classy-at-the-theatre dept.
I managed to watch three films during the just concluded Asian Film Festival, right across the street from my house. The Chinese film Postmen in the Mountains left an indelible impression on my mind, not so the other movies, with the possible exception of one other film, newcomer Samyak Sandipani's My friend Saleem.
The film documents the friendship between two undergraduate engineering students who come together in one of Maharashtra's private engineering colleges. This is a pathbreaking film (maybe I use that qualification too freely) possibly the first to take a candid, realistic look at higher education and student life in our colleges.
Rahul is from the countryside from a typical small-town middle class family (the kind that budgets for buying soap). Akhilesh is the son of NRI parents living somewhere in the Middle East or in Souteast Asia. By a strange quirk of fate, these disparate creatures are thrown together in the same dorm room, and the film builds its narrative from there.
A montage of small, poignant sequences during the titles introduces us to both of these characters as they embark on their journey to the college. Once there, predictably enough, the film follows the inevitable clash of cultures between the determined, bookish and overly pragmatic Rahul and the free-spirited, sensitive, na‹ive Akhilesh as they both come to grips with new surroundings.
After this, the film splits into two narrative threads that are occasionally intertwined and then unify into a single logical whole as the film climaxes.
Akhilesh falls for a girl quite obviously not meant for him, and gets his heart broken, trying to compete with his 'localite' competitor.
This is a brave attempt to analyse adolescent social groupings in modern India. A spate of 80's American 'high-school' movies (The Breakfast Club, Breaking Away, or the more recent Mean Girls) have superficially dealt with this issue, but Sandipani opts for a more profound look at the underlying socio-economic and cultural factors that decide how young people of today factor in peer pressure and media images into their decision making. He seems to make the interesting hypothesis, for instance, that economic awareness greatly affect individual maturity. In a male-dominated culture like India, women very rarely are allowed to fend for themselves, and this causes their world view to become skewed -- they see the world only through the eyes of men around them. Akhilesh's experiences somehow seem to reinforce this hypothesis, and he finds himself unable to surmount the social barriers erected against him (through innuendo, deceit and misrepresentation) by his competitors.
A much more fascinating and profound narrative thread, however, revolves around the serious, academically inclined Rahul. He ends up being cruelly manipulated by one of his professors who publishes some of Rahul's work as his own. Shaken and disillusioned by what he considers to be a betrayal of the scientific spirit, more than anything else, he quickly descends into a vortex of ruthlessness and cynicism.
He only manages to rediscover his humanity when he helps Akhilesh deal with his heartbreak, and manages to recover his 'soul' from the brink of infamy.
Along the way we see interesting exchanges between Akhilesh and Rahul, as their relationship evolves from a wary mistrust (often descending into irritability) to mutual respect and acknowledgement.
The end finds them, if a little chastened, looking ahead to life as independent, free-thinking individuals, assured of their own place and identity and yet sensitive to the environment around them.
Friday, September 17, 2004
regarde la pluie dept.
The rains have now left for the North. The days are now stiff and cold with a hint of golden yellow that warms the face in the afternoons, but only a hint.
Only two weeks ago, on a sunny weekend, I would wake up (not later than 10) to the chirping of unknown birds. Outside the kitchen window I could see the shivering leaves of shrubs, bathed in a necklace of dew-drop diamonds.
If I closed my eyes, I could hear the traffic on the road outside, falling at me like tired sea-waves, in crests and troughs.
The rains have now left for the North. The days are now stiff and cold with a hint of golden yellow that warms the face in the afternoons, but only a hint.
Only two weeks ago, on a sunny weekend, I would wake up (not later than 10) to the chirping of unknown birds. Outside the kitchen window I could see the shivering leaves of shrubs, bathed in a necklace of dew-drop diamonds.
If I closed my eyes, I could hear the traffic on the road outside, falling at me like tired sea-waves, in crests and troughs.
Saturday, September 11, 2004
deathly serious dept.
Death lurks at every corner. It is the curse of mortals and possibly their only salvation. Yet we are so oblivious to it, until it strikes sudden like a malicious viper gliding in the grass and takes a living man in its grip.
And yet the venom persists and festers even after the dead are only a figment of our imagination. Because with death, also die memories and words and emotions and a host of other components that make us individual sentient beings. It is only with sudden realisation that you internalise the fact that part of you is dead forever, too.
Death lurks at every corner. It is the curse of mortals and possibly their only salvation. Yet we are so oblivious to it, until it strikes sudden like a malicious viper gliding in the grass and takes a living man in its grip.
And yet the venom persists and festers even after the dead are only a figment of our imagination. Because with death, also die memories and words and emotions and a host of other components that make us individual sentient beings. It is only with sudden realisation that you internalise the fact that part of you is dead forever, too.
Saturday, September 04, 2004
straw-dogs-dept.
Curzon's Books is a really small bookstore I came across this week in one of the by-lanes of Prabhat Road. The shop is run by an old Anglo-Indian lady, claiming direct descent from, of all people, Lord Curzon. It was already considerably disorienting for me to see someone of foreign descent managing to entrench themselves in Pune's Brahmin heartland. Add to that the unthinkable idea of her running a book-store catering to readers of Marathi. That she should claim descent from one of the most hated Viceroys of colonial India, infamous only for his ill-advised partition of Bengal, and later his obstinate opposition to the women's suffrage movement in Britain does not cast any illumination either. Stranger things, however, are known to have happened.
But then again, I digress.
One book in particular caught my eye for the sheer audacity of its title. पुण्याचे कुत्रे आणि त्यांचे साम्राज्य (पुरुषोत्तम प्रका., पुणे) (The Dogs of Pune and Their Empire) by Dr.V.S.Rajpurohit.
Dr. Rajpurohit claims to be a reader in Sociology at the University of Pune. I must confess to not having heard of anyone of that name, and some queries to acquaintances haven't been of much use either. The most obvious hypothesis is that the author is writing under a pseudonym. But that does not explain the need to so brazenly declare oneself a fraud. Surely, a book with as intellectual a tone as this would inevitably fall into the hands of the most ruthless of cynics that this city has to offer (yes, I refer to certain world-famous individuals from one of the equally world-reknowned 'Peths' of the old city).
Perhaps with his brazenness, the author also expresses his amorality -- his disdain for the laws of men and yet an affinity for the canine world that surpasses in its (well, for lack of a better word) dogmatism, the most fanatic of religions.
The book itself begins innocuously enough, by etching out in well-measured words, the geographical lay-out of Pune. Very meticulously, and with the air of a master violinist tuning his instrument, Rajpurohit (I have resigned myself to calling him by that name) catalogs the breeds and social hierarchies of the mongrels that inhabit its streets. Typically, he completely ignores the domesticated variety, preferring to look at them as only passive gene-pools that scatter their seed now and then to the 'real' population outside.
The subsequent portions of the book then set an unrelenting pace for ideas and insights that lasts till the end. This is where Purohit is in full flow, as he paints before us a vivid, evocative picture of the lives of these canine dwellers. Their street-wars, their alliances and betrayals, lust and affection, not to forget their ugly yet unalienable facets -- cannibalism, incest and disease. He shows a remarkable zest and empathy for their stories, and an even more astounding analytical mind when it comes to guaging their territorialism and sense of good and evil. For instance he tells us that the small lane that straddles Raviraj Hotel off Bhandarkar Road is home to a bunch of albino siblings. From certain genetic markers (this scientific discourse was frankly beyond me), Rajpurohit deduces the existence of an "illicit, passionate tryst of unmitigated lust between a pure Dalmatian and a common mongrel of mixed blood". The siblings themselves, claims Rajpurohit, stake their claim on the extent of this lane (not more then a hundred steps long), and exhibit a unique degree of discipline and organization in their pack behaviour. A token based system ensures that the road is constantly watched. Each individual takes turns resting and fornicating. Occasionally they will venture out into the other surrounding bylanes of Bhandarkar Road. On such occasions, the unit displays military precision in their attacks on their fellow canines, and a very well-defined hierarchical system for distributing the spoils of war. The description is almost too surreal to be true.
Refreshingly, unlike other Marathi authors, Rajpurohit does not shy away from classical English references either. "Let loose the dogs of war...", he snarls, spewing forth vitriol in his tirade against the Pune Municipal Corporation's pest control department.
So it is with some bewilderment that I consider the case of Dr.Rajpurohit. He writes in a highly stylized, idiomatic Marathi, and feels completely at home with the lastest forensic techniques in his field as well as classical English literature. One wonders, whether a man of such diverse faces would find the world of men large-hearted enough to accomodate him. It is only inevitable then, that such an excellent man should go to the dogs.
Curzon's Books is a really small bookstore I came across this week in one of the by-lanes of Prabhat Road. The shop is run by an old Anglo-Indian lady, claiming direct descent from, of all people, Lord Curzon. It was already considerably disorienting for me to see someone of foreign descent managing to entrench themselves in Pune's Brahmin heartland. Add to that the unthinkable idea of her running a book-store catering to readers of Marathi. That she should claim descent from one of the most hated Viceroys of colonial India, infamous only for his ill-advised partition of Bengal, and later his obstinate opposition to the women's suffrage movement in Britain does not cast any illumination either. Stranger things, however, are known to have happened.
But then again, I digress.
One book in particular caught my eye for the sheer audacity of its title. पुण्याचे कुत्रे आणि त्यांचे साम्राज्य (पुरुषोत्तम प्रका., पुणे) (The Dogs of Pune and Their Empire) by Dr.V.S.Rajpurohit.
Dr. Rajpurohit claims to be a reader in Sociology at the University of Pune. I must confess to not having heard of anyone of that name, and some queries to acquaintances haven't been of much use either. The most obvious hypothesis is that the author is writing under a pseudonym. But that does not explain the need to so brazenly declare oneself a fraud. Surely, a book with as intellectual a tone as this would inevitably fall into the hands of the most ruthless of cynics that this city has to offer (yes, I refer to certain world-famous individuals from one of the equally world-reknowned 'Peths' of the old city).
Perhaps with his brazenness, the author also expresses his amorality -- his disdain for the laws of men and yet an affinity for the canine world that surpasses in its (well, for lack of a better word) dogmatism, the most fanatic of religions.
The book itself begins innocuously enough, by etching out in well-measured words, the geographical lay-out of Pune. Very meticulously, and with the air of a master violinist tuning his instrument, Rajpurohit (I have resigned myself to calling him by that name) catalogs the breeds and social hierarchies of the mongrels that inhabit its streets. Typically, he completely ignores the domesticated variety, preferring to look at them as only passive gene-pools that scatter their seed now and then to the 'real' population outside.
The subsequent portions of the book then set an unrelenting pace for ideas and insights that lasts till the end. This is where Purohit is in full flow, as he paints before us a vivid, evocative picture of the lives of these canine dwellers. Their street-wars, their alliances and betrayals, lust and affection, not to forget their ugly yet unalienable facets -- cannibalism, incest and disease. He shows a remarkable zest and empathy for their stories, and an even more astounding analytical mind when it comes to guaging their territorialism and sense of good and evil. For instance he tells us that the small lane that straddles Raviraj Hotel off Bhandarkar Road is home to a bunch of albino siblings. From certain genetic markers (this scientific discourse was frankly beyond me), Rajpurohit deduces the existence of an "illicit, passionate tryst of unmitigated lust between a pure Dalmatian and a common mongrel of mixed blood". The siblings themselves, claims Rajpurohit, stake their claim on the extent of this lane (not more then a hundred steps long), and exhibit a unique degree of discipline and organization in their pack behaviour. A token based system ensures that the road is constantly watched. Each individual takes turns resting and fornicating. Occasionally they will venture out into the other surrounding bylanes of Bhandarkar Road. On such occasions, the unit displays military precision in their attacks on their fellow canines, and a very well-defined hierarchical system for distributing the spoils of war. The description is almost too surreal to be true.
Refreshingly, unlike other Marathi authors, Rajpurohit does not shy away from classical English references either. "Let loose the dogs of war...", he snarls, spewing forth vitriol in his tirade against the Pune Municipal Corporation's pest control department.
So it is with some bewilderment that I consider the case of Dr.Rajpurohit. He writes in a highly stylized, idiomatic Marathi, and feels completely at home with the lastest forensic techniques in his field as well as classical English literature. One wonders, whether a man of such diverse faces would find the world of men large-hearted enough to accomodate him. It is only inevitable then, that such an excellent man should go to the dogs.
Thursday, August 05, 2004
Monday, June 07, 2004
spanish-connection dept.
About two years ago, a friend of mine mentioned that Jorge Luis Borges was the greatest author not to be awarded the Nobel prize. I had never heard of this Borges fellow. Not a single mention even from people I had expected to be in the know about this here literature business.
Then some months after that, I was in the US, and I went through Barnes&Noble looking for this enigmatic person (I couldn't even spell his name then), and found him.
My initial reaction on reading Collected Fictions, a translation by Andrew Hurley, were ummm..everything from perplexity to jealousy to plain distaste to sneaking admiration.
Borges is a hard author to read. (Maybe it was just the translation). His language, especially later in his career, is very laconic, terse, yet replete with allusions and casual references to things that any average human being may not have a clue about. So looking beyond the name-dropping that his books are riddled with, and parsing this into something closer to our own understanding requires some work.
But beyond that, A few quick notes on Borges as a writer.
- Does not write about psychology, politics, social problems etc. the way the other novelists do.
Umm, to put it another way, these themes play cameos in his story, but never have star value.
- Focuses on ideas, they are central theme of the story. In fact his stories are always about ideas he has, rather than the other way round for most novelists.
- Writes tersely, laconically -- a sentence sometimes sums up what could be a 1000-page novel. e.g. "Just as some men court a woman just to get her out of their mind...". Just that single sentence can potentially spawn a slew of movies, novels, poems, whatever.
- Writes Apocrypha. True genius is incredibly lazy. Ordinary mortals will first build the outline of the plot, then construct the story/novel/movie etc. around it. Borges builds his plot, then assumes that the story has already been built, the gaps filled, the grunt work done; and then reviews this as the work of some fictional character.
Truly awesome. He is not funny or ironic enough though (although he still has a lot of humour in his books -- he stops short of parodying himself, sometimes, although he does that too).
Pu La Deshpande has written similar stuff with equally great insight, but with a much superior class of wit and humor.
About two years ago, a friend of mine mentioned that Jorge Luis Borges was the greatest author not to be awarded the Nobel prize. I had never heard of this Borges fellow. Not a single mention even from people I had expected to be in the know about this here literature business.
Then some months after that, I was in the US, and I went through Barnes&Noble looking for this enigmatic person (I couldn't even spell his name then), and found him.
My initial reaction on reading Collected Fictions, a translation by Andrew Hurley, were ummm..everything from perplexity to jealousy to plain distaste to sneaking admiration.
Borges is a hard author to read. (Maybe it was just the translation). His language, especially later in his career, is very laconic, terse, yet replete with allusions and casual references to things that any average human being may not have a clue about. So looking beyond the name-dropping that his books are riddled with, and parsing this into something closer to our own understanding requires some work.
But beyond that, A few quick notes on Borges as a writer.
- Does not write about psychology, politics, social problems etc. the way the other novelists do.
Umm, to put it another way, these themes play cameos in his story, but never have star value.
- Focuses on ideas, they are central theme of the story. In fact his stories are always about ideas he has, rather than the other way round for most novelists.
- Writes tersely, laconically -- a sentence sometimes sums up what could be a 1000-page novel. e.g. "Just as some men court a woman just to get her out of their mind...". Just that single sentence can potentially spawn a slew of movies, novels, poems, whatever.
- Writes Apocrypha. True genius is incredibly lazy. Ordinary mortals will first build the outline of the plot, then construct the story/novel/movie etc. around it. Borges builds his plot, then assumes that the story has already been built, the gaps filled, the grunt work done; and then reviews this as the work of some fictional character.
Truly awesome. He is not funny or ironic enough though (although he still has a lot of humour in his books -- he stops short of parodying himself, sometimes, although he does that too).
Pu La Deshpande has written similar stuff with equally great insight, but with a much superior class of wit and humor.
Friday, April 09, 2004
dead-poets-society dept.
Two poets have always haunted my soul. At least it seems that they have been with me always, but I only really
have been familiar with them for the last three years or so.
I had heard mention of both of them, but being somewhat allergic to poetry (love poetry, yuk!!!) I'd never really read any at all,
let alone the so-called premier Marathi poets. It was only out of morbid curiosity that I picked up (read, stole) Mardhekaranchi Kavita
from my grandfather's study, to understand what the fuss about Pipaat Mele Olya Undir was. I found myself sucked into a vortex
of undefinable angst and beauty and sincere anguish and everything else, that I am still trying to navigate.
WORK IN PROGRESS...
Two poets have always haunted my soul. At least it seems that they have been with me always, but I only really
have been familiar with them for the last three years or so.
I had heard mention of both of them, but being somewhat allergic to poetry (love poetry, yuk!!!) I'd never really read any at all,
let alone the so-called premier Marathi poets. It was only out of morbid curiosity that I picked up (read, stole) Mardhekaranchi Kavita
from my grandfather's study, to understand what the fuss about Pipaat Mele Olya Undir was. I found myself sucked into a vortex
of undefinable angst and beauty and sincere anguish and everything else, that I am still trying to navigate.
WORK IN PROGRESS...
Wednesday, December 03, 2003
सागरास
ने मजसी ने परत मातृभुमीला
सागरा प्राण तळमळला । सागरा ।।
भूमातोच्या चरणतला तूज धूता । मी िनत्य पािहला होता ।
मज वदलासी अन्य देशी चल जाऊ । सृष्टीची िववीधता पाहू ।
तई जननी ह्रुद् िवरहशंकीतही झाले । पिर तुवा वचन ितज िदधले ।
मार्गस्थ स्वयी मीच पृष्ठी वाहीन । त्विरत या परत आिणन ।
िवश्वसलो या तव वचनी मी ।
जगद्नुभव योगे बनुनी मी ।
तव अिधक शक्त उद्धरणी मी ।
येईन त्वरे कथून सोडीले तुजला । सागरा ।।
- िव.दा.सावरकर
ने मजसी ने परत मातृभुमीला
सागरा प्राण तळमळला । सागरा ।।
भूमातोच्या चरणतला तूज धूता । मी िनत्य पािहला होता ।
मज वदलासी अन्य देशी चल जाऊ । सृष्टीची िववीधता पाहू ।
तई जननी ह्रुद् िवरहशंकीतही झाले । पिर तुवा वचन ितज िदधले ।
मार्गस्थ स्वयी मीच पृष्ठी वाहीन । त्विरत या परत आिणन ।
िवश्वसलो या तव वचनी मी ।
जगद्नुभव योगे बनुनी मी ।
तव अिधक शक्त उद्धरणी मी ।
येईन त्वरे कथून सोडीले तुजला । सागरा ।।
- िव.दा.सावरकर
Monday, December 01, 2003
Sunday, September 28, 2003
where's-johnny dept.
Just last week, I saw Once Upon a Time in Mexico -- the quixotic new Robert Rodriguez film -- whups 'flick', as rodriguez would himself like us to call it. On the web, this movie has elicited a mixed bag of reactions, the dude who reluctantly tagged along with me disliked it vehemently. I found it thoroughly delectable; of course, though I was disappointed with the meatless sandwich that was Salma Hayek's role.
Well, not really. Maybe Rodriguez isn't intimidated by his characters. He can hack, cut, edit his way among them with the same ruthless efficiency with which his hero, 'El', dispatches the bad guys with his exploding guitar. But you can't wish away the entertainment value of Johnny Depp's dapper, chilly CIA agent asking his Mexican informer: "Are you a Mexi-can or a Mexi-can't?". Or gorging himself on slow-roasted pork. Or his prosthetic arm. And of course, his version of the famous American cellular add, moving into the frame, cell in hand, and asking, "Can you here me now? good!".
Just last week, I saw Once Upon a Time in Mexico -- the quixotic new Robert Rodriguez film -- whups 'flick', as rodriguez would himself like us to call it. On the web, this movie has elicited a mixed bag of reactions, the dude who reluctantly tagged along with me disliked it vehemently. I found it thoroughly delectable; of course, though I was disappointed with the meatless sandwich that was Salma Hayek's role.
Well, not really. Maybe Rodriguez isn't intimidated by his characters. He can hack, cut, edit his way among them with the same ruthless efficiency with which his hero, 'El', dispatches the bad guys with his exploding guitar. But you can't wish away the entertainment value of Johnny Depp's dapper, chilly CIA agent asking his Mexican informer: "Are you a Mexi-can or a Mexi-can't?". Or gorging himself on slow-roasted pork. Or his prosthetic arm. And of course, his version of the famous American cellular add, moving into the frame, cell in hand, and asking, "Can you here me now? good!".
brain-fart dept.
That's what someone just called my blog. But yesss, my precious, we shall not care about opinions, we shall have our say.
To keep the vapid friday nights from eating away at whatever's left of my ragged mind, I hauled myself and a friend over to Century 25 theatres in San Jose. The dude graciously offered to skip dinner for the movie -- and hasn't made me forget it since. Century 25 is an old run-down (I mean, by my standards) cinema house in downtown San Jose. It features what must be the most bizarre architecture I have ever seen, the roof is dome shaped, and the screen we went to was right-oriented, so people sitting on the left end were basically screwed. Boy, was it some sadistic architect's wet-dream.
The film: Lost in Translation.
A very visual movie, with sparse dialog. About a middle aged film star forging an unusual bond with a young, alienated American girl in Tokyo.
Tedious at times, but with some beautiful shots of the explosion of colour that is the Tokyo skyline. I think the attempt was to bring out nuances in the
characterizations using subtle visual cues. But most of the film is so static that it gets on your nerves at times. Bill Murray was effective though, very effectively cast -- the man with wisecracks dumped in a city where no one understands him.
That's what someone just called my blog. But yesss, my precious, we shall not care about opinions, we shall have our say.
To keep the vapid friday nights from eating away at whatever's left of my ragged mind, I hauled myself and a friend over to Century 25 theatres in San Jose. The dude graciously offered to skip dinner for the movie -- and hasn't made me forget it since. Century 25 is an old run-down (I mean, by my standards) cinema house in downtown San Jose. It features what must be the most bizarre architecture I have ever seen, the roof is dome shaped, and the screen we went to was right-oriented, so people sitting on the left end were basically screwed. Boy, was it some sadistic architect's wet-dream.
The film: Lost in Translation.
A very visual movie, with sparse dialog. About a middle aged film star forging an unusual bond with a young, alienated American girl in Tokyo.
Tedious at times, but with some beautiful shots of the explosion of colour that is the Tokyo skyline. I think the attempt was to bring out nuances in the
characterizations using subtle visual cues. But most of the film is so static that it gets on your nerves at times. Bill Murray was effective though, very effectively cast -- the man with wisecracks dumped in a city where no one understands him.
Sunday, August 31, 2003
lest-i-forget dept.
www.despair.com offers excellent insights into present-day corporate philosophy.
www.despair.com offers excellent insights into present-day corporate philosophy.
Saturday, July 19, 2003
matrix-metrics dept.
Well, you could argue that the appearance of the Matrix movies (and all the related merchandise, games, books, anime) is a watershed in the history of human consciousness. Before the matrix, skeptical thinking about the human condition (are we real? do we exist? what is existence? And is that real?) was restricted only to an elite number of gifted individuals. Individuals who could alienate themselves from their environment and speculate about these problems.
It is really impossible to appreciate the loneliness and heartache of the first human being who stared at the moon and said, "Is that real, or is it a construct devised to delude me?". Just think what estrangement and alienation this thought imposes on that human being. He can no longer trust any consciousness but his own. He has burned his bridges. And only the darkness of doubt surrounds him.
No wonder, then, that our first instinct, as we rose slowly through the haze of consciousness, was to create a higher order of intelligence above us, and entrust the answers and their consequences to Him.
And why is the Matrix a momentous occasion?
For the first time, in the history of humanity, its most basic problem (no, not food, not sex, not power) -- existence -- has been given centerstage. And it has been communicated in a language and a medium that is accessible to the wide majority of human beings.
The solitude and fear that went with skepticism has been destroyed.
I know I can't trust what I see, but I see so much that tries to explain this haziness, that it does not scare me away from thinking about it.
Just stating the obvious, but sometimes, the obvious needs to be explicitly stated.
No wonder the Matrix was banned in Egypt; it is dangerous, seditious, disruptive.
I can think of only one previous work of literature that provided such a lucid and accessible explanation for a really, really hard problem. It was called the Bible.
Well, you could argue that the appearance of the Matrix movies (and all the related merchandise, games, books, anime) is a watershed in the history of human consciousness. Before the matrix, skeptical thinking about the human condition (are we real? do we exist? what is existence? And is that real?) was restricted only to an elite number of gifted individuals. Individuals who could alienate themselves from their environment and speculate about these problems.
It is really impossible to appreciate the loneliness and heartache of the first human being who stared at the moon and said, "Is that real, or is it a construct devised to delude me?". Just think what estrangement and alienation this thought imposes on that human being. He can no longer trust any consciousness but his own. He has burned his bridges. And only the darkness of doubt surrounds him.
No wonder, then, that our first instinct, as we rose slowly through the haze of consciousness, was to create a higher order of intelligence above us, and entrust the answers and their consequences to Him.
And why is the Matrix a momentous occasion?
For the first time, in the history of humanity, its most basic problem (no, not food, not sex, not power) -- existence -- has been given centerstage. And it has been communicated in a language and a medium that is accessible to the wide majority of human beings.
The solitude and fear that went with skepticism has been destroyed.
I know I can't trust what I see, but I see so much that tries to explain this haziness, that it does not scare me away from thinking about it.
Just stating the obvious, but sometimes, the obvious needs to be explicitly stated.
No wonder the Matrix was banned in Egypt; it is dangerous, seditious, disruptive.
I can think of only one previous work of literature that provided such a lucid and accessible explanation for a really, really hard problem. It was called the Bible.
Wednesday, July 09, 2003
borrowed-words dept.
-- Joseph Brodsky (extract from "Less Than One: Selected Essays")
I remember rather little of my life and what I do remember is of small consequence. Most of the thoughts I now recall as having been interesting to me owe their significance to the time when they occured. If any do not, they have no doubt been expressed much better by someone else. A writer's biography is in his twists of language. I remember, for instance, that when I was ten or twelve it occured to me that Marx's dictum that"existence conditions consciousness"was true only for as long as it takes consciousness to acquire the art of estrangement; thereafter, consciousness is on its own and can both condition and ignore existence. At that age, this was hardly a discovery--but one hardly worth recording, and surely it had been better stated by others.
-- Joseph Brodsky (extract from "Less Than One: Selected Essays")
Tuesday, July 08, 2003
reflections dept.
What is a justifiable price for knowledge?
I find myself obsessed with this problem. It is my profession -- this trade in knowledge (well, at least euphemistically). At times, it is also the projection of knowledge, when it does not exist (anyone ever tried their hand at marketing?). It is the creation of it, and the dissemination of it. And of course, it is also the constant acquisition of it. A process that is permanent and unceasing, and one that does not allow any rest.
And I often wonder, what cost I and others around me should be willing to pay in this knowledge bazaar.
The currency is, umm, well, very eclectic. More often than, not, it is a barter. One needs give up valuable belongings to earn the right to stay in the trade.
And these can be anything. From the simply obvious -- money and effort, to subtle intangibles like principles, love, faith and sometimes, life.
And I often wonder.
Would I ever step out of this trade, if I were allowed to...To enjoy what I already possess and have accumulated. Would I ever trade ignorance and worldly defeat, for the joy of being oblivious to the trade, where I sell myself out, constantly, every minute?
I don't know.
What is a justifiable price for knowledge?
I find myself obsessed with this problem. It is my profession -- this trade in knowledge (well, at least euphemistically). At times, it is also the projection of knowledge, when it does not exist (anyone ever tried their hand at marketing?). It is the creation of it, and the dissemination of it. And of course, it is also the constant acquisition of it. A process that is permanent and unceasing, and one that does not allow any rest.
And I often wonder, what cost I and others around me should be willing to pay in this knowledge bazaar.
The currency is, umm, well, very eclectic. More often than, not, it is a barter. One needs give up valuable belongings to earn the right to stay in the trade.
And these can be anything. From the simply obvious -- money and effort, to subtle intangibles like principles, love, faith and sometimes, life.
And I often wonder.
Would I ever step out of this trade, if I were allowed to...To enjoy what I already possess and have accumulated. Would I ever trade ignorance and worldly defeat, for the joy of being oblivious to the trade, where I sell myself out, constantly, every minute?
I don't know.
Sunday, June 29, 2003
self-flagellation dept.
I envy my parents.
Not for their resigned manner or their unquestioned beliefs but for their experiences.
Unfortunately for me, they have made the world a better place for me to live in. They have taken away my divine right to experience pain, hardship, betrayal, corruption and all those other indian virtues of the last three decades that so dominated their lives.
I envy them for their misery, and for their struggle to unshackle themselves from the chains that bound them.
I live in a world gone insanely benign. My generation has so much time on their hands that the only problem they have is the most pathetic one - existential. No one I know, not even the most amazing crack scientist can live their life without exacting a heavy human toll. We go through life with apathy, flitting in and out of relationships, with metal jangling in our pockets, and boredom lighting our eyes. We are sexy in our indifference and sensual in our disinterestedness.
We simply are, without meaning, without purpose and without direction.
Pitiful, Accursed, us.
I envy my parents.
Not for their resigned manner or their unquestioned beliefs but for their experiences.
Unfortunately for me, they have made the world a better place for me to live in. They have taken away my divine right to experience pain, hardship, betrayal, corruption and all those other indian virtues of the last three decades that so dominated their lives.
I envy them for their misery, and for their struggle to unshackle themselves from the chains that bound them.
I live in a world gone insanely benign. My generation has so much time on their hands that the only problem they have is the most pathetic one - existential. No one I know, not even the most amazing crack scientist can live their life without exacting a heavy human toll. We go through life with apathy, flitting in and out of relationships, with metal jangling in our pockets, and boredom lighting our eyes. We are sexy in our indifference and sensual in our disinterestedness.
We simply are, without meaning, without purpose and without direction.
Pitiful, Accursed, us.
Tuesday, June 24, 2003
jai-mardhekarki dept.
In the water-drum, drown the hapless mice
Necks broken, and by no strangler's hands
Lip falls on lip, and without a struggle,
Their still heads , lifeless, hang
Their's, a pitiful lot -- survival in a hole
and death in a drum, with a hiccup
and the day spills down over their eyes
and washes their impotent genitals
Life is an obligation, here
And death -- an obligation too.
The gift of despondency:
A poison sight; glaring through glass eyes
Even the beeswax mildewed on their lips
Is cheap bakelite, bakelite
And again, they meet, lip touches lip
the drowning mice, bathing in the dip
-- Bal Sitaram Mardhekar
(with my sincere apologies to the deceased)
In the water-drum, drown the hapless mice
Necks broken, and by no strangler's hands
Lip falls on lip, and without a struggle,
Their still heads , lifeless, hang
Their's, a pitiful lot -- survival in a hole
and death in a drum, with a hiccup
and the day spills down over their eyes
and washes their impotent genitals
Life is an obligation, here
And death -- an obligation too.
The gift of despondency:
A poison sight; glaring through glass eyes
Even the beeswax mildewed on their lips
Is cheap bakelite, bakelite
And again, they meet, lip touches lip
the drowning mice, bathing in the dip
-- Bal Sitaram Mardhekar
(with my sincere apologies to the deceased)
Monday, June 23, 2003
stone-cold dept.
A very interesting experience. One of my relatives recently called me stone-headed, but in a very elegant and sophisticated manner. I was visiting him (only reluctantly) with some of my other cousins, and I did not utter a word during their conversation. So while showing me out, this guy points to what looks like a tree stump and says, "And here's something of special interest to you...". So I guess its petrified wood, and to my unbounded amusement, I realise what he's implying.
A very interesting experience. One of my relatives recently called me stone-headed, but in a very elegant and sophisticated manner. I was visiting him (only reluctantly) with some of my other cousins, and I did not utter a word during their conversation. So while showing me out, this guy points to what looks like a tree stump and says, "And here's something of special interest to you...". So I guess its petrified wood, and to my unbounded amusement, I realise what he's implying.
back-again dept.
As with all other things, suddenly I feel myself losing the urge to continue with this thing. Being creative is so hard, there's a dull ache in my brain everytime I end up creating something. And even then, its only an amalgamation of things that I've seen before, mixed up so that it isn't very obvious.
As with all other things, suddenly I feel myself losing the urge to continue with this thing. Being creative is so hard, there's a dull ache in my brain everytime I end up creating something. And even then, its only an amalgamation of things that I've seen before, mixed up so that it isn't very obvious.
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