You may think I've abandoned my poor, lonely blog. But no, I haven't; not yet.
Though, I thought, material evidence might be necessary to substantiate my claim. :)
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Prince (un)Charming
Disclaimer: It's true. Ask R.
***
It's sunset; there is nothing more satisfying on such harmless evenings than sitting on the bench outside the hostel - chin in hand, feet propped up, head dipped into that flavoured book of the moment. And that is just what I'm doing.
I can hear a persistent sort of rustling in the grass nearby, and I wonder if it's the ghost of that poor murdered snake than R was talking about the other day. But it's only a frog, come out for the cool, rain-threatened day. Faint spots of dark green on scattered on his icky back: a Greek god (of the Frog kind) couldn't have been handsomer.
So I'm charmed. He's hopping, and a couple of insects (mosquitoes, I think, and am reminded irresistibly of the Harappan civilization) are suddenly nowhere to be seen. Hop, and he's closer to the bench.
His expression is familiar. I'm reminded of that boy who, only last week, sent a friend a pained look that said, "Head over heels, I am. How can you not know?!" and walked away with no further injunctions. Hm. The ways of the human mind, I say. Complicated.
But I doubt Froggers' look is meant for me. Differences in species and all, y'know; I've read somewhere (Scientific American) that members of one species find it extremely difficult to find members of another attractive; quite the mystery, don't you think? Froggers has hopped over to some two feet away, and is still sending lustful looks my way. Hm.
But really, holding yourself up on rickety legs like a clown on stilts is really the last straw! Just... creepy. *shiver* I mean, what frog walks on his feet while simultaneously casting lecherous looks at female members of a different species? What frog, I implore you; tell me if you know!
I've started to inch towards the other end of the bench, but Froggers is indefatigable. One foot at a time (wobble wobble), one look at a time, and advancing all the time. Three inches away, and he stops, and stares for one whole minute. Now terrified of frog-poison and of witches in disguise, I'm thankful to notice his expression change from lust to a profoundly baleful glare. One more minute of fierce glaring, and then he turns.
Sigh.
Linear distance between Froggers and me increases interminably (relief relief), but I am still watching. The sun's moved down over the trees, and a speck of that orange light hits Hopper. And there's a flash of gold. Second, third and fourth looks, and there're still flashes of gold.
Hm. I wonder. Did I just pass on by the Frog Prince?
***
It's sunset; there is nothing more satisfying on such harmless evenings than sitting on the bench outside the hostel - chin in hand, feet propped up, head dipped into that flavoured book of the moment. And that is just what I'm doing.
I can hear a persistent sort of rustling in the grass nearby, and I wonder if it's the ghost of that poor murdered snake than R was talking about the other day. But it's only a frog, come out for the cool, rain-threatened day. Faint spots of dark green on scattered on his icky back: a Greek god (of the Frog kind) couldn't have been handsomer.
So I'm charmed. He's hopping, and a couple of insects (mosquitoes, I think, and am reminded irresistibly of the Harappan civilization) are suddenly nowhere to be seen. Hop, and he's closer to the bench.
His expression is familiar. I'm reminded of that boy who, only last week, sent a friend a pained look that said, "Head over heels, I am. How can you not know?!" and walked away with no further injunctions. Hm. The ways of the human mind, I say. Complicated.
But I doubt Froggers' look is meant for me. Differences in species and all, y'know; I've read somewhere (Scientific American) that members of one species find it extremely difficult to find members of another attractive; quite the mystery, don't you think? Froggers has hopped over to some two feet away, and is still sending lustful looks my way. Hm.
But really, holding yourself up on rickety legs like a clown on stilts is really the last straw! Just... creepy. *shiver* I mean, what frog walks on his feet while simultaneously casting lecherous looks at female members of a different species? What frog, I implore you; tell me if you know!
I've started to inch towards the other end of the bench, but Froggers is indefatigable. One foot at a time (wobble wobble), one look at a time, and advancing all the time. Three inches away, and he stops, and stares for one whole minute. Now terrified of frog-poison and of witches in disguise, I'm thankful to notice his expression change from lust to a profoundly baleful glare. One more minute of fierce glaring, and then he turns.
Sigh.
Linear distance between Froggers and me increases interminably (relief relief), but I am still watching. The sun's moved down over the trees, and a speck of that orange light hits Hopper. And there's a flash of gold. Second, third and fourth looks, and there're still flashes of gold.
Hm. I wonder. Did I just pass on by the Frog Prince?
Friday, October 30, 2009
ew.
Read this.
Disturbing that there's nothing about what the girl herself says; there's only her family's word for it that "she's happy". And I find it ew that he wants to have children with her.
Okay, I'll allow for freedom of choice and autonomy and all of that, but... ew.
Perhaps we should think of an upper age limit for marriage, too.
Disturbing that there's nothing about what the girl herself says; there's only her family's word for it that "she's happy". And I find it ew that he wants to have children with her.
Okay, I'll allow for freedom of choice and autonomy and all of that, but... ew.
Perhaps we should think of an upper age limit for marriage, too.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Random
It's a bug we all have. We want to know details about the private lives of others, especially celebrities, or people we admire or look up to, or those we hate and wish ill for. Those details help solidify our ideas about them, whoever "they" are, and aid understanding and love, or ill feeling and anger.*
Last trimester, Nicola Lacey's book did just that for me. Hart was no longer just one another genius in a madding crowd who had formulated a brilliant and path-breaking way to understand the philosophy of law; he was human. And it was easier, having read Lacey, to forgive the flaws and holes in Hart's theory of law, because after all, he was as human as the rest of us, and had his failings and brilliance. Lacey draws extensively from Hart's diaries, and there is much that is endearing in Hart's frank and candid - and sometimes wistful and wishful, at other times angry and confused - version of his life, the ideas and the people populating it.
And the Obamas too: they're very human, if you know what I mean. It's a fairytale marriage (but not a fairytale living it), going by this article. I'm tempted, through sheer Cassandra-ness, to believe there must be red herrings. But I won't. No, I won't.
Last trimester, Nicola Lacey's book did just that for me. Hart was no longer just one another genius in a madding crowd who had formulated a brilliant and path-breaking way to understand the philosophy of law; he was human. And it was easier, having read Lacey, to forgive the flaws and holes in Hart's theory of law, because after all, he was as human as the rest of us, and had his failings and brilliance. Lacey draws extensively from Hart's diaries, and there is much that is endearing in Hart's frank and candid - and sometimes wistful and wishful, at other times angry and confused - version of his life, the ideas and the people populating it.
And the Obamas too: they're very human, if you know what I mean. It's a fairytale marriage (but not a fairytale living it), going by this article. I'm tempted, through sheer Cassandra-ness, to believe there must be red herrings. But I won't. No, I won't.
*Illustrative, not exhaustive. :)
Coming Home
Coming home is always a sort of an adventure. First, there's the mad hurry where you realise five minutes before leaving that you haven't packed half the things you should have, and the consequent chase to the station (with said travel-companion near tears*), and the weather. Oh! the weather!
Bangalore is a beautiful city that way, much like Kerala (though it is nothing like it, except in terms of the unending number of Mallus roaming the streets and populating the shops). It rains unexpectedly; it gets cold effortlessly; the skies darken and the clouds race across rapidly. On clear, cloudless nights, the moon is a joy to watch from the Library bridge or the basketball court or the terraces, and on clouded days, the dark grey silhouettes bewitch. And when it rains, it doesn't pour, but chills and pitter-patters deliciously.
Delicious pitter-patter it was, yesterday. And so it was that the way to the station, and the view from the train - both were of fresh green leaves and newly re-born trees, with a cool, gracious breeze of rain-washed, earthy scent and of raindrops dancing on puddles and small lakes.
And the journey itself. Haven't you noticed how coming home is like an opportunity to step back and update the records? To keep track of changes and causes, of mistakes and lessons learnt, and best of all, a new set of days to be all alone (unless you want company) and get reacquainted with everything you knew and don't know, or forgot.
It's sometimes a pain - the travel and the lugging bags and remembering tickets, but...
Happy holidays. :)
*I exaggerate, as usual. :)
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Deepavali
It's Deepavali.
I used to be told that there were two ways of celebrating Deepavali. One was the conventional way, with family and friends, sweets and a feast, new clothes and crackers. This was routine every year, and Amma used to make the most incredibly tasty sweets and pass them around to stuffed mouths and greedy hands. Much before dawn, my sister and I would be wildly shaken awake, dragged to the temple and made to stand in the midst of the lights and chants and dressed-up women. And once that ritual was done, we'd race to join the kids in the neighbourhood, with pencil sparklers and catherine wheels and those pyramid sparkles. I remember our most glorious moments were when the umbrellas (ghostly pink and green and white) came floating down from the rockets we'd painstakingly lit and prodded upwards.
Then the day would pass like any other, though added bonuses of the best sort of food and payasam, and there would be Lakshmi Puja.
I learnt of the other way when I met S-ji. That way was/is intensely personal, and here, the symbolism and the hidden significance take the limelight, and ritual and crackers recede into the dim background. This is that significance that Wiki tries to condense into half a page, and something I have heard almost all my life with a strange and half-undeserving feeling.
Sitting around him on certain earmarked days, we would hear of how Deepavali is one of those days set apart in the Hindu calendar to remind man that material pursuits are shrouded in unreality and ephemerality, and that the Real was right here, way deep inside, and we were all looking in the wrong places. All one needed to do to realise this was rake away all that trash one called thoughts, for they blinded and blocked the truly important. Deepavali, with its Lakshmi Puja (for she is the Goddess of Wealth, and not merely material wealth), was an invocation to that inner light, and a festival to set aside material pursuits and start the spiritual journey.
I'm not sure I understood what he strove to make us understand, but then, perhaps that is secondary for the purposes of this post. All I'm required to know for now is, Deepavali is a festival of lights, and the lights are to be lit within and without.
Happy Deepavali. May you find your light.
I used to be told that there were two ways of celebrating Deepavali. One was the conventional way, with family and friends, sweets and a feast, new clothes and crackers. This was routine every year, and Amma used to make the most incredibly tasty sweets and pass them around to stuffed mouths and greedy hands. Much before dawn, my sister and I would be wildly shaken awake, dragged to the temple and made to stand in the midst of the lights and chants and dressed-up women. And once that ritual was done, we'd race to join the kids in the neighbourhood, with pencil sparklers and catherine wheels and those pyramid sparkles. I remember our most glorious moments were when the umbrellas (ghostly pink and green and white) came floating down from the rockets we'd painstakingly lit and prodded upwards.
Then the day would pass like any other, though added bonuses of the best sort of food and payasam, and there would be Lakshmi Puja.
I learnt of the other way when I met S-ji. That way was/is intensely personal, and here, the symbolism and the hidden significance take the limelight, and ritual and crackers recede into the dim background. This is that significance that Wiki tries to condense into half a page, and something I have heard almost all my life with a strange and half-undeserving feeling.
Sitting around him on certain earmarked days, we would hear of how Deepavali is one of those days set apart in the Hindu calendar to remind man that material pursuits are shrouded in unreality and ephemerality, and that the Real was right here, way deep inside, and we were all looking in the wrong places. All one needed to do to realise this was rake away all that trash one called thoughts, for they blinded and blocked the truly important. Deepavali, with its Lakshmi Puja (for she is the Goddess of Wealth, and not merely material wealth), was an invocation to that inner light, and a festival to set aside material pursuits and start the spiritual journey.
I'm not sure I understood what he strove to make us understand, but then, perhaps that is secondary for the purposes of this post. All I'm required to know for now is, Deepavali is a festival of lights, and the lights are to be lit within and without.
Happy Deepavali. May you find your light.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
freedom's just another word*
I have no words to write.
I have nothing to talk about.
I have no one to talk to.
I have nothing to learn.
I have no beauty to see.
I have nothing to take away.
I have nowhere to stay.
I have no one to help.
I have nowhere to be.
I have nothing to lose.
So every day, I sing.
And wish for everything.
I have nothing to talk about.
I have no one to talk to.
I have nothing to learn.
I have no beauty to see.
I have nothing to take away.
I have nowhere to stay.
I have no one to help.
I have nowhere to be.
I have nothing to lose.
So every day, I sing.
And wish for everything.
*Janis Joplin: "Me and Bobby McGee"
Friday, October 2, 2009
i hear the water lapping...
I want to write poetry. Now. But my mind isn't amenable, and my brain won't listen unless the Mind Pathway is open and uncluttered.
So I read.
Yeats puts into verse what we feel and think, but can't translate. Or perhaps it's the other way around. Either way, they click: his verse and our thought.
Lake Isle is a contained little poem (like most others of his), and it brims to the neck with a deep want to find a place of one's own: that one place where everything is as it should be, and everything is as one wants. And there is no disturbance, either of the Mind or of people or of the world, and peace is everywhere because there is nothing to destroy it. This isn't hard-won, desperately-saved peace, but it comes "dropping slowly", beautifully, quietly, of a dew-misted morning and stays contentedly, for there isn't anything to shoo it away. It is like... a serene, azure lake, unspoiled by ripples or waves.
I don't think our Innisfree is east of Lough Gill. It's right here, deep inside. Finding it, though, is a different matter. Though it occurs to me now: we wouldn't value our Innisfree as much if there were no pavements of drab, grey stone.
So I read.
***
The Lake Isle of Innisfree
~ Yeats
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evenings full of the linnet's wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear the lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.
~ Yeats
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evenings full of the linnet's wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear the lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.
***
Lake Isle is a contained little poem (like most others of his), and it brims to the neck with a deep want to find a place of one's own: that one place where everything is as it should be, and everything is as one wants. And there is no disturbance, either of the Mind or of people or of the world, and peace is everywhere because there is nothing to destroy it. This isn't hard-won, desperately-saved peace, but it comes "dropping slowly", beautifully, quietly, of a dew-misted morning and stays contentedly, for there isn't anything to shoo it away. It is like... a serene, azure lake, unspoiled by ripples or waves.
I don't think our Innisfree is east of Lough Gill. It's right here, deep inside. Finding it, though, is a different matter. Though it occurs to me now: we wouldn't value our Innisfree as much if there were no pavements of drab, grey stone.
Random
I must confess: I do not understand the vagaries of the human mind.
It's amazing how you know when you should stop doing something and start studying, or stop obsessing about chocolate and move on to jalebis, or stop staring at the screen and start typing, but... don't. The human mind must be masochist, really. What else would warrant and justify obsession, blues (and greys) and non-activity?
I suppose sometimes, the difference is that you must stop wanting something and start working on it. Or something else. Else you'll just stay where you are - just another rusted cog in that big rusty wheel. And rust isn't a nice thing to have or be.
Hm.
It's amazing how you know when you should stop doing something and start studying, or stop obsessing about chocolate and move on to jalebis, or stop staring at the screen and start typing, but... don't. The human mind must be masochist, really. What else would warrant and justify obsession, blues (and greys) and non-activity?
I suppose sometimes, the difference is that you must stop wanting something and start working on it. Or something else. Else you'll just stay where you are - just another rusted cog in that big rusty wheel. And rust isn't a nice thing to have or be.
Hm.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Remember
"Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that I once had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad."
~ Christina Rosetti, "Remember"
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Friday, August 28, 2009
thou shall not steal... what?
Reader, you have been warned; take care -
There are spoilers you must beware.
Dekalog, siedem (1990)
Dir: Krzysztof Kieslowski
Dekalog 7 is Kieslowski's exploration of the Seventh Commandment, "Thou shall not steal". Majka, the plain, overlooked daughter of an exacting and imperious mother, attempts to kidnap her sister and run away to Canada with her. It's a believable story and a touching one, because Ewa is a controlling and insensitive mother, and Majka feels thoroughly left out while Ania, the little one, gets all the attention and the love. That it pulls the hearstrings isn't excuse enough, though, for kidnapping to be right or justifiable. You cannot steal, and that is that.
But what is stealing, really? Taking away something that does not belong to one with the intention of never returning it? How would we decide what is ours? If, for instance, Ania were Majka's child instead of her sister and she attempted to run away with her, would that be stealing? Can Ewa steal Majka's right to motherhood? Can you steal something that is yours?
That last question is the one that the film primarily deals with. The ending seems to suggest that you can, and that you will be punished for it. For Majka is discovered and runs away on her own, and Ania is returned to Ewa and her husband Stefan. The act of stealing, the film seems to suggest, is contingent not on the stolen object, but on the mind that steals. If one feels one is stealing, despite excuses and justifications to the contrary, then perhaps it is stealing. The intention is the telltale factor; not legally, but morally.
The brilliance of the film is not in the conclusion it draws (for it draws none that is concrete; what is above is mine), but in the exploration of the factors that surround that one tiny act of stealing. What must you keep in mind while 'stealing', and specifically, while stealing a child? Is Majka's torment at her lost opportunity for motherhood (for Ania refuses to call her Mummy) sufficient justification? Does Ewa's being an unyielding and unforgiving mother mitigate the wrong? Is it wrong at all for Majka to take her child away from a setting where she, as the rightful mother, is not allowed to make the decisions for and about her child?
The torment that they face is written beautifully in the actors' faces: Majka, as the cheated girl-mother, the worried and possessive Ewa, the kindly but ineffectual Stefan, the confused Wojteck (Ania's biological father) and the innocent Ania, who does not understand the undercurrents but feels them. Action and retribution don't interest Kieslowski; the reasons for action and degrees of right or wrong do. For him, it seemed to me, the context had to be clear.
Stealing had to be evaluated based on the context it took place in. There are instances when Majka is reprimanded for kidnapping Ania, not because it is wrong, but because it will do no good for the child - that the child's needs must be placed before Majka's while evaluating that act. I think, here, Kieslowski questions the nature of love as well. If Majka loved Ania as much as she claims she does, should she have stolen her? Must love place the needs of the beloved before that of the lover, or is it all right for the emotion to be selfish, controlled by one's own need and desire?
The film ends, I think, on a non-judgmental note. Right or wrong it may be to steal, even if what is taken by you is your own. Right or wrong it may be to refuse to yield, believing in what is good for others. Right or wrong it may be to demand from life what you think should have been yours. What is unchanging in everything is human nature; its existence and functioning from and through supreme selfishness and need (in this case, for Majka's lost motherhood), even in love. Man is limited and controlled by the selfishness and the needs he entertains, for it dictates all action, and brings all kinds of happiness and suffering to him.
There are spoilers you must beware.
Dekalog, siedem (1990)
Dir: Krzysztof Kieslowski
Dekalog 7 is Kieslowski's exploration of the Seventh Commandment, "Thou shall not steal". Majka, the plain, overlooked daughter of an exacting and imperious mother, attempts to kidnap her sister and run away to Canada with her. It's a believable story and a touching one, because Ewa is a controlling and insensitive mother, and Majka feels thoroughly left out while Ania, the little one, gets all the attention and the love. That it pulls the hearstrings isn't excuse enough, though, for kidnapping to be right or justifiable. You cannot steal, and that is that.
But what is stealing, really? Taking away something that does not belong to one with the intention of never returning it? How would we decide what is ours? If, for instance, Ania were Majka's child instead of her sister and she attempted to run away with her, would that be stealing? Can Ewa steal Majka's right to motherhood? Can you steal something that is yours?
That last question is the one that the film primarily deals with. The ending seems to suggest that you can, and that you will be punished for it. For Majka is discovered and runs away on her own, and Ania is returned to Ewa and her husband Stefan. The act of stealing, the film seems to suggest, is contingent not on the stolen object, but on the mind that steals. If one feels one is stealing, despite excuses and justifications to the contrary, then perhaps it is stealing. The intention is the telltale factor; not legally, but morally.
The brilliance of the film is not in the conclusion it draws (for it draws none that is concrete; what is above is mine), but in the exploration of the factors that surround that one tiny act of stealing. What must you keep in mind while 'stealing', and specifically, while stealing a child? Is Majka's torment at her lost opportunity for motherhood (for Ania refuses to call her Mummy) sufficient justification? Does Ewa's being an unyielding and unforgiving mother mitigate the wrong? Is it wrong at all for Majka to take her child away from a setting where she, as the rightful mother, is not allowed to make the decisions for and about her child?
The torment that they face is written beautifully in the actors' faces: Majka, as the cheated girl-mother, the worried and possessive Ewa, the kindly but ineffectual Stefan, the confused Wojteck (Ania's biological father) and the innocent Ania, who does not understand the undercurrents but feels them. Action and retribution don't interest Kieslowski; the reasons for action and degrees of right or wrong do. For him, it seemed to me, the context had to be clear.
Stealing had to be evaluated based on the context it took place in. There are instances when Majka is reprimanded for kidnapping Ania, not because it is wrong, but because it will do no good for the child - that the child's needs must be placed before Majka's while evaluating that act. I think, here, Kieslowski questions the nature of love as well. If Majka loved Ania as much as she claims she does, should she have stolen her? Must love place the needs of the beloved before that of the lover, or is it all right for the emotion to be selfish, controlled by one's own need and desire?
The film ends, I think, on a non-judgmental note. Right or wrong it may be to steal, even if what is taken by you is your own. Right or wrong it may be to refuse to yield, believing in what is good for others. Right or wrong it may be to demand from life what you think should have been yours. What is unchanging in everything is human nature; its existence and functioning from and through supreme selfishness and need (in this case, for Majka's lost motherhood), even in love. Man is limited and controlled by the selfishness and the needs he entertains, for it dictates all action, and brings all kinds of happiness and suffering to him.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Monsoon Haiku
Wild ducks veer off course;
leaves fall; trees crash - our worlds tossed
around like rag dolls.
***
Drip, drop; flip, flop; splash!
White salwar, you've turned mud-brown.
Don't let Amma see!
***
Dirty old gutter
overflows; you don't walk, you
float, and so do cars.
She has been writing.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
love is lost in translation
I was watching Lost in Translation for the third time yesterday. There is so much to the film that every time, I discover new thoughts that strike me about it.
The first time I watched it, I was struck by a little amount of contempt I felt towards Johansson's character; how she seems to defeatedly accept everything that comes by and doesn't participate in or steer her life. But that passed; there was no judgment made because, sometimes, our lives seem bigger than we are, and we feel we have no control or ability to control or the need for it.
The scond time I watched it, it was just a simple, multilayered, beautiful, gentle ode to loneliness and companionship, inspiration and boredom, maturity and the process of maturing, and to the environment and the person. It was also when I decided that, visually, the sequence of when Johansson's character visit Kyoto and the shrine was my favourite.
This time, what struck me was the "foolish" and unguardedly happy smiles on both their faces at the end, on the busy street in Tokyo, when they hug and kiss. So it's love. I'm not classifying the emotin because I don't think it can be; I don't think you can put love in a drawer and friendship in another and different kinds of love in separate drawers. The way I attempt to understand it, the emotion is the same, everywhere; it is preoccupation with somebody other than yourself, in such a way as to desire happiness or comfort or love for them, even at the cost of your own, and not expect anything in return.*
In that last scene, there was a bit of this reflected, I think. At that particular moment, they were both - perfectly - happy. Only that one moment, maybe, but then, that was because at the end of that moment, their minds started filling up again; details of lives as they were prior to the moment.
I think that one moment shows what love is meant to be - it's in the present; it's happy; it recognizes no obstacles. But it has to exist with all the other moments, and that is when things get complicated. We stuff so much into love - duty, responsibility, expectation, ideas about existing lives like career, money, security - that we forget what it is and make it into some monster of a messed-up rangoli.
Maybe, if we were to let love rule the world - as it is; no introductions or interpolations - everything would be all right.
All you need is love?
***
*It differs because it's directed to different people, and we expect different things from them.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Moo-fee
No spoilers, I promise.
Three films in the past twelve hours. *nods*
Three films in the past twelve hours. *nods*
1. The Prestige (2006; dir. Christopher Nolan)
Cast: Hugh Jackman (*drool*), Christian Bale (*melt*), Michael Caine
Cast: Hugh Jackman (*drool*), Christian Bale (*melt*), Michael Caine
The good things: It's fast-paced, engaging (I didn't glance at the clock even once, and few films do that to me), slick. The script flows smoothly, in non-linear narrative. The characters are played well, though they're possibly not explored very well. But whatever flesh is there is exposed very well.
One gets a good idea of what the characters are working towards: their fears, obsessions, the lengths they will go to keep their secrets and the perfection to their art. It is also a telling piece on competition and what it does to people, and also, I felt, an exploration of morality and the nature of it.
There are so many themes explored in the film that none are explored thoroughly: questions of professional dedication, competitiveness, sacrifice, the reason for doing something and of revenge. The film tells one of what these two stage magicians, whose lives it is chronicling, believe and act upon. What it does not do, is preach.
There is no outright distinction or final conclusion about what's right and wrong. All one knows is what Angier and Borden do, and why they do it. Perhaps their actions are justified; perhaps not. Perhaps the price they paid was too high and Angier and Borden were just plain foolish, but that's for one to decide. Moral and ethical right and wrong is not the film's preaching; it's just telling a story, and a darn good one, too.
Added bonus: one gets to see Hugh Jackman and Christian Bale in drool-able, melt-able roles that can leave one up high in the air and clouds. :)
***
Okay, maybe slight spoiler. But I've warned you.
2. Before Sunrise (1995; dir. Richard Linklater)
Cast: Ethan Hawke, Julie Delpy
This has to be one of the sweetest love stories I've ever seen on screen. To be honest, there's not much to it: two people meet on a train to Vienna, decide to get off together on an impulse and spend the evening together roaming the city and talking (they talk a lot) and falling in love.
So what makes it all that special? Because it's refreshing, and I'll tell you why.
Before Sunrise is a film that you can watch and actually think, "Hm. This could happen; Vienna or no Vienna." There's something about it that's real and magical, and most of it is just conversation. There are no cliched romantic moments and hand-holdings and sexual tensions, and if there are any, they seem uncontrived, natural and in the flow of the narrative, which so rarely happens.
Jesse and Celine are just two normal people who meet, talk, talk, and talk some more, walk, and realise they feel a connection with each other. What it did for me was to highlight how diverse and easy conversation can be, and how tonic, too. And hope, too, because the two are just like you and me on a street in Cochin or Bangalore or Brisbane or Singapore, and it could happen to us too. :)
PS - Btw, Rotten Tomatoes gave it a 100% positive rating (thanks, Verun!) and it's considered one of the best romantic films of the indie genre. :)
***
More spoilers, sorry.
3. Before Sunset (2004; dir. Richard Linklater)
Cast: Same, same.
Okay, so things don't always work out the way you'd want them to, but then, there's always hope, ne? Because people don't really change; not the core, anyway. So if you're an optimistic person, you should still be hoping, and if you're a pessimist or a cynic, you never had much to begin with.
Shock 1: It's nine years down the line, and Jesse and Celine are not together.
Shock 2: Jesse is married to someone else, and has a kid.
He's also just written a bestseller about that night with Celine in Vienna, and accidentally-on-purpose just met her in Paris. The sequel is like a window back into their lives, and here's why this film is so lovable.
They've changed, the two lead characters. And the change is what you might expect of someone ten years down the line - mature, a little less madly optimistic, wisened by the experiences of "life". But in essence, they're still the same. There're periods of dejected realism, and those of mad, soaring optimism; like on an impulsive, unplanned for trip to... somewhere. Hope is an underlying theme all through both films, and so is change, and the desire for fulfilment and understanding.
Hawke and Delpy do a wonderful job of making the characters more or less open books in both films, and I loved watching them to figure out what each was thinking and feeling. They make the movie run, obviously, and do it so well you're not feeling bored at the end of an hour and twenty minutes.
***
Watch.
One gets a good idea of what the characters are working towards: their fears, obsessions, the lengths they will go to keep their secrets and the perfection to their art. It is also a telling piece on competition and what it does to people, and also, I felt, an exploration of morality and the nature of it.
There are so many themes explored in the film that none are explored thoroughly: questions of professional dedication, competitiveness, sacrifice, the reason for doing something and of revenge. The film tells one of what these two stage magicians, whose lives it is chronicling, believe and act upon. What it does not do, is preach.
There is no outright distinction or final conclusion about what's right and wrong. All one knows is what Angier and Borden do, and why they do it. Perhaps their actions are justified; perhaps not. Perhaps the price they paid was too high and Angier and Borden were just plain foolish, but that's for one to decide. Moral and ethical right and wrong is not the film's preaching; it's just telling a story, and a darn good one, too.
Added bonus: one gets to see Hugh Jackman and Christian Bale in drool-able, melt-able roles that can leave one up high in the air and clouds. :)
***
Okay, maybe slight spoiler. But I've warned you.
2. Before Sunrise (1995; dir. Richard Linklater)
Cast: Ethan Hawke, Julie Delpy
This has to be one of the sweetest love stories I've ever seen on screen. To be honest, there's not much to it: two people meet on a train to Vienna, decide to get off together on an impulse and spend the evening together roaming the city and talking (they talk a lot) and falling in love.
So what makes it all that special? Because it's refreshing, and I'll tell you why.
Before Sunrise is a film that you can watch and actually think, "Hm. This could happen; Vienna or no Vienna." There's something about it that's real and magical, and most of it is just conversation. There are no cliched romantic moments and hand-holdings and sexual tensions, and if there are any, they seem uncontrived, natural and in the flow of the narrative, which so rarely happens.
Jesse and Celine are just two normal people who meet, talk, talk, and talk some more, walk, and realise they feel a connection with each other. What it did for me was to highlight how diverse and easy conversation can be, and how tonic, too. And hope, too, because the two are just like you and me on a street in Cochin or Bangalore or Brisbane or Singapore, and it could happen to us too. :)
PS - Btw, Rotten Tomatoes gave it a 100% positive rating (thanks, Verun!) and it's considered one of the best romantic films of the indie genre. :)
***
More spoilers, sorry.
3. Before Sunset (2004; dir. Richard Linklater)
Cast: Same, same.
Okay, so things don't always work out the way you'd want them to, but then, there's always hope, ne? Because people don't really change; not the core, anyway. So if you're an optimistic person, you should still be hoping, and if you're a pessimist or a cynic, you never had much to begin with.
Shock 1: It's nine years down the line, and Jesse and Celine are not together.
Shock 2: Jesse is married to someone else, and has a kid.
He's also just written a bestseller about that night with Celine in Vienna, and accidentally-on-purpose just met her in Paris. The sequel is like a window back into their lives, and here's why this film is so lovable.
They've changed, the two lead characters. And the change is what you might expect of someone ten years down the line - mature, a little less madly optimistic, wisened by the experiences of "life". But in essence, they're still the same. There're periods of dejected realism, and those of mad, soaring optimism; like on an impulsive, unplanned for trip to... somewhere. Hope is an underlying theme all through both films, and so is change, and the desire for fulfilment and understanding.
Hawke and Delpy do a wonderful job of making the characters more or less open books in both films, and I loved watching them to figure out what each was thinking and feeling. They make the movie run, obviously, and do it so well you're not feeling bored at the end of an hour and twenty minutes.
***
Watch.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Milk
Opinion - this one, too.
***
There are films that draw one in so deeply that one feels part of it - the life, the Movement, the love. Finding Neverland was one of those, despite the liberal exaggeration of fact imbedded deep in the narrative.* Milk, however, is not.
Individually, the performances of the actors are wonderful. Penn as Milk, Franco as Scott Smith, Hirsch as Cleve Jones, and the other men and woman at the Castro - they're all good. They all infuse life into those skins that one has to make friends with and empathise with, for they're the ones that got the Gay Rights Movement going in 'Frisco in the '70s.
One also gets an idea of what the scene was for Gay Rights; a crude vantage, but still one. Enough, at least, to sympathise with either side of the cause, and to wonder at the conservatism of society in the 20th century. Enough, also, to make one's blood boil and long for a reason to fight (and there is enough reason now).
Where Milk fails is in making the connection between the man and his allies, and the scene. Milk speaks of the Movement as the candidate, and not him, but that's not the impression one gets upon watching the film. To be fair, it is purportedly a biopic and so perhaps that is justifiable, but it is also one that tries to give us an idea of the LGBT scene in the US during the '70s, and the film forgets that a little. The result is a film that focuses intermittently on the Movement and its developments, and on Milk and his life.
The problem with this is not just that it makes Milk an inadequate film; it makes it an inadequate biopic, and biopic is what it is. One understands the ideals that Milk stands for, but less about the man and his personal reasons for being so prominent a part of the Gay Movement.
Milk talks to us of what he did, but not of what he was and became. There isn't enough character exploration; one is never sharply touched by either a flaw or a virtue. That, I think, is one the biggest flaws Milk has.
But I'm human enough and silly enough to have tears in my eyes at the idealism the film projects on to Milk, and feel that that redeems the film for all its flaws. :)
* Go here.
Kafka. Not Franz.
No spoilers; just opinion.
I finished reading Kafka on the Shore last night. It was a long read; a very long one.Whenever I read Murakami (and this is only the second time), I get the impression that his books are larger than what's between the covers. It is as though Kafka were a metaphor for something else, which is itself a metaphor.
There are so many aspects of Kafka I want to talk about, but I don't think I can classify them into little boxes so that reading and understanding will be easy. I'll try, anyway.
***
Murakami makes a marked distinction between two kinds of knowledge: one that is acquired through reading and learning and reflection, such as that of Oshima or Kafka Tamura, and one acquired through silent acceptance and absorption, such as that of Nakata and Miss Saeki. There is a distinction there, too, in the way each deals with that knowledge (and knowledge is not the same as wisdom; wisdom is in translation of knowledge into action).
Oshima's or Kafka's knowledge is in retrospection, as is most knowledge we all acquire - we learn through reflection and introspection, and for that, the event needs to have passed us. But Nakata's is quite different - his is what I'd perhaps, very loosely, classify as knowledge through faith - there is no questioning there, or hurry, or impatient need to understand; just quiet acceptance. The Alchemist talks of this kind of learning too.
The distinction isn't merely in the way knowledge is acquired, I think; it's reflected in the kind of life one leads, and the suffering one takes upon oneself. With the first sort, there is always that awareness of individual choice, and in Kafka, it is both the cause of intense suffering and of redemption (to put it crudely). The second sort leads, and leads, and then it is over (cruder, I know).
***
There is a part in Kafka where Murakami references Hegel, and says that the self is not merely aware of the object as an external thing, but that through the relating that it (the self) does to the object,* it is able to understand its self better and more deeply.
That seems to me to be an underlying theme in the entire book. Every event, every memory, every little action; all of it serve to give each character a deeper understanding of his or her self. Each memory, event and action does not merely guide that, but is also the product of the self of the present. And the self-of-the-present is the product of the self-of-the-past that was moulded by event, memory and action. Time has no meaning, because the selves converge and diverge constantly, and yet, time guides the change.**
It is, in a way, about conscious change and the choices one makes, and also about how much choice one can have in a decision, and how much is foreordained, if at all.
For Murakami, there is only one journey, or at least, that is how it seems to me. The journey is not forward, because time has no meaning in his world; it's inside, to the deepest core of the self.
* "I" am the content of the relation, but "I" am also the one that does the relating.
** That feels faffy, but I can't fathom out how to articulate it better.
Bawring
I'm home, and I'm bored. Before you ask; no, one is not a natural corollary of the other, though there is a very high degree of correlation there. But we've all been told countlessly; correlation is not causation.
Now the crux of the issue: why am I bored?
(At this point, I'm beyond caring about whether you care or not, you know. This is no democracy. You're here; this is my land; you're interested in what I'm interested in. Period.)
Now that's clear: I'm bored because I have nothing to do. To be more precise, I am not doing anything that I would like to or feel useful doing, and do not at all feel like doing what I would feel useful doing, and hence, I'm bored. It's a circular definition, you see.
As we're done with the major question, we'll go to effects: what does boredom do to people (me; I'm all you need to care about)?
When one is bored, one starts to... feel sluggish. Like a big pickled slug on a dirty table that nobody cares to clean up; a dead slug that doesn't want to move or dance or talk or think or sing. And then one detests movement of all kinds, especially of the brain centre, which would facilitate thinking.
If it's good kind of boredom, then one might take note of the joy of slipping one's hand into heaped grain, like in Amelie. But if it isn't, then all mental faculties slow down liiiiikeee theeeeeess aaaaand one feeeeeelss aas thoughhh one'ss a browkenn graamophoonne recorrrdddd.
And then one gets addicted to brainless films and magazines and staring into the void thinking of nothing, and then becomes a pickled slug/caterpillar oneself.
It's not a good life - a slug's - I tell you. Rather unexciting. Self-perpetuating boredom, so to speak. Don't become one. *nods*
Friday, August 7, 2009
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Valuing Price
Situation:
You are in a boat that is slowly and determinedly sinking. There are too many people on board, and the shore is quite a long way off. Two people on board are gravely injured, and are losing a lot of blood. It's almost certain that they'll both die before the boat reaches the shore, if at all it does.
What would you do? Throw the injured men into the sea and save the rest of the passengers, or would you not? Would it make a difference if the dying men were owners of the boat and the other passengers murderers and thieves?
***
The dinner table today was a heated discussion on this issue. As we figured, there are two ways one can deal with this. One is the "moral" way, to value life over all else, and value life equally. Meaning, of course, that no man will be dumped into the sea and left for dead.
The other way is what a certain little person called the "pragmatic" solution. In the interests of the saving lives of the majority, throw the dying men out. Twenty men saved and two men dead is better than twenty-two men dead, when there really was no need for them to die.
As I see it, this dichotomy of views stems from the fact that we look at this from different standpoints.
The moral solution stems from an individual moral standpoint, wherein I would value no life lesser than mine, and therefore, arrogate to right to myself that allows for the abandoning of the two dying men.
The pragmatic solution is what another classmate of mine would call the "selfish" way, because all altruism is, ultimately, selfish. In the interests of propagation, preservation of the human race, or simply, the preservation of society as we see it - built, I suppose, on a set of columns that we like to believe is inherently moral (what is moral, anyway?) - or even more simply, the individual desire to live, the pragmatic solution seems justified.
The question here is: does the pragmatic solution automatically place a price on the value of human life (and is that justified/acceptable), or is the value of individual human life economically and socially incalculable?
***
An observation made today:
The Delhi High Court, in a 1983 judgement, seems to favour the pragmatic solution over the "moral". The reason they state is simply this: that if a law kills one and saves a hundred lives, it is in greater social interest and is therefore a just, fair and right law. Inevitable, perhaps?
My question still stands.
You are in a boat that is slowly and determinedly sinking. There are too many people on board, and the shore is quite a long way off. Two people on board are gravely injured, and are losing a lot of blood. It's almost certain that they'll both die before the boat reaches the shore, if at all it does.
What would you do? Throw the injured men into the sea and save the rest of the passengers, or would you not? Would it make a difference if the dying men were owners of the boat and the other passengers murderers and thieves?
***
The dinner table today was a heated discussion on this issue. As we figured, there are two ways one can deal with this. One is the "moral" way, to value life over all else, and value life equally. Meaning, of course, that no man will be dumped into the sea and left for dead.
The other way is what a certain little person called the "pragmatic" solution. In the interests of the saving lives of the majority, throw the dying men out. Twenty men saved and two men dead is better than twenty-two men dead, when there really was no need for them to die.
As I see it, this dichotomy of views stems from the fact that we look at this from different standpoints.
The moral solution stems from an individual moral standpoint, wherein I would value no life lesser than mine, and therefore, arrogate to right to myself that allows for the abandoning of the two dying men.
The pragmatic solution is what another classmate of mine would call the "selfish" way, because all altruism is, ultimately, selfish. In the interests of propagation, preservation of the human race, or simply, the preservation of society as we see it - built, I suppose, on a set of columns that we like to believe is inherently moral (what is moral, anyway?) - or even more simply, the individual desire to live, the pragmatic solution seems justified.
The question here is: does the pragmatic solution automatically place a price on the value of human life (and is that justified/acceptable), or is the value of individual human life economically and socially incalculable?
***
An observation made today:
The Delhi High Court, in a 1983 judgement, seems to favour the pragmatic solution over the "moral". The reason they state is simply this: that if a law kills one and saves a hundred lives, it is in greater social interest and is therefore a just, fair and right law. Inevitable, perhaps?
My question still stands.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Medieval Torture
You might be a Harry Potter fan. You might be jumping up and down in the air because the new HBP movie is out and you can't wait to watch it. If you are, don't be offended and don't throw heavy objects at me. All I'm saying is: are you sure you've got your priorities right? Should you, I ask in earnest, be putting your loyalty to some imaginary boy (who's quite ordinary and temperamental, come to think of it) over your commitment to good cinema and literature? Should you, should you??
You might be in a mood to root me out from any tiny corner of the world and dip me in scalding hot water now. Or the iron maiden. But wait. Listen, at least, to what I have to tell you about HBP the Movie.
*desperate silence for five minutes*
I've been trying to think of good things to say, but the only thing I can think of is: Draco Malfoy. Tom Felton is deliciously drool-over-able, and boy, is he the only person worth watching in the movie! The others are all more puppet-like than they can possibly be in real life - so much so I'm actually wondering if David Yates thought puppets would be a cheaper bet.
Now I'll tell you what's wrong with the movie. You'd expect a screenplay to be flowy, and we all know it's possible for books to be made into decent films (Lord of the Rings, anyone?!), but this one beats all. Every time I watch a Harry movie, I think, "This is the worst Steve Kloves could do, ever!" and he proves me wrong every time. Every single time.
And that's only one thing that's wrong about it. You might be one of those people who like romantic comedies, or period romances, action thrillers, gripping dramas, or fantasy worlds - but on all of those counts, HBP fails. Please, if you have any loyalty to good cinema, chuck your ticket in the bin and go bury yourself in a Tolkien.
You might be in a mood to root me out from any tiny corner of the world and dip me in scalding hot water now. Or the iron maiden. But wait. Listen, at least, to what I have to tell you about HBP the Movie.
*desperate silence for five minutes*
I've been trying to think of good things to say, but the only thing I can think of is: Draco Malfoy. Tom Felton is deliciously drool-over-able, and boy, is he the only person worth watching in the movie! The others are all more puppet-like than they can possibly be in real life - so much so I'm actually wondering if David Yates thought puppets would be a cheaper bet.
Now I'll tell you what's wrong with the movie. You'd expect a screenplay to be flowy, and we all know it's possible for books to be made into decent films (Lord of the Rings, anyone?!), but this one beats all. Every time I watch a Harry movie, I think, "This is the worst Steve Kloves could do, ever!" and he proves me wrong every time. Every single time.
And that's only one thing that's wrong about it. You might be one of those people who like romantic comedies, or period romances, action thrillers, gripping dramas, or fantasy worlds - but on all of those counts, HBP fails. Please, if you have any loyalty to good cinema, chuck your ticket in the bin and go bury yourself in a Tolkien.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
i go to the hills when my heart is lonely*
We're none of us godmen, and so we all have our havens - our places of solace and calm and comfort in times of trouble and broken dreams. One of the best descriptions of a safe place I've read was in Jeanette Ray's book, Eat Cake, which the Reader's Digest collection threw into my bookshelf. The protagonist in it imagines herself to be deep inside a cake whenever she is lost, helpless, harassed and the rest of the menagerie; inside a deep, soft, breathing, comforting cake - she preferred a lemon and chiffon cake, but the chocolate and banana cake is my favourite to blanketed in.
As far as real (not in the Vedantic sense of the term, no) places go, I suppose we all have those places where we feel at home - safe, taken care of - like engulfed within a warm, encompassing, comforting hug. Mine is my room. Every time I come home, for the first three hours or so, I stay closeted in my room, acclimatising to the change, both in me and my parents, and to the place itself, and reflecting on it. If this precious ritual is broken, I end up a stark, raving lunatic for the rest of the week, and my parents are never pleased to make loony-me's acquaintance.
Then there is an old, wise, grandfatherly house about 20 km from home. It was the birthplace of Shankaracharya, and there are remnants of the bygone times in that house still - in the wood, the pillars, the lit oil-lamps, the smiles. There, one can be completely alone in the silence; unlike in a huge empty auditorium where one might feel a perverse desire to yell long and loud, there is only a want to go as softly and tip-toed-ly as one can, here. There are trees, old as my great-grandfather would have been, standing stick-straight on the grounds and spreading shadow, and rubber tree plantations that offer hiding places, and paddy and pineapple farms that delight.
There is also an old, rich, temple-city on a little hill, up in Andhra Pradesh, that offers the same solace, if one were to go at a time of the year where there's more breathing space than people. There is a garden there - large, but not very well looked after, and two enormous banyan trees growing intertwined, and they are always talking to you and gesturing with their thick leafy arms towards a blue, cirrus-y sky. There are sculptures in the garden that are not the work of masters, chipped and broken in places, almost hidden by undergrowth and shrubs, but they all have their stories to tell. There is silence there too, and it speaks a language all its own.
My home city is another haven - one can get lost in the milling crowds, and anonymity in familiarity is always the balm of Gilead for a lonely soul.
Mountains too offer the sort of solitude that cures all ailments of a diseased mind, and even freshen it up for a new plunge into the world of fleeting worries and happinesses (college, for instance). When I read Ruskin Bond's description of the mountains, I can't help but love them as he loves them, and give myself, heart and soul, to dreams of spruced and deodared and wild-flowered slopes. I have sat at the feet of men who've told me they spend months in solitude in the Himalayas. In fact, I have heard all hermits say they would retire into the Himalayas if they were to have the chance.
There must be a reason all hermits retire to the Himalayas. Even godmen need solitude, I s'pose, when all's said and done.
As far as real (not in the Vedantic sense of the term, no) places go, I suppose we all have those places where we feel at home - safe, taken care of - like engulfed within a warm, encompassing, comforting hug. Mine is my room. Every time I come home, for the first three hours or so, I stay closeted in my room, acclimatising to the change, both in me and my parents, and to the place itself, and reflecting on it. If this precious ritual is broken, I end up a stark, raving lunatic for the rest of the week, and my parents are never pleased to make loony-me's acquaintance.
Then there is an old, wise, grandfatherly house about 20 km from home. It was the birthplace of Shankaracharya, and there are remnants of the bygone times in that house still - in the wood, the pillars, the lit oil-lamps, the smiles. There, one can be completely alone in the silence; unlike in a huge empty auditorium where one might feel a perverse desire to yell long and loud, there is only a want to go as softly and tip-toed-ly as one can, here. There are trees, old as my great-grandfather would have been, standing stick-straight on the grounds and spreading shadow, and rubber tree plantations that offer hiding places, and paddy and pineapple farms that delight.
There is also an old, rich, temple-city on a little hill, up in Andhra Pradesh, that offers the same solace, if one were to go at a time of the year where there's more breathing space than people. There is a garden there - large, but not very well looked after, and two enormous banyan trees growing intertwined, and they are always talking to you and gesturing with their thick leafy arms towards a blue, cirrus-y sky. There are sculptures in the garden that are not the work of masters, chipped and broken in places, almost hidden by undergrowth and shrubs, but they all have their stories to tell. There is silence there too, and it speaks a language all its own.
My home city is another haven - one can get lost in the milling crowds, and anonymity in familiarity is always the balm of Gilead for a lonely soul.
Mountains too offer the sort of solitude that cures all ailments of a diseased mind, and even freshen it up for a new plunge into the world of fleeting worries and happinesses (college, for instance). When I read Ruskin Bond's description of the mountains, I can't help but love them as he loves them, and give myself, heart and soul, to dreams of spruced and deodared and wild-flowered slopes. I have sat at the feet of men who've told me they spend months in solitude in the Himalayas. In fact, I have heard all hermits say they would retire into the Himalayas if they were to have the chance.
There must be a reason all hermits retire to the Himalayas. Even godmen need solitude, I s'pose, when all's said and done.
*The Sound of Music
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Just Joking
Are we all anarchists waiting for a reason to unleash our madnesses upon the world?
So ignoring the fact that that sentence is weirdly framed, I'll tell you now that no one I've ever asked (including Dad, who wouldn't hurt a fly) has ever denied a perverse, sneaking desire to throw a lighted matchstick into a coach carrying petrol, despite (or because of) skull-and-bones and "Highly Inflammable!!!" stamped in gloriously huge letters all over it. Or not wanted to throw some form of explosive into a milling crowd, just to break it up. Or hurl a Fat Man (or something slightly less destructive, actually) into the Parliament when one of those juvenile walk-out sessions are in order.
Or to crash a car into a tree at 180 mph, or imagine a roller-coaster coming off the rails when it's at the summit, or think of a giant wheel come screwed and roll along the road wreaking havoc. We all like some disorder, and the Second Law of Thermodynamics and punk/death metal music are proof enough.
I think Emma Thompson, of the puckered eyes, sharp mouth and crisp accent, put it beautifully in Stranger Than Fiction.
"Everybody thinks about jumping off a building."
So ignoring the fact that that sentence is weirdly framed, I'll tell you now that no one I've ever asked (including Dad, who wouldn't hurt a fly) has ever denied a perverse, sneaking desire to throw a lighted matchstick into a coach carrying petrol, despite (or because of) skull-and-bones and "Highly Inflammable!!!" stamped in gloriously huge letters all over it. Or not wanted to throw some form of explosive into a milling crowd, just to break it up. Or hurl a Fat Man (or something slightly less destructive, actually) into the Parliament when one of those juvenile walk-out sessions are in order.
Or to crash a car into a tree at 180 mph, or imagine a roller-coaster coming off the rails when it's at the summit, or think of a giant wheel come screwed and roll along the road wreaking havoc. We all like some disorder, and the Second Law of Thermodynamics and punk/death metal music are proof enough.
I think Emma Thompson, of the puckered eyes, sharp mouth and crisp accent, put it beautifully in Stranger Than Fiction.
"Everybody thinks about jumping off a building."
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Stories
I was reading an old, old set of Amar Chitra Katha-s yesterday, and encountered a set of Jaina stories. They are all to do with how desire is the root of all unhappiness, and how money and the avarice destroys one.
There was also the story of Chandragupta II Vikramaditya, apparently the story of a great and noble king. After the History course we did in college, that seems unlikely. :)
And there is also the representation of legends and myths from the Puranas and the Bhagavatam as real events of the past, and now I think of the different methods of representing the past, historical and ahistorical, a la Ashis Nandy.
Now I wonder what I read of them when I was four, for I definitely remember reading them, but not the lessons.
Perhaps we must reread all our childhood stories again, if only to glean new lessons from them.
There was also the story of Chandragupta II Vikramaditya, apparently the story of a great and noble king. After the History course we did in college, that seems unlikely. :)
And there is also the representation of legends and myths from the Puranas and the Bhagavatam as real events of the past, and now I think of the different methods of representing the past, historical and ahistorical, a la Ashis Nandy.
Now I wonder what I read of them when I was four, for I definitely remember reading them, but not the lessons.
Perhaps we must reread all our childhood stories again, if only to glean new lessons from them.
Friday, June 12, 2009
that rotten g-word
Is what a trashy Marcia Willet novel called it, and an equally trashy Sophie Kinsella one as well. What tosh, I thought.
Apparently not. It's a debilitating thing, guilt. Keeps alive the past, shuts out the future, clouds the present. And the only way to obliterate it is to either let go, or rearrange the past.
Oh well.
Apparently not. It's a debilitating thing, guilt. Keeps alive the past, shuts out the future, clouds the present. And the only way to obliterate it is to either let go, or rearrange the past.
Oh well.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Exams
And if you still cannot understand
That precious is studying beforehand,
A price so great you'll have to pay -
You'll look like a zombie on a decaying day.
That precious is studying beforehand,
A price so great you'll have to pay -
You'll look like a zombie on a decaying day.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
if you find it, share it with the rest of us*
So on the ocean of life we pass and speak one another
Only a look and a voice; then darkness again and silence.
What of eternity then, and permanence,
Of happiness and a bliss in every action?
*Grant Lee Buffalo: Happiness
(from Mighty Joe Moon)
Only a look and a voice; then darkness again and silence.
What of eternity then, and permanence,
Of happiness and a bliss in every action?
*Grant Lee Buffalo: Happiness
(from Mighty Joe Moon)
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Lone Shoes on Dance Floors
Disclaimer: Quote overheard in a conversation yelled across space and time. In college, really.
***
"Some ****ing Cinderella left a shoe on the dance floor. I tripped over it and fell. Damnation."
That poor Prince Charming!
If only he had not been drunk, and noticed that single shoe (not just to curse its presence on the dance floor), he might have found his Cinderella. Not a complete certainty, no, but it could still have happened.
Wait, though. Aren't we making an assumption here that Charming would actually have wanted to meet his Cinderella? Maybe he'd already found his Cinderella, and this shoe was one of those freak accidents along the way that make your nose bleed and gross out your Cinderella. Or maybe Charming's Cinderella was the wrong Cinderella and this was the universe's way of telling him he had the wrong one and should keep looking. It's also possible that it was this owner-of-the-shoe-Cinderella's way of sending out a signal to her Prince Charming (a different one), and this one just got in the way.
Maybe this was Bachelor Prince Charming, a charming cynic who didn't believe in fairy tales and had no time to spend on Cinderellas and glass shoes (four inch heels notwithstanding) except to cuss its audacity to lie so brazenly and inconsiderately on the dance floor. Or maybe he was the Henpecked Prince Charming, who had grown up and long since forgone his belief in fairy tales and true love.
Or it may not have been Cinderella at all. It could have been Snow White, deciding she didn't particularly like the way she had to bite into insidiously poisoned apples and wait around for her guy to show up. Or Rapunzel, who liked bobbed hair, high heels and partying better than imprisonment in tall towers. Or that daughter of a weaver who didn't want to meet Rumplestiltskin. Perhaps we're just attributing personalities to her; it could be that she was just another cynic, and her shoe recalcitrant.
It may just have had a devious plan to trip someone over; after all, it can't be fun being staccatoed in tune with Punjabi songs for hours on end. It could have been miserably lost, and just in Charming's way. Or maybe, just maybe, the shoe realised that this Cinderella and this Prince Charming (cynicism and indifference notwithstanding) were meant to meet and be, and decided now was better than later or never.
Come to think of it, it's just one shoe, and a million possible reasons surrounding the mystery of its lone presence on the dance floor.
***
"Some ****ing Cinderella left a shoe on the dance floor. I tripped over it and fell. Damnation."
That poor Prince Charming!
If only he had not been drunk, and noticed that single shoe (not just to curse its presence on the dance floor), he might have found his Cinderella. Not a complete certainty, no, but it could still have happened.
Wait, though. Aren't we making an assumption here that Charming would actually have wanted to meet his Cinderella? Maybe he'd already found his Cinderella, and this shoe was one of those freak accidents along the way that make your nose bleed and gross out your Cinderella. Or maybe Charming's Cinderella was the wrong Cinderella and this was the universe's way of telling him he had the wrong one and should keep looking. It's also possible that it was this owner-of-the-shoe-Cinderella's way of sending out a signal to her Prince Charming (a different one), and this one just got in the way.
Maybe this was Bachelor Prince Charming, a charming cynic who didn't believe in fairy tales and had no time to spend on Cinderellas and glass shoes (four inch heels notwithstanding) except to cuss its audacity to lie so brazenly and inconsiderately on the dance floor. Or maybe he was the Henpecked Prince Charming, who had grown up and long since forgone his belief in fairy tales and true love.
Or it may not have been Cinderella at all. It could have been Snow White, deciding she didn't particularly like the way she had to bite into insidiously poisoned apples and wait around for her guy to show up. Or Rapunzel, who liked bobbed hair, high heels and partying better than imprisonment in tall towers. Or that daughter of a weaver who didn't want to meet Rumplestiltskin. Perhaps we're just attributing personalities to her; it could be that she was just another cynic, and her shoe recalcitrant.
It may just have had a devious plan to trip someone over; after all, it can't be fun being staccatoed in tune with Punjabi songs for hours on end. It could have been miserably lost, and just in Charming's way. Or maybe, just maybe, the shoe realised that this Cinderella and this Prince Charming (cynicism and indifference notwithstanding) were meant to meet and be, and decided now was better than later or never.
Come to think of it, it's just one shoe, and a million possible reasons surrounding the mystery of its lone presence on the dance floor.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Sugar, Spice and Everything Nice: Did You Say?
Put man in a cage
And he'll show you claws that you
never knew he had.
(Yes, still in haiku mood. Though what I should be in is exam-study-mood.)
Elections are such nasty things.
Naivete or not, I can't help thinking that there is a nice, non-nasty way of doing these things. Surely we can all exist without pointing out flaws in other people (that may or may not exist) in hateful terms?
Maybe you'll say I should wake up to the real world. Well, I'll tell you now: Alarms will wake me when I'm needed, and I'll butt in and butt out asap.
And he'll show you claws that you
never knew he had.
(Yes, still in haiku mood. Though what I should be in is exam-study-mood.)
Elections are such nasty things.
Naivete or not, I can't help thinking that there is a nice, non-nasty way of doing these things. Surely we can all exist without pointing out flaws in other people (that may or may not exist) in hateful terms?
Maybe you'll say I should wake up to the real world. Well, I'll tell you now: Alarms will wake me when I'm needed, and I'll butt in and butt out asap.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Rain
It is raining.
It is that time of the year when all the rain-fairies are out, and they light up the darkening trees and lend to those funny, rotund globules of rain glitters and shines and happiness. Us, too, if only we were to listen closely enough.
***
I was reading this blog today, and this is the result.
It is that time of the year when all the rain-fairies are out, and they light up the darkening trees and lend to those funny, rotund globules of rain glitters and shines and happiness. Us, too, if only we were to listen closely enough.
***
I was reading this blog today, and this is the result.
Rain
Drops of water fall
jewels from infinity
mortal once on earth.
Drops of water fall
jewels from infinity
mortal once on earth.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Learning
Once upon a time, long, long ago, this little one in a small class of very inspiring people heard someone say: "Change is the only changeless law." And: "Everything passes away."
The little one didn't quite recognise those deep pearls of wisdom. Now, that is one milestone of learning.
The next one is coming to terms with the first one.
The little one didn't quite recognise those deep pearls of wisdom. Now, that is one milestone of learning.
The next one is coming to terms with the first one.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Trees by the Library
Leaf, little green leaf,
Shot with silver light:
When you dance with the wind,
you dazzle my eyes.
You droop in the rain,
but do you ever cry?!
I can't but delight, drenched,
in your rustling glee.
With every prayer, I ask
That I be born a tree
To have you adorn
My brown, scarred body.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Reality
Did you hear of the deer who thought she was going to die because all the grass in the world was wilting?
She lived in a painting.
She lived in a painting.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Glass Half Full
"Congratulations! You are now an ant!"
Wait. O_O
Have I been promoted to a class of diligent, industrious living things, or is this a belittling demotion on the cycle of rebirth?!
***
PS - Yes, I know cycles/circles can't have hierarchies, but well... Who says we're talking logic here?
Wait. O_O
Have I been promoted to a class of diligent, industrious living things, or is this a belittling demotion on the cycle of rebirth?!
***
PS - Yes, I know cycles/circles can't have hierarchies, but well... Who says we're talking logic here?
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Mundane Tasks
Oh inspiration, dear inspiration, wth are you?!
Why'd you leave?!
With you, I was a pink-and-green cloud flying high
in the sky
Now you've flown,
And I feel alone, all alone:
A lonely printing press in a dark corner;
it churns out words by the thousand,
conceived with hope, but they're damned:
Never read but marked, frowned upon...
And I'm just here sitting, typing out words
just one in a colony of duds.
Why'd you leave?!
With you, I was a pink-and-green cloud flying high
in the sky
Now you've flown,
And I feel alone, all alone:
A lonely printing press in a dark corner;
it churns out words by the thousand,
conceived with hope, but they're damned:
Never read but marked, frowned upon...
And I'm just here sitting, typing out words
just one in a colony of duds.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Shadow-play
There it is again! That shadow. Oh, you intriguing, intriguing shadow! Whose art thou?!
***
It's summer in --, and what a summer! The locals tell us it's never been this hot, and that the rains used to be far more frequent.
But today is one of those glorious anomalies - rain and a cool breeze. And a moonlit night too. I am walking around the building, and making cloud-babies out of those amorphous Legos. I've seen a dragon (all Chinese and red and gold, I'd like to believe), sugar candy puffs, hearts with wings, Chucky (*shudder*), powder puffs, a kelpie, a milk carton with feet like in a video I've seen long ago (I forget which song, but I remember he meets a girl milk carton and goes to heaven, halo and all)...
A brief interlude with the music in my ears and coffee, and I'm almost home. I look up, and the clouds-babies have all been shooed to bed, and the stars are out partying, and a freckled half-moon. It's impossible to ignore their frolic; I'm an ardent fan. I'm staring quite unabashedly, and lo! there's a shadow over the moon!
I'm tempted, conditioned as we all are, to dismiss it as a chopper out on a joyride, but it moved too quickly for that. I use the old technique of watching, but not quite looking for, and there it is again! It's slender, like a cross; both vertical and horizontal, and gone before I can focus on it. Like a speckle: there, but not quite.
Maybe it was an insect flying in front of my eyes, and by some weird law of science, it felt as if it were far away. It's a plausible explanation. Or maybe it was an asteroid speeding.
But I've decided it was a witch - out, perhaps, because she's happy about the weather, and wants to make the best of it, like all of us. Or she could be the boogeyman to the cloud-babies. Maybe there's a coven tonight, but wait, aren't they on full moon nights?! She could be out on a secret mission, spying for the Queen of her Clan. Or on a secret rendezvous with a lover who's not a wizard. Or maybe it's just her shadow, out while she's brewing her secret potions in the dark of night, just to get away for a while from work. Or maybe, just maybe, she engineered the weather. I'm glad she did, if she did.
So what if it's only a half-moon night? Even witches must have their breathing space.
***
It's summer in --, and what a summer! The locals tell us it's never been this hot, and that the rains used to be far more frequent.
But today is one of those glorious anomalies - rain and a cool breeze. And a moonlit night too. I am walking around the building, and making cloud-babies out of those amorphous Legos. I've seen a dragon (all Chinese and red and gold, I'd like to believe), sugar candy puffs, hearts with wings, Chucky (*shudder*), powder puffs, a kelpie, a milk carton with feet like in a video I've seen long ago (I forget which song, but I remember he meets a girl milk carton and goes to heaven, halo and all)...
A brief interlude with the music in my ears and coffee, and I'm almost home. I look up, and the clouds-babies have all been shooed to bed, and the stars are out partying, and a freckled half-moon. It's impossible to ignore their frolic; I'm an ardent fan. I'm staring quite unabashedly, and lo! there's a shadow over the moon!
I'm tempted, conditioned as we all are, to dismiss it as a chopper out on a joyride, but it moved too quickly for that. I use the old technique of watching, but not quite looking for, and there it is again! It's slender, like a cross; both vertical and horizontal, and gone before I can focus on it. Like a speckle: there, but not quite.
Maybe it was an insect flying in front of my eyes, and by some weird law of science, it felt as if it were far away. It's a plausible explanation. Or maybe it was an asteroid speeding.
But I've decided it was a witch - out, perhaps, because she's happy about the weather, and wants to make the best of it, like all of us. Or she could be the boogeyman to the cloud-babies. Maybe there's a coven tonight, but wait, aren't they on full moon nights?! She could be out on a secret mission, spying for the Queen of her Clan. Or on a secret rendezvous with a lover who's not a wizard. Or maybe it's just her shadow, out while she's brewing her secret potions in the dark of night, just to get away for a while from work. Or maybe, just maybe, she engineered the weather. I'm glad she did, if she did.
So what if it's only a half-moon night? Even witches must have their breathing space.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Summer
This seems to be the season for remembrance.
Gulmohars are blooming; those bright, alive, orange bursts of colour are a sight for sore eyes. They remind me, and others here, of how we used to invent vampire nails and fangs out of the gulmohar petals and run madly around the house announcing the descent of Countess Dracula (No, that wasn't me! I was Pirate Snaggletooth. Rawr.) in red cloaks fashioned of Amma's saris.
And then there were mangoes. This, back home, is that glorious season when all mango trees (and every house in the neighbourhood had at least one) erupt into fruits and perfumy blooms. Daily schedules were invariably characterised by forays into neighbours' orchards, armed with stones and conspicuous long sticks, and down would come some two dozen mangoes. The next few seconds would be spent in frantically gathering the mangoes and rushing out, almost always chased by irate 'ungles' and their 'aalsashian' Tommys. And breakfast, lunch and dinner always, always had mangoes - mangakoottaan, mango pickles, manga pachadi, fruit salad... You name it; we had it. Dad's favourite summer refrain was: "There is always space for one more mango."
There were always sudden, unexpected showers too, as though Earth herself felt too hot to not want some cooling off. Always towards the end of the day, and always on the hottest days, we were caught unawares in raggedy outfits while out on on ruffianly cycling trips. The rain always cheered us up extra, and made us living horrors for Amma to deal with.
***
This is very much a nostalgic post. I really do miss those days. Not because "they will never be back again", but because those great, comforting grandfathers of trees are gone now. There're huge buildings of yuppies looking to move to the suburbs now - the orchards and the traditional ponds are long gone. And so, it seems, are the rains. They're never predictably unexpected anymore. They just come and go, like postmen on the street, leaving traces of their presence, but never coming in.
Those are the things that aren't going to come back - those trees and the open field and the green, unchoked rain and the smell of the wet, red earth.
I mourn their passing. And laugh about the fun we had then.
Gulmohars are blooming; those bright, alive, orange bursts of colour are a sight for sore eyes. They remind me, and others here, of how we used to invent vampire nails and fangs out of the gulmohar petals and run madly around the house announcing the descent of Countess Dracula (No, that wasn't me! I was Pirate Snaggletooth. Rawr.) in red cloaks fashioned of Amma's saris.
And then there were mangoes. This, back home, is that glorious season when all mango trees (and every house in the neighbourhood had at least one) erupt into fruits and perfumy blooms. Daily schedules were invariably characterised by forays into neighbours' orchards, armed with stones and conspicuous long sticks, and down would come some two dozen mangoes. The next few seconds would be spent in frantically gathering the mangoes and rushing out, almost always chased by irate 'ungles' and their 'aalsashian' Tommys. And breakfast, lunch and dinner always, always had mangoes - mangakoottaan, mango pickles, manga pachadi, fruit salad... You name it; we had it. Dad's favourite summer refrain was: "There is always space for one more mango."
There were always sudden, unexpected showers too, as though Earth herself felt too hot to not want some cooling off. Always towards the end of the day, and always on the hottest days, we were caught unawares in raggedy outfits while out on on ruffianly cycling trips. The rain always cheered us up extra, and made us living horrors for Amma to deal with.
***
This is very much a nostalgic post. I really do miss those days. Not because "they will never be back again", but because those great, comforting grandfathers of trees are gone now. There're huge buildings of yuppies looking to move to the suburbs now - the orchards and the traditional ponds are long gone. And so, it seems, are the rains. They're never predictably unexpected anymore. They just come and go, like postmen on the street, leaving traces of their presence, but never coming in.
Those are the things that aren't going to come back - those trees and the open field and the green, unchoked rain and the smell of the wet, red earth.
I mourn their passing. And laugh about the fun we had then.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Indian
Questions are everywhere, even on harmless bus rides.
I was on a bus back to Bangalore, and had the good fortune (or otherwise) of having a chatty neighbour. She was elucidating at length about the vagaries and the various vices of Bangalore auto drivers, and at some point, made a statement that I find disturbing.
She said, "Most of my friends were foreign nationals, and there were a couple of people from North-East, but I was the only one who looked Indian."
Oh yes, we could argue that the people from the North-East look distinctively Chinese or Nepalese or whatever. But what I wonder is: Suddenly we have a distinct facial characteristic; some of us "look Indian" while others don't?
What is this idea of "Indian" that we have built in our heads? How come, for someone as normal as you and me, the Indians in the North-East just aren't Indian enough? How is it that such a thought is so deeply ingrained in us that we never realise the import of what's been said?
So who is Indian, now? What are the criteria to be? Religion, income, class, caste, region? Who is to decide all of this?
What is it that we have to do, or be, or not do to be Indian?
I was on a bus back to Bangalore, and had the good fortune (or otherwise) of having a chatty neighbour. She was elucidating at length about the vagaries and the various vices of Bangalore auto drivers, and at some point, made a statement that I find disturbing.
She said, "Most of my friends were foreign nationals, and there were a couple of people from North-East, but I was the only one who looked Indian."
Oh yes, we could argue that the people from the North-East look distinctively Chinese or Nepalese or whatever. But what I wonder is: Suddenly we have a distinct facial characteristic; some of us "look Indian" while others don't?
What is this idea of "Indian" that we have built in our heads? How come, for someone as normal as you and me, the Indians in the North-East just aren't Indian enough? How is it that such a thought is so deeply ingrained in us that we never realise the import of what's been said?
So who is Indian, now? What are the criteria to be? Religion, income, class, caste, region? Who is to decide all of this?
What is it that we have to do, or be, or not do to be Indian?
Monday, April 20, 2009
Believing
Tup. Ttup. Tttup.
There is a woodpecker outside my window. I cannot see it, but its conversation with the birch breaks into my stuporous consciousness like a bomb into silence.
I can't see the birch now. My worktable isn't near the window. It used to be, looking out from that tiny perch onto a world exploding with colour and form.
That was the issue, of course. There is that part of the brain, which has heard it all from them, that tells me all of it - this splash of colour, this multitude of form - is... what is the word? Wrong. No... That's not it.
Unreal. Yeah. That's the word. All of this is unreal, they say. All that is tangible, all that I can see, taste, touch, smell and hear - everything unreal. It doesn't matter that I can see it; I must believe. Thinking is dangerous, you know.
And that is why my table was moved from the window, of course. If I were to see so much colour, I would have trouble believing what I am told. To believe that so much beauty is an illusion, that all of it is like ghosts in the netherworld, would be sacrilege, blasphemy... and well nigh impossible. The wall helps. It's stark white, and rectangular.
There are moments, naturally, when I wonder if this premise of unreality isn't too farfetched. But then, they wouldn't lie to me, would they? They said it's all for Truth - and what would one not give for Truth?
I'm still trying to find it, of course. It is a difficult path - it needs me to forget that I know so much, needs me to be blind to so much. But it'll be worth it, you know, in the end. Truth = happiness and everything you've ever wanted, they said - and how can it not be?
Meanwhile, I believe in what I am told.
The world is full of colour, but my wall is bare.
There is a woodpecker outside my window. I cannot see it, but its conversation with the birch breaks into my stuporous consciousness like a bomb into silence.
I can't see the birch now. My worktable isn't near the window. It used to be, looking out from that tiny perch onto a world exploding with colour and form.
That was the issue, of course. There is that part of the brain, which has heard it all from them, that tells me all of it - this splash of colour, this multitude of form - is... what is the word? Wrong. No... That's not it.
Unreal. Yeah. That's the word. All of this is unreal, they say. All that is tangible, all that I can see, taste, touch, smell and hear - everything unreal. It doesn't matter that I can see it; I must believe. Thinking is dangerous, you know.
And that is why my table was moved from the window, of course. If I were to see so much colour, I would have trouble believing what I am told. To believe that so much beauty is an illusion, that all of it is like ghosts in the netherworld, would be sacrilege, blasphemy... and well nigh impossible. The wall helps. It's stark white, and rectangular.
There are moments, naturally, when I wonder if this premise of unreality isn't too farfetched. But then, they wouldn't lie to me, would they? They said it's all for Truth - and what would one not give for Truth?
I'm still trying to find it, of course. It is a difficult path - it needs me to forget that I know so much, needs me to be blind to so much. But it'll be worth it, you know, in the end. Truth = happiness and everything you've ever wanted, they said - and how can it not be?
Meanwhile, I believe in what I am told.
The world is full of colour, but my wall is bare.
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