Book Review- Tinkers by Paul Harding

A dying man’s last ditch effort to stitch together rapidly disintegrating fragments of his memories into one coherent whole so he could understand his life better and make sense of it all. Makes for an interesting read? Paul Harding, in his own quest towards understanding his own grandfather through the fragmented reminisces of his father, whose life mirrors that of the narrator’s father certainly thinks so. So does it matter if the book lay neglected for long before an indie publishing house took up its case. Does it matter if New York Times mentions it under ‘the one that got away’ and New Yorker includes it in a concise ‘Briefly Noted’ section. That, nevertheless did not deter the Pulitzer Committee from recognizing this work, and we say, thankfully so.

What if we could, through the tiny window of our collapsing moments, relive our entire life in torrents of long- forgotten memories? Memories such vivid and picaresque, that when weaved together they portend a collapse of the whole life we led, of the relations that we deemed important and of the myriad thoughts that catapulted our minds through the roughness. In Tinkers, a debut work that refuses to let the dictums of the fast-paced life we live today dictate terms with the narrative, that trips over memories that while forgotten once, do bring back torrential suffering and hallucination and that, through the vivid and arresting descriptions of the ice-swathed countryside of the Maine, let’s us see what the author sees, feels and hears to when he experiences them.

One of the traits that a work of literature tries to accomplish is, through its strategic placement of words and punctuations, through the careful selections of the various permutations of those words, and through the shrewd placements of those sentences in the rank monotony of a memoir, the work lets us see beyond the printed pages (or the electronic screens) and guides us carefully through the locales where they are set against, through the dining-rooms where the scenes are enacted, through the wilderness that has solitude written all over it. Harding switches the point of view as often as he ventures on elucidating the white landscapes of the ice-covered terrains. Perspectives are important, so much so the machinations of an epileptic seizure is depicted through multiple accounts. The narrative shifts abruptly from the omniscient third person to first, from past tense to present and from short concise dialogues to long winding sentences.

Tinker-to be occupied with small mechanical works. We all tinker, all perform mechanical work and all dissolve with time or just fade away. Three generations of the Crosby’s and a recurrent theme that binds them all, the truism that, in any other setting, would be deemed farcical and shallow. Every man dies alone and takes not with him an inch of the life that he led. As the moments draw to a close for each of the three Crosby’s, the nigh is not disturbed over the dins of everyday life. Lives around them seem to carry itself around as usual, and they are aware of the very humbling fact. Through the love of each of the three generations – writing, poetry and horology, comparisons are drawn with life and its quintessence solitude.

George Washington Crosby, the narrator and whose memories we dive into, scratch comprehensively and tunnel through, into the minds of his father and his grandfather ‘began to hallucinate eight days before he dies’, we read in the opening lines itself. Piqued, one continues, only to find George, lying on his dining room hospital bed, ignorant and forgetful of the people around him. He notices the carpets and the monotony of his remaining days at times, at others he simply dives into those shards of memories that had long been safely tucked away. We know he is dying and that he is hallucinating, his memories- ‘he remembered many things as he died, but in an order he could not control’ sets the stage for ambitious forays back and forth into the domain of time, ‘showing him a different self every time he tried to make an assessment’. His hallucination, ‘the roof collapsed, sending down a fresh avalanche of wood and nails, tapers and shingles and insulation’ are remarkable expostulations on the vagaries of the dying mind. Picture this- ‘the very blue of the sky followed, draining from the heights into the cluttered concrete socket. Next fell the stars, tinkling about him like the ornaments of heaven shaken loose. Finally the black vastation itself came untacked and draped over the entire heap, covering George’s confused obliteration.’ A fickle narrator whose memory we doubt, three generations of dying alone, the epileptic fits of the father, Howard and the dry, ‘gray’, ‘silvery’ landscape of the cove is material enough for Harding to chisel.

Howard, George’s father, an epileptic ‘tinkerer’ whose job it was to take his carriage drawn by ‘Prince Edward’, and call upon the households for ‘soaps’ and who George remembers mostly around the events of one night that preceded his discovery of his father’s “illness”. The seizures that Howard falls prey to is brought out in its magnificent details even as ‘the world around him spun’. He discovers his father’s illness, his father discovers his mother’s and leaves thereof to a life that is as free as it was chained. George tries to escape too, but fails even as his father wishes ‘secretly’ for the same. Some loose strands make for a Murakami surrealism. The burned down house with the unidentified corpse of the woman and the children are left to view alongside the desertion by the father (or the mother).

In one of the many grandiose scenes, reminiscent of Whitman, a whole house of one Dr. Box is described as being moved about with logs as the wheels. The seizures that Howard experiences, the intricate mechanisms of the clocks- described in bulky detail through passages from an imaginary Horologist manual on clocks, the writings of Howard with ‘Borealis’ as only common theme to distinguish them, the nod to Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter, the hermitical Gilbert and the Indian Sabbatis all carry little or no symbolic manifestations which are easy to miss. Reading through his interviews, Harding explains that some of the scenes depicted are of pure literary origins, haphazard assimilation of facts (Hawthorne with the wilderness), momoiristic extrapolations (the Horologist’s Rev Kenner Davenport manual on clocks) and personal tributes “How to build a nest” by Howard Anon Crosby. Some representations serve to condense the mystique- the carriage of four horses with the horsemen that comes take away the grandfather is a biblical allusion, apt with him being a minister.

Everything is made to perish; the wonder of anything at all is that it has not already done so – a sense of pall and doom sets in every once in a while. As we enter the minds of George and Howard with equal abandon we are led to a microscopic view of the happenings around them. So the night when George discovers Howard’s epilepsy is the one that stays on in his mind as memories of his father whom he wanted to ‘just go away, not die but just leave’. The escape of Howard to the woods – ‘Sun catches cheap plate flaking- I am a tinker; the moon is an egg glowing in its nest of leafless trees- I am a poet; a brochure for an asylum is on the dresser- I am an epileptic, insane; the house is behind me- I am a fugitive. His despair had not come from the fact that he was a fool; he knew he was a fool. His despair came from the fact that his wife saw him as a fool, as a useless tinker, a copier of bad verse from two- penny religious magazines, an epileptic, and could find no reason to turn her head and see him as something better.’ It’s then, in the midst of his own unraveling that we are transported into the memories of Howard’s father. The genealogy continues.

Nearing the end, we are led to the second life of Howard where he survives and lives with another woman, again possibly an ode to his grandfather through an extrapolation. The end, incorporating a flashback within a flashback is didactic and constitute long winding sentences on theories of life and of death, of memories and of relations, of the craft of clocks and of religion.

Read it, if not for the thoughts, but for the language and the fierce description of his native Maine at West Cove. Read it to understand how narration works differently through different point of views and to realize that despite howsoever you lead your life, you die alone, in the midst of everyone, you die alone.  

 

The Virgins

It is easy (and convenient) to get sidetracked amidst the hullaboo and the dins of everyday life. Immersing yourself however, in the myriad activities (activities, not consumptions), lets you forget those unnerving thoughts. The bayonets of those tumultuous notions are kept at bay while you gorge on the bread-of-the-day. When you consume folds of paper and droves of pixels, you are wont to feel dismembered, for the variety of shops (online/offline) that sell the various wares lets loose mercuric panthers with predatory instincts. Falling prey to it is akin to placing yourself in front of a swathing canon of cataclysmic perturbatory waves. Such monstrous self-replicating waves initiate (or at least try to) tectonic shifts that, failing to materialize, as is in the majority of cases, unwounds itself, like a writhing snake shedding its skin. It is required therefore, to, sometimes, not indulge in wishful thinking and, instead, carry the torch of your banal existence with pent-up vigour and unidirectional thrust. Miss not, the emphasis on the word ‘sometimes‘ for it’s not just the destination alone that matters. The journey does too. In fact, as some will vouch, the latter takes precedence depending on from where you see it. A balance, as in all other cases, is essential. Those continuous back-and-forths between idealism and prudence, common to all of the mankind is a recurrent theme in those mass-marketed pulp books that invoke science to help human beings. It is often noted though, that, the “inimitable prestige of experience” always trumps the angst and the hardships one need go through towards attaining it. While reading Irene Nemirovsky’s “The Virgins”, through the prism of the assembled coterie of women, one is struck by the paradoxical memories of Camille and the one-dimensional story of Alberte. I wonder sometimes though, if these indeed are so different. While the windows through which I normally see, distant as it is from the subject, farcical and narcissistic as it is-the medium, I am inclined towards believing in the synergy between the two, knowing fully well that it takes effort to tie together the free-floating ends. 

A Separation- Movie Review

In the age we live in, regional movies with limited international appeal forges ahead if, despite the contemporary barriers, it captures that basic tenet of ‘human experience’, which is universal and knows no boundaries. Such is the nature of the art, that despite our inability to imagine ourselves in their shoes, despite our disconnect with the lives they lead and despite our ignorance of the subtle vagaries that dominate the individual’s lives, their suffering and their emotions filter through the geography, and into our subconsciousness. A Separation is one such cinematic experience, universal in its appeal and regional in its setting.

The movie is about the suffering of a family with a schizophrenic parent, about a separation of two lives intertwined for the past fourteen years till frustration takes its toll, about the love for the eleven year old girl that both parents evidently possess, about a careless mistake, about anger and the memory lapse thereon, about the disconnect between the Iranian middle-class and the lower-class, the complexity of the law, the world-from-the-eyes-of the child, the duality of one’s beliefs and the ambiguity of the principles of a devout and finally about the mysteriousness of the truth. That one truth, which during most of the second half of the movie, overtakes everything else. In a way, the movie reminds you of ‘Rashomon’ with multiple accounts of the one unfortunate incident, multiple conclusions and ofcourse multiple principles. All binded together through the strong ropes of suffering.

Three characters which stand out is the father (Nader), the eleven year old daughter (Termeh) and the little girl (Somayeh). The father, because he is suffering and knows not how to express it, the daughter because she suffers and knows the solution, the little girl because she suffers while she can only understand specific things which limits her ability to comprehend the angst of people around her. Shahab Hosseini as ‘Hodjat‘ is stellar in his portrayal of the hot-tempered, lower-class, debt-ridden father while Sareh Bayat as ‘Razieh‘ is impactful as the devout with a twisted sense of morality- one that eats her up from inside due to its ambiguity.

The director Asghar Farhadi is on a quest. His quest is to understand the difference between truth and reality. Are they both the same or are they limited by the body they inhabit? The various moral tangles reflect his chase for what we should accept as truth- is it the facts that stare at us along those winding roads or are they the beliefs we entrust to people we respect and look upto. Morality and truth, their tussle with the lives of two intertwined families. Suffering and choices, their tug within each of the families and the ambiguity within each. The open-ended climax is for the readers to fill in- for the eleven year old is unable to comprehend the question, just as the little girl is unable to comprehend the situation.

‘A Separation’ is one of those movies you will lovingly search through your trunks and ‘archived’ scroll-throughs’ a decade down the line only to be struck by the ambiguous moral tangles all over again. It is one of those masterpieces which will be watched for a long time to come.

While Mumbai runs..

7 kind of people inhabit the amplified air-conditioned world of gym. Some peek in, wishing it all could somehow work out by itself and give it a weak shot only to find themselves drawn to the comfort of their moth-laden sofas. For matters of simplicity such species are excluded from the list. Homo sapiens of such kind need to be dwelt on in a broader canvas, which is certainly out of scope for this curriculum.

Anyhow, below is an exhaustive compendium of the species. As species evolve however the list is therefore not exactly exhaustive. Some,who chose to stay are chronicled here, while others who left, either in contempt or under debt have been left out.

1. The heavy-weights- despite the ambiguous name the kind of metropolitans who inhabit this sphere are not the ones who pull and push heavy weights. Au contraire, this category draws inspiration from those who themselves are one. They can be seen during varied hours of he day, recognised duly through the unnaturally wet gym gears they are made to wear, their appetite for longer gym hours and their inability to visibly show the effect of the gruelling routines they are pushed towards by their hapless instructors. They are by far the meanest and the most diligent of the lots yet somehow find themselves perennially on the cross roads of recovery. Looking at them is, and I am in no way being disrespectful or condemning, a comforting and uplifting experience. All stemming from the huge base effect they are made to constitute.

2. The lurkers: the most dangerous of the lot, stemming from the evident seriousness in their face and the rippling-branded-wet-skin tight tshirts they pair their ultra-shot knickers with. They are there whenever you are there, it matters not if you arrive a day, a week, a month or a year later you will find them going about their routine with utmost sincerity. The trouble is when their efforts show. The first hint of danger knocks its presence when you chance by often, the second when their glare casts you in stone, the third when they demand the machine to be vacated for their use because there is no use (according to them) to explain to you why, the final and the last hint arrives when you, having worked your ass off for more than an hour still find the lurker going about his ordeals as if he has only just started. You wonder of they ever leave the gym or what. You wonder and then decide that since you do not want the fitness level matching his, the muscles more than his, the sincerity more than his and the discipline better than his he is not in your way, nor you in his. It is easier to look at them from a distance and assume their personal life is next to zero, their professional life is not as taxing as yours, and their life in itself is not as knitted as yours.

3. The middlemen- not because they are somewhere between the two categories I enlisted above, but more due to the pseudo-knowledgeable expert advice they are so free to divest themselves off. Men of such kinds think not when they exercise. They look. They soak in their relative advantage over the less fortunate ones and miss not a chance to demonstrate their prowess. They lie in the thickest the slimiest the stupidest bracket. But one you would like to inhabit save some particular idisyncrasies and some other individual ideologies.

4. The cougars-let us now swap the genders. In uni-sex gyms, which are the most common of all, there are those ladies who, in their forties or maybe fifties have decided to give shape a shot. They are one of the most enthusiastic of all ( within their sex ofcourse), probably the weirdest of all, possibly the most careless of their lot and evidently the smallest ( in terms of count) of all. Their work hours are flexible and so are their exercising shifts. While their inability to shift within the machines is limited, which gifts them some brownie points, their immobility when it comes to the treadmill is a source of constant headache however. The gyrating posteriors and the flowing dresses notwithstanding, they take ages to complete their turn, contribute the most to the sounds of the gym ( leaving aside the amplifiers blasting Micheal Jackson or pitbull ofcourse) and extract the least from the monthly fees they dole out to the hefty gym manager. They most likely pare their hours at the gym with the dining hours post-it and emerge unscathed from the whole wetting turmoil.

5. The ogled ones- they are the prize possessions in a gym. If the managers had their way, a new scape-goat would most likely be treated with a lineup of all such dwellers rather than a demonstration of the myriad machines that dot the wooden flooring. Looking at them, apart from a visual delight is, at the same time, a source of constant befuddlement. You wonder ( though you are thankful) why such species call upon the white stinking-wet-overused-gyrating- monotonous machines. If you are a girl you imagine yourself in their position and speculate what better use ‘ you’ would have put this ‘ gym time’ to. If you are a guy, you would be in no position to even think.

6. The ‘lean’ers- the mirror image of the first species in this list, there name alternate between the lightweights and the ‘lean’ers. Not because they lean or anything, more because of their lean’ness’. For the dwellers of species 1 such kind evoke the same sentiments as the girls in species 5 evoke in their brethren.

7. The Us: last and certainly not the least this is the world we inhabit. Us, the fortunate ones for some and not so much for others. Us, who alternate their days, rejig their schedules, forget their instructor’s names, mark their attendance in an effort towards accountancy. Us, the ones with the perennial sense of guilt, the half- hearted efforts, the random thoughts and the ones on the periphery who, like the lurkers,lurk, only, with a different face each time and with significantly more time to dwell on the state of affairs in a gym, the kind of members and their traits, the few selected machines they are authorised to lay their hands on. Us, the ones who run. On the treadmill, away from the lurkers, away from the zealot instructor, away from their guilt, away from the cougars, towards the ogled ones, away from discipline, away from the crunches, away from the dumb- bells ( it’s not for nothing they are called dumb, afterall) and finally, away from the gym itself.

Sakaranti

Sourced from wikipedia :

Makar Sankranti, apart from a harvest festival is also regarded as the beginning of an auspicious phase in Indian culture. It is said as the ‘holy phase of transition’. It marks the end of an inauspicious phase which according to the Hindu calendar begins around mid-December. It is believed that any auspicious and sacred ritual can be sanctified in any Hindu family, this day onwards. Scientifically, this day marks the beginning of warmer and longer days compared to the nights. In other words, Sankranti marks the termination of winter season and beginning of a new harvest or spring season.

While on the path to development are we leaving behind our culture in a cess pool of negligence? Today, the day of sakaranti, as I look towards the sky from the windows of my central Mumbai apartment I cannot help but wonder the expansive blue sky above, minus the dots that once pitched that very blue expanse in a sea of swarming, laced, paper-planes. The kites or guddi or patang as we used to know it has all but vanished, save some enthusiastic souls who climb their terraces on this auspicious day and lock horns with their counterparts in a tussle to win over the skies.

I had climbed the seven stories to get some solace wherein I could read the case of one Salem Sinai, immortalised by Salman Rushdie in The Midnight’s Children only to find four expatriates from US atop the tank- terrace fighting to sail aloft the skies their rocket shaped paper toy. While they had got it all wrong tying the ‘kanni‘ only at the top leaving the kite perilously lurched at the front and unable to scour the skies, a deft manipulation ( with my expert advise ofcourse) they were able to make their way onto the expanse and into the wide blue sheet. It brought the time to a standstill for me as I was thrown back fifteen years trying ( in vain) to induce ‘dhar‘ by using rice, mashed wheat and what not onto the white threads that went in a roundabout along the four pillars that held aloft the verandah in my home.

Some children watched in awe as the kite soured the skies. The firangees were having a nice Saturday with bottles of Kingfisher immersing them in the activity of the day. Even as they shouted ‘ringardium laviosa‘, jumped about their conquest of the sky, gulped down the frothy liquid and whaled in their accomplishment I was at a loss. Around me, a 360 degree view of central Mumbai opened itself up to the Indira Gandhi domestic airport to the north, the shanties of kalina to the south, two deserted apartment high-rises on the east and a cascade of domestic life through the windows of another high rise on the west. A bunch of kids swarmed the south- east corner playing with a oft-used and long discarded football, some scampered stop the deserted water-tank playing catch-me-if-you-can, a middle aged man peered through his half- balcony, a lady dusted the wooden furnitures, another started on the long process of dinner while another sat about watching Star Plus, evident with the glossy and abrupt sequence shifts that could push a head ache in a hurry.

In short, another Saturday in the life of Mumbai complete with the to-do lists of office-goers( which included afternoon siestas for some), evening playgrounds for kids and family time for businessmen. Neither do I know if my
Mumbai ever celebrated this day neither do I care for the same. In a city which prides itself as a magnet which draws Indians from the nook and cranny of India I find it impossible to accept there are not some who haven’t ever let this day take its own special significance.

In an age where being an atheist and agnostic is high brow and intellectual, accepted and desired I do not expect religion to motivate people to let go of this one day and try and sit back under the swath of open skies. What I do not understand is, if we travel seas to immerse ourselves in the local cultures, pride ourselves as widely travelled ones and as jet setters, why in our own country do we scurry when such opportunities knock at our own doors. What is it that we, who were once, known country- dwellers are now indifferent towards the wreak that seems to be emerging in our very own backyard.

In Identity and Violence, Amartya Sen goes about explaining how an individual during his lifetime comes to associated with a wide array of identities, each succeeding the other as and when situation arises with some presiding like demi- gods over the other for some. While we are quick on our feet to denounce and condemn attacks at our culture, gods and traditions it would be interesting to know how many know the constitution of what they defend, how much they understand of those very ‘precious’ identities and what pains they undertake to preserve it in their own glass- houses. With that said, I would be quick to acknowledge my ignorance of the people who do care and who do give a damn.

While I am on the issue of disclosures I should also concede that I am not your front page conservatives, nor am I those page 3 connoisseurs with profiles undertaken by the likes of Mint Lounge, TOI Crest, The Caravan etc. I am your quintessential average citizen who wants to give a damn. You might want to skip the history or the ancient logic but you should be careful while phasing out the actual action. It might seem pre-historic, but it’s important because it helps you understand where you come from, helps you keep intact the nostalgia and pushes you to cherish and promote something which, an antique at present, helps you sit back and reflect, share and reminisce, understand and preserve your root.

WordPress App for iPad

The more you try and find out the logic behind the myriad chain of events, the more you rationalise the process and the farther you get from the truth. What is truth anyways? Is it the knowledge that the happenings can be attributed to a particular chain of events and that for every action there is a motive and an end?

When you scour through the news and find something that you think appeals to your aesthetic taste and leaves you with a feeling that you know the ground rules, you know the motives, you are familiar with the cast, you are allergic to the director and you are supremely confident of your own powers you try and ascribe an intellectual fervour to it- which these days are not hard to come by, from people varied and sundry.

Anyhow, just testing the WordPress app for iPad. Much better than the pathetic Tumblr which, surprisingly, hasn’t taken the leap beyond the iPhone. Will be back soon!

A hundred rupee note

As he walked down the stairs towards the platform, the hustle that accompanies the sound of the approaching train commenced. While the train hurtled towards its 2 minute stop at Khar, the man dodged a slurry of people going the other way, jumped a couple of steps and running as fast as he could boarded the Virar bound local. It was 5 pm on a moist May evening and as the train left the station, raindrops materialized over the broken windows, washed the dirty exteriors of the train and announced the arrival of monsoon over Maximum city.

It had been a good day so far for the lanky young fellow who had barely managed to find a seat in the train. He was exhausted, yes, but the 100 rupee note that was  now safely tucked inside his jaded brown trousers comforted him. In intervals of every half an hour, ever since he had left the site he found himself checking the presence of that crumpled piece of paper- a colored carbon offshoot that held so many promises. The face belied the regurgitation that occupied his mind while his red swollen eyes  portended a difficult existence. Lines of sweaty advance of age had begun to surface on his visage which was not quite uncommon with people of his social positioning. While his eyes skirted glances as if striving to conceal guilt, an intensity was palpable in his restless demeanor. His hands alternated between his pockets and his dust ridden hairs even as he found himself glancing occasionally to the exit.

Early that morning, when at Andheri he had struggled to assemble 5 bucks for his daily morning dose of vada pav he had a chance encounter with a generous old fellow, who out of empathy or maybe out of remorse had paid for his breakfast cum lunch-so much for a city with no heart, he had wondered. Later, after hours of dusty lifting and scrapings, which he took up 100 days in a year, as he found himself waiting in a serpentine queue that seemed to stretch for miles at end his eyes wondered over to the mustachioed man at the counter who doled out those crisp pieces of paper. It was a long wait till his turn came which gave him plenty of time to visualize himself on that chair behind the wooden counter, wads of  currency in his hands- need of hundreds of peasants on his fingertips. When his turn came, those very  thoughts vanished like Mumbai rains and all but the gleam of the note remained. As he dipped his thumb in blue ink and pressed hard over the sheet with similar prints, his imagination took flight again. Its surprising how swift mind travels. In a span of 30 seconds leading upto the possession of the note 1) he had held the man-at-the-counter at gunpoint while hoisting himself atop the table and pocketing the thick wads,2) he had tricked the man and pocketed two, hundred rupee notes instead of one, 3) he and his treasure had been the only survivors in a bomb blast and 4) he had taken the 100 rupee note and left the site.

But this was his lucky day! In a fit of extreme negligence, the stocky fellow at the counter, bored and sleepy with the red dots of whiskey in his eyes had made the fortunate lapse and handed him not one but two 100 rupee notes. For a moment, he had the unholy thought of pointing out the glaring error and saving the man the ignominy of ridicule during the post-payment accounting, but then his reasoning presided and he pocketed his earmarked belonging, plus the destined manna and made way towards the exit.

As he scurried for a getaway, lest the error got discovered, the chain of thoughts crept back onto his consciousness.1)  He could, on his way home make a brief detour at Santa Cruz where at the Meena Bar in Kalina he could wash away his de-spirited soul with alcohol, or 2) he could head south towards Falkland where the lore of Kalki awaited his presence every single day, or 3) he could buy that 10 foot tarpaulin to stave off the monsoon and save himself the damp beds that accompanied him most of his nights.

He sat down by the pavement, besides a steady stream of buzzing vehicles that came in all sizes but moved with the same pace and grandiosity. He had to make a decision now. Yet, he was unable to confine himself within the sphere of desires that those 100 bucks could satiate. He was melancholic even as he was excited. As he sat there with clasped knees pointing towards the road and hands resting on it, palms down he contemplated and he dreamed.

He was 12 when he had succumbed to the lure of Bombay- the land of many opportunities, they used to say. Driven away by a non existent family and little solace by way of friendship he had mapped his travesty with the neon tinted glaze of masala Bombay. Now, 10 years later as he sat by at the periphery of the frantic activity all around him he found himself in a dilemma.

He looked around him to find some comfort and bide away time. He saw men, like him, resting after a day of intense perspiration, chewing coarse bread, smoking, preparing their bed, rushing and preparing the kids before the next traffic signal. He saw families with tiny vessels, kerosene stoves and straw huts they called home. He observed the vehicles as they flew past him, carrying a motley crowd. Buses filled with shirts and trousers, auto-rickshaws filled with brightly dressed 20-somethings, shining cars with tinted glasses beyond which his eyes could not see.

Across the road, clustered beneath the flyover that provided roof to many a soul he saw, again, a dense packet of souls living against the constant threat of evacuation. His eyes darted, from the old man lying face up, to the children playing with the card-boards to the man sitting in the exact same position as him and looking towards the moving traffic. Their eyes met and drifted apart, each acknowledging the presence. One, with the hundred rupee note and the other without it.

With that, he had made his decision. As he walked towards the station, dodging past the gushing crowd and running towards the other end of the road he had a look of steely resolve in his eyes. He scampered, as if in a trance towards the station. Moving past the man, he moved almost in a jog, determined never to face him again.

As he boarded the train, he was happy again. This was his lucky day after-all.

April 2, 2011

“Saare Jahaan se acha..“- Squadron Leader Rakesh Sharma on being asked how India looked from the space.

In 1984, on this fateful day something happened that changed the way a nation dreamed. Aboard the Soyuz T-11, squadron leader Rakesh Sharma was launched into space and from there commenced a nation’s tryst with planetary voyage. It was a special moment for a nation long tasked with shouldering the aspirations of a burgeoning population, one that had never really been able to lift off the dampening years of subjugation. That, an Indian had scaled the skies was something that lived on, even years after-when little school children learnt about it in their courses in general knowledge we remembered, when Kalpana Chawla learnt to read, she remembered, when in 2003 she drifted into the endless expanse a nation remembered her and through her the squadron from Patiala. It spawned a thriving aspiration inside the hearts of every young girl and taught us all to cherish and imbibe a culture- one that involved getting lost in thoughts, one that prescribed dreams and one that advocated imagination. The symbolism has never lost its charm and it never will. It’s not so much the causality but the outcome that has and will dictate how the nation responds.

“There is one choice we cannot make, we are incapable of making. We will not choose the path of submission . . .”- President Wilson.

Take yourself a bit back to 1917 now. On this very day, US President Woodrow Wilson, stung by the aggression of the Zimmerman telegram declared war on Germany. The US which till then had declared itself “too proud to be at war” found itself left with no alternative but to join the Allies in its efforts to rein in a ravaging nation. The victory came soon after for the aggrieved bunch of nations and in turn left but a bad taste for the Germans. Post war subjugation and humiliation that followed soon after in Germany vexed its citizens to the hilt. Disillusionment and hopelessness transpired to bring about a radical shift in thoughts. That it skewed more towards aggressive destruction and symbolic nationalism proved fatalistic for a nation and for the world as it was then that a little known Verbindungsmann of the Reichswehr became disillusioned and sought justice. The spy strived towards a nationalism that was anything but. Yet, with disenchantment all around he had takers of his idiosyncrasies. With hopelessness that abounded, he had found his nemesis, his calling. It was then that the figure of Adolf Hitler, or the Fuhrer took shape; pushed and moulded by the psyche of a nation entrenched in defeatism. A nation dreamed a different dream, one that took away dreams of others and one that sought to curb imagination for fear of a nightmare. This symbolism is still haunting for some, it still evokes a trauma so vivid and gory.

“Except for a single, very powerful radio emission, aimed at Jupiter, the four-million-year-old black monolith has remained completely inert, its origin — and purpose — still a total mystery.“- Floyd, 2001: A Space Odyssey

Cut to 1968. On this very day, the dreams of a genius stormed the world and swept away all concepts of imagination. He was ”determined to create a work of art which would arouse the emotions of wonder, awe,…even, if appropriate, terror”, as Arthur C Clarke noted. He did so and with a panache so vehement that in one stroke “he killed the whole genre of sci-fiction cinema” that existed then. It was then that HAL or the Heuristic Algorithmic Computer” was coined. HAL, the word precedes letter-by-letter the word, IBM. Stanley Kubrick dreamed a dream. His imaginations spilled onto the cinematic odyssey, his visions put in print jolted those is reverie, inspired those who dared to dream and evoke bewildered fascination. The movie continues to inspire, and will continue to do so in times to come.

Present. 2011, the year of the rabbit.

I can still feel the aftershocks, no pun intended. I had always found it troublesome to come to grips with the mania that sport fans displayed worldwide. Be it the eponymous soccer or the royal grand Prix, I had struggled to relate to the intensity of emotions that buffs displayed post successes and feats. That, the success of an individual or a team in a game could evoke such deep seated emotions was alien to me. That it was more to do with having been bereft of any spectacular achievements in my vicinity than anything else sunk in on this very fateful day. It was not so much the spectacular show of strength by the Indian team that left me flabbergasted and joyous than the aftermath of it which left in me an ecstasy no chemical would come close to match. That a nation, in excess of a billion could find something to cheer about together is magical and humbling. That, a bunch of 11 turks could hold the frenzy of such a gamut of population is dizzying and stupefying. That, Indians abroad would wear their nationalities up their sleeve and be naked about it is satiating. That a nation finds its nationalism in such a thing as cricket is vacillating.

There have been many kinds of nationalism on display in India and in the world. A quick glance through Wiki would dish out terms like civic nationalism, ethnic nationalism, expansionist nationalism, left-wing nationalism, territorial nationalism, ultra nationalism and many others. Some have been driven by a leader, some driven by a drive for change, some to rebel against injustice, some to fuel personal pet projects while some to carry out vendettas. What we are witnessing in the Middle East today is civic nationalism- that of people uniting against decades of injustice, coming together as a cohesive group to bring about a change.

Not surprisingly, what I witnessed on “this very day” also has a term attached to it and not an etymology I am too keen on elaborating but nonetheless merits a mention. It is what the sociologists call “banal nationalism”. Wiki describes it as a nationalism “which build an imagined sense of national solidarity and belonging amongst humans” often through the “use of flags in everyday contexts, sporting events, national songs, symbols on money, popular expressions and turns of phrase, patriotic clubs, the use of implied togetherness in the national press, for example, the use of terms such as the prime minister, the weather, our team, and divisions into “domestic” and “international” news, etc”.

Whatever it is they call it, whichever origin it traces its roots to, I am proud to admit I have fallen for it. I am proud to stand up in a movie theater even when for some it is but a silly gesture, I am and will always be eager to wear my nation up my sleeve even while the world goes flatter by the day, I will always look up to the Little Master for what he has given me and my folks and I will always cherish this day even if the nation moves on to find something more cherish-able and unifying.

I am proud today and wish it reflects on my demeanor and my willingness to perform.

 

 

The child with the last laugh

Rising past the scarcely lit hallway the father stood watching the child. The toddler was doodling with the thin asphalt pencil, trying to sketch the world as he saw fit. It being his birthday, he was permitted to scar the walls with his debauchery; for little did he know what awaited him in years to come. The sad figure rose past the shadows, the chandelier above was dull yellow and it was impossible to carve out the exact lines on the face. Such was the intensity of the gaze that the child could sense his presence despite a silence that could have let a pin-drop be heard like the thud of a metal.

He lifted his face and saw nothing. Nothing except the placid expression on the face he knew the most. He was confused and wanted to see if it was really the person he thought it was. The pencil he dropped with such characteristic ease, highlighting the meager time he had been made to inhabit this planet. He let his eyes wander through the expansive hall that was his abode and was to be in times to come, settling finally on the frail figure of his father, again, looking for that hint of recognition that could put a smile, possibly a chuckle under his nose and on his cheeks. Recognition, he saw none and that confused him. Would crying suffice or would it take more to yield thus?- he thought.

The thought mirrored on the elder one. He looked askance as if to avoid eye contact. Suddenly, it seemed as if all energy drained off him and he was seized by a fear so paramount that dropping himself down on the floor seemed like catching the motions of the pencil and in a flicker of a moment he was down on the floor writhing in pain. While he lay there breathing hard, swinging arms and harrowing eyes the child was having his laugh. It was still a mono chromed frame for him and he was wont to either laugh or cry-laugh whenever and wherever he felt like and cry when he felt threatened by an external force and absenteeism of his beloveds. So he laughed like a baby, his rhythmic volumes drowning the panting and the gasping like the waves crushing the sounds of the moonless nights.

The movements slowed down gradually, so did the gasping, but the laughter continued. It had been a game throughout for him, the fall of his mother down the stairs, the bright red ball with some extra bounce off the top of the stairs or the gasping of his father, the squeaks of that fat little yellow rabbit his mother had gifted him. He sat there laughing, expecting it to end anytime, while it passed and ended it all for him.

Statutory disclosure: Work of pure fiction and of a particular state of mind.

My friend Rustam-III

It’s impossible sometimes to just retrace our steps and re-position our lives just the way it were before. Before a life-changing incident or an epiphany that is. Looking back I saw a reflection of Rustam in Dhawal which was unnerving to one who had seen both at close quarters. That, the eventual outcome had not been appetizing added fuel to the fire that was my mind as I sat at Kalpana’s waiting for the enfante terrible. It was more out of a desperate attempt to make amends with my guilty conscience that I pursued my case with swarming thought skirmishes. As it turned out, my doubts were put to rest, atleast for the moment as I saw Dhawal work his way towards me that night.

He had an air of non-chalance that had seemed amiss during the last few days. You can tell from the way people take their strides of what state of mind they are in, assuming you have been in close contact with the subject and believe in your power of understanding people. The erratic unmeasured steps and the fluid hand movements talked of a return to equilibria which sedated my anxieties. He was his usual robust self that day, why, even more aggressively so as we sat there for hours drinking our way to sedation. While we talked and I maintained my cautious observatory microscope I slided into complacency. Call it the will of the loser or the deception of the object we were back in business.

I don’t really remember what transpired that day. I cannot seem to recall when I lost base with the ground and floated high above. But the next morning when I opened my eyes I had a deep-seated fear nestled solidly in my veins. You have those sensations sometimes. Unknowing fear, ignorant of the cause you are subjected to a trauma that refuses to let go-not until you have found your way through the puzzle, worked your way up the ladder, dug up the past. As I lay there on my bed I was consumed by a decaying loss, an unexplained terror and a building guilt. I had to see him this very moment without knowing why.

I ran across the tiny 1-room apartment and bolted down the 3-storey Aashiyana complex to the Azad Chawk residence of one Dhawal Pradhan, my past, my present and my future. It was a busy day, Sunday. People thronged the bazaars like there was no tomorrow. Not one square inch of the 1-lane potholed road was left for the open skies. Over-cast skies I knew it would rain. It was raining the day I lost Rustam.

I was numb to the cacophony that filled the road. Oblivious to the foot falls of the crowd that littered, out of the blue brief snippets of my conversation from last night forged its way to my conscious mind.

Dhawal: Have you sometimes felt the urge to surrender your fears and accept the consequences without making an effort? Does it occur to you that by succumbing to our worst fears we could be free of unwanted thoughts?

Me: Merlin’s pants. What in the devil’s name are you talking about Dhawal?

Dhawal: Nothing. It just crossed my mind that we are what we think we are. By moulding it the way it suits us we can, by our very own actions turn it for our good.

Me: Uh huh..hmm I guess..

Dhawal: Just remember one thing, IT WAS NOT YOUR FAULT AND WILL NEVER BE. People are what their decisions make them. It isn’t in your hands to change what others think and do.

And with that I was back on the road. A sense of dread now replaced anxiety. My pace quickened to a jog and then to a full-fledged run till I was standing right infront of my destination. With bated breath and trembling hands I knocked on the dilapidated door which seemed to buckle under pressure from a mere knock. I knocked again after a minute had passed and waited, unsure of what lay ahead. I refused to let my mind wander and consider possibilities. It was not until 5-10 minutes had elapsed and I still had not received a reply that my hearbeat quickened in pace. I had to get in and see it with my own eyes.

I slammed my foot on the corroded door and it gave away with a single jab. As I stood there waiting for the dust to settle and my eyes to adjust to the darkness I had lost all hope. The anxiety had solidified into a sense of profound loss and it was through those tainted glasses that I rummaged through the room. The room was empty with nothing but the spiders for company. There was but a parchment that lay unconcealed on the floor begging for attention. It read thus:

Hrishank,

I am leaving. This is as much for your good as it is for mine. You are not able to shake off the guilt which you have come to believe as a nondetachable part of your existence. It feels as though its a fetish you refuse to let go. I know it by the way you look at me-pitying searching eyes that begs for forgiveness. I know you look at Rustam when you are looking at Dhawal. Don’t deny it, it will only serve to extend the guilt. While I have always cherished your friendship and identified with the care I find it suffocating to constantly find myself under your watch.

What people do with their lives is of their own making and no one can push them the other way. You have got to accept the fact that Rustam was a weakling who just happened to have your company. His death in no way reflect your failures. On the contrary, the strength in your character is exemplified by the way you have proceeded to carve out a new life.

I am going away where you would not be able to trace me. Don’ t try to-both for me and for you. I wish you a lifetime of happiness and sincerely hope you do not let your past haunt your present and affect your future.

Sincerely yours,

DP

 

It so happens sometimes that happiness and sorrow comes in pair and you find yourself at loss understanding whether to laugh or cry. You end up doing both, in patches and spoiling both emotions, in turn. I had run out of sensations. Some more contemplation and deep thinking was in order. I had both lost and gained an immortal friend, at least for a lifetime.

The End