Desicritics Category: Culture: Travel

Arkansaw/Arkansas

Blokesablogin — Tue, 6 Jan 2009 04:56:24 EST

"Arkansaw? I never knew anyone who went to Arkansaw!", was the most common response I got when I decided to visit my sister and family over the Christmas break. Equipped with a AAA travel book that included 30 pages of information on ALL cities and towns of any point of interest in this tiny state, right in the heart of America, I was quite excited about visiting the state of the Clintons, the only reference to Arkansas before my sister moved there.

While I did not bump into the Clintons as we did not go anywhere near Little Rock, we did get to explore parts of the Ozarks and Oachita "mountains". The state is called the "Natural State" as there is really nothing there but rocks and hills and some vegetation.

For a small state, it has many neighbors and we were able to cover 8 states and their capitals for the academic benefit of my 3rd grader. We flew into Tulsa, Oklahoma and were surprised to find a huge Indian population there that included Indian grocery stores and a decent Hindu temple (where we conducted ceremonies for my one year old nephew).

Parts of Arkansas and Oklahoma make up tracts of the Trail of Tears. Compulsory evictions of Native Americans in the mid 1800s from the East to the region West of the Mississippi led to mass migration of native people thrown out by a bunch of land grabbing whites- of course, the white ensured that it was all legal and "documented" as sales or as fair winnings. Otherwise, there would still be a border dispute like we have in so many parts of the world that were ex colonies of white colonists. We passed by Cherokee nation on our drive to Tulsa, Oklahoma, the land of the natives.

The freeways were "free" of traffic and I promised my 13 year old that I will send him to his aunt's house to learn driving! There was a laid back attitude in the air and for us super-charged (euphemism for super stressed) Californians, it was bizzare not to speed with no one around. American cars outnumbered their Japanese counterpart in these parts. There were mechanic sheds in the countryside that actually advertised that they repaired American and FOREIGN made cars! That sounded so much like a hoarding in some remote township in India!

People were content and not crazy about making MORE money. I met an artist who made stuff out of crystals (spatik) that are easily mined in the southwestern region of Arkansas. We even visited an open pit diamond mine- the only one of its kind in the world where you can get knee deep into fine clay with bits of gravel that just might turn up an odd diamond here and there- and take it home with you. I got a fine piece of Barite with a few chunks of crystal and 2 beautiful pieces of Jasper. If you enjoy getting slushy in fine clay and do not mind the occasional slide and fall into a quagmire, this is a must-see.

My sister who has taken up quilting since moving there, introduced me to the world of quilting. I spent many hours chopping up good material into small squares and rectangles and triangles. She sewed on her machine. Yet another American industry introduction.

Northern Arkansas has a network of underground caverns and aquifers that take you to an entirely different world, paataal. The cenotes of the Yucatan are very similar to these underground lakes. The artistry of nature that takes million years to grow a few feet of stalactites and stalagmites makes you feel so irrelevant on this planet. Of course, human mining of onyx from these mountains has destroyed many delicate formations and aquifers.

The spas in Hot Springs, relics from the past- closely related to the hot spring experiences of European spa traditions was a relaxing experience in a tub of hot mineral water. Thank you sis, for a warm treat.

Apart from Walmart, the largest employer in the area, there are not too many big businesses to keep everyone happily employed. However, there are crystal mines and whetstone mines that keep Arkansas economy honed.

Churches outnumbered residences, I think! I realized that I had officially entered a southern state, Virginia not withstanding. Small villages with less than 1000 people were the norm. The rural back roads hid many a junk pile in the thickets. Many a shack looked like their simple counterparts in India, but they all had a car parked in front!

For a big city girl, the rural experience was wonderful and relaxing. Of course spending time with my sister and her family could use a blog all of its own. But for public consumption, the city mouse visiting her country sister was an enlightening experience.

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.

A Different World Part II: Zina ul Haq's Debauchery

temporal — Tue, 30 Dec 2008 03:27:51 EST

(Continued from A Different World Part I : A Travelogue of Sorts)

The irony is this: people on both side of the frontiers were predominantly Punjabis. Only fifty plus years back they spoke the same language, looked the same, shared similar culture and passions, but today they are different...not physically different...but in their mindset and attitude.

Zina-ul-Haq (Zina means rape: Haq is Truth – my coinage for the erstwhile dictator) induced religious stupor had flamed the latent fundamentalism and created such a wide gulf of intolerance and divide that most Pakistanis today accept segregation as the norm. Some even elevate it with piety. He unleashed his version of Islam that has polarized Pakistanis, increased the chasm not only between Sunnis and Shias but also between Sunnis themselves as well as fanning parochial differences between residents of all provinces.

The denial of one's roots and ersatz emphasis on a culture that was and is almost alien led to an influx of mental and sexual depravity. The orthodox misinterpreters of religion (read Islam) twist and bend the religious injunctions to satisfy their limited understanding and fetishes. This increase in provincialism, parochialism and ethnic diversity played well in the hands of manipulative politicians and the occupying army. Divide and Rule!

And it has also led to the killing of Pakistanis by other Pakistanis in the name of the same Allah.

Today's West Punjab and indeed Pakistan is set on a different course. Not the one envisioned by any of her founders or detractors in their wildest hallucination.

Off the intersection of Aram Bagh Road and Bunder Road, now M. A Jinnah Road, the Pakistani equivalent of Indian cities' Gandhi Margs, there is a side street. To the south is Dow Medical College and to the north is Pakistan Chowk. At the end of this side street there is a gurdwara, I was told. I had dragged M through the traffic, dirt and pollution but all we could see was the walls. The side street was a furniture market and unless you knew there was a gurdwara once there you would miss it.

In Mata: Meem, Alif, Tay, Alif I had written about visiting some of the mandirs in Karachi:

Karachi has lots of mandirs. And there are a few functioning ones too that I visited. There is one in Clifton, one across from the KMC building on M A Jinnah Road, one near the old Native Jetty Bridge, two in Soldier Bazaar and one in Amil Colony # 2 near the Islamia College. And there is a crumbling one on the beach in Manora that ravages of time has turned into a crumbling structure.

The Lakshmi Narayan Mandir across from KMC building on M. A. Jinnah road is in a compound. When we visited it one afternoon, the mandir was closed and some boys were playing cricket nearby. One twelve year old asked us if we were Hindus. M smiled and said she is an insaan. The kid nodded wisely.
Tu Hindu banayga na Musalmaan banayga
Insaan ki aulad hay insaan banayga

Neither a Hindu nor Muslim will you be
A human you are, a human you shall be
Another day we visited one in Soldier Bazaar. One thing is imprinted on my mind from that visit. Inside the sanctum sanctorium on the far wall Mata was spelled in glittering Urdu lettering, about two feet high - meem-alif-tay-alif. Mata was written in multicolored glitter ribbons, the kind used in garlands and for decorating the bridal car. Mata: Meem, Alif, Tay, Alif

Karachi is perhaps in the top twenty cities of the world by population. It citizens are always on the go and unaware of its history and heritage. Less than one in twenty Karachite is aware of a fort in Karachi. It is a city of affluence and poverty - of palaces and mansions with high walls, private zoos, monitoring cameras and Kalshnikov carrying guards and jhuggis and huts. In a nation where prohibition is the law, more alcohol is consumed than can ever be imagined to the loss of the exchequer. The private bars of individuals would shame the sommelier of a seven star establishment.

In one evening friends spend more at the BarBQ Hut or Coppper Kettle than the average monthly salaries of their drivers and servants. The poor can be seen lining outside modest hotels in the evening, where the affluent drive by and pay up for the meals for 20 or 30 people.

The middle class wants to shrivel and disappear. It is despondent and despairing.

Lawlessness is rampant and its acceptance is annoying for the casual visitor. Almost everyone you meet has had their cellphones snatched or robbed at gun point at least once. Every acquaintance you meet has a home robbery tale for you.

My notes for the trip - names, places, times and photos stored on the Palm Treo were lost to a gun totting polite robber. "Uncle, please give me your cell phone." With the gun inches away from the stomach, there were few options available. The phone was replaced the next day but it took me a long time to get over the loss of those notes.

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...'

Cape Malay Music

Amitabh Mitra — Tue, 25 Nov 2008 08:47:34 EST

Sanjay Dutt, the popular Bollywood actor was recently in Cape Town for a shooting sequence of Chatursingh Four Star. Many Indian movies have been made with Cape Locations as a part of the story but none of the Directors have ever thought of using the unique Cape Malay Music and using it in playback singing. I was in Cape Town at a Writer’s Meet and accidentally encountered this fascinating ‘out of this world’ music which many people term it as Cape Jazz and Ghoema music.

The Cape Malays had a big influence on the genres known as Cape Ghoema and Cape Jazz. This cultural group first arrived on the Cape shores around the end of the 17th century mainly from Malaysia, courtesy of their then English and Dutch slavemasters.

Wikipedia explains Cape Malay music as a speciality that is original to this cultural group. An interesting secular folk song type, of Dutch origin, is termed the 'nederlandslied'. The language and musical style of this genre reflects the history of South African slavery; it is often described and perceived as 'sad' and 'emotional' in content and context. The nederlandslied shows the influence of the Arabesque (ornamented) style of singing. This style is unique in South Africa, Africa and probably in the world. Cape Malay music has been of great interest to academics, historians, musicologists, writers and even politicians. The well-known annual Cape Town Minstrel or Carnival Street festival is a deep-rooted Cape Malay cultural event; it incorporates the Cape Malay comic song or 'moppie' (often also referred to as 'ghoema' songs). The barrel-shaped drum, called the 'ghoema', is also closely associated with Cape Malay music.

It is said that in 1834 at the time of their liberation, small groups of slaves descended into the streets of Cape Town, singing songs to celebrate their freedom. This tradition persists today during the "negro" carnival (Coon carnival), which is held there each New Year.

The "Malay" musical culture has also spread through the townships in the wake of the forced movements of black and half-caste populations towards the Cape Flats - the sandy plain surrounding the Cape. The tradition of "Cape Malay" choirs, and with it, a musical culture which goes back to the age of slavery, still exists today in the old "Coloured" townships, and in certain areas (half-caste) of the Cape such as Bo-Kaap.

It is interesting to know that over the years the Cape Malay Music has blended with Cape Muslim music or South African Islamic music. Desmond Desai an independent researcher and an authority on Southern African Islamic music has done a doctoral work on Ratiep a self mutilating spiritual art form as practised by South African Muslims.On December 16, 2006 one of the stalwarts of Cape Town Ghoema Music, Taliep Petersen, was brutally killed at his home in Athlone. He studied Classical Guitar at the Fitznell School of Music in England and wrote the popular revue called Carnival a la District Six based on New Year Celebrations in Cape Town. He remains an icon of Cape Malay music.

Mac Hendricks is a well known face of the Cape Ghoema music tradition. In a You Tube interview he says that Cape Malay music is a mixture of Indian music, indigenous music of Khoisan, San, Griekwa, Malaysian, Indonesian and the English people. He adds. ‘All the blood of the world is mixed in Cape Town’

I am at the V&A Waterfront. There is music in the air. I follow the strains and find myself in a group of avid listeners under a tree. I am confronted with the best of Cape Malay music. Mr. Pieterson is a wizened old man playing the sax accompanied by his friends on base guitar and mandolin. We are spell bound as the music flows in and takes roots. Suddenly an elderly lady starts dancing, Mr. Pieterson smiles and plays for her. I wanted to dance too. I wish to go back again if only to listen to Cape Malay music.

The next day, my friend Ismail Robinson and his wife drove me back to the Cape Town airport. On the way, he says ‘Look Dr. Mitra towards your left, there is Athlone in Cape Flats home to the Cape Malays. We stay there.’ It is said that there is one thing that is in abundance in Athlone is the willingness of people to help each other. It was previously known as West London and later named after Earl of Athlone, Governor General in South Africa in Nineteen Thirties.I think of a love story between a beautiful Cape Malay girl and an Indian boy which might entice a Bollywood producer to make a movie in the Cape Flats. Obviously the startling colours of Cape Malay music would feature most prominently in such a film.

Reference – Wikipedia

-You Tube

Poessay: Rosary 19 - Word Whirlpool - BhaNwur LafzouN Ka

temporal — Sat, 22 Nov 2008 02:00:27 EST

photo credit tanay behera

I

hunger: a mind numbing havoc
love: nihilism anti-dote
peace: presumption of innocence
hate: intolerance incarnate

aray kahaaN bhagtay ho
kahaaN layjatay hou dost
souch ki qaid maiN youN hum ko?

let's not die in vain again
mur ker jo na houN zindah
tou yeh kya baat hui?

fervors of a feverish faith.
lost forever in the desert
of the word's un-harnessed journeys
in search of some lost fisherman.

II

possess nothing personal
body, words--drained, bereft
emotions, gestures, letters

remnant of Time-ravages

let us harness the halo
of words, spectrum, aura
do not fear those angels, come
enliven the word-magic
succumb to their allure of
joy, hurt, mirth, indignation.
protecting the flanks
from imbecilic march

III

write, write and re-write those words
lost in River Time's flow
words nursing fervent desires
of folks blurred in Time Fog

write, you must! in that encryption
write, you must! in that emotion
write, you must! in that language
spoken sans comprehension
write!
of concerning, concerting thoughts
that melt down cobwebs of hatred
someone, somewhere, someday will read.

fervours of a feverish faith.
lost forever in the desert
of the word's un-harnessed journeys
in search of some lost fisherman.

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

Dancing on the Streets, World Literature Festival Oslo, September 2008

Amitabh Mitra — Wed, 19 Nov 2008 11:55:02 EST

How do I start describing the World Literary Festival at Oslo in September this year?

Shall we talk about trams first? Yes, Trams, the same trams that rumbles down on busy thoroughfares of Kolkata. Trams are reminiscent of the British Raj in India and therefore boarding a tram from the Oslo dockyard with its familiar gongs at intervals was an experience lingering that I think of putting down hastily on the paper. Trams and Poets have a common link. The best of love poetry started off inevitably in trams as I see couples clinging on to each other. Love poetry sat on such a tram one day and it built itself up as streets and ancient buildings ran around it, people dropped by and parted till the conductor announced brusquely, ‘This is the last Stop’

The tram stopped and we got down. That was Adam Donaldson Powell, the moderator and key organiser of the Festival, Professor Santosh Kumar an academic from Allahabad, India, his son Karunesh, the owner of the well known publishing house, ‘Cyberwit’ in India, Barbara, a poet / artist from Canada and obviously me. We are at the Vigeland Sculpture Park in Oslo. The park contains 192 sculptures with more than 600 figures, all modelled in full size by Gustav Vigeland without the assistance of pupils or other artists. Vigeland also designed the architectural setting and the layout of the grounds.

The park is the most beautiful ecological marvel keeping in pace with modern sculpture in a world where space and greenery is becoming increasingly rare. They harmoniously blend on to each other. Among all the sculptures that show human beings in its majestic forms, popping muscles, I mentioned to Professor Santosh, ‘ Gustav Vigelland knew the human anatomy well’; is this towering phallic column known as the Monolith. The column, 14.12 meters (46 feet) high carved out of a single block of stone, consists of 121 figures. Modeled by Vigeland in the years 1924-25, it took three stone carvers from 1929 to 1943 to complete the Monolith, just shortly before Vigeland died. The column is completely covered by human figures in relief, singly or in groups. At the bottom there are seemingly inert bodies. Above them figures ascend in a spiral, the movement halting midway and then rising at a fast pace towards the summit which is covered by small children. Various interpretations of the Monolith have been suggested: Man's resurrection, the struggle for existence, Man's yearning for spiritual spheres, the transcendence of everyday life and cyclic repetition.

I ate my favourite ‘Parle Crackjack’ biscuits from India which Karunesh generously gave me at the foot of the monolith and we made sure that we don’t drop the crumbs. Adam informed us that this park remains a favourite haunt of all lovers even in severe winters. The Pier from where we had started our journey had a number of boats with sails docked there. They reminded me of traditional Arabic boats or Dhows of Dubai. I thought of the mighty Viking ships that use to traverse all the way to Ireland from Norwegian coasts. I asked Adam about the dogs that the Vikings use to take with them during such plunders. I had suddenly remembered about the dogs in the company of Vikings in my favourite cartoon strip, ‘Asterix and Obelix’. Adam remained unsure although he has a dog that definitely doesn’t have a Viking lineage.

Frankfurt Airport, A suspicious official takes a long look at my passport, my long hair and my tattered Levis. Who am I he asks inquisitively

A Poet, pop came the answer

Going to….

Oslo, I answered

Business?

No,Poetry reading at the Poetry Festival

Your profession?

I am a Poet, I had told u earlier

U mean You make money by writing poetry, he asked quizzically

Yes, Sir

I left a very unhappy man at the airport.

I have arrived at Oslo sans baggage. I am perturbed knowing that the suitcase with all published books, journals and lecture notes is still at Johannesburg Airport. Nasra Omar Ali is a god sent angel. She finds me at the airport at a time when I was visibly disturbed. She took over from me all the decisions of my further movements via the train and the walk to the downtown hotel. During that period I came to know that she is a Somali born in Oslo. I told her about the Somali refugees in South Africa, their determination to resist xenophobia and many ways they have prospered in Madantsane, the place where I practice medicine.

Oslo down town looks like a beautiful woman in its festivity best. Cobbled streets, flower beds, people cycling, which would be a long lasting impression of Oslo. The World Literature Festival is happening right at the centre of the town. There is a huge white tent that has been erected and all around it are streets on which I found that there were impromptu mini festivals of music, dance and theatre that were happening all the time. Oslo is definitely the cultural capital of Europe.

I talked on Contemporary trends in South African Poetry quoting extensively from the poetry of Kobus Moolman and Phillippa Yaa de Villiers, two poets whose books I have taken all around the world. Post Apartheid South African Poetry, its versatility is something that we all South Africans are proud of. Professor Santosh Kumar who interviewed me also felt that South African contemporary poetry is still in a transitional stage in a young democracy. A far more mature form would evolve in the years to come.

At a debate on Current and Future Trends in Electronic Publishing, I concluded that apart from all other aspects, I personally feel that while electronic publishing is here to stay in a major way, traditional book publishing will not vanish, at least for the next two centuries. The reasons are: Humans are just too used to romancing paper. There is something wholesome and good about paper that makes us buy hallmark cards even though it's easier and far cheaper to send attractive e-cards; Complete books are too long to be read solely on the computer. Besides the computer is not portable enough, despite laptops and smart phones - which carry bite size stories, popular in Japan, and the famous sms language, these days you even have sms poetry competitions and calls for phone fiction! Down loadable books in PDF paid for via paypal and ready to print out in your home printer is a very good option, but humans are not honest enough, and many will find ways to beat the nominal price asked for. My friend and colleague, Victoria Valentine’s views were read out by me. She writes –As a small press publisher since 2001, and being someone who is very passionate and dedicated to the promotion of new and established writers, I have become quite disillusioned and disheartened with the entire publishing industry, distribution and sales markets. I have weathered extreme difficulties both financially and physically to publish books on a regular basis for the purpose of placing print materials into the marketplace—not for profit, but solely to further the struggling efforts of new authors.

Regardless of dauntless work hours of writers and small press, many print and online publications die daily because of the surmounting challenges that face us. Even in the face of disappointment and adversity, we hang in there and forge ahead, regardless of the hurdles we have to jump—in the hope that someday we’ll find our niche and realize our dreams—find success and recognition for our hard work, and be rewarded for what we all strive for.

Our ambitious project of publishing a poetry collection of international repute to be launched during the festival had started about a year back. Tonight, An Anthology of World Love Poetry was launched with a lot of fanfare and its first copy gifted to Adam Donaldson Powell, one of Norway’s most popular poet. I talked on the poetry of Mahmoud Darwish, the renowned Palestinian poet who had passed away recently, respected by Palestinians and Israelis for his efforts in peace and understanding. A one minute silence was maintained at my request by poets from all over the world at the festival.

Geoff Jackson arrived from Denmark. He had told me in advance about his arrival and I had communicated to the organisers about it. We both belong to a Yahoo poetry group called Glorioustimes in India. We were meeting for the first time as much as most of the poets there whom I had known only on the internet till then. It was like ‘Mr. Livingstone, I presume’ and after that followed all encompassing bear hugs and more laughter. Got a little back ache after that trying to lift so many obese poets.

The festival was coming to an end but not the enthusiasm of participating poets. Eli Borchgrevink, the convenor and organiser is a ballet dancer. She tells me about dance forms that can be integrated with poetry. I screened clips from my poetry film which brought visual arts, poetry and music in a documentary shot by me. Poetry is a massive movement featuring unknown poets where trends change every other day and geographical boundaries are erased in such festivals and beyond.

I remember Rafael Prado Gutierrez from Santiago de Cuba and his foot tapping Cuban music enmeshed with Caribbean rhythms. I was entranced with the music of Becawe Aw of Mauritania. He sang and played African blues guitar with the beautiful Unni Lovid about nomadic living and longings. He was pleased to meet another African so far from home. Trouble is brewing at his home. The President Sidi Mohamed Ould Cheikh Abdallahi was ousted by a military junta and kept under house arrest.

Its midnight in Oslo. I look out from my hotel window and see groups of people walking down the street below. Somewhere somebody is playing the blues. I rush out and mingle with the crowd. Dancing on the streets with some friendly Norwegians was never so good. There is music everywhere and a spring on the steps of everybody. Guzzling beer and dancing is all I did till I reached the early hours of the morning to my hotel where I danced my way to my room to the utter amazement of the receptionists.

Poem: The African Poet

Kashkin — Sat, 15 Nov 2008 01:25:17 EST

There sits a man, in the corner,
There sits a book, here with me
Woven in words, built by hands of labor
All in there, as the verses begin to bind
The human hears, the old souls

Colors of creation from sweat and blood
Travel they like caravans of the night
Language that once had riders, facing sun
Now in repose, in silence,
For others to see
Its effects, as the journey begins
To emerge from the long dusty roads

There sits my friend, an old friend,
In the distance, in shadows,
As Africa unveils
Its beauty and its splendor,
Through words and fields of joy
Built in me, built by you
Of old language, that once conquered
The world, the huge civilization

Rode they like warriors with passion
From one land to another,
There sits a man, from his journey
Of old days, from the poets corner
As the rivers empty the burden, into an ocean
The old story of humans and their makings
The trails of our adventures in its elation
There sits a man, in the corner
There sits a book, with me, in silence!

Bengaluru International Airport - A Few Rants

Vinod Joseph — Tue, 11 Nov 2008 16:22:06 EST

Very recently I was in Bangalore after a gap of almost four years. My Bangalore break was very brief, less than two days, and I hardly had the time to do even one-tenth of all that I wanted to do. In the limited time I had, what struck me most about Bengaluru was its new airport. A beautiful and reasonably clean airport, easily accessible through a world class road, it has replaced the much reviled HAL airport which clearly wasn’t sufficient to meet growing Bengaluru’s needs. I have a read a few reviews criticising the inadequacy of the luggage conveyor belts, but we collected our luggage in record time. The Meru cabs outside the airport were unbelievably good and took us to our destination in comfort and at a reasonable rate.

However, there were a few things about the new airport which struck a discordant note.

On our way out, after clearing immigration, we had a good two hours to kill before catching our flight. It was eight in the morning and we were hungry. I looked around and found just two restaurants – a pizza hut and an Italian restaurant – and a Kingfisher Sports Bar. I don’t know about you people out there, but I don’t fancy pizza for breakfast. Nor do I like to start drinking at eight in the morning, even if it is at a branded sports bar (ever wondered what the connection is between sports and drinking?).

This left the Italian restaurant. It was very clean and very empty, though there were quite a number of people at various gates nearby waiting for their flights. The menu listed only Italian bread, coffee and pastries. The waiter confirmed my worst fears. ‘Yes, we serve only Italian items,’ he told me proudly. They didn’t have ciabatta bread and I had to settle for a ham sandwich made out of focaccia bread. I wanted to scream. Why on earth can’t Bengaluru airport have a restaurant that serves Indian food?

No, I am no chauvinist and am all for diversity everywhere, including in cuisine. I enjoy western food much more than the average Indian does. However, I find it intolerable that Bengaluru, home to ragi mudde, bisi belle bath and masala dosa, should have a world class airport without a single Indian restaurant inside the airport. Our bill for the focaccia sandwich, a croissant, a caffe latte and a chocolate chip muffin came to around five hundred rupees, which I think is decent for an international airport. At least 90% of the people at the airport at that time of the day were Indians. I am sure that most of them would have shelled out this amount for a warm Indian meal before catching a flight that would take them away from home.

The second irritant, which is more serious than the first one, was the inadequacy of baby changing facilities. The toilets outside immigration control didn’t have any baby changing area, but we were told that we would find one after clearing immigration. And as promised, we did find a set of toilets which claimed to provide for ‘baby change’. My wife took our infant daughter into the women’s toilet and came out looking very irritated after ten minutes. ‘The baby changing facility consists of a sofa,’ I was told. ‘That’s it?’ I asked. ‘Yes, that’s it.’

What made things worse was that there were no wipes or paper covers for the changing surface on the sofa. A previous user had soiled the sofa, which had been cleaned in a very unsatisfactory way. I hate to sound snobbish and uppity, but the mid-size shopping mall in the small British town we live in has better baby changing facilities! If Bengaluru Airport is to be of international standard, this is something which ought to be taken care of. Also, I don’t understand why the baby changing area should be tucked inside the women’s toilet? What if a man is travelling alone with an infant?

The third irritant (not a serious one, but I may as well get it out of my system) was that the men’s toilet did not have double doors. This may not sound like a big deal, but the toilet I used was right next to a couple of gates and all those sitting there could have had a clear view of the urinals every time the door was opened.

Bengaluru is growing. Bengaluru has a million needs, a zillion demands and very finite resources. However, the lacunae of the type mentioned above can be taken care of by a bit of extra care and thought.

Whisper, There's No Such Thing As A Happy Period

Deepti Lamba — Tue, 4 Nov 2008 11:40:10 EST

A week ago I packed my bags. I wondered whether I had put adequate t-shirts, jeans, socks, woolens, handkerchiefs, medicines and what else? And Whisper! Ah! yes, sanitary napkins. The only thing is, one feels neither sanitary nor happy..

Sure, I am happy to be a woman. I am also happy when my periods arrive since an unwanted pregnancy is any woman's nightmare but I cannot be ecstatic when I am out of commission for five whole days.

I packed my bags and stuffed in the newly packaged 'Have a Happy Period' Whisper packs. They looked the same as the other ones except for the image of sanitary napkins in the shape of petals on the cover.

Petals? Yeah sure, twisted, stinky, nauseating petals came to mind. Me sitting in a Safari Jeep going up and down the bumpy terrain trying to scout a leopard, a sloth bear, a sambhar deer came to mind along with a scary thought - how the hell would I plug the leak if my ship leaked right in the middle of the forest? What if I left a mark of my fertility on the Jeep seat?

Happy period! my blooming ass! I packed myself well. I had myself cushioned to ensure no matter what, my condition would be concealed all the way to B.R Hills. I bled and fidgeted on the car seat. Was I happy? No!

Was I happy when we reached Jungle Lodges and saw the attached loo with our tent without a Geyser? Absolutely not!!

It got cold - cold like 5 Degrees C and most guests didn't bathe. But I did. I had to. I had no choice or else the Jungle Cats would have been ripping the tent just to get to bloody old me!!

I cussed and bathed four times for the two days that we stayed at the Lodge. I didn't care whether my kids listened in to their Ma scream - Fucking Shit! Sweet Mother Of Jesus! Fucking Shit!

I wasn't happy about my condition. I couldn't go Bird Watching, couldn't go on morning safari nor for the Trek. The thought of bathing at five in the morning and then landing up with a diaper rash dampened my nature-loving instinct.

I did go for evening Safaris but I was a nasty bitch and not a happy fellow traveler. I felt like a cat wanting to scratch everyone's eyes out, I wanted to go on a rampage and bring the entire Lodge down.

I wanted to kick the damn boar that kept grunting close to the fire pit, I wanted to nurse my cup of tea in absolute silence. I wanted snarl and throw my not so happy sanitary pad at the marketing goonk who came up with the term - Happy Period.