Saturday, February 18, 2006

Crime and Punishment

When the first rumours of this God-person's wrath reached the city of Sodom, no one paid them much attention. Oh, the men discussed it over their cups, of course, and one woman ran naked through the streets shouting 'the end is nigh! the end is nigh!' to the amusement of the general public, but the general consensus was that this God guy was just another of those desert crackpots who go around shouting curses at everyone they meet. Pretty soon, the threat of God's anger was a standing joke in the city - 'it's all God's doing' was a standard refrain for any gambler who got suspiciously lucky at the dice games, and one popular entertainer even had a whole stand-up routine about the God threat ("you smite my back, and I'll smite yours"). It was just one of those things.

When the reports and seriousness of the threat kept multiplying however, a few of the more serious-minded citizens began to pay some attention. Like a man waking up to the queasiness of a hangover that tells him he may have had too much to drink, the city of Sodom began to consider, for the first time, the possibility that there might be some truth to the rumours. That perhaps there was, indeed, some large and alien force that threatened their fair city.

Indignation followed. Who was this God anyway? How dare he presume to judge them, to tell them how to live their lives? Who asked for his opinion? A town meeting was called to discuss the issue. For the first time in living memory, the people of Sodom were entirely sober, and the unaccustomed clarity of this had worn them raw at the edges, so that the crowd that gathered in the public square was growling and bitter. A two day stubble of a crowd, ready to be rubbed the wrong way.

For a while the meeting consisted of little more than a chorus of shouted insults. All forms of violence imaginable were wished upon the absent God, every conceivable assault on his genitalia was loudly proclaimed, and each new cry was met with a cheer of approbation, sprinkled with the odd laugh. When the gathering had got the spleen a little out its system, however, the shouting died down, and a discussion began as to the best way to respond to this unexpected threat.

Some people were of the opinion that there was no need to do anything at all - this God thing was clearly a hoax and even paying it so much attention as to call a town meeting over it was to give the delinquents who were spreading these stories too much attention. Others argued that they thought God was a lie too, but it was just possible that he might actually exist, and as such it made sense for the city to be ready to defend itself - 'better safe than sorry' was their war-cry. This group argued that immediate defensive measures be introduced - the standing guard forces of the city tripled, a perimeter of defense built around the city, and special provisions made to thoroughly search and question every visitor who entered Sodom, in case he happened to be one of the dreaded 'angels' that this God person was supposed to have working for him. Still others, seeing the prospect of an endless siege against an enemy whose very existence was dubious at best, argued for a counter-strike. Why wait around for this God person to come to us?, they said. Why not put together an army and go after him instead? A few people pointed out that God hadn't actually done anything, and they didn't really know that he was planning to, but their objections were brushed quickly aside - he had threatened to attack, hadn't he? He was generally believed to have powerful and destructive weapons, wasn't he? Well then. Instead, the chief objection to this preemptive strike idea was that no one among the assembled knew where this God person was to be found, or what manner and strength of forces he might possess. Given that, any attempts to engage him in actual battle were deemed impractical.

The discussion having thus come full circle, and leaving the residents of Sodom with a choice between laying in perpetual wait for an enemy who may never come, or going out to engage an enemy they could not find, a man emerged from the back of the crowd, and having circled his way up to the main stage, began to speak.

"Good citizens of Sodom", said he, "I think we are approaching this matter the wrong way. To engage an enemy we know nothing of, whether abroad or at home, is mere foolishness. Let us instead pay closer attention to what this God-person accuses us of, and take due cognizance of his charges."

"Hear me out!" he said, as a murmur rose from the crowd against the suggestion that anything this God was saying be taken seriously. "The thought that occurs to me is this: What, exactly is the nature of crime? What does guilt consist of? Surely in the sense that a crime is something a man can be held responsible for, it must be true that it is something he may choose to do. If a man has no freedom of choice in the matter, if it is the society he inhabits, or the system he lives in, that makes him act the way he does, then he cannot be considered guilty, no matter what you may think of his actions. You may find the sound of breathing noisome, for instance, but you cannot blame a man for making it, because he has no other alternative. It is only the things that we do on our volition that we can be fairly tried or punished for."

"But how is this question of choice to be decided? How can we know when something is a choice that a man makes, rather than a thing he is forced into by the world? Simple. We ask ourselves whether there is any other who lives in the same world, who has undergone more or less the same set of experiences and who still acts differently from the man in question. If there be other men who have acted differently in the same circumstances, then choice is possible, and the man under consideration stands condemned. But if there be no one who has made a choice differently, then we can safely claim that the fault is not in the man but in the things that attend him, and we cannot, in all conscience, punish him for that. Without innocence there is no guilt. This is not simply, indeed, a matter of proof - it is also a question of reciprocal justice - for how can a man accuse another of a crime unless he be first innocent of it himself?

"What's your point?", "That's fine, but how is this helping us?", "What is this guy going on about?", the crowd asked.

The man smiled. "My point is this. We stand accused, by this God person, of all sorts of selfish and depraved acts. But what is to keep us from arguing that the fault for these is not ours but lies instead with something in our surroundings? Perhaps it is the harshness of our climate, we could say, or the thinness of the air we breathe, that makes us the way we are. We are not depraved, fiendish men by nature, it is Sodom that has made us thus. After all, it is not as though these acts that God condemns us for are specific to a few among us, we are all equally implicated in them - and the sin, being general, can safely be assumed to be no sin at all."

"As long, that is, as there are no exceptions. Is there any man in Sodom who does not join in our practices, does not partake of our general pleasures? We all know there is - Lot. This upstart, this solitary living hermit with his fancy ideas and limited understanding, this true pervert who dares to judge us, dares to refute the generalisation of our selves onto the world. He is the truly unnatural one among us, he is the one who deserves to be attacked, to be punished, but instead it is we who are forced to bear him like a thorn in our side, pricking our otherwise perfect certainty in our own righteousness. Is it not mere egoism on his part to claim this superiority over us, to constantly throw his own smug chasteness in our faces?"

"Yes, that's right!" "That bastard Lot! I never did care for him" "Down with Lot! Let's kill him and be done with it!".

The man let the cries die down, then proceeded: "My proposal, then, is this. Let us accuse Lot of stupidity and egoism. Let us force him to admit that he is wrong and his ideas misplaced. Let us force him to apologise to us, then exile him from our city. Once this is done, should any God appear to render judgment over us, we can then safely point to the generality of our failures, and blame them all on the place in which we dwell. Surely no rational being will dare to judge us harshly then. Instead, even God shall have empathy for us then, he shall show us kindness, he shall pity us for having lost the opportunity to be fine, upright men by being forced to live in this place".

And so it was done. The bewildered Lot was dragged out of his home that evening and brought before the townspeople, who ridiculed him and ordered him to repent and apologise. Lot stuck bravely to his guns, of course, arguing with cold logic alone that he was in the right. But these arguments, going so against the grain of the assembled mob, fell on deaf ears. Every argument he made to defend himself was met with howls of abusive protest from the crowd, who then proceeded to accuse him of excessive pride and egoism. Finally, after half the night had passed in this sort of shouting, Lot and his family were exiled from the city of Sodom by unanimous decree, and a posse of town people escorted them to the edge of the city, from where they watched them leave. It is said that Lot and his family were so afraid as they left that they never even turned to look back at their prosecutors, whose jeering cries filled the desert night behind them.

It is done, said the crowd, when it was all over. Now we are justified. Now we are safe.

Categories:

Friday, February 17, 2006

Once upon a time in the East

Comments to yesterday's post made me all nostalgic about the good old days working for the Firm and made me decide to post a description of one such day that I'd put down a while ago.

The year is 2003. It's the 15th of August. I'm part of a team of consultants working in a manufacturing plant in the little known and even less visited town of J. in Southern Orissa. Flight connections out of this part of the country are scarce, and our usual MO is to get back to Delhi (our home office) is to catch an overnight train from the nearest railway station to Raipur, arriving there at around 7:00 in the morning and catching the 9:00 am flight out to Delhi. A trip home of roughly 16 hours door to door (assuming everything runs on time) which we undertake once every two weeks, alternating it with weekends spent watching the latest trash Hindi movies on the one television set in our entire guest house and a dvd player we managed to rent from a nearby town.

My thanks for this post to dhoomk2, friend, former colleague and fellow traveller on the expedition described here. He's the one who managed to find this mail among his archives.

3:30 am: Wake up on train to Raipur (am supposed to catch 9:00 am flight from Raipur to Delhi) Find train is stopped at station. Go back to sleep

5:30 am: Wake up on train (as above). Find train is stopped at station. Realise station looks familiar. Shake head. Go back to sleep.

5:35 am: Woken up by friendly co-passenger to be told that train has been stopped at station for two hours (bad), but will be moving soon (good) going back in the direction we came (very, very bad) because goods train in front of us has derailed.

5:36 am: Realise that am awake and not dreaming this. Arm hurts from pinch.

5:37 am: Realise that only course to pursue is to get down from train and make way forward by road

5:38 am: Realise minor flaw in plan: Getting down from train is difficult since there is no platform. Manage to jump down, bruising ankle on way.

5:39 am: Realise major flaw in plan: There is no road!

5:55 am: Running madly through field in general direction of thatched huts, led on by rumour of bus at 6:00 am. Feel like overloaded dwarf trailing Orcs through middle-earth.

6:00 am: Find bus. Talk to driver who confirms that he can get us there by 8:00 am (joy and happiness!). Talk to driver and realise that "there" is not Raipur but some place called Nuapada (gloom and despair)

6:00 - 8:00 am: Spend two hours crammed in leaky roofed bus clutching laptop going over semi-metal road while being a) prodded by umbrellas b) poked in the eye by enthu children waving national flags c) having said little children shoved on lap while parents look on suspiciously. Feel nostalgic about Mumbai rail. Vow never to eat sardines again, from sense of empathy.

8:01 am: Am overjoyed to learn that spine is still in one piece and not fragmented into 35690 segments as per earlier hypothesis.

8:02 am: Realise that Nuapada bus terminus is actually big field with a) two buses b) five cows c) three dogs and d) two rickety jeeps.

8:03 am: Thrust money at rickety jeep driver to take us to nearby 'town' of Khariar road as fast as possible. He takes off leaving trail of dust and assorted spare parts. Realise hypothesis on spine breakage could still come true.

8:04 am: Jeep driver stops for 10 minutes to fill petrol. This consists of going to neighbourhood pan shop and picking up jerry can from him. Make mental note to point out unique retailing opportunity to teams working for our Petroleum clients.

8:30 am; Arrive in Khariar road which is 'hayp' town and has choice of jeeps - Marshall, Qualis, Sumo. Pick Sumo. Are now on way to Raipur (finally) on actual tarmac (finally). Feel optimistic about catching 12:00 noon flight to Mumbai from where can travel to Delhi.

8:50 am: 5 km out of Brajbhol find that road has been washed away by annual flood. Look on hopelessly as driver searches for convenient tree under which to spend night.

9:00 am: Convince driver that, Heraclitus notwithstanding, flood will still be as bad t'rrow and we can't wait. Convince him to take other route.

9:10 am: Manage to motivate driver to get us there as fast as possible. Driver gets into spirit of things. Decides to make us feel more at home by playing Vengaboys album. Am now on way to Ibitza apparently

9:15 am: Can't decide what's worse - having an accident because of driving at 120 Km/ hr on semi-metal road or not having an accident and having to listen to Vengaboys.

11:15 am: Reach Raipur airport. Screech of brakes as mud-spattered Sumo comes to halt outside main gate. Quick unloading. Rush to airline counter. Airline counter closed. Mumbai flight cancelled because of Independence day. Next flight at 9:00 am next morning

11:20 am: Get Sumo driver to take us to hotel in Raipur. Realise all this time he was driving at 120 Km / hr wasn't because we were in a hurry. It was just his usual speed.

11:30 am: Check into Hotel Babylon. Try to ignore garish paintings all over walls. Room filled with flies, so spend hour swatting. Then open laptop and get to work.

9:30 pm: Halfway through work decide to take break and have a drink. Call bar. Find 15th August is dry day. Go back to work.

1:30 am (next day) : Finally done with work. Lie in bed feeling character build.

1:31 am (next day): Remember that am quitting in two months to do a PhD. Breathe sigh of relief. Laugh sadistic laugh. Sleep.

Categories: ,

Thursday, February 16, 2006

Fat in the fire

Okay, two rants.

The first against the New York Times and their reports about the Women's Health Initiative studies - all these articles they've been coming out with on how new studies have 'proved' that low fat diets don't lower the risk of heart disease or breast cancer, etc [1].

Let me start by saying that I have a lot of respect for the researchers behind the actual studies - reading through their work I'm more than satisfied with the level of rigour they've brought to the research, and just given the sheer scale of their experimental design, I'm fairly impressed by the experiment they've run. There are some issues with their study: it's not clear how much the manipulation actually works (subjects in the treatment group don't seem to have substantially reduced cholesterol levels when compared to those in the control group, for instance), and because the authors don't seem to have a clear causal mechanism for the link between heart disease and fat intake, one can question whether their test is really theoretically rigorous (could it be particular types of fat that do the damage, for instance?). Still, overall it's a fairly robust and interesting study, and it's hard to imagine how they could have done it much better.

The trouble with the NY Times reporting of it, though, is that while they discuss many of these more nuanced concerns, they almost entirely neglect to mention one fairly pertinent fact: this is a study with a sample of post-menopausal, mostly white women in the age group 50 - 79. So even if we assume that the findings of the study are valid for that population, it's certainly not clear that the results are generalisable to the world at large. All the study is saying (at best) is that if you're a woman and switch to a low fat diet when you're 55 it's not going to lower your risk of dying of a heart attack in any significant way. That doesn't mean that going on a low fat diet at twenty won't help, or even that it's not useful for 50 year old men to go on a low fat diet. The trouble is that just skimming the NY Times articles you wouldn't realise this, and it upsets me to see careful, well-thought through research being mauled in that way by cheap sensationalism.

So. The second rant of the day is against people (like this cretin here hat-tip: Desi Pundit) who go on and on about how MBAs from premier institutions in India (and I mean truly premier institutions, not the Ponytail variety) are entirely selfish and don't contribute back to India's development.

To begin with, there are several interesting ethical questions built into the assumption that MBAs should be held responsible for contributing back to India, but I'm (uncharacteristically) going to ignore them and take it as read that MBAs as a class should contribute back to India's development in some way or the other. The only contention then is whether this is or is not happening.

The first argument usually made by people who want to bemoan the lack of social responsibility among MBAs is that all the graduates from the IIMs end up going abroad and therefore don't contribute to India's development (I used to think that this was an argument only brain-dead politicians like Murli Manohar Joshi made, but I've discovered that a number of otherwise perfectly rational people think this too). Aside from the fact that I think the real extent of this migration is probably overstated (I mean, okay, so a whole bunch of my batchmates ended up in the US - but an equal, if not larger, proportion have stayed in India - some of the brightest people from my batch among them), I think the assumption that the only way to contribute to India's development is by being in India is a patently ridiculous one, simply because it completely ignores the realities of a networked global economy. It's not just that the large proportion of Indians on Wall Street or in Silicon Valley represents a rich source of repatriated income and entrepreneurial talent [2], it's also that, in a world where social networks matter, it's not hard to see how the presence of a large Indian diaspora in corporate America creates a wealth of opportunities both in the US and back in India for Indian human capital. It's hard to believe for instance, that there is no correlation between the amount of young Indian talent in the western corporate world and the popularity of India as an outsourcing destination. Obviously there are issues of national competitive advantage built into that outcome, but to assume that that's all it comes down to is to be excessively naive. The point is that the notion of overturning the established structure of international economic dominance from outside is a foolish and romantic one. Any realistic hope of India's development comes from a tighter (though informed) integration with the realities of the global economy, and young Indian professionals in the West are the critical fulcrum for achieving such leverage.

The other argument you hear a lot from people is that even the MBAs who do stick on in India end up sitting in their airconditioned ivory towers, living a life of conspicuous consumption and therefore not aiding in any way in India's development. Ten seconds worth of consideration will show you how entirely contrary to every theory in economics that argument is. What do these people think MBAs are trained for, if not for running companies? That MBAs do what they do is simply division of labour - would they rather that IIM graduates ran about trying to farm fields while a bunch of illiterate farmers ran India's top companies? What do you think our GDP would grow at then? It's important not to confuse the contribution of an action with its immediate objective (corporate profit) or the intention behind it (career fulfillment). MBAs may act entirely in self-interest, but as long as their actions lead to positive outcomes for corporate India[3], thus helping the economy grow at a rapid rate, they're contributing to development.[4]

The other problem with the 'MBAs don't give back to society' argument is the metric used to measure this contribution. If you're going to argue that a very small proportion of MBAs end up doing anything for society, you have to ask the follow-up question - what percentage of the population in general works selflessly for the good of society? After all, no one's ever claimed that doing an MBA increases your propensity to give back to society - the issue is not (or should not be) whether people are selfish in general but whether MBAs are more selfish than everyone else. Obviously that's a harder effect to measure, but a quick scan of some of the non-government initiatives working on development in India suggests that MBAs from top business schools may not be quite as callous / selfish as they're made out to be. Take your pick of large non-profit initiatives in India - Pratham, CRY, the Give Foundation, the Gates Foundation, Akanksha, the Eklavya Foundation - and you'll find alumni from the top business schools in the country playing critical roles in each one of them. Choose your favourite CSR effort - HLL's Project Shakti, the Azim Premji Foundation, ITC's e-chaupal, ICICI's social development programs - and again, the people working there are typically MBAs from top business schools. I don't have any numbers to prove this (though it would be interesting if we could collect some) but I remain convinced that, as a percentage of the population, MBAs do as much, if not more to support and encourage development efforts in India. Which is not, of course, to suggest that they do anywhere near enough, or that it wouldn't be heartening to see more involvement from MBAs in development. But people who argue that MBAs are all arrogant, selfish people who don't give a damn about India are jumping to a conclusion that's frankly insulting to the dedicated men and women who are actually out there working on development issues. [5] Selfishness is a deep and troubling malaise, but MBAs have no special prerogative on it.

Bottomline: Getting an MBA doesn't change who you are. It only amplifies your personality - gives you the power and the confidence to be who you've always wanted to be in a far more effective way. So if you see someone emerging from an IIM immoral and self-centred - blame the person, not the degree.

Notes

[1] I've outlined some of my issues with the study in this comment on Veena's blog. I'm not really saying anything new in this post. I just felt like ranting.

[2] It's always amused me how nationalists like to have it both ways - Indians working abroad is bad because it drains the country of talent, on the other hand, MNCs coming into the country and bringing their technology and jobs with them is also bad, because they'll repatriate all the value back to their own countries.

[3] Of course, one can legitimately question whether the content (or even the process) of what an MBA provides adds genuine value to the student. I'd be the first to agree, for instance, that many of the syllabi taught in the IIMs are woefully outdated and desperately in need of revision. On the whole, though, I'm inclined to believe that the IIMs do add value (in the sense that they help young people do a better job of managing companies), and while I'd be willing to debate that conclusions, it's not what most people seem to be focussing on. Regrettably so.

[4] One could argue that growing the economy overall doesn't mean that everyone benefits - and I'd be the first to agree. Certainly GDP growth per se is not a sufficient condition for socio-economic development, though it's hard to argue that it's not a necessary one.

[5] My apologies for the slightly over-shrill tone of this part of the post. It's just that too many of these people are friends of mine, so that stupid generalisations on the issue really bug me.

Categories: ,

Wednesday, February 15, 2006

Borderline

That girl at the corner table never orders anything but coffee. I've been watching her for weeks now - every time I come into the diner she's sitting there, on the same chair at the same table, her wristwatch on the sunmica before her, dial facing upward, strap folded neatly below it. Staring out of the window, sipping at her rapidly cooling coffee as the trucks go roaring by on the highway and the diner fills and empties with noise. Never, in what must be a month of staring at her, have I seen her order anything to eat, or indeed make the slightest variation in her routine. Even the way she arranges her hair - tied up at the back with a few strands hanging loose over her nape - never changes. True, she had a magazine with her once, but you could tell by the way she flipped through it that she wasn't really paying attention. And once I heard her speak to the waitress, (how I pricked up my ears then) but it was only because she'd run out of sugar.

There's plenty of speculation about who she is, where she comes from, why she's here. Beth at the counter thinks she's probably had her heart broken and has come here to recover, though I can't see why anyone would pick a town like ours to get over a failed romance, unless it's that the very idea of romance feels faintly ridiculous in a place like this. Jack the delivery boy thinks she's a fugitive from the law, claims he saw her start once when a highway police car pulled into the parking lot. Only I pointed out to him that if that were the case she'd hardly be sitting in a diner where anyone passing could see her, and acting in a way that was calculated to arouse attention - that shut him up. Somebody else said he heard she had cancer and didn't have any family to go to. Only she doesn't look like there's anything wrong with her - she looks perfectly healthy to me. In fact, she looks downright beautiful. Still, you never can tell.

The thing is, all this waiting she's doing is beginning to take its toll on us all. I've been doing the delivery round for three years now, and last month is the first time I've ever been late on a job. And the diner's been deteriorating too - orders are forgotten or misplaced, eggs take longer to boil, coffee longer to brew, the clocks themselves lose a few minutes every day and have to be set right every morning. Plus out on the highway you can hear the cars slowing down to under the speed limit as they cross the diner, then speeding up again. It's as though all the waiting in the world was being drawn magnetically to this place, all the lost time of the world, every misplaced day or dropped second is slowly making its way to our tiny little town and collecting here and making us all a little slower.

***

Today I decided I'd had enough of the mystery. So after I was done with my pancakes (chocolate chip with tons of whipped cream on top - the way I like them) I marched right over to her table. I'd planned to ease into the conversation gently, but the minute I got to her table and was standing in front of her, I could feel her panic, and I found myself blurting out: "Who or what are you waiting for anyway?"

She looked up at me then. It was the first time I'd really seen her eyes. I'd never realised they were this sad, this frightened.

"I'm waiting to cross the border.", she said, her voice low, modulated. A college voice. No, a scared college voice.

"What border? The one with Mexico?"

She looked away. Then nodded.

"But that's 200 miles from this place. Why stop here if that's where you're headed?"

She looked up at me again, resigned to having this conversation. "Yes, I know it's 200 miles away. That's why I'm waiting for it to come to me."

"You're what? Waiting for it to come to you? Lady, borders don't travel. You have to go to them."

She smiled a little, as though about to deliver the punchline of a familiar joke. "Really? Are you sure? Think about it. Was the border with Mexico always where it is now? Was there always a border there? In fact, if you think about continental drift, was there even a Mexico there to have a border with? Places move, mister, boundaries change. It just takes a little longer than with people, so you need to be patient."

"Let me get this straight. You're planning to wait here until something - some war, some earthquake or something - shifts the border with Mexico 200 miles to the north so you can finally cross it?"

She shrugged. "When you put it that way, it sounds ridiculous. But it isn't really. The truth is I'm not that fixated on Mexico anyway. I figure there are plenty of borders out there - sooner or later one of them will come along."

"Plenty of borders? Like what exactly? You're not going to tell me you think Canada is going to extend this far south, are you?"

That half smile again. "No, of course not. But all borders aren't between nations, you know. There are all sorts of borders in the world. Borders between people. Borders between life and death, pain and ecstasy, youth and middle age. There are a dozen of lines you cross every day without even realising it."

By now I'd slipped into the chair across from her and was listening intently, my mouth a little open. "I'm afraid I don't follow."

"Take you, for instance. You've been meaning to talk to me for weeks, haven't you? I've noticed you watching, wondering if you had the nerve. That's a border right there - the border of speaking to me. And in coming over here you brought the border right to me and the minute I answered your first question I crossed over into your world and became a tourist there. By coming over and speaking to me you gave me permission to explore who you are, you granted me a visa, you let me over your border."

All this was very flattering, and also a little disturbing. I mean, no one had ever compared me to a tourist destination before. I was fascinated. There was an air about her of always being on the brink of something, always about to arrive. Plus this close up you could see just how delicate her skin was. I tried to stay focussed on what she was saying.

"Okay, I think I understand now. But tell me, why are you trying to get to these borders of yours anyway? What's the point?"

"To see if they'll let me across, of course."

"And if they don't?"

"Then I'll just stay where I am, on the other side, waiting for the next border to come along."

"And what if none of them will let you cross?"

"I think that's unlikely. Plus, there's always Death. No one ever gets turned away from Death. Not for long, anyway. Sometimes there's a little extra paperwork to do, but eventually they let everyone through."

This alarmed me. "So if nothing else shows up you're planning to kill yourself?" I said this too loud. I could hear people turning to look at us.

"No. Look, it's very unlikely that the other borders won't let me cross. The thing is, if they come to me and then don't let me cross then they can't move ahead either you see - it's a mutual thing. That's why you need to wait for them to come to you. Otherwise you end up getting rejected all the time."

"Fair enough. So what after you've crossed this border of yours. What then?"

"Then you just sit down wherever you find yourself and wait for the next border to show up."

"Just like that? Don't you explore this new place you've got to?" What about all that stuff she just said about exploring my world? Was she just lying about that?

A wan little smile. "Ah, but you don't cross borders to get to. Everyone knows that. You cross borders to get away from."

"And what is it you're trying to get away from?"

"You know. The usual. Everything. Nothing. The past. The future. You escape because you can, not because you have to."

"So you're never planning to go back to where you came from?" Was she planning to stay on here?

"I can't. My home is too far away now. And besides, time is the one border you can't cross back over."

"So you're basically just trying to distract yourself and avoid your life entirely? Is that it? Is that why you've been sitting her talking to me?" This conversation was getting out of hand, I felt. It was time I exerted some control.

"And why have you been sitting here talking to me?" Behind me I heard someone titter. It was slow day at the diner and some of the waitresses had gathered around the table, blatantly listening in on our conversation. I can't say I blamed them - we've all been so curious about this - but still I could feel my irritation rising. I was about to respond when she went on:

"The thing is, I figure there has to be a balance. I mean the world is round, isn't it? So it must be true that every boundary you cross away from yourself must be bringing you closer to home as well. Logically then, if you could cross all the borders in the world you'd end up exactly where you started from."

"And what if you can't cross all the borders? What if there are just too many of them?"

"Then you just go on travelling and it doesn't matter where you end up because everywhere is somewhere else anyway."

This was too much for me. "Look, this is insane", I shouted, shaking my head. "You've got to snap out of this. You need help."

She smiled. "And what do you think sanity is but another boundary? Another border, with cliches waiting along every inch of the line to keep anything that threatens them from getting through."

I realised I wasn't going to win a shouting match with this girl. She was too good with words. I decided to change tack. "Okay, look, fair enough. So you want to get to a border so you can cross it. Fine. I'll take you. I know you said that you mustn't travel to borders otherwise they reject you, but this won't be like that. I'm TAKING you there, you're not going on your own. Think of it as crossing over the border into me, then into my car, then into Mexico." Okay, that sounded obscene. And also kind of exciting.

She shook her head. "It's very kind of you, but I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because I cannot leave this diner."

"What do you mean you can't leave this diner. You go home at night, don't you?"

"Actually, no, I don't. I sleep right here on the floor in my sleeping bag. I use the ladies room at the back as a bathroom. In the last four weeks that I've been here I've never been outside this building. Not once."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I turned around to Beth who was standing right behind me, listening in, and she nodded. So it was true! No one had told me. "But why?"

"It's the threshold, you see."

"The threshold?"

"The line under the door dividing the inside from the outside."

"Yes, I know what a threshold is. But what about it?"

She looked at me sheepishly. "I'm afraid to cross it", she said.

Categories:

Tuesday, February 14, 2006

Isn't it romantic?

You didn't seriously think I was going to let Valentine's day go by without saying something suitably cynical about it, did you?

The trouble I have with Valentine's day is with the idea of 'romance' and the way it gets used. To me, the word romantic has very specific connotations - it denotes something that is imaginative and extravagant (in the sense of being impractical and / or spontaneous, i.e. absent calculation) and is inspired by a passionate devotion to some ideal. Romanticism is thus an aesthetic philosophy, a belief, to paraphrase Keats, in the beauty of truth and the necessity of excess. Shelley is romantic, Chopin is romantic, the fact that your boyfriend bought you a bouquet of crummy flowers may be sweet or thoughtful or caring, but it IS NOT romantic (what was it Shelley said: "One word is too often profaned / For me to profane it"). I have nothing against people enjoying things that are cliched - I'm all for socio-cultural nostalgia - just as long as they understand that romance comes from a burning desire to break free of convention and create something new and beautiful and then surrender to it entirely. These rituals of affection are important, but the warm glow you get from them is the exact opposite of the true romantic impulse - it is the security of demonstrable love, not the restless creative urge of true Romance. There is nothing in Romance that suggests happiness (if anything, the greatest Romantic figures are often tragic ones - just try reading Shelley's Alastor; or think about Prometheus, whose stunning depiction by Rubens is the painting at the start of this post).

Don't misunderstand me - I'm not one of those people who go around complaining about how Valentine's day has turned into such a cliche, how it's become so commercialised, so stereotypical. As though their boyfriends or husbands were actually capable of a more authentic romantic gesture than buying flowers or booking a table at an expensive restaurant (or had the inclination to). As if the only thing that stood between them and the immortal odes they would have written in praise of their beloved was the presence of Hallmark cards. Let's face it people - the average guy out there couldn't come up with something truly romantic to do if his life depended on it. And the average woman wouldn't know a truly romantic gesture if it jumped out of a heart-shaped candy box and bit her [1]. The truth is, these people aren't looking for the innovative or the unique, they're looking for a signal that will affirm their faith in their relationship. As Eliot put it, they're looking for "Some way indescribably light and deft / Some way we both should understand / Simple and faithless as a smile and shake of hand"[2].

I mean if you're genuinely concerned about feeling being eclipsed by cliche, why not start by objecting to marriage - which, after all, is the biggest cliche of all? Why not start with all these definitions of boyfriend and girlfriend, of date and significant other, friend and lover, which are all, at the end of the day, just stereotypes? Why not start with the word love itself, which covers such a wide range of emotions in our modern usage that it has almost no meaning at all? If you're willing to accept all those institutions (and most people you here bemoaning the commercialisation of Valentine's day fall into that category) why not accept this additional institution of Valentine's day as well? [3] Understand, I'm not saying that one should reject all institutions (though that would, of course, be the truly Romantic way), I'm simply saying that it's inconsistent to accept some and then rail against others. I'm all for couples doing the whole Valentine's day thing to the hilt, just as long as they don't go around claiming it's romantic and don't try to pretend that their actions are somehow unique or special in themselves - it's precisely because they're stereotypes that they're getting any pleasure out of them.

The other people who really irritate me on Valentine's day are the older swadeshi types who will blather on about traditions and how western commercialism is destroying our ancient values. I mean, first of all, most of the 'traditions' that these people are talking about (especially when it comes to man-woman relationships) are narrow-minded and chauvinistic practices that were blatantly disrespectful to women and that, consequently, we can happily do without, thank you. But what really gets to me is the hypocrisy of accusing the West of commercialising relationships in a land where most weddings are long drawn out and garish exercises in out and out ostentation. So apparently it's okay to spend millions of rupees on some tinsel celebration that the two people most intimately concerned probably won't even enjoy, but it's 'commercial' for a couple to do something intimate together? Cretins.

Personally, the thing I most object to is the romanticisation of what is essentially a commercial transaction between two individuals. I say we take Valentine's day back from all these soppy people who keep getting starry-eyed about 'romance' when they don't even know what the word means. Let's do away with all these empty trappings of emotion and focus on what Valentine's day is really about - expensive gifts as indicators of financial security. Negotiations between men and women to enter into long-term child rearing contracts. Shorter-term exchanges for the fulfillment of sexual and emotional needs in what is, regrettably, still a barter economy in that it relies entirely on that most elusive of transactions: a double coincidence of wants (or, as Woody Allen would say, a matching of neuroses). No more rhyming 'flowers' with 'bowers' and 'love' with 'stars above' (at least the fact that V-day is in February [4] spares us the 'moon' and 'june' bit) - let's have greeting cards that come in plain black writing and say what we really mean - if I went to all the trouble of buying you these (entirely useless) flowers, the least you can do is have sex with me, or listen sympathetically while I whine about my boss at work.

Tom Lehrer says: "It it has always seemed to me, after all, that Christmas, with it’s spirit of giving, offers us all a wonderful opportunity each year to reflect on what we all most sincerely and deeply believe in. I refer of course, to money. And yet, none of the Christmas carols that you hear on the radio or in the street, even attempt to capture the true spirit of Christmas as we celebrate it in the United States. That is to say the commercial spirit." Just replace Christmas with Valentine's day and you've got it. Exactly.

Notes

[1] Okay, that sounds terribly sexist. My apologies. I use the conventional forms because I'm arguing against the conventional and they're easier to attack that way. Personally, I'd love it if a woman were to buy me flowers for Valentine's day, but no one's ever offered to yet. Still, that might just be me. Actually, it probably is.

[2] Obviously there's a serious case of sour grapes here, but I think, on the whole I'm entitled. Imagine how you'd feel if you spent years of your teenage life perfecting the art of writing sonnets (the Petrarchan ones - not this piffling Shakespeare stuff) only to find that neanderthals in your class were able to impress girls by buying them a bunch of half-wilted flowers with a pink ribbon around them.

[3] Another argument these people like making is that they don't see what's so special about that one day and why it can't be some other day and how anyway it's how you are to each other throughout the year that matters, not this one 24 hour period. I always feel like asking people who make that argument whether they celebrate their birthdays.

[4] A fact that I've never understood, btw. You would think if you were going to set aside a day to celebrate love you would keep it sometime in April or something, not in February. Coventry Patmore has a poem that talks about this somewhere.


Categories: ,

Monday, February 13, 2006

The crime of rhyme

Chandrahas, over at Middle Stage, links to this interesting piece by Keki Daruwalla on the difficulties of Indian poets writing in English. The part of the article that resonated most with me (as, it would appear, it did with Chandrahas) was the bit where Daruwalla talks about the difficulties of coming out of a University education focussed on Keats and Shelley, and having to then fashion a harsher, more realistic idiom of one's own. Reading Daruwalla's comments, I was reminded of an early poem by Agha Shahid Ali which talks about more or less the same issue. I don't remember the poem exactly now and don't have a copy with me (it's 'Note Autobiographical' from In Memory of Begum Akhtar - my copy of which is back at home in India) but he essentially talks about how, in Kashmir, "our teachers taught poetry under the chinars / their eyes misty with odes to autumn" and it was only "At eighteen / a PhD from Leeds mentioned vers libre / Casually brought the waste land"). It's a poem of his I'll always remember, because, ironically, I had almost the same experience when I first met with him, a generation later, and found him intrigued by the fact that I could quote Milton from memory, but had never heard of Elizabeth Bishop (forgive me, I was eighteen).

The trouble is, I think, that the Indian schooling system does an almost obscenely inadequate job of introducing people to poetry, especially modern poetry[1]. We claim we teach our students English, but the truth is all we teach them is grammar and the short story - everything else they pretty much need to figure out by themselves. Take my final four years of schooling, for instance. If memory serves, we had no poetry as part of our assigned text in Class X or in Class XII, and the poems we covered in the other two years included Shelley's Ozymandias, something from Blake, Yeats' An Irish Airman foresees his Death, one obscure Ezekiel, and a D. H. Lawrence poem called 'Snake'! [2] (NB: I also seem to have some vague recollection of Dickinson's Success is counted Sweetest, but I'm not sure). Not exactly a resounding introduction to the art of modern poetry. In the larger context of everything we were being taught, poetry seemed very much a necessary evil, something that you had to check off a list, not something you seriously put any effort into.

This was made worse, I think, by the fact that the few teachers we had who were actually enthusiastic about poetry, had clearly been taught under the system that Daruwalla mentions, a system that focussed almost exclusively on the Romantics and the Victorians. These were teachers who would wax eloquent about Swinburne and Keats, and considered Browning avant-garde. Not that I'm ungrateful for their efforts (certainly my own passion for poetry owes, in considerable part, to their interest in it), but all this meant that the first time one read William Carlos Williams, say, or cummings - the effect was like trying to read the instruction manual to some particularly complicated piece of equipment in the original Chinese.

The other problem, looking back, was the extreme anglophilia of the selections. Thinking back on it, I can't remember doing a single 'American' poet - no Whitman, no Emerson, no Wallace Stevens, not even a simple little Frost poem to tide one over. In retrospect, this seems like a huge omission, and it's hard to imagine anyone coming up with an entire syllabus of poetry that so completely ignores so grand a tradition of verse.

Whether this focus on pre-20th Century English poetry continues at the university level, I cannot personally say (having switched to Economics for my undergrad), though a cursory look at the syllabi of friends of mine doing their English honours at the time suggested that, in the mid-90s at least, modern poetry was only grudgingly beginning to make its way into colleges.

The key impact of this lack of adequate representation on the development of Indian English poetry, is not, I think, so much on the poets themselves (all it takes to 'discover' poetry is a little extra initiative) as on the audience for poetry in India. The trouble is that for most people, even those who are genuinely interested in reading, poetry remains, literally, a closed book[3]. I personally have dozens of friends who are avid readers when it comes to novels / fiction but whose interest in (or knowledge of) poetry is tepid at best. I'm always running into people (and fairly well-read people at that) who tell me that they quite like poetry as long as it rhymes, but don't understand all this new-fangled stuff (free verse being of course, a modern innovation - it makes you want to throw a copy of Leaves of Grass at them - preferably a hard-bound one). Poetry sections, even in the largest of book stores in India remain, for my tastes, amazingly sparse in their selections (just try checking out the Poetry section at the Oxford Book Store in Bombay, for instance - you'll find hundreds of copies of books by unheard of and mediocre Indian poets, but try getting hold of any of the following - Brodsky, Milosz, Bishop, Lowell, Crane, Ashbery, Wallace Stevens, Ginsberg, Rilke, Langston Hughes, Ted Hughes - and I'm willing to bet you'll be mostly disappointed). Even Indian poets barely get shelf space - just try getting copies of Ezekiel, Kolatkar, Mahapatra, Daruwalla, Shahid Ali, Moraes. I went to three bookshops looking for copies of Kolatkar's Kala Ghoda poems this December - and finally found a copy at Rhythm House of all places. My copy of Jejuri was bought off Amazon.

The point is this - if Indian fiction has flowered in the last decade, and begun to show astonishing promise, I believe it's at least in part due to the large and growing audience for such work, and the resulting appetite of publishers to foster such talent. If we ever hope to see a similar blossoming of Indian poetry, we need to find ways of making Indian audiences more interested in and responsive to good modern poetry (or failing that, just good poetry per se) and that intervention has to come through our schooling system, though I'm not sure how, within the current system, such a change can be achieved.

In closing out this post, I'm tempted to quote Marianne Moore's famous 'Poetry'. But I won't. Instead, I'll quote a line from another of her poems ('An Octopus'):

"damned by the public for decorum";
not decorum, but restraint;
it is the love of doing hard things
that rebuffed and wore them out - a public out of sympathy with neatness.

Neatness of finish! Neatness of finish!
Relentless accuracy is the nature of this octopus
with its capacity for fact.

Let's not let that be the fate of our poets.

Notes

[1] I should clarify that I'm speaking chiefly of the CBSE - I don't know if other state boards or the ICSE are any better, though. Oh, and I'm speaking of the syllabus as it was ten years ago - though again, I'd be more than pleasantly surprised if it's changed much.

[2] That Snake poem was one I had a particular grouse against. Not that I have anything against Lawrence, per se - I think his poetry is, well, tolerable. But if I had to pick one poem to be representative of 20th century poetry, Snake is pretty much the last thing I would pick.

[3] There is, of course, a huge market for poetry in India - walk into any music store and you'll find racks of CDs with Ghazals, some of them by exceptional poets. Shahid writes:

I didn't listen when my father
recited your poems to us
by heart. What could it mean to a boy

that you had redefined the cruel
beloved, that figure who already
was Friend, Woman, God? In your hands

she was Revolution. You gave
her silver hands, her lips were red.
Impoverished lovers waited all

night every night, but she remained
only a glimpse behind
light. When I learned of her,

I was no longer a boy, and Urdu
a silheoutte traced
by the voices of singers,

by Begum Akhtar, who wove your couplets
into ragas: both language and music
were sharpened. I listened:

and you became, like memory,
necessary.

- Agha Shahid Ali, 'Homage to Faiz Ahmed Faiz'


Categories:

Sunday, February 12, 2006

Ah! My aching limbs

(In order of appearance): Terence Blanchard, Dianne Reeves, Sarah Vaughan, Gundecha Bandhu, M S Subbulakshmi, Kishori Amonkar, Bismillah Khan, Girija Devi, J.S. Bach, Pearl Jam, Mallikarjun Mansur, Vilayat Khan, Arnold Schoenberg, John Coltrane.

I've listened to so much music today that my feet ache and my arms are killing me.

I love being snowed in on a Sunday, don't you?


Categories:

The New and Improved 2x3x7! With C2C2E Technology

My guard stood hard when abstract threats
Too noble to neglect
Deceived me into thinking
I had something to protect
Good and bad, I define these terms
Quite clear, no doubt, somehow.
Ah, but I was so much older then,
I'm younger than that now.

- Bob Dylan, 'My Back Pages'

Responding to popular appeal [1], and assisted by Varna's painstaking instructions (hat-tip Desipundit) and the priceless moral support of Mallikarjun Mansur, I've finally pigeon-holed the posts on this blog (all 281 of them! Sigh!) into a bunch of impossible to understand and difficult to use categories. Hopefully this will discourage those few of you who have any interest whatsoever in browsing through my archives from fishing out things I said months ago and using them against me.

I've also added these cute little links at the bottom of my recent posts that say 'Categories'. My enthusiasm for adding them ran out around post 24, which explains why there aren't (and will probably never be) similar links on all previous posts. Try not to take it personally.

[1] Hey, one person actually mailed asking me to put categories, and it only took me some fifteen minutes to convince someone else that it would be a good idea to have them. That's more public demand than there is for nude pictures of Keira Knightley. So there.

P.S. Unfortunately, because of the way I added them to the site, the posts are in reverse order - so the earliest posts are 'latest' on del.icio.us and vice versa. More confusion. Same price.

Categories:

Saturday, February 11, 2006

Soft embalmer of the still midnight

Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleeve of care,
The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath,
Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,
Chief nourisher in life's feast,--

- Shakespeare, Macbeth II.2

Whoever came up with the notion of waking being emergence got it wrong. The truth is, it is sleep that is the open plain, on which our dreams prance as free as horses, and to wake is to retreat into the cave of our wordly lives, cut off from the sunlight of those visions that we remember, but cannot describe. The mountain of the self weighs down upon our heads, the day is a stone throat, choking us, and time drips as slow as untasted water. It is sleep that is the true release for us, sleep where we emerge from the cocoons of our daily round, from these wombs of our becoming, blinking shyly at first, superstitious of the constellations of our unconsciousness, turning restlessly back to where the dark mouth of waking offers us its safety. But it is not long before we tread more confidently into sleep's farthest reaches, delighting in its unjudging freedom, almost impossible to call back, and when summoned, returning reluctantly to the familiar closeness of the truth.

If I say I dreamt of you last night, will you remember our meeting, out on the campagna? The grass whispering with intimations, the plucked flower of that moment that made distance impossible. The intimacy picked clean between us, its petals left in our wake like footprints?

Or will you deny me, deny that this ever happened, turn away into the dark recesses of the practical, the everyday, the provable - and refuse to hear me calling to you, from out here, in this dream turned suddenly lonely?

Have you ever woken up with the feeling that there is something you have lost, and will never be able to remember, now, what it was?


Categories:

Friday, February 10, 2006

Rattle and hum

It was the kind of evening that reaffirms your faith in concerts. Simon Rattle conducting the Philadelphia Orchestra. Alfred Brendel on piano. The first half pleasant enough - Piano Concerto no. 27 K.595 - that exquisite second movement, and the tum-di-tum-di-tum, ta-da-tum-da-tum-ta-da-da of the third which is pure Mozart [1]. Rattle seemed a little out of it here, like a man getting used to a limousine after long hours at the wheel of his BMW sports car, but Brendel was as exact as ever, his playing making Mozart look as easy as he sounds, the notes so sharply defined that every tiny nuance, every tongue in cheek little variation came through as clear as crystal. Beautiful.

The real pleasure, though, was the second half. Rattle conducting Walton's Symphony No. 1 in B-flat minor. Such a pleasant change from the plague of Mozart's 39, 40 and 41st going around [2] (see this piece in the NY Times - John Eliot Gardiner, Lorin Maazel and Daniel Barenboim - all playing the same thing). Rattle really came into his own here, and that rich, full sound of the Orchestra got a proper airing. The Walton itself was a delightful surprise - I'd never heard the piece before, and it turned out to be much, much better than I expected. How can you not love a composer who marks his second movement Presto con malizia (Very fast, with malice) and pulls of a scherzo that sounds like a busy intersection of musical ideas, with Rattle as the deftest of traffic wardens, keeping the themes from getting all snarled up. It was all I could do to keep from laughing out loud in sheer glee.

All in all, a wonderful performance.

It was also the kind of evening that destroys what little faith you have in other people's right to go on breathing. With my usual skill at acquiring the worst seat in the auditorium [3], I found myself sandwiched between: a) two nitwits on my left, one of whom kept gushing about how Mozart was so young when he wrote all this great music (he was 35 when he wrote K 595 and would die a few months after completing it), prompting the other to talk loudly about that other great musical genius (shudder!) Barbara Streisand!! and b) one of those irritating twenty-something couples who are more interested in each other than in the music. Or at least the guy was. Why do women do this? Especially women who seem to have decent taste otherwise? Why do they insist on dragging guys who clearly don't give a damn about music and only want to sleep with them to concerts? As though listening to Mozart were some kind of tax. So you'll have this guy who's somehow managed to fit a tie around his neck and is clearly uncomfortable as hell and divides his time between: trying to get the girl's attention by fingering her, nuzzling her, whispering in her ear, etc; shifting his position in his seat some 2,6790 times (in the first movement alone) and trying to see how many different sounds you can make by crinkling the program. I mean really. If you want to attend a concert and have a boyfriend who couldn't tell Schubert from Snoop Dogg, please, PLEASE have sex with him beforehand and leave him at home to watch basketball in his underwear. Don't bring him along to the performance and put him in the seat next to ME!

Notes:

[1] (shamefacedly) I have to admit I've never been able to keep all these third movements of Mozart's piano concertos seperate in my head. I love all of them, but ask me to pick one from the other and I couldn't tell my Concerto 15 from my Concerto 23 (obviously Piano Concerto 20 is an exception to this).

[2] And there, ladies and gentlemen, you have a classic case of sour grapes.

[3] When I bought a season subscription to the orchestra I had this fond vision of finding the seat next to mine taken by some gorgeous young woman also on a season ticket (no, Neela, not you, the seat on the OTHER side). We would spend the first season without saying a word to each other. The second season we would exchange pleasantries, maybe talk about the music a little. By the third season, we would be going out together after every concert, and a few times in between. By the fourth season, I would actually have my thesis done (another foolish dream) but would stick around to attend the last concert with her before going away. That last time around the orchestra would play Brahms Third Symphony and there would be tears in our eyes as we said goodbye forever, knowing we would never be able to erase the memory of each other from the music[4]. Instead, of course, I end up with the audience mates from hell. And a noisy hell at that. More evidence that my life is a joke.

[4] Obviously, since it involved me and a woman, this fantasy wasn't going to end happily. I may be delusional, but I have some respect for the fundamental laws of life.


Categories: ,

Thursday, February 09, 2006

Have you ever had one of those days...

...when you're so rushed off your feet that lunch is couple of energy bars and you end up throwing the bar itself in the trash and walking on with the wrapper in your hand and only realise it when you're half way to your next meeting?

Ah, well.

Categories:

Wednesday, February 08, 2006

Things I read today / A link in time deserves another nine

1) Coetzee in the NYRB on Marquez, and through him, on Cervantes and Kawabata. Talk about Nobel Prize overload. Am very kicked because Coetzee discusses the connection between Delgadina and Dulcinea that I wrote about in my review here. Stockholm, here I come!

2) This gorgeous Louise Gluck poem on Slate. Also, on Slate, a round-up of un-pretty love poems down the ages - notable for Bishop's glorious take on Casabianca and that stunningly beautiful Keats poem Pinsky close with.

3) Rana Dasgupta's Tokyo Cancelled, which I finally got around to reading, and which I've reviewed here (says he, in an act of shameless self-promotion)

4) My copy of Robert Lowell's Collected Poems (all 1186 pages of it) that arrived last week:

Dark swallows will doubtless come back killing
the injudicious nightflies with a clack of the beak;
but these that stopped full flight to see your beauty
and my good fortune...as if they knew our names -
they'll not come back. The thick lemony honeysuckle,
climbing from earthroot to your window,
will open more beautiful blossoms to the evening;
but these...like dewdrops, trembling, shining, falling,
the tears of day - they'll not come back...
Some other love will sound his fireword for you
and wake your heart, perhaps, from its cool sleep;
but silent, absorbed, and on his knees,
as men adore God at the altar, as I love you -
don't blind yourself, you'll not be loved like that.

- Robert Lowell, 'Will not come back'

5) The journal article that this news report in the New York Times points to (hat tip: Veena). Which turns out to be valid for 50 - 79 year old, post-menopausal women, thank you very much.

6) Lee Siegel's hilarious take on the letters that publishers send to book reviewers with advance copies of books.

7) The news that Dianne Reeves won a Grammy for the soundtrack to Good Night and Good Luck. Maybe there is something to these award shows after all? (Naah, it's obviously a fluke).

Categories: ,

Tuesday, February 07, 2006

Who did start the fire?

Okay, this is going to be my last 'serious' post for the week. Promise. It's not that I'm having a particularly sincere week or anything - it's just that I feel that I can't let the whole Who Framed Muhammad the Terrorist thing go by without saying something about it.

Here's my two cents worth then. In this whole cartoon controversy (which would be ridiculous if it weren't so scary) the one question that's not getting asked enough, in my opinion, is this - what are hordes of people in the Middle East doing reading Danish newspapers in the first place?

Look, I'm not trying to defend the cartoonist or the editor - if only because I think the cartoons themselves were so not funny. Which is not to say the editor was wrong to publish them, just stupid; an error, in my opinion, not of ethics or even judgement but simply of taste.

That being so, everyone seems to be assuming that it was only natural that the cartoons would cause the kind of outrage that they have. Maybe I'm just naive, but I don't see why. I mean it's not like this is some mainstream international publication we're talking about (I'm willing to bet that half these protesters couldn't point to Denmark on a map) and it is just a stupid cartoon for crying out loud.

The point is not that the people in the Middle East are overreacting, the point is that they're clearly being made to overreact. If we assume that most people living in Egypt and Afghanistan don't read Danish newspapers with their morning coffee, then someone is taking the trouble to find this one obscure set of cartoons, make an issue out of them, and stir up a whole bunch of people to protest against them, many of whom, I'm willing to bet, haven't even seen the cartoons in question. These are not spontaneous protests, they are carefully orchestrated acts of violence put together by a malevolent system intent on destruction for its own political ends. The people actually protesting (and dying) in the streets may be genuinely outraged (though who knows what levels of misinformation their outrage stems from [1]) but they are merely pawns in a larger game - and in that sense are the true victims of this travesty.

If we're going to make sense of these events, we need to look beyond the actual protesters to the people who are spreading and amplifying this malice. In the debate between freedom of press and 'public' outrage, the role of these professional troublemakers has been largely ignored, but it's that role that we most critically need to understand. If the editors of the newspaper are guilty of anything, it is only of providing fuel to this propaganda machine [2]. That's what makes this whole episode so scary - the fact that so complete a non-issue can so easily be manipulated into becoming an international incident; that so insignificant a spark can be made to explode in the combustible atmosphere of the Middle East. Blaming either the protesters or the media is not the answer - finding out how we can stop political interests in the region from using the headstrongness of one and the desperation of the other to their own advantage is.

[1] I'm fascinated, for instance, by the process by which the blame for the cartoons has spread from one individual newspaper to all of Denmark, and from there to America and her allies. I feel the Danish should protest this as an insult to their nation. Having your favourite prophet made fun of may be fairly offensive, but surely being accused of electing Bush to power is much worse.

[2] The fact that these protests have sprung up right around the time that a prominent state in the region is the focus of intense scrutiny over its alleged nuclear program may just be coincidence, of course. Then again, it might not.


Categories:

Perfection

The calm,
Cool face of the river
Asked me for a kiss.

- Langston Hughes, 'Suicide's Note'

Brilliant, just brilliant. Like listening to Art Tatum play Without a Song.

Categories:

Sunday, February 05, 2006

What's the martyr with these people?

Since it seems to be almost obligatory to put at least one post about Rang de Basanti, I figured I might as well do my bit. Not that I've seen the film, of course, or plan to see it (it is my considered opinion that Aamir Khan should have stuck to doing the Coke commercials - it's the most intelligent work he's ever done), but I figure that shouldn't stop me from making astute and insightful observations about it - specially given the admirable job that Chandrahas and others have done of giving out the story. (Chandrahas also makes a whole bunch of points against the movie that I totally agree with. Or would, if I was willing to take the movie that seriously)

As I read through the posts about the film, the thing that struck me most was the parallel the movie tries to draw between these random college kids who go around assassinating Defence Ministers (mostly, it would seem, to expiate their own guilt over their friend's death) and Bhagat Singh and co. I know at least some people have objected to this parallel, arguing that the context was very different, and the two actions can't be compared. I personally think they can, and that the parallel is fairly strong, but that rather than being justification for the violence Rang de Basanti's characters undertake, it is rather reason to question and reevaluate the status of Bhagat Singh and the like as 'freedom fighters'. In other words, to ask ourselves whether these great martyrs were not as misguided and ridiculous as the kids in the movie.

I've never understood why Bhagat Singh and others get the kind of respect they do. My objection to their deification is two-fold - one philosophical, the other pragmatic. Philosophically, I think of them as little better than terrorists. In general, I do not believe that the end justifies the means, and am therefore unwilling to countenance the taking of life as a means of political protest, whatever the provocation. Just because you disagree with someone's politics, or believe that they are oppressing people you identify yourself with, is not a good enough reason to assassinate them. That is a route that leads straight to a Hobbesian world. Understand that is not necessarily a call for non-violence. I am not opposed to using the threat of force, or, if such threats should prove ineffective, to the use of actual violence. I am only opposed to actions that inflict violence on people without giving them a credible choice. Or in other words, I am only willing to accept the use of violence in situations where it is used as a last resort, where all other alternatives have been tried and shown to fail, and where the decision to resort to violence is taken via due process. Deciding to assasinate someone by yourself does not meet any of those criteria.

My more pragmatic objection is - what exactly is the end here? What were Bhagat Singh and co. hoping to achieve exactly? Was it really credible that the British would change their policy on India just because a few of their officials got killed? If your problem is with a particular system, does targeting the people in it really help? Or does it only make the system more determined to fight you? We call these people freedom fighters, but while I see that they fought, I'm not sure how their actions brought us even a single step closer to freedom. If anything, their actions took us one step closer to anarchy, a state in which all freedoms are suspended.

At this point some of you are probably dying to point out that these guys were brave men who died for their country (pun intended). Resisting the urge to come back with lines from Patton (about how the trick is to get the other s.o.b. to die for his country), I have to ask: did they? I know that they died, but it's not clear to me how their country came into it. Even if you believe that their actions somehow helped India come closer to freedom[1] ex-post, that doesn't imply that that was their ex-ante intent. Was their desire to kill people driven by a well-thought out game plan to achieve real change in India's political situation, or was it driven by a feverish search for self-definition? Isn't it more plausible that a group of insecure and frustrated young men, burning with a sense of personal injury to which no real source could be ascribed, chose, as an identity, the role of 'martyrs', purely to escape the realities of their own impotence (this is how terrorists are recruited btw)? Were these truly idealogues of violence, or were they merely callow youths who stumbled upon a good way to both release their natural aggression and sanctify it in the name of their 'motherland'? Patriotism may or may not be the last refuge of the scoundrel, but it is certainly the last refuge of those with nothing else to pin their self on, of those who have no other claim to make upon the world. Behind all that high-sounding ideology is simply the brute aggression of those whose only contributions to the world can be reductive.

But they gave their own lives, you will say. To begin with, that proves nothing. Just because something is paid for with death does not make it right - price is not value. All it may suggest (even ignoring the power of socialisation - Durkheim's notion of altruistic suicide) is that the person who gave his life thought that he was achieving some great thing, but there's always the possibility that he was just wrong. If I go jump off a bridge shouting "Save the rainforests" at the top of my voice, will this mean I have championed the cause of the rainforests, or helped move these forests closer to preservation? The story of Bhagat Singh is more poignant and Bollywood worthy if we believe he achieved something, but that doesn't make his actions useful in any objective sense.

You can argue that their deaths were a valuable propaganda exercise, that they sacrificed themselves to create symbols for the independence struggle. That begs the question - okay, why did they have to kill someone first? If all that was needed were stories of idealistic young men who died for their country, surely there were enough people who suffered or were killed without having commited a crime first. Wouldn't these people's stories have been more effective? The Christ myth works on a similar aesthetic principle (a young man who suffers an agonising death for the 'sake' of mankind) but it works precisely because Christ is innocent and pure - he doesn't go around killing Romans before they crucify him. In fact, by taking the law into their own hands, didn't these rebels effectively obscure the stories of those whose suffering they were trying to avenge, and who would, arguably, have made better subjects for the martyrdom spin?

What, then, was the motive behind their giving their lives? (Notice I'm taking the non-cynical view and arguing that the chose to give up their lives, rather than assuming that they got caught and had no hope of reprieve, so decided to put a brave face on it). Camus, in The Rebel (a fascinating book to read in this context, btw), argues that nihilistic assassins justify their actions to themselves (and to others) by putting their own lives at stake as well. The argument here is pure reciprocity - in order to be justified in taking a life, you need to be prepared to give your own (this sounds astonishingly fair, till you consider that the victim to this 'exchange' doesn't get the same choice). What we are left with then, is blood guilt: the killing of the other is unjustifiable, and to even attempt to apologise for it would simply be to admit defeat and therefore shame. The assassin's death is then ultimately an act of pride - the 'martyr' is not concerned with the 'cause', he is interested in the maintenance of his own ego, and chooses to die in order to avoid his own internal dissonance. Such an act is 'heroic' in a purely dramatic sense, but like all 'heroic' acts it is a fundamentally selfish one. These are not self-sacrificing martyrs, they are actors playing to an imagined gallery.

By explicitly arguing for the parallel between the characters in Rang de Basanti and Bhagat Singh, the movie manages (unintentionally, I'm sure) to highlight these issues. The plot of the movie is ridiculous, the actions of the main characters unjustifiable, but all this idiocy belongs not with them but with the role models whose 'principles' they are, arguably, faithful to. In that sense (and again, I emphasise that this is almost certainly not the filmmaker's intent) Rang de Basanti can be seen as that sublimest of statements - a political satire - one that can help to demonstrate that our great 'freedom fighters' were as empty-headed as the characters (and audiences) that they inspire.

Notes

[1] I've always been fascinated by the way we tend to arrogate all credit for the withdrawal of British from India to ourselves. The destruction caused by WWII, the changing political dynamics of the post-nuclear world, the rise of Soviet influence, the growing impracticality and irrelevance of the old imperialist institutions - all these never seem to get much airplay in our popular discussions [2] of 1947. Personally, I'm only sure that the British left - whether we drove them out is another question entirely. I'm not saying that the struggle for independence wasn't important, just that you could as credibly argue that we just lucked out in 1947.


[2] I emphasise popular discussions - I'm sure historical theories on this exist, it's just that you don't see movies being made about them.


Follow up comment: Just a quick comment on this post, based on the comments I've received so far. I'm not unaware, of course, that it is possible to build a consistent argument that would justify Bhagat Singh's actions (something starting from the question of whether, in a system without the right to vote, an individual can be assumed to be governed by the law would be interesting, for instance). It's not an argument that I personally would agree with, but it's an argument I'm willing to debate and consider, and it would be useful because it would help highlight the differences in fundamental assumptions that underlie the two points of view. My real point in the post above isn't so much to criticise Bhagat Singh as to critique the non-obvious assumption that he was a great man. That may be true, but it's a conclusion that needs to be arrived at, not assumed.

That's why it's ironic when people accuse me of being uninformed. My point is that most people are worse than uninformed - they're unquestioning. (Honestly, how many people read this post and didn't experience a sense of outrage that came not so much from disagreement, but from the dissonance of having someone you've always been taught was a great martyr questioned? That's one of the reasons I really appreciate Pareshaan's comment, btw). That's the kind of intellectual laziness that creates fanatics.

Bottomline: The point of being provocative is not to be right. The point of being provocative is to create credible doubt that forces people to reassess their beliefs, so that even if they continue to hold them afterwards, it will be for a good reason.



Categories:

The Mystery of the Disappearing Post

A post I put up two days ago seems to have disappeared, and I don't have any way of accessing it now, so I'm just going to put down the gist of it and move on.

The main point of the post was that the latest episode of Xombie is out, said Xombie being an animated feature on the Internet which I claimed combined (if memory serves) the Matrix, H.G. Wells and Dawn of the Dead. The rest of the post was basically an unabashed plug for the series which made the points that:

a) I really loved the first two episodes, especially the bit where they're playing Mozart's requiem.

b) I think the quality of the series has deteriorated as it's become more popular, but this latest episode represents a partial return to form

c) It's a silly and awkward series in many ways, but I still enjoy it, and would strongly recommend that you take the time to check it out.

I'm still hoping that the post will return from the undead and reappear on the blog in the same inexplicable manner in which it disappeared. In case that doesn't happen though - there's always this.

P.S. The original post is back, btw, I managed to find it in some obscure corner of the web.

Categories:

Not quite music to their ears

Here's an interesting problem:

A friend of mine is trying to conduct an experiment in which she wants to induce negative moods / states using music. More specifically she's trying to induce anger by playing a short piece of music for an experimental subject. The question, is of course, what piece to pick.

Like any good PhD student, the first thing I thought of was: what does the literature say? Apparently people have done negative mood inductions before, but don't seem to have done anger much. Besides the standard piece to induce negative mood is apparently Barber's Adagio for Strings, and my friend finds (not surprisingly) that that doesn't even necessarily induce sadness (as the literature claims it does) in the subjects she's pre-tested it on. They think it's beautiful, but not necessarily sad.

No matter, I say at this point, why don't we just play Death Metal. No one could possibly listen to that and not get anger or aggression. The trouble is: a) it needs to be instrumental, otherwise you get a confounding effect of the words of the song and b) she wants it to be classical because her other manipulation (the one for positive mood) is classical and she doesn't want her experiment to be contaminated by issues of what genre of music people like.

Obviously, point a) above also pretty much rules out Opera, so all the suggestions about Wagner, etc. that I was about to get into pretty much fly out of the window.

So. The bottomline is that we need a suggestion for a piece of instrument classical music that will induce anger in pretty much any person who listens to it. Any thoughts?

P.S. As of now, my friend is toying with playing Schoenberg / atonal music in general. She figures it'll at least irritate people, even if it doesn't make them angry.

Categories: ,

Friday, February 03, 2006

When we dead wake

The new episode of Xombie is out.

For the uninitiated, Xombie is this awesomely cool animated feature on the web - part Matrix, part H.G. Wells, part Dawn of the Dead. An apocalyptic vision of a world over run by Zombies - one of whom just happens to be a kick-ass action star with a taste for Mozart.

Okay, so it's very cliched, and the animation is crude (compared to say, Pixar) and the 'science' is pathetic and it's really geeky and all, but I love it anyway - especially those first two episodes (check out the fight scenes with Dies Irae playing in the background).

As Xombie's become more popular, the quality of Jamie Farr's work has, in my opinion, deteriorated a bit (he's started taking himself too seriously, started to stick too closely to the formula), so that the last few episodes have been fairly disappointing. This new one is a partial return to form however (the flashback scenes are totally brilliant) and overall the series is worth a watch. After all, where else can you find animation that so lovingly captures the sight of eyeballs exploding and jawbones flying through the air.

Categories:

Thursday, February 02, 2006

Black Horse

Remember, the SMS poetry contest I blogged about a week ago? Well, it turns out they have a short story contest too (this time on an infinitely more interesting theme - Black Horse) and this time I decided I would actually enter it, partly because I'm a sucker for challenges, partly because I have a lot less respect for my prose / fiction writing than I have for my poetry, but mostly because Megha apparently went to all the trouble to set up an online submission form, so I felt contributing a story or two was the least I could do.

So here goes, two stories, < 300 words each, on the theme 'Black Horse'. Or maybe just two versions of the same story? I don't know.

1

It was late in the afternoon when he rode into the courtyard and found the black horse tethered to the post. There was no warning. No tracks on the trail coming in, no tell-tale fingerprint of smoke in the sky. Just the undeniable presence of the horse tied outside his front door, ominous as an envelope, black as a cinder in the middle of this burning land.

At the sight of it, something inside him settled like a cloud of dust. He stopped his own horse some ten yards short of the fence, feeling, amazingly, no panic, just weariness and a terrible sense of loss. The recognition of a defeat already accomplished, that felt, to his aching mind, almost like relief. He would have preferred not to die - if die he was going to - with a three day stubble on his jaw or the taste of sand in his teeth. But there was nothing to be done about that now. He tried not to think of Mary and the child. The truth was a sun burning down on him, and the sky of his grief could muster no cloud against it.

After a while, he turned his horse around, started to ride away. Not that he expected to get very far. But as the yards fell away behind him, something very like hope began to take hold of him, a secret hoofbeat of a feeling, his legs tightening under him, urging the horse forward inspite of themselves. Suddenly the horizon seemed dizzyingly close. Could it be, he wondered? After all, the Rider had to sleep sometime. Maybe he’d got lucky, maybe he was going to get away.

Then the black horse whinnied, and he barely had time to flinch before the bullet hit him.

2

It is late in the afternoon when he rides into the courtyard and finds the black horse tethered to the post. The sight of it standing there hits him like a bullet. He slumps in his saddle, letting his horse take him halfway to the door, then slides weightlessly to the ground.

For a moment he considers running away. Distant mountains beckon to him, their horizon as thin as hope. No. He has nowhere to run to, nowhere but here, and sooner or later this moment will have to be faced. He rolls a cigarette and lights it. There is no hurry, no need to look for cover. The Rider is a patient man. He will wait.

It feels good to keep him waiting. Very carefully, he takes his gun out of its holster, empties it, cleans it. Then loads it up again, taking extra care with the cartridges, making sure they are the best he has. As though it mattered. As though a man could ever get more than one shot.

Another cigarette. When he moves at last, it is very sudden, the long minutes of waiting left smoking behind him, his feet kicking dust from the urgent ground. Not that he is hoping for surprise. He is just testy, on edge. He pets the black horse on his way in, though it his own heart he is trying to comfort. The fear inside him whinnies.

He can feel the Rider’s presence now, like an anxious ghost, waiting for him. He stands listening on the porch for a moment, feeling the floor creak under his weight. Then in one fluid motion he draws his gun, kicks the door open and plunges into the darkness, knowing that by the time his eyes adjust it will be too late.

P.S. For those of you who noticed, yes, I am going through an insane Cormac McCarthy phase. Still, it could have been worse. You should have heard the version of the story inspired by Ali Smith. No way that one would have made it past the censors.

Categories:

Festina Lente

"The time has come for me to look for an overall definition of my work. I would suggest this: my working method has more often than not involved the subtraction of weight. I have tried to remove weight, sometimes from people, sometimes from heavenly bodies, sometimes from cities; above all I have tried to remove weight from the structure of stories and from language"

- Italo Calvino, 'Six Memos for the Next Millennium'

Reading Jabberwock's post (via Aditya) about a list of 100 best opening lines put together by the folks at the American Book Review, a topic I, and others, have blogged about before (talk about six degrees, huh), made me think of this glorious line from Guatemalan writer Augusto Monterroso that Calvino quotes in his book:

When I woke up, the dinosaur was still there.

This is not just the first line of a story. It is the only line of the story.

Isn't that brilliant? Calvino cites this as an example of what he calls quickness, though the term is, I think, ill-chosen. What he really means, I suspect is an almost zen-like perfection, the process of polishing something down to its very essence, of removing everything extraneous. (Calvino writes: "I began this lecture by telling a story. Let me end it with another story, this time Chinese: Among Chuang-tzu's many skills, he was an expert draftsman. The king asked him to draw a crab. Chuang-tzu replied that he needed five years, a country house, and twelve servants. Five years later the drawing was still not begun. "I need another five years", said Chuang-tzu. The king granted them. At the end of these ten years, Chuang-tzu took up his brush and, in an instant, with a single stroke, he drew a crab, the most perfect crab ever seen.")

Thinking about first lines in that context, the one I'm most drawn to is the opening to Kafka's Metamorphosis:

"As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic insect."

Kafka could stop right there (and I almost, but not quite, wish he had). What follows is brilliant, but in some sense unnecessary - in that one line Kafka has captured the essence of a feeling, gone straight to the heart of existential fear.

His ability to do this, and do this better, IMHO, than anyone else (Calvino himself would probably be the closest contender - see Invisible Cities, for instance) is one of the reasons I love Kafka as much as I do. Not to take away from his longer work - I have nothing but awe for The Trial, for The Castle - but what I've always treasured most about Kafka is his short short stories [1]. The stuff in Meditation, for instance, or the really short pieces in The Country Doctor. On the surface, these are slight pieces, little more than a single scene, sometimes a single paragraph - the description of a single moment, a single image, a passing feeling. And yet staring at them, reading them over and over, you realise that they are as perfect and multi-faceted as diamonds, that they contain an incredible depth of meanings, that every word in them is carefully chosen to offer a new perspective, a richer understanding. I could spend hours thinking or talking about each one of these stories, I could write pages that try to convey its 'meaning', and I would never come close to the aching clarity of the way Kafka puts it.

Calvino, in speaking of the importance of Lightness in fiction, quotes one such story - The Bucket Rider. The one he misses though, and that seems stunningly appropriate to his notion of Festina Lente (Hurry slowly) is this one, that I quote in its entirety:

My Grandfather used to say: "Life is astoundingly short. To me, looking back over it, life seems so foreshortened that I can scarcely understand, for instance, how a young man can decide to ride over to the next village without being afraid that - not to mention accidents - even the span of a normal happy life may fall far short of the time needed for such a journey."

- Franz Kafka, 'The Next Village' [2]

Notes:

[1] I can't help drawing the parallel, in my head, with the other Franz - Schubert. While I love Schubert's symphonies, what makes him stand alone among the great composers for me is Winterreise, is Schwanengesang.

[2] The Calvino quotes in this post are from the translation by Patrick Creagh. The Kafka from the Willa and Edwin Muir translation.

[3] On a lighter note, paring down language can be fun as well. One old chestnut of a joke I was really attached to at the age of 7 goes like this: "A man walks up to a shopkeeper who is putting up a board that says 'Fresh Fish Sold Here'. Man stare as the board in concentration and frowns. Then he tells the shopkeeper: "You don't really need the 'here' do you? I mean, you're not selling it anywhere else, right". The shopkeeper thinks about this, nods, and erases the 'here'. "And why say 'Fresh'?", the man continues, "you wouldn't really be selling it if it weren't fresh, would you?". The shopkeeper agrees vigorously (and a little too quickly) and quickly removes the offending 'Fresh'. "And isn't it obvious that it's being 'Sold'? I mean, this is a shop, after all, and why would you be advertising something if you didn't mean to sell it?". Again, the shopkeeper acquiesces. "And now that I come to think of it", the man says, "you don't actually need the 'Fish' either - you can smell it halfway down the street".


Categories: ,

Wednesday, February 01, 2006

Oscar Picks

The nominations for the 78th Academy Awards are out, so I figured I'd be my usual hyper-arrogant self and pick the movies / people that should [1] win [2] (links lead to relevant reviews by yours truly):

Best Actor: Philip Seymour Hoffman, 'Capote'

Supporting Actor: Matt Dillon, 'Crash'

Best Actress: Felicity Huffman, 'Transamerica'

Supporting Actress: Michelle Williams, 'Brokeback Mountain'

Best Animated Film: 'Wallace and Gromit in the curse of the Were-rabbit'

Art Direction: 'Good Night and Good Luck'

Cinematography: 'Good Night and Good Luck'

Director: Ang Lee, 'Brokeback Mountain'

Best Picture: 'Capote'

Best Adapted Screenplay: 'Capote'

Best Original Screenplay: 'The Squid and the Whale' (or 'Good Night and Good Luck'; I'm okay with either one)

Movies / people who should NOT win:

Keira Knightley for best actress

Rachel Weisz for best supporting actress (can you believe they nominated her and didn't nominate Ralph Fiennes! Are these people blind?)

Anything related to 'Munich'.

Notes:

[1] As with my earlier posts about the Bookers - this means the ones that should win on merit - not the ones I think are likely to win.

[2] In the interests of disclosure, let me say that I haven't seen the following movies: Walk the Line, A History of Violence, Cinderella Man, North Country, Junebug, Memoirs of a Geisha, The New World. Also none of the foreign film nominees (much to my shame) and only two of documentary features - March of the Penguins and Murderball - neither of which I cared much for.

Categories: ,