about time that people get past the violent demonstrations, the jingoistic speeches and the lack of any contribution from him. For the true genius of a vision lies in the patience of the people to wait a reeeeeeeally long time for it.

While the tone of this post may be satirical, my heart remains firmly on his side. And being a non-marathi, I pledge my support to his cause by staying far far away from his beloved state.

Colour

IdeaSmith — Fri, 2 Jan 2009 10:44:02 EST

(Based on my fortnight-long tour of Europe in October 2008)

I buy a bottle of sandalwood scented sunscreen lotion. Yes, yes, I hate the fairness-driven notion of beauty as any self-respecting Indian should. But I don't particularly want splotchy multi-coloured skin either.

Along with my lotion, sits my spray-on foundation. No.5 is closest to my skin tone, according the salesman. I wondered how he can tell since all three (identical-looking) shades he selects for me, turn up reddish patches from being rubbed vigorously into my arm. Hooray, my blood is still red and turns up under the dermis to say hello!

~o~o~o~I go shopping on Tuesday evening, Wednesday morning, nights after work and weekends to prepare for a fourteen-day (and night) journey. Among my purchases are a grey vest with red lining on the neck. To be worn with black cotton track pants with a red lining down the sides. For deck wear, for nightwear, for 'I'm so sporty-I'm so cool' wear, never mind the fact that I've never seen the inside of a gym.

The next day, dad decides to play homemaker with the laundry. I pull the clothes out of the washing machine and in horror, exclaim,

What happened to my grey vest????!!!

It is now very pink with a red lining. Pink and Red! Ghastly, ghastly, ghastly!! And I don't have matching trackpants to wear it with! Dad looks quite contrite and then asks, rather timidly,

You don't like the pink colour?

~o~o~o~

At the airport, I discover that my flight has been delayed 4 hours. A discreet door tucked away at the far end looks interesting. Entry only for travellers who have a Gold Card. At 4 a.m. as I walk out, stomach full with delectable cutlets, sandwiches, hot soup and fine tea, I conclude that life in plastic, is fantastic indeed. And Gold continues to open doors.

~o~o~o~The breakfast shift is packed. I spot an empty table, the plates of its previous occupants bearing mute testimony to their appetites. I sit down.

Five minutes later I stand up so I can see over the bar and beckon to the servers. In vain.

Then I approach a tall, blond steward standing at the bar and wait for him to finish whatever he is doing and turn around. He does but his gaze glides smoothly over my head to a distant table.

Can I have someone take my breakfast order, please?

He fixes steely eyes on me and mouths,

Sit down and keep waiting.

Twenty minutes later, I flag down a Filipina waitress who smiles sunnily and brings me my breakfast immediately.

-------------

The next morning, I arrive early and have the satisfaction of bagging a prime seat with a view of the deck as well as the serving staff. I can be patient today, I decide, ignoring my growling stomach. At the table in front of me, the blond steward is charming two Americans. He dashes off and swishes back with the menus, in a smooth move and a pleasant,

And what may I bring you lovely ladies today?

I wait for him to finish. Waving now would be rude but I'm sure he can see that I've been staring steadfastedly in his direction. He finishes, snaps the menu shut and looks up and away.

Another group of girls approach. I've noticed them the last evening. Youngish, mini-skirted, very made-up. They never seem to leave the ship and a video camera follows them around everywhere. Models for a cruise brochure, I guess. One is blonde, another looks like a teenage Catherine Zeta-Jones and their friends are various versions of Christina Aguilera. They sit down, chattering and fluttering. The steward materializes from nowhere and a gaggle of giggles break out. And a few minutes later he brings them their breakfasts - yoghurt as white as the young Zeta-Jones and fruit.

I'm still hungry.

-----------

The next evening I join two couples for dinner. We select the biggest table. Ten minutes later, in good cheer, we move to another (equally big) table on the other side of the room where we decide the serving staff is hovering. But we don't seem to be able to catch the steward's eye.

As he swings by us for the fifth time, one of my group calls out,

Could you please taken our order?

He spits out with breaking his step,

It is not your turn. Keep waiting.

------------

The man who runs the ship restaurant offers a polite apology adding firmly that it has never been his policy to discriminate on the basis of nationality or race. He also tells us about his life in another country as an alien and promises us that he understands what we mean. An hour later, after many anecdotes about travel, belief and culture, he leaves us, charmed and smiling. I'm forced to conclude that Greeks are marvelous story-tellers...indiscriminate of their audience.

~o~o~o~Maybe it is windchill, maybe it's skin unaccustomed to clean air but my face has turned a funny shade of orange. It isn't tomato-red like the sunburnt Brits, not pink like the pretty Ukrainian stewardess, not chocolate like the African-American passenger in the neighboring cabin. It isn't even brown anymore.

My friend laughs at me and points to his sneaker lining to show me what orange looks like. I scowl and think to myself,

Orange-flavoured caramel, then.

~o~o~o~"A city like every other", I think to myself, remembering my own Island, home. The malls, the skyscrapers, the busy people, the money and the flash. Then I look at the gray pavements and the white kerb-stones, stainless and clean. It's Mumbai minus the paan-stains, I surmise.

~o~o~o~Everything in Europe is so expensive! I complain. I've gotten used to not converting to rupees in my head by now but even so the shops seem to be trying to palm off touristy junk to me for 10 or 11 euros apiece. I walk down the roads thinking of Colaba Causeway and I tell my companions,

Shopkeepers world-over do this!

I stare at the ocean and then I chance upon a man sprawled on the ground, next to an array of trinkets displayed on cloth. I can never resist these.

What's this?

I ask, holding up a curious black stone. He tell me that is from the ancient island of Delos, where he brought it over and carved it. I smile back and inform him that I was in Delos that morning and didn't see any black stones since they were all white pebbles and blocks.

He doesn't bat an eyelid as he says,

You, an Indian. I am Indian too. I won't cheat you. You also don't tell me what you say to Indian shopkeepers.

I shrug and say,

How much?

20 euros.

I sputter and tell him that all the stuff in the shops is 10 euros. He leers and says,

Okay you go back to India and buy there only.

The firang couple next to me bursts into loud laughter, apparently very amused. I toss it back and walk away.

I hope it turns their pink fingers green. And I hope that racist pig never shows his brown face back in the country that links him to me.

~o~o~o~The sea varies from turquoise to ink to cerulean, depending upon which island I'm on. Each time it has a personality of its own and each colour introduces itself to me in its signature style. Indigo, at the start of cruise looks at me through lidded eyes and tells me that I can take my time but I'll have to come to it, eventually. Blue, mornings, welcomes me with a bright cheery 'Hello!' and asks me to come out and play. Turquoise crooks its mischievous finger at me and commands me to follow it without a splash. And silver makes me bow my head in respect as it reminds me that water covers most of the planet that human beings haven't been able to conquer.

~o~o~o~Lunch alone since everyone is sleeping in. A friendly, American co-passenger waves to me as he passes but he declines my offer to eat with me telling me he's already eaten. He's on his wave to relieve his wife from her vigil on their sunning chairs on the top deck.

She arrives a few minutes later and sits down with her plate. We eat the unfamiliar casseroles and savor the fruits in companionable silence. Then we talk about what we've seen, where we are from and what we do for a living. She tells me that she works in a tanning salon. I listen, interested and then tell her that the concept is completely alien where I come from. She looks surprised and says,

But you are such a lovely colour!

~o~o~o~Over the bay, the water has turned steely-grey, like the sky. The wind is chilly too so I shut my book and prepare to move indoors. The tables next to mine are emptying too.

At least the night is the same colour over everyone.

Poessay: I'm Not Dev Das and You're Not Anarkali

temporal — Wed, 31 Dec 2008 12:20:07 EST

painting - Gulgee

Permanence is a Utopian illusion. It is nurtured by groups that ferment a vested interest - popes, padres, rabbis, maulvis, pundits, financiers - purveyors of permanence.

Insomniac Dream Sellers of
Truth, Beauty, Wisdom, Courage, Love, Anger, Hatred

Sea
and Mountain
Enslaved and encircled with smile.

Then the smile melted
His?
Her's?
His smile melted her? Her smile melted him?
0r like the shivering polar ice
Melting under the rape of environment
Euphemism for global warming

Sea - the mother of transmogrification
-clouds, snow, rain, lakes, rivers
And completing the circle - sea

The circular reverberation
Womb - grave - womb
Is the tale of drops
spermatozoa
"Read, read in the names of thy Lord..."

***

for believers it is Him
for others some grand design
that would finally still
                           the drop
the last meltdown
when neither love
                           nor hate
will deter, defer, persuade or play
                         when the smile
will last for ever sans flesh

we, who indulge in super hate
we, who miss not an opportunity
to throw barbs, grenades
and uranium tipped mines and bombs
we, who excel at malevolence
- when will love conquer us?

yaadOn ka guldasta thamay*
sar-saratay sukoon maiN ghar'q
jub saa'yay hum aa ghosh hotay haiN
tou mudhoshi ki devi bhee
khud hee muskurati hogi
hosh apnay kho bethti hogi

ab tou yaad ki baiRiyouN maiN qaid
dabay qadmON t'ra tasawwur
youN chala aata hay kay
khood faraibi ka shaiba
bhee choo ker nahiN guzarta
choti ki is joostujoo maiN
khaai maiN girnay ka ehsaas kisay

said the bluebird to the bulbul
the simpleton is unaware
and the curmudgeon unconcerned
love has been cremated
in hiroshima

Man shorn of humanity is hurting and hurtling down the precipice, brakes worn, singling gaily, oblivious of the rushing winds of time, aware but not cognizant of the abyss.

_________________________________________________
* translation:

clutching the bouquet of memories
and drowned in the whispering quiet
as the shadows embrace
the goddess of intoxication
would smile at herself
while letting go of sobriety

bounded in memory-chains
your thoughts tiptoe
swirling and cascading
around whims and doubts

in the strive to conquer the peak
who thinks of a fall into the abyss

Movie Review: Gh-aaa-jini - The Tale in 15 Minutes

thedeskjockey — Tue, 30 Dec 2008 04:01:05 EST

I've got a splitting headache...no no, it isn't the 2 glasses of wine or the Himesh Reshammiya album that I listened to. It probably is the jarring crescendo everytime Aamir Khan's socket popping eyes appear on screen...every 15 minutes. I mean thats a hard life isn't it? Here we are, trying to live down our past and forget that time when we left our zip open in front of that gal we were trying to impress...or the time when we got drunk in the office party and puked on the dance floor...sheesh, I'd like to sign up for that anterobabblefrothgulpgulpgrade amnesia please. The things I usually do in life are not worth remembering 15 minutes later anyway.

Not the case for Mr. Sanjay Singhania though. He runs a business empire, falls in love with sickly sweet common girl named Kalpana (can't resist the "agar tum Kalpana ki chaddi pehnoge..." PJs) who can do no sin which, apparently what her real name means, and gets socked on the head because no-sin girl pokes her nose in titular bad-guy's dirty business. And then he goes on a killing spree to get to bad guy, rebooting every 15 minutes like an old laptop with an irritating virus. And that essentially is the gist of the story...which looks and sounds like any old Sunny Deol movie we've seen minus all the cockroach stomping dancing and plus a new medical term for us to remember (apart from Tendulkar's tennis elbow and Rajesh Khanna's lymphosarcoma of the intestine) and a finely rippled Aamir who looks like he also took a dose of steroids every 15 minutes apart from the numerous polaroids and notes.

There is something to be said about the whole saga though. I mean we don't get a lot of movies titled after the bad guy. Kill Bill was one such movie where Mr. Bill lives upto the hype when he finally appears on screen. Ghajini, by the by, I thought initially meant elephant...you know like to remind us of the elephant in the room when no-sin and crazy-tycoon were doing their frolicking. But it apparently comes with an incredible back story (thankfully, not part of the movie) with an unexpected twist on a name...but I digress. Mr. Ghajini, though, ain't no Bill. He is the hackneyed Bihari/Haryanvi goonda with "terror-inducing" lines like "Aaee Saale, main tuhje khatam kar dunga", which actually is less scary than watching Aamir Khan scream. He is also rather inexplicably, the head of a pharmaceutical company. This may be the first time when we have seen the effects of recession been shown on screen with the head of a company supplementing his income by human trafficking.

The one effect of this, that lasts longer than 15 minutes is the feeling that this is not an Aamir Khan movie. The finesse and class associated with his previous movies is just not there. It feels more like a huge ego trip for the actor where he matches the other Khans in body and the Deols in brute force.

And caught in the middle is poor ol' me...looking for a Disprin, which ironically claims to cure this headache in...wait for it....15 minutes.

TV Review: Ridiculous Roadies

Hardik Ruparel — Mon, 29 Dec 2008 01:20:02 EST

Well, first off, I don't watch the show MTV Roadies, and I would advise any sane person not to. But, some months back, I did happen to stumble upon some audition-episodes of MTV Roadies on my college LAN. I will say without any doubts, it was the moment when I was most ashamed to be an Indian.

The Indian adaptation of the American show Road Rules portrays India's youth in such a bad light, that I actually had to reassure some foreign friends that all Indian youth are not so ridiculously dumb.

The show is now hosted by two alien looking bald men, who are twins and look freakishly alike, wear the same clothes and have the same facial hairstyle (God they're identical twins Duh ! Sorry my brain was kinda impeded after watching a Roadies video on YouTube). They take every opportunity to show how they have absolutely no respect for anyone. They say their interviews are deliberately acrimonious so they can test whether the interviewee is a True Roadie. Now that's the most ridiculous piece of crap I've ever heard in my life.

One of the baldies talks too much. And when it's a girl in the opposite chair, he takes every advantage to know everything about the intimate side of her. Of course, our Miss Roadie is raunchily dressed to "press" home the advantage, and has so forgotten what her parents and teachers taught her (or did they ?).
He jumps on every double meaning word uttered, and shows how big a pervert he really is, and all he wants is just adultery. He makes sure every girl admits she's kissed another girl. And when she so deliberately does admit, or lets it slip out, just watch the glint in his eye ( and his head ? ). You can see the satisfaction. All the hard work he put in to ask those shameless questions. Where else would he get his daily dough ?

That's what this show is about.If this show was anything about biking, at least he would've asked something about their experience of riding a bike. But nahh.. who cares about bikes.. There's a half clad female in front of him who'll do "anything" to be a roadie, why let this chance slip ? Eh ?

And by the way, if you want to bike.. Just go to the damn shop. Buy a bike and ride the bike.. Why do you have to go to any audition of any kind to ride a bike ? Just rename the show MTV Come-and-talk-about-your-sex-life. That's what the interviews are about.

If the candidate is a guy, of course he's got to have a girl friend, otherwise why bother interviewing ? Righto ?

I'm just glad so many people find this show ridiculous. I remember the JAM Magazine article carrying a spoof on Roadies, where the Chinappa guy is referred to as mango-head. I swear his head looks like a mango ! Is that why they changed the co-host ?

Anyway, enough of digressions, If you've never seen this show.. Keep up the good work. And if you want to, why bother ? If you really want skin show then just put on FTV or just pop in the latest adult movie you borrowed! Why bother watching a group of young people destroying their lives and wasting their time over something so ridiculous that even my dead pet dog would've crapped over.

It's really shameful of MTV to even start this show. The concept is not bad, but the execution is in a totally different direction. The average Indian viewer gets his skin-show dose from other channels. So why bother starting this show ?

Also, the judges' capacity to analyze people is completely zero. They say that he is boring. Wait. What's so exciting about two bald perverts ? Guess what guys ? You're never going to tap the potential of the Indian youth like this. Roadies is one of the worst things to happen to India, leave alone Indian media. They go on to say "You're coming up against the best in the world !" .. What ? A bunch of idiotic looking boys and girls who bitch about each other is the best in the world. Maybe ! If he is talking about the world of donkeys !

I just pray God blesses the Indian youth with some common sense.
There's another one called "Splitsvilla" or something. I don't know what's it about and I'm glad.

Ignorance is Bliss.

The Storyteller And His Audience

Deepa Krishnan — Fri, 26 Dec 2008 05:27:28 EST

If you are visiting North India, you will probably come across a kathak performance somewhere.

The word kathak comes from the word katha or story. Kathak dancers are traditional story tellers, showcasing legends through music and dance. A kathak performance teaches as well as entertains, using a rich and sophisticated poetic literature in Sanskrit and Brajbhasha.

I spotted this kathak dancer at an upscale hotel in Agra. He was on a little stage, dancing to a piece of recorded music. His audience was a bunch of foreign travellers, several of whom had just made the 5-hour drive from Delhi, and were now relaxing at the bar watching him over their beers.

The dancer told the story of the blue-skinned God Krishna and his lover Radha. It was a beautiful story, embellished with subtle glances and elegant footwork. In the story, Krishna and Radha meet in the forests of Vrindavan, he plays the flute for her, and even the birds and the deer stop to listen to the magic of his song. She quarrels with him, over the attention he pays to other women. As he cajoles and teases her into forgiveness, she becomes lost in his leela. In the eternal all-consuming fire of her love, she forgets herself and merges into the divine.

The story was well told, but the audience understood absolutely nothing.

I was not surprised - the song was meaningless to them, and the vocabulary of the dance was entirely foreign. How does someone from a strange culture understand the symbolic mechanisms that dancers use while switching roles? How do they understand what the arched coquettish eyebrow, or the sideways glance, or the delicate flick of the wrist means, when they don't even get the context of the story? Not surprisingly, at some of the most sublime moments of the performance, the audience merely stared into their beer mugs or looked around for the bartender.

The real tragedy of it was that the performer was quite competent, with at least 10-15 years of rigorous training behind him. In spite of people moving around, or ignoring him completely, he danced with grace and dedication, as if he had all eyes upon him. I felt so bad for him, I wanted to run away and hide somewhere.

That night in my hotel room, I asked myself - Why does this happen in India, this trashing of our art forms until they become a pathetic mockery of themselves?

I realized that there are multiple issues, some of them quite complex. But I believe our lack of respect and value for our art forms is definitely one of the problems. The hotel staged this performance in their lobby, in a noisy area near the bar, perhaps because they had no other venue. But because it was presented like that, as an optional "cultural" show with drinks at the bar, the dance became a trivial tidbit, a take-it-or-leave-it affair. There was no formal introduction to the performer and his background, no explanation of kathak traditions or gharanas, no story outline – as a matter of fact, there was even no seating around the stage for anyone who wanted to watch the whole performance. It is as if the hotel had decided already that this was a boring performance, and not worth the effort. Naturally, the performance just tanked. When you yourself treat something like trash, it is very difficult for others to treat it with respect.

Contrast this with my experience in The Oberoi Bali. The hotel arranged a Balinese dance show with dinner, a rendering of some scenes from the Ramayana. They had amphitheatre style sunken seating for those who wished to view the show. For others, there were tables set discreetly so that every single person had a view of the dance. The waiters were quiet and hushed, you could order food and drinks, but it was clear that there was a performance, and you had to give it due respect. On every table, there was a one page description of the show, describing the acts that it was broken into, and giving a brief summary of the storyline. I’m sure we didn’t understand all the nuances of the performance – but we enjoyed it because of the way it was organised.

Some would argue that it is not the hotel, but the artiste who is responsible for audience delight. If the audience doesn’t like something, then either the dancer is to blame, or the dance form itself is to blame. Why was the kathak dancer not able to have any impact on his foreign audience? In spite of the poor seating and noise, could he not have drawn the audience towards him? Could he not have told them the story before dancing?

Unfortunately, our classical performers are not geared to explain their art to people from other cultures. The Indian art tradition assumes that audiences come from the same broad cultural milieu. It presupposes a shared cultural background where the stories and legends are commonly understood. In addition, the classical dance forms also assume that audiences understand the format in which dance is delivered, for example, the way in which sections of story/emoting are interspersed with sections of pure rhythm/dance. The other problem is purely practical - I very much doubt the dancer had the necessary English-speaking skills to explain the origins of kathak, or its morphing over the ages, to a foreign audience.

My personal view of the matter is that in our country, it is not practical to leave the matter to the artiste. Most Indian performers, including those from both folk and classical traditions, have poor/basic English education levels, with little or no exposure to overseas audiences. Their skill lies in their art, and not in the packaging or marketing of their art to overseas visitors. In my mind, it is very much the responsibility of the intermediary – for example, the hotel, or the tourism development board or the tour company arranging the performance – to ensure both the dignity of our arts as well as an enjoyable experience for the tourist.

As someone who is part of the tourism industry, I will do my bit to make things better. But I suspect it will take a while to get to the point where "cultural" performances don't make me squirm.

Poessay: Rosary 22 - A Simple Poem

temporal — Wed, 24 Dec 2008 13:28:01 EST

painting -nahid raza

love me or let me go
the crooner sang
as i channel surfed,
ate, walked, read,
intermittently gazed
at this ball point
wrote, paused and
pondered over the feel
of all the pens have possessed
ball points with fine points
blue, black, red, even green
old fashioned ink filled pens
ah the old parker
the zee nibs, the ink pots
stained hands and clothes
the set of unused calligraphy pens
pens with cushy holders
handcrafted tops
folding pens for travel
thin pens, modulated pens
and reminisced
the feel of my favourite pen
a pen warm and flowing
comfortably imprisoning wayward words

laikin kalam qal`m ka marhoon e minnat kahaaN?
aamud hoti hay kalam ki
phir woh sadiON seena ba seena
musafat tay karta hu`aye
safha e zaati say safha e qartaas per
kabhi youN muntakil hota hay
kay paRhnay wala baisakhta bOl oothay
`wallah! kya baat paida ki hay dost
yehi baat tO m`ray dil maiN thee
yehi baat tO maiN kehna chahta thaa...`

words
ensconced in dictionaries
listless and trembling
only a writer's pen
can furnish them a soul

through the centuries, bosom to bosom
brain to brain, to impulses, to fingers
to pen, to ink, to paper
the journey enigmatic, intricate and involved

flawlessly the moving finger infuses
words - simple, loaded
burnished in the heart
and when reader reads
s/he simply nods in agreement
at the palpitations shared

i get up
fetch some water
return, read, surf
write and rewrite
as the crooner sings
…or love me forever…

Earlier:
Poessay: Rosary 1 - Pink Sand Beach
Poessay: Rosary 2 - Fishing
Poessay: Rosary 3 - Adam and Eve Limited - I
Poessay: Rosary 4 - Adam and Eve Limited - II
Poessay: Rosary 5 - Descending
Poessay: Rosary 6 - Dinner In The Park
Poessay: Rosary 7 - Under the Jamun Tree
Poessay: Rosary 8 - Voices In The Air
Poessay: Rosary 9 - Life Rosary I
Poessay: Rosary 10 - Life Rosary II
Poessay: Rosary 11 - Creating In Isolation
Poessay: Rosary 12 - Kohled Eyes
Poessay: Rosary 13 - By the Lake
Poessay: Rosary 14 - Snow Flakes
Poessay: Rosary 15 - The Drop
Poessay: Rosary 16 - Ageless Quest - tishnagi
Poessay: Rosary 17 - Hemashree
Poessay: Rosary 18 - burning blazing fire rages
Poessay: Rosary 19 - Word Whirlpool - BhaNwur LafzouN Ka
Poessay: Rosary 20 - Thanksgiving I

Poessay: Rosary 21: KhamOshi - Wordless

A Different World Part I : A Travelogue of Sorts

temporal — Mon, 22 Dec 2008 13:58:22 EST

'Sirji will you take our picture?' a college student asked me. And when I nodded he handed me his camera. There were seven of them. They wanted a picture with the Golden Temple in the background. It was an early December morning and the sun was struggling to break through the clouds and the Punjab morning fog.

I took off my back-pack and the heavy camera bag and rearranged that group while checking them out through the view-finder for a good angle. This took a few minutes of adjusting, cajoling and coaxing then. When I was ready I snapped three pictures with their cameras.

Then I asked one of them to take our picture. The young man took his time and took our photograph. That picture turned out to be one of the better ones of both of us from that trip. We have it enlarged and framed over the fireplace in the real baithak.

We were then at the tail end of our Indian tour, having arrived at Amritsar early that morning from New Delhi. We checked in our bags at the cloak room and then ordered breakfast in the station restaurant. All other passengers had left the platform by then. There we met Henrik and Jacob. Had crossed paths with them thrice in the past few weeks in Jaisalmer, Delhi and Ratnagiri.

I asked them where they were heading this time.
'Dharamsala, and you?'
'We are crossing Attari to Wagah this morning.'
'You are going to Pakistan?' There was just a hint of incredulity in their tone.
'Afghanistan,' I jokingly replied.
'Good, we will see your pictures in the newspapers.'

Touring all over India in the aftermath of September 11 we had met many foreign tourists. And Indian tourists too, a testimony to the burgeoning middle class in India. Though both the tour operators as well as State Tourism Agency officials bemoaned of the diminishing number of foreign tourists.

As we walked around the Darbar Sahib a kindly and elderly Sikh became our guide, pointing out the highlights. Loudspeakers broadcast the Gurbani Kirtans sung in the upper floor of the Harmandir Sahib, the inner sanctum sanctorum. Peace and tranquility mixed with the morning fog and floated soothingly over the water.

(digression: one of the things I look forward to doing in a new city or country is to visit the oldest house of worship there. I find the peace and calm in those mosques, temples, synagogues, mandirs, gurdwaras very invigorating, calming and overwhelming. Sometimes, the visits produced interesting insights - like the mandir in Port of Spain with pews and the church in Goa or Cochin where we had to take off our shoes. )

After the Golden Temple we stepped back into the bazaar and walked the short distance to Jallianwala Bagh. Paused and paid our respects at the eternal flame in memory of the unarmed civilian Indians who were butchered by General Dyer. There were many families visiting the garden and from their conversation snippets it became apparent they were from Gujarat, Bengal and Tamil Nadu among other places.

It was still early in the morning but we felt hungry after all that walking around. So we searched around for a restaurant and ordered the traditional sarsooN ka saag and makkai ki roti. Then we walked through one of the main bazaars to a central chowk.

It was a typical Indian bazaar scene. Narrow streets, filled with people and cars and scooters and trucks and buses. Crowded, dusty and dirty. Throngs milled about.

I suggested M to look around and absorb the scene very carefully. In a couple of hours we would be crossing over to the other side. (I had experienced this difference before but this was M's first foray into the country).

In the crowded Amritsar bazaar, in addition to men there were old and young women and children. M would soon find this for herself. What set this crowd apart was that the young and old women were driving cars, riding scooters and bicycles and even motorbikes navigating expertly through the crazy Indian traffic. (Forgive me, sometimes I inadvertently judge desi scenes from a non-desi perspective. Attribute it in part to living in the west for so long.)

Women owned stalls and kiosks and thelas. School and College girls also rode bicycles through the traffic.

At the square I bought two copies of the daily newspapers, the Hindustan Times, Times of India, the Hindu, Indian Express and some local papers and magazines. (the second copy was for Lahore friend Feroz.) The Newspaper stall was managed by a retired journalist named Narang. When he saw the newspaper purchase he inquired if we were heading across the divide. And was kind enough to arrange our transportation to the border. While we were waiting for the car to arrive he ordered tea and we had interesting conversation with him. He talked of Bhindrawale days. How he was an outspoken journalist then and his life was under threat. How Indira Gandhi gave him police protection. Our ride arrived and we had to cut short his tales.

We were the only travelers to cross over that day. It was closed to local traffic. This was in the aftermath of the attack on the Parliament in Delhi, and the military deployment was notched up all along the border and LoC. As we entered the customs hall the coolie asked us to wait. Finally a Custom Officer emerged, took our passports and disappeared across the road, Half an hour later, he returned and examined our luggage. Picking out a box of Cuban cigars (again for Feroz) he wanted to levy duty on it.

I asked to see the Superintendent. A petite South Indian Lady with an ear to ear smile came in and was introduced to us as the Asst. Collector. She listened to the Custom Officer and turning to me said I would have to pay the duty. I pointed out the fallacy, this time slightly more forcefully. The Esplendidos were rolled in Cuba, and I had brought them into India and was now taking them out of India, therefore there was no logic in paying any duty or 'export' levies. She understood, smiled and let us go. Simple as that!

We walked through the no-man's land into the Islamic Republic. The Rangers and the Custom Officers were sunning themselves in the foggy afternoon sun. After the passport check they wanted to examine our luggage.

The Custom Officers, two of them, blatantly asked for chai money. M and I exchanged glances. We were now officially in the Islamic Republic. Later as we left the check post there was a lone taxi cab. He would charge us Rs. 1500 for the short ride into Lahore. Knowing the distance I balked at the highway robbery. I told him, "Think once more before you quote me the fare- I will not negotiate." He would not budge. I looked up and saw a local bus. I walked over and asked the driver if he would take us and our bags. Sure if you pay for them. So we made it into Lahore in a public bus.

The Conductor told M 'Aap oodhar baithaiN,' pointing to the caged partition separating the driver and the front section from the rest of the bus. 'Woh tO pinjra hay, hum yaheeN baithaiNgay.' M had spoken. The conductor shook his head and relented.

For the first thirty minutes of the ride into the Islamic Republic, we saw a lot of people and traffic. But, no women. Even in the center of the town across from the ever busy Lahore Railway Station, at what must have been rush hour, there were few women to be seen. There were no women driving scooters, cars or riding bicycles. Later on we did see women driving cars. Maybe we were in the wrong part of the town. No woman behind any stall or thela.

And within two hours of crossing the border M confessed, 'Look at the way these men are staring...as if they are trying to...'

Maharashtra Shining? A Close Look at Rural Maharashtra

Gauri Warudi — Thu, 18 Dec 2008 08:58:29 EST

Is Maharashtra shining?

Well not entirely, but almost, you could say. Our wanderlust and my work (of making documentary films) has been taking us through a lot of rural areas and the experience has been amazingly educative in more ways than one.

Last year and the year before, it was a drive through a large part of coastal Maharashtra, namely Konkan. A roller-coastal ride, is how I had described my Konkan trip All through our Konkan trip, we noticed tiny hamlets/villages with neat houses, small clean courtyards and loved the Konkan hospitality. The towns however weren't very much to write home about.

This time we had a close look at interior Maharashtra-actually, just a slice of interior Maharashtra, to put it right. Our visit to Bhandardara (one of the prettiest hill stations I've been to, recently) took us close to Nature, in the folds of the Sahyadris and up close to Mt Kalsubai; though the regret of not scaling the imposing mountain, remains.

Coming back to our ride into the heartland of Ahmednagar district's, (Akole Taluka) lake villages(my term for those little hamlets)- one would've thought that being on the fringes of one of the largest lake- Arthur Lake- would mean zero water problems and a great pretty picture for these villagers, right? Wrong. All through our visit in these villages, we found, hardly any of them have water in their courtyards. Except for a few like Panjare, Samradphata and Udadawane, where we saw hand-pumps/tube-wells; all other villages have their women folk(and surprisingly, quite a few men folk too) walking a few kilometres to fetch water in pots precariously perched on their heads.
Talking to our guide, Sonawane, we realise that these villages have not developed uniformly. While many have primary and middle schools, toilet blocks and 'aanganwadis', when it comes to water- not much has been done to improve their lot. We question him as to why there were no waterlines to all villages. All he could offer in reply was that some villagers who could afford, had privately laid pipes for their farms, while others still had to trudge miles for this basic necessity.

Why just Akole taluka? Closer to Pune, in Zendewadi, too, while on a film shoot, I had noticed that despite a lot of prosperity resulting from horticulture yields and farm produce, water and sanitation were the biggest problems. None of the houses in this village has a toilet block!! While we were shooting here, we women crew members had a hard time! When asked, the womenfolk had nonchalantly replied that they all went to the fields to perform their morning ablutions!! Jeez and we think we have problems in the city. When I spoke to one of the more prosperous women there, she said, "If we have a toilet block, it'll need that much more water; when we have to fetch water on our heads, do you think we can cope with such huge water demands, as required to keep the toilet block clean?" Valid point, but then why aren't they too adopting the water conservation techniques followed by some other villages in Maharashtra? For that, she had no valid answer, except that their land was rocky and didn't allow for proper water conservation. I didn't buy that argument, cos there have been startling/shining examples of Ralegan Siddhi and Hiware Bazar(in Nagar district) as well as Gawadewadi(on which I have made a film) where people have helped themselves through sheer grit and persistence and made their villages self sufficient.

The government has been doing its bit for their upliftment, which is amply evident, through the motorable roads all along through the villages, sanitation measures (Hagindari mukt gram-meaning villages free from open air defecation)-yet the authorities have failed their rural responsibilities by not providing water, and electricity. Villages have 12 hour power cuts! It seemed that the basic needs have to be arranged for/struggled for by the people themselves; with or without the help of some willing NGOs.

On the positive side, we do see some move to install windmills, and assume it could be a stroke of luck for these poor villagers and that their wait for uninterrupted power will be over!!

We were certainly impressed by the cleanliness in most of the villages in the region we drove through. We could see children enthusiastically walking, running down from their homes to school, singing rhymes/poems and yes, schools had teachers too!

The 'aanganwadis' or play-schools, are another project that impressed me. While speaking to one of the aanganwadi volunteers, I was indeed touched to see how for a meagre honorarium of Rs 125/month, this lady (in her mid-50s)was doing her job with sincerity. She informed me that in her centre, women are attended to/advised from the first trimester of pregnancy and aided up until their deliveries. The child is then looked after until he/she turns 6 years of age. Women send their children here in the mornings and pick them up on their way to the fields. The teacher however rues that in spite of the school timing being up to 2 PM, mothers took their children away by 1130 AM or so. Well, something's better than nothing, I comment, to which she nods and adds that she teaches children to count from 1-10, recite poems, recognise shapes etc. There were bright posters put up on the walls with pictures of animals, places, people etc. (the aanganwadi was in a rather ramshackle, old room) and a toy horse and car were lying around on which a couple of children were still playing. It was an eye-opener, to say the least. Finding life's meaning in limited resources? Perhaps.

I come away in deep thought and stay that way for a long while as we drive to different spots; as we enjoy Nature's beauty in this part of the state, there are a thousand questions still playing on my mind, making me wonder when and how will we ever rise above all these basic necessities being fulfilled and truly become India Shining?? Beyond just slogans and jingoistic speeches, beyond vote seeking and exploitation in the name of growth.

*Disclaimer: This is just a personal observation and opinion-an ordinary Indian citizen's heartfelt thoughts-not some statistic laden paper!!

Where is The Line?

The Shiva — Sun, 14 Dec 2008 23:22:39 EST

OK, let me rephrase. Is there even a line. How should you react to these ghastly incidents that scar not only your psyche but also drive down that a deep hatred which seems to erupt in anonymity? What happened in Mumbai not only leaves us with questions about the relevance of Pakistan in our lives (as Indians) but also the relevance of the normal day Pakistani that you might bump into on the street. Why is there a shadow version of ourselves that tends to bring out the worst in us when hidden in a mob or a group, but as individuals we tend to think differently. I'm sure there must have been a million social experiments done to study this, but why is there no perfect solution to deal with this problem?

I've read and reread many articles on how to hurt Pakistan into waking up to reality without actually firing a single shot, the sort of Cold-War tactics used by the US to hurt a country where it really matters, economically, culturally or even psychologically. But the thing that's different with the Pakis is this deep rooted feeling of brotherhood some of us Indians feel in times of relative peace with our neighbor. I don't think its a religion thing, its more to do with us wanting to take a higher moral stand, of always wanting to be in peace even during times of pain, of utmost restraint, the same restraint that our Government keeps reminding us, the same restraint the Western World urges us to show. But is the price of restraint worth it?

These questions are meant to be asked because for some of us who arent in the crowd, the anger or restraint we show happens more at a personal level. I've had all these questions running through my mind, because as an Indian in the US, I feel the anger and yet I feel anonymous to the cause. How should I react? Should I even react? The day after the happenings in Mumbai, I was in a cab driven by yes, a Paki. I was with my colleagues, each one with their own immigrant stories but I couldnt expect them to understand how it made me feel sitting in that cab. I sat next to the driver, while he started talking to me about Bollywood and how Abhishek Bachchan and Aishwarya Rai were in his cab when they visited the city. I just smiled and said nothing, when inside me, all I could feel was the rage of being there. I knew my anger had nothing to do with him as a person, he was just a guy like me, trying to find his way through life. But all I could think of were the dollars I was going to pay him, which would in turn find its way to Pakistan maybe as a family remittance, and who knows might end up in the hands of the same group that sent people to destroy my brethren. After all they are all charities right? Maybe I was being simplistic about the whole thing, or maybe I wasn't.

These thoughts made my head spin that I had to ask my colleague for an aspirin in the car. She didn't have one, and so what happens next, yes you must have guessed it, Mr. Cabbie hands over a couple of aspirins and asks me to have it. I didnt know whether to feel relieved or even angrier. I just took the escapist route and fell asleep. The next day I left the hotel room, prepared for my presentation and guess what, my client was a Pakistani. I again, didn't know what to do. I had to be professional obviously, so I just kept it that way. No small talk, but we could feel the tension. What made the equation a bit skewed was us being three Indians to him being one. I couldn't find that surprising though, there are after all a billion of us in this world.

Though I always wonder what goes on inside the head of a Pakistani soon after these incidents. ( they do happen pretty often) there is one thing I have realized though with my countless experiences with my neighbors. One-on-One they are probably the nicest people in the world. Its when they become bigger than a group of 20, that you start hearing the commentary. In any case we went out for lunch which was more or less in silence except for one colleague of mine who was Chinese and couldn't help himself from talking. Though at some point, my Pakistani client did mention that his wife was from India. I again didnt know what to say. I just said, Great.

Great? Who says that.

Some of these questions do have answers. Like the way my friends decided not to go to a Pakistani owned theatre or a restaurant. Maybe it doesn't matter to the business, but it did matter as a set of principles for them. Like the way, my friend decided against buying a pair of gloves though they were perfect, just because they were made in Pakistan. Would it ever add up, I asked them. They said, they didn't care. Its the same petro-dollar argument new energy advocates use here. Less money for the Saudis, less money to blow us up.

They say you cant generalize. Not everyone belongs to the same mob. But isnt the reason we got to this point because we never had a coherent policy on what we should do. We need not hate, but do we need to love? Why shoot ourselves in the foot when almost 100,000 Indian soldiers have died in the Kashmir conflict and yet Atif Aslam signs record deals with Indian music companies. Yes, he didn't kill anyone and yes the soldiers may not have been killed by Pakistanis ( Afghans and Kashmiris also fought in that insurgency) but isn't it better to solve the leakage through one hole before opening up more taps? And note that I haven't even started talking about the religion aspect of this entire conflict.

In the end, I think, all of us are just trying to find our way out for ourselves. So that we need not be the ones making that crucial decision whether to cut the umbilical cord or not. In essence though, I think Pakistan has already done so, a long time ago.

That Saturday night, I ended up thinking what my friends said, on my long drive home through the rainy streets of San Jose. Each one made a passionate argument, not on how to deal with this situation, but how they would deal with a normal day Pakistani. To me, it sounded idealistic, because of my own recent interactions. But they made their case and said they would stand by it. I though could only see two sets of images in front of my eyes. One of the chaos on the streets of the city I would swear by any day and the other of me walking away from the cab, the minute I found out. The problem though, was, one happened and the other didn't.