Anita's Anthem

Anita's Anthem
(Best read along with the previous post 'Tam travails')

From Anna Nagar to Mahabalipuram,
From Pondy Bazaar to Vrudhhachalam,
Rajnikanthaku Vanakkam !
May his blessings be on this po(y)em.

"I'm the Sambar Mafia Queen,
I have the Guilty Guindy Gene."

No one in TN is spared this effect,
It matters not what religion, caste or sect;
Short or tall, fat or lean,
All possessed by the ‘Guilty Guindy Gene’.

Training begins right from infancy,
The best vie for admission in PSBB;
Allowed few things that are more fun
than warm coffee and soggy uttappam.

Studious, sincere, all-knowing and righteous,
Often seen as a wee bit pompous,
Accustomed to loads of hard work,
While the rest aimlessly idle and shirk.

The burden of guilt weighs me down,
Lines my brow with a worried frown,
Causes my instincts to revolt and shout -
Any enjoyment trampled in the rout.

Nothing less pious than a visit to the temple.
Nothing motivated by a goal less noble
than doubling the GDP growth rate,
Or finding oneself a well-educated mate.

"I'm the Sambar Mafia Queen,
I have the Guilty Guindy Gene."

By,
Zenobia D. Driver

Tam Travails

Tam Travails
by, Anita B.

I blame my upbringing in the city of Chennai for my woes today. I am studying (or at least furiously flipping page after page in weighty tomes) for the level 3 CFA exam. It is a three-year course where an exam happens every year. To fully understand what this implies you must see ‘36 Chambers of Shaolin’ - in one grueling test they decide whether to let you go to the next level or not. CFA is highly recommended for every budding investment banker/trader/financial analyst working in the U.S; I am a corporate banker in India. Yet for the last three years I have been indulging myself in an expensive course with no payback visible on the horizon. The only conclusion I have reached is that I am a muggu, a nerd, a geek, a no-life sub-human, a well-brought-up-Tam.

I think the effects of this phenomenon were strengthened when I chose to do commerce instead of science - I had signed up for the course chosen only by losers in Tamil Nadu. Now the rest of my life would be an endless endeavour to set this right. Which meant that when I was filling my admission forms for B Com, I had already gone through the brochures of ICWA, ACS, CA etc so that I could fruitfully spend extra time ‘adding value’ to myself. In my first year, I had finished a certified course from NIIT - to this day, I wonder when I will get to use my strong foundation in DOS. In the beginning of my second year, I had passed my C.A. Foundation course. The whole of second year and most of third year was spent in clearing exams for the C.A. Intermediate course. This could have gone on for an indefinite period of time, had I not started an MBA. There were temptations even then - do I write my C.A. Intermediate and then maybe finish the final after B-School…?. Luckily since enough people had told me that an MBA would be tough enough by itself, I desisted.

After two relatively ‘extra course free’ years, I thought I had finally exorcised the ghost of Madras Muggers (‘mug’ as in study, not ‘mug’ as in steal). In fact, becoming a corporate slave seemed to have been a reasonably good indicator that I had been saved from me and there would be no more attempts at trying to string more degrees to my name.

I was mistaken. One year went by in peace and harmony and at the end of it I had signed up for the ‘U.S Recognised’ CFA course. I once again attacked my books with a vengeance. And realized that I had signed up for another three years of feeling guilty about spending free time on movies or books or dining out (not that it stopped me from doing all the above). And of feeling really noble if I resisted and instead stared at my books while all my worthy compatriots were enjoying themselves.

Again I plunged into the torment of realizing in the nth hour that you still have 50% of the stuff to cram. The resolve to drop out of the course at the end of 1st year no matter whether I passed or failed. The usual pre-exam melodrama.

I passed the first year and in a happy daze had already paid the USD 500 fee for the second year before I could recollect all the trauma of studying the previous year. In fact, by the time I remembered, it was already finals time for the second year. The second year exams too got over in due course of time. Collapsed into a chair outside the exam hall with a worthy co-masochist friend. And listened to some serious soul searching. ‘What is it with us that makes us write more and more exams and collect more degrees even though we are not really getting anything out of it’. Not surprising coming from a guy who was working in Infosys in software and had bid goodbye to finance after just a year. I, of course felt smug in comparison since I was in banking which qualified as ‘finance’. And then he continued ‘I think it must be the tam in us’. How right was he! After all this guy was an engineer, and really by Indian standards he had nothing more to prove. And in all honesty, after an IIM MBA, I could at least state I had reached a bit of an academic pinnacle in India. Yet we were both spending hours making notes on heteroskedascity and delta hedging. Voila! It was not the commerce degree that was propelling me to fall deeper into the pit.

It figures. Any good Tamilian is told that the only way to come up in life is to study hard. A constant background noise throughout childhood on the importance of education had left a deep unerasable scar in our heads. Now there was nothing to do but to study more. Possibly throughout our lives (shudder). My friend took a last drag and said ‘so let me know by when we have to pay the fees for our third level’ and I nodded in understanding.

It is now almost time for level 3. A sense of déjà vu fills me again as I open the portfolio management book. My friend called to say he is definitely going to flunk this year and he can’t understand why he threw away good money on a stupid course etc etc. I listen and agree wholeheartedly and add some good criticism of my own. He is also planning to write his GMAT in October. God save us.

Unnatural Selection

Unnatural Selection
by, Vaibhav Rajan

Sometime between 1935 and 1995, a man lost a significant amount of blood-flow to his head – blood that was directed south. It is worth considering the beauty of a system that is designed to produce the human brain, and a mechanism to override it, or even that it needed to be overridden. The smarter you are, the harder your brain fights, the longer you resist the urge. This gives us three conclusions: firstly, it is no wonder you find yourself surrounded by idiots. Secondly, it’s no wonder those idiots get laid a lot more often than you. And finally, you should always remember that you were conceived despite better judgement.

In the 1960s something called the Gaia Hypothesis was suggested by someone known as James Lovelock. The natural order of things seems to prevail on account of exactly that - a natural order. His idea was based on feedbacks, but on a more localized level, it's the all-permeating desire to live.

Why the heck do living things insist on wanting to live? A force surges through the biosphere, through the ages, through the cells and membranes and tissues and fights to be. Simply that - to live. Why there is life, or species, or organisms, is not the point of this. The fact that there is life, and there are species, is. The average organism doesn't provide a heck of a lot of productive results for an ecosystem. A species, on the other hand, covers a lot of land, breathes a lot of air, eats a lot of food and is generally responsible for eating of, as well as being eaten by, several other species. A species dies if the organisms don't procreate. Hence, the urge to fuck. Even if it means having your head ripped off and eaten (as is done by certain species of spiders and my ex-girlfriend).

Unfortunately for humans, we sorta kinda maybe enjoy the species-propagation-mechanism (SPM). With all the head-ripping, she was still dynamite in bed, you know. We have evolved, for some reasons, to enjoy the M enough to want to do it without wanting to actually follow-up with the SP part. Nature comes up with these brilliant ways for every species to make idiots out of themselves trying to make babies, and here we are, complex as hell and relying on that idiot-making-mechanism perfected over 3 billion years so we can have sex and not make babies.

I digress. Essentially, natural selection then plays the key role in defining relationships, one-night-stands and head-ripping-extravaganzas (unless you're in Germany, in which case you can order one online). And natural selection, in my humble opinon, sucks balls.

You see, it is blind. It isn't about beneficial adaptations, and it isn't about making things smarter or smaller or stronger or anything of that sort. It isn't even an active force. It's a passive mechanism - it happens, it doesn't do. Here is how it happens: Horny chick across the street smiles at you. You lose blood flow to the head and blink like an idiot. Truck hits you in the face. Another idiot who has genetic horny-chick-alert-system disorder (otherwise known as effective blindness) just crosses the street. Horny chick goes for him. A new generation of HCASD kids arrive. We are left asking: why the fuck didn’t the chick just cross the road herself?

Natural selection didn't select HCASD. Th just happened. If all mating was based on making it across a truck-infested street, then natural selection would lead to faster men or blinder men or men who don't die by trucks or just any sort of man who has something in his nature that allows him to get to the babe on the other side before another guy. We'd also have a lot of really frustrated truck drivers.

So that's the story. Your mom was horny. Your dad was blind. And if it hadn't been for the truck driver, you might never have been born.

Rustic Retreat

Rustic Retreat
by Anita. B

Homestay as a concept is fairly alien to India; at any rate, it was to me. When Sonal, Uma and myself were doing our research on a holiday plan, it was Sonal who first mentioned homestays. Not having heard the word before, I assumed that she had decided to call it off and wanted to stay at home. That’s when she explained that it meant staying with a family in their house and paying for it. A thorough net search had yielded a place next to Coorg. We all agreed that this seemed an interesting, non-touristy and inexpensive alternative.

That’s how we found ourselves outside the Mysore railway station waiting for our taxi to pick us up. Sunticoppa, our destination, was about a 100 kms from here. The road, however, was like a cross-country trainer’s dream and the journey would take 3 hours. Darkness falls rather soon in these parts and the road creeps through the forest – a beautiful sight in the daytime but spooky by night. Especially if you have been stupid enough to discuss your cash position in front of the driver just before starting off. Luckily we reached Sunticoppa at eight in the night with no incidents. The estate we were staying in was about half an hour away, to be reached through an even more poorly lit, deserted, winding road surrounded on both sides by trees and bushes. In short, the exact setting where one can expect the spirits of the dead to come rushing. We turned into the dark, silent estate and true to expectation, there stood a cottage with no one around but a small boy staring calmly into the headlights.

As it turned out, fairly sane (and alive) people stayed there. That was our destination and our host, Giri, was waiting for us. Giri’s little son (the small boy) and Giri’s dad were introduced to us. Giri’s psychologist wife, Suja, was expected back from Mysore after conducting a soft skills seminar. Infact, the whole place felt like we had come to a well-to-do cousin’s house with none of the obligation to make polite small talk about the family.

The house was old fashioned with railings running on the ceiling, wooden doors and windows. The family had added some welcome amenities like big modern bathrooms. It was a fairly self-sufficient place, the family grew it’s own supply of fruits, vegetables and rice. They used bio-gas instead of LPG and solar lamps in addition to the State Electricity Board’s supply. Their cows gave them milk, and of course all around them was their coffee estate. Possibly this is when I realised a home stay is the closest you can get to experience a community firsthand if you have only three days to spare. Giri and Suja made an effort to feed us the local cuisine and chatted about their wedding rituals, family history and the local circles.

We had reached without any game plan on hand. I wanted to do a trek, Uma wanted to shop and Sonal was torn between the two of us. Finally we made the arrangements for a trek when Uma was busy lazing around and could not protest. Uma took it rather well when we told her about the trek, especially when we omitted the fact it would be 12 kms totally.

It was a perfect place and day to trek. Nishanidotta, the mountain we were gunning for was not too tall or challenging. It was 4600 ft. There was a two-km trek to a village house from the road. And a further eight kms up and down from the village house/‘base camp’. And then back to the road. The countryside was perfect. The first two kilometers were a mixture of loud buzzing trees and green paddy fields. The rest of the trek went through a muddy track with a bit of forest and a lot of breathtaking views tossed in.

Our hired guide, Puneet, had taken the son of our village house along for company and as a substitute for a GPRS. We were a bit skeptical about the rather young age of this supplementary guide – around seven. In the event, he proved to know his way better than Puneet and kept running ahead. We were panting to catch up with him and were rather sour about it till Puneet mentioned that we stood a better of chance of escaping leeches if we moved too fast for them to climb on. After that even Uma bucked up considerably.

After two hours of climbing, we finally started approaching the top. This was the only steep part, but there is something to be said about running to the summit of a hill with gentle raindrops hitting your face and the wind rushing past your ears. We took triumphant snaps complete with a flagpole left behind by previous enthusiasts. After that it was a quick descent back to the village house for lunch.

The pre-lunch ritual consisted of checking for leech bites – something all of us were nervous about since leeches have a tendency to cling on, suck your blood and look gross. Uma gently undid her shoes and discovered one well-fed specimen entangled in her socks. Sonal checked and got a zero. I began to slowly roll up the leg of my track pants and saw a black mark above my ankle. Losing no time, I went into hysterics. This prompted everyone in the house to come and watch bemused. I was hoping they would have sympathised if not called the paramedics. But apparently it is a daily phenomenon in their lives and I was left to my own devices to cope. Luckily a leech bite is not lethal or even harmful. Local remedies like squeezing lemon on the leech till it falls off followed by Soframycin on the wound helps.

After the trek, we were too tired to take in any of Coorg’s tourist delights. Which it seemed to have quite a few of going by the brochure Puneet waved in front of our faces for the tenth time that day. We humoured him and decided to stop at Rajah’s Seat - one of those panoramic views of the hillside you get at all hill stations - in front of which families with huffing grandparents and fidgeting children cluster to pose for a snap. We skipped Dubare, an elephant camp around 40 kms away, a 200-year-old Shiva temple, a dam and other such treats. Puneet, being a loyal local, was quite upset that we could resist traveling 40 kms up and down Coorg to visit all these places. Possibly being a local was why he did not understand that Coorg’s beauty lay in the sparsely populated countryside, mountains, backwaters and such other places we could visit only from the estate we were staying in.

Giri and Suja proved to be brilliant hosts and had hot food, hot tea and hot water ready for us to use upon our return. We also happily borrowed from their wonderful collection of trashy and intelligent novels. The only blot on the spot was Giri’s tendency to chat incessantly. Mostly interesting, at times it could have a dramatic climax, leaving the listeners a bit nonplussed. During dinner one day, he ended a happy trekking story with someone falling off the hillside. I quickly left before he could tell the story of someone who died of a leech bite.

On our final day, we found ourselves back on the road to Mysore – this time in the daylight where we could admire Coorg’s lush forests. On the way we stopped at the Tibetan settlement in Kushal Nagar. The place is colourful, to say the least. The main temple has lovely golden statues of Buddha, Buddha Amistava and Guru Padmanabha. There are murals all over the place with gory pictures of people suffering in hell. We assumed it was the senior monks’ way of enforcing discipline among the juniors. One quick peek by a believer into the picture of a monk being roasted in a frying pan would keep all minor transgressions under control.

From there we proceeded to Mysore and to see the famed Mysore Palace. The ruling dynasty seemed to have had considerable wealth. Perhaps too much wealth, because every previous owner of the throne had added the style of his era to the décor, giving it a look of complete overkill. Delicate marble arches would be superimposed on wooden frames and surrounded by garish green paint. There are some lovely pieces though if you watch out for them – a lovely threshold, an intricately carved door, random glimpses into good taste.

With that, we boarded the train back home and bade good-bye to the lush forests, fresh air and endless greenery. The leech mark on my leg still glowed red, but what is a trip if you don’t have a souvenir to show the people back home?

Review of 'Antar Mahal'

Have decided to pen a review to set the report straight on ‘Antar Mahal’, the latest offering by Rituparno Ghosh. There have been too many glowing reports of the movie, of the tributes it received at the Locarno film festival etc. This is how one newspaper described the movie – ‘touted to be Ghosh’s boldest film yet, with a potent mixture of religion, sex and politics. Ghosh says he was not gunning for a sensational film, but through its depiction of Indian history, it reflects the true spirit of courage. It talks about the pressures of gender, religion and colonial forces that spark off big and small rebellions.’

Firstly, I wish Ghosh would not publicise his movie as a depiction of Indian history. I shudder to think what a foreigner’s opinion of Indian religion would be after viewing this movie. There is actually a long scene in the movie where a group of priests explain the Ashwamedha Yagna to a zamindar and the interpretation includes the queen having sex with the horse before the yagna to purify it! Was this really one of the rituals of the Ashwamedha Yagna ? Could our customs have been this regressive ages ago ? Is this the ancient Indian culture we want to showcase to the world ? Anyway, this particular scene ends with the priests ‘simplifying’ the ritual and nobly volunteering to have sex with the zamindar’s wife in lieu of the horse ! (The disgusting look on the priests’ face has to be seen to be believed.)

As per Mr. Ghosh, “ ‘Antar Mahal’ is a sexy film without any skin.” I agree that there is hardly any skin shown apart from the bare chests of Jackie Shroff and Abhishek Bachchan. But I doubt I would use the adjective ‘sexy’ to describe the film. A lot of the time, I was cringing in disgust. Honestly, the movie is enough to put one off men and sex forever.

But I digress – I can hear people wondering what the basic plot of the movie is. There is an evil zamindar (played by Jackie Shroff) who is desperate to have a son. He is also desperate to outshine the rival zamindar in the pomp and splendour of the annual Durga Pooja celebrations. Nothing and no one matters in the pursuit of these two aims – the zamindar’s character is entirely selfish, self-centred, evil, with no redeeming qualities. His character is entirely one dimensional in this respect. He has two wives, the younger of whom is innocent, weak, trapped and a total ‘bakri’ – no brains, no spunk, only beauty and tear-ducts. His first wife, Rupa Ganguly, is the only character which shows some depth and crafting, she has nice sides to her as well as a bitchy side, at times you hate her, at times you empathise with her and at other times you want to give her a rousing cheer.

One didn’t get to see much of Jackie Shroff’s acting skills, he either frowns angrily and gives one a good view of his moustache quivering, or gives one a view of his bare back as he bounces on top of his wife – who, it is clear from the movie, does not enjoy it at all.

When Jackie, in his lust for a son, decides to let a priest sit in the room and chant shlokas as he (Jackie, not the priest) has sex with his young wife, she decides to hang herself (though she is prevented from doing so). I have yet to understand why she didn’t think of castrating her husband before ending her life. Why does this woman never, ever retaliate ? She could at least knee him in the crotch by mistake. Or scratch his dick with the sharp edge of her bangle. One is left wondering why she meekly accepts all the shit that life throws at her ? At one point, Jackie berates his wife for not understanding the hard work he has to do, first in the afternoon with his mistress Panna and then at night with her – and in this heat too !!! And the wife gives him a sympathetic reply.

Only good thing about the movie is that one walked out of the hall really happy. Firstly, glad that the torture had ended. Secondly, really really glad that I was born in the 21st century, to liberal parents, in an urban milieu.

Zenobia D. Driver

Diwali 2005

Diwali 2005

All across the city tonight
White, austere rooms hold
The smoke of God in their hearts.

Outside,
The night puts on its jewels,
Shy lamps lift
Their trembling eyes.

Fireworks,
Self-righteous like priests,
Sprinkle the sky with fire.

Little by little
The city sputters into life.

Time is a wheel of spinning light now,
A spitting and indignant eye
In which
The festival dances like a child.

We stand on rooftops
Holding our breaths,
Our hearts racing like fuses.

Happiness, when it comes,
May be too loud an explosion.

Three days of heavy rain and parts of Bangalore are flooded ! Actually, even after only one day of rain, measuring 12cm in total, parts of Bangalore got flooded. Each time I begin to doubt Bombay, something happens that reassures me that Bombay, imperfect as it is, still remains the best and the most efficient city in India. Somehow, on a regular basis, Bombay copes with rain better than any other city I have seen – half an hour of heavy rain does not bring it to its knees. Contrast the chaos in Bangalore after 12 cm of rain with the way Bombay handles the rain. To those who scoff and talk about the deluge in July, I would like to point out the difference between 12 cm and 90 cm of rain.

(But I digress. Started with another issue in mind, but could not resist the temptation to contrast aamchi Mumbai with other cities.)

There is one similarity between both Bangalore and Bombay. In both cities, the older areas which were built earlier, suffer much less. In Bombay, during the deluge, South Bombay actually received much less rain than the suburbs. I wonder why there would be such a drastically unequal distribution of rain over such a limited area for a period of a few days. Does South Bombay have a lower % of green cover as compared to the suburbs?

Also somehow, the drainage in the older parts of the cities seems to be much better than in the newer parts. In Bangalore, many of the areas which are flooded are those which are unplanned, built on or near lake beds etc. No thought seems to have been given to proper drainage, leading to water retention after heavy rain. On the contrary, the older areas seem to have been built and planned in a much better manner, and those are not flooded at all.

Were the British better engineers and town planners than us ? Or is the difference due to laws and regulations being twisted in the last few years by the builders mafia ?

Beanz & Buddy

Beanz & Buddy

One of the happiest ways to wake up in the morning is to hear the khit-khit-khit-khit of a dog’s nails hitting the floor as he scampers to your bed to wish you a very good morning; giving you just a few seconds to draw a deep breath and brace yourself for the instant he lands on you and proceeds to lick your face enthusiastically. The drawing of a deep breath before he jumps on you is essential – no one who breathes while a dog is licking their face could find it a joyous occasion, years of a non-vegetarian diet combined with a lack of discipline in application of toothpaste make a dog’s breath stink something awful.

Of course, an even happier way to wake up in the morning is to have two dogs greet you in this manner.

All dogs for a few minutes in the morning make you feel like the centre of their universe and the reason that they are glad to wake up and face another day. Some soon tire of this and wander away in search of more exciting things to do, while others snuggle up next to you and make you wonder whether a salary is worth actually getting out of bed this early.

The diverse personality traits of dogs show up most in households where they are treated like a part of the family and where there is more than one pet. One such family is Frog and Fool and their dachshunds Beanz and Buddy.

Buddy is as extroverted as Beanz is introverted – Beanz is a touch-me-not and takes time to get to know people whereas Buddy is almost a whore and transfers affections instantaneously to anyone introduced to him. Once Beanz has granted you entry into his inner circle of friends, he is steadfast and loyal; whereas Buddy would one instant be gazing adoringly into your eyes and the next instant be bounding over to the door to say hello to the dhobi/vegetable vendor/ sweeper etc and would be inviting them in. In the event of a robbery, Buddy would be useful only if the robber was a finicky, hygiene-freak and got disgusted by Buddy’s over-friendly overtures. Not that Beanz would be of much use in such situations - though he is far more protective and possessive of his territory, his chosen method of signifying disapproval is to hide under the sofa and bark.

Beanz is a scaredy-cat wimp whereas Buddy fears nothing at all. (Though I suspect that has more to do with Buddy's stupidity than courage.) To Beanz, the world is a scary place, full of unknown noises and smells and unpleasant things, where the only haven is in the crook of Mummy Frog’s arms or under the sofa. Even when the front door is wide open, the farthest Beanz will go is to Auntie Hilda’s house one floor down.

To Buddy, the world is a wondrous place just waiting to be explored and every human being a rich source of food, play or affection. Seeing the front door open, Buddy will merrily run out, sometimes right onto the main road, and stand there happily with tail wagging nineteen-to-the-dozen as cars whiz past, honking furiously. Whacking him in order to teach him a lesson is of no use whatsoever. Buddy will look repentant and hang his head in shame, his tail will droop sorrowfully to the floor, and his big, mournful eyes will turn your heart into a soppy, guilty mess. Just as you release him and finish berating yourself for being such an abominable monster, you will see him bounding away, tail wagging, eyes alight with an unholy sparkle, committing exactly the same mistake again. The fact that you are standing there, looking at him, doesn’t faze this intrepid duffer in the least, his motto seems to be ‘try, try and try again till you succeed’.

If they were human beings, Buddy would be the black sheep of the family, getting into all sorts of scrapes - drinking, bunking classes at school, throwing tomatoes at policemen, running away with the neighbour’s daughter etc. Needless to say, being the lovable nitwit that he is, he would flop spectacularly in each misdemeanor; he would puke after just a few sips of beer, he would fail a few courses each year, policemen would make enough money to retire from the fines he paid, and the neighbour’s daughter would probably ditch him to marry someone else. Not that any of this would deter Buddy, he would continue happily plotting his next scheme, maybe how to join Gabbar’s gang or become Munnabhai’s side-kick.

Beanz, on the other hand, would be Mama’s pride and joy, hair neatly combed and parted, nattily dressed, shoes polished, coming first in class every year, winning prizes in moral science, marrying the girl Mummy chooses and having two perfect children. Not for Beanz the life of adventure and exploration that Buddy loves, Beanz would prefer a more sedate existence, be an accountant maybe, or maybe knit socks.

Zenobia D. Driver

Rohit's Reply

Rohit's Reply

Forgive you?
I was in a hurry,
And that was a NEW scooty!

I was getting soaked
while you blindly (bull)dozed
in that ghastly green thing
(A blow, I say, to anyone's esteem)

But don't worry about that guy
I never really liked him anyway

- Rohithari Rajan

Inspired by 'An Apology'

forgive me
for overtaking
and grazing
your red scooty

it was raining
and you were
at the blind spot of
my green scratched esteem

I am also sorry
about that guy
at the adyar signal
- Anita B.

"An Apology"

Forgive me
for backing over
and smashing
your red wheelbarrow.

It was raining
and the rear wiper
does not work on
my new plum-colored SUV.

I am also sorry
about the white
chickens.

-- F. J. Bergmann


The Red Wheelbarrow

so much depends
upon
a red wheelbarrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

-- William Carlos Williams

Inspired by 'An Apology'

Inspired by 'An Apology'
by Anita. B

forgive me
for overtaking
and grazing
your red scooty

it was raining
and you were
at the blind spot of
my green scratched esteem

I am also sorry
about that guy
at the adyar signal

"An Apology"
Forgive me
for backing over
and smashing your red wheelbarrow.

It was raining
and the rear wiper
does not work on
my new plum-colored SUV.

I am also sorry
about the white
chickens.

-- F. J. Bergmann

The Red Wheelbarrow

so much depends
upon
a red wheelbarrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

-- William Carlos Williams

Review of the movie 'The Merchant of Venice'

The Merchant of Venice – Michael Ratford

This is a cinematic adaptation of the Shakespearian classic. Unlike contemporary movies on other books like Macbeth, the narrative remains faithful to the original and is not adapted to the present age. The Shakespearean dialogues sound a bit incongruous, as they are being mouthed by well know actors (Al Pacino, Jeremy Irons), but the sets and props are evocative of an era bygone.

The movie begins with a chaotic scene of Venice and a voice - over narrating the antagonistic relationship between the Christians (the dominant community) and the Jews (the much hated and maligned usurers). The scene depicts Jews being heckled by the Christians and the stage for the movie is set when Antonio (Irons) spits on the face of Shylock (Pacino). The look on the Shylock’s face is priceless – a combination of impotent fury and malignance. The movie moves on two tracks – the main story of the bond between Shylock and Antonio and the somewhat subsidiary love story of Portia (Lynn Collins) and Bassanio (Joseph Fiennes). Shakespeare had written the story on these two tracks – one morbid and the other light – so it is inescapable in the movie. However, I suspect, the movie would have been much tighter and gripping if it had only the Shylock – Antonio incident. (Blasphemous thought I guess.)

The star of the movie is undoubtedly Al Pacino. He elevates the character of Shylock, from a mere moneylender, to a man consumed by the demons of that age. He craves recognition, love and respect of his peers. He seethes with righteous indignation at the injustice meted out to the Jewish clan. He, indeed, seems to have an almost love – hate relationship with Antonio. One suspects that his morbid and dastardly action at demanding Antonio’s pound of flesh has more to do with his frustration at not being accepted as an equal. The movie and more poignantly the original play seems to be very prescient in outlining the irrational racial prejudice and the resultant ‘clash of civilizations’ argument that are so much in vogue in today’s troubled times. Indeed the crux of the story can be probably encapsulated in the following monologue of Shylock:

“To bait fish withal: if it will feed nothing else, it will feed my revenge. He hath disgraced me, and hindered me half a million; laughed at my losses, mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine enemies; and what's his reason? I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as a Christian is? If you prick us, do we not bleed? if you tickle us, do we not laugh? if you poison us, do we not die? and if you wrong us, shall we not revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will resemble you in that. If a Jew wrong a Christian, what is his humility? Revenge. If a Christian wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be by Christian example? Why, revenge. The villany you teach me, I will execute, and it shall go hard but I will better the instruction”

To me, Al Pacino is the star of the show. He is the chief, indeed, the only reason that is sufficient to see this movie. He makes excellent use of his gravelly voice, his eyes and the half mocking, half cynical look on his face and manages to create as much sympathy as a purely dark character like Shylock can possibly evoke. Antonio’s character too is very complex and is competently essayed by Jeremy Irons. He is a product of his times – a paradoxical person – a Jew baiter yet a person with a sense of justice and fair play. The rest of the actors have been aptly cast and lend credible support to the narrative.

The length of the movie is a shade too long and that is probably keeping in tune with the leisurely pace in which stories/plays were meant to be woven in the Shakespearean era. Me, an imbecilic viewer (nay consumer) of typical Hollywood fare would have preferred a tighter, edited script and a shorter running time.

Contributor - Sachin Desai

Pragmatic Mathematic

Why is Mathematics a most unpopular subject amongst students ? Maths as taught in schools and colleges is best confined to sterile, fusty, obtuse textbooks – it is rigid, unwieldy and outdated. There is an over-abundance of rules, infinite theorems and each with a chain of at least 3 lemna ! Maths that could be relevant in one’s daily life, that too in Kalyug, needs to be far more flexible and adaptable.

Maybe Maths in junior classes could continue to be taught the current way – with a fixed set of rules, minimum number of variables and fixed outcomes. After all, young minds cannot grasp too much complexity and uncertainty would only confuse them.

But in later years, once a strong foundation had been laid, the teaching model to follow should be different, it would be more like macroeconomics classes – where all kinds of microvariables impinge upon the outcome and anything at all could happen depending upon the relative proportions and strengths of the various variables.

The most simple instance of this could be the basic equation ‘2+2=4’, which one has been taught to accept as the gospel truth. But could ‘2+2’ not be equal to 5 for infinitely large values of 2 ? Alternately the value could perhaps be less than four for infinitesimally low values of 2 ? It is perhaps naïve on our part to assume that 2 has a fixed value. There could even be a set of social, environmental and moral conditions which make the two 2’s antagonistic and the value of ‘2+2’ equal to zero. The possibilities are endless and could have weighty implications for mankind.

Review of Bihari song

Bihari Song :
saasooji tera laadlaa love you, love you kehta hai
saasooji tera laadlaa love you, love you kehta hai
saasooji tera laadlaa love you, love you kehta hai
saasooji tera laadlaa love you, love you kehta hai
saasooji tera laadlaa love you, love you kehta hai
saasooji tera laadlaa love you, love you kehta hai
saasooji tera laadlaa love you, love you kehta hai

Review :
Fascinating.
Notice the formal incantatory structure, with it's hint of temple chants and sacred ritual, so reminiscent of Nietszche's idea of infinite return, and a wonderful allegory for the mindless repetitiveness of life in the late 20th Century. Notice also the abrupt changes in language, signifying the essential confusion of the narrator and his struggle to find identity in a rapidly changing multi-cultural world, where traditional norms are collapsing like nine-pins in a bowling alley. Finally, note also the brilliance of that comma, deftly inserted between the two "love you"s - a simile for the essential division between man and man, for the impossibility, even in the face of true love of uniting two human souls and the consequent necessity of some distance, if only a heartbeat of a punctuation mark, between them.

The other interesting thing about this song is the similarities between the form here and traditional folk songs / ballads from elsewhere in the world. I'm reminded for instance, of the classic Edwardian hunting ballads ("With a heigh ho! the wind and the rain" type stuff) or of how a favourite conceit in classical music (both choral music and Indian classical) is the repetition of the same line, though with different stresses. Think Bach cantatas. Admittedly, the song does suffer a little from the lack of a punch line (I'm reminded of this episode ofJeeves and Wooster where Stinker Pinker is singing a hunting song at the village festival which consists of the single line "A hunting we will go" repeated over and over again), but it more than makes up for this with the wonderful alliterations of the s and l sounds.

Review of ' The feast of the goat' by Mario Vargas Llosa

This semi fictional semi realistic novel recaptures the dictatorship of Trujjilo (the ‘Goat’) who was the brutal dictator of the Dominician Republic from 1930 until his assassination in 1961. The novel unfolds with the visit of Urania Cabral, a successful New York lawyer and the daughter of one of the chief lackeys of the Goat. Her unbridled hatred of her father and the recounting of crucial events during the dictatorship, the assassination, the reprisals and the political machinations post the assassination make for a fascinating and insightful study into the ‘mind’ of a dictatorship.

This novel works on several levels – it’s a powerful subject, handled with intensity. Inspite of being written as a series of flashbacks, the story never loses its fluidity and keeps you involved to the very end. The most important takeaway from the book, for me, is more on a micro level. While many books deal with the effect of dictatorship on the country at large, this is the first novel that I have read dealing with the shattering effect of a dictatorship on the people closest to the dictator and their families. Also Trujjilo’s skilful handling of the people around him - keeping them on tenterhooks and playing one off another - is a classic lesson for politicians of all hues. The language is taut and the description of the events leading to the assassination and the actual deed inspire a rush of adrenalin and literally explode on the pages. The torture and reprisals of the population, complete with the mock trials, is brutal and eerily reminds me of the various riots and atrocities that have taken place in India over the last few decades.

This novel is a must read for all people living in democracies who sometimes lament about the bumbling nature of progress in a democratic system and pine for dictatorial rule. Dictatorships and authoritarian rule of any sort breed pure evil. Denying dissent is but a mere step away from denying the right to a life itself.