A Philosopher on the Wrong Side of 40!

Hello!

Some books convince you on the unique nature of everything that constitutes you. Such books carve a very permanent niche in your heart and make you trust the author to an extent that you feel an acute urge to exhaust his/her entire literary corpus. The book I am referring to here is Fault In Our Stars written by the genius wordsmith, John Green. It wasn't a book which shook the earth for me - but it was definitely one which made me want to know more about the thought process of the writer. And yes, it lent me some very fascinating perspectives on this short life we lead.

I had jotted down my spontaneous reflections on the book about 5 months ago, and revisited them this morning while trying to positivise some persistent negativities. A very senior person called me a 'philosopher on the wrong side of 40' for those reflections, and when I remembered that, I caught myself smiling. And just like that, the day acquired a vibrant hue, along with the still persisting cynicism. Who says cynicism and vibrance can't coexist? Look at me and you'll know - I am wearing pink with a black-&-white top.

Here. My thoughts on Fault In Our Stars

"I have read the book and seen the movie, in that order. Quite obviously, I enjoyed the former more, since it left so much scope for me to think beyond the obvious tale of love between two protagonists whose love affair with life was about to end.

The Fault In Our Stars is so much more than the story of Hazel and Augustus - it is the tale of entire humanity struggling to come to terms with the nature of existence. Are we all tiny, ephemeral specks on the grandness that is the Universe, or are we all, in our own ways, altering the Universe in a manner that leaves a permanent impact?

By changing our perception on the disease called cancer, John Green succeeds in changing so much about the way we view struggles in life. Like cancer is a necessary evil on the road to evolution (arrived at through mutation of cells, few of which mutate to malignancy), struggles are a necessary force to makes us grow, to chisel us to perfection. In his lens, cancer is actually evolution, or progress/growth.

That our prism is biased towards pity is also brought out handsomely in the text. I will give away the plot if I say anymore here - read on to find out. But, we sympathise too easily to visible distresses. Not the best idea perhaps.

Let us live, breathe, and smile at the bounties which life gives us. Probably only he can live life unabashedly from whose existence the fear of death is eliminated. Iconic quotes are found by dozens in the book - I have a lot many scribbled in my journal.

The movie is good to the eyes, but fails the book completely in the sense of the sorrow it evokes in us, against a sense of triumph for having lived a life which NOONE else in the entire history of humanity is going to get an opportunity to live."

So, hmm. Life is a fair deal that God has given you. As John Green says "What makes life precious is that it ends."

P.S. - The next book I am picking up is An Abundance of Katherines. Do you want to tell me something about that one?

Winter Notebook - December Arrives With A New Theme!

December is a reflection zone for me. This month brings with itself the smell of nostalgia. It does also, usually, carry along the wonder of winter, the comfort of blankets and the thrill of cosy moments with friends, but, well, that, I believe, is a burden of expectations which January will have to bear. I can say this, because I am writing this post sitting on the floor in the drawing room of my house, wearing half sleeves kurta with a thin, cotton salwar, killing mosquitoes as I type. December should not feel like this. I mean, by now, I should have been shivering inside a blanket wrapped around an oversized gharwali jacket. And by now, all mosquitoes should have died of merciless cold. But, aah, well, none of those has happened.

PC - Funnybox.com

The nostalgia is here, definitely. It has got a little to do with winters, which carry along the pleasant lull of thoughtfulness. It has got a little more to do with the timing. Another year is dying, only so it may live with its best and worst moments inside us. A new year starts looming in imagination, with its promises of great things and nervousness of new experiments and performances. Is the prospect of a new year always exciting? I don't know. However, for me, personally, I am glad 2014 is going to be gone.

It was a tough year for me; probably the toughest in my memory. The scratches of bitter moments are still red, and they itch now and then. It was a year in which I saw myself refusing to mature with experience. I found regression comforting. This was a year in which I challenged life, looking right in its eye. Then, I won some, I lost some. Good things happened, of course they did! But somehow, I am looking at December to serve as a grand compensation for all that went wrong. So far, it has behaved, umm, in a lukewarm manner. But it has only just started, and probably great things are in store. Or probably they are not. I don't know. I don't know how welcome is it to think of planting experiences and not allowing them to come on you naturally.

Good, or bad, one thing I am fervently hoping is that December leaves me with experiences I can translate into stories. Oh yes, I am high on writing stories these days.

I am also high on eliminating clutter from my life, a start of which has been made on this blog. I loved the rich red shades of the earlier theme, but I guess it was time I made things cleaner (and leaner?) here. What do you think of the new theme? Not that I am going to change it if you advise, but I would love to know your thoughts.

A wintry smile, from last year.

I'll introduce you to my memories this month. You don't really have to be on this journey with me, but I will be glad if you are. 

Ammi - Letters to a Democratic Mother by Saeed Akhtar Mirza

That is why I came down to your bed that night and began to massage your feet. Do you remember? ‘That’s very nice of you Saddu … very nice,’ you had said as I kneaded your feet and ankles. I know you were surprised by my action but what I didn’t tell you was that I was hedging my bets. You had once told me that it was written in the Quran that heaven lay at the feet of all mothers. As I massaged your feet furiously, I was hoping God was watching and taking down notes. (Page 66, Ammi- Letters To A Democratic Mothers, Saeed Mirza)

The concept of motherhood is perhaps the simplest to understand. It is universal. No man can eschew its influence, both, in the presence and absence of a mother. Despite being simple and universal, the intricacies of motherhood are complex to the observer’s eyes; unfathomable too. Thoughts, theories and eulogies exist aplenty about it all - the most apt perhaps being the one which equates mother to God- the Creator. The divinity, the unquestionable haloed status of a mother arises from the fact that she is the channel through which new, nascent life forms set foot in the world. She seamlessly glides into the role of a Preserver too, as she nurtures and protects her infant, and oversees his/her growth into an able, and healthy adult. Truly has been said about this unsung hero who decorates each child’s life with beauty and comfort that she is not someone to be understood from the outside. Only a mother can understand the dynamics of a mother’s heart. She is the most powerful influence in the early stages of a man’s life, but not always understood by the very objects of her love. The time when she is, is sometimes too late.

On the surface, the debut novel of Saeed Akhtar Mirza, seems to be building on this lamentation associated with motherhood. Below the surface, the same novel derives heavily from a psychedelic mix of unrelated concepts, thoughts, ideas and people to form a narrative which is engaging and unconventional. Ammi- Letters to a Democratic Mother is a unique book. At its core lies a son’s awe, admiration and reverence for his mother. However, the book seeks to investigate more than just the relationship between a child and his mother. This book is a journey across time and space, events and people which influenced a young mind. This book is also a sensitive, yet not sentimentally, written ode of a child to his mother, posthumously.

Saeed Akhtar Mirza – the name may be new to the world of contemporary Indian literature, but it is very popular among art cinema aficionados. After a decade of bollywood inspired by the angry young man in whom the discontent of the middle class found voice, 1980s were a decade of creative degeneration, as is rued in polemical accounts by cinema critics. The 1980s, also called the ‘disco’ decade, were also the decade in which the Indian art cinema scene came of age. Serious in content and keenly intent upon telling realistic stories inspired from sociopolitical climate of the times, this wave of cinema was endorsed and led by acclaimed film-makers foremost among whom was Saeed Akhtar Mirza. By making and presenting films like Naseem, Mohan Joshi Hazir Ho, Saleem Langde Pe Mat Ro and Albert Pinto Ko Gussa Kyun Aata Hai to an audience blinded by the glitz and glamour of mainstream cinema, Mirza had long established himself as a master storyteller. This time around too, he comes out to tell a story, story within stories, only using a slightly different medium. He holds a pen in his hand instead of a camera, and churns out a novel which delights with its understanding of important concepts and world events.

Mirza’s mother passed away in 1990. Despite being in the same city, Mirza could not meet his mother before her death due to a mundane act of procrastination. This novel was penned around 2007 in the form of a long, continuous letter written posthumously by Mirza to his mother. Despite this lucid proclamation, this novel is cannot be categorized under the routine epistolary form of writing. In his narrative, Mirza mixes together more than half a dozen literary forms to aid the narrative as and when required. Ranging from critical reporting of global and domestic events, parables, poetries (Urdu and English), short stories, historical accounts, travelogue, to satires and plain sharing of memories- this novel keeps changing the landscape a reader journeys on while reading it. Quite remarkably, experimenting with different literary genres does not, even for once, compromise upon the continuity and comprehensibility of the broad storyline. The essence remains constant; it is aided by scores of vignettes inserted at appropriate places to make the narrative engaging and entertaining.

The author - Saeed Akhtar Mirza

It is quite difficult to succinctly put into words the basic storyline, or what one would call the essence  of this novel. It has many stories to tell, many events to discuss and many discourses to give. However, broadly, in the form of a single letter, Mirza relates to the reader the domestic affairs of an ordinary Indian family. He begins with salutations to his mother and then goes onto build her personality, one that was formidable and inspirational from where he saw the world. He begins her story from the time of her marriage, and with sensitivity and sensibility, tracks her growth into a mature woman, who despite having begun her life in a cocoon, stands up as the moral, spiritual and even financial pillar for her family. A character analysis, albeit interesting, will take up a lot of space here, but suffice to say that it is a bildungsroman of a kind, in which many characters grow, and mature around the central, pervasive figure of the mother. At the end of the main narrative, the script of a film comes attached - which merits an entire review and analysis for itself. The magic of the book has many manifestaions - insight on love and relationship, history and politics, society and culture, individual and family - and so much more! 

That said, I have to emphasize that this book is compilation of rare beauties, which kept me enamoured from the first word. The most beautiful and believable love story unlocked itself in the pages of this book, almost like a fable of coming together, and staying together. It is a book I hold dear, very dear. It made me smile internally, it prompted me to think and reflect, it also motivated me to investigate into incidents and people mentioned. What more can a literary creation aspire for? Certain pieces of beauty should not be rated, but if I could, I would give it five stars on five, and perhaps some more.

Book Details - 

Author - Saeed Mirza

Publisher - Tranquebar

Published - 2008

Genre - Fiction

Pages - 385

Price - Rs. 295 (Paperback)

Looking Through Glass by Mukul Kesavan

They say, fiction triumphs where history and historiography meet failure. True enough. Through imagination and innovation, fiction tries to recreate those stories which are of little concern to historians - for history is not much but a political chronology, or a tale written about civilizations lost to time, or a record of battle won and lost. However, fiction is different. Fiction  seeks to carve out stories where to a non-curious, non-keen eye exist none. Even better is the experience when you see the confluence of a historian and fiction writer of great merit, as I happened to notice in Looking Through Glass by Mukul Kesavan. Mr. Kesavan is a professor in the Department of History in my university itself, though I never have had the good fortune of meeting him. I know it clear in my head what I have to say upon coming face to face with him - a simple thank you for giving me the best magical ride through the devastating annuls of Indian pre-independence history, from a post-independence vantage point.

Looking Through Glass is a novel that looks to recreate history, though not in a manner as simple as you would deem. The narrator, on a journey to Benaras to immerse his deceased grandmother's ashes in the holy Ganges, finds himself fall off a bridge into another time zone. He falls into the year 1942 from India of the 1980s and begins an amusing, but revealing tale of inevitabilities that were taking place in that period of struggle, where divisive tendencies had not only taken firm root, but were also raising their heads at ugly junctures in public and private life. The narrator, a Hindu, stays with a Muslim family - with a story and history of its own - passing off as an amnesiac. He almost acquires the role of the man of the house, till he starts on his way to Benaras, joining an anti-British rebellion en route. His travails in Benaras include meeting and dealing with a aspiring porn-film-maker, and rescuing an unwed, pregnant girl, Parwana - all this while being under the tutelage of a local wrestler giving regular sermons on the importance of celibacy for conserving strength. His journey continues to Delhi, Simla and perhaps back to Delhi (has been long since I read this beautiful work of fiction) - spanning the most crucial years of political wrangling regarding cartographic surgery of India and on ground violence devouring the peace of entire communities to forever leave them embittered. All this, being seen through the surreal lens of a photographer, who is an anachronistic observer in the setting.

This novel makes use of the technique of magic realism in a rather sudden way, at the very beginning. Its is not a very simple narrative, for it is a fusion of genres of fantasy and historical fiction. The novel is rich with rhetorical ploys where the author, in essence a historian, is conveying his hardened perspective on India's historical development to his audience, perhaps focussing on giving voice to the one community whose collective opinions had been drowned under the persuasive influence of its leader toeing a rigid separatist line. These tendencies of the author are distinctly noticeable in the way he creates his rather strong characters, ordinary citizens, supporting ideas which are in contravention of what was historically ascribed to them.

Mukul Kesavan

This novel doesn't stop at being a fantastical lesson on history. Besides telling you plainly that independence as partition were affairs larger than the exchange between Congress and the Muslim League, it also encompasses other interesting sub-plots, one of which is crude kind of sexual comedy. This is made visible in the section about Gyanendra, a film-maker aspiring to remake Kama Sutra, victimizing a woman, who can also be looked at as a victimizer in a way. One can, of course, not forget the fact that sexual violence was inextricably linked to the physical violence in the years leading up to Partition. By evoking lesser known streams of ideological thoughts on the idea of India and its various communities, the novel also makes a sincere attempt at political rewriting of historical facts. For throwing light on all this, the narrator has made use of flashback as well as flashforward. He has both, the retrospective and the prospective tools of analysis in his hands, because he picks up a nameless protagonist who has fallen into the lanes of history from a very contemporary reality. This narrator is in a position to see people struggle, but by the virtue of his temporal vantage point, sees how futile these struggles are because he knows precisely what turn history will take.

Lastly, the novel is so dearly loved by me because of the lightness of tone with which the author is able to convey the seriousness of matter. It is a thoroughly entertaining and enjoyable novel, which does not leave you sombre or depressed. And this is not to say that it is not hard hitting, or that it does not send its message home. 4.5 stars from me, and absolutely, highly recommended!

Book Details -
Author - Mukul Kesavan
Publisher - Penguin India and Ravi Dayal Publishers
Published - 1995
Book Source - Part of a course on 'Literatures of the Indian Sub-continent', Department of English, JMI
Genre - Historical Fiction/Fantasy Fiction
Price - Rs. 325
Pages - 378

Reflections on Mahesh Dattani's Tara

Mahesh Dattani’s is one of India’s foremost playwrights – someone who takes keen interest in wading through the tempestuous waters which our society finds itself struggling with, by adhering to ideas, notions and practices which scarce are servants to reason or logic. Dattani sees in society what others conveniently ignore. He calls them the ‘invisible issues’ of our society, permeating our culture, affecting our daily existence; yet, people somehow collude to maintain a tacit, steadfast silence on them. It is once in a while, that a voice like that of Dattani is heard, who in his own, carries the voice of many other voiceless characters nature has given birth to and society has destroyed. “Giving Voice To The Voiceless” is the title of one of the works referred while writing this paper, and how apt does it sound in terms of describing Dattani and the essence of his works.

Tara, earlier published as Twinkle Tara, is one of Dattani’s plays, which deals with notions and conditions of gender. In a poignant story of two Siamese twins, this play unearths the many dishonourable tendencies which exist in the underbelly of our society even today when we have come around to fooling ourselves into believing that we celebrate womanhood. Tara also does well to depict the dynamics of a family which is dealing with a situation society does not define a precept for. It is a unique situation – bringing up twins, who were conjoined at birth, separated after a surgery and who now live with one artificial limb each and extremely fragile health conditions. With ease, yet with force, Dattani depicts the bizarre, but universally accepted philosophy of women playing second fiddle to men. Woven into the narrative of the play are issues of class, of conflict between the modern and traditional lifestyle, of the inexpressiveness of filial love, and the clash between new and old value systems.

In an interview with Lakshmi Subramaniam, Dattani had himself made a statement – “I see Tara as a play about male self and female self, and the male self being preferred in all cultures. The play is about the separation of self and the resultant angst.” In these lines of Dattani, it becomes amply clear, that this play is being enacted as a microcosm of the practices and psyche of the society. History has been witness to a cruel and inherent bias against its female members since ages. Societies have come and gone, but the politics of gender have never been completely erased from its face. Invariably, it is the society which assumes a deterministic role over the life (and body, as we will discuss in later paragraphs) of a girl, which ordains tenets for their existence. This ‘society’ is usually a male set-up; if not that, it is heavily patriarchal or patrilineal in character. 

Discrimination against women is not limited to India. However, when it comes to conducting an academic inquiry into prejudices which females suffer merely by the virtue of their biological characteristics, India is a land rich and vibrant with stories and practices and rituals which can put one’s beliefs in right and wrong to shame. In Tara, in which the family is constructed as a credible, average Indian household, grappling with a unique problem, the bias against Tara, vis-à-vis her twin, Chandan, is clearly visible, without the need for any ornate dialogues or visuals. This bias is present in the way Tara is treated by her father, in the way Chandan is expected to conform to certain roles and abstain from certain activities, in a repentant mother’s lament for the future of her daughter, and more than anything, this bias is present in the story of Tara’s birth. This bias, perhaps, is also visible in the telling of this story, which will be understood once the process of Tara and Chandan’s separation and the gender politics there-in is understood.

As mentioned earlier, Tara and Chandan are conjoined twins. Birth of conjoined twins is an extremely rare phenomenon, and in most cases where they are surgically separated, only one of the two survives. Chandan and Tara, however, carry with them the promise of living as two separate individuals. They have perfect chances of surviving after surgery, with each important organ present in each body. There is, however, one issue. The boy and the girl, together, have three lower limbs, and chances of the limb surviving on the girl are more, as stated by Dr. Thakkar, also present in a significant role in the play. In a cruel judgement, the mother of the twins, Bharati, with the help of her father, convinces Dr. Thakkar to graft the leg onto Chandan’s body, where it does not survive for long! Thus, there seems to be something destiny ridden in the way both twins are again made equal – they both now boast of one Jaipur foot each. What is interesting to note here is the application of gendered role of a girl. Since time immemorial, female body is seen as a means for comforting, rejuvenating and even entertaining the male body. Going a step further, it would not be wrong to assert that female body is also seen as an instrument for alleviating male deficiencies and deformities. The body of a girl has often been seen akin to a territory, with many claims to it, which passes on from hand to hand, which has human (man) making decisions for it. Poor Tara, even before being given a chance at a full life, is deprived of it, because the classic male-child-preference psyche operates here, in this case. There is a certain cold ease with which the mother (microcosmic representation of the society), strips the girl of the right to live as an able bodied, complete woman and seizes from the girl which is biologically, and hence naturally hers.

The author - Mahesh Dattani

A carefully placed conversation in the text of Tara is about one of the most hideous cultural practices of that India which considers its daughters as curses. In a scene between Tara, Chandan, their next-door-neighbour and extremely garrulous Roopa and Bharati, a practice of drowning infant daughters in milk is mentioned in a rather subtle and casual way. Though the deed of choking daughters on a nourishing white fluid is ironic and hideous, the essence of that scene is not in creating awareness among the audience that such practices in India exist (In Gujarati community specially, as per the play). The catch in that scene is in the attempt of Bharati to stop Roopa from revealing to her twins this practice. Why does she do that? May be, an acute undercurrent of guilt operates in her system. May be, she equates, in her mind, the act of killing an infant with what she did to Tara, by depriving her a chance at a full and healthy life. 

More intriguing is the character of Mr. Patel, Bharati’s husband, who had no role to play in Tara’s deprived existence, but who sure is the reflection of a quintessential male-head of the family in a patriarchal society. Patriarchy is a social system in which the male acts as the primary authority figure central to social organization, and where fathers hold authority over women, children, and property. It is also a system in which division of labour is clear and roles expected from gendered selves pre-ordained. There are not any premeditated, conspiratorial acts conducted against the woman; patriarchy is more of a way of living. As evident in the play, Tara is dearly loved by her father, but Patel has lofty expectations from his son. He scolds his wife for making a sissy out of him when he observes him helping in some domestic chores. He insists on taking Chandan to his office in the face of his absent interest, and doesn’t take the suggestion of replacing him with Tara in the office trip too kindly.What their daughter is worthy of is some human consideration and compassion, but nothing beyond. This ethos is articulated in a powerful dialogue by Bharati addressed to Chandan – “It’s all very cute and comfortable when she makes witty remarks. But let her grow up. Yes, Chandan, the world will tolerate you. The world will accept you – but not her!”

Bharati does try to reduce her burden of guilt by showering enormous maternal affection on Tara. She, realizing her sin, leads a stigmatized motherhood, consequently suffering nervous breakdown and metamorphosis. She cultivates disproportionate compassion for Tara in an effort to seek salvation and exonerate herself by donating a kidney to her daughter, but not before Dattani makes it amply clear that the affection of mother-daughter relationship is subordinated and subjugated to the demands of a patriarchal society. Therein lies the tragedy of the narrative. Patel, her husband, is not in favour of Bharati donating her kidney. In fact, he goes ahead and finds a commercial donor. When confronted by Bharati, Patel replied rather sternly, without any cushion, that he does not want Bharati to donate her kidney “because I do not want you to have the satisfaction of doing it.” This one sentence is ponderable, and has disturbing socio-cultural interpretations. Bharati is still insistent, and even succeeds in her desire of giving Tara a part of herself, but she, her husband and the society fail miserably in letting Tara live. As mentioned in one of the essays on this play, Tara eventually wastes away and dies.

One of the saving graces of Tara’s life is perhaps the kind of special relation she shares with Chandan. Chandan refuses to join college unless Tara does. He recognizes his sister’s interests and personality and accepts that she might be a stronger person than him (“I’m sorry if I don’t have your strength!”). He calms her in her moments of distress and understands her more than is in the capacity of anyone in the world. A dialogue which surmises Chandan’s love for Tara most aptly is, “No difference between you and me? That’s the nicest thing you have said to me.” In Chandan’s words we witness a lament of everything that cannot be. The relation between him and his sister is special, but is ridden with emotional tribulations of the harshest kind. Metaphor and perhaps prophecy for the separation of these two souls, so much in communion with each other, is visited at the very beginning of their existence. Two operation tables being put together and then pushed apart – two loving souls brought close and then violently separated, never to come back together again. The image of separation at the operation table translates into jarring emotional parting between them, the effect of which is so profound on Chandan, that he escapes his identity, becomes Dan and sets out to narrate Tara’s story, essentially trying to find a completion to his own. The place where Chandan (or Dan) falters is when he becomes the agent of perpetuating the wrong done to Tara in her life. Chandan had always been interested in writing, and when he sets down to write Tara’s story, he writes it as his own tragedy. He apologises to Tara for doing this – “Forgive me Tara. Forgive me for making it my tragedy.”

Dattani’s play, as would be evident by now, has an overwhelming relevance to contemporary realities. It is important to ask in this context, how appropriate is it to use the medium of theatre to send across messages which are strong and which need to be sent across. The function of the drama is not merely being to ‘reflect the malfunction of the society but to act like freak mirrors in a carnival and to project grotesque images of all that passes for normal in our world’ (‘Gender Discrimination and Social Consciousnes Tara by Mahesh Dattani’, Khobragade Grishma Manikrao). “There is inseparable relation between the play and the audience. Every setting, action and characterization in the drama is performed keeping in mind the audience and viewers of the play as every act has to be played live and in as it is manner.” – Writes Vivekananda Jha is his paper on Tara, titled ‘Discrimination of Class and Gender: Mahesh Dattani’s Tara. Jha also adds words of appreciation for Dattani by stating “As a playwright, Dattani has peerless power to transform his script into living and natural performance.” Tara is specifically relevant in our times of burgeoning foeticide, infanticide and increasingly adverse sex ratio. When a sentiment is enacted on stage, there lies more to it that mere words. Non verbal communication plays a great role in conveying to the audience what readers might never be able to read in between the lines. In an interview about Tara, Dattani clearly mentions that evoking sympathy about Tara’s character was not the single-fold focus of undertaking this writing exercise. It was also to shed light on the feminine side of males, which when expressed, is met with disdain and disappointment. 

When asked what gave him the idea for writing Tara, Dattani mentioned it was a medical journal elucidating on Siamese twins and goes onto add , “It was the inspiration but I think by then having written Dance Like a Man, I was prepared to take on the gender issue head on, and I think that was a powerful metaphor. Again, you know, the play is misread and, you know, people tend to focus on the medical details but that’s really not what the play is about. It’s a metaphor either for being born equal as male and female and sharing so much more and with the surgical separation comes a cultural distinction and prejudices as well, but on another level, it could also deal with the individual having the male and female self and half the female self is, whether your gender is male or female, is definitely given the lower priority.” In this journey which Dattani undertakes to shed light on the way gender is perceived and constructed in our cultural milieu, he more than succeeds at touching the hearts of his audience (as well as his readers). He gives Tara an identity, which is strong enough to become a metaphor for the various wrongs perpetuated on women kind in our society, whether in infancy or adulthood. Or even in after life.

REFERENCES

·         Mee, Erin, Collected Plays by Mahesh Dattani, Penguin

·        Jha, Vivekananda, Discrimination of Class and Gender: Mahesh Dattani’s Tara

·         Mukherjee, Tutun, ‘I do not write merely to be read’ – An Interview with Mahesh Dattani, The Hindu

·         Acharya, Pankaj, The Socio-Psychological Aspects of Discrimination in Mahesh Dattani’s Tara, International Research Journal

·         Manikrao, Grishma Khobragade, Gender Discrimination and Social Consciousness In The Plays of Mahesh Dattani: Tara

(This essay is an abridged version of the paper I wrote as a part of the optional course, titled 'Indian Writing in English', during semester I of Masters in English Literature at Jamia Millia Islamia)

A Month Down The Line

            In her brief tryst with the world, she acquired many sobriquets. Some called her Damini, some Amanat and others Nirbhaya. As was revealed by her grieving father, her name, actually, was Jyoti. Well, more apt. While receding into eternal darkness, while being embraced by death, she lit a flame which illuminated many.

            A month since the heinous incident, and it makes sense to ask where is it that we have arrived. Protesting multitudes have gone hoarse shouting slogans. The injuries incurred during an unwarranted state response have now been healed. Perpetrators have been nabbed and shunned not just by the public, but by their co-inmates. A deluge of insensitive comments by people in power have been issued to make a mockery of the composite, vibrant culture we show off to the world. Debates on death penalty and chemical castration have mellowed down, but not before they acquired a more nuanced character. Some parents have gone paranoid with safety concerns; others have opened themselves up more to the world and refused to bow down to fear. A committee has been constituted to suggest reforms for greater gender parity and safety. Fast track courts have been established. In the backdrop of all this, a family has been silently weeping for the loss of that brave child, who loved buying new clothes, and who was the promise of light in their life.

            A few days into the protest, a gentle female friend of mine left me a text. She had a concern. While she thought that the protests were okay, she wanted to convince me that it was, after all, the girl’s mistake that she was in that circumstance. It took me a nano second to take umbrage. Callous, barbaric, incredible, pathetic and downright preposterous comments about rape, adequately reflective of our incorrigible patriarchal mind-set, had been emanating from the mouths of almost all in whose face a microphone was thrust. These were the high and the mighty of our society. However, behind closed doors of humble, nondescript houses, in our very generation which has catalysed this movement against rape, there did exist similar ideologies. My friend was but one example. I wanted to shout at her. I was at pain to understand how does a woman not understand the pain, the agony, and the rights of another woman. A moment more, and I did realize, that all this is reflective of the very disease which has conditioned us. Women, before they challenge men to grant them equality, have to liberate themselves from their own subjugated psyches, their own complexes when pitted against the perceived superior males.

http://mayhemandmuse.com/painting-beauty-marion-bolognesi/

            This article was intended to evaluate how a month of protesting, debating and displaying our anger has altered our environment. The sceptics shall be quick to guffaw and dismiss this collective anger as frivolous, transitory and inconsequential. The believers shall offer a version in absolute contradiction. However, what happened in Delhi on that fateful night has not left anyone of us untouched. We have our takes on it, and it is important that we accommodate the perspectives of each other in a collective understanding of the incident and its aftermath. That is the only way we truly learn.

            So, have these protests stopped rapes? No. They did not. They couldn’t have; because, no matter how motivated a group of young protesters, it is still not sufficient to weed out what has been a part of our society since centuries. Yes, rape has been a part of our society. There have been Kings known for their penchant for ‘deflowering’ maidens. Why? Because a woman’s body has been seen as something to be conquered, controlled. So, when not fighting wars, these Maharajas would love sorting out virgins and violating their honour, and, interestingly, even keeping souvenirs from their conquests – which could be a stained bedsheet or a nose-ring (worn primarily by virgins). It is understood by most now, that there is nothing sexual about rape. It is more of a measure for ‘disciplining’ the weaker sex, of showing them their place. Yes, the rapes have not stopped, but this understanding has been put their in the open. A month down the line, we have grown up a little.

            The most instant response to this incident of rape were deafening cries of a quick and definitive death penalty for the convicts. Did that happen? No. It did not. I do not know if it will, and I don’t care if it does. The government, the media and the judiciary took note. Emotions and rationalities collided. And today, even though the debate rages on, it is perfectly understood that perhaps death penalty is not the solution to this problem. If anything, it will worsen the situation at hand. A rapist might be tempted to kill his prey, in an attempt to dispose off evidence and the conviction rate for rapes, which is an abysmal 26% now, might fall to as low as 2%.

            There is no clear cut solution to the problem at hand, but if any, our only chance lies in working at the very roots. The feeling of superiority is infused in the male since his early childhood, when he is treated preferentially over his deprived sister. He knows he can shout at his mother and get away. The same treatment, unfortunately, is carried forward to schools. Girls are singled out in schools to ‘behave’ themselves when seen in male company. The feeling of being exclusive of each other’s environment is inculcated at the step when a teacher attempts to segregate the sitting pattern to create a clear line between girls and boys. Sex education is still a far fetched dream in most educational set ups. The chapter on reproduction is taught like a forbidden secret – to be heard and forgotten – no questions asked. I do not know how can it be done, but boys and girls are not taught to be comfortable with their bodies at the very age when it is changing and is perhaps the single biggest source of anxiety for them. Many of you might have had parents who shed light on these topics, but trust me, most girls discover the meaning of word ‘periods’ in hauntingly embarrassing situations in schools.

            How is all this relevant to the rape talk? Well, if not this, then what is? When a passing car stopped by me, passed comments at me and wanted give me lift lest my ‘gora badan’ be tired of walking the distance at home, I knew I would not tell my parents about it. The reason is simple enough. It is ‘my’ freedom that would have been curtailed, while that car would have roamed free. ‘I’ would have been the person bearing the brunt of someone else’s perversion. These are ideas ingrained in us. A girl in class fourth was being inappropriately touched by her classmate, and she felt not anger, but guilt at his invasion. Why? Who taught her to be guilty? She suffered in silence till she fell sick. Why could she not talk to anyone about it? She knew something was wrong, but what, she had no clue. Perhaps if her teachers or parents had been better sensitized by counselling, or whatever means, it might not have been a dent for life on her psyche. Sensitization. Of parents, peers, police, judiciary, of everyone. It is a long term solution, but perhaps our only bet. What has to be weeded out lies deep within the mind like a tumour. A noose around the neck will just not do the trick.

            At the end, I cannot help but quote Dushyant Kumar in what seems like the most perfect context –

“Sirf hungama khada karna mera maqsad nahi
Meri koshish hai ke soorat badalni chahiye
Mere seene mein nahi toh tere seene mein sahi
Ho kaheen bhi aag lekin aag jalni chahiye.”

Quote Quintet - November

Aah yes. I am late by about a week. I have a decent excuse though - exams! They do not have a reputation of ever having spared anybody. The only concession I had this time was that I was writing papers in a subject I understood and enjoyed. This is not a privilege I have happened to carry with me for most of my life. If anything, its novel.

I am romancing the world of literature these days in Jamia Millia Islamia. Quite surprisingly, this new world encapsulates in itself vistas that from a distance I could not even have imagined. Being a literature student is fun and challenging at the same time. One needs not just the power of language but analysis as well, to develop discourses on themes which could be anachronistic, contemporary or even futuristic. However, these ramblings deserve a separate post of their own.

For now, the quintet. November was  a month full of mad-scurrying for notes, last minute completion of syllabus, confused/harried faces and other general attributes of exam times. November was also a month of bonhomie - pleasant classroom banter, close friends getting closer. For this month, I will not share some random lines drawn from newspapers (I had not been reading much of them anyway). I will share here excerpts from five best pieces of poetry which were taught to us by our wonderful professors at Jamia - Dr. Anisur Rahman and Dr. Ameena Kazi Ansari.

My favorite lines might mostly be the romantic ones. So, feel the love and read on!

#1

A cordiform map projection

My face in thine eyes, thine in mine appears,
And true plain hearts do in the faces rest;
Where can we find two better hemispheres
Without sharp north, without declining west?
- John Donne, The Good Morrow
John Donne is one of the great metaphysical poets whose poems speak a language of their own. His most prolific achievement, however, is that he is my friend, Mishail Sharma's favourite poet, and owing to her incessant and excited monologues, I have developed a mini-expertise on him as well. These lines are remembered fondly by me because of the way they philosophise on love, because of the way they make you see two lovers. As two hemispheres, the north of which is not too cold and the west of which is not declined towards darkness, these lovers complete a whole - they complete a world for their existence - beyond which nothing is desired. Donne goes on to say that such love is eternal. If it died, that love was not which could find a balance.

#2

The handsomest among poets

There is not a joy the world can give like that it takes away
When the glow of early thought declines in feelings' dull decay
- Lord Byron, Youth and Age
Despite not preparing this poem for my examination, I remember vividly its first line. How very true, or as my teacher put it, very 'axiomatic'. We have heard of the cliché about the value of things becoming apparent only upon losing them. Byron has restated that very ideal, perhaps in a more provoking way. True it is - the most precious happiness is that which has been snatched from us. This poem is about what the title says it is - youth and the journey towards old age - and it reflects on that path and the things we lose on our way to the end of life. Byron is graceful in his acceptance of the ageing process, though a tinge of longing for the transience of youth is palpable in his tone. That sense of longing is what makes this poem remarkable for me.

#3
When hearts have once mingled,
Love first leaves the well-built nest;

http://arb.hubpages.com/hub/The-Journey-chapter-1

The weak one is singled 
To endure what it once possessed.
- Percy Bysshe Shelley, When The Lamp Is Shattered
It is another of those poems which deal with the concept of transience, thought Shelley succeeds in taking forward the concept of impermanence to the concept of death, which eventually leads to regeneration. In these particular lines, however, what catches my attention is the sensitivity which the poet displays towards relationship of lovers which is ephemeral like everything else. It is the weak one, the more attached one who is always left to suffer the pangs of longing for what once was his. I find these lines echoing in me because I can see their manifestation in many instances around me. My age, after all, is the age of heartaches and heartbreaks.

#4
Know then thyself, presume not God to scan
The proper study of Mankind is Man.
- Alexander Pope, An Essay On Man, Epistle II
I will admit - Pope is not one of those poets I have understood well, yet, I remember the way our Professor delivered these lines in class and they instantly became a hit with me. I quote them frequently and ask my friends what they think of it. In this section of his extremely lengthy poem, Pope has urged mankind to stay away from prying into the affairs of God, and to seek answers for their own powers and limits, strengths and frailties, reason and impulse, within the ambit of worldly existence. To know his affairs, Man must study himself. However, I always feel a greater meaning lurks behind those lines. Does something pop up in your mind when you read these?

#5

Purple flower by the moss

She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The difference to me!
- William Wordsworth, She Dwelt Among Untrodden Ways
Wordsworth is among my favorite poets, for the simple reason that he talks in a language I understand and he conveys ideas which touch my heart. In a set of five poems, together called the Lucy Poems, Wordsworth has concocted an iconic romantic character in the form of Lucy - one who can be romanced and loved, but never be achieved. No one knows the identity of Lucy for sure; not even if she was real or a figment of his imagination. But Lucy poems, taken together, are pregnant with a sense of an impending loss - of love, of Lucy. Of all the five, these lines reverberate often in my mind. His object of love, pristine and virginal and untouched - she lived hidden from the prying eyes of the world. But now, she is no more, and while the world might carry on at its pace, it makes a difference, a huge difference to him.

I should've perhaps undertaken this exercise before the exams. However, as they say, 'better late than never!' Hope you had a good time reading this one.

Entertainment, Entertainment Aur Entertainment

IPL FIXTURES
A Guest Post by Agransh Anand
Agransh is a cricket enthusiast, the kind who feels disillusioned by the game owing to the entertainment based extravaganza it has been made in this IPL season. You can feel this post has been written straight from the heart, and why not? A cricket fan in India is nothing if not passionate. While I was regaling myself with thumping DD wins, another fan was mulling over some obvious trickery. Here on, Agransh takes over, to take us through an IPL journey.

I have witnessed over the years that Indian movies don't make it to Oscars, and even if they do, they are not good enough to win the coveted trophy. The surprising part however is that over the past 5 years, we Indians have witnessed some great 3 hour movies and that too not just one but in huge numbers, being released every day, for a period of two months . These not only contain some world class actors and some newcomers every season, they have got the makings of a perfect thriller, the glitz, drama, pretty faces in the form of cheerleaders, emotions running high on and off the field- consistently giving us 3 hours of uninterrupted entertainment. An increasing number of followers every season have made these movies more intense, more thrilling and have surpassed the expectations of the people when they give 'I did not expect this kind of ending' time and again. This movie, my friend, is predictably, the Indian Premier League or IPL for most of us. Produced, Written and Directed by BCCI.

I had been an ardent fan of the league since its very inception. Not only did the league threw at us names of some brilliant budding cricketers, it also changed the way cricket is played all over the world. The purists of the game have always put test cricket first over every other format but it only showed that they are sulking because of the glory these cricketers are basking in and somewhere would be feeling that they had missed the bus when it came down to the money factor. Every person is entitled to making as much money as he wants to. And by putting in those extra hours between their international assignments, they were earning all that they had ever dreamt of. It also meant that hundreds of other cricketers who would never see the light of the day in the Indian team,would not be deprived of a secured financial future. In a game which had less money for cricketers as late as 15 years, back this was a welcome change everyone had been yearning for. They were getting recognition and were awards for all the hard work they had put in over the years. They were in the limelight for the right reasons, had become households names, loyal fans were cheering for them and were being given a shot at their lifetime goal of representing their country. Ranji matches had become obsolete. No longer did the traditional old rivalry between states hold any importance in either selection of cricketers or viewership of the audience. And why would it? Here in ipl you had 19 year olds sharing dressing room with legends of the game, smacking best of the bowlers around the park and getting guided by world class coaches. For someone who does not go into the nitty gritties of cricket, from a distance, IPL seemed to be a happy picture. Why would someone spend 3 hours on a senseless bollywood movie (most of them are) when he can enjoy a fantastic spectacle of cricket daily? More so, it had become a status symbol for those who went to see the matches in the stadium. For the first time ever, the female population of the country was taking an active interest in the game, even if it was out of love for Shah Rukh Khan, Preity Zinta or Shilpa Shetty. The biggest industrialists of the country too were caught by the bug.  When Mukesh Ambani takes out time to watch the match in the stadium, you know it is something special. If you had passes to the match, you were amongst the lucky ones and if you had jugaad to the after party you were amongst the privileged ones. If your dad's firm was the sponsor of one of the team, you got immediate respect in the social circles. In totality, being associated in any form with the ipl meant big for those who were mere spectators to the drama called IPL. The league had been a success, well written, produced and directed.

However, only a few had imagined that while scripting this success story, the roles of the actors (read cricketers) were also fixed. When egos and politics get mixed with sports, the outcome becomes ugly. It hampers the very nature of sportsmanship. There are good rivalries as well as the bad ones. India-Pakistan, Ashes- these are the ones which are good for sports. When Dhoni has a spat with the vice captain of the team, it means trouble for the Indian cricket. But when Dhoni, Sehwag, Gambhir, Bhajji have their egos getting clashed against each other, it means more fun for an average cricket fan. Each of the great cricketers having a go at the other. Life would have been simpler had a healthy rivalry accompanied by some show of attitude plus display of exemplary cricketing skills minus the swearing  would have been the order of the occasion. These players had been great ambassadors of Indian cricket. Getting selected on merit has always been the key for them. All of them at different levels had shown admirable leadership qualities and had earned respect from the cricketing fraternities. The Tamasha cricket had given them another platform to display a side of theirs which one cannot see much during the international matches. And now comes the role of the director.

In movies, you can script a story according to the taste of the public. You can make the good guy triumph, show that the villain lost in the end, long lost brothers meeting again etc. In cricket however, your role ends the moment the players take the field. From thereon, its their game, their lives, their clashes. If ever anybody wanted to take lessons on event management, there is no big event in India than IPL. But just like a good event management company, they have no say in whatever happens on the stage. By putting their foot in the wrong area, IPL has not done itself any favor.

Over the years, IPL has had its share of controversies. Be it the fake blogger of the Kolkata team, the strategic timeouts which changed the course of the game within a few minutes, accusations of match fixing, parties and the latest one being spot fixing. But as  a hard core fan, I had always negated these even though I was irked by the game changing time outs at times. Yet all these factors could not hamper the very strong following of the game.

When the Chairman of the league announces at the opening ceremony that this will be the most entertaining IPL ever, you don't take those words literally. You feel that you have seen past 4 seasons and what different could the 5th one be? Half way down the tournament you realize that you were mistaken. Not only have you not seen more thrilling last over finishes, you have also seen the most number of last ball finishes. Javed Miandad's moment of glory was hitting a six of the final ball off Chetan Sharma way back in 1985 at Sharjah. At IPL, every Tom, Dick 'n' Harry was replicating that moment at will. It took me some time to realize that what does the 'Business End ' of the tournament means. It means that when TRP's will drop, you will have a sudden surge in close finishes, giving you more viewership and commercials. It means that weaker teams who started brilliantly in the tournament will fade out and never recover from their downfall (Pune). It means that if your team doesn't boast of big names, its not good enough to generate excitement amongst viewers, no matter how good the youngsters in your team are (Punjab). And it means that if the president of the BCCI is also the owner of a certain yellow jersey team, your team has every chance of qualifying through to the play-offs. It means that three matches which had to go in Chennai's way for them to make it to the next round, will go their way. It means that a team which has lost 11 of their 14 games, will suddenly strike form and knock out two probables (Rajasthan and Bangalore) from entering into the next round. Outside the IPL, it means that if you are a part of the yellow jersey team, you get an automatic entry into the Indian team, which in due course time will be called CSK extension. That no matter how bad a player you are, you will get full support of your skipper, Dhoni and will be retained time and again. That even if you are bits and pieces type cricketer, you will get auctioned for a whopping 2 million dollars when the best in the business get paid much less than you because there is skipper's backing. That IPL ego clashes will be taken to the International matches and players will be selected based on the franchise that they represent. If the Indian skipper doesnt like his Vice Captain, lads from Delhi will hold less chance compared to those who belong to Chennai and Bangalore. If anything, Ipl 5 should act as an eye opener for millions of fans around the country who get exhausted by the end of the match in a hope that their team might pull off a turn around when little do they know that the 'Business end' has already been looked after. Going to watch a match in the stadium is a day long affair for an average Indian, fighting through the traffic, trying to find a parking space and entering the stadium after battling it out at the entry gates. To play with the emotions of people is a sin. To drain people emotionally and give them a result which you wanted them to see is a crime. Its time that the BCCI understands that IPL is what it is because of the people who follow the game so passionately. Don't play with their feelings. We would be happy to see honest contests more than the tailor-made matches.

Agransh Anand
One of the many IPL fans in India. Till now, at least. 

First Gift

For about a month now, I have been posting the most impossible, insane and ludicrously self-advertising birthday wishlist on twitter, much to the annoyance of my twitter followers, I am sure. My birthday is still 14 days away, but I like making my demands much in advance. So I did. However, nothing beats the charm of subtle surprises that come your way to make you feel nice, revived and loved. There came my way a sweet picture surprise from my dear friend (My Goddess). Though I share this picture with many more recipients and it isn't exactly a slice for my birthday, I am still taking the liberty of officially considering it my first gift and posting the same here. Cheistha, who very thoughtfully shared this picture with exquisite words with me, is slightly more than a mere inspiration for me. But what that 'more' might be, I am yet to understand.

Ridiculous. I was supposed to have kept dumb and shared the picture. Look at me! Can never get enough of words.

Here is, what I pompously declare as my first gift from a dear friend. The irony, unfortunately, is true, as I have been explained today.

Battle Hymn Of The Tiger Mother by Amy Chua

I had been playing hide-and-seek with this book for long. I knew that it is a book I desperately want to read the day I read the first newspaper article about it, but for some reason, I always resisted buying it. The procrastination continued for more than a year. Finally, when a cousin used the benevolent flipkart phenomenon to not only bear easy on his pocket, but to also make me fall in love with him while he snugly sat in his office more than a 1000 kilometers away, I knew this book was destined to reach my hands. However, the book did not turn out to be anything I had expected it to be. It turned out different and better. Much better. 

I have stood testimony to various kinds of Indian parenting set ups. While the way kids our brought up in our country, those belonging to my generation at least, differs in very nuanced manner across the nation,- regions and communities- the Indian parenting set up is characterized by a remarkably similar lowest common denominator- that in terms of strictness. "Child is the father of Man" philosophy has not quite taken roots in our country. Our family set up thrives on a strictly built hierarchical setup, (flamboyantly patriarchal, too), where seniority is respected and juveniles are, with all good motives, thought of as nothing more than an off shoot still attached to the main body.  This off shoot is not looked at as an individual, and is most often subjected to the 'stick' approach of child rearing. I, here, by no means, talk for all of Indian parents, but as an accepted fact, Asian parenting is regarded as strict and tough on the child. Ancillary to the same generalization is the fact that Asain kids turn out to be the strongest and brightest and more precocious as compared to their western counterparts.

So, affected (and afflicted) by the most crude manifestation of brown parenting, I was kind of hoping to find some vindication in this book which promised a tour of the world of yellow parenting vis-a-vis white parenting. It did not aid my motive. Rather, the book opened my eyes to the psyche behind the stringent, often ruthless parenting which Asians are (in)famous for resorting to when it comes to the well being of their child. Battle Hymn Of The Tiger Mother (BHOTTM) is a treat for readers, both young and old. It deals with a topic as sensitive as bringing up a child with remarkable lightness of narrative, and wit and humor. Amy Chua, the author of this book, has written it with honesty which borders on brutal. Her tone throughout the book, is not consistent, but conforms to the ambivalent voice of a mind which has been shaken out of a process it always thought was just and proper.

BHOTTM is a memoir by Chua of how she brought up her two girls, Sophia and Louisa (Lulu) in a strict Chinese style, while co-existing with liberal American parents. Chua is a professor of law at Yale and married to a Jew. Her own childhood was a perfect example of strict, no-nonsense Chinese parenting- an institution she took after once her own daughters were born. Incidents she describes out of her ugly trysts with both her daughters could have, had it not been for the overall light and self incriminating tone of the author, pierced the calm in the mind of a reader like me. However, more than anything, those very incidents serve a purpose in stimulating the minds of readers into the dynamics that govern a Chinese (Asian) family, the bonds which hold it together. To say that Chua was hard on her daughters would be an understatement. She was the kind of mother to whom A minus grade was mortifying, who returned cards her daughters made for her birthday with arrogance and disdain for she found them shabby, who made her daughters practice piano and violin for strangely long hours during the day, who thought play was not supposed to be called an integral part of a child's upbringing, who could call her daughters garbage for underperforming. In short, she was a parent who would be a child welfare NGO's delight- a case to go after, blow out of proportions and attain glory.

It was however, Chua's defiant younger daughter, Lulu, who changed her style of looking at her children. Lulu was stubborn since her very childhood, but the day she stood upto her mother, at a mere age of thirteen, was the day Chua decided to let go. To allow her kids to find their own path.

Don't read this book as a spiced up story of someone's domestic affairs. Read this book because it has something important to discuss. Not to tell, but to discuss. This book offers contrasts of western parenting against Chinese parenting, in thought, theory and even statistics, at appropriate places. It dwells honestly on the psyche of a mother who makes her daughters' welfare her single minded focus, even to obsessive limits. It shows you how a motherly heart reaches out not to her natural offsprings, but even to others who fall under its care- in the case of BHOTTM, two incredibly cute samoyeds. It talks of the strong ties which bind Asian families, where taking care of each other is not a matter of choice, but a way of life. And finally, this book will help you understand why, despite being brought up in the strictest and devoid-of-sympathy circumstances, do Asian kids continue to revere, care for and love their parents.

Chua with her husband- Jed, two daughters-Sophia and Lulu, and her adorable samoyeds- Coco and Pushkin.

Fun and learning- this book at least wins four on five stars. More than that, this books wins my heart. Perhaps the most important thought this books conveyed to me was- Asian parents assume strength in their kids, Westerners assume weakness and gullibility. I pondered on it for long. May be you, too, will.

PS- When it comes to parenting, I always remember these words by Kahlil Gibran

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.