Muted Colours

The Standing Ovation

2008-02-23T02:41:00.002+05:30

I went for a play this evening at the end of which the cast and crew were treated to a standing ovation—something which seems to me to have become so commonplace nowadays in this city as to have lost its meaning of genuine appreciation. I think I’ve witnessed it at every performance, regardless of merit, that I have been to in the last three years, leading me therefore to speculate on this phenomenon of The Standing Ovation:

(a) I believe that among the first set of people who stand up, for many it is an automatic Pavlovian reaction: the moment they see the cast assemble on-stage to take the final bow, they spring from their seats. For some it is one more thing to talk about; perhaps it gives the feeling of having participated than having been merely a passive spectator. Others have been waiting for an excuse to stretch their legs (the post-Independence generations are far more restless than the ones that came before them).

(b) After the first few people have stood up the rest follow primarily because of the herd instinct in us. The great invisible intangible yet very real social pressure to conform takes over and we’d feel embarrassed and very silly if we keep sitting while everyone all around us is standing. I’d be lying if I deny that this isn’t one of the reasons why I stand up.

But the main reason why I get off my butt is because—dammit! The rest of you are blocking my view. How am I to see what’s going on up there if I don’t stand up?

I do take a stand however by not clapping if I didn’t like the performance.

A few days in Hyderabad

2007-10-30T23:49:00.000+05:30

I went down south to Hyderabad for a week. To have a look around. I wasn’t expecting much from the trip because I didn’t know much about Hyderabad before this. I knew the Charminar stood there… but my knowledge of the Pearl City was limited to about that much. However, as I found out, the city has much more to offer to people like me. If you are interested in art and history and travel, then a few days in Hyderabad will not disappoint you. Hyderabad is a goldmine for students of history or of architecture because of the number of palaces, mosques, mausoleums, and other monuments in and around the place. Unfortunately, as I do not yet own a camera I could not take any pictures—and there are many beautiful places and sights in Hyderabad to photograph.

The best time to visit Hyderabad is after the monsoons. My friends who stay in the city (and who are not from Southern India) tell me that summer is unbearably hot there. It’s always hot in the daytime, but because of the low humidity one doesn’t perspire too much. If you are planning a trip to Hyderabad, I would recommend that you go there sometime in the last few months of the year, and if possible just before Id-ul-Fitr—for the simple reason that then you will get to taste Hyderabadi haleem which I am told is delicious (and which I didn’t get to have).

Perhaps it will help to first have a rough idea of the geography of the place. The city was originally built on the Musi River. To the south of the Musi lies the Old City (Charminar, et al). To the north of the river roughly till Hussain Sagar Lake is the main metropolitan area. It is this central region and the area further westwards that houses the modern city. North of the lake lies Secunderabad. Secunderabad may have been Hyderabad’s ‘twin city’ at some point in their history, but now it is just a part of the latter.

There are quite a few sights to see in Hyderabad. I shall restrict myself to only what I saw, and did, and learned. Further, I shall try my best to refrain from writing about everything I learned. The city has seen four centuries of Indian history, all of which I find very interesting. I will try and resist the temptation to unload this information on my unsuspecting readers.

Hyderabad was founded in 1591, and has since then played a prominent role in the history of this region. The city manages to maintain a balance between its past and its present. Here I found ultra-modern IT towers a few kilometers away from medieval minarets. Burqas in the Old City and short skirts at the pubs. One can almost see the Westernization of the city spreading steadily from the centre outwards. After a while I got used to the sight of a swanky mall a few meters away from a century-old mosque: the new city builds itself around the old.

I suppose this trend started a decade ago with the deliberate aggressive promotion of IT and ITES industries. Hyderabad overhauled its infrastructure to lure MNCs to the city. With these companies came a young workforce from all over India, bringing cosmopolitan ideas, attitudes, and lifestyles with them. An auto-driver I got into a conversation with complained that Chandrababu Naidu had developed Hyderabad at the cost of other regions in Andhra. The broad, clean, well-laid out and well-lit roads; the MMTS (local intra-city train service) stations; the flyovers (and more are being built); the parks; the mega-malls and flagship stores of famous brands; the numerous luxury hotels; all showed signs of a lot of money having been poured into infrastructure. The external accoutrements of modernization are all present. During the time that I was in the city, the IV^th World Military Games were being held there and it seemed to me that Hyderabad certainly has the resources to host such an event.

There is no need to write about ‘modern’ Hyderabad. It is just the same as any other urban metropolitan centre. A large number of visitors to the city are, understandably, people on business trips. I met an old acquaintance there who had come to Hyderabad for a day to sign a deal. Unlike me, he had been to the city several times before but had not seen anything beyond the Charminar and the Mecca Masjid. This is also true of a good number of young people working in the city who have come here from different parts of the country. They prefer to stick to their malls and their MacDonald’s, and have not experienced those parts of Hyderabadi culture that is unique to the city. Of course, since I wished to acquaint myself with every aspect of the city, I went and had a look at the Cyber Towers and other office complexes of Madhapur, sauntered down Eat Street, admired the bungalows of the super-rich in Jubilee Hills, and hung around in the sprawling malls of Panjagutta and Banjara Hills. But I advise kindred spirits to leave these till after you have partaken of the main course of attractions on offer.

Day One

I began with a trip westwards to the Qutub Shahi tombs. This is a set of mausoleums of the Qutub Shahi rulers (the dynasty that founded Hyderabad), and of their relatives. I spent a couple of hours exploring them. These magnificent domed tombs are about 400 hundred years old, and signs of the wear and tear of time are evident. The tombs were at one time decorated with chandeliers, and coloured tiles and golden spires. Now all that remains is the gray granite façade with its crumbling ornamentation, and overgrown wild grass. But these tombs, along with the Charminar, are nonetheless some of the best remaining examples of Qutub Shahi architecture.

A short distance away from these tombs lies Golconda fort. If you have an imagination like mine, a sense of history will grab you from the moment you pass under the arches of the Fateh Darwaza (Victory Gate). I reached Golconda in the late afternoon, so I got to spend just two hours exploring the fort before the light started to fade. Not enough time.

Originally founded in the 12^th century, Golconda was built by three successive dynasties of Hindu and Muslim rulers. It was the centre of the Qutub Shahi kingdom in the 16^th century. The diamond mines of Golconda gave birth to some of the most famous jewels in the world like the Koh-i-noor, the Hope Diamond, and the Darya-e-Noor.

Golconda is truly majestic even in its ruins. If you are ever there take your time to look around the place. The fort is built on a hill, and I paused often on the climb to the top to take in the magnificent panorama that the height provides. Hyderabad lay spread out under my eyes. Nearly every tiny building of the city below was painted white, which led me to incorrectly assume that this was the reason for the epithet of “the Pearl City”. In spite of the large number of tourists crawling all over the place, you can still find some nook to perch on as you enjoy the view, buffeted by the strong breeze.

The Light and Sound Show that took place in the fort complex once the sun set was entertaining and educative, and is not to be missed. The booming baritone of Amitabh Bachchan narrates the story of Golconda and explains its peculiar features.

In the evening I headed off to Secunderabad for dinner. During my stay in Hyderabad I tried out a number of restaurants in Secunderabad. The most talked about restaurant here is Paradise, especially for its biryani. Personally, I didn’t find the food there all that good. Perhaps I should have ordered something else. The place I recommend for its biryani is Alpha, near Secunderabad railway station. This is also the place where I got to taste the famous sweet-dish Qubani ka Meetha: stewed apricots in sugar syrup. Be warned—it is very very sweet. If you are in the mood for Chinese, Nanking is the restaurant to visit. Every time I have been there, I have seen people waiting outside to get into this popular joint.

Day Two

I took a bus to Afzalgunj, crossed the bridge over the Musi on foot and walked down to the Charminar, stopping for a cup of Irani chai and biscuits at the Madina restaurant. Irani chai is so named presumably after the Iranians who settled in Hyderabad during the time of the Qutub Shahi dynasty, and introduced their way of preparing tea. Irani chai is available all over the city and is milkier and sweeter than the tea I have had elsewhere. One thing I have noticed is that whenever you ask for Irani chai at a restaurant (like, in Alpha or at the Madina) it is served in white porcelain cups with a lot of tea in the white porcelain saucer on which it rests. But tea and biscuits were not enough: I needed more sustenance for the long day ahead. My friend the Hipposaur has sniffed out a hole-in-the-wall operation, going under the name of Jehangiri Kebabs, which he recommends highly. It wasn’t too difficult to locate: the “wall” in question is the Machhli Kamaan, one of the massive arches you will pass under on the way to the Charminar. I had a most delicious meal of kebabs with a really, really large parathaa (the name of which I’m unable to recall) and chutney.

It was a Sunday: a flea market was in progress on either side of the street, where vendors sell all sorts of useless junk that you have to see to believe. If something does capture your fancy, don’t buy it for more than 20% of the price demanded by the vendor.

The Charminar was built on the orders of Muhammad Quli Qutb Shah, the founder of Hyderabad. It stands today at the centre of a busy crossroad, its four arches facing the four cardinal compass points. Thankfully, this building is still quite well preserved, in spite of the thoughtless vandalism of immature tourists who use its walls to record valuable information for future generations, such as their names (and that of their paramours, of course, inscribed within a heart) and their phone numbers, among other things. The oldest mosque in Hyderabad is situated on the roof of the Charminar. A dark narrow winding set of stone stairs led to the top floor; I had to mind my head and watch my step. The balconies here offer a beautiful bird’s-eye view of the hustle and bustle of the crowded city streets. I spent a good while up here on the roof looking down on the unceasing ordered chaos of the markets and by-lanes below. It is so—Indian.

Something caught my eye when I went down again. On the south-eastern base of the monument, abutting the structure, I saw a Lakshmi temple. I felt a wave of irritation when I saw that. Perhaps I misunderstood, but it is so typical of fundamentalist Hindus to do something like that. If they could have their way I am sure they would not hesitate to pull down the Charminar, like they demolished the Babri Masjid, in their quest to preserve our “heritage”.

From here, one of the largest mosques in India is just a few paces away. Both the times that I visited the Mecca Masjid, it was so full of tourists, tour guides and touts that I will always think of the place more as a tourist spot than as a mosque. Another giant granite structure, its construction was begun by the Qutub Shahi kings and completed by the man who put an end to their rule: the Mughal emperor Aurangzeb.

Taking a walk through the Laad Bazaar is unique experience for those who keep their eyes open for there is much to see here even if you do not intend to buy anything (and if you do intend on making purchases, I hope you know how to bargain). Also known as Choodi Bazaar, this place is famous for glass bangles, pearls, semi-precious stones, perfumes, fabrics, sherwanis, saris and women’s clothings. The entire place is colourful and noisy. Large numbers of women haggle over rows upon rows of glass bangles in the hundreds of tiny shops lining the crowded street. I was really lucky—I chanced upon a tiny shop tucked away in one corner of this chaos where I got to see these glass bangles being made. Walking through the bazaars of the Old City I was constantly reminded of the poem...

What do you sell O ye merchants?
Richly your wares are displayed.
Turbans of crimson and silver,
Tunics of purple brocade,
Mirror with panels of amber,
Daggers with handle of jade.

What do you weigh, O ye vendors?
Saffron and lentil and rice.
What do you grind, O ye maidens?
Sandalwood, henna, and spice.
What do you call, O ye peddlers?
Chessman and ivory dice.

What do you make, O ye goldsmiths?
Wristlets and ankles and ring,
Bells for the feet of blue pigeons
Frail as a dragon- fly's wing,
Girdles of gold for dancers,
Scabbards of gold for the king.

What do you cry, O ye fruit men?
Citron, pomegranate, and plum.
What do you play, O magicians?
Spells for aeons to come.

What do you weave, O ye flower-girls
With tassels of azure and red?
Crowns for the brow of a bridegroom,
Chaplets to garland his bed,
Sheets of white blossoms new-garnered
To perfume the sleep of the dead.

I had never seen so many women in black burqas before this. Normally, in a sea of people, one cannot distinguish the men from the women from a distance at a glance. But here the distinctive black costume segregates the men from most of the women. I see the burqa as a restrictive practice imposed upon women to keep them in check, and yet as I walked through Hyderabad I could not help but think that the anonymity of the burqa gives these women a certain measure of freedom on the streets, much in the same way that the anonymity of the internet sets you free. These burqas were not mere plain black outfits: bits of ornamentation with sequins and embroidery could be seen in on the hemlines and the borders of the sleeves, and every burqa had its own unique ornamentation. And then, all of a sudden, in the midst of all these people, I spot this young woman, in a black burqa like the women around her, but with her face and her head uncovered. She had a smile on her face as she walked through the crowd, her long coloured hair open and spread out on her shoulders. Our eyes met for an instant, and in her eyes there was a twinkle which seemed to say “I dare”.

I walked on to the beautiful Chowmahalla Palace, which once upon a time was the seat of the Nizams of Hyderabad. A short history lesson is necessary here before we proceed further. As I mentioned before, Aurangzeb defeated the Qutub Shahi sultanate. The Mughal emperor appointed his own governor over the region, giving him the title of ‘Nizam’. Nizam Asaf Jah I gained independence from Mughal rule, and thus began the Asaf Jahi dynasty—the fabulously wealthy Nizams of Hyderabad—the last dynasty to rule Hyderabad before it became a part of the Indian Union in 1948.

For those of you interested in Indian history, Chowmahalla Palace is a fascinating place, and the government has done a commendable job in turning the palace into a museum of sorts. A detailed history of the Asaf Jahi dynasty, with beautiful photographs, artifacts, and personal effects are preserved and presented here. The palace grounds are well-maintained. The durbar hall with its gaddi (throne) and its pillars, its chandeliers and its ornamentation is out of a fairy tale. I think I spent nearly three hours here looking over everything and I still feel that I hurried through it.

It is in places like these that history comes alive for me. Palaces and forts have stories to tell. I notice that most tourists merely go blindly through the motions of looking at things and taking pictures: they do not see that places like these were ‘alive’ once, with real people—people like them—walking down the corridors or ramparts. They lack the imagination. And then there are dull lectures on dates and dry facts doled out to uninterested students by professors who don’t know how to teach. It is only when you are sitting high up on the stones of Golconda—looking down on the land and the rivers, where people lived and for which they fought and died, spread out far below you—it is then that those notes you hurriedly jotted down in the classroom make complete sense.

I left Chowmahalla as they rang the closing bell, and found my way to Shadab (opposite Madina restaurant). Here I treated myself to a well-deserved plate of biryani and kebabs after all that walking. Shadab is famous for its biryani so the place was quite crowded: I had to wait a while for a table here.

Day Three

On the third day I headed back to the Old City. I had read a lot about Purani Haveli (which originally served as the residence of Hyderabadi statesmen), mainly to the effect that there are a lot of interesting things to see there, including beautiful European architecture and the largest wardrobe in the world comprising an entire wing of the building. Finding my way there was tricky: apparently ‘Purani Haveli’ is the name given to the entire locality; you need to ask for the Nizam’s Museum.

One wing of the complex had been converted into some sort of a school. The entrance to the museum seemed shabby, leading up from the ground floor (the school) to the first floor (from the look of it, the museum was comprised of just one floor of one wing of the entire building complex). I decided not to pay the Rs.70 entry fee for the single-floor ‘museum’, and explore the rest of the building and its grounds, but I was shooed away by the guards. No one knew of any other Purani Haveli nearby, and so I left rather disappointed.

Two other places that I wanted to visit in the Old City but could not were the Badshahi Ashurkhana and the Falaknama Palace. Ashurkhanas are mourning halls for the annual Muharram celebrations. This Ashurkhana built by one of the Qutub Shahi sultans is one of the finest in the country. It is supposed to be located near the Charminar but I couldn’t find it. The Falaknama Palace on the other hand is not difficult to find, but it is now private property and hence not open to mere mortals such as I. It is considered to be one of the most magnificent palaces in India. What a pity… this was one place that I really wanted to see.

I decided to return to the city proper and see what it has to offer. The AP State Museum has an impressive (but poorly labeled) collection of Hindu, Muslim, Buddhist and Jain artifacts. The building itself looks impressive but I am not sure if it is the real McCoy: it may have just been built to look medieval. Close by, in the same Public Gardens area is the State Legislative Assembly building which too is beautiful. You will always find a bird resting on the head of the huge statue of Gandhi there. A colossal monolithic statue of the Buddha is situated in the middle of Hussain Sagar Lake, a man-made lake which is nearly 450 years old. The lake is beautiful to look at but quite polluted from all the idol immersions and from the oil leaking from the boats that ferry tourists to and from the statue. The people of the city should do something to clean it up. Tank Bund is situated to the east of the lake, connecting Hyderabad to Secunderabad; along its length are 33 statues of famous people from Andhra. I took an evening stroll down Tank Bund to take a good look at these statues and ended up disturbing a number of couples coochie-cooing behind these statues.

Day Four

Next morning I visited the Salar Jung Museum. It showcases a very large collection of paintings, sculpture and numerous eclectic objets d’art belonging to the Salar Jungs, the Prime Ministers to the Nizams of Hyderabad. This is a fascinating private collection. I was here the entire day and I consider my time well spent.

I left the museum in the evening and headed for the structure that seems to dominate the city skyline. Situated on a hillock the Birla Mandir is made of pure white marble. The temple is beautifully illuminated at night, and its high balconies provide a great view of the city. Scenes from the Raamayan and the Mahaabhaarat are carved into the walls and ceiling of the temple. It is certainly the grandest of the three Birla temples that I have seen.

Day Five

Now that I had paid homage to the Qutub Shahis, hobnobbed with the Asaf Jahis, and had met the Salar Jungs, I thought that it was high time that I visited the Paigah Tombs in Santoshnagar. I must admit that I was a little disappointed at first by the unimpressive entrance, the half-naked children tearing up and down the place, and the shabby neglected state of the tombs themselves. Homeless people and the caretakers’ extended families may have taken up residence here today, but judging from the high degree of artistry in the ornamentation of these edifices I guess that these tombs must have been a grand place at some point in history.

Indeed, I cannot recall seeing such intricate calligraphic carvings on any other monument I have seen in this journey. The beauty of the inlay work is beyond comparison. Not surprising, when you consider that the Paigahs were the premier nobility of Hyderabad and were related to the Nizams by ties of blood and marriage. A number of important nobles and daughters of the Nizams are buried here. All the more reason to feel shocked at the neglect that this place is subjected to. The tombs have been vandalized and semi-precious stones removed from them. It is a sad comment on the way we destroy our cultural heritage.

Even though I paid my entry fee, I couldn’t step into most of the tombs because the beautifully carved wooden door of each individual tomb was padlocked. Fortunately for me, a woman sitting there started talking to me and she convinced the caretaker to open the place up for me. The man grumbled at first, but soon became friendly enough to give me a tour of the place. I had a little difficulty understanding his accent, and I still think that he was pulling my leg with some of the things he told me. He let slip that visitors occasionally tipped him; since he didn’t press the point I left him without a tip, just with my thanks.

Next on my itinerary was the tomb of the Frenchman Michel Joachim Marie Raymond who served as the army general to one of the Nizams. Strangely no one—no one—had even heard of a Raymond’s Tomb. I finally found the place with great difficulty after much wandering around in wrong places (Raymond’s Tomb is situated up a hillock, behind Malakpet TV tower). It’s not all that impressive really, except for the Grecian architecture of the main mausoleum. If the caretaker of this place was telling the truth then the tomb of the general’s wife is dwarfed by the other two tall memorials here—dedicated to his horse and his dog!

In the evening I found myself in the shopping area of Abids. I had been keen on having a look at the second-hand book sale that, I’ve been told, takes place on Abids Road every Sunday, where one can purchase books at throw-away prices. But because I had spent so much time in the Old City on Sunday I had missed it. But I didn’t mope around for my friends directed me to a wonderful second-hand bookstore called Best Books. This shop is an amazing place. It has a very large collection of all sorts of books on every subject. It’s a great place for literature students: I landed up there twice during my stay and bought 18 books in all, spending nearly my entire budget here! A visit to Best Books is highly recommended.

The Next Few Days

Secunderabad too had some interesting places to offer. The beautiful granite edifice of the very impressive Osmania Arts College building displays a blend of architectural styles and made me regret again that I wasn’t carrying a camera. Osmania University was the first modern university in the country where the medium of instruction was an Indian language (Urdu). Moula Ali Dargah and Fatema Zaara Dargah are located high up on twin granite hillocks. The beautiful view and the even more beautiful natural rock formations make it worth the climb.

I visited Osman Sagar Lake (further west of Golconda) as well, but other than the beautiful view, the cool breeze, and the amusing warning signs about crocodiles, the place didn’t have much to offer. It is mainly a picnic spot for Hyderabadis, nothing more. If you wish to visit the place ask for Gandipet, for that is how it is popularly known.

The beautiful Spanish Mosque in Begumpet caught my attention, but I wasn’t able to enter. The mosque, with its unusual European architecture, is supposed to be the only one of its kind in India. I believe the mosque is built by Sir Vikhar-ul-Umra, the same Paigah noble who built the very European-style Falaknama Palace. Incidentally, his tomb (among the Paigah Tombs mentioned before) is a very simple one.

Last Words…

Even though I don’t speak Telegu, I got along comfortably well because pretty much everyone understands and speaks Hindi or English (although there were a couple of instances when the person I was talking to spoke Hindi with such a pronounced accent that I couldn’t make a head or tail of what he was trying to say in spite of making him repeat himself two-three times).

The city has a good bus service which is quite inexpensive. The Mahatma Gandhi Bus Station in Hyderabad is one of the largest in Asia. The buses are usually quite crowded, but the people haven’t yet learned how to stand in a bus so as to utilize the space to the maximum. Commuters on a bus in Hyderabad will stand facing the direction of the bus (instead of facing the windows) thus using up more space per person. Weird.

The auto-rickshaws are the equivalents of taxis. Most of the auto-rickshaw drivers are crooked. They refuse to return extra change and will overcharge you if they realize that you are not a local. Always insist on paying by the meter before getting in.

Hyderabad has a large number of two-wheelers. Hardly anyone wears a helmet and the cops don’t bother to enforce it (in fact the cops don’t seem to try and enforce any traffic rule). If the biker is wearing a helmet then the pillion rider is not. All motorists drive recklessly without any consideration for others. On many occasions I have seen vehicles jump the red light. Zebra crossings are mere decorations for there are no traffic lights to guide a pedestrian. In fact you are free to cross the road wherever and whenever you want: just pray and sprint across.

[If you are planning a trip to Hyderabad and would like more information on these places that I have mentioned, or if you want directions to and from these places, feel free to leave a question in the comments section of this post. Before you visit these places do check the closing time. Most of these museums and mausoleums close their gates by 5pm. Further, many monuments and places of interest in Hyderabad remain shut not only on public holidays but also on Fridays.]

The moment...

2007-09-22T02:47:00.000+05:30

It had been a rainy day, but it wasn’t raining then. The sky was full of ponderous dark clouds moving slowly westwards; like an army marching across the sky. I was up on the terrace, enjoying the force of the wind buffeting me. I recognised the moment; one of those times when only what was true and beautiful remained, and the rest faded away. I knew that I was standing under an uninterrupted stretch of teal and gray, extending in every direction as far as the eye could see; I did not know if the city below still existed.

Perhaps I sought out these moments. Or perhaps these moments sought me out. I had been reading in my bedroom by the window. The whisper of the breeze had deepened to the roar of a wind, calling me out. Do I seek out these moments? Or do these moments seek me out?

Solitude is lovely in these moments. The vast open sky gives a sense of freedom. As my eyes scan the infinite above, my mind explores the infinity within. Thoughts sneak into the conscious mind which otherwise would get caught in the mesh of everyday life. Ideas come out to play in moments like these, ideas that would typically be filtered out as inessential and distracting to the business of existing.

And when the mind brims over with thoughts, I no longer want to be alone, but wish for someone to talk to. A friend; a stranger; a kindred spirit; who will understand and share the moment.

Why we blog...

2007-08-13T03:09:00.002+05:30

A blog tracking engine claims that there are over 108.6 million blogs on the internet. Why do people blog? A blog is like a diary. One can either hide one’s diary from people, or choose to show it to some people, or show it to everyone. The very fact that one publishes one’s writings online means that she/he wishes them to be read; if not by the uncomprehending many, then at least by the sympathetic few. This is why we publish online (if we could have, most of us would have shared our ideas in the form of a printed book). You may not be asking anyone to read what you write, but you do want someone out there to read, perhaps even understand, what you are saying.

This is why you blog, why the next person blogs. If not to be heard above the din of the mob (yes, that would be nice), then at least to have said what one feels should be said. It doesn't matter if it is an anonymous blog, like the faceless voice which is drowned out in the general cacophony. What matters is that you answered that call within you, urging you to speak your mind, however faint your voice may be.

It is this same urge that gave birth to the arts: to painting, and music, and poetry, and sculpture. It is this same urge that prompts the school-boy to scratch his initials on a desk. “GV was here”. We wish to leave something behind in this impermanent, changing world; something that lasts, if not forever, then perhaps a little longer than we did; something that establishes my identity: “I” did exist. A tiny insignificant mark analogous to our insignificant existence in this indifferent universe. But a mark, nonetheless. Undeniable.

Paedophilia and Consensual Sex

2007-07-30T08:55:00.000+05:30

A question has been at the back of my mind for nearly a week now. The problem resolved itself without me having to think too much about it.

I believe that everyone should have equal freedom and rights in all matters which do not concern anyone but themselves. I believe that society should tolerate sexual orientations which deviate from the dominant norm of heterosexuality. But does this mean that we should extend similar acceptance to the sexual preferences of paedophiles? Am I being a hypocrite when I refuse to accept their sexual freedom and personal choice?

Perhaps you may ask: Why give it a thought in the first place? Paedophiles are obviously twisted monsters. I have always believed in questioning the ‘obvious’. Suppressing something simply because it goes against the tastes of the majority is no reason for suppressing it.

In this case the answer is quite simple. Sex must be consensual. Children do not know what is being done to them, or what they are being made to do; therefore acts of paedophilia are unacceptable.

However, I do believe that as long as sex is consensual and both parties are fully aware of what they are doing, there is nothing wrong in sex between two minors or even between an adult and a minor.

NIFT, here I come!

2007-07-29T11:06:00.001+05:30

[A rather silly rich chick asked my friend MJ to help her out with her application to NIFT. One of the questions on the application form was: “Write on one book that you have read recently which has influenced you”. This girl wanted MJ to write a book review on The Alchemist for her. MJ’s a busy girl, so she delegated the task to me. I was happy to oblige.]

One-book-that-I've-been-influenced-by-recently— is The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho. It tells the story of a simple shepherd boy called Santiago who dreams of a hidden treasure, and travels far from home to find it. On the way he has many adventures; falls in love; and meets many interesting people who offer him advice on life, the universe and everything. To cut a (by my standard) long story short, in the end he gets the gold and the girl and lives happily ever after.

Why have I chosen this book? Well, even a shallow intellect like mine can understand that Sidney Sheldon and Danielle Steele are not the best choices in answer to your question. With my extensive reading (two to three half-finished books a year; that's one better than my friends), The Alchemist was inevitable. I do realise that every third person will be writing about The Alchemist for this question, but I didn't have much of a choice.

Of course, if so many wildly excited people had not recommended this book to me I would never have read it. My equally silly friends waxed eloquent in their limited vocabulary in praise of the book: “It is so niiiiiice! You'll looooooove it! You muuuuuust read it! Just must!!” I am very glad I did, for it changed my life forever for a couple of days.

The story is told in the form of a fable and is thus written in a simple language. Lucky for me, or else my juvenile mind would not have followed the narrative. Not that I am capable of explaining the simple symbolism in the story, but I have vaguely grasped what the author is trying to say...thingy...I think. Don't ask me to put it in words.

Another helpful factor was the complete lack of characterisation which would otherwise have complicated the story, given it more depth, and challenged my faculties of comprehension. Every stranger Santiago meets talks like they are quoting books on self-improvement. Every character down to the camel-driver has to throw in his two-cents worth.

Pumped up by this book, I eagerly started on another book by Coelho, but my interest fizzled out after a few chapters. Maybe it was because Zee Cine Awards was to be shown at the same time as Kasautii Zindagii Kay and I had to make up my mind which one to watch. This was no light decision and required heavy thought, since I would have to be ready with my banal comments when my gang would discuss them when we would meet the next day. I haven't read any other book by Coelho (or any novel that's not a bestseller) but during my initial wave of enthusiasm I did buy two others. Does that count? The reviews on the back cover mentioned “The Alchemist”...

It is not surprising that materialistic philistines like us are “deeply affected” by books like The Alchemist. People like us don't have a sense of wonder in the first place and are in constant need of artificial stimulants. On top of that we have read so little that we won't realise that this book says nothing new. As it is we are suckers for profoundly philosophical statements like “Follow your dreams” and “Listen to your heart” which are liberally sprinkled throughout this book, along with similar trite observations on “the Soul of the World” (which, I am proud to say, I can pretend to understand better than my other friends). It seems that Robin Sharma, Richard Bach, Sri Sri Ravi Shankar, and other such pundits collaborated on the book. Of course none of us are actually going to practise what Coelho preaches—we have neither the courage nor the sensitivity.

In-conclusion-I-would-say-that— The Alchemist is inspirational, transcendental, fascinating, magical: in other words, the usual crap that moves us into raptures of ecstasy. I can't find fit words to describe it—these last four were copied from back of the paperback. In fact I did not even write this essay myself. I googled for a review but even copy-pasting that was too tiresome, and required a minimum level of intelligence and imagination that I am bereft of. So I asked a friend of mine to write it for me. She's very sweet and pretty but rather dark. An expensive visit to my mother's beauty parlour would do wonders for her hair and my mom's bank balance. I just copy-pasted what she sent to me without even reading it first. Now that I've answered your question may I get into NIFT, please? If you are worried about standards and stuff, I assure you that it won't make any difference—this country's headed nowhere as it is.

Why I hate classes at CU

2007-06-29T09:22:00.000+05:30

It is easy to get disillusioned in a place like Calcutta University. Not that my expectations were high to begin with, but only your own enthusiasm for the subject can keep you going if you are in a class like mine. An atmosphere seems to hang about this place, affecting both the teachers and the students of the university (I speak only for my particular department, and specifically my MA 1^st year class). This stultifying atmosphere of disinterest and lassitude pervades the class, dampening the spirit, dragging one down. I suppose this essay stems from a desire to purge myself of this ‘miasma’ through a deliberate act of creation. Where do I begin?

There are more than two hundred students in my class. Half of this lot do not, in the least bit, seem to be interested in literature—or in any of the Arts for that matter.¹ They are here only for a post-graduate degree; they are not here to learn anything. One doesn’t learn only from one’s teacher, but also from one’s fellow students. The only thing I have learned from my fellow students at CU is not to expect the kind of positive influence of talented peers that I’ve been used to so far.

Far from expressing themselves coherently in English, some of my classmates are clearly unable to construct grammatically correct sentences that involve more than six or seven words. We are talking about an MA English class here. It is therefore no wonder that nearly all of them depend entirely on guide-books² for passing the exams (and like I said, passing the exam—getting that degree—is all that matters to them). I’ve noticed that quite a few of my classmates do not read the actual texts prescribed in the syllabus: they merely read the simplified summary provided in these guide-books. Tuition notes provide the supplementary material needed for ‘studies’.³ At the start of the session, among the very first things that us Xaverians were asked by our new classmates was where/from whom do we take tuition, and which guide-books do we recommend.

Further, on being told that a certain novel which is in the syllabus had been read a few years ago, a classmate marvels: O, tui undergrad-ei pore neeyechheesh? That line provides an insight into how a majority in my class look at these poems, essays, plays and novels that are there in the syllabus. These are ‘textbooks’ which have to be studied; one has to study them to get that desired degree. Hence, each ‘textbook’ comes with a tag, a difficulty rating of sorts: school level, under-grad level, post-grad level, and so on.

For literature students, my classmates don’t seem to have read much. After reading the primary text, the studious ones here devour books on criticism instead of reading other works by the same author, or similar works by different authors. Their reading is more often than not restricted to what is in the syllabus. Whatever is not a part of that selected list will not be there in the exam and is hence a waste of time. Extra reading for them comprises other people’s opinions on the texts in the syllabus, which are promptly learnt up by heart. Students nowadays seem to rely entirely on what other people have said on the topic. I feel this discourages originality and independent thinking.⁴ I, for my part, have always tried to avoid quoting critics unnecessarily.

Thankfully, there are at least a few people (though a disappointingly small number) in class who have some idea about music, cinema, painting, and the related arts. I still find it quite astonishing that hardly anyone in a literature class of a reputed university has seen pictures of Greek vases paintings (though if report were to be believed, one of my classmates claimed to have seen ancient Greek oil paintings!) or even heard of Ming vases. They do not recognize the names John Malkovich or Richard Wagner. It’s like they wandered into the wrong classroom, liked the colour of the fans, and so decided to stay. In a lecture on Romanticism and Marx, heads were nodding animatedly, not because they understood what was being said but because they suddenly encountered one name they recognised at last. Among MA students a certain level of knowledge should be taken for granted: people who need to be told that the 1700s are the 18^th century should not be doing their MA in English. Sample this: in the course of a particular class the professor digressed into a discussion on the typical diametrical representation of the woman in art as the madonna/whore. A guy sitting nearby enquired of his friend: Ae, Renaissance Italy-te Madonna koth-theke aelo?

An intelligent lecture is lost on this mob of philistines. Some are pretentious, some are obtuse, some are petty and immature; most of them appear to be downright silly. They laugh at the slightest pretext; they would, in all likelihood, suffocate themselves to death if they sat down to watch a farce. It takes little to make them laugh: on being told that the population of all of Estonia roughly equals that of Calcutta the class spluttered into a prolonged giggling fit. Sudden bursts of laughter at hitherto unknown facts are common. They don’t seem to be sure whether or not the teacher is making a joke, so they laugh just the same to be on the safe side. When engaged in a serious discussion they betray their parochial outlook and limited imagination.

Let me make it very clear that it is not ignorance that bothers me: I am an ignorant person myself. I am the first to admit that I know far less than I should know; that I have not read as much as I should have read; that I get my grammar and syntax mixed up resulting in some tortured constructions. But before I go into what exactly annoys me about being in this class, I need to complete the picture.

The professors of the department, unfortunately, do not make things any better. Some of them say the most ridiculous things in attempting to teach the texts.⁵ The teachers frequently get their facts wrong (nothing wrong with that—except that when it keeps happening over and over again, it seriously undermines a student’s confidence in her/his teacher). Some crack the stupidest jokes, playing to the galleries for applause which is readily given to them. One particular professor’s English is almost as bad as that of the students’. Increasingly, I find myself sitting in class only for the sake of getting my required attendance percentage.

All of them know what they are talking about. But in spite of their obvious scholarship, their lectures are vapid and uninteresting, and they are unable to communicate with the students. I can’t really blame my professors for this. The students don’t show much interest in what the professor on the dais has to say: most are either sleeping or gossiping during the lectures.⁶ I’m sure it is irritating to observe that a lecture which one has prepared for the class being ignored by half the people present. To get through to the class you need to dumb it down a few notches, and explain it twice or thrice in Bangla. The large number of students in the class serves only to compound any problem there is. On those rare occasions when a teacher displays an ardour for what is being taught without resorting to gimmicks, her/his enthusiasm washes over the class like water over plastic: the students’ apathy protects them from absorbing anything. I’m not surprised that the lectures are dull: I’ve been here for just eight months and I feel enervated already; they’ve been here much longer. However, such flat and uninspiring performances on their part further dampen the enthusiasm of students like me who are genuinely interested in the subject. Once the lectures become uninteresting, I’m interested only in my attendance; and when that is all that interests me, I will only be sleeping or chatting in class.⁷

Life in CU sucks the life out of you. Studying literature was never this boring. The attitude of the students and teachers makes the experience quite frustrating as well. Their apathy eventually becomes irksome. Add to that the juvenile pettiness of certain sections of the class, their unresolved inferiority complex a chip on their shoulder. Attention-seekers and approval-seekers, windbags and wannabes, pedants and sycophants: you have them all here.⁸ There are some specimens that specialise in indiscriminately asking questions at the end of every class, the purpose being to ingratiate themselves with the professors. They merely make the teachers repeat whatever they have already said in class. Further, when they do ask something which was not already mentioned they want this new information spoon-fed to them. The answers to most of their questions are ones that can be figured out with a little thought, but nobody seems to be willing to put in the effort to think things out for themselves: they want the processed final product, a simple easy-to-digest summary. Since I always mind my own business, the puerile inadequacies of imbecilic batch-mates would not merit a mention here if they didn’t keep throwing themselves in my way. They can behave in any way they like—but why on my time? They just can’t seem to keep themselves happy without involving me in their silly self-deceitful games.

I don’t know why these people fritter away two years of their life in this manner. Why waste your time doing something you do not care about? If a post-graduate degree is all that they are interested in then they should at least enrol themselves into a course that they would enjoy. Or do a vocational course which will help one get a job.
Simplicity of language is the characteristic feature of all guide-books. Every book stall on College Street stocks up on guide-books.
I have nothing against tuitions for I have come to realise that quite a few of the texts in the MA (and some in the BA) syllabus are too difficult for students to study by themselves, without guidance. The reason for this difficulty, however, is not just in the texts. From elementary schooling till graduation, most students have studied under a system which spoon-feeds information to them. Habituated as we are to such a system, we are unable to develop the independent thinking and critical reasoning necessary for studying without depending on tuitions.
It’s a vicious circle: when you start depending on others to do the talking for you, you start losing the ability to think for yourself; the more you lose the ability to think for yourself, the more you will depend on others to bolster your arguments.
While this usually leaves me in splits, the rest of the students don’t realize the stupidity of what they are hearing because they neither have a command over the language, nor do they know the texts themselves.
These students, as I have pointed out before, are only interested in acquiring a degree. According to the University stipulations, one must attend a certain number of classes to be eligible for the degree. Since these students have their tuitions and their guide-books, they need not pay attention in class: merely show up and be marked present.
Another vicious circle. The only solution I see is to reduce the number of students by half (since they’re only interested in a degree, they can get one in any subject). If the University has to take in so many students (because of the demand for the subject) then perhaps it should reduce the required attendance percentage and improve the quality of the teaching. Only those who are interested will turn up for classes.
The obnoxious, the ostentatious, and the obsequious can be found under one roof in every institute. But in a class of more than two hundred their number is proportionately higher.

Boi Mela!

2007-06-28T05:18:00.001+05:30

The sights one gets to see at the Kolkata Book Fair verge more and more on the ridiculous with every passing year. For the average Bengali visitor it’s Benfish first, then books (and balloons for babai). It is a regular family outing; a picnic with the wife and kids.

The women wear heavy make-up and heavier jewelry. The father directs the kids into the store. The mother follows them in with an air of casual indifference. She flips through the pages of a few books without paying much attention to it. The kids run around the store till they get tired (occasionally you hear the mother calling out “Totun... Bunty...”). The father (who has meanwhile been looking through some of the books) will then call the kids to him and pull out certain books—a Scott, a Dickens, maybe an abridged version of Moby Dick—and say things to the effect that these are classics; classics are good to read; they should read these books; and that he had read them when he was their age (the abridged version of course; probably forced to go through them as a textbook in school). When everyone gets bored they leave for the next stall after having bought one of the classics and a couple of story books which the children might read (the classics will remain neglected on the shelves for many years to come—the kids are not interested, the father is too busy, and the mother has her silly TV serials to watch).

Then one gets to see the young Bong college crowd. They come with their guitars and sit down in groups on the ground. They sing popular ‘Bangla rock’ songs, showing everyone who might happen to look their way that they are enjoying themselves at the annual Kolkata Book Fair. The first day they come only with guitars (one per group). The next day they bring tambourines (and more guitars). The day after that we see tambours. Those who cannot play any instruments sing the lines they know and keep the beat by clapping hands. Each day the number of groups increase. Since the theme stall attracts the most number of people, all these groups—all of them—will sit around the theme, in their Che Guevara T-shirts, so that they are noticed by the people who are standing in the long line for getting into the theme stall.

The only reason that most people visit the theme is that it is the theme. The theme stall is the largest stall in the fair. People expect to see something different inside. When they finally get inside they see…books. Since the books in this particular stall are in the language of the guest nation, much of it makes no sense to the majority. So then these people who have stood for an hour in the sun to get into the stall quickly take a perfunctory round of the stall and head for the exit. In the theme stall this year I heard one soul complain: “Aekhaneyoto boi”. What was he expecting to see? A blue elephant?

Near the exit of the theme stall for this year (Spain) was the entrance to the Australian stall. Since the stall was shaped in the form of the Ayers Rock (not that the people realized this—all they saw was a funny looking stall), people were curious to see what was inside and a long line had quickly formed outside this one. On seeing this line, one young man, emerging out of the theme stall with his friends, grumbled: “Dur! Aabar line-e daratey hobe?” It’s not that anyone was forcing him to visit the Australian stall. It’s not that he wanted to learn about Australia (he didn’t even know the stall was about Australia). He had just come out of one stall (without really having seen anything inside) and since others were standing in a line for another stall, he too joined them. This is the kind of herd mentality that characterizes the people you see at the Book Fair. It is a reflection of the attitude of the people of this state and this country.

Such people are generally bored (because they do the same thing over and over again without any real interest). The slightest tamasha is a most welcome break. On the last day of the fair, the entire crowd followed security guards who had just caught a thief stealing books. Seeing a huge group of people moving en masse in one direction, more people joined the mob, not knowing what was going on but hoping that the Book Fair would at last have something more interesting to offer than…books.

Even a one-time visitor to the Kolkata Book Fair rarely escapes the pretentious Bengali man of culture. He has read his Lacan-Foucault-Derrida and, of course, his Camus-Kafka-Marx. He may not be able to explain their concepts to the uninitiated (because these concepts are not clear in his head itself), but he would love to converse with such lay men because it provides the perfect opportunity to name-drop without getting exposed and to stun people with the seeming depth of their shallow learning.

In a few years’ time half the space at the Book Fair will be devoted to food stalls and to entertainment (this year’s fair even featured a silly ride which attracted huge numbers and which, I’m told, made good money). The size and the number of food stalls are increasing every year: a large section of the fair grounds is reserved for food stalls. Everyone ends up there. After all, that is why they go to the Book Fair.

Mob Violence

2007-06-27T08:11:00.002+05:30

In April last year Kannada actor Rajkumar died of natural causes. Thousands of his fans erupted into violence even though there was no foul play involved in his death. They burned shops, pelted stones at cars, and set fire to both private and public vehicles. The mob went on a mindless rampage. The next day—the day of Rajkumar’s cremation—was a rerun of the day before. Innocent bystanders were beaten up. Shops were set fire to. And all of this happened without the slightest provocation whatsoever.

I used to think that people in Karnataka were more rational than people elsewhere in the country. It seems that they were merely waiting for an opportunity to prove how irrational they too could be. Property was destroyed, people were dead. The reason? A film star died. What was wrong with these people? The media explained it away as an “unrestrained demonstration of grief for a beloved icon”. How does one condone or even justify such acts of violence in the name of ‘mourning’ for one who was “admired for his humility and the human values that he espoused in his films” [The Hindu]? What made these people behave in such a manner?

These things happen on a fairly regular basis in this country. A road accident triggers off destruction of buses and property. Passing vehicles are stoned and burned, even if these had nothing to do with the incident that sets it off. Innocent people who have the misfortune of being at the wrong place at the wrong time suffer the consequences of an accident/incident that they had nothing to do with. This happens in every part of the country.

I think a major reason for this is that people in this part of the world lead repressed lives. They unthinkingly and unquestioningly carry the burden of obsolete traditions and ridiculously irrelevant customs. They are not educated enough to express themselves clearly, if they wanted to. They are selfish and greedy, but are forced to live together with people who have conflicting interests. They are dissatisfied with a million things which are the result of their own doing, but are too lazy to solve their own problems and find it easier to blame their troubles on others. They live in a rut and do things because it is what their parents did and it is what their peers are doing.

People in this part of the world lead such frustrated lives that at the slightest excuse they give vent to their frustrations. But the average frustrated man does not have the courage to do this on his own. He looks around him for support; each adds fuel to the other’s fire, stoking each other through talk, till all their repressed animal energies burst forth in mob violence.

And who has repressed the desires and energies of the average Indian? He has done this to himself. Because he is too lazy, too stupid, too gutless to change.

Can we enjoy material progress without sacrificing a simple lifestyle?

2007-06-26T08:03:00.000+05:30

The Hipposaur’s house is at the edge of the city. A short walk, and urban concrete gives way to a semi-rural scene. The Hipposaur, Bracy and I were walking down a road near this place. On one side of the road, at a distance, we could see the city skyline; on the other side of the road lay open fields and mud houses with thatched roofs. One of us commented that a few years ago this place was just a simple village, but the city grew and encroached upon the fields. At this rate in a few years’ time the village on our right would cease to exist and more concrete would cover up the area. He lamented the fact that the simple way of life of the village, still struggling to exist, would then be lost forever. Another retaliated saying why should these villagers be denied the comforts that we enjoy; why should they live in poverty while we live in the comfort and security of well-constructed houses, making full use of the material benefits of the progress of science?

I think this point of view is often ignored. Culture can only develop after a certain degree of security is attained. Man’s first instincts are those of survival and procreation. It is only after these are assured that he can indulge in poetry, music, the arts and the like. People like me are born into an environment and an era where survival is assured. We inherit the culture of a highly advanced global civilization. We are sophisticated cosmopolitan intellectuals whose ideas owe more to books than to lived experience. We have experienced life in the city and are disillusioned by its pace, its materialism and its lack of significance. We look on the other side of the road at the ‘simple’ life of our collective past, and suddenly the lack of electricity becomes Romantic and appealing to a degree.

In such moments we are inspired by ideas similar to those of the Romantic notions of the ‘noble savage’ and of a time when things were much less complicated. For Synge and other Irishmen of his time, the Aran Islands were a Garden of Eden. But for the people of Aran, its natives, life on Aran was one of unceasing hardship and danger. The ‘savage’ saw nothing ‘noble’ in such a life.

We who have experienced materialistic lifestyles believe that the simple life has more meaning and greater potential for happiness (the ultimate human goal). Many writers have celebrated the divinity of such a life. We don’t want the people who lead such an ‘unsullied’ life to change and be ‘corrupted’ by our lifestyle. But what moral right do we have to tell them not to change? We continue to live in comfort and tell them to live in hardship so that they can continue to be symbols which cater to our Romantic notions and ideals. Perhaps to us they represent some yet uncorrupted (or incorruptible) part of human nature and we don’t want this to change for it offers us some hope for redemption from our own fallen present.

But how many of us who have already experienced the comfort, ease and security of modern life can actually endure a life of relative hardship and uncertainty without the basic amenities which we take for granted?

I am not on the side of mechanical advancement which erases traditional lifestyles. I am merely exploring an argument which I have not given much thought to before.

Perhaps the solution lies in providing basic amenities like clean drinking water, electricity and affordable medical facilities to these people while at the same time trying to preserve their customs and traditions. But can older customs be preserved once these amenities (a feature of the modern world) have been introduced? Language and culture are never static: they are always changing. No one will boil water when they can simply switch on the Aquaguard. After experiencing the comforts that modern life can provide, will these people not prefer them over their older traditions of a harder life? And if they do so, how can these older traditions—the simple way of life—be preserved?