Padichcha Muttal

To my parents, thanking them for their good sense, for had they not been so, I would not have been able to write this at all.

*

“What is education?”, I asked P.T., my oldest-and now settled in Canada-friend.

“I guess its school and college, test and exam, certificate and degree”, he replied. “You know, all that boring stuff.”

However, as I lay down to sleep that night, that seemingly simple question haunted me and my friend’s answer got me thinking.

Is education just about school and college, test and exam? Is its purpose so shallow or is there nota higher meaning attached to it?

That a huge majority of people hold my friend’s view is more than just obvious. Society considers a matric pass to be more educated than an illiterate. Similarly, a degree holder is more educated than a matric pass and a 95% scorer is definitely more valued than a 75% one.

Society is of course right in adopting this approach, for it creates standards which must e met and which, if met, augur well for a person as far as his/her economic condition is concerned.

However, what I feel is that society cannot be justified for calling each and every degree holder or matric pass person as educated.

According to me, education has a far greater meaning than just what our parents and friends would have us believe, for just as it is about ‘all that boring stuff’, it is (or should be) also about acquainting students with the finer aspects of human nature (such as kindness, compassion and honesty), imbibing in them a sense of what is right and what is wrong and sensitising them towards the plethora of problems that mankind faces today and making them realise the individual’s role in solving them.

So perhaps what we consider as education is just the process of getting literate, partially or fully as the case may be. The wisdom and foresight that comes with education has perhaps nothing to do with the subtle art of scoring in exams. If this be the case (and I strongly feel that it is), then all of us ought to stop, introspect and pose that dreadful question to ourselves- “Am I educated?”

Let me give an example of two men whom I happened to come across.

The first one is an amiable man, ever so polite in his manner and ever so witty in his speech. He works hard, is honest and true of heart. This man is a rickshaw puller, an illiterate person from one of the lowest strata of Delhi’s many layered society.

The second is a boisterous person, vulgar in his behaviour and totally unruly in his conduct. His speech is always graced with the most unutterable of swear words that were ever made. This man is a class fellow of mine, a person from a well to do, respectable middle class family.

Who would you consider more agreeable, more likeable, in fact, the better human being- the unlettered, but yet humble rickshaw puller or the so called educated, but yet atrocious middle class lad?

There is something fundamentally wrong with a society that scoffs at the poor rickshaw puller, but showers praise on the rowdy school boy as long as he continues to score (which, considering the technological advances made in the still more subtle art of cheating, is not so difficult!).

It is clear that education and the process of getting literate are two different phenomena, though slightly inter-connected. Therefore, the question worth asking is this- If schools don’t educate, then what does?

To me, the answer lies in that most primitive of human creations that has uptill now stood the ravages of about 10,000 years worth of time and provided the foundation for human society to grow and to flourish- the family.

It is undeniable that a strong, sensible family gives a stable and fruitful environment for children to grow, and resultantly, get educated. It is also undeniable that a weak family deprives children of the essential atmosphere for their stable growth.

Therefore, if the system is churning out such mammoth proportions of uneducated literates, then it is not just the fault of the so called temples of learning that have converted into temples of Mammon, but also the current generation of parents who look inside just the report card and not the heart.

To be literate is easy enough. To be educated is what is challenging.

The Lady Farmer

(A Continuation of the mock-epic, The Borgoad)

*

To
Our Dusky Goddess,
Cynthia,
A Tribute

*

Madame,

That which with you began,
Its end the Muse to me sang!
This, therefore, my last shall be:
Accept, O! this offering divine and thus sanctify me!

*

…A Vision of Beauty…
(An Excerpt from a Diary)

…Rested on the recliners for a while. Very pleasant. Strange thing is that I opened my eyes for a while and I saw a quite stunning Ananya in some sort of robe or something. She’s generally beautiful, but she was looking quite stunning at that time. Hmmm…”

*

I

Finally awake, the Goddess dressed,
All her regalia before her spread:
Here some Wit from Lunar spheres brought,
There some soot from hell fires begot.
With these, and others, did Shri- her dress,
From head to heel, her Di to impress.
Last, round her neck she fastened,
A golden shell in silvery lands apportioned.

Once it was of a coral part,
Then under a Konkani’s hand did it smart;
Soon in Big Foot it gleaming lay,
Where the Goddess, glancing that way,
Saw it shinning in the Sun,
Lost her heart over its beauty divine, and
Took it for her own, for all time.

This the shell which the Goddess so adored,
Gracefully round her neck she wore;
Its glory great, far-reaching, wide:
Think you of crosses? Nay, ‘tis blasphemy snide!
Look but once at the shell, and,
As I do, write!

II

So fashioned, she her self issued,
Out to the world to conquer it anew,
With charms, graces and Hecate’s chosen few.
Up she went the hill, on the pinnacle stood,
Thence surveyed the masses ranged,
From all corners assembled to do her praise.

From Dibru came tea folk in numbers great,
Habung from its medieval bowels sent Chutiya tribes;
Some still from Silapa came to honour their Queen,
As did from Nalani, Goga, and Jonai green.
Last to come, yet the most, was
The marvellous Pink host.
From a world pink, curtain to commode,
Came that mighty Borrower horde!

So stood those agents ordained,
Numbering in some thousands, flooding the plain,
Calling out to their mother, their sovran liege,
Eagerly waiting for the Communion to begin.

III

Happy and pleased, mightily gratified,
At this seemly pageant before her sight,
The Goddess went further to the dais,
To address all, without any bias.
“Hear ye, my children, hark to my Word,
My vision divine, my mission bold!
To cover again this earth in greenly expanse,
To farm every inch, till all feed from my hands!
I shall be Demeter, that goddess of yore,
Holding the secret tightly for my fold-”

“Amen!” cried the Masses, their fists they shook,
In true prime ministerial fashion, with all the proper looks.
Rousing, cheering, they stood up to dance,
Yet the Goddess’s stern command broke their prance.

“Fools!” she cried, and sparks from those orbs flew,
(The very same which have devoured a zillion chickens small)
Dangerous, deadly, black now in hue:
What Belinda, what Stella divine,
Aye, what even of Eve, temptress fine?
Globes such as these eclipse all, be it in prose, or rhyme tall!

“I may not be interrupted, disturbed or questioned in between,
Lest you I make my Scullery-queen!
My mood is bad, on mushroom curry was I fed,
Be careful, therefore, lest I go back to bed!”

IV

Hearing this, the host greatly trembled,
Fearing retribution, it haltingly mumbled.
Yet her Pinkish favourites soon a plan devised,
To sacrifice at her altar things she greatly liked.
Mushrooms they gathered, onions and pans,
And lo! in a jiffy the fried delicacy was at hand!

This they carried to her towering height,
Gave it to Bhattji, who placed it by her angry side.
The Goddess, furious, in deadly silence stood,
Resisting all, in a corner her anger brooked.
Yet, when food summons, foodies must obey,
And as Flecknoe to the son, she fell to this prey.

V

The feast over, her hungry tide fed,
(the sign a burp, though to all but Poetick ears dead!)
The Goddess her congregation again addressed-
“There are things I like, things I don’t.
Know this, then, that poverty, cowardice,
Bad food do I deeply abhor.
Take me for granted, deny me my space,
Though chivalry still be alive,
By these hands you’ll be dead!”

Lightening again from those narrowed slits issue:
The earth trembled, Phoebus from the firmament flew.
Men fled home, consulted divines,
Even hostellers from their slumbers were awakened to pine!

VI

Yet, as it came, so did it die.
Indra called back the clouds, Surya timorously smiled,
Lit up her person, till she again was gay:
Now from those orbs came beatific rays,
Blessed her children, happily amazed.
“I know how it is, I am not angry now!
Therefore to my mission, on the plan concentrate.
We shall over the world, take it for our own,
From CP’s KFC to Kamakhya’s dome.
Everywhere have green rolling farms,
Stretching to the horizon, like unending yarns.
Therein, by my grace, shall grow vegetables all,
Rice, pulses and cereals tall.
Water in canals shall irrigate our lands,
Yet it shall be checked, so it breaks no dams.
Cows we shall have, chicken and goat,
Watery creatures that gracefully float.
Last of all, some mares new,
And, before I forget, piggies and ducklings few!

This my plan, this my view,
To commercialise farming, yet have a romantic hue!
When this succeeds, the world I’ll hold ransom,
To do as I bid, though I not be hairy Samson.
I will then my laws universal make,
No one then shall be brave to them brake!
First and foremost, good food shall prevail,
Succour for foodies, all mess cooks shall wail!
Then shall be banned societies all:
Beginning with Ramjas Assamese, all shall fall!
Next to go, the cult of Preachers:
Dominating men, unabashed speakers!
I am here, there’s Bhattji by my side,
We need none other to set the world right!

Finally when these, and others, are gone,
Universal peace on a dog-less world dawned,
Pax Borgana then shall reign supreme,
Then shall we my final commandment meet,
Then shall I, at long last, watch TV in peace!
Friends forever, Drake and Josh on Nick,
Silsila, Blood Diamond, Bicycle Thief,
Paradise Now, Page 3, the Ocean Series.
Last of all, Kuch Kuch Hota Hai cute:
Silly, yes, but, like me, beautiful too!”

At this the Goddess blushed and smiled,
Her queenly hair flew with pride.
Adjusted she her pose to once again declaim,
Yet with a “Cease!” was stopped that glorious dame.

VII

Suddenly before the Goddess materialised,
A triumvirate of men, noble and wise.
(Aye, so wise indeed that it dripped form their chins,
And all land round them turned to boggy gin!)
First a lama from snowy Kullu,
Chhuba clad, solemn as Athena’s ullu.
Then a monk from woods charmed,
Tonsured in grief, popishly garbed.
Finally a sage from Maya’s land,
Learned in lore, bespectacled and grand.
Each in his hand carried a staff,
Each of these ancient, of mark.
Each of these with divine power them invest,
Each of these with wit them bless.

VIII

Tell me now, O black-eyed Muse, what happened next,
Who amongst the three broke off from the rest?
‘Twas you, popish monk who came fore,
Cleared your throat, and in true debating fashion spoke-
“Cease thou O Maid, O Augustan Queen!
Thou flies too high, aims for too much!
Thy ambition strays thee from the unbeaten path,
Of balance, harmony, and much else that lasts!”

Now came forward Maya’s man,
Master-illusionist, in sketching grand.
“Knowing, unknown, thou learns naught from precepts,
Loves Icarus, follows fallen Faustus!
Forgets thou that there be a higher order,
Not of instincts, but of ideologies proper!”

Then came up that mysterious Pahari man,
Gravely shook his head, and thus began-
“Thou hast sinned, over-reached, lied,
Dreamt up artifice, taken it too high!
For this thou shalt suffer, for this be punished,
For this unto the powers shall thee be delivered!”

IX

At this was there shouting, uproariously great,
Forward pressed the masses, yet they were too late.

Cried the monk “With this, my tap,
Thy masses freeze in time,
To remain here standing, statues now of lime!
Thus!” So he tapped his staff but once,
And all that teeming crowd was to lifeless stone turned!

Cried the sage “With this, my tap,
Thy retinue morphs to shrubs and trees,
This Shri- to mango, this Bhattji to tea!
Thus!” So he tapped his staff but once,
And both of them instantly foliage bred!

Came then the lama, to this now-tragic Goddess said
“Now to you, O over-reacher Maid,
With thy own curse thou shalt be laid!
Thou to unending sleep I consign,
To dream of a candlelight dinner, for two designed:
One Ocean, Rachael the other,
You their cook, waiter, tapster,
Serve them delicacies, yet taste not a feather!
At the end of each meal, ‘twill start again,
The candles, the table, the guests twain…
This shall go on, and so shall you sleep,
Till at last comes a man, aproned and clean.

This will be a chef, of great renown:
For you shall he make duck fry, aari and chicken chow-mein,
For you shall he pluck a mango and leaves,
Turn one into shake, the other iced tea.
Finally for you shall petha he make,
And, then, these toils complete,
In the final labour engage-
To open your sealed lips and push down your throat
A spoonful each of these delicacies fine.

Thus served by your suitor, your ideal man,
You shall again rise- a better maid:
This time a girl, not a Goddess great,
This time a woman, not a Queen to hate!”

X

So pronounced that man his judgement strange;
Tapped the last, and she fell fain.
The monk uttered over her sleeping form a charm,
To keep her, like dead Hektor, from all harm.
The sage then drew near,
The stage for some maya made clear
Moved his arms in strange designs,
And lo! from his lips issued a wind fine.
It carried her up, round and round,
Till sufficiently high, it changed ground:
Now over the cliff, the frozen masses,
Over Dhillika, Awadh and Siliguri’s passes,
Till back in Axom, her own blessed land,
To a certain room, hidden, yet not bland,
It flew her in and gently deposit,
Onto the bed, this sleeping beauty,
The Lady Farmer.

*

Notes

I

Para 1-
Line 3- Things lost were, during the Augustan age, supposed to be on the Moon. The Goddess has to get some Wit for herself as she indulges in her daily "rite of pride" (Raghunathan)...
Line 8- The Department of English stayed in a hotel called Silver Sands during its trip to Goa in 2009.

Para 2-
Line 3- (Big Foot) A local tourist site with a mythical/divine history.

Para 3-
Line 4- The famous cross which Pope adores his Belinda with- "On her white Breast a sparkling Cross she wore,/Which Jews might kiss and infidels adore.”
Lines 5 to 6- Sidney's Astrophil and Stella, Sonnet 15- “But if, both for your love and skill, your name/You seek to nurse at fullest breast of fame,/Stella behold and then begin to indite.” While Astrophil beholds Stella and so wreaks his harms in “ink’s poor loss”, this poet but looks at this glorious shell, and writes.

II

Para 1-
Line 1- (fashioned) 'There is no merit in God-given beauty; it may be enhanced- there's nothing wrong in fashioning oneself' This the sum of the Goddess's defence of kajal.
Line 3- (Hecate) The Greek Goddess of the Night, with all its sinister associations...

Para 2-
Line 2- In that blessed land of Assam, there indeed lives a tribe called Chutiya!
Line 6- The Goddess' sanctum sanctorum, the innermost recess of her private domain.

Para 3-
Line 2- As the Brahmaputra overpowers Dhemaji, and much else in Assam, with its waters, so did these agents flood the plain.
Line 3- (mother) Mother Assam?
Line 4- In context of The Borgoad's infernal associations, Communion gives this meeting an ironic tinge.

III

Para 1-
Line 5- As God uttered the first Words, and it was as he said, so for the Goddess!

Para 2-
Line 1- (Masses) The ironical juxtaposition of good and evil continues.
Line 2- Refer to the History of the Most Ancient Borgohain Clan.

Para 4-
Line 1- This the Goddess's command to her versifier.
Line 4- Once asleep, it is prodigally difficult to awaken her, as The Borgoad conclusively established.

IV

Para 1-
Line 3- Of the self-same mysterious room referred to in Canto II.
Line 6- Mushrooms are preferred fried- this universal law.

Para 2-
Line 5- Dryden's brilliant invective of mock-epic proportions, MacFlecknoe, starts thus- “All humane things are subject to decay,/And, when Fate summons, Monarchs must obey:”

V

Para 1-
Line 1- Bhattji had once lectured on The Hungry Tide.
Line 2- The ascent of Belinda's sacred lock is noticed by none but "Poetick Eyes".
Line 8- The Goddess and this humble poet have often discussed this momentous issue, whether or not chivalry be alive.

Para 2-
Line 4- DU hostellers are, as is known all over, notorious for being late sleepers and still late risers. The Goddess, of course, is, as elsewhere, a paradigm, "the Best", here as well.

VI

Para 1-
Line 2- I come, after all, from a Hindu background!
Line 11- (unendying yarns) Like this one?

Para 2-
Line 11- Preachers like this poet...

Para 3-
Line 2- Of the few things which the Goddess and this humble mortal share in common is a marked aversion to dogs.
Line 3- A natural evolution of empire- Pax Romana, Pax Britannica, Pax Borgana...

Para 4-
Line 2- (queenly hair) The poet once had occasion to compliment the Goddess for her exceedingly beautiful hair.

VII

This triumvirate is modelled not on any Roman precedent but on the Elfish example afforded by Tolkien and on the trio of the Good fairies in Disney's version of the story of the Sleeping Beauty. The Goddess, on being complemented upon the fairy-like quality of her hair, had retorted saying that this poet must have read "horrible fairy tales". I rest my case, gracious Lady, with claims to acquaintance with the most superior fairy tales, all sweetness and light. I also hold that judgement delivered upon thy hair!

It was, therefore, fitting thought that the Goddess's chastisement should come at hands of a trio of good fairies of sense and wit.

Para 1-
Lines 3 to 4- Wisdom, like all things in excess, doth become a malice; a useless thing which irks more than instructs.

VIII

Para 1-
Line 4- Our popish monk, of course, is renowned for his rhetorical and debating skills.

Para 2-
Line 2- This sage is well-renowned for his prowess in sketching.
Line 6- Be it known to one and all that the Goddess hurts men not in accordance to some base ideology but under the sway of overpowering instincts.

IX

Para 2-
All those acquainted with Disney's Sleeping Beauty will know the beneficial curse of the Good Fairies, which puts all to sleep until Aurora be awakened by Philip's kiss.

Para 3-
Metamorphoses abides!

Para 4-
Line 1- Fallen and isolated thus, the Goddess is naught but tragic.
Line 6- George Clooney of the Ocean series fame and Jennifer Aniston of Friends legend.
Line 4 to 8- Tantalus Revisited, with a Sisyphean touch!
In Greek myths, Tantalus, for wretched greed of good food and that dastardly feast, was condemned to eternal solitary stay on a small island in a lake. He can neither taste the fruit of the solitary tree, nor drink the water of the lake. Sisyphus was condemned to eternal toil, of rolling a boulder up a hill- as soon as it reaches the top, it rolls down and he has to start again.

Para 5-
Line 7- As Hercules' Twelve Labours in mythical Greece, so these labours of our ideal chef-suitor.

Para 6-
Heed this para- the moral here is enshrined!

The Ghost of Literature

(Because it was, is and will always be below and beyond a certain Lady to attempt anything of the sort!)

I

“Is this logic, is this sense,
Are these denizens of Literature’s den?
Where is their sweetness, where their light?
Oh, these philistines are but blight!

Surrounded I seem by prodigal fools:
Purloining papers now seems cool!

They study Literature not for its sake,
But for gold which may come in the wake!

/Will they carry this haloed legacy?
These who suffer best from palsy?
Shall they bear Wit divine,
Reason, balance, harmony fine?
The fruit of knowledge,
Will they labour to gain,
Or, suffering pangs, decide ‘tis vain?

Everywhere I see excesses great,
Follies fell wilfully made:
Fallen, falling, only to fall again,
Such the fashion that all would fain!”

Despairing thus of the world around,
This scholar did himself in Shaw ground.
Read a bit of chocolate-cream soldier’s escape,
But this time found it a deadly weight.
Irritated, disturbed, he stood up again,
And, pacing to and fro, began to complain.

II

“You, Kreative Mistress,
Who pseudo-suicidal tendencies harbour;
Why under sundry delusions do you labour?
In fits of anger thankless gits friends make,
In other passions to Olympus them raise!
Extreme, uncertain, troubled to the core,
Thy antics do really me awfully bore!

You, Movie-buff,
Who harmless folk fucking morons make;
Why do you this choleric temper fake?
Perilous, imperious, passionately moody,
You damn as a Goddess and are as choosy!
Potential you have, yet knowingly it blight,
Self-fashioned, yes, but only a plight!

You, Ok-Nikki,
Who clean-shaven lads dictator declare:
You talk as much sense as a March Hare!
Rational, balanced, calm yourself present,
Yet the world at large generally resent!
What now of those claims, those words fine?
Ha! All hollow, worthless shine!

You, Zarzu,
Who grand plans do make,
Involve all others, yet yourself prove late!
You do such wondrous schemes devise,
Which co(dd)zen good folk of precious time!
Yourself in them should more be involved,
Rather than call it the production’s fall!

You, Little Anne,
Who seem consigned to join our fold:
All qualities have, yet are not gold.
Too eager, excited, you carry on and on,
Incongruous thus appear, hopelessly torn:
Forget not your blood, your inborn fall-
Above that you will not rise at all!

You, Lady Long-locks,
Who all men doth kameena call;
What be thy problem, to be seen by all?
On petty matters you frightfully fret,
With bad jokes badger others to death!
Idiot, yes, though idiotic not,
Thy skewered vision harries me a lot!

You, Uncle Jon,
Who are cynical and smart:
Know you not how others you harm?
Motiveless, aimless, for their own sake
Your verbal barbs fly. Remember-
Sarcasm is fine, but only to an extent;
You, making an art, carry beyond ends!

You, Baba of Virgin Mounts,
Who do in matrimony antagonists join:
You do greatly over-reach thus!
For visible now is that impish babe,
That Pinku who dwells within thy nave!
Master still, yet master not,
Thy mastery now lies in the pot!

You, Master-illusionist,
Who are with various things obsessed,
In sketching dabble, onto rhetoric press.
Why of the world a distorted image paint,
When Woe-men always do prove it vain?
Never you cease from your fruitless wassails,
Even though they on all counts fail!

Last to you, O black-eyed wench,
Who do confound and bless at once;
Abuse freely, then happily act dunce!
Forget you so easily your own crimes past,
Live merrily, while others smart!
If this be your justice, this your way,
Then, by Higgins, I shall not stay!”

III

Disappointed, depressed, damnably tired,
He now to his bed readily retired;
Sought refuge with Morpheus’ lad,
Who soon in his hand him safely had.

For hours he slept in peace,
By Jove’s grace, ‘twas dreamlessly sweet!
The heavy hours slowly slipped by,
Till the clock did three sombrely chime.

Three, as all Wits know, is an hour divine,
Magic now happens, subtle, fine:
This the hour when Wit to Moon ascends,
This the hour when hostellers to bed descend!

On the twinkling stars a shadow grew,
Witty Moon too disappeared from view;
The wind saw it fit to die,
And Earth soon under darkness did lie,

From the South opaque mist drew
Enveloped his house, steadily grew.
From a crevice a way in found,
And there, flew round and round.

The scholar, chilly, suddenly awoke,
His bedside for a light madly groped.
Found instead Everyman grim,
And, clutching it close, saw the game begin.

Twisting, swirling, the vapours human form took,
Condensed into a figure made all of books!
Ay, all but the face, which was wondrously queer,
Of various things a composite drear!

Homer’s hair, Chaucer’s ears,
Shakespeare’s chin, Milton’s lips,
Pope’s nose, Dickens’ lashes,
Graves’ brows!

So countenanced was that apparition,
Which now before him stood.
Its eyes closed, it parted its lips,
And thus, in Higgins’s blessed voice, began.

“Fear me not, for as you are me,
So am I you!
You my essence, I your power:
Behold! I am the Ghost of Literature!”

“The Ghost of Literature?” the scholar asked.
“Isn’t that a very fancy term?
A very romantic exaggeration?
Are you even real, or a dream?”

“Cease!” The Ghost cried.
“Enough of the questioning,
For I will do all the talking!
For once listen without cynically interrupting!”

IV

Having him so admonished,
His never-ceasing barrage of queries banished,
The Ghost thus began-
“Listen to me well, O mortal man,
For I shall either be thy saviour, or thou damn!
I am the Ghost of Literature, true:
My task here? A change brew.
I shall alter your outlook, you reform;
So you shine, in better form!”

Saying as much, it suddenly stopped
And pursed its lips tightly shut.
Then, slowly, it opened its eyes and
Gazed into the other’s bewildered orbs.

V

Seeing those orbs, the scholar was struck:
Familiar yes, but familiar not-
Brown-black, certain doom of a zillion chickens…
But that was not all.

Looking more, he saw greater depths,
Within them a canon of infinite breadth.
Sappho in them tunefully sang,
Mary through her dead brother’s woes ran;
Elizabeth, Queen, her letters compressed,
While Behn her Rover cunningly sketched;
Finch with Pope an Impromptu held,
Austen Lizzy up to Pemberley led;
Mary the rights of women vindicated,
Shelly’s Frankenstein all norms jaded;
Christina through Laura the fruit consumed,
As Eliot in Maggie foresaw her doom.
These, and others, he in there saw,
Marginalised voices; oppressed, yet strong.

Such were the eyes that pierced his own,
Till his heart with guilt heavily groaned.

VI

Commune now through eyes took-
Gazing still in those orbs, a voice him shook-
He heard it not, yet heard it still,
For ‘twas his head that it did fill.

As for the face, so this voice,
It did a bundle of paradoxes poise.
Bold yet soft; agitated, yet calm.
Music to the ears, with a nursery kid’s charm.

“You, who do the world deride,
Look first within before all you override!
The faults which you to others apportion,
Are naught but your own inherent notions!

Delusional you are, without a doubt,
That, as well a fashioned choleric with clout;
Your own balance you easily loose,
To that temper of yours, as foul as a goose!

Remember too that your own plans
Don’t often materialise;
Remember too that cultures
You may not rationally criticise!

Again, your humour too is often awry,
Jokes meant, yet black and gory.
In satire too you do over-reach,
Especially with Ladies whom you attempt to teach!

Within you too dwells an impish creature,
A Pinku with Gargantuan features!
As for distortion, in that you freely indulge,
Confuse others, while yourself bogs drudge!

Why yourself then such a scholar think,
When you too totter on Dullness’ brink!
Your own follies make a prodigal roll,
What right then have you to with others fool?

/Literature has no rigid bounds,
It may not be fixed by you critical hounds,
All may a part of it become,
Even if their tastes be a bit rum!

Therefore, though the world be a barbarous waste,
Though sense in it has waned of late,
Yet it is not all that bad:
Hope’s all around- just look for it foolish lad!”

VII

These words did him greatly shame
His ego did they effectively maim.
Yet his eyes from it he could not remove
And gazing still, his lips, soundless, moved.

“You are, O Ghost, a beacon in the dark,
Your aim hits bang onto the mark!
My faults to me now are clear,
They are now maladies that I do fear.

Change I must, and change I shall-
I am but a man, but a man I am.
If unto me is granted will,
The light of reason to chaos fill,
I will above these faults rise;
Make of myself a better being,
More tolerant, open, less prone to spleen!
Give me time, give me space,
And I shall myself imbue with greater Grace!”

Hearing this the Ghost smiled,
Opened at last its lips and “Benedicte!” cried:
All at once it then dissolved into constituent dew,
Which swiftly then from that bedchamber flew…

This then the tale, this the story,
Of how a scholar was cleansed of maladies gory:
Learn ye from him, from this be inspired,
To correct within, before you on others fire!

Notes

I

Para 1
L3- Remember Mathew Arnold?

Para 3
L2- Choice; Renaissance ideas of the will.
L3- Carries it forward; these (worse than!) Faustian falls (because they happen re-occur) happen by choice, not by accident.

II

Para 8
L6- In the Baba's words, Pinku was an accident. After Brahma was done creating the Universe, he smiled a very naughty, mischievous smile and out of that Pinku, the anti-thesis of orderly creation, was born.

III

Para 5
Those who have read Bram Stoker's Dracula will know this is how Dracula used to materialise supposedly locked and 'safe' rooms...

Para 8
In hair is all the strength, and I'm assuming Homer must have had long locks.
Chaucer's ears because he used to pick up any and every thing, from Kings talk to a Wife's babbling!
Milton's lips as a homage to Shaw (Pygmalion)- "Your native language is the language of Shakespeare, and Milton and the Bible..." Higgins speaking through Milton's lips...
Pope's nose, crooked and long, smelling all rapines, going where it should not!
(Robert) Graves' (questioning) brows, for his unorthodox and provoking theories, especially on Greek mythology!

V

Para 1
Line 3- Refer to The Borgoad.

Para 2-
Line 4- Mary Herbert, Countess of Pembroke, Philip Sidney's sister.
Line 7- Anne Finch, Countess of Winchilsea...The first four lines of her delightful answer to Pope's Impromptu, "Occasioned by Four Satyrical Verses on Women-Wits,in the Rape of the Lock"- "Disarm'd with so genteel an air/The contest I give o'er;/Yet, Alexander, have a care/And shock the sex no more."
Line 9- Mary Wollstonecraft's seminal work, A Vindication of the Rights of Woman.

VI

Para 5
Line 4- A tribute of sorts to Astha Joshi; I totally agree with what you said!

VII

Para 3
Line 2- Juxtaposing ideas about the finitude of man with those about his infinite potential, him having the capacity to make the impossible possible...

Turning Tables: Classroom Subversion through Table Art

All through its long, chequered and shadowy history, graffiti has been a tool of supposedly anti-social articulation. As an artistic form of expression predominantly in the public domain, it still carries with it connotations of rebellion and subversion…

In the classroom, table graffiti serves as one of the effective mode of subversion. This paper will analyse how the almost unlimited creative license afforded by this form of cultural expression enables the student-artist to give a free reign to his/her imagination, critiquing not just the immediate context of the teacher and the class but also umpteen other current and past issues, related as well as unrelated to their own socio-cultural context. It will examine the table as a neutral space which allows students to adopt different identities in order to articulate things which they otherwise leave unsaid…

It will begin with a short history of graffiti as a subversive medium of expression. Thereafter, it will move on to examine graffiti in the immediate context of Ramjas College, particularly in rooms 8, 6 and 27. It will also discuss some of the factors which motivate students to adopt this form for expression. It will conclude with an overview of the arguments so presented.

*

Coming from the Italian graffiato, graffiti, as defined on dictionary.com, refers to “markings or inscriptions, as initials, slogans, or drawings, written, spray-painted, or sketched on a sidewalk, wall of a building or public restroom, or the like”. By this very virtue of being “markings or inscriptions” in the public domain, graffiti’s origin cannot be traced back to any single era. Indeed, from

wall paintings of pre-historic, cave dwelling humans to

the inscriptions preserved on the walls of Pompeii, from the carvings on the temple walls of Tikal to

the verses immortalised on the Qutub, the diverse range of graffiti makes it difficult, and also unnecessary, to draw a unilinear history of the same.

Long though its history is, graffiti’s strong association with subversion are only recent. We can see graffiti emerging as a tool for the anonymous oppressed when we consider

Victorian London and its chalk writings. Slogans against colonial rule during our own Indian freedom struggle too can be considered as graffiti.

In the Second World War, Kilroy made an appearance all across Europe and the US and baffled one and all.

However, modern graffiti as we know it was born on the subway trains of New York in the late 1960’s. Using spray cans, the new age graffiti artists let loose their imagination on staid subway cars and deluged the Metropolitan Transport System with a riot of colours. Taki183 will always be remembered as an early pioneer of spray-can art whose influence led to a boom in graffiti the world over.

Teens and young adults followed his example to ‘get up’ by having their name in as many places as possible. Graffiti also became one of the integral elements of hip hop and a favourite medium for political activists to express anti-war, radical feminist, anarchist and, in general, anti-establishment messages.

The mid-80’s saw graffiti declining as New York’s Metropolitan Transport Authority ushered in its Clean Train Movement to win the so-called war against graffiti. Municipal authorities the world over continue to perceive graffiti as a threat to peace and graffiti artists as wanton vandals who deface property. Nonetheless, graffiti is slowly gaining acceptance as a legitimate art form- this is apparent not just through spurt in graffiti style art on/in T-shirts, posters and computer/video games but also through the fact that some communities have actually designated places for artists to express themselves (like Stroud).

Though well past its golden age, graffiti survives as an art form being increasingly accepted as a part of urban street architecture.

*

Just as street graffiti enables the artist to ‘get up’ by breaking through rigid societal boundaries and categorisations, so does table art allow the student-artist to subvert the teacher-student hierarchy by silently, yet creatively, breaking through the façade of discipline imposed upon him/her by a largely uncaring, indifferent and insensitive system. Research in the previous decade has shown that doodling carries messages from the unconscious, with different symbols and patterns suggesting different personality needs. However, table art is not just about doodling when bored in class- it encompasses or addresses a whole range of issues, from tabooed sexuality to concerns about pollution to mimetic beauty and truth.

By virtue of being a neutral, unbiased public space free and open to all, the table is first and foremost ground for articulation of dislike, hatred and other such baser passions. Be it the teacher who’s boring or irritating the artist to death or be it some other personal enemy, the table acts as the canvas for expression of the artist’s pent up emotions. Responses may range from

simple, straight forward statements of disgust like “BMS sucks”

to cries of despair like “I am bored/Being bored”

to supercilious, sarcastic instructions like “Get a life RGM”

to threats like “Ishaan, you better mend your ways”
to lampoons in rhyme, like-

“There was a boy named Anshuman
I would have shot him, if I had a gun
I’ll shoot him that day
When I find out that he’s gay.”

Having gone through some horrendous experience her/him self, the artist warns the world at large to be ware of some person. One such piece clearly warns us, for reasons unknown, to be

“Beware of/ Rengleen/ English Hons, II Yr”

On the other side of the spectrum, there are expressions of admiration and love, things fit enough to gratify anyone’s vanity. An unknown and unknowing suitor immortalised her/his love for me thus-

“I love Anubhav Pradhan!
Thank you immensely
But would you care to reveal your identity”

It is, of course, very possible that this is subtle sarcasm.

However, it is not just unrequited love which finds its way onto the table. People happy in love too express their joy in blank verse-

“Coz u bring out
D best in me
Lk noone else can do
Dats why m by ur side
Dats why I love u!”

Moving on, the table allows the artist to adopt another identity, to put on another hat so as to say and in this guise explore his/her hidden sexual needs and desires.

Nudity,

swear words,

and violent demands for intercourse

comprise this genre of table art.

Similarly, in an arena as (supposedly) liberal and forward-looking as a Literature class, there are sexist and misogynistic, or pseudo-misogynistic comments like

“Gals are all bad/Guys are all good”. Another sexist remark claims that

all but 2 of the girls in a particular year are boring and hence should be kicked off.

Taboos like homosexuality and oral sex are also brought up. For example, in room 27, constant attempts are made to establish one Tarun as gay.

Normally, this can be identified as a perverse form of ragging by differentiating or ‘other-ing’ a student, or a group of students, from the majority of the heterosexual population. In this context, however, it is interesting to note that this group of students, with Mr. Tarun as their head, actually wish to project themselves as gay and therefore these open declarations of their sexual orientation. It does not matter here whether the said gentlemen are really gay: no, what matters is the fact that the artist here is clearly playing upon the stereotype by ridiculing society’s fear of the other by openly declaring himself to be one of the ‘other’.

Significantly, even in the midst of seemingly frivolous and obscene banter, the artist addresses a serious issue.

As answer to the question “Kya Gay hai” is listed, amongst others, the name of Dr. B.N.Ray, into whose tragic history one need not go. The artist further adds, with a tinge of unmistakable sarcasm in the tone, that Dr. Ray is his “role model”. An issue of great topical interest is thus satirised by this unknown table artist thus.

Another piece satirises a boring lecture in context of a topical issue, successfully merging the microcosm of the class with the macrocosm of the international issue.

The artist claims that the class is as toxic as Chinese dolls.

The table is also a repository of axioms and truths. Example range from

universally shared emotions like “Hate monday mornings”

to insights like “Beware! Studying Economics is injurious to health”

to truths of life such as “Being happy doesn’t mean that everything is perfect. It means that you’ve decided to look beyond the imperfections”.

Then, there are times when the artist introspects. One articulates his/her frustration at being perennially misunderstood and denied the freedom to greater expression, saying “90% of the stuff written here makes sense 10% of the time.” Another mocks his/her seniors while becoming part of the ongoing tradition with “Btw seniors were you guys good enough to never write on tables or were these painted before the term?” He/she therefore mocks not just the seniors but also him/her self and thus shows extraordinary self-awareness.

Lastly, distinct from these scribblers is that class of table artists which draws and sketches. From

beautifully done, calligraphic pieces celebrating the Renaissance

to idyllic scenes from a pastoral, Alpine romance

to good luck Tibetan Buddhist charms,

the table displays many great works of amateur art.

A renowned table artist in the second year class opines that graffiti for him acts an anti-depressant in boring classes and that drawing beautiful things in the midst of the general, overpowering anarchy on the desks affirms his belief in the existence of beauty in even utter Chaos. Highlighting the dynamic nature of table art, he says that he has always found it interesting to see how others have added on to his pieces and given them new directions. The ethos of table art, therefore, makes it possible for his creations to become alive as they evolve in the search of higher beauty and truth.

This piece illustrates this point about artistic evolution, showing how various people added on to his original sketch of Hitler, thus enriching the entire piece with multiple perspectives…(the cross, the goggles, the names of concentration camps on the left, the swastika above, the messages below and on the right, all of these have been added to the original by numerous, unknown artists).

*

Whatever the form or genre, table graffiti strikes at the very heart of classroom teaching. Indeed, the very act of even thinking to take up one’s pen to doodle, scribble or sketch goes against the basic premise of this system which demands the student’s undivided attention to be centred only on what the teacher is saying in class. Further, the artist’s use of sms-language helps him/her to ridicule and easily break through communication barriers. This becomes of even greater subversive import in a Literature class wherein the barricading of communication by the mainstream, so-called legitimate body of language is all the more rigid.

The amount of table art in a room may, therefore, be roughly taken as an indicator, qualifying not just the teacher’s calibre as an engaging instructor but also the receptiveness of the student community as a whole. The anonymity and the resultant scope of the form give students freedom to not just indulge in bloodless vendetta but also to bring down teachers from their high pedestals and hold them up for universal ridicule. Student-artists therefore create an inverted world order in which hierarchies are suspended: a surreal, anarchic, macabre world where teachers, and everybody else, are/is at the mercy of the student and not vice-versa. It is through this, the absolute break down of reality and its fusion with fiction, that table art subverts all norms of classroom education and, by extension, society at large. It is because of this that I now end this paper with this last piece- “I love graffiti”.

Being CR

To Myself,
Bickering & Bitching,
Gratifying my own Vanity…
(…is this surprising? don’t delude yourself!)

I’ve been a good CR (class representative for the uninitiated). Yes, I have been quite an efficient, fair and unbiased CR who’s done his work as conscientiously and honestly as possible. I’ve been democratic and open and have always tried to maintain a balance between the interests of the class, the teachers and myself. Yes, I’ve been a pretty good CR.

But I’ve had my bad points as well. I’ve been too efficient, too caring, too considerate, and in being all of this, I’ve spoilt my class, spoilt the whole blooming lot of them. In telling them each and every thing; in meticulously planning out schedules, carefully arranging classes and religiously sending out messages to every single one of them, I’ve made them complacent, assuming and overbearing…

For example, just because I feel everybody has an equal right to know what is happening shouldn’t make people feel that they have an-equaller-than-thou right to treat me like a bloody (or bloodless!) walking, talking, living timetable! First, they can’t call. No sir, they needs must message you! But do try and understand their situation: poor outstation students from small towns surviving on shoestring budgets, living their miserable life somehow or the other away from their home and family…oh how tragic! How moving! Don’t you see, cruel heart, and still more cruel reader, that they have to save, they have to economise, they have to message? How else will they live their life of utmost drudgery? How else will they survive?

So, they message. And pray, when do they message? At the bewitching hour of 12, at 3 in the morning, at nine in the night! Dinner, lunch, tea, study, do what you will, the messages will follow you like that accursed pug, you and I in this god forsaken world! You might be deep in Indian mythology, you might be going along Chaucer to Canterbury, you might be walking with Socrates, but all in vain! Trrrrrrring-tin-tin! A message out of nowhere, a call back from the twenty-first century, rudely waking you up…

And what do we want to know? “hey!r v hvng d 8:40 cls wth bms tomrrw?”

Bloody hell! First you disturb me, you rudely pull me back to the reality which you poison with your presence and then ask me questions in such a preposterously sickening language! Damn you! You spoil my Romantic/Elizabethan/Medieval/Victorian/Augustan dreams with this! This! THIS!

And what if I reply, which I, out of a sense of duty, always do? What then? Nothing. No sign of gratitude, not a single thank you (or “thanx” as you type it!)!

Then, nobody has any phone etiquette. You call somebody to ask something, your call isn’t taken, you send a message stating your query and expect the person to at least message in reply- after all, we are classmates…

But no. Why the heck should I care? Why should I answer your question? Of course, it doesn’t really matter that I always answer your questions, but then so what? You’re the CR, aren’t you? You’re supposed to answer our questions! You owe it to us, while we, oh, we are divinities on earth, we are answerable to nobody. We’re in a bad mood, and we won’t reply. We sooo hate phone-calls. We suffer from amnesia and forget you even exist…

Forgetfulness was really endemic. You sent a message clearly specifying when which class is going to happen, yet the night before the class some bugger or the other would send a message asking for further clarification. You sent messages asking people to note down and choose any one of the ten presentation topics, yet there will be some chu-chu who will message late in the night before the presentations asking you to message back all ten of the topics. Oh gods, is it so difficult to understand instructions? So difficult to comprehend plain English? Have mercy on me, ye lords of swarga; have more mercy still on these poor dumb animals, these wolf-toothed sheep of your fold!

Well, ok, not really. There were a few well-mannered stalwarts, like Aastha, Ishaan, Prashaste, Abhimanyu, Meenakshi, Mayoura and Kiran, who would nicely thank you whenever their queries would be answered…Jonathon was the only person who really came up to my expectations of phone etiquette, calling back, and not messaging, to enquire why you had called…people like these made you feel the trouble was worth it. Yet, on the whole, the job has been pretty thankless.

Thankless. Yes, thankless. And they expect you to do more and more for them. Just because your system works well, they expect you to tweak it every now and then to suit them. A professor gave essays to be photocopied. You sent a message telling interested people to contact you within a time frame. You got them copied for as many people as approached you with money and gave the essays back to the teacher. But the very next day, you get a message asking you to “gt dem cpied 4 me,& ill pay u later”. Certainly your highness, certainly! As you like it! Ja exzellenz!

Teachers, of course, can also be high and mighty at times. Dramatic. Goddess-like (we anyways have a matriarchy in our Department of English…). At nine-thirty in the night, you’ll get a message announcing, nay, pronouncing, this shattering judgement- “Class is on”. If I fix tomorrow as the deadline for an assignment, then tomorrow it will unchangeably be. My word is law, my will immutable. What I wish, even the stars shall obey, for I am the liberated woman (no, female- we’re all gender-less in Literature!).

And to add to all of this, we had the Freshers and the Farewell as well. If the third years were prodigiously kind to direct us with the wisdom of their years for the former, the first years are being (it’s still to happen) extraordinarily generous in refreshing our perspective with their pseudo-suicidal/existential/nihilist tendencies. I’ve had a mood swing, so I won’t complete the work assigned to me. We had a meeting today? Oh, but we have a class and we can’t possibly attend- let’s have it later…What? Could’ve informed you we had a class yesterday evening when you sent the message? Well, I’m a little busy these days you know, and I just couldn’t...

Then, there are people who were so very keen to have the Farewell, people who’ve been thinking about it for a year or so. Sure, I appreciate your spirit, but then why the heck weren’t you ready with your plan? Why are you busy getting your act together now? Why, for blessed heaven’s sake, now, when you had the idea in mind for almost a year? Oh, I know you’ll manage to put up something fair in the remaining week, but then most of your work will be last minute preparation with hectic schedules! Why didn’t you plan in advance, so that we wouldn’t have to work at the eleventh hour? Why make my life difficult!

Of course, there were times when you felt everybody was conspiring to make your life difficult. Having an almost non-existent, embarrassingly invisible Dancing Queen as my fellow CR didn’t-doesn’t-help. People don’t expect her to work anyways, and things would inevitably get messy when she would all of a sudden wake up, realise that she had other responsibilities besides giving audience to all the sundry men of her retinue and assert her right to do as she pleased…this the heavy price we humble mortals pay for having thrice-born Queens amongst us…

Oh, I agree, I’m to blame for all of it. I and my stupid ideas about democracy and equality. “The only precondition will be that we do everything by democratic vote and that all of us be as equals.” Thinking that Athenian democratic ideals (yes, you can laugh- somebody already has, and now I’m more or less impervious) would work with a juvenile bunch of college students. What bosh!

Whatever. Que sera sera. It’s been an awfully great adventure being a good CR. It would be an awfully great one being a bad one…

* * *

Actually, I don’t mean all of it…
(Yes, I know: how disappointingly predictable! Yet, I tried my best!)

* * *