Fleeting Life: Umr-e-ravaan

Umr-e-ravaan

Aaiye, baithiye
Apna hi ghar samajh lijiye
Waise bhi yahaan sirf eentein hai
Farsh par paththar
Eik bada sa darakht
Jisme lehrate chhote-chhote kaanch ke tukde
Un par phaili hui dhoop mein
Pattey apne aks ko dekh kar itraa rahe hai
Phool tau khud ko kab ke luta chuke the

Aaiye, baithiye
Woh baadal jo dekh rahe hai
Hum ne khareed liya hai
Acchche daam mein mil gaya
Saath mein baarish bhi muft aayegi
Aasman ka thoda hissa qabze mein hai
Ab ghanton tak zameen par nazrein nahin padegi
Bohat door ki sochte hai

Aaiye, baithiye
Ajnabee banke hi sahi
Khauf nikaal dijiye
Hum sirf qissa hai
Kahaani nahin
Kuchch khayalon mein jagah bana di hai
Eik koney mein chhupa diye gaye hai
Raaz ki tarah

Aaiye, baithiye
Waqt ke saath qat’l ho jaayegi yaadein bhi
Phir aankon se aankhein mod lena
Laboun se moonh pheir lena
Zulfon ke chaman se khushboo chura lena
Kuchch chhod ke mat jaana
Bichchadna tau hai eik din
Chalo ab se hi marsiah padh le kachhe dhaagon ka

~FV

Nearing the end...

Half his tongue has been cut, his palate has been removed, the jaw sliced. His face is defaced. Tubes run deep through his veins to feed him, sustain a life that is going to extinguish. He should have died long ago. He is still here. One eye has gone blind, he cannot speak. He survives. Listens to people talk. Sends funny text messages. He can move his hands. He can write. His mind is agile.

Would not such a mind be afraid? Is he challenging death? Or life?

He is a friend’s cousin and I occasionally inquire about him. It is the last stage of cancer and with all these parts gone there is no hope at all; he knows it. He is a doctor.

He is not asking to be put out of his pain. He is not crying. He is not even complaining.

He wasn’t like that. He used to be aggressive. Wanted things his way. I think he still does. He will shut his eyes when he thinks he cannot take it anymore, when that hand stops having the desire to pen replies.

Until then, everyday is a miracle.

- - -

marane kii duaaye.n kyuu.N maa.Nguu.N jiine kii tamannaa kaun kare
ye duniyaa ho yaa vo duniyaa ab Khvaahish-e-duniyaa kaun kare

jo aag lagaa_ii thii tum ne us ko to bujhaayaa ashko.n ne
jo ashko.n ne bha.Dakaa_ii hai us aag ko Tha.nDaa kaun kare

jab kashtii saabit-o-saalib thii saahil kii tamannaa kis ko thii
ab aisii shikastaa-kashtii me.n saahil kii tamannaa kaun kare

duniyaa ne hame.n chho.Daa ai dil ham chho.D na de kyo.n duniyaa ko
duniyaa ko samajh kar baiThe hai.n ab duniyaa duniyaa kaun kare

- Moen Ahsan Jazbi

Antea and Madonna

I have an iffy attitude towards Renaissance painting. I find it too ‘heavy’ and often ritualistic. On the other hand, there is a sense of timelessness, an ornate delicacy that age does not seem to have tarnished.

Faces fascinate me. I do not quite recall when I first set my eyes on Antea by Parmigianino. They say it is his best work and compared with the Mona Lisa. “Due to the naturalistic presentation and the gaze of the model, historians believe that the artist knew the young woman, yet her identity remains a mystery. But her real name is but one of the mysteries which surround the paintings,” I read somewhere.

As far as mysteries go, there always seems to be that hint of it added to what already appears enigmatic. However, I do not agree that the gaze and presentation should assume that the artist knew the model. Art can take liberties with these aspects. And I do not see any hint of the Mona Lisa. This is an almost full-length portrait, Mona Lisa isn’t. This one’s expression is still, almost freezing. Mona Lisa has the hint of a smile and even the eyes are not stony.

So what makes Antea special? Her arrogance. Her deportment. I love the way her left hand is poised, almost suggesting “It’s got to be me”. Some say that she was either a courtesan or from an aristocratic family. I go along with the first view, for I think women of royalty might have liked to sit for their portraits. And woe to anyone who might ask them to stand…well, I would not have stood that long!

Now comes the courtesan theory. She does look innocent, but that is the true art of coquetry. It is the defiance in the small tender lips, ready to purse into a sulk. She is accustomed to attention and is demanding it. The clothes she is wearing seem to fit her but are not a part of her regalia. Her skill and appeal lie elsewhere and that is how her right hand turns inward rather subconsciously.

Interestingly, it is said that this same face is akin to one of the angels in Parmigianino’s Madonna of the Long Neck. I reckon she is the one on the right of the Madonna; her hair is golden here.

This painting is amazing. There is no religiosity here at all. Look at how everyone is so distant. No one except the mother is looking at the child, who is certainly no infant. Even the Madonna is not holding the child closer; it is like watching a piece of art. Her fingers are almost tentacle-like. You can see her belly and navel and breast and nipple through her clothes, which are not sheer. There is a reluctant softness to her expression.

The child, even in sleep, is reaching out; the right knee is curved as though ready to get back into a foetal position.

The Romanesque backdrop makes is appear like a painting within a painting.

The experts may have expert things to say. I guess I am not all that iffy about Renaissance art, after all.
- - -
Exhibiting from 29th of January 2008 at the Frick Collection in New York

The ‘Anti’ Pros

Maverick: The ‘Anti’ Pros
by Farzana Versey
The Asian Age, Op-ed, Jan. 29, 2008

Now that the country has decided that for seven years running no one has been a jewel in our crown, we can talk about the business of those who refuse to be knaves of the System.

While I love anti-establishment figures, there are occasions when the rejection of awards is cause for wonder. And I am not referring to the posthumous honour to Subhas Chandra Bose which had to be withdrawn because there was a case filed in the Supreme Court against its “posthumous” nature!

We shall talk about someone like Ustad Vilayat Khan who refused the national awards twice because he felt the committee wasn’t competent enough to judge his music.

These awards are not about expertise. They are about how proud you have done the country. If knowledge of a field is important, then who can decide on something as abstract as ‘peace’? Should people refuse the Nobel Peace Prize because Alfred Nobel invented dynamite?

The word ‘principles’ is thrown around quite randomly. Is abjuring rewards the highest virtue? Towards the end of his life I had interviewed Morarji Desai and asked him what Mahatma Gandhi would have to say about encomiums like the Bharat Ratna? “He would not have permitted it. I, too, don’t believe in these things, but since I had accepted the Pakistani award I could not refuse this one.”

This was extremely candid.

Quite in contrast to historian Romila Thapar who has stated she will “only accept awards from academic institutions or those associated with my professional work”. Does her professional work not involve poking into heritage sites of the country? When she talks about academic institutions, are they all privately-owned?

Suppose an institution awards V.S. Naipaul, whose views on Hindutva are quite different from hers, would she then refuse one from it even for her “professional work”? I have the highest regard for the lady as I do for Arundhati Roy, who snubbed the Sahitya Akademi Award saying she could not accept the honour from an institution linked to the Government whose policies she opposes. She threw the baby out with the bathwater, to use a cliché, for the ‘government-linked’ institution was feting her for raising questions in ‘The Algebra of Infinite Justice’.

Dramatist Ratan Thiyam had returned the Padma Shri a while ago and written to the President saying that the Centre’s decision to extend the Naga ceasefire had “caused deaths, injuries, turmoil and restlessness in the North-East”. This was a clear protest. Just as Khushwant Singh’s was when he rejected his Padma Bhushan to voice disapproval against Operation Blue Star. In 2007 he was awarded the Padma Vibhushan; he accepted it. It is possible to nitpick and say justice to the victims of the Sikh riots has still been denied, but we have to take into account the several governments that have come in the interim. He had opposed a particular government action, not the aftermath.

Journalist Nikhil Chakravartty believed journalists should not be identified with the establishment. This is a perfectly honourable stand. We will have to extend the parameters, then. Journalists ought not to go on junkets with ministers. Besides, how many people would refuse the Person of the Year honour given out by media houses that depend on advertising? The ads are about companies that may do a lot of hera-pheri where taxes are concerned, or they may market things that pollute the environment or face creams that reveal prejudices. How would the recipients react to this?

If an award is named after a renowned figure, would it be prudent to make sure that the person honoured shares a similar ideology? Should we not apply the same yardstick to private enterprise as we do to our government?

It is absolutely right to oppose Establishment policies, but how many people check on the antecedents and financial history of the organisations that invite them to lecture against the System? Why is it that those who are so particular about our government’s abysmal human rights record, do not hesitate to be special guests of countries with similar or worse records? If it is the sheer ability to salivate over imperialism and rubbish it, then no one is stopping us from doing so on home turf. I have always maintained that the minute you apply for a sponsored visa and are ushered through immigrations till you return home, you are hostage to the alien environment.

I like to quote the example of Robert Redford who was honoured a few years ago by the Kennedy Centre for his lifetime contribution to the arts and American culture. He had second thoughts about attending the function as he might have had to sit next to President George Bush, whose policies he disapproves of. Instead of getting self-righteous, he said, “It’s obviously a big honour that cannot be denied. My initial confusion was whether it was in any way tied to the government. Once I realised it was an honour above politics, I breathed easier.”

He was mature enough to recognise that the arts have no politics and as an American he ought not to have a problem with ‘American culture’.

Therefore, Indian art and Indian culture and being honoured as a representative have nothing to do with who runs the government. The splitting hairs scenario is a fascinating exercise but hardly rewarding.

Together with the vanity of those who win, is the vanity of those who choose to not win. In a twist of gumption, the winners are called losers.

Hip hypocrites

It is fine to take out protest rallies against dictators. But is public memory so short that people will forget the sheer double standards on blatant display here? Do Jemima and her ex-husband Imran Khan need to ‘use’ Benazir? Read the caption…she is pointing to BB’s picture. To tell the world what? That she even gives a damn? Not everyone is going to buy it lady, and her lord.

These are their not-so-old quotes. In fact, a little before Benazir’s death. Hypocrisy ki bhi koi hadd hoti hai…

Jemima:

“She has only been able to return because Musharraf, that megalomaniac, knows that his future depends on the grassroots diehard supporters inherited from her father's party, the PPP…As a result, Musharraf, who in his first months in power declared it his express intention to wipe out corruption, has dropped all charges against her and granted her immunity from prosecution. Forever…Benazir is a pro at playing to the West. And that's what counts. She talks about women and extremism and the West applauds. And then conspires.”

Imran:

“She alone among Pakistan's political party leaders has given public support to the massacre of women and children that Musharraf caused when he ordered his troops to attack the Red Mosque in Islamabad… She also backed his attacks on civilians in the tribal regions.”

Frozen

Mumbai winter? The smirk is unmistakable. But at 11 C it is more than a little nippy. Being lazy, there is no way I will bring my woollies out, unless I am to travel to a real winter destination. So, it takes me several minutes to adjust in bed; I attempt to get the soles of my feet together…yes, it looks like a flattened out Bharat Natyam dancer…then do a mudra with my palms joined, I shake my body like a dog, and finally the razai is over my head. I breathe out warm air.

Images: Piping hot soup, the smoke curving skyward like a genie from a lamp. Dunking a macaroon in hot chocolate, the layer of cream clinging to it like a slobbering kiss. Hissing of the fireplace as wood crackled and flames leaped out like serpents. Warm ashes on cold floor. Sunsets a dark orange. Early nights. Mornings of adrak chai. Burnt tongues. Sudden cravings for ice-cream and teeth chattering like gossip-mongers.

There are memories of several winters. In Darjeeling there is this clubby sort of hotel. They are booked not days, and months, but often at least a year in advance for the peak time. The rooms are rather small. Dinner is served early at the sound of the gong. It is a very English place. The bearers treat you like a memsahib from some long-lost era. This suits me so wonderfully…a professor had once told me, “You look so Victorian.” Dinner did mean being dressed for it. And taking off your jacket. In my case it means removing three layers before I can look respectfully “dressed for dinner”. I choose the table where the heat comes in front, I like the way the face changes colour. I cannot see myself, but the feeling registers.

The good thing about travel is one does things one would not otherwise do simply because it is an effort or not a part of the routine. I do like liqueurs, especially Amaretto, with its slight bitterness. After dessert this is soothing.

There is a small library and one riffles through pages even as other guests make conversation, eye-contact…small bits of information are exchanged. Where are you from? Have you been to this part? What do you do?

I love wooden floors, so I walk around and hear it creak beneath my shoes. I love those big leather chairs where you sink in and appear so tiny and vulnerable as you fold your arms, still a bit cold.

Back in the room, there is a mint placed on the bed. Beneath the blanket is a hot water bottle. Since this is an olde worlde place there is a fireplace, but no heater. Within a couple of hours, the fire dies. No telephone in the room. It is too late to ring the bell for someone. The staff too must be cold. Instead, I imagine lava breaking out of a volcano all night and wake up to a sun too shy to fully reveal itself.

I bare my eyes to the mist.

What is this?

Fatima Bhutto is attending the Jaipur Literary Festival. Naturally, she has got a lot of attention, and not much for anything literary. So, she has been giving a detailed description of her father’s assassination. It is painful to read. I also understand she was inconsolable on TV after Benazir’s death despite being critical of her. Only natural, for family ties do not just snap like that even if you do not agree politically.

However, her one quote at the Fest has really put me off. And there is no scope for ‘context’ here. She was asked if she regretted being so harsh on her aunt’s past record. This is what she said:

“No, I have no regrets about what I said about my aunt. If she had continued to live, she would have given me only more material to write.” (The audience at the back is reported to have guffawed) “Come to think of it, of all the Bhuttos, she lived the longest. She lived until 55, my grandfather died at 50, my father died at 42, and my uncle Shahnawaz died at only 26. As a Bhutto, she had a pretty long run.”

I suppose the mourning period is well and truly over. God bless America.

Elegy

The tissue beneath the microscope
Could not cope
With my gaze
It frittered away
Into rag-like fragments
Beggar’s raiments
I picked up a stringy piece
And gave it a new lease
Of life
Glued it to the canvas
Covered with acrylic
In yellow
Hiding the sallow
Face of loss
Like moss
On a gravestone
They called me for the final rites
Late at night
It was too dark to see the soil
But people did recoil
At the sight of a tissue being lowered in the earth
A shoot sprouted from beneath my feet
I could see something take birth
A scroll unfurled
Splotches of mud with words
The undertaker walked over them
Every step an elegy to pain

~FV

January 26

On any national holiday, one gets to hear the same old songs...most are good. For me, Saathi haath badhana from Naya Daur remains a favourite because it does not merely wallow in patriotism...it asks us, the people of India, to work and claim what we deserve. I like the following lines best...


maaTii se ham laal nikaale.n motii laae.n jal se
jo kuchh is duniyaa me.n banaa hai banaa hamaare bal se
kab tak mehanat ke pairo.n me.n ye daulat kii za.nziire.n
haath ba.Dhaakar chhiin lo apane sapano.n kii tasvIre.n


Saathi haath badhana





For those who want the more conventional, there is Vande Mataram: The following are two versions, both not the original.


Lata Mangeshkar






A R Rehman

The broken mirror

She died. I heard. I did not know she lived. Where she lived. With whom. How. Nothing.

I felt her death, I cannot explain how. I felt her in death, as though her stiff body was within me. The pain spread to the arms, the belly hardened, the face went numb. The lungs would not expectorate even a sound.

I felt her death because they had said I reminded them of her. From certain angles, maybe. From a certain perspective. From a region of nowhereness where you could not quite pin it down but it was there…perhaps the way I smiled, or the way I looked away in the distance, or chewed the nail on my little finger, or bit my lower lip, or frowned, or walked, or pushed my hair behind my ears everytime strands fell on my cheeks like running mascara.

Maybe, we used the same fragrance, the same shade of lipstick, the same colours for clothes.

Maybe, we occupied spaces without touching our feet on them, or were scattered about by cyclones that hovered near us even in fair weather.

There wasn’t much talk but after that one and only, “There is something similar”, I had begun to feel like there was a mirror somewhere, a mirror I could not look into. She did not know of my existence so she was not burdened with my thoughts. I was. Not quite burdened, but I did carry her and felt like those looking at me were looking for her.

They were not. I know it. She had become a past because she was the past. They only told me because it was a way of sharing. But I carried her. I did not want to; she stayed. I don’t know when I buried her, though. A year ago? Two years ago?

She died. I heard. It did not sound like news. It seemed like a mirror crashed somewhere and the glass pieces reached me when it was too late.

- - -

Image: Picasso’s Girl Before a Mirror

Surveying the Indian woman? Rubbish!

Last night I was watching a ‘serious’ discussion as part of the ‘State of the Nation’ surveys conducted by CNN-IBN on women across the country regarding different issues. The topic was ‘Morality and the Indian woman's mind’.

Let me quote one of the participants:

“This agenda of liberation that women have—which has come with financial freedom and changing roles—has made them prisoners of war in confines of morality. They want to free out of that. A prisoner of war is good only when he is free. I am not sure if the survey indicates that (women believe) marriage is a freer of women and live-in relationship enslaves them.”

Good. Except for that huh comment…like when a POW is free s/he ceases to be a POW. And how smart is it to call women prisoners of war…who is at war? No one knows. It just sounded so smashing tough that it made the grade.

This is a so-called ‘modern’ woman. Now let me get to the bottom of it. The survey showed that 48 % of Indians women want a ban on inter-caste marriages and 50 % want a ban on inter-religious marriages.

I would like to know how anyone can ask such a question in a survey at all. Who has given the media groups the right to butt their noses in what would amount to a legal provision? You might say this is hypothetical. Fine. Then, hypothetically the query ought to have been: do you believe in such and such marriages? We are not living in a dictatorship where we can have banning on certain kinds of alliances.

Now comes the ‘let us scrape the surface’ scenario. The above-mentioned modern woman, wearing two strings of pearls with a black outfit, who spoke openly about live-in relationships, about pre-marital sex, said that she would not be comfortable as a Hindu to be married to…uh-huh…a Muslim. Yes, she said it. She also added that she was being politically incorrect, which immediately made her feel veryyyy brave. This is not political incorrectness; it is prejudice. Her reason: The two religions are completely different ideologically. Yeah, sure. Like Hindusim is ideologically the same as Catholicism and Zoroastrianism. Come on now, we can see through this…

So would a Hindu be comfy marrying a Hindu from a ‘backward’ community? Or with less education? Or whose financial status was not good? Or who did not socially fit into one’s idea of an asset? All this because the gods are pretty much in agreement?

Worse, the anchor, known to be liberal who usually baits right-wing politicians, did not counter-question the lady. She just accepted it.

And this sort of nonsensical acceptance is what is passing for debate on television and numbing people’s thoughts.

On and off - 1

Not on…

One kid dies in India every 15 seconds

25% of children dying worldwide before the 20th day after their birth are from India

33% of the world’s underweight children under age five live in India

India accounts for 43% of the world’s infants born with a low birth weight

These are the latest statistics from ‘The State of the World’s Children-2008’ report by UNICEF.

You can bet that none of these will be considered issues to be dealt with. Our government and political parties are still thinking of what we should do with Taslima Nasreen, spy satellites, and the Left wondering how Left it ought to be.

In 15 seconds I could not even type this, and to think a baby died already?

On…

She was bent over. The moment she came out of the dentist’s room she gave me her new-denture smile. “Today I went in first!” she said in Gujarati.

“Ah, you remember?” I replied in the same language hesitantly.

I had been there a week ago and was taken in first.

She pointed to her head, “This still works well.”

“And I thought there was something special about me that you could still recall.”

“Haan, te bhi…that too!”

It was the most marvellous cackle I had heard in a while, and from a 93-year-old, I later discovered.

My dentist said, “Look, she has made your day.”

Yes, a brief glimpse, a remembrance, a reconnection…enough of life to sink your teeth into.

Hillary’s Harem

The Politics of Prissiness

Hillary’s Harem
By Farzana Versey
January 23, 2008, Counterpunch

Just suppose Jane Felix-Browne was famous or head of state and she decided to take her partner along on an official visit, would that be acceptable? No. Even the French would not permit it. Jane is the wife of Omar, son of Osama bin Laden. He has a pretty clean record, yet there would be some awkwardness.

I bring in this analogy simply because there has been a huge discussion regarding whether Carla Bruni, the model-singer girlfriend of French President Nicholas Sarkozy, should accompany him to India, where he is to be the chief guest at the Republic Day celebrations. Protocol guardians were concerned about how they ought to treat this partnership, how she must be addressed, the kind of accommodation to be provided, and whether she ought to get prime space.

Apparently, Sarko is upset that she has opted out, giving reasons of health and other commitments. They will miss their photo-op at the Taj Mahal.

Is this merely a question of morality? The most amazing reaction was from the rightwing parties in India saying it is fine and as a guest he can bring whoever he wishes. I am sure if his lady friend was an Arab the standards would have been different. Every society has its prejudices and levels of prissiness.

Did Bill Clinton even acknowledge Monica Lewinsky? He became the reigning sex symbol due to her – he began to be considered a risk-taker (oral sex at the Oval, wow!), a true democrat (she was but an intern), and a man who was yet committed to his work (he was on the phone when she went down on him, wasn’t he?).

Paula Jones, another one of his trophies, later tried to cash in on the liaison by posing for a centrefold; she said she did it for her kids. The moral brigade was out with their “tsk, tsk”, quite forgetting that Linda Tripp squealed, the lawyers got a good deal, books were written, and Bill continued to be president.

Hillary may well become President. She owes one to these women. Today, she is happily using those episodes. She said on the Tyra Banks Show: “I never doubted Bill’s love for me, ever, and I never doubted my faith and my commitment to our daughter and our extended family. But I had to decide what I ought to do, I think it is so important to be able to hear yourself at a moment when it is hard ... there are so many times when you really have to listen to yourself.”

If Paula says she dropped her clothes to keep the home (and other) fires burning, then Ms. Clinton put up with her man for the sake of media-created family values. It would, however, make sense if she desisted from saying things like, “I’m not some Tammy Wynette standing by my man”, when that is precisely what she is doing. And she is rewarded for it when the Wee Willy says, “I would do anything I could to make her the next President.” Sure, he can. After all, can we forget his famous line after his ‘internship’, “I did because I could”?

Way back in 1965 as a student Hillary was preserving her correspondence with a classmate hoping to make a million. “Don’t begrudge me my mercenary interest,” she wrote to him.

It is the same mercenary interest, and mercenary morality, that makes her declare, “In the Bible it says they asked Jesus how many times you should forgive, and he said 70 times 7. Well, I want you all to know that I’m keeping a chart.”

That got her $26 million in the first quarter of the year, reportedly almost three times as much as any politician has previously raised at that point in a presidential election. The Hillary harem of fake rectitude is a survival tactic observed in the kingdom of kinks.

Obviously, a moral position is a big thing for a politician. Ever wondered why, then, morality on its own is never an election issue? Corruption, sex, inefficiency, power-play, religion, nepotism are all lined up for a cursory inspection and a game of one-upmanship during polls, but the rod that is supposed to give a whack to these vices invariably goes limp. Some sensibly anonymous chap described morality as, “The residue left after our cravings are satisfied.” But what happens in a world where gluttons thrive?

In India we believe that, like parents, politicians don’t do it. Of course we do know about political homosexuality, lesbianism, bisexuality, adultery, molestation, child abuse, incest, mistresses posing as wives in documents on official tours, the patronage given to dancing-eyed, twinkle-toed cultural ambassadors.

There has always been a tendency to whitewash these transgressions. This is the legacy we have inherited: giving our politicians the benefit of doubt or, more likely, our indulgence. As long as they do their jobs, we reason, it does not matter. But when a boss gets cozy with his secretary we do not give a thought to the rising turnover or when a film producer and starlet jump into a couch we do not consider the potential of a well-made film.

Our standards are different for politicians. Surprisingly, for a society that talks so much about moral prudence, has any Indian politician resigned because he was caught with his pants down? Why is the media mum when it claims to exercise so much pressure on what it considers larger issues? Is this really a private matter when we know that sex makes a politician vulnerable to blackmail? So, is morality in politics all about sex? When a politician, now dead, got young boys and girls to do his bidding, was it only about sex? When a chief minister of a state flaunts his three wives, is it only about sex? When the head of a unit of a political party got into a scandal because of his reported alliance with a folk dancer, for whom he had allegedly purchased a house, was it only about sex? These were gross examples of abuse of power, and that is most certainty a moral issue.

While power makes people blind, it also opens their eyes to a whole wide world where everything is for the asking. And it comes with an inbuilt fear of loss. Politics does not attract the best of people. A peon who is in the habit of having his palms greased, or a spoilt brat who runs over people in his fast cars, or widows suffering from nostalgia, find themselves in fancy positions. The humble farmer begins to feel he has earned his arrogance. Morality goes underground when survival rears whims and fancies of a celluloid star; someone raises a valid bogey of foreign versus Indian not so much due to conviction as his own desperate need to be seen as the powerful son of the soil; in this endeavour he is willing to go digging for bones.

In their enthusiasm to guard their personal positions, do they ever think in terms of morality, the custodians of which they purport to be? Does it make sense for us to say that it is all right for them to covet power so long as they do nothing to jeopardise national security? Is it valid to believe that a vulnerable politician is an inefficient one? Then, is inefficiency a moral issue?

What if a politician’s personal values clash with party diktats? We keep hearing about how certain politicians are nice human beings; these same nice human beings are responsible for sneaking in religion and demoralising society. It is assumed that godliness can camouflage all evil. But as H L Mencken wrote, “The worst government is the most moral. One composed of cynics is often very tolerant and humane. But when fanatics are on top there is no limit to oppression.” The sad thing is the middle-class that hitherto kept a hawk’s eyed vigil has begun to declare that corruption is no longer an issue. ‘Getting things done’ is the new anthem. Does anybody think of nepotism in politics as a moral issue, especially since it is public money that is siphoned off?

For the politician morality is only a garb. In fact, they can sell us nudity as a garment, knowing that we will buy it. In this devious manner they put the onus of shame on us.

Hillary Clinton is doing a neat job of it. The Erin Brockovich prototype, using babies and blackmail (she ain’t talking boobs, though) to open her own family’s can of worms, gaining brownie points by default. It is called getting two for the price of one.

Quote uncoat - 10

“The journey is more important than the destination.”

Not really. Please tell me how wonderful it is to sit in an aircraft for nine hours at a stretch, then get off, rush to the transit lounge, stuff yourself with duty-free thingies, then rush again to another aircraft, spend another few hours to reach a place where you wait for baggage, lug it onto a trolley, find a taxi (or you have someone to fetch you), reach your hotel or whatever and then ache for the time in the plane, the duty free stuff, the walking long distances at airports? You feel wonderful?

I don’t. I wish I could just reach where I have to without having to go groggy-eyed watching some stupid films, smiling at flight stewardesses whose job it is to smile and you end up doing their job. Huh? Then, because it is stylish to say, “No sugar, please”, you have bitter tea or coffee after you have pigged on a dark truffle pastry with whipped cream.

Of course, this journey business I am quoting is all metaphorical. It means many things. That life is more important than death, which is the ultimate destination. But I don’t see it as a destination. I see it as a continuum…and what really is a destination? Isn’t it somewhere you wish to be? Then isn’t the journey merely an anticipation of that? Therefore, what you really enjoy is the thought of the destination. Like foreplay.

Journeys can be bumpy and uncertain. I admit to have romanticised the sitting under the shade of a tree, picking up fallen leaves and all that, but that is a luxury one allows oneself because the shade is to make me less sweaty when I reach the destination; the fallen leaves are mementoes I might keep between the pages of a book. One does not spend one’s life, time and resources to enjoy the journey, but to get to someplace.

You might turn around and ask, “Isn’t writing a journey you enjoy, whether or not it will be published?” My answer is clear: I write because I often publish it or at least complete it. The process of writing is not a journey; although I do travel with the words, it is a destination. Every pause, comma, semi-colon is a gate I stop at; it isn’t a mere milestone to tell me how far I have got. That one gate leads to several gates, just as a house leads to several rooms, rooms lead to furniture, furniture to upholstery, upholstery to yarn, and back to some seed somewhere. Each is a destination. A whole.

A journey is a circle, not a linear path; it circumambulates the centre, the core, the essence. It is time we realise the value of commitment towards that goal and the beauty of belonging.

Wings of fantasy

Post Title: A Joan Baez song

Naked eyes: Nangee aankhein

Nangee aankhein

Itni zor se baarish padee
Sab palkein toot kar giree
Ab gaaloun par kaajal ki tarah
Kaali-kaali lakeerein baithee hai
Hawaa ke intezar mein
Udd jaane ke liye
Phoolon par basera karna hai
Choos lena hai ras ko
Chale jaana hai nayee beej boney
Kitni aur palkein paida ho jaayegi
Aankhon ko dhoondhne ke liye
Phir zor se baarish aayegi
Nangee nazroun mein
Liptega pyaasa dariya
Ab tau chilman ka sahara bhi na hoga
Sharm ko chhupane ke liye

~FV

New meeows - 13

It’s yet another son-rise on the horizon! Aditya Thackeray, scion of the illustrious political family of the Thackerays, who was known to have cultural and artistic leanings, finally revealed them to the world through his debut album titled ‘Ummeed’, the launch of which took place in a glittering ceremony on Friday. The occasion became all the more memorable due to the presence of Balasaheb Thackeray, grandfather of Aditya, and Amitabh Bachchan, who was present to unveil the album. At the launch, the evening began with a showreel showing luminaries from the entertainment world blessing Aditya.

This is pretty disgusting and tells us what metro India has transformed into. I don’t know of any 17/18 year-old who does not have some creative spark. How many are fortunate enough to have a music album with some famous singers belting out the songs set to tune by a famous music director and released by a big label (Times) with “luminaries” in attendance?

Amitabh Bachchan, of course, in characteristic humble style called it a family affair…the number of families he has around makes one wonder. He also spoke about the “creative heritage” of the young chap.

When we talk of dynasties we tend to only mention the Gandhi family. This one has to be taken into account. The father, the son, the nephew, the grandson, and of course the daughter-in-law producing films…and I do not know of anyone who would refuse to act in her films. Would anyone dare? And then they talk about dadagiri tactics by the underworld.

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Another kid who gets undeserved attention is cricketer Sreesanth. He poses for the cameras, parties hard, is seen with starlets and is called an ‘aggressive cricketer’ in tones which would suggest he has just won a one-on-one boxing match and got his nose bloodied. Okay, he shows his finger, does a jig on the field and makes angry faces…so? What does he have to show? He has done just about okay in the few matches, but why is he being touted as some sort of celeb?

He is getting film offers, and he has even stated that he is handsome. Fine, I don’t care what he thinks of himself and perhaps a few others do as well…fame does a better job than Photoshop, for sure. So let him do films; at least we don’t need one more buffoon on the cricket field who gets adulation off it for being a buffoon.

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Tata’s Nano could face stiff competition from "Nanhi," an indigenously produced two-seater car built by Chandan Kumar a schoolboy from Azamgarh district. The open air car weighs about 160 kgs, has a 150 cc engine, four gears and runs up to a speed of 80 km/hr. It is extremely fuel-efficient and can give a mileage of 40-45 kms per litre at top speed. was unveiled at the "Young Innovators Exhibition" of the Benares Hindu University (BHU) in Varanasi over the weekend.

This is inside page news. He is the son of a car mechanic who owns a garage. His ‘people’s car’ will cost Rs. 25,000; he had called it ‘Fame’ but because of the Tata gaddi making news, some people have started referring to it as ‘Nanhi’. Chandan is not worried about competition: “My car is better suited for small towns where the roads are narrow. Even cities like Varanasi have such narrow roads that a normal car cannot travel through it. But my two-seater car can easily pass through such lanes.”

I am not saying this is the best thing and he may not have the resources or backing to see it on the roads as a regular vehicle. But one must applaud the enterprise, the hard work, and the vision. He isn’t selling it quietly to unsuspecting people or calling “luminaries” to the launch. Just wondering, though. What does the people’s chief minister Mayawati have to say about this when she is not rooting for the Bharat Ratna for her mentor, the late Kanshi Ram?

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Talking of the Bharat Ratna, India’s highest civilian award…

My vote goes to Balasaheb Thackeray. Surprised? For only one reason. For saying this:

“I don’t know what is happening to this Bharat Ratna. This award has been cheapened so much that it has lost its sheen. I will never accept it. Of course, this is bound to generate questions as to who is going to give me. But nevertheless I am clear that I will never accept it.”

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End note: I could not help chortling when I read about socialite Parmeshwar Godrej being made out to be some sort of Mother Teresa. Why? Because she stood up against the might of those who were trying to suppress freedom of speech? What had she done? She had hosted Imran Khan and Salman Rushdie. And what happened? The latter always gets into trouble, which is why god created him and which is why he makes good use of his creator, na? So, some people protested outside her plush bungalow. But the lady did not let herself have a bad hair day even for a moment. Nah. She stood her ground, perhaps instructed her servants and her security guys to make sure the crystal and china were well-protected.

Heck, I wish people would not go so treacly about this. But, then, they do attend the lady’s parties and it isn’t nice to say bad things about her…besides, would these people bother to ask whether she would have shown the same “courage” had it been Taslima Nasreen. I don’t like Taslima, but to begin with, would she have even hosted her? No. She is not international, except among those who can say fatwa-jihad without much effort. Taslima speaks English with a Bangla accent. She does not do glam-sham things. No one has heard about her liaisons with famous people…I mean, she sticks to Bong academics, that too local….she hasn’t got within miles of Amartya Sen yet, and the Sen is sooo snotty, he will make sure of Shenshe and Shenshibility and the shensheksh…which is how Taslima would pronounce Sense and Sensibility and the sensex.

So, yes, the socialite has shielded the rich and famous who are being tortured but had a great time wrapped among chiffons.

Watch this space and you will never hear about her ever settling for less than that. So cut out the crap all you brown-nosers. And just wait for the next invite where the “mix” is just right.

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Cartoon by Sudhir Tailang in The Asian Age

Can mourning be a celebration?

I have never claimed expert knowledge of Islam or any religion, but I do think I have a fair idea about how faith affects worshippers and vice versa.

Having stated several times that in my family different versions of Islam are practised even within nuclear groups, my experience of Muharram is the tenth day of Ashura, the first month of the Islamic calendar.

What I remember as a child is that in one particular lane they would take out the Tazia. We would go to Maama’s (my mother’s maternal uncle) house. It was an elaborate procession, and I recall the colours of silver and green. There would be dancing. The Tazia became an object of worship and, although I have not witnessed it, I am told that in some parts of the world they also put up petitions on these tableaux.

I have only one question: Does Islam, as practised today (if you forget the paganism of the early Arabs), believe in idol worship? Does this not amount to such idolatry, and this issue has been raised in the Quran: "Worship ye that which ye have (yourselves) carved?" (Quran: Saffat, 3)

This topic has become of some added interest to me these past few days because I hear that a Hindu on a website wished some people “Happy Muharram”; someone also talked about “celebrating Muharram”. This was considered unpalatable. It is another matter that during this solemn period some Muslims were using foul language and addressing people as “Haramzaadon (bastards)” and “achhoot (untouchable)” and far worse. This is the language being used to defend religion. I think Islam can do without it. Anger when it arises out of genuine hurt (as in someone posting pictures of the Quran being flushed down the loo) has a reason.

But do those who are berating ‘outsiders’ for ignorance not realise that their own do in fact celebrate Muharram, and it is considered a “celebration of martyrdom”. Just as Christ’s death on the Cross is a period of mourning, but it returns as a celebration on Easter.

Does one imagine that today, in January of 2008, people are weeping real tears for the martyrdom of Imam Husain, grandson of Prophet Muhammad, who was killed during the battle of Karbala? Mourning is catharsis, and in that it does serve a purpose. Though, it is often that the mourners too become glorified. A young relative would join in the maatam (ritual mourning, often violent) and beat himself with zanjeers (chains). I know him well, and many young men like him had wanted to become a part of something larger. It is a question of identity.

I would say every version of Islam or any religion has a right to exist and how ‘true’ it is is not for believers to decide because belief too is personal. I have said critical things about Hindu gods, as in questioned the role of say Lord Rama versus Sita, and it was done as a purely academic exercise and to question how the faithful could use what happened years ago to justify the aggressiveness of today. By the same token, I do not understand how someone referring to Muharram as a celebration makes it a topic to discuss the “Hindu bhindi”, which isn’t okra but a derogatory reference to a more intimate part of the male anatomy. What Islam are these people talking about? What Muharram? What mourning?

If one needs to fight someone who has hurt your religion, then fight her/him with facts. And there are facts, which may be disputed, but they do have some currency.

Before pointing fingers at others, Muslims need to look at their own brothers and sisters. Were the Shia Iranians not fighting the Sunni Iraqis with the slogan, “Every day is Ashura, every place is Karbala, every month is Muharram”?

At that time there was turmoil and they felt they could relate to events that took place centuries ago.

Muslims who are always critical about polytheists end up doing things that are prohibited in Islam, including how they embellish graves…and this is true in Islamic societies too. No walls are supposed to enclose the grave, no cement or concrete over it, no marble or decorative material, no inscriptions, even from the Quran, no flowers…

How many Muslims adhere to these?

And have not many made the Prophet into a god-like figure? Let me end with the Prophet’s own words:

"Do not utter such exaggerated words of praise for me as the Christians do for the Prophet Jesus, the son of Mary. I am nothing more than a servant of Allah and His Apostle. So, call me only that."

Foot in the mouth....

...or..."hum bhi moonh mein zubaan rakhte hai"?

Often I listen to songs and I listen to words the way I am perhaps attuned to, not just aurally but emotionally, mentally…It is only natural then that I murder the words, but I occasionally feel that the change gives it a different twist which may not be too bad.

Some years ago I had posted these lines by the poet Daag wrongly:

Zeest se tang ho ae Daag tau jeetey kyon ho
Jaan jaatee hai magar jaan se jaatey bhi nahin

I was corrected:

Zeest se tang ho aye Daag tau jeetey kyon ho
Jaan pyari bhi nahi jaan se jaate bhi nahi

The poet is saying:

If life tires you so then why do you live
A life you do not love is also a life you do not leave

What this humble writer has done…

If life tires you so then why do you live
Life leaves you but you want to still breathe

It’s an all time favourite sung by Fareeda Khanum in her inimitable style.

There are people who will think I am arrogant. Although this was indeed a slip, on re-looking I find it interpretative of a different state of being.

Yes, yes, aficionados will do wah-wah for Daag, magar humpar kuchch daag chhod dijiye…leave some stains on me, too!

I had done a similar thing with a contemporary poet Farhat Shehzad’s verse which is:

Woh jo mere lahu mein dubou ke guzra hai
Woh koi ghair nahin yaar eik purana tha

My hearing:

Woh jo mere lahu mein dubou ke guzra hai
Woh koi ghair nahin yaad eik purana tha

It is just a matter of one word.

Shehzad says:

The one who has soaked in my blood and left
Was no stranger but an old friend

I was using memory instead of friend.

Memory encapsulates a lot, including friends, and it is closer to oneself to be transposed with ghair (stranger). Memories cannot ever be strangers, although they might be strange.

PS: Am only sharing with you the ‘mistakes’ I make and some of which I am not ashamed. Feel free to slaughter me.

How romantic!

Peeping hole

Peep hole. People look through the peep-hole when someone rings the doorbell. I look through it every night before retiring to bed. It is perhaps a strange habit. Do I expect to find someone waiting there, afraid to knock or wanting to break in or just standing there?

This is repeated every night. I hear my breath; sometimes it seems like it isn’t my own, so I look at the sides where the stairs lead to the terrace…then towards the lift…nothing.

I can understand checking if the door is bolted, the chain secured, but this?

I suppose peep holes fascinate me. They are a compressed world of what lies outside the cocoon. Merely a glimpse of what could come one’s way. My neighbour has a plaque on the door with some calligraphy; it is probably some religious verse. I look at it for long, as though those words will form patterns and become characters and talk to me. Or knock on my door.

Will I see them as salesmen trying to get me to buy what I already have: an eyeful of storms and a mouthful of sand?

Kabhi tanhaiyon mein yun...

...hamari yaad aayegi?

Like many people who enjoy old film songs, the name Mubarak Begum will not be unfamiliar.

What is familiar is the story of people who are not smart enough being left by the roadside. A Mirror report says that she is living on Rs 700 a month pension she gets from the government; her two sons drive taxis and have their own families to look after.

It is also the story of the caucus that has always existed in most so-called glamorous professions. It is mentioned that she was a far better singer than Suraiyya. I have no doubt it. Suraiyya was just about okay for the kind of songs you hum when you are either falling asleep or trying to get someone to sleep…and do not throw the numbers from Mirza Ghalib at me. Here the words were enough and I should imagine the intent was to read out the verses in tarannum. I hope so…there were no high octaves, no mudkis. Suraiyya's was a dull voice.

But she was a sharp businesswoman. She lived well and continued until the end to stay in her large house at Marine Drive, and is said to have left behind lots of wealth and jewellery which became the cause of dispute.

Mubarak Begum did not know how to manage these things, perhaps. Besides, she did not have the advantage of being a singer-actress.

Also, the report does quote her as saying, “I was a victim of politics. There were a couple of singers who appropriated all singing contracts for themselves and ruined not only my career but of several others like Vani Jairam and Suman Kalyanpur. I refused to bootlick as I had a lot of self-respect. That's what cost me my career.”

This is true and, not just these seniors, even those who came in later had to face these problems. Sulakshana Pandit who wanted to sing songs filmed on her had to beg for it; Hemlata had to be content with some songs for Ravindra Jain; and Anuradha Paudwal managed to survive because of Gulshan Kumar and his music label.

In fact, had it not been for the new music directors, the caucus would have remained. However brilliant some singers are, there is always room for experimentation. After all, the divas stated by emulating those who were there before them. I am glad that A. R. Rehman does not fall prey to names, although he does get excited about the stars. Fine, as long as we get to hear a Chitra or a Mahalakshmi Iyer, I can live with it.

Mubarak Begum’s situation makes one wonder why nothing is done to protect the interests of these people. We have trade unions for mill workers, canteen employees, unskilled labour, doctors, teachers…what about those who are still giving us joy with their lilting voices?

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Picture shows Mubarak Begum on the left with her daughter Shafaque Bano: Mirror