Showing posts with label Naughty. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Naughty. Show all posts

17 April 2012

How to be a Man: A Conversation

M: Ohh...wat about gf's....huh....
    i think it's tym for u to get commited.......


P: Haha! And why is that so?


M: cmon man....ur an adult now.....


P: And by that logic...?


M: did i need to explain u....ur not mature enough to get wat im saying.......
    cmon *** be a man....


P: Ah! Explain
    How does one become a man, Vivek?


M: i give up.......


P: Don't
   Carry on for a bit
   Are you a man?


M: obviously yes......


P: In what way are you one?
    And what did you do to become one?
    Who, precisely, is a man?


M: you r the man ***.....
    u r the man of principles....


P: Come now, you're giving up
    Men don't do that


M: if ur telling me that men don't do that........
    then u also knw wat precisely is a man....
    got u now,,....


P: I'm working on an inverse logic
    If, according to you, you are a man and giving up elicits a sad emoticon from you, then
    that is clearly what men do not do.
    What, one wonders, do men do?
    Do answer
    Most insightful

M: they enjoy life.......


P: Tch tch tch


M: when we meet i'll explain u in detail
    by the way how come u online at this tym....


P: Oh, I was bored and watching porn


M: lolllzzzz......


P: You?


M: chattin wid gf......


P: Ah! That's how you become a man, hmmm? How long have you had this particular "gf"?


M: frm last 2 years.........


P: Good, good. What base are you on?


M: Im going to marry her......


P: Oh, seriously? Well! I suppose I must congratulate you.
    A bit young to be marrying though, eh Vivek?
    And that too in just two years
    First love?


M: nopes..... Last .....


P: So one hopes, so one hopes


M: hmm....
    it was nice talkin to u *** after a long tym......
    bubbyeee for now....


P: Sure. Good night!


M: u enjoy ur porn........
    nite bro......


P: Yeah, I will.


M: ur funny.....


P: If you say so


M: rofl.....

31 October 2011

-

Hmmmm...well, that was so damnably silly, that was so perfectly, so ridiculously absent-mindedly silly! Oh well, oh well, let’s see if there’s some way out, hmmm...

“Um, suniye?”

“Haan?”

“Well, main soch raha tha, well, ke we could possibly talk to the saamne waale to see ke neeche se motor ko...”

“Jo ho gaya woh ho gaya, baar baar use yaad karne se, uski baat karne se woh badal nahi jaayega.”

“Haan, par, well, mujhe bura lag raha tha soch ke ke sab kharab ho jaayega...”

“Yeh sab pehle sochna chahiye tha. Jo hua usspe ab pachtane se, pareshan hone se koi fayda nahi.”

Ha! Just like her! Strictly Roman when calamity strikes! Oh well, to think all of it will be ruined for her just because of a minor lapse on my part! Hmmm, well, hmmm...it’s a damned world, so it is! Oh, how I wish I’d reacted when there was some time, when...well, what’s the use now...

“Kahan se ja rahe ho?”

“Wahan neeche se jam hoga na, yahan upar se nikal kar pahuch jaayenge jaldi.”

“Kahan jaldi? Yeh aage jam nahi dikh raha? Kya yaar, namaz bakhsne gaye the, roze ginwa diye!”

Ah! Yes, yes, this seems good. Hmmm...we’ll, we’ll be late perhaps, yes, hmmm...hmmm, we’ll naturally have to turn back then. Anyway such a poxed idea, this ridiculous thing in the middle of everything, to the middle of nowhere! Better, yes, better to not...

“Nikal le yaar, nikal na wahan se!”

“Jagah kahan hai bauji...”

“Arre...”

“Uffo! Inko nikalna bhi zaroori hai, jaise usse kuch ho jaayega.”

“Well, mann ki shaanti...”

“Kya shaanti, chal gaya toh...dekho, chal bhi gaya! Kahan hain yeh? Uffo!”

“Patani yaar, dekhiye, hmmm...haan, woh, haan, aa gaye!”

“Chal beta, nikal le, jaldi se, haan, yahin se, charha de upar, haan, aise, haan, nikal de!”

Hahaha! Est consummatum! It’s beyond redemption, this venture, it’ll be over with even before we’re out! Back, then, and having that redemption, making up for that! Ahha, yes! Hehaha!

“Kahan le ja aha hai?”

“Entry wahan se kar di hai bauji, aage se mor ke aana parega.”

“Time kahan hai, time dekh na!”

“Aap log...aap phir yahin utar jao, yahan se paar kar ke chale jaana...”

“Tum saalon ka yehi kaam hai, jaanta hun, pareshan karna!”

“Ahum, ab issme uski kya galti hai...”

“Arre yaar, aap chaliye, ethics ka baad mein sochenge!”

Oh drat! Oh damnation! Can it be? Could we possibly, in spite of...oh well, damnation! It can’t be, it couldn’t be, it couldn’t! That was somewhat fast, yes, but still, we possibly can’t! It’d be too filmy, yes, but oh! Damnation!

“Kya number hai? Kahan?”

“Yahin se, jaldi aao!”

“Par board pe toh...”

“Chorho board ko, aao! Main uthaun kuch?”

“Nahi, chaliye aap...haan, haan, chaliye, main aa raha hun...”

“Aao, aao sab, jaldi aao!”

Can it? This isn’t even...what...what? What? Oh, oh well no! Oh...

“Haan bauji, haanji, train der ghanta late hai.”

31 March 2011

Zapak!

The hunt is not for everyone. Patience, grit, perseverance...the hunt exacts a heavy toll, a price that must be paid, paid in blood.


The hunt is not for everyone. It curdles the blood, turns the heart to stone. Life and death in the balance, existence a matter of poise, of accuracy and skill: hit, and so ends life in a flash of smoke and putrid blood; miss, and pay the price of blood.


The hunt is not for everyone. Patience becomes pain, eyes strained for the slightest movement, ears geared for the tiniest buzz. The sands of time flow by, time itself ceases to exist, but not the hunter: ever aware, ever alive, poised between life and death, the hunt goes on till the lust be satiated, the lust for blood.


The hunt is not for everyone. Bait, bait becomes blood. Blood turns blood, blood flows, flows from being to being, hunt to hunt, till hunter and hunted are as one, are one...the bait, the baited: blood.


The hunt is not for everyone. Through the dark, dense deep, each step wary of the next, each shadow a lurking danger, softly on to danger, death, blood.


The hunt is not for everyone...zaak! zrr! puff...psss...zapak!

28 February 2011

On visiting the Mughal Garden

A visit to the Mughal Garden is instructive in very many ways. There is, first of all, the…but wait. What is the Mughal Garden?

Well, for the uninitiated, the Mughal Garden is, um, a garden in India’s Rashtrapati’s Presidential Estate. It’s Mughal not because the Mughals built it, of course not, but because it’s structured on the archetype of the gardens they used to. Why? Well, first, because those gardens them Mughals built were really pretty and exquisite, just the place you’d want in your blooming big estate and second because, well, the British being British, they couldn’t resist the charm of incorporating something of their predecessors in Hindustan into their own topos of power and so they built a garden to suit English tastes in the Mughal style. You know, just like the empire’s here to stay, the sun never sets and so on? Well, exactly like that: the Mughals thought they were here to stay, but oh no, we are going to stay and look, we can even build better and bigger than them, so a hearty hurrah to us and the crown!

Ah well, didn’t exactly turn out that way and in less than two decades of its being built the British were out and, well, let’s say, the Indians were in, but that being that, back now to the Garden. More properly, a visit to the Garden. Instructive, in very many ways. Here’s how.

First, if you visit on a Sunday, you can put yourself off for a dumb mutt. No, seriously, I think Sunday’s the worst possible day to go to the place. The entrance is from Gate 35 of the Presidential Estate and the line extended half a kilometre or so to Gate 38 on one side and around four hundred metres up North Avenue on the other. This for starters, for a hundred metres or so from the gate the drive in had been enclosed and barricaded with stalls for depositing your stuff on one side and narrow aisles for entrance on the other. Announcements repeatedly asked visitors to deposit all their belongings before stepping up to the entrance and extolled every now and then so and so from such and such unheard of town from this and that part of the subcontinent to please, please come in through the metal detectors because their family had been frantically waiting for them the past half an hour and now they were all getting hysterical.

Yes, quite the mela. We’re all quite capable of that, anywhere, anytime.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’ve nothing against melas and crowds – I mean, isn’t the exotic Indian experience all about that? No, no, I’m all for them and stuff of this sort, oh yes I am. However, sometimes, it’s just that it gets a wee bit too much, and some places perhaps are meant to be without the milling, maddening crowd.

The Mughal Garden is such a one.

Oh yes, very bad; very, very bad. But one really can’t help it. Democracy’s so bad for beauty.

Think about it. How many monuments or cultural artefacts adjudged beautiful or worth preservation have been the result of fair and equitable systems of labour and economic production? I, well, I for one can’t really think of any right now, not as much because democracies all around haven’t erected monuments to their glory but because there really hasn’t been a system of labour and blah-blah-blah which has been really, seriously fair to all possible stakeholders. I suppose it’s a bit like that old dialectic our sociologists and cultural critics so used to love, of there always being someone who gets the hard end of a bargain, of beauty being so not because of itself but because of it’s polar extreme, ugliness, which makes a comparison possible. Those who enjoy are beautiful, those who labour ugly…

And it there, in that garden, it was pretty ugly.

Not, of course, that there was no enjoyment, no, but whatever there was was of that closely supervised, guarded type which allots you only as much time for a glimpse or so after which you needs must move on because logistics demand so. The crowd management was pretty good, but a crowd it was nonetheless and for the life of me I can’t imagine how one enjoys a garden in, as a crowd.

Aren’t gardens supposed to be taken in? Aren’t you supposed to stand there, sit, look in the distance, admire the myriad hues of spring, ruminate on the might of the fallen empire, walk barefoot on the lush green grass and run your hand through the water channels?

Not if you’re common citizenry of India.

No siree, if you’re common citizenry of India, you needs must stay off the grass, keep walking, never stop and sit, not cross any barricade and never ever touch as much as half a tiny rose petal. No, I don’t blame anyone, I seriously don’t; these measures are necessary, they’re just what I would’ve done if I had a big, beautiful garden and allowed visitors in the time of the year when it was the loveliest. The management, I say, was very competent and Madam’s Men deserve all possible accolades.

But what, I wonder, of Madam herself? It is her garden after all – or at least hers as long as the other Madam wills it so; to what good use, I wonder, does she put it to?

Certainly not to have sherbets and then make out, I suppose. I mean, the website says she has her At Homes a certain number of times a year in the front lawn and I suppose she goes out for a walk with hubby dear every now and then, but, with all due respect to age, you can’t really imagine a wizened old dear like our Rashtrapati making merry in the garden. Leave aside making merry, you can’t imagine her with her pallu down. Very prim and propah, I agree, and very Rashtrapati like too I believe, but not, well, not what you’d imagine the owner of a blooming big house with a blooming big garden to be like.

Come to think of it, not only is democracy not good for beauty, it’s also not good for glamour.

Well, at least in India. We have a thing for ji-huzoori and as a result tend to ritualise almost everything into codified institutions. It’s alright mostly, but you feel it the most when it comes to pleasure. A well maintained and landscaped garden’s your bit of the earth, your version of jannat. If we are to have national symbols, then let them be impressive: for a house as big and a garden as beautiful, we need a figure who would complement them both. Not youth necessarily, no, but then also not genial grand-dames, or erratic, eccentric rocket scientists, or bespectacled diplomats…these are, were, all good folk in themselves and undoubtedly did good to their office, but then that was it. Whatever intelligence, cunning, wit and malice they had hardly came out, the President’s office being sacrosanct in a way in which even monarchies are not today. All said and done, India’s more a throned republic than a true blue democracy.

Not that I have too many problems with that, not here at least; but then if we are to be so and not what we profess ourselves to be, then we could at least make sure our figureheads look worthy to wear a crown. It doesn’t have to be someone with a particular build and colour, just anybody who’d look impressive walking down the steps of the world’s largest presidential manor, who’d inspire a certain awe taking the salute from one of the world’s only surviving mounted regiment, who’d hush audiences into attentive silence, not by the dint of his/her office but by his/her mere presence…

Ah well, ah well, well, well…democracy! We all owe much to it; I owe the ability to say this to it. Ingratitude? Somewhat, yes. Can’t really help it, can one? When you have symbols pregnant with a certain unsaid but pervasive sense of power, you cannot but be so. Humanity, I suppose, craves a light to follow…yet, uneasy the head that wears a crown. So, I believe, the rituals which balm the constant prick of thorns, the institutions which temper awe from and for the mob…a beautiful garden, after all, is not just a bit of land done up nicely to please. Not just, for to please though it is, it is also to remind, to reassert hierarchies and power, to put in mind the might of the gardener to and for whom we are all bound.

That, I suppose, is what this one was ultimately all about.

20 February 2011

The Misogynist Feminist

(this piece was written for a journal that was never launched; it might be in the not-so-distant future, but here it is anyhow)

* 

I don’t usually put it in so many words, but then there’s nothing really to hide about it. I’m a feminist, no doubt about it, but I’m a misogynist as well. A misogynist feminist.

Yes, you read it right: a misogynist feminist. Incompatible contradictions? Not really; to me, perfectly in sync.

Think about it. How can any one of us not be misogynistic? Simply defined as hatred of women, misogyny as a concept is part of a larger ethos of behavioural norms and communal organisation that keeps civilisation running the way it does so that you don’t literally have to hate women or be violent to them to be so. In as much that patriarchal language itself is phallocentric, no patriarchal medium of communication can possibly be not misogynistic in some way or the other. Electronics and computing admittedly are not specific to gender, but then the ways in which these are handled – conceived, produced and used – are not outside the ambit of gender politics, much of which has tended and still tends to be patriarchal, if not overtly misogynist.

Ditto for cultural artefacts, for even if they’re produced by people self-consciously against patriarchy and patriarchal idioms, their being in an overall patriarchal structure eliminates the possibility of their being out of that structure, its idiom. Rebellion may be effected, but oblivion is well nigh impossible to achieve: a feminist, anti-patriarchal consciousness may be articulated, but the very language of that articulation – and language is not just words – cannot be outside overall, existing patriarchal idioms – not, at least, till someone takes the trouble to invent an Orwellian feminist-speak, a possibility with very little probability.

Given this, then, no feminist, no champion of women’s rights and female empowerment can help being enmeshed in patriarchy and, to varying extents, misogyny. From the (under) clothes we wear to the way we walk, talk and even shit, everything is rooted in (so-called) patriarchal norms and mores. In that sense, rebellion too is an act of confirmation: one rebels to be rid off, but as long as that rebellion is not complete and the instruments of oppression totally wiped out that which is cause for rebellion will continue to exist and, as in this case, be further consolidated.

This last qualifier is of note: feminism’s rebellion against patriarchy, the inequity of patriarchy, is, like most such rebellions, unachievable. For one that sense and purpose of enmity which guides a rebellion cannot be sustained here: what most of us are rebelling against are, immediately, our own families and friends. A generation may stand up and sever ties for an ideal, but ultimately the promise of comfort and security in communality is too great to be perennially put aside. That communality, in spite of the lessons of that first rebellion, continues to be inspired on patriarchal models; whether it can be built on a completely and purely equitable model is a matter still open to contention, given, again, the very nature of our language and models of thought.

This is closely linked to that other catchword, nature. Is the feminist ideal – or more appropriately the generally understood, lay feminist ideal – of equality and equity natural?

Indeed, one can argue it’s not. One can argue that with great merit and justification that feminism is against nature; nature not confused as nurture, not as what’s thought natural through habit and the dint of convention but as the evolutionary, elemental state of being of the plant and animal world. Not many species are concerned about equality and equity in inter-personal rights, sexual norms and family structures so that while each has its own attitude to all of these, humanity – howsoever organised – alone seems unique in striving for well nigh unattainable ideals. The feminist dream, if a dream for equality, is likely to remain as such, a dream – and unnatural at that. Our trying to achieve it is very nice and proper, as it should be, but we should keep the un-attainability of that dream always in mind.

That’s not all though. As much, with the digression, on why even the best of feminists cannot but be implicated in the dynamics of patriarchy and misogyny, to however little an extent. Now to myself in particular, why I am self-confessedly a misogynist feminist. All of the above applies, yes, but there’s much more. First is the idea of the male feminist.

The male feminist. What brings you here, female feminists ask me. I’m no abnormality I think and countless men believe in feminism, but just the very fact that those four words have been posed to me so many times now is to me proof enough of the novelty with which the male feminist is viewed not just by society at large but by the feminist establishment as well. Why not too, for it is a position of privilege and comfort: I can just as well as not afford to be a feminist and be none the worse for it. I can be the proverbial nice guy, the good bourgeoisie male with all the proper family virtues and be in the good books of all. I can, methinks, even be downright sexist and still get away with it. There’s nothing personal really, nothing which compels me to be so beside ideological identification, and that too – at least for me – is nothing permanent.

In being feminist thus, I’m but too keenly aware of the complications which nuance my status as a disinterested (itself quite nuanced) feminist. I choose to be one, but I stand nothing to lose by not being one: this, combined with my own sceptical, questioning temperament, makes me play devil’s advocate and, at times, the devil quite easily amongst the flock.

This, of course, is not to say that no man can be a true feminist – if indeed there can be such a person as a true feminist. Instead, it’s to put forth first that men can be as much of feminists as women, though their being so is commendable in the way that they work to change a power structure that invests them with much authority, and second that, being so, they are just a wee bit more likely to be able to see the excesses which zeal carried beyond its limits leads to in various manifestations of the movement – thought this last really isn’t concomitant to gender.

Yet, it serves my purpose here quite beautifully. As a sceptical male feminist, I am aware of the privileges ingrained in such a nuanced position and so also of the light in which feminist endeavour appears from the comfort of these privileges. Simply put, I tend to see things as much from – if such dichotomies may be allowed – the feminist side as much as from the confirmed patriarchal side. Like everything, this has both its merits and demerits, but that which concerns me here is the deliciously simple way such a consciousness allows for the subversion of feminist talk and ideal. It’s very good and nice to be a feminist and so I am one, but it’s also great fun undercutting feminist dogma by sheer, old-fashioned misogyny. In this way then, though with some righteous guilt, I am, more or less, quite happily a misogynist feminist.

This, finally, is how I personally approach this campaign of ours. If you’ve come till here you must’ve wondered how any of this is related to the Safe University Campaign. Being a campus feminist is, to me, as nuanced as can be and all of the above was to give just a glimpse of the dynamics of what is otherwise often considered as a monolithic, single-track identity. Just as the sceptical male misogynist feminist has a lot to contend with, so is the campus feminist an interesting mix of contraries and contradictions.

First, feminism in this University seems mostly the preserve of the Humanities and, for a variety of reasons, usually English Literature at that. Nothing objectionable about that except more often than not it’s the Women’s Cell which ends up being active, not the much larger Gender Forum which is supposed to be constituted by elected representatives from all courses and years. That being that, and no active prejudice being hinted, the activities organised by these bodies tend to be limited in the sense of being in an idiom which would appeal to and be comprehended mostly by students of the so-called liberal arts. One of the primary challenges before this campaign, therefore, is to continually reach out to departments and students who inadvertently get sidelined in such campaigns and to create a stronger sense of involvement therein. If we do not manage to create more stakeholders thus we would fail again in ending preaching to the converted.

This journal is one such endeavour towards that. From now on seven more copies will be issued on a fortnightly basis for the remainder of this session, each addressing some issue of note pertinent to us, the University community, within the larger context of sexual harassment, gender politics and, of course, feminism. With technical support of Jagori’s Safe Delhi team throughout, each of these will be managed by the respective WDCs/Gender Forums of the colleges of North Campus so that we ultimately end up involving as many voices and experiences as possible. Each of these organisations will attempt to generate consciousness in their respective colleges around the issue chosen by them so that along with diverse voices we will address a range of diverse issues as well. The ways in which this would be attempted would, naturally, have to be much more than the usual run of the mill awareness and sensitisation attempts: from surveys to continued poster putting/pamphlet distributing to informal discussions in canteens, classrooms and corridors, each of us will have to innovate beyond seminars, talks and competitions to engage as wide and as uninterested a pan-campus audience as possible.

Second, even as we reach out and involve others, we must continue to assess our own position as feminist activists. Women’s empowerment and feminism are big words and mean different things to different people so that given the diverse backgrounds of our stakeholders we cannot really have just one standard for all of us. To what extent are we feminists and champions of women’s rights and where in the larger matrix of ideologies and power equations our feminism is placed? Who, for example, is more of a feminist, a female student who feels empowerment is being able to come here and study and considers this as the end of her brand of feminism or one who believes she has a right to go where she will at whatever time even as she acknowledges the wisdom of arranged marriage? Can there possibly be a paragon of feminism and, even if there can, is it really fair to impose this same upon unwilling others?

How far, therefore, will sensitisation in our context be an imposition? As a campaign we agree to a zero-tolerance policy on sexual harassment, but can this be applied equally onto other dynamics of gender and gendering: zero-tolerance, for example, of sexist art – Munni and Sheila could never then be badnam and jawan – or a complete no to gendered concepts of beauty – no waxing, kaajal, ear/nose rings and so on. Indeed, can we really have a zero-tolerance attitude to sexual harassment? We all, for example, unanimously agree that staring and touching constitutes harassment and expend much energy in asserting so, but can we really expect legal action to be taken for such crimes? On what evidence could such cases be put forth and even when they are proved before committees and the police, what sort of action can be expected? Should, can, colleges suspend men who stare in that perfectly subjective way which otherwise can be flirting, or should the police impose a fine on touching and groping? How, as we generate consciousness against these, do we suggest and evolve strategies to tackle these same when, to me at least, it’s simply not feasible to expect legal action to be taken for (minor?) offences of this kind?

It is issues like these which this campaign and these journals will address and, hopefully, resolve. But even as we do that and even as I end here, a parting qualifier for the Campaign as a whole: take it seriously, but not too seriously. Many will have bones to pick on that, but I think many, if not more, will agree that ultimately we are all students and that there’re things infinitely more important than making it a better world. A majority of us in any case behave that way so we might when we go along a-sensitising and a-jagaoing do better to have that perspective in mind that would make us seems less of missionaries and more of people like people. After all, righteousness put on more often than not makes righteousness redundant and it is to escape that apathy and indifference with which endeavours like ours tend to be seen than to escape the ridicule which all of us are – perhaps thankfully – subject to that I would have it so.

So too it is, finally, just as well to acknowledge that though feminist, none of us cannot but be misogynistic.

29 December 2010

Tees Maar Khan

“Um, patanahi...I don’t think yeh kuch zyada accha option hoga...”

“Ab dekho tum aaye ho, mauka hai aur hum taiyaar bhi hain. Laage-lagaye mein dekh aayenge, nahi toh humara jaana kahan ho pata hai. Aur hume bhi toh naaye zamane ki picture dekhni chahiye! Batao, itne saal ho gaye, aakhri baar Barabar Jhoom dekhen gaye the Abha Behenji ke saath...”

“Haan, well, agar aap kehti hain toh...”

*

“Pahuch gaye. Pandrah-bees saal hue yahan aaye hue. Aadha mann toh yehi hai ke Manoj ke policy kar aaun.”

“Nahi, ab gaye toh late ho jayenge. Ticket bhi toh khareedna hai; aur woh dekhiye, line kitni lambi hai.”

“Hai ram! Waapas chalain kya? Nai mila ticket toh Manoj ke hote hue chalenge!”

“Arre andar toh chaliye, waapsi ki baad mein dekhenge.”

*

“Ae bhaiya torchman, kahan baithain? Yahan baith jaayain?”

“Ji, yahin baith jao ji.”

“Hume zyada aage nahi jaana, peeche se hi dekhenge...hum wahan peeche chale jaayain?”

“Mataji yahin baith jao aap, bas.”

“Arre dekho wahan ganda hai, paan ka thooka hai! Hum nahi baithenge yahan bhai, hum peeche jaayenge!”

“Mataji...”

“Yahan kaise baithenge bhai? Chalo beta, peeche chalo!”

“Nahi, mataji, nahi...arre, chalo aap andar toh ho jao, ek aad seat hum logon ke liye bhi chorh do!”

*

“Accha hua na aage aa gaye? Peeche se puri screen nai dikhti, woh balcony ka projection raaste mein aa raha than a.”

“Haan, woh toh theek hai par yeh kahan aa kahan gaye hum? Yeh janta kaise shor-sharaba kar rahi hai!”

“Ab bhai hall hi aisa hai...har type ke log aate hain na yahan, aur unmein kaafi thorhe woh gareeb rickshaw waale, daily wage earners, outstation students aur yeh sab hote hain na...”

“Humne nahi pasand yeh sab! Pandrah saal ke the toh Eta mein picture dekhi thi, yahan ke crowd ne aisi hooting kit hi. Hum nai baithenge aisi seetiyon aur taaliyon aur shor mein! It’s the limit!”

“Arre kya, a baa gaye hain toh dekh hi lete hain. Waise bhi picture...”

*

“Hey bhagwaan! Kya picture hai yeh! It’s the limit! Aisi vaahiyaat picture humne itne saalon mein kabhi nhi dekhi!Kya zamana badal gaya hai! Aur kuch sar-pair toh ho? Aaj ki larkiyan, bas nanga naach karva lo! It’s the limit!”

“Ohho! Jab maine kaha tha toh tab toh naaya zamana tha! Ab dekhiye!”

“Nahi, hum nahi...arre bhaiya udhar se ghum ke jao na!”

“Bas ek minute, sorry.”

“Ab use jana hai...”

“Ae bhaiya torchman, humne kaha tha na humari balcony ki ticket katva lao, woh kahan hai?”

“Mataji hum kahan se laayenge? Aap batao, hum toh bithate hain logon ko, ticket kahan se layenge?”

“Aur hall bhi yeh centrally heated nahi hai! AC on karo bhai, barhi sardi lag rahi hai hume!”

“Aisa hi rahega Mataji yeh, itni hi garmi hai!”

“Arre hum aa chuke hain pehle, tab...”

“Mataji upar balcony mein hai garmi, yahan nai!”

“Arre toh lao na ticket upar ki!”

“Aap picture toh dekho Mataji, upar ka nahi hoga ab!”

*

“Kuch samajh nai aa raha...itni lambi zindagi mein sainkron picturain dekhi hongi, par iss jaisi...it’s the limit! Kya kehna kya chahte hain yeh log? Kya message hai picture ka?”

“Entertainment hi hai, aur kya...”

“Nahi toh uska bhi toh kuch udeshya hoga na! Aise kaise...abhi hawaijahaz mein the, ab gaon mein hain...aur kuch tuk toh ban nahi raha hai, bas aise hi...arre kitni baar kaha bhaiya, udhar ghum ke jao!”

“Arre aunty kahan se ghum ke jaun?”

“Wahan se jao na beta, baar-baar!”

“Shush! Saat saal ke bacche ki tarah behave maat kariye, picture dekhiye! Kissi ko toilet jana ho toh utna pura hall dundh ke toh koi nahi jayega na!”

“Accha phas gaye bhai...”

*

“Jaan chooti! Ae scooter waale bhaiya, arre zara ruko, yahan Prem Gali se nikal lo. Aisi vahiyaat picture, aur aisa hall! Bathroom jaate jaate toh pair hi philas gaye the, gir jaate toh....hai ram! Aur ladies ko bhi theek se...kya batayain ab! Arre bhaiya sabzi waale dekhte raho, kathal lena hai humain!”

“Iss time pe Mataji patanahi...”

“Arre sab mil jayega, zara aahista chalo...kaan pakar liye bhai, mati maari gayi thi! Ab din gaye, hall mein picture dekhne kabhi nahi jayenge!”

“Kathal ka kya karna hai ab...chorhiye...”

“Sab bacche ek saman hain humare liye, ek khana chahta hai toh hum kyun na banvain?”

“Par iss waqt?”

“Woh dekhiye mataji, woh raha kathal!”

 *

“Kaisi rahi?”

“Bahut accha hua, bahut accha kiya jo aap nahi gaye! Bilkul bakwaas, besharmi ki had hai!”

“Hehehe!”

“Khana theek se banya liya tha? Iske bhi tevar bahut ho gaye hain...aur woh gaana, use toh hum dekh hi nahi paaye sharm ke mare! He ram, aaj kal ki larkiyan, it’s the limit!”

“Arre, ab aisa hi hota hai aaj kal...”

“Hum isliye toh gaye nahi, hume toh andaza tha...”


“Ab maan toh rahi hum dimag phir gaya tha! Bhai hum purane aadmi rahe, humse nahi...nahi, khoobsurati ko pratak karne ka bhi dhang hota hai, aisi hi nahi ke kuch, kaise bhi...nahi, yeh sab toh theek nahi...haan, le aao. Hullo? Haan? Arre, tum bhi? Humne toh ek kilo le liya! Arre, le aayenge...nahi? Yahin rakhe rahain...chalo, agle hafte hi...khair, yeh toh theek kaha, tees maar khan dekhne gaye, tees maar khan hi ban gaye!”

30 October 2010

On cleaning a toilet

“Nahi, nahi, chinta ki kya baat hai? Main kar dunga, koi pareshani nahi hogi…”

Cleaning a toilet is one of the most liberating experiences ever. It’s a dirty job, yes, but nonetheless an ordeal out of which one emerges cleaner in more than one sense.

Obviously, my Dadi doesn’t share these sentiments. Cleaning toilets is for the low caste: achuts, Dalits and SCs. Even if not, even then it’s for the maidservants or, at the very least, for the sarkari jamadar – not, certainly not, for her dear pampered grandson.

Yet, there was no one else to do it and so the lot fell on these shoulders. Why not too? What is in cleaning a toilet?

Something poignant as I see it.

Disgusting and filthy, yes, but poignant still, reflective of the unacknowledged labour of numberless multitudes who worked behind scenes to make those scenes what they are, presentable thus – does not history rest on the shoulders of those who lived and died in poop, pee and puke? A historic act? Certainly…

“Arre kahan phas gaye beta! Rehne do, ek haath maar ke hi aa jao...pote se aisa kaam karvana parh raha hai…”

“Mein theek hun Dadi.”

“Theek toh tum ho hi, par bas ab nibta ke aa jao. Aao aur nahao…”

But history still isn’t without the stigma of pollution, ne? What, what but a string of fables commonly agreed upon? History, indeed; the weight of history rather, imagined as much as real – more imagined perhaps than real. To clean a toilet? Pollution, inescapable pollution! Caste redeems, yes, but then such a caste too! An outcast caste, half here and half there: still, history weighs us down.

“Dadi, mann mein ek khayal aaya hai, kuch vachan dimaag mein ghum rahe hain.”

“Kaise vachan? Kam hua? Jaldi aao bhai!”

“Haan, haan…par sochiye, Gandhiji ne bhi toh aisa hi kuch kaha, kiya tha! Vaishnav jan toh ten ere kahiye, peer parai jaani re…”

Vaishnav Jan, Harijan. Harijan? Really? We who have the leisure to think, to consider our position in a wider order and the forces which bind that order, we make ourselves Harijans. Who else out of his/her own volition would be so? Still, in doing so, in such fashioning, one is that, one is so: peer parai jaani re…shit unites, shit holds what naught else can: everything said and done, we all carry shit within ourselves…

“Uhm!”

“Kya hua?”

“Honthon se chu lo toh, mera geet amar kar do: ek boond andar se chapak kar mere honthon ko chum gayi.”

“Hair ram, yeh larka! Bas ho gaya, aa jao! Hai ram!”

Whatever it might be, a job well done does give satisfaction. A toilet restored to its showroom shine does lighten the heart, bring a tune to the lips. Thank goodness for Harpic and the like too, for along with something noble cleaning the toilet is now also a sacred chore, a contributor to health and hygiene and the GDP in totality.

“Haan, kaam toh accha hi kiya hai tumne. Shahbash! Nahi, nahi, mujhe mat chuhiyo abhi! Ja naha ke aa, phir, phir!”

“Arre, toilet hi toh saaf kiya hai!”

“Haan, bas, toilet saaf kiya hai!”

27 July 2010

On Child Marriage: Or Arguments towards its Legalisation

The institution of marriage is recognised by a majority of humanity in almost all the hospitable parts of the globe as particularly conducive to the sustenance and propagation of the race in a manner as holistic as is humanly possible. Where it combines, it leaves a legacy to be carried forward; where it sunders, it creates a bridge that brings together. That matrimony has survived and that it will regardless of infidelity, prostitution, rape, violence and sundry other forms of emotional and psychosomatic attyachaar is proof enough of the vitality and vivacity of the force which keeps it so, and will in the ages to come.

To matrimony is wedded another institution, another great and abiding collection of men and their kind: the family. As a carrier of both virtù and virtue, the repository of culture, goodness and light and the bearer of the wisdom of generations, the accumulated worth of countless minds, the family is undoubtedly the single most vital instrument for the propagation of marriage and all its attendant virtues, baby diapers and paternity leave included. Marriage builds from and to family and family evolves to marriage, and so on and so forth goes the circle of life, one into the other, ying to yang and so all along.

Considering, therefore, the centrality of marriage, and family, to the current order of being and well nigh to the order of things yet to come, it may not, thus, be irrelevant to prescribe the same - the former; precursor to the latter - as vital and essential in all senses of the word to humans in all walks of life, age, sex and monthly income regardless. These conditions withstanding, it will not, then, be aimless to suggest and propose the same as particularly beneficial and, indeed, as altogether complementary to the holistic development and growth of that characteristic class of humans so loved and hated by others in all ages: adolescents.

Indeed, for though there be laws against the same in almost all major principalities of the world, it can, with good reason, be demonstrated that these same are more or less the monstrous outgrowths of certain obsolete, misguided and, at their best, eminently Puritanical notions of propriety and acceptable sexual behaviour for humans of that particular age, eleven or twelve to nineteen - the age group generally classed and classified as adolescent. There will, I know, be marked opposition to this idea and some may go as far as evoking morality and tradition against my name, but to them and the like I can only advise a more critical scrutiny into the ways of the world and the sundry manners in which they are constructed and presented, the forms of interaction which govern our kind’s interactions with each other and limit our horizon.

Any talk of law, therefore, must not preclude the factuality that laws too are societal constructs, of and by the chosen few in power over and above the rest in subservience and as such reflect, or at least attempt to, the necessities of that particular people in that age and time, these necessities in themselves being contingent upon these forces - the chosen few - which conspire to define, guide and ossify the course of history. As times change, so do these defining forces and the necessities which typify them and which they in turn seek to define: so, then, must the laws which attempt through a series of checks and regulations to consolidate and propagate these forces and necessities.

My arguments for the legalisation of child marriage are founded on precisely these premises: that matrimony as an abiding human institution aids the reproduction and sustenance of the race and that the laws which have come to govern its legality are based on outdated models of interaction, acceptability and intercourse. In opening this institution to those currently deemed not of age, society will not only put itself in greater sync with a tradition as old as civilisation and, by all means, closer to the customs of the animal world of which we humans are but more stylized and evolved members but also take yet another giant leap towards resolving so many of the concerns and debilitating humours which are supposed to stem from that fastidious and wayward sect of specialized homo sapiens, adolescents.

By allowing them to interact, mingle and freely consort with any that they choose, members of this clan will not only develop and discover affinities and respects early in the walk of life, but will also learn tolerance and temperance, those two qualities which any in the married state will readily acknowledge as its most crucial gifts and which in any case would do our temperamental adolescents a world of good. To those who are likely to question this proposal on grounds of health and body development and the adverse affects of early pregnancy on the same, may I be allowed to highlight the ready availability and widespread use of contraceptives, preventive and abortive, and of the culpability of adolescents to in any case submit to their passions - and often in a fashion altogether regrettable. Under the protective yoke of matrimony, these passions would be legalised and, under the expert and helpful guidance of guardians, given an acceptable outlet in as healthy a manner as possible.

This last is the final founding premise of the argument, that as young, hot-blooded souls most teenagers and adolescents are wont to acts of passions which in the current moral and ethical setup are looked down upon as regrettable and unfortunate. That these passions, classed commonly as love, find their way to fruition is not any more the stuff of Shakespeare and fairy tale romances: love does conquer all, though khaps, of course, are never too far behind. To guide these passions then, and to provide those victim to them an acceptable outlet, matrimony is the only true and tested answer, a solution that in the form of this modest proposal must be acceptable to all but the staunchest of the traditionalist liberals.

It must be. Indeed, for considering the significance those with a more orthodox bend of mind have steadily been gaining these past few decades within this secular, democratic and socialist republic of India, these needs must be adopted as the necessary compromise between them and the liberal. In any case, it must be readily acknowledged that given our existing setup, the so-called licentious and eminently promiscuous behaviour of our teenagers and adolescents merits no other solution that would not involve blood.

There is, of course, one that would absolve them of the guilt of sin that currently a la olde albatross hangs across their necks and clear the situation remarkably. Cutting through all those outdated norms and principles which in defense of a fabricated morality usurp the throne of tradition and uphold a restricting and well nigh ritualised mode of interaction and intercourse, society could move towards a more open and inclusive model of interaction wherein the existing biases against love and its demands would no longer be valid. The trappings of traditional restraint, upheld only as homage to a dead ideal, can all be cut through and free love - an idea not as new as it may seem - may be embraced without the hesitations and prejudices which have attended it so long. Hostility, violence and all other such jealousies contingent on convention and normatively can be slowly weeded out till they truly become what they are, relics of a order past its vitality. Love and its demands, emotional and physical, could be allowed their own course, limited by constraints purely of practicality: health and finance.

But this is only what could be. Given, yes, given our existing moral and ethical setup, we have, as this humble commentator has taken pains to expline, naught but one solution: marriage, a resolution at once traditional and modern. For the benefit of the race, then, and of futurity still to come, let this be the word to go by: marriage.

27 February 2010

Death of a Facebooker

(Obituary, in memoriam, Ms. Ananya Borgohain)

It grieves us to announce the sad and timely demise of Ms. Ananya Borgohain, alias Cynthia, on this 28th day of February, 2080. Matriarch of a fledging family of five children, twenty-five grandchildren and ten great-grandchildren, she breathed her last on a lonely hammock in a far away corner of her peaceful pastoral abode in the rolling hills of Dhemaji, Assam. She was 91.

Our association with Ms. Borgohain goes back to the summer of 2009 when bored after jilting hearts and betraying lovers she fell to the manifold charms of Facebook. Then it was that she discovered the limitless potential of our multi-faceted institution, the diversity of our feeds and the plethora of our online gaming portals. The unrivalled facility of writing long-winded notes and statues as well as commenting on her friends’ walls and in their albums particularly appealed to her then lonely soul and thus helped us become what no (wo)man alive could ever be for: a true friend, an alter ego to project and propagate all her ideas, ideologies and inner most desires.

Indeed, for in this we alone can proudly claim to have been privy to her bottomless heart. In all these past seventy years no incident, no little occurrence in her eventful life was secret to us: be it a movie she particularly disliked, a dish she had cause to criticise or a man she fain would smite, all was revealed to us. Her love, joy, sorrow and lust, all came to us first and thus made us the sole connect between herself and the world at large.

Of course, when we talk of the world we talk of reality as she knew it: we refer to that which lesser mortals in those antiquated days of her youth considered virtual reality. In doing so we cannot but help reminding readers of Ms. Borgohain’s instrumental role in shifting the focus of humanity from that musty arena of physically realisable entities and relationships to those infinitely better ones forged in the corridors of cyberspace. Her own married life was witness to this unflinching devotion to the cause: she had met her lately deceased husband in the famous group Chefs Anonymous; her nuptial was the first in the subcontinent to be solemnised by the Facebook branch of the Marriage Registrar and the first time she heard her eldest daughter cry ‘Ma’ was when she showed her a video of the prize winning aari prepared by her husband in the International Food Fest held in London in the year 2020. Truly, ours has been the bond of a lifetime.

Indeed, not just of but also beyond: even in death Ms. Borgohain remains with us. Her last status update, the monosyllabic ‘Dying’, has seen in the past one hour about fifty likes and over a hundred congratulatory messages. In the meantime, even as members of the group Cynthia Rocks! hotly debate the possibility of the ghost of this Lady Farmer suffusing the software of Barn Buddy, a wizened old man by the name of Mital has claimed to have received a poke from her account ten minutes after she passed on to occupy her own little chicken farm in heaven.

As in life, so in death, Ms. Borgohain continues a transcendental signifier. Her material remains will be cremated the day after tomorrow on the sandy banks of the Brahmaputra, an event which the bereaved family has graciously agreed to telecast live on Facebook. Further, as a final mark of respect Facebook Inc. will remain suspended in limbo for an hour immediately after the much-awaited event to afford the Borgohain clan a few moments of solitude and peace. May she eat in peace.

13 February 2010

Ram Naam Satya Nahi Hai

This paper will attribute to mythical narratives and structures an essential, inescapable fluidity which makes their ossification impossible. To do so, it’ll begin with commenting upon the animated movies Hanuman and Sita Sings the Blues as artefacts in contemporary culture which illustrate by their very being this flexibility that allows for multiple interpretations of a received mythical heritage. Next, it shall critique Hanuman as a consolidation of popular perceptions of the Ramayana and thus, in this way, a retrograde step towards the ossification of these opinions. Thereafter, Sita Sings the Blues shall be analysed as an unconventional, intensely personal yet universally applicable reading of the Ramayana which threatens the creation of the aforementioned monolithic verities. Finally, it will conclude with an overview of the arguments thus presented, contesting therefore that the very conception of originality and reinvention in context of myths is, in spite of being a catalyst in their evolution, essentially fallacious.

In this post-structuralist world it would not just be difficult but also unadvisable to attempt a conclusive definition of myths. Tracing the etymology of ‘myth’ to the Greek muthos, meaning ‘utterance’, G.S. Kirk opines that “Myths are an uncertain and vague category, and one man’s myth is another man’s legend, or saga, or folktale, or oral tradition”. Just so, even as there is no concrete defining what is a myth and what not, there cannot be forwarded without sweeping assumptions any single mythology, or methodology, to understand myths. That myths are a reflection of a society’s anxieties and give it valuable tools for self-realisation is apparent and almost universally applicable; however, beyond this, to assert for a homogenous understanding as sacred archives or primeval science or ritualised nature or kinship concerns would be dangerously redundant. What is a myth and what constitutes a myth was, is and will always be a matter of contention…

This, however, in the case of Western scholarship, particularly dealing with so-called classical mythology. In our own context as a predominantly Hindu nation, such questions as regards the nature of myths do not generally arise in the popular imagination. The very connotations of the word myth, conveying in this English language a sense of the falsified fantastic, gets ameliorated in our own context of a culture more or less in sync with the dynamism of the past- our myths to us are sacred verities, truths unquestioned precisely for the deep rooted religious sacrosance invested in them. The myth-rather the series of myths-I take up here is immortalised conveniently as an epic- the Ramayana. I will assume, not totally without justification, that everybody here is acquainted with the barebones of the plot and that a detailed exposition of the same will be unnecessary. Instead, I shall plunge directly into the primal-and not primeval-concern or this seminar and this paper- the reinvention of myth in contemporary culture.

When it comes to the Ramayana, the word reinvention does not fully hold: the connotations of discovery and originality it evokes come in direct confrontation with our rich legacy of unceasing dynamism with the past. The works which I’ll discuss here are therefore not as much as reinventions in this sense of creative extrapolations upon a dead past as varying interpretations of a living, continually evolving heritage. That they’re both different types of a genre of entertainment which comes from a so-called twentieth century Western tradition of reinventing and disseminating classical as well as urban myths in ways amenable to the masses is further indicative of the uniqueness of their position within our own context of multiplicity of form, narrative and plot of the said epic. Indeed, for in thus being widely circulated animations on a myth still central to Indian communal life and public consciousness, these artefacts embody that spirit of syncretisation of cultures and narrative styles which increasingly typifies our lives and which reflects the fluidity of mythical structures within an overall, ostensibly unchangeable framework.

Hanuman conforms to this. It is by and large a saleable condensation of the Ramayana which shunts through the entire epic in order to visualise those areas of the story which would bring in the maximum of profit without affronting public sentiment. Hanuman is born as part of a grand design to rid the good earth of foul rakshakas who plague honest Aryan souls with perdition and hinder yagnas of the pious rishis: his ultimate calling in life is to assist Ram in the annihilation of Ravan and his Lanka and so restore the reign of righteousness on earth. All here is black and white, overlooking even that deep shade of grey which first in the Sundar Kand and then the Uttar Kand of the epic proper render Ram dangerously human. In Hanuman the demarcations are clear cut and it’s just a matter of time till our hero grows up and fulfils his glorious tryst with destiny.

Here we make another interesting observation. Though it deals with one of our most venerated myths, Hanuman is widely marketed as a children’s movie. This indeed is its USP- it caters specifically to the preteen audience of four to ten or so year olds for whom the fascination with myths and stories has not yet been challenged by the fashionable atheism of adolescence. The initial half an hour or so which deals with Hanuman’s childhood seems to be constructed specially to satiate the emotional needs of the projected audience: a child prodigy who fights all kinds of demons, Hanuman is also an easy going lad who roams the forests singing catchy songs and playing pranks on innocent rishis deep in meditation. Consider, for instance, the sequence akadam bakadam which depicts him doing exactly all this; notice then the terminology employed here, the inclusion of phrases like jadu ki takat and hawa se tej na bijli se kam which evoke Western concepts of magic and the superhero and so help the middle class audience, already exposed to all these in school and through popular culture, make another connect our protagonist. Being as he is thus-every small boy’s dream come true, a superhero who saves the world during the day and gets tucked in by Mummy at night-there’s no wonder that the movie did well.

Therefore, with that impressionable section of society which will grow up to represent our civilisation as its target audience, Hanuman is particularly effective as a carrier of culture. By thus guiding the interaction of this section with our mythical past and heritage it plays a vital role in determining what our future as a community and a culture will be.

However, as it is, Hanuman’s success is one which threatens in the long run the existing fabric of society as we know it. By essentialising personality and narrative as morally unquestionable truth, Hanuman takes away whatever space for open interpretation the popularly acceptable form or version of the myth has and thus consolidates it for the generations to come. The perception one is to form about the Hindu religion and mythological past is bound to be linear and simplistic. In fact, the very nature of Hinduism is being changed by such movies which exclusively glorify a single deity in the pantheon and thus erode slowly the diversity which has been its hallmark ever since its conception. Of course, one can argue that the movie generates interest in mythology and so paves the way for future intellectuals like those present before me in my audience, but the numbers who will get affected thus will necessarily be much lesser than those who will be silently co-opted into the system and its dominant ideologies.

Ideologies which our next case study Sita Sings the Blues challenges. Made by American Nina Paley, the movie functions at two levels: first at the intensely personal level of. Paley’s relation with husband Dave and then at the ostensibly universal, timeless relation between Ram and Sita. Ostensible because even as Ram and Sita are acknowledged ideal the fact of their failed relation is delved into and paralleled with that of Nina and Dave to bathe them in a light quite characteristically human. Ram cannot bring himself to trust his own wife’s fidelity and is convinced only after making her go through an agni-pariksha.

Of course, an interesting detail to be noticed here is that while many renditions of this episode will make it part of Ram’s grand design of defeating Ravan and proving his wife’s chastity to the world, Nina sees it clearly as the first portend of failure in their marriage. Be it some great design or not, something has clearly soured in Ram; as likely as not, it’s his very vibrant sense of masculine pride as a Kshatriya prince hurt at facing the wife taken away him: he could not defend her earlier and now seeing traces of that defeat in her form he transfers his own guilt to infidelity in her. Ideal son, ideal warrior, ideal prince, Ram fails to be the ideal husband.

This motif of estrangement is rapidly developed hereafter. Ram and Sita return to Ayodhya and to all appearances settle down to a happily married life; tensions, however, abound and soon he starts getting ‘cold’ to her. Here again must one draw attention to Paley’s delineation of Ram: while in accounts of this particular section of the Ramayana he’s usually shown devoted to Sita, Paley will have this devotion more a surface attachment, even pretension, than the deep-rooted affection Sita has for ‘her man’. As Ram’s abrupt, almost relieved tone suggests, the dhobhi incident is just a valid excuse to be rid of Sita. The fact that she’s pregnant at the time he turns her out causes him no great regret- such is his suspicion of her fidelity that in his vengeful indifference he literally tramples across Sita. Even at the end when he’s united with his two sons he’s hesitant about acknowledging the wife in Sita and says instead in a casual, hasty voice that she must yet again give a test of her chastity. This, of course, is the last test Sita gives: she calls Mother Earth to take her back as proof of her fidelity and so ends her tragic life on earth. Wife of an ideal man, ideal wife herself, Paley’s Sita leaves without understanding the reasons for their failed marriage.

Sita Sings the Blues, therefore, challenges our received notions of the Ramayana, especially those which seek to garb this one inexplicably traumatic episode in the altruistic light of a universally beneficial grand design we as Indians are accustomed to: no, this is rather to assert that what Paley does in imaginatively identifying with Sita is drastically different from anything done before even though it is admittedly not too radical in itself. By this we imply that though the work is created from a woman’s perspective and presents as such Sita’s reaction to the happenings around her, it does not give any corrective measures to ameliorate the pain she experiences at the hand of an uncaring patriarchal society. However conventional, Paley does give the female subject a voice and that itself is a revolution of sorts considering the strict gender mores of traditional Hindu society. For the first time Sita sings her blues in a way that is essentially hers as a woman and it is in this, the particularisation of the timelessness of her relation with Ram as being universal and by that virtue local and human that Paley’s interpretation differs from the others.

It would be easy in conclusion to claim that Hanuman and Sita Sings the Blues are two very different interpretations of the same source and so be done with it. It is indeed true, but as I had remarked earlier in this paper the very idea of source with all its aura of incorruptible authenticity and authoriality is in fact a convenient illusion. What we regard as the source is just the earliest known record of the tale so that a myth is ultimately untraceable and must remain, for this very virtue of being so, somewhat shrouded in uncertainty as regards its precise origin. The whole idea of reinvention comes from this comfortable assumption of source so that without that the very basis for dialectics such as these would fall. What would one then call a seminar like this, a paper like mine? Do we not create our own snug myth, the workability of the academia, the pertinence of discourse? Are we not all myth makers then, inventors rather than re-inventors?

I’d like to end, therefore, with a correction: Hanuman and Sita Sings the Blues are two very different myths in a long, continually evolving series of myths roughly centred on the same plot. The difference is vital.

15 October 2009

Mahavirus

To Ananya Borgohain:
Muse, friend, model

*

There are some things which are typically you…you know, things which embody your essence as an individual…like, it’s typically Jonathan to be snide…or typically Abhimanyu to crack smart one liners...things which once you do or say them, others can look up and say ‘Ah! That was so typically you!’

Typically you…

I think it was typically me to install malware on my own computer.

Yeah, well, that’s right. I installed a debilitating virus on my own system: gave it sanction with my own hands- and merrily at that!

Now now, I’m not bonkers. It’s not that bad: certainly not that simple…there’s more to it…

Simply put, the fact of the matter is that it wasn’t your everyday virus…it was quite a malignant malware…a devil in disguise…a smooth talking fiend…

A Kaliyugi virus.

Bilkul. A Kaliyugi virus to the core.

Aur kya? Is it not written that in this dark age the forces of evil will multiply to infringe upon the last remaining strongholds of good, and slowly batter them down till all righteousness disappear from the world of men? That that one quarter of piousness too shall vanish and plunge the world into the night of sin?

Ay, so has been decreed! What surprise, then, if viruses too come robed as guardian angels?

Indeed, that’s how it was! A fell design, to trick simple, gullible folk to ruin!

This is how it happened…

One fine afternoon I opened my computer and checked my email. All fine. Nothing out of the ordinary. That done, I logged out of my account and was about to shut the computer as well when a window popped out of the blue…

‘Inflow of viruses detected onto your system. Would you like to scan your computer?’

‘Hmm? Yes, ok.’

‘Preliminary scan has revealed a massive virus attack on your system. Would you like to continue?’

‘Yes, of course, go on!’

‘There are some 400 viruses on your system. Would you like to do something about it? Would you like to install Personal Antivirus?’

Personal Antivirus. How reassuring. How comforting. There’s such a soothing consonance to the term…personal antivirus: a software specially designed for you, to cater exclusively to your own needs, to resolve all your problems…

To lull you into complacency and whisk all your data.

Kaliyug mein paap bhi punyatma ki bhanti vesh dharan kar vicharega, aur sansar mein bhagwan ki satta ko nasht karega…

Nasht ho gayi meri satta mere hi laptop pe! Cha gaya andhkar, jeet gaya paap!

We had a Council then. Had to. Of course we had a council. Papa, Mamma and me, and Bhai as the conscientious objector from abroad.

‘You freaking idiot, I can’t believe it! You actually installed a frigging malware on the system!’

‘Kaam kharab karma aata he bas, aur phir baithe rehte hain yunhi maaze mein!’

‘Aap log poori baat samajhne ki koshish nahi kar rahe! Inhone…’

‘Tum hi ne bigara he! Faltu kaam karte rehte hain…’

‘Why can’t he use his brains for once? Why!’

‘Aise hi hain…’

‘Baat ko samajhne ki koshish karo…’

‘Anyway, shut it out! Can’t do anything about it now! Best to reinstall Windows now…you never know…clear away everything!’

Hmm…clear away everything…clear away everything…

Aur jab paap ka ghara bhar jayega, jab shristi mein punya aur sachai trahi trahi kar manav ka tyag kar dengi, tab mein Kalki roop dharan pralay ka tanday karunga! Tab iss shrishti na nash hoga, aur jeevan ka chakr phir aarambh hoga!

Clear away everything…clear away everything…

I could see myself rise up, go beyond and above…to godhead…

Even as the Destroyer will reduce all to glowering ash, so will I unleash the fury of my wrath on the arrayed virus! Bit by bit will each corrupted file be consumed till none be left alive! Then, just as the primeval waters will drown the dead cosmos in one overpowering deluge, so will I submerge the corrupt mother board with my missionary flood. And once this debris has subsumed into the general scheme of things, into the overwhelming torrent, then, from the dark, empty, chaotic bits shall arise a new, pure Operating System! This virginal land I alone shall people with the chosen few, the elect software and programmes which shall be the denizens of a glittering golden age!

Rudra, Narayan, Brahma and Vishnu, I shall be all! Unfurl the standard, blow the conch…let there be war! Mahaaaaaaaaaaavirus!

13 September 2009

Observations Upon Romanticism: Or Reasons as to why the Poetry of Mr. Wordsworth Sucks

Commending his verse to the reading public in Great Britain, Mr. Wordsworth emphatically emphasised its novelty: the motif of ‘low and rustic life’ supposedly put it in a league altogether different from that of his predecessors and peers. He made an elaborate case for his poetry, dexterously arguing the advantages poets stood to gain by versifying ‘the manners of rural life’, those ‘elementary feelings’ which, from ‘the necessary character of rural occupations’, ‘coexist in a state of greater simplicity’ with ‘the beautiful and permanent forms of nature’: the closer one moved to Nature, the more one threw over the ‘language used by men’ a ‘certain colouring of imagination’, the better one’s verse became. This was a ‘mark of distinction’ worthy of the serious reader’s scrupulous attention: indeed, ‘twas a veritable revolution in poetry, the strong herald of a new dawn for art and humanity.

This, of course, is what Mr.-Monsieur-Wordsworth would have us believe. The disjunction betwixt truth and reality is such, however, that one cannot but wonder at the credulity of his peers in believing doctrines as naïve as Mr. Wordsworth’s: simultaneously, one cannot but marvel at the contriving cunning of Mr. Wordsworth himself in convincing entire generations of the supposedly worthless worth of his worthless poesy.

Consider, for example, the poem ‘Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood’. In the misguided pursuit of an imagined ‘overbalance of pleasure’ Mr. Wordsworth stresses excessively upon ethereal intangibilities-imperial palaces ablaze with celestial lights-with the unfortunate consequence of degrading the material, tangible realities of human existence into fond folly. A parent’s doting encouragement of his/her child’s playful mimicry of the adult world is to him foolhardy indulgence, succeeding in naught but accelerating the process of the child’s departure from his/her native innocence.

Not fully satisfied with thus demonising parental affection, Mr. Wordsworth further rambles upon his airy arguments. Beneath his/her ‘exterior semblance’ the child is actually a ‘Mighty Prophet’, a ‘Philosopher’ who has all the knowledge in the world. Of course, the reason why we-or the blessed child for that matter-never get a taste of his/her ‘Immortality’ is because the poor child is himself not aware of his ‘heritage’- and since in growing up he/she gradually looses sight of that heavenly light, any parental intervention to affect the same merits unequivocal condemnation.

Mr. Wordsworth’s worldview is patently exclusive. Been from an early age besotted with the supposed virtues of ‘low and rustic life’, Mr. Wordsworth, himself a well-travelled Cambridge man, zealously thrusts his blinkered vision upon his readers. Going by the gloriously befuddling evidence of his poetry, it seems there were no children in the world besides shepherd boys, farm lads, amateur woodcutters and lonely peasant girls - this, or that the others are not worth mentioning at all. His narrow classist mindset is clearly laid bare through the constant elevation and glorification of these children.

Be that as it may, the idea of a troubled childhood seems totally alien to Mr. Wordsworth’s skewered conception of society. It seems he was so busy running for inspiration-and Nature knows what else-after children in lonely woods and mountain valleys that he lost sight of all reality: all children did was innocently play in ‘endless imitation’ of the adult world. Victims of war, hunger, manual labour and sexual exploitation just did not exist- or if they did, they were best dealt by being pushed out of consciousness into, as it were, the ‘eternal mind’, the great memory…

Interestingly, inspite of remembering so much about his life before he was born, Mr. Wordsworth seems to have had no real memory of flesh and blood children- even humans for that matter. One might excuse him for forgetting the earthly needs and nature of children-who, like Celia of yore, puke, pee and poop-but considering he’d already had a daughter through Mademoiselle Vallon his mystification of children is not in the least justifiable. Even if one were to argue that he never met his bastard Caroline till she was ten, one still has the evidence of his boy John who was born in 1803, a year after Mr. Wordsworth started composing this Ode.

In light of Mr. Wordsworth’s personal life, his poetry is hard to explain, leave alone justify. If children came ‘trailing clouds of glory’, then how were his bastard and John born? Did Mr. Wordsworth, like those famed Spanish stallions, direct his clouds of glory into the respective French and English receptacles from afar, and was later, in a state of ‘tranquility’, inspired to imaginatively recreate the scene and thus arrive at the metaphor? One can really not think of any other reason than this for an experienced, married man to thus romanticise such a crucial, life-giving activity, though, of course, it’s possible that searching for the child within he forgot those around him, forgetting not just parenting his children but also the fact that, after all, he alone had fathered them- or perhaps even that might’ve been done under inspiration, a trance induced with Coleridge’s expert guidance: Mr. Wordsworth humping away to glory, totally unaware of either the act or its shackling consequences, thinking only rapturously of ‘clouds of glory’…

Any sane reader of Romanticism will, therefore, recognise the same as the greatest artifice thrust upon Literature- and that too by a bunch of insignificant, frustrated zealots who fondly imagined themselves heralds of a new dawn while being in actuality messengers of a dark, dull night. Indeed, it is a bane upon the Academia, throttling novelty and encouraging instead single-minded devotion to dubious dogmas. It is the sacred duty of all Literature scholars to consciously overthrow these dogmas and so liberate Literature from the clutches of Romanticism: to this we must devote our combined energies, to this dedicate our collective acumen!

Yes Mr. Wordsworth, as for Dorothy, you live on with us as well-and in unison do we sing you this solemn ode-Wordsworth sucks!