Brief Encounters of The Spiritual Kind

 

In August of 2004, when I had just arrived in Beaumont, Texas, I had the misfortune of stumbling across a young man who went to great lengths to convince me that Jesus had brought me from India, all the way to America, so that he could tell me about Christianity. Now that was a startling revelation because if I’d known that, I wouldn’t have bothered carrying my bank statements, transcripts and passport to the US embassy in Bombay for my visa interview; I’d have simply told the interviewing officer when she asked me why I wanted to go to America that it was my destiny as ordained by god. In any case, I did receive my visa and even now, it doesn’t say “divine intervention” on it which is quite disappointing if you ask me. This charming yank, with his distinctly Texan drawl, went on to tell me that, “hale, down’t you fowget where awl murderers, heathens and blasphemers end up, hale. Aawl of eternity, they gonna burrn in hale”. Then he went on tell me that his was a kind god, a loving god (not in the horny sense of the word), a god that cared. I listened. I argued. I invoked science. I listened. I quoted. I reasoned. But he had the last word. I was going to hale.

Irreligious by nature, I had a close brush with spirituality many years ago when I found myself in dire straits owing to a variety of reasons; I took to Vedanta, a school of Hinduism with close-ties to the Upanishads with a brief (thank god?) but impassioned fervor. I began attending Vedanta classes with a skeptic friend I managed to drag along by convincing him that it was an opportunity to meet attractive women; the first day, I tried to think of my exam scores to prevent myself from laughing when the guru began the lesson with a mantra that I later learnt could unleash the power of a thousand nuclear explosions (are you listening you WMD junkies?). A thousand nuclear explosions! zounds, the Manhattan project sounds amateurish in comparison. But honestly, the only reason I was inclined to religion all of a sudden was that I’d been reading too much Harry Potter and wanted to learn some seriously dangerous curses that I could use against all the cretin swarming around me. No, I didn’t want, to quote Doctor Octopus from Spider Man 2, “the power of the sun in the palm of my hand”, my ambitions were more modest – I wanted x-ray vision, to relieve myself without having to relieve myself, to predict if I’ll die drinking cheap booze,the mundane things we’d all like to have. So on the first day, I heard an apocalyptic mantra and was taught that the ultimate aim of all this learning was to acquire cosmic consciousness, to turn into some kind of a Hubble Space Telescope. Another boy, who was apparently taking all this consciousness stuff very seriously, told us that great swamis had toured the Solar System; from Mercury to Pluto and back in the blink of an eye (NASA, are you listening?). I was impressed, no doubt and paid some money and bough a text book with a brown plastic cover on it with lettering in Sanskrit and English. The index had a list of chapters that continued on the next page; I thought that when I ‘d finish reading all the chapters, I’d have attained cosmic consciousness. So I went home, returned all the books I’d been reading to the shelf, and began reading about the cycle of rebirth when my attention turned to a lizard that had a fly in its mouth. After it scurried under the tube light, I placed the treatise down and told myself that I had attained enough consciousness for one day.

A week or two later, my friend the skeptic dropped out, as there seemed to be no girls wanting to attain cosmic consciousness. A month later, I attended a speech by a high priest of Vedanta (whom I do not wish to name in case he gets offended and decides to invade my bowel movements using telekinesis) who looked remarkably fit for his age; before speaking, he began chanting the apocalyptic mantra and the audience joined in. “Illusion” he began, “all that is around us is an illusion. What then is reality? Is it what our senses perceive ?”. Hmmm. Something to think about. That mongrel pissing on the road is an illusion. That man, wiping his mouth, is an illusion. The police chowk, an illusion. The Internet cafe, an illusion.  Then what the #$%^ is not an illusion? “Reality…”, the master went on, “is unchanging”. The guy was impressive; I was sure he had been around the solar system. In the blink of an eye, as I was told. Faster than the speed of light. General Relativity is an illusion. The master was not lacking in humor either; he frequently joked, provoking great laughter in the audience. A man beside me in a saffron robe and long beard was laughing so hard that I thought I didn’t understand the joke. So I laughed with him, not to feel left out. After the speech, I came out feeling more spiritual than I’d ever felt in my life. I wanted the solar system so $%^&ing badly that I forgot where I was walking and stepped on a pile of shit that soiled my jeans permanently. Later on, after washing off the shit, the spirituality returned; I read the treatise and finished nearly half of it. That was as far as, say, Jupiter? Possibly. Soon, I experienced such confidence welling in me that I’d think to myself while walking on the street-look at those poor bastards, they’ll never know what is reality, where as I, I will become master of my own destiny, I will become a star child; once I’ve conquered the solar system I’ll move on to other shores, the Milky way, in the blink of an eye.

A month later, I seriously considered joining the master’s ashram, where, for the modest price of 99 thousand rupees an year, I could stay in the ashram with the disciples and pursue godhood. Living conditions in the ashram would be strict-no oily food, prayers from 4am, lights off at 9pm, limited TV hours, no booze, no marijuana, no watching porn on the public computer, restricted visitor’s hours, no leaving the ashram without permission, yes, it would be a demanding existence. If I weren’t doing so poorly in my exams, I wouldn’t have had the guilt that stopped me from asking my parents to shell out 99,000 rupees (an auspicious amount, no doubt, being a thousand rupees less than a lakh, a thousand tiny suns); but as I finished reading the treatise, I found that no one had been able to explain some minor issues I had with the concept of re-birth; I didn’t dare ask the high priest for fear of incurring his wrath since I noticed that he dismissed such basic questions with the arrogance of a cosmically conscious soul that had little time to waste on such trivialities. Soon, I had the opportunity to ask an elderly disciple of the swami to tell me about rebirth, which he explained was a dreadful cycle until the soul attained godhood. But I already knew that and I wanted more proof. “Have you traveled across the solar system?”, I asked him wearily, and he looked at me as if I was stoned. Since then, my impiety has grown and my ambitions have diminished; I now turn to Hollywood for all my inter-stellar traveling.

Coming back to Texas, the mad Christian didn’t know that I almost became a sorcerer, a chanter of apocalyptic mantras and a seer of everything; that wanting to traverse the solar system, I traversed a pile of shit. That hale, as the master said, was not a geographical location but a state of mind. That illusion, was what had brought me to America, more than anything else.

The Tiger and the Joystick

Recently, while playing “Project Gotham Racing” on my XBOX 360, I couldn’t believe my ears when the background music suddenly changed to a Punjabi song. Here I was, maneuvering a Ferrari  or Lamborghini or some such fancy car at break neck speed through the streets of Tokyo and I hear music that could have well emanated from a radio next to a tandoor oven in Chandigarh. “There must be an Indian on the programming team”, I thought; a video game was the last place where I’d expected to find further evidence of globalization. In fact, I later learned that “Dhruva Interactive”, India’s oldest gaming company, had PGR listed as one of its projects.

Unfortunately, one doesn’t get to see enough of India in the game world. While Indian programmers are wide-spread, there really isn’t a major game set in India. The only three-dimensional game I am aware of is a game based on Emperor Asoka, which doesn’t interest me enough to play it. Moreover, all good Indian game designers seem to be outsourcing their talents to the North American Gaming Market, which really isn’t surprising considering that the market for games in India is miniscule compared to the US and European Markets.

Having said that, I think there is a tremendous potential to be creative in terms of designing games centered around Indian themes, especially First Person Shooters. Maybe, when games become more affordable to Indians, we could see an FPS with an introductory video that shows a helicopter dropping off Commandos in a hilly terrain that could be construed as Kashmir. To make the game more authentic, Indian designers could throw in some indigenous swear words so that more patriotic, jingoistic Indians could experience the vicarious pleasure of abusing Pakistani militants. Once the militants have been obliterated and the border is secure, the scene would shift from Kashmir to Bombay where the mission is to rescue hostages held captive by terrorists in the Taj Hotel. The skeleton of this game plot will be familiar to gamers who’ve played Tom Clancy’s “Rainbow Six: Las Vegas” and any of the “Call of Duty” series.

There really is no limit to how imaginative and colorful the environment could get; imagine driving a Scooter along pot-holed roads flanked by authentic brothels or crashing through a Bollywood Poster to land on top of a double decker bus! Or a boss fight between one of the demons Indian mythology is so rich with and a pot-bellied inspector. Imagine pixilated women in Salwars, men in lungis and stray dogs; Indian designers could exploit historical events such as the emergency to construct their own stories; Needless to say, this might provoke the ire of certain factions but that is a risk that comes with being creative. The Indian climate favors controversies. An innocuous statue churned out by the game engine might incite riots somewhere. Yes, there are tremendous political, cultural and economic hurdles to overcome to create a uniquely Indian game that can deliver an original story line, complex visualization and outstanding game play.

Developing a state-of-the-art game costs millions of dollars. Unless one of India’s corporate giants is willing to fund such a massive project, the money will have to come from foreign sources.  The question is, will a game set in India have global appeal? A game like “Call of Duty” set in World War II, where the majority of action takes place in the European theatre appeals to nearly everyone because it is world history. Would a European or American or Japanese be as comfortable in the shoes of an Indian protagonist, playing a Jawan in the Indian Army or a rugged street urchin in Delhi? Maybe not for the most part but what most gamers look for, is an intensive gaming experience; it doesn’t matter if the stage is in post-apocalyptic Washington or an underwater city so long as there is a captivating plot, powerful AI, rich environment and cool weapons. Until such a game is developed, we’ll only be exploring distant shores.

 

Image: Kashmir Restaurant, BioShock

Man and Animals-Yuri Dmitriyev

Published in Moscow by Raduga in 1984, translated from the Russian into English by Raissa Bobrova, “Man and Animals” is an out-of-print book on man’s relationship with animals through the ages. I recently spotted the unforgettable cover featuring a giraffe, a sea serpent or kraken, a mythical Arabian Nights type bird (Rukh) carrying an elephant, a schooner, a butterfly and an anachronistic helicopter, on an Ebay listing for “Rare and antiquarian literature”. Though I was tempted to buy it, the book wasn’t cheap at thirty dollars. A brief search later, I found it on Amazon for four dollars and it is now sitting on my bookshelf, between a Harry Potter and a Fyodor Dostoevsky.

Like many Russian titles from the Soviet Era, the author remains largely mysterious; is he a zoologist, a wild life writer or just someone who happens to love animals? The back cover is blank, except for a small sticker in the bottom left that has the letters, “Imported Publications” on it with an Illinois address underneath. In this post-glasnost era, there still exists a limited market for Soviet relics, including Fairy Tale Books, Matryoshka dolls, communist propaganda and other items that are slowly vanishing into obscurity. As a result, thousands of excellent Russian books on a variety of subjects from Mathematics to Culture have been relegated to flotsam after a wreckage.

Next to an outline of a sea populated by even more fantastic creatures, the author gives a brief description and I am quoting from it :

“One book is not really enough to tell about the many different relationships between Man and animals. Nor have I tried to embrace the subject in its entirety. I wrote this book for children, striving, above all, to make them understand how important it is to know, love and protect animals”.

Indeed, the author’s passion is manifest on every page. In lucid prose, he brings together history, zoology and anthropology, re-iterating how dependent man has been on animals for survival. Almost encyclopedic in scope, the book is rich in content, including in its pages prehistoric cave paintings, animal legends, Gerald Durell, Martha-the last passenger pigeon, the coelacanth and numerous black and white photographs, drawings and reproductions so that even if a child was reluctant to read, it could spend hours staring at the pictures, like I once did.

Family away from family

 

In Rushdie’s “Midnight’s Children”, among the many gifts the protagonist Saleem Sinai was endowed with, one was that of attracting fathers. In reality, Americans choose to unofficially adopt foreign students to smoothen an otherwise disquieting acculturation process.

Typically, the foster family provides for its fosters by assisting them in furnishing their lodgings, inviting them for home cooked meals during holidays like Christmas/Thanksgiving and sometimes, imbibing them with Christian values. Often, relationships with foster parents turn out to be rewarding experiences in the sense that the foster gains a “family away from family” to fall back upon when life becomes stressful.

Despite the numerous advantages of being fostered, many students prefer not to be adopted by an American family for a variety of reasons, a popular one being proselytization. There are instances where the pressure of attending church weighs down upon the student as a way of repaying favors rendered. While it is true that most Christian families find the impetus for helping others in their own strong Christian beliefs, many don’t force their religion on the adoptees and in fact, go so far as to adjust to their fosters ‘ pre-existing cultural and religious values.

Others, like me, feel disloyal to the original family back home at the thought of entering a foster home. There is a perceived sense of betrayal in the very idea of an association that reeks of pseudo-parenthood- something not as unpretentious as friendship and somewhat less intimate than a blood bond. Obeying such sentiments is in a way unfortunate considering that foster homes can serve as invaluable conduits of cultural exchange paving the way for a world more tolerant of diversification. On the other hand, some feel burdened just having to satisfy the expectations of one family that the prospect of acquiring one more is intimidating.

In rare cases, the foster family evolves from being a substitute family to an extension of the family back home. In such cases, foster parents meet birth parents and a life-long friendship ensues characterized by the presence of members of both families at important functions, a cross-cultural marriage engendering a common pool of emotion and knowledge. This is the stage where barriers are fully torn down and distances, truly bridged.

Another less-common scenario is where the foster family supplants the original family to become the primary cartographer in the foster’s life guiding him through a set of values the foster internalizes. This can happen through religious indoctrination or if the foster was never very attached to his original family to begin with (parents having separated, abusive siblings, stagnant values), affording him a new lease at happiness.

Polemics and religion

 

 

I am sure there are innumerable zealots but I would like to focus on a Muslim gentleman called Dr.Zakir Naik and a Christian writer named Dinesh D’Souza; while both these men are more or less equally despicable for their religious dogma, the former has a more modest aim of altering current perceptions about Islam  (often at the cost of grossly misrepresenting the truth) and the latter, the grander ambition of totally repudiating atheism or in other words, making a strong case for God.

Dr.Naik, hails from Bombay and has lived there all his life; Mr.D’Souza on the other hand migrated to the United States from Bombay when he was 16. Sporting the traditional beard and cap of Islam, Dr.Naik is a lean man who is old enough to be taken seriously though far too young to be considered senile. Mr.Dsouza is a not unimpressive looking man who, though older, appears younger than Dr.Naik by a few years owing to the absence of a beard. Both men are impeccably dressed, dusky in complexion and are passionate about their respective religions. Dr.Naik unabashedly wears religion on his sleeve while Mr.D’Souza has the  semblance of an academician. As speakers, both men are endowed with tremendous oratorical skills but their approaches to seducing their audiences are essentially different in that Dr.Naik’s speeches are rife with simplistic analogies and inaccuracies of politics and religion while Mr.D’Souza’s debates are sophisticated polemics that make a significant departure from the tiring mumbo jumbo that fanatics usually spill out.

These zealots use different mediums to propagate their views : Dr.Naik is the founder, president and the chief voice of a network called “Peace TV” that is aired throughout the world; Mr.D’Souza is a New York Times best selling author of books like “What is so great about America” and “What is so great  about Christianity” that support his conservative stance. 

Mr.D’Souza’s  systematic approach to laying out the virtues of Christianity, his interpretations of Western Philosophy on religion and his refusal to resort to scriptures to score points might have earned him the admiration of his critics, who mostly hail from intellectual circles and/or are members of the left. Frequently alluding to Nietzsche, Kant, Hume and others, Mr.D’Souza hopes to defeat atheism on its own grounds by exposing its inherent metaphysical assumptions. Though originally from India, his accent is indicative of how long he has been in his adopted homeland, fully embracing its conservative mores. His enemies are the enemies of the political right. He offers a controversial interpretation for the poverty of African Americans and blames 9/11 on leftists. Strong as his arguments may be, under all the sophistry of language, masterful intonation and knowledge is the heart of a person who puts faith before science, religion before humanity. Shrewd enough to be politically correct most of the time, he doesn’t openly support creationism being taught in schools but he is a creationist nevertheless and is opposed to Darwinism.

Dr.Naik, whose quackery apparently extends beyond medicine, offers his nostrums to listeners who are willingly deluded. His target is not the learned scholar or the occasional intellectual but the average citizen who neither knows the art of rhetoric nor the mechanics of argument; to such a person, an out-of-context quote or half-baked research seems impressive enough to qualify as truth. To bolster the drivel he dishes out so eloquently, Dr.Naik operates under a veneer of feigned modesty and false erudition. As a result, the audience experiences a mass epiphany akin to something spiritual and they revere him for the startling answers he offers to age old questions and quarrels such as vegetarianism vs. meat and monogamy vs. polygamy. Although some of his answers may not be entirely ridiculous, they are trivial when compared to the flippant evidence he lays out to “prove” historical riddles and put to rest conspiracy theories; most deceptive of all, when someone from the audience questions him, he reaches into his tool box for the nuts and bolts he needs to tighten his loose arguments, conjuring them up when they don’t exist.

All said and done, having people like these makes life interesting. Dogma aside, these men provide an impetus for atheism to re-assert itself. To give the devils their due, Dr.Naik’s lectures have, on occasion, attacked loose statements like “Not all Muslims are terrorists but all terrorists are Muslims”. While he tries to cast Islam in a new light, which is commendable, Dr.Naik takes a dig at other religions, faiths and practices bringing out the fanatic in him.  Mr.D’Souza’s speeches on the other hand reveal a superior orator willing to battle it out till the end, using every subterfuge of language and logic known to him. He may not understand string theory but he is confident enough to make you believe he does. Great talkers as they are, it must be remembered that these are also men who would consign the non-believer to hell without thinking for a second.

Drain Pig And The Glow Boys In Critical Mess – Dan Pearce

Drain Pig is the first and most memorable graphic novel I have ever read and oddly, one nobody has even heard about. When my father delivered it into my hands after chancing upon it in a used book stall in Fountain, Bombay, the black and white cover of the squint eyed porker jutting out of a man hole with a squeamish expression on its face was not very impressive. A round badge pinned to its shirt had the words, “Nuclear Power? No Thanks” curved around a smiling sun. With little exposure to anything outside the usual range of comics about Super Heroes, Folk Tales or American High school, the strong political message, dark humor, mordant satire and bleak existence portrayed in Drain Pig, the debut work of British cartoonist Dan Pearce, presented a startling revelation to my 11 years of relatively sheltered upbringing.

My first encounter with the graphic novel strangely coincided with my own entry into adolescence, a wretched time when my body was undergoing transformations that I was struggling to accept. Even otherwise, it was one of the most miserable periods of my life as I was new to the city of Bombay (though I was born there), imprisoned in a concrete jungle and innocent to the vulgarity of my peers. Coming from a slower, less-noxious part of the country, the city was to me a museum of horrors : Public displays of desperation on beaches upon whose sands infinite quantities of plastic bags and feces were deposited in the morning after the tide’s withdrawal. I was never enthusiastic about attending school but the school I was in back then was a veritable mad-house with a psychotic principal who enjoyed barging into the class room to impart jaw-breaking slaps to anyone who wasn’t in his bench and nauseatingly boring bench mates with whom I seldom conversed. To add to the repression, it was an only-boys school, another thing I wasn’t used to . On the other hand, the kids in my building were smart asses who were better than me at everything. In the torment and confusion of those days, I could, in some way, relate to the brutal world of Drain Pig, the terrible injustice done to an animal whose only mistake was to have been born intelligent. My grudge on the other hand, was to have been born dumb.

Having said why the book means a lot to me, I’m providing a summary :

In the first illustration, we are shown the back of a woman, wearing high heels in all likelihood, (the author’s “TIC TAC TIC TAC” tells us that), as she walks along a street that seems to be up-slope during some ungodly hour with cars parked on sidewalks next to box-shaped buildings suggesting that the district is commercial. In the following sections, a man hole cover opens and a pig’s head pops out.

The solitary figure on the road is visible now-a portly middle-aged woman with a fur coat wrapped around her, carries a handbag : She appears strikingly bourgeoisie, has a cigar-shaped nose, thick lips and make-up on her face. The pig, now fully outside the drain, the initials “DP” stitched into the back of his shirt, affectionately lunges at the shocked woman as he calls her “M-M-Mummy!”. While the woman proceeds to beat the shit out of our protagonist with her hand bag, their sounds attract a policeman who gallantly comes to the rescue of the lady by giving DP a whack on his skull with a baton. The policeman’s words – “Gotcha this time drain pig…” indicate that Drain Pig has been a wanted felon even before this incident. Drain pig gets thrown into the cooler and the gallant policeman drives the lady, whose name happens to be Mrs.Hunt, to her opulent house.

At this point, the question looming in the reader’s mind is what is the relationship between DP and this woman? Is there anything at all or does “Mummy” have no significance? The author, departing from the traditional story line, chooses to explore the roots of this relationship through flashback later on.

The main characters in the graphic novel are Drain Pig and Mag, an upcoming reporter who works for a rag. Although fundamentally different beings, their destinies eventually inter-twine as the Nuclear Plant Mag is investigating turns out to be annexed to a high security jail where Drain Pig is locked up with other convicts for being a constant source of trouble to previous jailers. These convicts, called Glow Boys, are treated relatively better than in their previous correctional facility, as they perform the highly dangerous job of changing leaky reactors.

The secret of Drain Pig’s origin is revealed when Mag, who is Mrs.Hunt’s daughter, visits her parents. Being a reporter, she covers the court hearing where her Mother testifies against Drain Pig. Refusing her mother’s story, Mag pushes Mrs.Hunt for the truth till she eventually tells Mag how she was working as a servant for a Professor who kept pigs as a hobby when one day he discovers an intelligent piglet whom he teaches to speak and christens “Danny”. Being an old man, the professor fears for Danny’s future and entrusts his wealth to Mrs.Hunt stipulating on the will that she be responsible for Danny. Once the Professor dies, Mrs.Hunt feels increasingly embarrassed to care for a pig and in a fit of rage, flushes Danny down the toilet awakening his love for sewers. Mag, with her sense of integrity, is appalled by this story of her mother and decides to fight for Danny.

As the meeting between Danny and Mag draws to a close, we encounter several interesting characters and critters : Judge Strangeways with a penchant for kinky at Madame Fifi’s correctional establishment,

Mag’s repulsive editor- Kevin Grit of “The Daily Dross”, Bernie- a peace camp member who apparently designed the power plant and whom his assistant Sophie calls “ a real Buckminster, Fuller Freak”, mutant crabs, Fingers-Danny’s best friend who turns blind after a dose of radiation, Mr.Hunt-Mag’s moronic father, Robinson-the unscrupulous manager of the power plant and his naive, alcoholic colleague, Walt.

Mr.Pearce’s extraordinary illustrations are incisive in capturing twisted expressions of sadism and in creating an utterly believable atmosphere of despondency, corruption and apathy, overflowing with satirical brilliance . At the same time, they provide glimpses of rare innocence, such as in the defeated character of Fingers , in crusaders like Bernie fighting losing battles and in the intense longing for freedom in Danny’s eyes.

But the real horror in the graphic novel that matched the horror strewn on the beach every morning in Bombay was in the depiction of Mag’s dream as she dozes off reading a book titled “Nuclear Nightmare”

where she encounters glow boys, hordes of mutant crabs inching towards her and Danny the Drain Pig, who safely lifts away her naked body only to drop her into the polluted sea. This, for me, is where the book transcended fiction as the pollution of Pearce’s Sizemould Bay was metaphorical of everything happening in my life at that time.

 

Note: You can reach Dan at dan@mirandan.com

His website is http://www.mirandan.com/

I have a copy of the rare book with me and will soon be uploading it on ISSU.

Sacred Hunger by Barry Unsworth

 

 

Barry Unsworth’s epic tale of greed and suffering centers around two men in the eighteenth century- Matthew Paris, a doctor aboard The Liverpool Merchant- a slave ship bound for America and his cousin, Erasmus Kemp, landlocked in a Victorian romance that eventually leads to the latter’s emotional downfall. Through The Merchant, the author explores the ghastly triangular trade where baubles are bartered for slaves along the West Coast of Africa en route to the new world, and re-bartered for goods that would be sold in England completing the somber triangle. The title, Sacred Hunger, is as profound as it is original; just as profit is sacred to those who strive for it, so is the drive that impels them, the hunger which finds a dark apotheosis in this brilliant work that in its essence raises philosophical questions much like Camus’ The Stranger.  

 

Few characters in modern literature evoke the degree of terror and brutality as that of the captain of the vessel-Thurso, a shrewd and merciless reprobate greatly feared by his crew. Paris, the slaver’s doctor on the other hand is in strong contrast to Thurso, as a man remarkably enlightened for the century and era he was born into. The Doctor’s reason for embarking on such a calamitous voyage aboard The Liverpool Merchant that had little monetary benefits to offer is steeped in tragedy. For him, it was less a perilous adventure than escape from a land where his happiness was impossible. No stranger to suffering himself, one cannot help but be touched by the good Doctor’s genuine empathy towards the slaves eventually leading him to make decisions that would change the course of his life forever.

 

Although sections of Sacred Hunger are vaguely reminiscent of Spielberg’s movie Amistad, the novel is unlike anything ever attempted before in terms of mastery of craft- Unsworth’s words delineate history with enormous detail-from wanton acts of necrophilia to the bourgeois delicacies of English households, nothing ruins this high-wire act across the valley of time; and in terms of plot, it is flawless. Utterly convincing. There are no cheap gimmicks here-not an iota of pretense. Despite everything-the squalor, the abysmal cruelty human beings are capable of, the humiliation of the weak, the triumph of greed; it would be puerile to call this a depressing novel. It is beyond that. Beyond redemption even. A blasphemous rendering of one thoroughly fucked-up time. The novel is nothing short of a work of genius in that the writing measures up to the monumentally difficult task of re-creating a bygone era to an extreme degree of credibility. It would not be an overstatement to say that Sacred Hunger is one of the most ambitious literary resurrections ever attempted.  It is an endeavor that reeks of masterful storytelling entwined with scholarship and a deep understanding of human psychology. Sadly, it remains one of the most underrated works of the 20^th century despite being an imaginative tour-de-force.

Trick Or Treat

Today is Halloween. With four days left for the United States Presidential election, anyone can surmise that unless something goes drastically wrong, the conservative right will lose the race. It is evident from the speeches on television that the Republican Party is beginning to feel increasingly desperate. After all, McCain has been outspent and out-endorsed. Colin Powell, Billy Joel, McClellan and Bill Clinton have all fervently expressed their support for Senator Barack Obama.  Does McCain really think that Joe-the-plumber’s voice will be heard against that of these political and cultural heavy weights? Can the American people really lack any sense of discretion? The answer to both these questions, fortunately or unfortunately, is yes.

By using an ordinary middle-class god-fearing white American blue collar worker as a symbol of America’s work force, McCain’s strategy is to win over a majority of the votes from people who are more or less in the same occupational status as Joe. From people who more or less share his love of god and an unabashed sense of pride that supports the reasoning that a citizen of the most powerful country in the world can and should afford to be not-apologetic. To paraphrase Joe, “Why must we be so apologetic dammit! We live in the world’s no.1 country”. Yes, the sad truth is that the no.1 country in the world or at least the people who run it (Guess who? Not Joe-the Plumber, Joe-the CEO) can wreck all the havoc they want wherever they want in the name of patriotism. Or worse still, under the guise of freedom. After eight years of throwing tax-payers money down the proverbial drain, you might think the nation has finally opened its eyes to the truth. You might think that the dawn of realization has finally arrived to awaken the slumbering masses lost in the miasma of deception-it is now more probable for SETI to locate alien signals in space than for the US army to locate any weapons of mass destruction in Iraq.

And yet, there is a significant section of the population that firmly believes that the war can still be won. Yesterday, Sarah Palin urged her listeners to vote for a candidate who will not shy away from a war that is on the verge of being won. Really, who is she kidding ? The answer is obvious – that significant percentage of the population that is kidding itself.

The United States is at present in an economic crisis; apparently the worst since the great depression. While greedy bankers are largely responsible for the steep decline in interest rates by doling out an excess of sub-prime mortgages, the war on Iraq has no doubt played a major and devastating role in emptying the country’s coffers. And yes Joe, that is one amongst several hundred other reasons why an American must be apologetic. If someone doesn’t understand the language of humanity- a hundred thousand civilians dead, half-a-million children crippled, no food supplies for three hundred miles, no water supply for six months (I am sure Joe understands this part about the water supply at least, he is a plumber after all), speak in the language of money- $2 billion a week. Even Bill Gates cannot afford to finance this war for more than 6 months. A year into the war and he will be on welfare – and you don’t need to take my word for it, ask him yourself. In a recent interview with Larry King, Michael Moore was asked how Obama can manage to stabilize the economy in just 6 months and in a reply that shouldn’t have been surprising at all but nevertheless was as I have rarely heard anyone put it so bluntly; Michael said, “How about stopping the war on Iraq? That is $40 Billion an year”. If only all voters thought as rationally as Mr. Moore. But many of them are in fact so stupid that John McCain and Sarah Palin are counting on it. They are depending on every cross-carrying, cheeseburger-chewing yank to fall for their lack-luster, dressed-up policies. People slip into costumes on Halloween. Policies slip into costumes every day.

The most important question looming over this nation right now is whether the people of America will be tricked or treated on the 4^th of November. Assume a scenario, however hellish it might be, where John McCain and Sarah Palin make it to the White House. There are two obvious consequences. 1. The War on Iraq continues.   2. Greed flourishes unchecked. Less obvious is the fact that this nation will lose, from what we know so far,  an eminent leader unlike any seen in the history of America. And I am not talking about race here although Obama’s win will at least set a precedent for an African American (albeit only 50%)  to occupy the highest office of the, no doubt, most powerful nation in the world. Now is it possible to ignore this nagging and utterly unpleasant question about race? The answer is a definite No. It has hardly been 50 years since segregation was the de facto standard in many institutions. And a little more than 50 since Rosa Parks refused to shift seats from the white section of a Montgomery Bus in Alabama to the black section. True, 50 years is a long time in politics and culture. True, America has left the era of segregation long behind. That said, Obama’s presidency will be a brutal and sanctifying slap on the cheek of White supremacist groups (By the way, the KKK site proudly asserts that “We do not endorse Obama”).  Only last week or was it this week, two white supremacists had been arrested for plotting a shoot-out in an African-American school. Eventually, their plan would lead to the assassination of Senator Obama. Now is race an important factor to consider in this presidential race?  Consider that a rhetorical question.

Focusing again on Michael Moore’s interview with Larry King, Moore asked a great question. “Even if he (Obama) is a Muslim, how does it matter?”.  Surely, it shouldn’t matter to a country that has separated state and religion. It seems ridiculous to the utmost degree to assume, especially in this case, that Obama’s supposed Islamic faith might interfere with the interests of America. I said supposed because Obama is an avowed practitioner of Christianity. But even if he were a practicing Muslim, it would be retarded to assume that he is a fundamentalist. Fundamentalism is a religion by itself that parasites on all religions of the world- Hinduism, Islam, Sikhism and Christanity. But Palin and McCain are counting on the people’s ignorance of that, aren’t they? Treat that as another rhetorical question.

 

 

 

 

 

Remembering MISHA

Back in the 1980s, Misha (which translates to bear in Russian) was the most popular children’s magazine in India published in English. Within its glossy pages, you were treated to folk tales, science fiction, riddles, photographs,

pen pal sections, puzzles and illustrations. As an added bonus, it smelled awfully good. Unfortunately the collapse of the USSR spelled death for many Soviet publishing houses (Raduga, Mir and others) and Misha soon became extinct. For years I searched for magazine back issues in second hand stalls all over Bombay finding a tattered copy every once in a while. Even expert book sellers who run bazaars such as the ones in the Fountain area hadn’t heard of the magazine. In the beginning of 2003, I found a man on the footpath in Dadar T.T. (next to the fly over) selling old novels and as I have a nose that is particularly sensitive to valuable and out-of-print literature, I spotted or rather, sniffed a stack of Mishas containing several issues that had been published through the 80s and 90s.

The moment was, needless to say, exhilarating. At that time I had 120 rupees with me, (roughly the equivalent of 2.5 dollars). I offered the man 100 rupees and he happily gave me the stack without making me resort to haggling. Even If I’d had a 100 dollars, I’d still have given it all to him. The seller had no idea how rare the magazines he was selling were. They were moreover in excellent condition with barely a few creases here and there. No dog eared pages, no silver-fish damage or greasy stains. I really have no idea how much the magazines are worth and don’t plan on ever selling them. For those of you keen on obtaining actual copies, I only have one word of advice- persevere. You never know when you might strike gold. As one of the commentors aptly mentioned, famous second-hand book sellers may not have the rare gems decaying in smaller, more perishable establishments. Before I conclude, I request you to not entreat me to send you a physical copy of the magazine as some have-I do not need your money nor your gifts. Some things just cannot be bought, no matter how trite that sounds.

Update (December 5, 2008) : Thanks to Javi, the Argentinian guy who commented on this post, I will be using ISSUU as a platform for upoading MISHA. It’s fast, convenient and makes for easy reading online by allowing a magazine format. The September 1987 copy is a little tattered as can be seen from the scan. I assure you that most of the other magazines in my possession are in a far better condition considering their age and the abuse wrought on them by the elements of nature and careless vendors.

March 1984: http://issuu.com/arohufish/docs/misha843
September 1987: http://issuu.com/arohufish/docs/misha879001       (NEW)

The Cairo Trilogy

Palace Walk (1917-1919)

We are introduced to Al Sayyid Ahmad Abd Al Jawad, a conservative patriarch and his family-Amina, the subservient wife who doesn’t dare lift her eyes to her husband despite his debaucheries and iron rule that keeps her in house arrest. Fahmy, the law student whose nationalistic fervor makes him stand up against the British and who, when the novel is about to reach its conclusion, breathes his last. Kamal, a courageous young boy with the spunk to make friends with the enemy and who is devoted to his sisters. Yasin, Al Sayyid Ahmad’s first son, whose mother he divorced. Aisha and Khadija, sisters with temperaments and looks that are very different and in contrast to one another. Khadija with her mediocre looks, acerbic tongue and petulant ways. Aisha, with her god-given beauty, impeccable manners and mellow nature. Umm Hanafi, the servant of the Al Jawad household who has been with the family long enough to become an inseparable part of it.

Al Sayyid Ahmad is a devout Muslim whose hypocrisy permits him to set different rules for the women of his household and for the courtesans who add to his bacchanalian revelries characterized by music, wine and promiscuity. During the day, he manages a grocery shop that permits him to flirt every now and then. Seldom does a harsh word or an inappropriate phrase pass his lips when he is with anyone who is not a family member. In him we see something of a split personality: A reticent and short tempered disciplinarian who in his house, will not brook nonsensical or unnecessary talk and outside, a witty and loyal friend whose eloquence with language and passion for life endear everyone who comes into contact with him. Although a thick wall prevents his family from taking part in this lighter side of his personality, they nevertheless greatly revere and love him and just as love of god doesn’t make them less god fearing, love for Al Sayyid Ahmad doesn’t make him less fearful in their eyes.

When Al Sayyid Ahmad leaves on a business trip to Port Said for a day, Amina is torn between her desire to visit the mosque of Al-Husayn, a descendant of prophet Muhammad, and her obedience towards her husband. On the insistence of her children, she eventually succumbs to her desire and decides to visit the shrine with her son, Kamal. On their return from the mosque, a car knocks her over and she is brought back to the house, unconscious. With one arm in a cast, she is afraid that Al Sayyid Ahmad will find out about her secret excursion to the mosque but her children persuade her to cover up the incident with a small lie that she broke her arm in the midst of a household activity. Unable to bear the lie, whose magnitude is magnified to gargantuan proportions by her conscience, she confesses to Al Sayyid Ahmad, telling him everything that happened. At first, Al Sayyid Ahmad doesn’t respond. He at once seems forgiving and large hearted but once Amina recovers, he sends her away, much to the children’s’ grief, to her mother’s house.

Meanwhile, Aisha receives a proposal for marriage and this intensifies Khadija’s jealousy and fears that she will remain a spinster forever. The occasion however, gives Al Sayyid Ahmad a chance to forgive his wife’s grave misconduct and invite her back, though not in so many words and Amina, whose love and respect for her husband only increase due to this sudden act of benevolence, is only very happy to be restored to her children at Palace Walk. Soon, Khadija receives a similar offer from the brother of the man who proposed to Aisha and the two sisters become destined to live under the same roof for the rest of their (which is however not the case owing to a tragedy at the end of Palace of Desire, the second book in the trilogy) lives.

Yasin, who resembles his father the most in having inherited his looks and his interests, suffers from an unquenched lust. Seeing him suffer, his father marries him off to Zaynab, the daughter of a friend. For a while, Yasin savors marital bliss but when his nightly wanderings and spirit of celebration upset his wife, making her pour out her frustrations to him, he is soon disillusioned and confides this to Fahmy, his half-brother. What seems unfair to Yasin is the discrepancy in the treatment accorded to him by his wife, Zaynab and that accorded to his father by Amina, his step-mother.

After Aisha’s marriage, not unintoxicated, he makes a move on Umm Hanafi on the terrace and owing to the latter’s screams, is discovered by Al Sayyid Ahmad before he can fulfill his mission much to his terror and shame. This serves as a catalyst to precipitate the collapse of the already weak molecular structure of his matrimony and soon, Yasin finds himself divorced. Amidst this, Zaynab bears his child in her womb.

Fahmy meanwhile, is crushed by his desire for Maryam, the neighbor’s daughter, with whom he carries on a secret affair consisting of glances and expressions as meaningful and promising to him as intermittent light signals are to a firefly in search of a mate.When the terrace is out of bounds to either of them, Kamal plays the role of a messenger in that he passes on Fahmy’s requests to Maryam and takes back Maryam’s innuendos to the anxious Fahmy. Al Sayyid Ahmad however refuses peremptorily when Fahmy asks for his permission to request her hand in marriage, an action which the former would regret for the rest of his days.

Despite his father’s protests, Fahmy continues to take an active role in protesting against the tyranny of the British rule. Here is the suggestion that Al Sayyid Ahmad is a metaphor to the British occupation of Egypt and Fahmy, just as he couldn’t assert his freedom in his house, couldn’t assert it in his country either and the loss of Maryam is an apt harbinger of the loss of his life.