Footprints of Shiva

Scratch

2008-05-08T04:05:00.000-07:00

its been a while and there were a number of things to say. I however didnt really like my blog layout and wasnt highly inspired to write in any case. Yet I have begun. I fear I would be saying the usual things in usual style. Why do I care? Dont I have enough to want to share on this virtual platform, either for myself or for another?
lessons
Trust.
ive been told that by someone who's turned part of a circle of my everyday existence...not through an intimacy that it could come with but out of compulsion rather. Put in the same space for the same reasons and having to be around for the same time each day...almost the same.
the word's been used on me.
Ive been used on the word. am I spent?
a little bit, yeah.
How spent?
Quite
Anyway, a play happened to me, and I happened to a play too.
excitement.
Lost learning.
Someone else would use that on the world (to my chagrin and annoyance) a lot of times, but Im using it now...in a different context.
Whats the inner raging bull? why are its nostrils bellowing?
just discovered that i could probably use billowing here too, in a different sentence to make it sound cool, but chose not to indulge in that.
it doesnt matter.
simple sentence aint it? no fancy frill, no embellishing with phase and prose.
aah, there is something.
Some rhyme.

Why is rhyme important? why am i not writing about important things? will this vomit get out the essence when the silt clears. Silty vomit.

scratch head, scratchy ideas, scratched out writings in a book.

want to end here.

RHYME AND LEMONY

2007-10-18T04:05:00.000-07:00

cases, spaces, and laces that make us sane or not,
explain please the context of thy thought?
quizzical, frowning foreheads of enquiry
send me to the case of the missing lorry
so now you think this is a lame rhyme
but truly, through the spaces of time
travelling or not as newton's donkey
are moments of lacey traces so funky
that schrodinger's cat would frown upon
seeking sanity to his smirky faced gown
SO sane now deserveth a cane
for the ridiculous cows over the mane
not the lions but the misspelt moon
go away minds goon!
Peace

Oliver twists my mind's thumb- An academic study

2007-06-09T01:12:00.000-07:00

Alright, here's I with a narrative, a real strange one. I'll be as straightforward about it as I can. School. That's the word for the day, and wait, it goes with the word shopping. Weird? Believe it or not, the NIKE sale almost did me in...with memories, flooding in like never before; and the accompanists of course, emotions.
I've been there before... not emotionally- that's not what I mean. I mean been to the-school-that-was. A few visits. After school was over for me, after passing out, and never wanting to go back in. And then of course because of the act of going to college right there after a short break.
It loomed large then- a little bit, the blue and grey stone building, as I would scoff.
I was here, me-meme-me-me!
On the other side, me-meme-me-me!
I was all grown up, you can't do a darn thing, neither as school, as a phenomenon, nor the evil I eschewed- those darned teachers.
And so it was a grown up phenomenon. I was all "grown up".
THEN an exit. From the country.Far far away. away and out, out of sight, out of mind, out of the influences of the past. Greys and blues and all those nasty associates of the murderer, SCHool.
Yes, you die.
Believe it or not, never did I for a moment think I'd look back, not for better times, because those were dull and few...a few shimmering in the murk I'll say, but few. For the better part, it was better forgotten, rather, the worse part. "Throw away the worser part..."something from Hamlet's murmurings, maybe in contextual. But you know what, I have to try. I need to unite the forces of the I that was, and the I-s that came post school. I need to tell the school I that I'm now here, I'm invincible.
Invincible.
I went back one day. Just to say Hello, just to see what the motha-fuck can those walls do?
Not much Darling, hardly that much. I was feeling nothing much, pretty juvenile for having felt those things...silly. But I had to go. I had to scold it out of my system. Get out! I'm cool. I'm in the groove of life. I GOT IT! I 've got it. Mainstream. ME.
Man, I surprise myself. As a little boy, I sure seem to have steamed up internally quite a goddamn bit...don't I seem wired up. Ironically though, I'm truly not that holed in. My psyche, its just cleaning itself up. Housekeeping.
Today was what then? Mousehunting? through my brain? Memories and a wee bit of a heartache. Not that much, just a wee bit.
But wait, the second visit, complete your second visit, finish up a story, wrap up a thought,please...
Well, that was inconsequential. I was expecting some of those motha-fuckers to fall on their knees, kneel and look up with adoring, pleading guilty eyes. "S, we were wrong, S! we wronged you. You are a hero. You managed to stay afloat...more than afloat. You are smart. You are intelligent. You are..."
"Ugh Hello, yes, I remember...which year, which batch? Which section? Oh! Look at you boys! We always knew you boys would go places! Our boys, always go places...Look at you...all grown up! Look at him! Always the naughty one! Always the clever one! Come look at him!"
Scratching my head. What of mine are you scratching?
My ego hurts.
But it also has no goal to shoot at.
The goals don't remember me.
To those goals, its all cool. I'm just another who succeeded, who they didn't personally speak of as will fail. I could quit trying to garner energy to be nemesis of the belief they handed me. They couldn't care less because they didn't know any shit anymore. Blank.

"School days were the best years of my life" Not for me!

"I was so carefree in school, people loved me, my teachers loved me!" Not ME!

" I had lovely things i could do, I did quizzes, drama, dramatics was so cool...and I was so good in class, always the first" Hmmm

"Opportunities!" Yawn

Voice in S's head: OK tell me, what did you feel today? what did you see?
S (that's I): Trying to change the topic eh? WELL, I know, I'm smart! My mom did that to me when I was a kid, changing topics so I wouldnt be in a flummoxed-state of being, all knotted up. But it was counter-productive. VODH: Just trying to help!
Im not that sic now, used to be, have dealt with it...don't worry.

Today. a school that doesn't exist. At least mine doesn't anymore. If it does anywhere, it does only in a few thousands of us who lasted to see a sight and experience a dozen million things in those corridors and hallways. Only in our mind.
Today, as I stood at the school-that-is, I could see some similarities. The architect had tried to preserve the essence of the building by re-modelling the main centre, but he had effectively modernised (now, he says effectively!) the wings. An ex-pass out he was, I'm told. The building reeked of tales to us old-timers. Hints. Of what was, though it wasnt anymore. Of times that were, but hidden in a newer context. Hints.
Suddenly there was a hint of freshness I couldnt see before. I stood under those trees that had always been there. They seemed to know me. I shut my eyes, and flash, Flash, fLash, flAsh, flaSh, flasH, FLASH! scenes of the dungeon classes that some used to be, scenes of the cycle stand and the parking lot, scenes of the crazy library windows overlooking the isolated grove...scenes of the refectory, scenes of the ominous chemistry lab and the adjoining classrooms, scenes of the boys toilet where the wall was short and a glimpse of the road outside had reminded me that I wasn't "in" during the Jewish holocaust...Scenes.
Out of the blue, the blues broke.Something started and was very obvious. BLAST, BLAST, BLAST, all the scenes blowing up... Catharsis.
I opened my eyes. There was freshness and life...there was newness. Now, and forever, those memories in the hallways of my mind will be just those. Not imprinted for real on earth. They were now just an idea. As powerful as I wanted them to be, or not. Choice.
And then it was time. The doors opened. We had to rush in and pick up shoes. And sweatshirts. Ts. Guess where? The retained-as-it-was, but refurbished auditorium. Concert Hall we called it. And the first floored exam hall.
As I walked up those stairs, images again of walking up in uniform, the year 1894. The context, board exams. The emotion, Death. As I did today, the context, well...I created the same context as the previous assent, only the mood now remained, cheerful and carefree. I was out of its reach...I believe I can fly?
?
Was not all of that fairly straightforward?

jazzy jazzy bang bang

2007-06-02T01:15:00.000-07:00

Novelty seems to be the rule of the game. Im talking performers and musicians. In the current western context. Art and music appreciation in the Europes and Americas and related white world is markedly different from Asian sensibilities, or so we thought. However, things have come full circle. Michael Schiefel seemed one such...a musician and performer rolled into one, with a technological innovation of his own- a music box and a parrot rolled into one. all those selling points, and a couple of good songs made for an evening at the Goethe, Bangalore.

where were we? Oh yes, novelty. To be honest, I don't think i went anywhere else with my verbosity; all of it was about using novelty to sell. As I write this out, I can almost sense a dozen personal reactions and preempt yours- the reader's, to words like musician, and sell. Connotations is where the key is to that phenomenon but I urge you to chuck that. Im using the term sell in a very different sense, common sense.

Artists do sell, musicians sell, and oh my God, they sell, well, their creations! If you are reacting to that, my bet is that it is the Asian modesty inculcated in you- one that says that art and spiritual teachings are sacred, dont you dare sell if you are worth your salt. And thats precisely my point, how would you know what your salt is worth?

Agreed that was a tangent, but will probably come handy to support my talk on novelty. What I'm trying to get at is a connection between Indian art and Indian artists and western art and the artist... and, most importantly, the audiences (I'll be kind and not say consumers or customers) in both contexts. Many a realisation has been realised by yours truly in areas of what people want from their music and art, and many an annoyed reaction expressed to the ways of packaging the offerings. Musicians and filmmakers and the lot, the pop lot, have always dolled out "newness" in avtars of, " I got a pakistani artist to sing", or "Watch this actor sing for the first time" or " never before have AC and DC come together!" moments of advertisement...even bizzaire ones being," Sanjey Rutt sings in a female voice, and then some cow too". Now, what last evening was all about, was something like that. A man who was a one-man-show vocalist and musical instruments all rolled into one. pretty remarkable what say? So you want to see a man go at it, do his nautankie and then make your dil kush. Just one problem. Here was Mr White skinned German on a German stage with a page 3 crowd nodding in excitement at the mental image of a lovely elitist chamber experience. Cynical, heavy cynical!

Not a bad thing though, just trying to get aware, to sort out. What the attitudes are about performers within our psyche and those to be matched when one comes in from a culture beyond our approval for reasons beyond my comprehension.

With these standposts in my mind I sat through Michael Schiefel's performance (as I must call it, in a non-connotative but objectively observant tone) and I must say, he passed the test. There was the element I think is the redemptive factor. Moments of pure authenticity to the creation... and that was enough.

2007-05-07T02:38:00.001-07:00

to eraze the double post this needed to be done...
forgiveness
D

Guru: pauses and clauses

2007-05-07T02:38:00.000-07:00

I wrote this review ages ago...

------------------------------
Guru, talk to me…

No, not that way…

Well, ok, its ok- a song, you plan to greet me with a song…a lovelorn girl who runs from home---runs from home, and then a train, blue-rain, rain-earth…

I know the frames- beautiful, but familiar. I can almost see the invisible 100 behind the lens. Maniratnam’s team. Should I be thrilled or turned off at the predictability of quality that comes with the brand…open question.

Guru Bhai, talk to me…

Yes, yes, you open up slightly, you sift through and shift around, and you breathe, you show yourself, a flash of ambition: too-quickly-a-solidifying mercury that it is…

But hello, its now giving in, the history of your sudden love lore, the almost unexplained re-running into the lass (unexplained is good by the way), what with geography being passe and trains going round in circles?

But I pardon, I see- I don’t blink yet, I see life, you coming alive- your own pace, fast and slow…but you live

But you still have not talked to me.

Guru Bhai, talk to me…

So how does it go? I’m “image-blank” now but I remember the discomfort. It set in at the sight of the song, Guru Bhai turned into one of the any 100 avtars of the small Bee’s legs buzzing about with an equal slipped-out-of-her-skin-eternally damsel. Oh damsel, it doesn’t work, neither the substance you so project out gawky, nor the beauteous majesty of Denmark (Delhi or Dehradun) you coyly toy with being, assuming I’m unaware. If this were truly a Garbha I’d be mesmerized but hey, self-memory check---I paid to see Guru Bhai’s story, not Bollywood garbha. YES, APOLOGISE!

Ok Guru Bhai, I’ll look at you straight in the eye just as Vishwamitra focused on the truth post temptation…I can’t loose it to the Maya…I can’t yet…TALK MAN!

…they heard me…they heard me! Those men behind the lens…and what did I see? I saw 100 men in panic yelling and running around with one scream, “HALT! We have goods…” His badge read MANI CLAUS and he pulled out goodies—what lovely goodies they were, my god!

Gift 1: Angry man with power and a lion’s heart. Moments of “touch-me-heart-and-I’ll crumble-coz-I’m-soft-inside”- Lovely

Gift 2: Wife and husband love saga post marriage. Moments- he touches and she doesn’t cringe, she hits back. She dries clothes in the terrace and he plays with her body. She wriggles, asks for her due- him on her.

Twin-gifts: the beautiful mystery. Thou hast cleft my egg in twain. Mani’s man. Lovely!

Gifts for Guru Bhai: paunch, spectacles, greying mane, twinkle in the eye, a song in the back. He retorts with a grunt at the girl succumbing to disease, his girl and not his own…

Everyone gets a gift….

Now to check where the gifts were made…don’t check the hind of the package…these ones have their labels proudly displayed in front.

Made in NAYAGAN

Made in BOMBAY

Made in ALAI PAYUTHEY

Made in YUVA

Made in IRUVAR…

Made in a HURRY

Tell me Guru Sir, sorry, Mani sir, blueprints need necessarily not be taken out literally and then, obviously placed…I tell you Mani sir, that those were different bodies, with their own souls…

Remember you were one of the “many-few”, who taught the nation that mainstream Indian cinema could make alternate choices? You choices were brave and honest within their zone; you stopped, you paused, you stumbled, you cast the hand-picked oddballs, and you stunned with a dash of panache…

…and now, well I’ve ejaculated the acerbic already but all I have to ask you is, why has Guru Bhai not talked with you? He says he first needs to speak to you alone, full-talk, full-open, and then perhaps the whisper you heard and the glimmer that I saw would have exploded. Maybe

[It is with strange emotion I lash out. My dose of Indian cinema that was my contemporary was Mani's cinema. The films were in Tamil (mostly), and allowed my convent educated shun-all-regional-identities mindset some relief from embarrassment when faced with all things regional. Tamil was cool because the Tamilian spoke. He spoke in a tone that was true and integrated to an image of legitimacy. I could be Tamil and nothing else and it didn’t matter. I could exist as I pleased.

Watching this filmmaker evolve to certain exalting heights in filmmaking (which to me is during the Dil-Se, Iruvar, Kannathil Muthamittal pinnacles of his career) I craved for his success and a more mainstream understanding of his vision for Indian cinema, all to be dashed to the ground, one after another. Mainstream Tamil audiences and later the infamous “Bullys of the woods” did nothing to really read into the nuances, to glorify and pat his back, his “alternacy”. Mani’s strength however (in my opinion) lay in unique casting, some well-known ones being…

Madhu in Roja, Manisha for Bombay, (and earlier) deglamorised Rajnikanth in Dalapathi, a more recent torn down Simran and Madhavan for Kannathil Muthamittal, the demure and powerful Shalini for Alaipayuthey, “don-Dravidian to the T” Prakash Rai in Iruvar, spunky spitfire of a Revati in Mauna Raagam…

If I start with the supporting cast that is so vital (and powerful because they were handpicked), I could just go on and on and on….

In my opinion, the mainstream-ness started with a shift in psyche, a reflection of what I saw in his recent “high-powered cast-fixes”, and “Bollywoodization”, weaker scripts…

( I don’t think scripts were particularly strong with Mani, he had a flair for screenplay which made up for the lack of a strong story-line. However, he has been terrible with climax scenes and has almost always messed them up except in a few like Iruvar)

…and now an awkwardly crafted, reeking of compromises- Guru had to just nail me (or my hopes and love for the man rather) to the cross. Hence this tone… Guru sunn raha haI naa?]

maddoe-toe-bit

2007-05-07T01:34:00.000-07:00

Just to remind the I that wants to write, the expanded I that is, philosophy that demands it...
about what just cannot say elaborately except that it is a condition of breath...so phrases if u will are up for auction
1. Community and the self
2. angst of a different kind
3. the performer
4. Mr Breathe
5. the indian angre-English-zie

now, if you were to write a play with these characters, i can't say where you will go...as of now, the brain stands flummoxed
so much for get set go...
coming soon is all i can say for now
Interestingly someone called my cell phone neanderthal...that felt...well, just felt!
Black
D

NORAH NORAH NORAH

2007-03-21T02:25:00.000-07:00

“Lines on your face”, she says, don’t bother her and I’m quite the crinkled forehead-and-chin at the moment, trying to perceive the nuances in her song...This talk right here maybe about the Jones girl with spunk and a musical genre that truly isn’t purist, and certainly spans styles, but hey, with soul (pun intended). What’s in the cache you ask, and how do I put this eloquently, I gush. The unplugged vocals and plucking of the strings, the piano, the drumming…which is it? I got to hint at the strength in what she sings (and of course, how she does sing, my god!) there’s certainly element in there…trace it out.

Her recent re-doing live of her best so far rendition (and my favorite) I’ve got to see you again, in New Orleans now streams live on You tube, quite the history, given the city being the birthplace of Jazz… And Norah in a large or small sense, representing the contemporary state and stage of the music genre…its alive and kicking, and sounding better.

“I have a real big fear of being overexposed” she said once and I truly feared that for her. Musically however, I think she has both passed the test and failed it. I still am stuck to her older album releases, and a CD burned out for me specially (by a friend) with songs that were not on her albums… some of those, singles prior to Come Away With Me. And then came along the next album, with Sunrise leading. Sunrise is pretty catchy, but it leans toward pop, and the rest of the album didn’t work too well. So the failing, but that’s with me….the world has loved all of her so far. Yet, Norah the star is not who-and-what I want to talk about. So much for my stream-of-consciousness, let’s talk current status of jazz related styles.

I want to focus on some of Norah’s work that has impacted the genre/s in particular. Let’s talk Jazz. I’m not the best to be dolling out historical perspectives, I can barely get names straight, though I can’t help but observe the influences and genre overlap right from the inception eras to the modern “decade-ears” of mine. A predominantly Black musical movement- there’s that entire social context to musical evolution that we often forget to credit. Yes, we all do know that “field hollers” (as local folk-calls while-working-in-the-fields-of-the-new-world were called during the slavery times) shaped initial offerings to Jazz amalgamations with popular white and church styles. But then, the blues got darker. Some of the lighter elements of Jazz separated out to turn palatable and palpable. Don’t know it that was a good thing, but blues turned around and walked out alone. Agree or not, music did lend to a cultural understanding of continents…African music in the American context could not help but handle the urban context, and churned the blues. Conditions of life, condition of your personal rhythm, and conditions of collective music…we have something to say, our souls are in pain. So I contest the birthplace of Jazz with my posting of the new candidate- the black soul, and that was in a lighter vein.

My point is how much of any music today rises out of a true life condition? Most genres were creators being true to the tonality of their rhythmic utterance, “Jazz” being a great example. In Norah’s context however the element of jazz (element, as I should call it, reasons being the term overlap) seems to preserve its nature, urbane and slick with ‘proud-modesty’ and honest sound. Pain is the debatable factor, yet, probably Norah’s attempts to write her own lyrics will convince me. And she’s done that in her latest release, Not Too Late but I’m yet to tune in. As for keeping social context alive in our music, a whole generation needs to do some soul searching and look up jazz for inspiration. So much for talk, where’s the music toggle?

Deepak Srinivasan

sweaty shetty

2007-02-03T06:57:00.000-08:00

The time has come my little friends…
To talk about cabbages and kings
Or about being south-asian
Looks like the world of Indians is celebrating being under one banner, a world of south-asians is doing that. Shilpa Shetty is the entity who arranged for the unison in voice, thankfully. A chance for the diaspora of a region to suddenly yell out what was stuck at its throat, “Respect Brown”.
But wait just a minute sir, Indian that I am, living in India, it’s a unique bubble of an issue. First of, it involves an India-based-Indian (nationality), so yes this is my war She is not the ideal representative of the ethnic (south-asian) minority in a foreign country, having never lived outside India for a period of time. However, the issue itself seems to have poured on to and scalded the feet of south-asian communities abroad, what with this becoming reason enough for “them” to unite and utilize the argument to rabble rouse. Excuse me, but does not the so-called south-asian community living abroad suffer from the ‘Goody Syndrome’? How come it finds offensive, India-the-nation-based comments and an Indian national’s degradation?
Having lived in the United States for a few modest years of my life, I came in close encounter with the south-asian. Granted that Britian and the US are miles away and the south-asian in the regions is bound to be different, so I will stick only to the ones existing in the US to draw out my observations. The average south-asian is a cause for concern, trapped in many layers, “lived out there for years” or “born and hold a red passport” assortment. And then you have me, the ones who probably came hiding in a boat- an illegal entry, one who has not figured out a role in the hierarchy yet. Only sirs, I came in a plane with legitimate documents, with legitimate plans of study and return to the home country.
“ How is it that you can speak English?”
“ You seem light skinned, not typically like one from the south, but you say you are south-Indian, are you sure?”
“ Once when I was in Tamil Nadu, those madrasis ate with their whole forehand, licking away at the dribbling sambar like barbarians”
“This is a pizza, its Italian, then there’s Chinese food, and Mexican and Greek”
“ These are shorts, they are good to be worn in summer, try them”
“ Indian boys in NY, don’t we know what they will want to be up to?”
“ You speak good English, and the accent is also not that bad, but the ones who come from India usually can’t even spit out alphabets”
And then of course, one had the crowning glory of a term “desi” with the “fresh-off-the-boat-desi” himself making an appearance in many a south-asian flick. Oiled hair, bad table and bathroom manners, and drooling over the slightest skin show.
Yes indeed my mum didn’t really take much to cooking, and she did take an awful lot to eating out. So did I. I could be one of the few rare, most tolerant and experimental vegetarians (yes please, vegetarian only) from the sub-continent. Granted.
I could have been one of the few Indians from the sub-continent…went to a “convent”, an English medium school where English language skills were emphasized on. Granted.
But hello, who were you Mr. South-Asian, when you made a landing on the foreign land? And who are you now? And are you trying to tell me that most of the western world can read and write? Speaking English is not a sign of literacy or sophistication. Half of the Americans (maybe more) don’t know to read and write. As for the lesson “rethinking the concept of culture as a synonym for west”, please take a trip into redneck lands and good luck with that. When you expect to see a villager stereotype from your homeland, look closer at the trash around you in the garb of metal sheen, thank you.
So much for that, now lets look at home. India, the land of spirituality, healing…come visit, is that what our Indian ministry had to say?
Isn’t it a matter of great pride to be so patriotic when “they” disparage against us? But it isn’t really such a big deal when citizen disrespect takes place within our holy motherland. No patriotism there. A bunch of Hindutva sloganists plaster my city orange and aggravate drivers by forcefully pasting on the car windscreen stickers reading “One Hindu one Nation”. Yet another bunch, led by a local Ex-MP of the state takes the liberty to put up a hoarding in praise of Saddam Hussain proclaiming him to be an ally and a friend of India. Then the ultimate orgasm to both the events happens, the “communal conflict”. The government of India and those of its states seem to have enough spare time commenting on the Shilpa conflict and feeling blue bellied about a woman (who we’ll talk about it a while) who got paid to be abused. No one has the time to truly examine why we called ourselves secular, not one soul raised a cry against the ones who call themselves hindu or muslim or whatever and abuse my State with slogans of imposition and in-correct politicy. What does it matter how the white world views us, down here in India? Why do we get pulled across either of our cheeks for the fight for approval?
“What” are we and what is the Identity?
“What” am I and what is my identity?
In the land of browns there is more important matter to ponder over. So lets quit the party of south-asians raising a cry elsewhere. We have an identity to build. Let’s fight our wars here for god’s sakes.
Only YES, I did forget, the woman in question is Indian… not exactly belonging to the larger south-asian connotation, but of Indian nationality. Cosmic representation of the true nature of the Indian, be it through roots or nationality, thank “Shilpa episode” for that. What’s the wake-up call- a lack of identity, a lack of self-respect, a sick need for our existence to be validated from exterior sources, masks to hide our internal shame of being a product of Indian that we are…
All these, our little cultural dowries handed down through families and psyches with dutiful promptness wherever in the world. Yes, and so in that sense, we do all “one-umbrella” it out under the banner which of course should read “ethnic south-asians and Indian nationals” (the rest of south-asian peoples living in geographic spaces of origin, the choice is yours to count yourself in or out). And who better than our warrior prototype, Ms Shetty to exhibit that? On the one hand an image of a weeping lass, distressed and worn-out, all-ready to fight for a legitimate identity of brown. Give it two days and what have you? (Bollywood emerges out of) a ravishing lass who says there was nothing racist about it. Yes, she now solely represents Bollywood and her paltry few thousand pounds at stake and she withdraws from war. Being brown is ok just the way it is. It does not get bigger than what is at stake. The big white bullies have won and are having the last laugh at the brown. I have on the other hand, voted you out already Dahling. Who am I you ask? Yours truly, Brown Brother.
Deepak Srinivasan

Savior, sex, cigarettes and somber

2006-12-12T23:02:00.000-08:00

(“Savior” rose out of a Rangashankara-festival-2005 post-play-run-coffee session. I documented and edited the following bit from a conversation I was having with Tushar Shukla, Bindya Das and Nilluka (not sure of surname), all of whom belong(-ed then) to the theatre group MASRAH. Ownership to SSS lies with all of us. Inspired by SSS I compiled (and attached to SSS) other ramblings of my own that had stemmed up during the RS festival…so this version is my own)

Here’s the Savior!
He has come! He has arrived!
Savior? Who Savior and what are you expecting to be saved?
We’re- all four of us, thinking different things; I’m thinking of porn
Fondle me, FONDLE ME?
I like to be called Intellectual but I’m not
Sssh! There’s people here
Hey, they’re used to it
I’ve made good friends with a bunch of hairdressers who clean hair droppings that you leave behind
Enact the music going on in her mind
Songs in the mind when I get up in the morning?
Good news for the modern man
I believe in the total non-existence, in-existence, what the heck is the antonym to existence?
Someone left his VIP bag around…my Kleptomaniac-al instincts kick in
Being singular or being single? Plural-ur
Hip hip hurray
Charlie and Rumplestiltskin were friends
I’m leaving, Literally.
Literally, or illiterally, which of these could lead to illiteracy?
A golden ticket to roll up top tobacco
A graveyard of butts
He’s an objective steno blessed with selective filtering
Palak is good, it makes you an awesome cook
Have you lost weight? Are you sick of loosing the world? I’d rather they loose the question
I’ve worked so un-hard to remove that 1kg off me
Prerogative, purgatory, pubic hair, here we go with Ps this time
That last P reminds me of college boys’ chins!
That last word, Oh! Christ
Vodka dribbling down
I like handicaps
YOU have a borrowed social life?
Can I borrow it?
Mutilating humiliation. An actor not in touch with his body? Is that an excuse, or is that an excuse?
I say my lines in complete touch with my stoic, withdrawn almost sucking within style of speech. Acting! Where is that though? Trying to shakespeare it, eh! Sheer audacity.
But well, with my own lines? Never to draw out the emotion except in the act of vomited writings, making love to paper, or hatred if you will.
Large incapacity to viagral stimulation-reference irrelevant
The page gets abused.
Something to say, itching to, yet not knowing what to, how to, when to… If at all I do blurt out, most in-contextually, it misses its target. And yet, here I am, the one who prides himself as a keen observer of the timing with which one’s vocal conveyor belt enters this land of mud, made of people of mud, which kept alive with a combined elemental dynamo.
Life it is, yes, swimming to live within the ocean or swimming to mate within a man’s procreational body fluid; degrees of difference being their independence in spheres of existence-this life doesn’t think or so they make us believe in the world of biology. But I possess the creative genius of evolution placed safely within the confines of tightly packed calcium deposits…It almost allows me to be, I say almost.
Honestly, where is my honesty, does it lie where I think it does…?
Duran Duran comes undone within the frame of my mind. How does it trigger those memories that should by now be lost in the weirdness of emotion and a future-then, past-now linear movement of time? Erase and rewind? No, just erase it all, once and for all and get rid of the tape. Clean that slate, squeak squeak…does it help?
No?
Then go figure
Ecstasy removed, action in place like an apparitional encounter. Help! Screams the mind but engages in the same activity hoping that the ray of gold will penetrate.
Does my prayer trigger compassion so the ray hits faster?
Does this require the ray to think?
Newton would be scandalized! Inertia far removed, momentum yet closer, a moving, thinking, feeling ray of light! Ok, we were speaking of life, and some light. Lets pick an L, say life, Life, LIFE! Life post theatre festival, just a thought, where does it head dude? A friend’s question triggers my train of thought. I mean, today is the end of this exhibition of drama forms-the festival, just like that, and who decides that? What the heck is the matter with this place with lights all over, catering to the theatre cult? Is anyone affected? Does it move something within you?
Movement
I understood why she doesn’t talk, why the unresponsiveness. I don’t claim to know all of it, just what she told me. So I’m going to let her smoke her cigarette, all in peace, all to herself.
Culmination
Private space, public space, private parts and public arms, all exposed, all barred, naked and fully clothed.
Rescuer role-play, I don’t do it so often now, but I still do, and how do I rescue? She’s deep within and right into, all floating and drowning but not dying; she takes a U-turn and turns in the wheel.
“You know this is a racist country!”
“Don’t talk to me like that!”
Yes, write it all down, whether it makes sense or not he tells me, sooner or later it will.
The eraser has turned as hard as stone, it smudges the word and stains my page with no act of violence; the page doesn’t tear.
Soon this city will turn enmeshed, a city of hole-residences, and you will be asked to find a gap, your physical gap, just yours. So I wonder, when the sheep herd together, comes along the Shep-herd-er?
Deepak Srinivasan

Experiments with storytelling...

2006-12-12T23:00:00.000-08:00

[This is an excerpt from my writings that “experiment” with trying to unravel the hidden writer (within his stories). The idea is to not be stunningly autobiographical but weave into the story itself, the character of a storyteller…as one significant player]

Story-time is good fun, as a narrator when one decides to take a journey that may be filled with fantasy and adventure. However, it is a little unnerving when the narrator has also been an active participant in her/his story. Most narrators do bring in a part of themselves in essence or with hidden symbols of their hidden moments from linear earth time. Some however, decide to take it to the extreme and talk about their lives openly. People may attribute why they do it to their (author’s) need for exhibitionism. Some compassionate psychoanalysts may grant the need for acceptance and approval, not gotten from relationships in life, which the narrator tries to now fulfill. I say compassionate because they may not judge. If one does judge, as many will do, it cannot be helped. The narrator himself, however, remains indifferent to the reactions. He may be narcissistically involved with reliving his own story, reminiscing about the moments that only glimmer in his mind’s river like the moon. Or he may be just saying his story in a way that will allow for some readers to identify with and thus aid them in their own process. One that may be smoother and allow mental brevity of emotion that usually accompanies thoughts of being the only alien in the world of normal folk. Altruist!

[I don’t yet have a title for this bit, I’m still in the process of writing out this short story or a novel or whatever it will land up being, if I ever approach finis. For now I’ll call it…]

Carlos’ Contention

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“War and all the gore, may seem strange to you, may seem tough to play, but we do go out”. How in the wide world do they do that? The character however, is born to live the life, one that would put the tin soldier to shame. Maybe not- one that would probably make the story a fairy-tale. But we probably have a fairy-tale for you, one that you may not expect. Now however, we are talking war.

I must admit that it is tough for me. I am no war junkie, and no memories of being a war-veteran in my past life have made their landing. But I see it in his unruffled face that almost seems to indicate that there is a calm residing within. Go closer and you will see the pain. I met Carlos just now. Sorry, I lie, I just called him Carlos, but I met him a couple of years ago, in my mind.

Carlos lies in the hospital bed, his leg all tied up and hanging from the ceiling. You have seen him before, haven’t you, just that he could have had a different name. Injured in war, lying all grouchy, waiting for his co-character, co-actor to give him the cue to which he responds with myriad emotions- anger, or perhaps depression, dejection, remorse, maybe a gruesome story about his comrades and he- yeah, yeah even better.

Hey, but now I must tell you off. Carlos’ story is a little unique because he came out of my mind. I think you’ll have to be the judge of that but you can’t do it just now. Be fair to me.

White all around, truly hospital-like. But it can’t be kept clean all the time round. Its war, and there are patients to care for. White sheets, getting the grime off the metal headrests of beds, keeping dust off your pillow and window-sill, these were some of the most insignificant things to hospital staff. There were tissue remnants and blood to clean off from instruments, groaning Jimmy to silence, weeping Willy to clean and Terry needed a shot. Warrior names eh? Sound more like doggie dogs, but hey, we’re talking informal here, and Carlos knew them by these names anyway. So I thought I’d introduce you to Carlos’ surrounding mates.

“I usually had some song running parallel to my thoughts, but it’s good it’s gone. Damn I tried so hard to get the song that stuck, off my mind, while driving off the freeway. Wonder when I’ll get my hands on my music again…actually I don’t think I want to. Time is past those. Wanda must have gotten the letter I sent her. I just want to be in bed with her now, with all this pain, I’d still enjoy touching her skin. Oh God, boring! Really boring man! This kills, I want to jump out of here and run! Sigh”

And here you thought he would be brooding about war with its political undertones. Where is the war, whose side is he on, is it over, is he dying, do we really need another one of these, can we leave please? Maybe I should throw in some sex to make you stay? A little fantasizing perhaps? Oh but no, we can’t really make him do it you see! There are mostly men around Carlos- and then I’ll be yelled at for adding to gay literature and accused for trying to sensitize you to the hard sex lives of men in the army. I don’t intend to win a booker with this and, I sense I am now leaning toward the cynical. So I’ll stick to being storyteller. I truly have a story to tell.

“Damn it, the pain, go away, go away! What happened to the coffee? Caffeine now should be ok for me, there shouldn’t be yet another damn discussion in their heads about the spine shit. A New York street, that’s where I’d rather be now, at the Starbucks window by macys, macys, macys…oh macys, the thanksgiving parade will happen soon, damn it! I wish…

Fuck it. Fuck the goddamn it! Being this far away, what the heck! It isn’t fair! America sleeps now while I die bits…Sigh. Where, where did that woman go now? Where did she…Wanda…”

I thought he might be thinking this rather trivial string of thoughts, judging by the way he sits in my imagination, but I don’t think it quite adds up. You see, the energy- it is somber, morose, and very troubling, and yet, I know that the scar is not about war. It is not about life’s purposes, not about questions, dejection, disillusionment, hold on, it probably is, how do I know? He flutters like a flame, his energy waxing and waning; all I see is the solid outline of his physical form against the wall, the shadow of which looks like Shrek. So what could he be venting about? The lack of say, good food, his wife’s absence, missing New York…I can’t say. I will wait till he utters something to give him lines to say. Strong Coffee.

Sometimes there are people, people who like to remove themselves from the routine and suffer. They suffer as a consequence of their inner self that demands service. Service to man, service to earth, service to a cause…

The service may not be a consequence of divine alignment, but more out of a sense of duty. I am one such person at this moment in time. I know of an exact opposite. She is Catherine, yes, another C. I saw her too in my mind earlier, just that I thought I’d christen her Emily or Elisa, but Catherine is what came to be a moment ago. Catherine, the feminine was also called in Wuthering Heights- strong-willed, talkative, rebellious, destructive, obsessive and passionate, but this lass won’t be like her. I already know it. All Catherines are not the same.

So, isn’t it delightful to have two people who don’t speak? They want me to tell their story out aloud without having to exert their being even the slightest bit. But they will talk to each other, will have to.

“Mom was frightened of lizards, they had a mysterious power over her, I wonder why. I am ready. I need to sing some song…”

“Carlos break out of your reverie and say hello!”

“Ugh, Hello, what time is it Sandy”

“Uh, you have been asking me that question for ages brother. Quit it now, and relax, looks of it, a long time for you here still…meet Catherine Terries, by the way, she is here as a volunteer to help all the bulls here clean up their sickness act”

“Hello Ms. Terries, you said?”

“I didn’t Sanchez did, but yes I’ll be Cathy around here, so…” and so he smiled- for me that was a relief. After having suggested male and female characters in a worn-out time period, romance had to creep in. If he wasn’t going that way, what could I do? Oh, what would I do! Smile a little Carlos, and give me hope.

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“Hi Carlos, nice day isn’t it?”

He looks up at her. It’s already been a day; I don’t quite know what happened and how the introduction went. I wrote that a while ago. I had actually abandoned project, hadn’t even turned my computer on in days. Then one fine day it happened, cold war at home. In the process of groping in the dark, trying to find my identity, testing the grays of my aura, I showed up here within the confines of cyber world. Pretty good- all that that went up while scrolling down, I thought. I reached a funny end though, a line in quotes greeting Carlos.

So, a day has transpired. I really cannot say and am too scared to look into weaving out a-what-might-have-happened at the cost of sounding pretentious. We will take it from here the way it is, the way I feel about Catherine and Carlos now.

“Sun in my eyes and a silhouette, oh a woman, who is this? Ah! Yes the woman from yesterday”. He looked at her with sun in his eyes, no recognition. All she saw was a bored man staring at her, with nothing to say. He was yet another man, human she would think of him as, if she were in a mixed gender environment. So she had nothing extra in her eyes either, just that usual warmth. Yes, she was turning around with a casual tilt of her body moving about its axis freely, not being imprisoned by anything.

Light does funny things, I think. What is it that we see, nothing but patterns of light. We call it myriad things. I used to think that eyes were like holes or windows, and someone was hiding inside me like my body was a home and looking out through these holes to get a view. But hey, think about it, if eyes were sealed with something concrete, real tough, and the person inside would not be able to get a glimpse of the happenings, then how will they survive, won’t it get claustrophobic? I mean, won’t it be really dinghy and scary?

On tangents again but truly, I think there is a connection. I never meant to ramble unnecessarily with all the light talk but I have reached here with this thought, starting from what was happening in Cathy’s visual apparatus. Seems like I went too far into a star system- let’s get back to earth. I’ll talk of psychologists now, the special ones who research on human behavior and move the science of understanding the whys of our mental existence ahead. I don’t specifically mean the ones who study the functioning of human brain and behavior academically. I more generously include everyone who study or observe phenomena, some brave enough to write it down and put them on shelves for you and me to read. There’s all this talk I’m fascinated with, about how the eyes even read traces of communication- whatever spectrum one living species tries to transmute to another.

Catherine suddenly froze, her mind that is but the body wouldn’t obey and so she careened. All but her eyes were prisoners to what shot out of his eyes- and then she was released. Her being registered something but couldn’t actually decipher it, and her conscious mind cloaked her with embarrassment and then some grace to recover. She left confused.

Words going in a serpentine fashion. I am wishing this process would take me and you through a journey where Catherine will shine forth as an adept right-brained person. She will help Carlos unknot the mess at his core. Will she do this by kindling his sexual energy? I certainly hoped not to create yet another done-to-death mechanism of human bonding. But chemistry between man and woman must explode thus or should it?

When we talk about bonding, it’s either physical or platonic but depiction of intimacy and connection between the opposite sexes is fashioned with the intercourse. Penis-brain you call me, but look around you. Literature is running amok with Kama Sutra clothed in verbose finery. I am almost joining the club. Voice in my head- “You wish!”

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…and you give yourself away, and you give yourself away…” U2. Yes. Those Irish boys

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“I’m thirsty…(aloud) hello, can I have some water please, parched throat. Thanks” “Coming” From within Carlos’ fort the little man sees a woman approaching with a bottle. A whiskey bottle with water. Touch the bottle with his fingers, cold and slippery, body takes over, unscrewing the bottle he gratifies his throat. “Is there anything else you want for now?” “How do you survive?” “I beg your pardon?” “Oh gosh! You using outlawed phrases… I meant the boredom, doesn’t it eat you up?” “(Chuckles) Oh that? Well I signed up to be subject to that too remember? Besides I keep busy” “How now, common. (Pause) Yeah, you privileged walkie talkie (grins)” “Ok. Got to go” “Hey wait, what did I say?” “Nothing much, just the usual guy stuff” “With walkie talkie? I meant I have my legs wound up…” Silence “I’m sorry, what?” “Nothing- Carlos is it, yeah, Carlos…I got to go and take care of a few things…will see you around.” “Ok” Little man sees her walk away. A minute later there is a swish sound. Little man is able to see as the holes open up. She is walking past again. “Life brought you back to these parts again eh?” Silence and pause “Looks like you don’t really like my jokes. I resent being treated thus. Do you know how hard it is for me to have this extrovert coat on? IT’S DAMN TIRING! And I seriously wish you women would not need all that wooing…and cooing. I like my moroseness and that’s where I’ll go. Get the heck out of my face all of you” “I didn’t ask you to get into your best coat anyway Mister. I am sorry though. I truly am. I didn’t wish to be that way. It just ticked me off; you sounded like you were talking about women- as long legged models came to mind, which I’m not. Then I realized that you were talking about the wireless machine phones which made me sound like a machine. Even worse. I lost your meaning midst it all” The little man stares at the woman and starts laughing. Feminists in the 70s weren’t a rarity and were highly desired. Men wanted to put off that flame by taming the shew- raw sex appeal. Carlos took the term gentleman very seriously. He didn’t froth in the mouth to devour his prey, he wasn’t on that trip even. Carlos just encountered the femme fatale that rose up in defense of her clan, with all communication misunderstood anticipating attack. “I’m bored and this helped a little, but I’m sad now that it’s over” I can’t really entertain Carlos. Sorry”

Kundan Shah’s “the three sisters”- A film review

2006-12-12T22:57:00.000-08:00

No, not the mythic goddesses of dhan, vidya and shakti but quite the ironic contrary, Teen Behnein is a film about impoverished three sisters, painfully journeying through the day in their lives that is their planned last…
Kundan Shah in his introduction said that he hopes this film will bring at least one target viewer to her senses and avert the crime from happening; the technique he uses to facilitate this is a mixture of both realism and fictional hopefulness. It proved to be an effective use of the medium to communicate the problem, though I have some issues with treatment, which I will raise a little later. However, it was a unique film experience as a result of having had, amongst the audiences, women who belonged to the NGO sector, many who were in touch with the reality of the situation. A heated debate about the reality of the situation, the crux of the problem, intellectualization of issues and gender mud-slinging, amongst many other revelations I think was the entirety of the experience of the issue for me. Polarization of sorts that instantly resulted, men trying to be cheeky and patriarchal, some calling it a non-issue, some saying it was women against women and some others being quite feminist in voicing that dowry’s new avtar is men seeking out women with avenues to earnings. The women on the other hand suggested that solutions and points of interest discussed around the issue were hackneyed, one woman voting out the director’s viewpoint that compulsory women’s education and economic independence would innervate channels to walkout of the ensuing social cardiac arrest for the girl/ woman. Her argument was such: economic freedom was on its way in many sectors, yet we being the way we are, social encrustation click-shut in place would still not allow empowerment. Yet another, furious (as much as I was) about the fact that marriage was made such an important event in a woman’s life, that it become an overwhelming moment blurring her prior and future existence, identity and achievement…the probable demon in the closet. Strongly driven passion with which these women spoke out was a disturbing thing for civic minded in the crowd, causing instant murmurs of madness. It seemed to the sane amongst us apparently, that feminist jingoists were biting off more attention than they deserved at the forum. If one listened closer, a lot of what was being said was not passion-fruit NGO style. The furor and the raging fire-breath tone surely could have been avoided, but there were some real genuine suggestions to what could confute this mayhem of woman-trampling rampant in all sections of modern India.
The reason I have spent reviewing the discussion more than the film is because the success of a socio-political movie, for a country like India, lies in discussions it triggers. I for one am extremely intrigued to discuss the philosophy of the filmmaker and the content depicted, with an honest probing of perceptions amongst the audiences. Shah’s self-confessed ideology about content being larger than artistic and technical endeavor is something that sat smiling to my heart. Personally, film-making in India has turned (and I’m not even going close to mainstream endeavours which in my own words is nothing but bull *#*% but even alternate, “art-film” circles) mostly about technique and utility of sophistication. Sadly however, all attempts to turn up the jazz and keep pace with our western primate brothers are left soulless. I think film in a developing country is a medium that is very labile, and a filmmaker is very responsible for what he needs to say. Leave out the superficial narcissism to your subject and demystify filmmaking.
Ok, so much for that, having said that, paradoxically I wish to argue against the same point made above, but let me clarify. Content is of utmost importance, but what leaves me squirming in my seat is, not an unaesthetic, but a (in the name of sticking to realism and) depicting-truth-as-it-is disempowering theme. Let me tell you what gets me going, a visual journey brimming with novel ways to look at a problem; the term I ‘d like to use is treatment. Content and honesty and social responsibility is all fine but I’m beginning to think that re-hashing in the name of realism, cultural learned helplessness prototypes for characters does nothing useful to the society. It lands up re-enforcing negative role models and cliches of how we think roles within, (ex: lets say a middle class family) needs to be mete out. This era of trying to report the real causes for what-they-are-the-way-they-are, needs to pass. What needs to emerge is a filmmakers weaving of choices that are alternative to the ones chosen by their archetypes in the past, on celluloid or elsewhere in Indian media history. So, build characters that would, in the given situation, deal with it differently or leave the baggage behind and make fresh choices. I’m not asking for a utopian panacea of a movie, but for filmmakers to make a practical leap of faith within their researched backdrop so that empowerment may happen. My argument is, awareness is building, (be it about AIDS, dowry, women’s issues, child labour etc) but the ways of responding to the problem remains folklore since we don’t have tools within our cultural teachings to handle it.
How did Kundan Shah go about the film? Finally I get to the film, but I’ve gotten to the point much earlier, and I hope you agree. Cloyingly poignant but well-crafted narrative is centered on Lata, Machhli (the middle born) and Choti (the little one) three of whom are annoyingly siamese. (Something I credited to craft later and relished based on Shah’s statement that girls with this sort of psychosocial trauma are often autistic and tend to stick to one another relinquishing all individuality). Lata is painfully self-deprecating with all the symptoms of the responsible older one-sobriety and blind sense of being her parents’ bonded labourer. The middle one is supposedly the prettier one (I personally found Lata to be the more attractive one) who many a groom-came-seeking-Lata’s hand-in-marriage drooled over instead. Choti is the rebel-with-reason, impulsive, and of course with the ‘truth-tongue’. What’s intriguing in the plot is the delving into the interchangeable psyche of these three young women, the control they share over one another and the inevitable looming-doom they hold on to but deny self-responsibility in the act. Lata with an MA in literature is so brainwashed that she solely regards her existence to rely on the institution of marriage as a felicity that will bring legitimacy to her life. She seeks a non-existent relationship with the man who came and left. None of the other sisters really try to take her, even for argument’s sake beyond these marriage dreams of hers; on the contrary singing soon-to-be wedding songs to incite her already jarred psyche. Choti, a firebrand with practicality is unable to seek a way out of the romantic deaths the older two have spelt out for themselves (and unconsciously woven the little one’s fate into the web). Her existence, her age, and her character, replete with incomplete social skills and sole dependence on the siblings render her powerless. The three hang off the ceiling, a scene shown suggestively and powerfully. However, Shah doesn’t end with this agony post the knuckle cracking build-up. A surreal appearance of the three on a television show titled the achievers as the post-climax talks strongly of the director’s hope for the future and what he perhaps wishes will shape the end to this blackguard history of our nation, repression and commodification of women.
As a last few comments, I think I now seem to understand KS’s way of crafting this relief moment for the target audience who will perhaps see it as I wish them to. It should function as “stop-and-turn-it-around-moment” from what it fatalistically moved toward, and in doing so, allow fresh ways of response that may shift the power to our inside.

WHAT’S YOUR PARTY FOR SAJNAA?

2006-12-12T22:56:00.000-08:00

Yeh tara wo tara, har tara…feature film Swades’ lyrical rendition on miniscule individual achievement in comparison to mammoth accessibility through group melding and synergy, India in its 50 odd-eth year of independence, and a Gandhi Jayanti made cool by Bollywood nods. The gap, a wide gaping fissure that exists in all forms and states of an Indian existence probably symbolizing Dvaita (duality) as its quintessential reality… The one I’m concerned with, a life lived that shuns any form of personalized ideology. Many Indians have philosophies to give out, and reasons to why it can’t be lived. The modern Indian, the average and above average Indian youth on the threshold of a something that seems to be happening…threshold to what? Good question, but lets just stay with the jazz in that term, it’s brain wracking to delve into any cultural implication and build on it. Instead, Dance with me baby, won’t you dance with me all night? Party, party party…crooning radios, page 3 newspapers with strangers’ faces pasted on the dance floor…
Finger pointing on either side: Yellow, black, blue and red fences running amok among sectarians like Age, Caste, Sex and Economy, not to forget Arts (no, not Bully-wood, no art there!), Education (oh don’t get me started!), Technology, Sciences (what Indian science pursuits? never heard of those), Politics, Culture. Beautifully shaped fingers raised and aimed out so well, military training helped with precision “in aiming” I suppose?
India in the last two years as seen through my eyes, my forbearance and my angst just unfolded. Look closer, as beneath the prose exist clichés, age-old and redundant used by yet another Indian. Life a few years abroad and I began to think that India is an object too flawed that needs to be set right. Unsorted emotion with forced intellect in action, masked with loads of “If only these were done…” and “If at all people could learn to…” and other such practical NRI (for want of a better acronym) approaches. This backed by a “it will not be all talk, I’ll move my finger too” motivation and what have you? Voila!, time worn, yet another Nodding Resigning Indian…almost there but not quite. The self-bashing comes and goes, the other-than-I bashing remains, but less intellectual, more in the moment, sans generalization.
What about compassion? I’m not quite there yet, but will the C word enter my frames of reference? Again, I don’t know because in my mind, implementing compassion activates statements of “be empathetic with us because we are bound by fatalistic choices” (the literary oxymoron was first observed in our culture don’t you think?) but yes, compassion is required with processes I realize. That is because as a very, very old “culture” which seems to have allowed very little cultural progress in thought (as I seem to think), we don’t seem to recognize that ideas create the world- push it forward. A stale compost of mental constructs that we allow not just to self-obstruct but also all the while, making sure these traps are set in the path of others around us. When awareness is completely asleep in the domain of recognizing our patterns in the outside world, it is irrelevant and incomprehensible to mention self-inquiry. So, this lack in awareness of entangled psychosocial complexity backed by eons of learned helplessness- or taught, imposed and now, inherited (maybe I’ll suggest to my geneticist peers to look for cultural genes that hinder us) rule the roost. Maybe the gene that aggressively markets learned helplessness is what needs to be found, the cure will lie there…or the blame could.
Blame, a term that gambles its winning way all through our interactions along-with its Siamese twin, guilt; shall we talk about these babies of mother culture? Wonderfully shaped biological pointers are raised in blame and presto, precisely our own, unable to handle the rising guilt does the same in another direction. Look, it’s raised and pointing north! Just avoid being in the line of fire-fingers and you’ll be fine, Mama told you. So in trying to jump, hop and skip, Blame the Guilt is played with the rules of Chinese Messages, never for a moment locally manifest longer than a second. If the impact would be taken in for a moment, however, surgery could be performed and two separate babies called Responsibility could be created- two unhindered babies that had abilities to respond. No more appeasing the audiences Bollywood style, just simple self-answerability and efficient functionality in the universe. Oh, to see those fingers drop!
Lifestyle pundits, media masqueraders, economic forerunners, governance gorges, Indian-ness markers, culture black-cats, yes, many more such succinct nouns to describe those fingers that stand raised, not as guideposts for self and the other, but as agents of hindrances that sneakily tend to create confusion for the other. How else could I express this?
Hold on just a moment Mr. Srinivasan, you have quite gaily thrown around terms! Please expound on some without the legitimate vagaries usually allowed in their usage. Excuse me alter ego, there’s no space for all of those but I’ll choose one- my favourite, another C word, Culture. In college, during one of the literature classes (because only Literature Lecturers would do this) we tried to examine the implications of the word, Culture. What resulted from classroom discussion was that culture translated to religion, values, patriotism, geography, cuisine, sexual beliefs, sexual practices, political agenda, personal space and music & the arts. In my mind at that time, culture is what reeked from walls of my room. In biology, I had to deal with the component that very passively supported and provided space and nutrient to exist. In my recent understanding, culture seems to be individual and collective (albeit conflicting) consciousness of our world’s operative. I will leave out what Webster has to say, much thanks Mitwa.
Deepak Srinivasan

snapshot

2005-12-24T19:39:00.000-08:00

Waves rise high and can be measured at thousands of feet-aspirations trying to out-beat one another. The same turn effervescent froth soon, barely able to grip onto land, scrambling on the shore to carry back a fistful of sand-thus becoming the nemesis seen later on corroded landscape for not holding on, not helping them with a foothold. Whose fault is it, the nature of aspirations unable to sustain solidarity, retain form and strength yet aimlessly trying the same dart that is bound to indent but not stay on? Traffic, blaring noise, acoustic assault! Pensioner’s paradise this? December 2002. Home. Culture shock all over again? No, can’t be this pretentious. It’s been a year, maybe a little over. Day 4, it’s like I never went away. Trailing through the air, nostalgia associated with fragmented fractured living, compartmentalized components. Bittersweet and eclectic with different flavors like Indian curry and just as unhealthy as any overdose. Yet, the blasted addiction to pleasure as such, pain and tragedy that brings ones complete attention to halt on the immediate occurrence. Boy meets girl? A silhouette by the moon, placid, drenched with honey, cloyingly sweet. Looks straight out of a bollywood movie-play whichever duet you’d like from any, it’ll fit. The boy’s eyes look avariciously, enthralled his fantasy is being fulfilled so he can relinquish his search. The nagging feeling that it’s not the right image the soul seeks though. Assault on the senses, the silhouette turns and smiles. The feeling-a lack of perfection in the imagery will not recede, causing him to wriggle. Physical touch, tingle down my spine, the kiss, the feeling of a soul wanting contact, external and internal cords connect, intertwine. Then being told that the fantasy fixation is not you, now naked, vulnerable and lying there, hoping that the next cold withdrawal were a bullet. Privileged as a whore…. Purpose? Existence and purpose, reason for the masochistic self-subjection, I ask myself. Did I ever remember asking for this? REASON. Science as a ray of hope, a display of intelligence. Here’s an appetizer: how does the universe work-mechanistic newtonian clockwork or fluid einsteinian dynamics? Within the green lined avenues of a flux maze that exists on its own accord in space and time, challenging to be tamed and leads into the next spiral of questioning… Yes, neurons function exactly as they were made to, firing appropriately at the right moment, helping manifest the observed behavior. Accuracy… Not quite precise you see. Does thought precede material change that manifests behavior or is it an uncut circle wrought with ambiguity? So lets answer this in a precise scientific manner if you please, where we work as machines and don’t have to deal with the frill pressures of social accommodation. We are here to set the ladder rung right, behavior as a consequence of physiology. Yet tarnish we must the integrity of our unique work culture-whence I wrench my teeth in frustration at the needless humanistic aspects that creep in and make the iron pig. Tinges of the ‘heathcliff syndrome’, the little boy standing on the other side of the window, outside. The elephant headed God Ganesha, pray to him before beginning a task. He is sitting on the throne studded with rubies, extends his trunk lovingly to bless, to purge, to heal. "Yes, you were meant to be a giver forever". Have I been cursed instead, left barren and ‘heathcliffed’? Nature of aspirations never lets hope die…the black cumulo-nimbus can wait. This is all about black or white and everything in between. Michael Jackson? Yeah know this name, which never really did anything more than stimulate my cochlea, but no, this is not about him. Subway city, black tunnels, colored scarves on colored skins. How those eyes of mine scour through multitude heads, eyes are the windows to their souls? "Fair and lovely, apply for 6 weeks and see astounding result, great light skin, glowing and fair, resplendent and lovely". I look down at my hands and sigh at the hunt for fairness, one of the many of my homeland’s obsessions. Now the bodhi tree revelation dawns half across the world as the understanding seeps in about man’s eternal color categorization and why not? We are indeed colored from within with dollop shades of grey. Immortality, death stark contrast you say but look closely. The gripping pain in my chest tonight, as on million other such, tormented by the loss severed oh-so-suddenly, separated now not in space but in dimensions. Resting peacefully, heaving heavily with the thought of a smashed love story. Suddenly, no more tears, just as before, seized by the fear I always face, am I a masochist? The great dance. Nataraja, another name for lord Shiva, part of the Hindu trinity- the destroyer. Splendor ash-laden coal black skin, matted hair, the great tantric stands on his one foot with balanced levity, gyrating to emanating mellifluous tones cloaked under the raw beat of the mhrundhangam (an Indian drum). The preserver, lord Vishnu, sparkling blue skin, yellow robes, gold glittering, diamonds radiant, a persona of refined masculinity- the savior. They make love and a son is born