Asteroid B-612

The origin of words

2011-04-17T05:36:00.000-07:00

I had been taking lessons in French from Richard, a colleague in my institute. I noticed that many words in French have counterparts in English. This is not surprising, because both English and French are European languages and have Latin influences, and the similarities may have derived from a common Latin root. French, Italian and Spanish are much closer to Latin than English (which is a Germanic language). (I am not much well-informed about these classifications. Any comments and corrections are welcome.) I find tracing the origin of words an interesting game. The French lessons gave me a chance to find out some similarities on my own. The French words I will mention are of common usage in the language. (That's why I encountered them in my elementary course.) This is not the case with their English counterparts. Some of them are rarely used. The English and French words are not exactly similar, but can be understood to have come from the same source. Sometimes the meanings are also diffenent, though a connection can be imagined. I will give a few examples below.

marine: When we speak of something related to the sea, we use the word 'marine'. However, the noun 'sea' and its adjective 'marine' sound very different. In French, the word for 'sea' is 'mer', which I think comes from the same source as 'marine' in English. Also, 'sea' is 'mare' in Italian and 'mar' in Spanish.

travail: 'Travail' in English means arduous work. The French word for 'work' is also exactly the same. (The spelling is same. The pronunciation, of course, is different.)

tragic: The French word for 'sad' is 'triste'. 'Tragic' and 'triste' both start with the same consonants, which may have come from a common origin.

chivalry: The word refers to the qualities possessed by a knight, and I first read this word in a school history textbook. I found that in French 'cheval' means horse, and the connection to knight seemed clear.

eternal: For this example I will make a guess. I think it is related with 'été', which in French means 'summer'. Summer has the connotation of a pleasant time. 'Eternal' in English and 'été' in French possibly share a similar root.

parley: I didn't know that such a word existed in English, until I read Sophocles' play 'Electra' in an English translation. From the context it was clear that 'parley' meant a discussion. This can be identified with the French word 'parler', which means 'to speak'. This must also be the origin of 'parliament'.

My interest about finding the roots of words arose from the readings of Indian history. Certain similarities between Sanskrit, Greek and Latin have been important clues about the migration of people in ancient times. There are common features (anecdotes and the names of characters and places) in the ancient texts of India and Iran. In Indian mythology, Indra defeated the demon Vritra and has an epithet 'Vritraghna'. Once I was reading a National Geographic article about an archaeological excavation site in Central Asia. I was surprised when I saw mentioned the name of the ancient Iranian god of war - 'Veretraghan'.

The last anecdote is related to food. There is a cuisine very popular in Bengal called the 'dolma'. It is made from 'potol' ('pointed gourd' in English, 'parwal' in Hindi) - with a stuffing of fish inside. During a visit to Turkey, I had a food item over there which is a stuffing of rice and meat inside capsicum. The striking thing was its name - it is also called 'dolma'! I learnt that 'dolma' is a Turkish word, meaning 'filled'. I had no idea that the name of the Bengali cuisine I liked so much had a distant origin.

Anecdotes of India, two thousand years back

2010-05-26T08:41:00.000-07:00

A few months back I read The Culture and Civilization of Ancient India in Historical Outline by D. D. Kosambi. This exceptional piece of work demonstrates to the non-historian that history as a subject is far removed from being a collection of dates and proper nouns; it is a huge puzzle waiting to be solved, involving a systematic and logical approach. The investigative methods in history require inputs from fields as diverse as archaeology, anthropology, linguistics, genetics, geology and statistics. D. D. Kosambi is known for his seminal contributions to the study of Indian history. Interestingly, he was by training a mathematician and a Professor of mathematics at the Tata Institute of Fundamental Research in Mumbai. (I came to know of this fact after joining the same institute to do a Ph.D. in physics.)

After going through Culture and Civilization, I thought of taking up some of the original works dating back to ancient times which are now available in popular editions. One of them is Greek and Roman Lives by Plutarch, brought out by Dover Publications. Plutarch was a Greek historian of the 1st century A.D. and the biographies he wrote of Greek and Roman statesmen are the sources of much of our information regarding these civilizations. The pursuit of knowledge is a virtue which Plutarch glorifies. In proclaiming the greatness of his heroes, the power of the sword is not the only quality he speaks of. Alexander, in his conversations, quotes Euripides and on being brought a precious casket, which was found amongst the treasures of the vanquished Darius, honours it by placing in it the Iliad of Homer. Much of what Plutarch says may only be stories, fiction added to historical narratives. But at the same time, these stories (and not the things that really happened) build the image and perception about some particular person or place.

Plutarch's view of India finds detailed mention in his Life of Alexander. The first Indian king whom Alexander encountered was Taxiles. (He may have been the ruler of Taxila or Taksasila in north-western India. 'Taxiles' is the name given to him by the Greeks. Plutarch, it must be remembered, was writing his account four centuries after these events took place and some of the historical facts may have been lost by then.) Taxiles was known as a wise man. In his conversation with Alexander, he opined that wise men should fight only for water and food that sustain life. 'As for other riches and possessions', said Taxiles, 'as they are accounted in the eye of the world, if I am better provided of them than you, I am ready to let you share with me; but if fortune has been more liberal to you than me, I have no objection to be obliged to you.'

The ascetic sages of India were referred to as the gymnosophists. There is a tale of ten gymnosophists who were imprisoned by Alexander and asked to please the emperor by answering his questions. One of them gave a striking reply on being asked which are more in number - the dead or the living. The gymnosophist answered, 'The living, because those who are dead are none at all.'

When the Greeks decided to stop their march into India and turned back, they were accompanied by an Indian philosopher called Calanus. Somewhere in Persia, he requested that a funeral pile be built. Calanus embraced death on a burning pyre out of his own wish, and silently. The western world saw another such incident a few centuries later when an Indian, who came with Julius Caesar to Athens, immolated himself. Plutarch writes that even during his time, Athenians would show to visitors a memorial called 'the Indian's monument'.

The most famous of historians, Herodotus (5th century B.C.), never came to India, but his story of the gold-digging ants in the noth-western parts of India has intrigued people for long. The sand of the desert was said to have gold dust mixed in them. The giant ants would bring them to the surface while digging their mounds and the gold would be collected by the local tribes. This reference by Herodotus had often been dismissed as fiction and a result of hearsay. Some researchers have claimed that a species of rodents share a resemblance to Herodotus' ants. I had read about Herodotus' works mentioning these 'gold-digging ants' on the internet. Recently, I was also reading the Mahabharat, in the Bengali translation in prose form by the noted writer Rajshekhar Basu. I came across a curious reference, in Duryodhana's dialogue with Dhritarashtra where the former speaks of the wealth possessed by the Pandavas.

'Those who live by the Shailoda River in between the mountains Meru and Mandar - the Khas, Parad, Kulinga and other tribes, have brought loads of ant gold, which ants dig out of the ground.'

This is quite interesting. The story of the gold-digging ants, whatever the actual creatures may be, was prevalent even in India and not a figment of Herodotus' imagination. Rajshekhar Basu remarks in a footnote that these ants are also mentioned in Megasthenes' travelogue of India.

Istanbul

2009-12-19T13:01:00.000-08:00

Istanbul had offered its first glimpse from the air, stretching on the shores of the Sea of Marmara, in green, red and white. I had little time to read up some guidebook before leaving Mumbai. Time was short. Next day, early in the morning, I had to leave for Dalaman. Thankfully, the most famous landmarks of Istanbul are located very close to each other, in Sultanahmet. This is the place which used to be Constantinople. Starting off from the airport, the Havas bus rushed through the avenues, lined with flowers, revealing a city very much European in its look. This was my first trip abroad. Therefore, what I consider to be European is certainly not based on experience, but on impressions developed from secondary sources. I was uncertain what to expect from the city that had been the centre of Christianity during the Byzantine Empire, then of the Islamic world during the Ottoman Sultanate, and over the last century searching for a new identity under the modernisation drive initiated by Ataturk.

The walls of the Hagia Sophia are like pages of history, bearing the marks of the great empires which have ruled over it. Sometimes I find that I have an aversion to being amazed at first glance. The gigantic basilica is an outstanding architectural achievement. When I stepped into the historic monument, my immediate reaction was not that of awe (contrary to what one reads in guidebooks), but an eagerness to understand its place in history, as if looking for evidence to convince myself about its greatness. That's not so difficult, once it is realised that its a structure dating back not to a few centuries, but 1400 years. From 552 AD, it has stood witness to rise and fall of civilisations on the shores of the Bosphorus, built as a church and then converted into a mosque. If I had a lot more time in hand, I could have spent hours gazing at the mosaics of Jesus and Christian saints, the fine carvings on granite, the motifs and Arabic calligraphy on the dome and the stained glass windows of the Ottomans. The marble pedestal of the imperial door bears another mark of thousand years
gone by - a depression caused by the chariot wheels of the Byzantine emperors.

A stone's throw from the Hagia Sophia stands the Blue Mosque. One has to walk past a host of souvenir shops, simit stalls and a beautiful garden to reach the mosque complex. Ramzan festivities were on, and the mosque complex had come alive with a small fair. I bought a miniature handbag, the Ottoman tughra printed on it, to take back as a gift. Inside it was a small book, having hundreds of pages, printed in minute Arabic font. I was told that it was the entire Quran!

I had reached the Blue Mosque just in time. There was still half an hour left before the prayer would begin, when visitors would be asked to leave. The building derives its name (rather nickname, the actual name being Sultanahmet Camii) from the tiles and stained glasses inside. The interior bears the stamp of imperial Ottoman grandeur. Like so many other tourists, I sat down on the carpeted floor for a while, to contemplate the motifs on Iznik tiles and the intricate decorations on the dome. The most fascinating aspect of the Blue mosque is the stained glass windows. I'm sure the photo would express a lot more than I can write in words.

However, the status of Blue Mosque as the most iconic structure in Istanbul is somewhat unfortunate. That honour should undoubtedly go to the Hagia Sophia. It eclipses the Blue Mosque both in art and architecture, and bears the enviable stamp of a remote antiquity.

Coming out of the Blue Mosque, I once again caught a glimpse of the Bosphorus, and made up my mind that I must reach its shore before evening. Behind the mosque courtyard is the enchanting Araasta Bazar. This extremely colourful place portrays the cultural synthesis in its full glory. The Orient comes alive in a Western backdrop.

There was a contentment that I had achieved the minimal target for the day of visiting the Hagia Sophia and Blue Mosque, though in a haste. Anyway, there was a lot more to be seen. So I asked people around and set off for the Hippodrome. Most people don't understand English. Some of them do know 'I can't speak English'! However, the language barrier turns out not be a problem, and people make themselves understood someway or the other. What I experienced more than once in Turkey is that if you ask for directions, people will not only make signs to guide you, but may also escort you some distance towards the destination.

The Hippodrome (arena for chariot races in the Byzantine Empire) is now a huge square with a sprawling lawn. Ramzan festivities were in full swing, and there were tables and benches all over with people crowding around them. A host of food stalls had been set up. I didn't realise then that this was all for the occasion of Ramzan. On my way back from the conference (the reason for visiting Turkey was to attend a conference at Turunc, in the South Aegean region of Turkey), I would find this place empty, and the Blue Mosque courtyard deserted.

On the Hippodrome complex stands a granite obelisk with Hieroglyph inscriptions. It looked quite new, making me wonder why such an Egyptian looking thing had been installed in the heart of Istanbul. Then Lonely Planet informed me that it was 3500 years old. It originally stood at the Temple of Karnak in Egypt, and had been brought to Constantinople by the Byzantine emperor Theodosius in 330 A.D.

It was time to head for the Bosphorus by the tram to Eminonu (after having a wonderful glass of fresh orange juice at a roadside stall). So far, everything had gone as planned. A walk by the Bosphorus would be a fitting end to the day. The Bosphorus is 2 km wide. Although both shores are a part of Turkey, this channel is considered to be international waters, providing passage for ships from the Black Sea in the north. I headed towards the small bridge connecting Eminonu to Kabatas, when I heard someone calling out 'Bosphorus cruise.. last boat ...10 lira...' There couldn't be any second thought. I jumped onto the boat and took a seat on the deck. Istanbul resembled some painting. The city has grown on low hills by the sea. The minarets of the Blue mosque were silhouetted against the sun. The Bosphorus breeze was getting colder. My windcheater was tucked away in my transit luggage at the airport. The boat guided down the waters between Europe and Asia, with remarkably beautiful buildings on either side... Ottoman palaces, villas, mosques, modern art galleries.. The city skyline in the distance is dominated by some towering minarets. This may have been the exact sight sailors a few centuries ago would have witnessed while approaching Constantinople.

The boat turned back from the Bosphorus bridge. The sun had now vanished. The wind grew colder. A new image was revealing itself. With the fall of darkness, the lights of the city came up. The Asian and European sides lit up, along with the street-lights on the Bosphorus bridge. The city had taken on a different look.

Once I came back to Eminonu, it was time for a fish sandwich. This is a Bosphorus speciality, served by cooks wearing traditional Turkish costume. Within two hours, I would be back at the Istanbul Ataturk Havalimani, trying to get some sleep sitting on a chair. The next ten days would be spent beside the Mediterranean Sea.

Rain

2009-08-16T13:41:00.000-07:00

There was nothing extraordinary about the life of Siddharth. Siddharth loved to solve the crossword puzzle over a cup of coffee. He was satisfied with his memories. One of his preoccupations was recounting the days of childhood, the days of silent sun-dried afternoons when he sought refuge in the world of imagination. Younger days had seen him engrossed with the paint-brush and chart paper. His skills were not good enough and he often found himself undecided about the choice of colours. While drawing the rain, which was the most common theme of his artistic efforts, he coloured the falling droplets sometimes in blue and sometimes in grey, sometimes also in black. Black, he felt, was the least appropriate among those three colours.

Siddharth, one morning, was balancing himself on small rocks and boulders as he hiked through the woods, trailing behind his companions. They were a group of friends, who had ventured out of the ever familiar metropolis on a Sunday when the sky wore a thin blanket of clouds. The passion for painting had never left him, and the slope to his right, the unknown trees inspired him to wonder how he could recreate the scene in watercolour. A sound of rushing water permeated the air, distant and faint. It originated from a stream that would make itself visible at the end of the road. Years later, when he would recollect this sound, it would seem to have been preserved in memory with the utmost accuracy. He would associate it with the idea of something unknown, invisible to the world of senses, but whose existence can never be denied.

It wasn’t long before they reached the waterfall. It cascaded down the slope and spread out into a stream. Siddharth stepped into the water, barefoot, felt the cold comforting touch, took a step forward, then another, another, another until he counted fourteen steps. There the stream was shallow. He lay down on the rocky bed, resting his head on a piece of rock protruding above the surface of water. His body immersed half in water, he listened to the jingle of the stream meandering past the rocks. His ears became tuned to its rhythm, there was a periodic beating in the murmur of the brook. He was looking straight at the sky. A few trees towered above the others.

As a kid, the only thing Siddharth could think of drawing was a landscape - a few hills, a river and some trees, maybe a small hut, a few birds and invariably the circular sun. In later years he had explored other subjects, that were more familiar, like scenes from the street, a lamppost beside the children’s park, even books eaten by worms. His subjects had always been inspired by scenes recorded in memory, sights he had experienced in life. On that Sunday, lying on the stream and looking at the sky, Siddharth had the fantastic thought - what if it is the other way round? What if he would draw a scene from pure imagination, and one day come across it in real life, as if his subjects existed because he had painted them? This was the echo of a thought he had heard earlier. Long back, the fictional story about a group of explorers and their adventures in Tibet had captured his attention. Hidden from the rest of the world, there existed amidst the snow-capped mountains a place populated by legendary creatures that the human race has imagined over centuries and millennia. It was the land where the Unicorn lived, it was the land where everyone’s dreams came true. Siddharth, once, had also come across a blind poet who, like many others before him, suggested that a person exists because someone else is dreaming him.

A painting of the waterfall must exhibit the intricacies of motion. Siddharth, as he closed his eyes, could imagine his painting taking shape. He thought of the careful brushstrokes that would illustrate the flow of rushing water, past lasting rocks, in swirls and small whirlpools and streamlines, although the minute details would be lost, those would be too difficult to capture. Often without the most intricate details, that’s how memories are preserved, at the risk of omissions and exaggerations. Siddharth, then, once again remembered his fancy about rain. To this painting of a landscape, he could also add a light drizzle, almost transparent droplets of water coming down from the skies above, and he would colour them in grey. Lying on the stream, Siddharth thought of portraying the rain, he thought of ways that would make it look realistic, wondering how clouds in the sky should be painted, he thought of small raindrops that can fall onto the stream to become part of its restless flow.

There was a gentle, almost indiscernible splash on his face. In a moment or two, he felt a few more of them - small moist drops falling from above. Siddharth opened his eyes. From the skies over him, slowly, slowly, slowly, a light rain was descending upon the blessed earth.

K for... ?

2009-05-10T13:22:00.000-07:00

I was in Delhi for a day this February where I met my friend Sayan. He was raving about Anurag Kashyap’s No Smoking. The same day, my uncle also told me that he was completely awestruck on watching that movie. Call it a coincidence or not, the next morning I was reading Tehelka and it said No Smoking was a different thing altogether! There must have been a giant Kafkaesque conspiracy to make me watch that movie! What else could explain three different and apparently disconnected sources tell me the same thing in less than a day? And that too when the movie is not a recent one, having released in October 2007.

You may not recall much about the movie. It had vanished from theatres as soon as it hit them. The internet refreshed my memory. It was directed by Anurag Kashyap, and starred John Abraham, Ayesha Takia and Paresh Rawal. I had seen Kashyap’s Black Friday earlier. That one was fine, but nothing special.

I watched No Smoking some days back. It is strange, complex, remarkable and exceptional. Without searching for better words, let me say that it is in a class of its own.

The protagonist, played by John Abraham, is an obsessive smoker. His wife completely detests this habit, and after she leaves him, he agrees to visit a centre named Prayogshala where people are treated to quit smoking. That’s when it starts showing signs that it’s far removed from any Bollywood piece you have ever come across. Well, there were indications earlier. John Abraham’s character is called K. Just K. Does that ring a bell? There is an overwhelming resemblance to a novel I have read (and hinted at earlier in this post). But I was still limited by my expectations. This couldn’t possibly be true.

The road to the treatment centre leads K through the shanties. K finds an old man who lets him enter the door leading to Prayogshala. He is led though narrow alleys, down a series of stairs, through dark and obscure lanes. There are strange people staring at him through windows high up on a wall. Now the signs were unmistakable. There could be no doubt that Anurag Kashyap has made one of the boldest attempts you can hope to watch on the Indian screen. He has adapted Kafka.

No Smoking is inspired by The Trial- the remarkable work of literature and philosophy by Franz Kafka. Kafka’s court is Kashyap’s Prayogshala. Kashyap’s K, like Kafka’s Josef K, discovers that he is being watched by everyone around him, everyone else seems to be part of a giant conspiracy that questions his very existence.

Close to the end, there’s a scene where K looks down from a window upon a new entrant to Prayogshala, just like others had been watching him when he was a newcomer. The cycle goes on. K wakes up from a dream. I wondered, what next? Did the director want to say that the surreal experiences so long had all taken place in a dream, that there was no conflict with logic, and Prayogshala didn’t exist in the real world. Or was he going to let the viewer interpret the movie, and leave signs that all was not a dream, that he has consciously fused reality and fantasy to introduce the audience to a genre unfamiliar in India. I was expecting the second, and yes, Anurag Kashyap didn’t disappoint.

It takes tremendous courage on the part of the director (and of course also the producers Kumar Mangat and Vishal Bhardwaj) to make a Kafkaesque film in our country. For this singlemost important aspect No Smoking is a remarkable achievement. The makers must have certainly known well in advance that it wasn’t going to have much of a chance at the box-office. If the audience rejects it unanimously (which it did), it is okay. But what about the critics? It’s fair enough if they make it clear in their reviews that this is not a film meant for all. However, what they penned down were aimed more at ridiculing the movie, rather than reviewing it! I looked up the net for their views.

Khalid Mohamed (Hindustan Times) wrote a highly entertaining piece about No Smoking’s lack of entertainment, didn't show the slightest interest in analytically criticising the film and ended up with a completely trash review. Rajeev Masand (CNN-IBN) did only slightly better, but his article too reads like a box-office predictor, harping on the string that it goes over the head. NDTV's Anupama Chopra is actually good. She mentions this is not a movie meant for the masses, and her criticism has substance, as well as the note that it’s an adaptaion of The Trial.

There's a video on the net showing Anurag Kashyap speaking at the India Habitat Centre, New Delhi. I’ll end on a lighter note, quoting his remark:
'It is very Kafkaesque- the whole reference of the character being called K. K could be for Kafka, K could also be for Kashyap, K could also be for...Karan Johar!'

Slumdog Millionaire

2009-04-03T15:46:00.000-07:00

I finally shook of my laziness and started writing about the much discussed movie Slumdog Millionaire. I was going to post a reply on my friend Somdeb’s blog , but realised that my reply would have become longer than his post. Therefore, here comes a new post on my blog.

I found Slumdog Millionaire to be an average film, certainly nowhere close to being a great one. It won’t rank in my list of favourite movies, but I did enjoy watching it. This post has less to do with the movie itself, and more with the reactions it has generated. So let’s begin one by one.

Reaction #1: 'Slumdog Millionaire' has been so popular in the West because it portrays the poverty in India.

There is a natural appeal in things which are unfamiliar and strange to us. Extreme poverty, a structure as beautiful as the Taj Mahal, colourful weddings are themes that may be uncommon to an Westerner and therefore these subjects find a resonance among the Western audience. Poverty is the harsh reality in India and it can’t be denied that the picture of misery presented by Danny Boyle is true to a large extent. It’s a truth we know but choose not to be bothered by it. Its our problem that we react when this side is exposed. I find it hard to accept that a movie can become a blockbuster hit in the West only by showcasing India’s poverty. Slumdog Millionaire is a story of hope, and that’s certainly the primary reason it has been liked a lot.

Let me raise a different question: what is it that comes first to our mind when we think of Africa? We are accustomed to think about Africa as the dark continent, characterised by a rich wildlife, miserable poverty and uncivilised tribals. Our clichés about a different culture are based on what we find surprising and unfamiliar, including their negative points. We have no reason to complain.

Thanks to Danny Boyle, the miserable living conditions of slum dewellers has become the talking point of the media. It needed an Westerner to prick our conscience and debate about the reality we often choose to ignore. Isn’t that shameful enough?

Reaction #2: Eight Oscars! Wow! 'Slumdog Millionaire' is a milestone in Indian cinema.

Really? First of all, the claim that Slumdog is an Indian movie sounds absurd to me. But let’s not ponder much over this issue. Winning the Oscar is certainly not the pinnacle of cinematic achievement. Indian films have been recognized worldwide at international film festivals which are are no less prestigious than the Academy Awards and where artists from various countries (not just English speaking nations) judge the entries. Its a notable achievement to win the Oscar, but it can in no way be claimed to be a platform for world cinema. Take for example Lagaan, which was nominated for the Academy Award in the Best Foreign Language Film category. Lagaan is a nice movie to watch and only the third Indian movie to have received a nomination. If the Oscar is assumed to be a good judge, then Lagaan ranks among the three best Indian movies ever and this is an incredible overstatement.

Reaction #3: A. R. Rahman’s music in 'Slumdog Millionaire' is not up to his standards. Why did he win the Oscar for this particular movie, when he had composed much better music in the past?

Its for the very simple reason that the rest of the movies Rahman has composed for are not in English, and they won’t be considered for the Oscars. The very fact that people are surprised shows that the Academy Awards are expected to be the ultimate awards in world cinema. This is a highly flawed assumption. And by the way, the Slumdog soundtrack may be mediocre by Rahman’s standard, but its still great music! Rahman’s composition should not be judged by only the songs featured prominently in the movie. The amazing background music deserves to be listened to separately after watching the film. I’m pretty sure most people don’t even know there’s a song ‘Dreams on Fire’ in the Slumdog soundtrack. Its wrong to judge the work of Rahman by listening only to ‘Jai ho’ and ‘O Saaya’.

Delhi 6

2009-02-24T12:50:00.000-08:00

Unconventional ideas and brilliant cinematography- that’s what my expectations were from Delhi 6, the director being Rakeysh Mehra. And yes, he has certainly lived up to them. His proficient treatment of characters had been showcased in Rang De Basanti. In terms of experimenting with new ideas, Mehra has gone further ahead with Delhi 6.

The strength of the movie lies not in the storyline, which is ordinary, but in the rendition. Delhi 6 is a collage. It is a jigsaw of the omnipresent joys and predicaments of everyday life, and the people and places that sketch the life of the city. Mehra paints a multitude of characters on the same canvas. The plot has elements of a typical Bollywood entertainer. But he presents them in a mould that is entirely his own, and distinctly different from the clichés of the movie ‘industry’. Particularly startling is the picturisation of ‘Dil Gira Dafatan’ where the life of New York and Delhi are superimposed. Sonam Kapoor’s dance with a dove reflects a great sense of aesthetics and the cinematography throughout the movie is really good.

Smart making can make good cinema out of a weak storyline. Rakeysh Mehra’s experiments have already drawn a lot of flak for lack of entertainment value. Box office success is certainly not his main aim. In Bollywood, producers are more important than directors and acting skills play second fiddle to stardom. Mehra has managed to bring the creativity of the director to the forefront of his movies. Delhi 6, despite its weaknesses, is a work of art. Mehra speaks a new language.

Comments on Prabhat Patnaik's article

2009-01-25T14:58:00.000-08:00

In his most recent article The Left And Its "Intellectual" Detractors, Dr. Prabhat Patnaik wonders why intellectuals have rallied against the Left regarding the Nandigram issue and concludes that ‘The revolt against the CPI(M) is simultaneously a revolt against politics’. He idealises the Left as the camp of the "people", maintaining that nothing should be done to destabilise it.

Despite the popularity enjoyed by the Left in different parts of West Bengal, it is undeniable that to a large fraction of the people, it has come to signify a group of conceited politicians and mercenaries obsessed with a feeling of self-righteousness. Communism, for the commom CPI(M) member, is a type of religion propagated by their immediate superiors in the Party hierarchy. Massacres are justified because conscience has been killed by a blind submission to the Party leadership. Obsessed with the image of an ideal anti-imperialist front, Dr. Patnaik presents a bird’s eye-view of the problem, where the decadence at the very base of the organized Left appears insignificant.

According to Dr. Patnaik, the revolt by intellectuals strengthens politically the camp of the enemies of "the people". This logic has been reiterated by adherents of the CPI(M) over and over again and expresses the desperation to defend themselves when no other sane argument is available. He calls the stand of the intellectuals one of messianic moralism, tantamount to the destruction of politics. His rejection of morality is disturbing. I fail to see why the political stand of the camp of the "people" should be in such great conflict with human morals. The organised Left has long enjoyed the support of thinkers allied against communal forces. But it made the grave mistake of assuming that the appalling violence endorsed by it will also be pardoned. This is the bitter truth the CPI(M) finds hard to come to terms with.

The author wonders why intellectuals didn’t resort to friendly criticism, instead of displaying such amazing fury. Dr. Patnaik, do you really believe that friendly criticism could make an impact on the CPI(M) leadership to change its arrogant ways? The party has long stopped paying heed to criticism and labeled Leftist thinkers opposing its policies as ‘reactionaries’ and ‘misguided individuals’. There is a point at which friendly criticism has to stop, and Nandigram marks that turning-point. This is a revolt arising out of betrayal by the political organisation these intellectuals trusted. This is not a revolt against politics. Dr. Patnaik sees a struggle between the morality of the "anti-political" and the morality of the "political". The infallibility of the organised Left is implicitly assumed in his analysis and phrases like ' morality of the "political" ' should have been explained better in the context of Nandigram.

Dr. Prabhat Patnaik is an internationally acclaimed economist.

Wet sun

2009-01-15T13:21:00.000-08:00

The mild sun, born at the altitude of stars, golden arms stretched for the earth, drenched in droplets that poured from streams atop the mountains, didn’t warm the wind-soaked soil in a burst of fire, didn’t light up a flame, instead spread its myriad wings to paint terrestrial colours, fire that dissolved in earth and water, until the sun of golden dreams went to rest at night, million stars peeped in for a glimpse of the privileged earth that lay hidden in the glow of day, and as horizon beckoned the burning disk, a veil was woven, that lit up with darkness the world of birds and trees, a world where beings are as real as their shadows.

The setting sun and its reflection in a half-filled, or half-empty, bottle of water.

Article by a Pakistani journalist

2009-01-13T12:36:00.000-08:00

Over the past few weeks, I have paid occasional visits to the website of the Pakistani newspaper The Dawn. It has published some really commendable articles regarding terrorism and religious fundamentalism. The January 4 issue of its weekly magazine carried this excellent piece ('Blow Daddy') by Nadeem Paracha. It is in the form of a conversation between a boy, brainwashed by fundamentalist propaganda on television, and his father. Thanks to Wikipedia, I came to know a little bit about the author. He is a well-known Pakistani journalist and has repeatedly hit out at religious hardliners. I would definitely like to take a look at his writings, a considerable portion of which is available on the net.

The best Christmas ever! (contd. from the previous post)

2009-01-02T14:11:00.000-08:00

Shortly after 7 o’clock on the morning of Christmas, we set off from Gateway on a launch.

The number of ships and small boats around us became less and less as we moved away from the coast of Bombay and the seagulls joined us. Initially there was one seagull following the launch, then there were two and then there were three, four and many more. They floated in the air just over our heads. People threw them titbits and they gracefully intercepted them with their beaks. When the birds were tired of flying, they stooped down and perched on the water, floating effortlessly on the sea as if they were sitting on it.

The launch sailed till Mandwa. We reached Alibaug by bus and boarded a trekker for Poynad. Our destination was the SAMPARC Children's Home. Members of our group UMMEED had earlier visited another SAMPARC project at Bhaje, and that's how we had come to know about this one at Poynad.

There were about 50 children, including teens. Suman dressed up as Santa Claus and generously handed out candies to the children. The cakes we had purchased from Kyani Cafe were distributed.

What followed next was a highly spirited performance by the kids as they danced to the tune of popular songs. It was an awesome show! Sanchari and Arkarup entertained them with a few songs and they too lent their voices. By then, the day had already turned out to be extraordinary. I had a feeling that much more was in store for us.

Two of the girls took us on a tour of the boys' hostel and the places of worship in the neighbourhood. They told us about their daily life. We came to know that some of the children participate in the Mumbai Marathon every year and also travel to Delhi for attending a martial arts competiotion. The film in my camera was close to getting exhausted. One of the SAMPARC employees took me on his motorcycle to a market in the nearby town. I purchased a new roll.

Lunch was great. The food was simple and tasty. We then had a nice chat with the children. One of them collected newspaper cuttings of photos of animals as a hobby and had made a scrapbook out of those. She wanted to become a photographer. All of a sudden we heard excited voices outside. A snake was loose on the yard and someone was trying to catch it. It was finally caught, packed off in a sack and taken away.

Suman had become quite popular with the children. They repeatedly asked him to dance with them. He raised a lot of objections that he doesn't have the skills, but finally had to give in to popular demand. Two of the girls showed him how to dance to the beats of ‘Pappu can’t dance’. It was great fun to watch Suman as he tried to emulate their steps.

Before leaving, Swadhin sketched them a nice drawing in pencil. We posed for a group photo with all of them. It seemed we would have to walk two kilometres to catch transport to Alibaug. Fortunately, a driver of a milk van on the way offered us a lift, and that too free of charge. Thanks a lot, driverji!

On the trip back to Mumbai, our launch sailed over the dark waters of evening beneath a clear starry sky. Arkarup and Sanchari treated us to some nice songs, mainly Rabindrasangeet. Saswata was getting ready to pose as Santa Claus near Gateway. I have narrated the rest of the story in the previous blog post. Here is an image of Saswata as Santa Claus, which I hadn't posted earlier.

And another one of Swadhin with policemen.

The best Christmas ever!

2008-12-26T14:29:00.000-08:00

Christmas 2008 was an experience of magical proportions. We had planned to spend the day at an orphanage near Alibaug. The idea came up during a discussion among members of UMMEED- a social welfare group based in my institute TIFR. I was accompanied on the trip by five others - Saswata, Swadhin, Suman, Arkarup and Sanchari. It turned out to be a day of smiles, happiness and priceless satisfaction. I will postpone narrating much of the story to another blog post a few days later. Now I will turn to events that took place once we returned to Mumbai in the evening.

When the launch neared the Gateway of India, Saswata dressed up as Santa Claus. People looked at him with amused eyes as we alighted. To our surprise, the Gateway compound was deserted. The police had cordoned off the area due to security concerns. We crossed the barricade and within just a few seconds, Santa was mobbed by kids! He gleefully handed out candies to all of them. Behind the fake beard, Saswata must have been smiling a lot as his gifts filled up the atmosphere with bursts of joy. People stopped their cars and motorcycles as their children shouted ‘Santa! Santa!’. Santa slowly moved on towards the Taj, where more children, teenagers and parents flocked to him. They posed with him for group photos. Hardly ten minutes had passed when the toffees were almost exhausted. With only a few of them left in the bag, Santa rushed to a dark corner of a building and removed his red clothes to re-emerge as Saswata.

The street wore the look of any other day. It didn’t seem like Christmas. We headed to a departmental store and purchased more candies. This time it was Swadhin’s turn to step into Santa’s shoes. We took the route down Colaba Causeway, across Metro Plaza, Food Inn, Café Leopold and then turned once again towards Gateway. It was the same scene everywhere. Santa poured out gifts to toddlers, infants, teenagers, the policemen on the street, the security guards of Taj and the shopkeepers on the pavement. Santa went to the kid who sold vada pav and gave him his share. Everyone smiled, everyone was happy. We had achieved our goal. Every moment was turning out to be priceless. Christmas 2008 to me has become the embodiment of jubilation and solidarity.

Swadhin as Santa Claus. Photograph taken by Saswata

At the Magh Mela

2008-12-18T12:43:00.000-08:00

Earlier this year in February, I had the opportunity of visiting the Magh Mela, the annual bathing festival of Hindus at the confluence of the Ganga and the Yamuna. I had gone to Allahabad to attend a workshop at the Harishchandra Research Institute (HRI). The Ganga is less than five minutes walking distance from the campus gate. In those chilling winter nights, I loved to go to the far end of the campus where the boundary was marked by a grilled fence. Shrouded in silence, the quiet water and the lonely river-bank stretched out in front of me. Far away, the darkness was erased by the lights of the Magh Mela, and the sound which arose from the pitched tents filled the air and diffused over the empty landscape.

One afternoon I started walking along the river towards the tents. In a little less than an hour, I reached an entrance to the fair. I was the only one stopped by the security personnel, since I didn’t appear like the devotees who were pouring in. They let me go once they had a look at the identity card. The number of people attending the fair was puzzlingly large. I kept wondering if so many people had gathered for the Magh Mela, what would the Kumbh be like?

Among the numerous sadhus who could be seen on the fair ground, I came across one of foreign origin. On his shoulder he was carrying a monkey! He made his way to a tea stall with a band of followers. When I took out my camera, I found the stall owner posing with his kettle for a photo. In the image below, you can see our sadhu to his right; the monkey sits on his lap as curious children look on.

I noticed a number of banners informing people about certain swamijis. It is common practice to honour a swamiji by adding ‘Shri’ or ‘Shri Shri’ before his name. But, as you can find out from the next pic, one or two ‘Shri’-s are not enough! This banner reads ‘Shri Shri 1008 Shri’!

I also met two kids, who sold me a small mirror. They kept staring at the camera hanging around my neck. When I wanted to snap their image, the elder one looked worried and told me ‘humare pas paise nahi hai!’ I had to assure him that I was not going to charge any money for the photo.

Our country, our concerns

2008-12-12T16:47:00.000-08:00

Mumbai is seething with rage. Some of our democratically elected leaders have been making incredibly outrageous remarks and competing for the honour of the most incompetent fool around. There has been an overwhelming outpour of disgruntled citizens onto the streets to voice their disapproval of the political leadership. At this point, I will deviate from concentratng only on the issue of terrorism and stress why we, the educated middle class of India, need to do much more.

I belong to a well-to-do family and was brought up in the heart of Kolkata. I am one of the privileged few of the country who can live in comfort with a sense of financial security and enjoy the benefits of urban India. It is the middle class which plays the most vital part in policy-making. We constitute that section of the society to which the media talks. Today, the threat of terrorism looms large over the entire nation. But, there are also other waves of violence and injustice affecting various parts of the country on a massive scale; these are issues which we ignore because they don’t affect us directly.

We were not stirred by the massacre of tribals in Kandhamal. We didn’t make our discontent, if we had any, felt when protesting villagers died from police firing in Nandigram and Kalinganagar. We, the educated middle class, are not concerned about an adivasi in Orissa. We have never wanted to know why Manipur burns. We are proud to be Indians, and at the same time we shun the responsibility of making it better.

Why should we bother about problems that don’t affect us? Every citizen of India has the right to vote. But, as you have recently found out after the terror attacks, the leaders you have elected have betrayed your faith in them. You have voiced your protest and the media has echoed your outcry. Every Indian does not have this privilege. The tainted image associated with politics has repulsed our interest in it. Either you care for a better India, or you don’t. If you do, then you have to be aware about some of the challenges facing the nation, even if that won’t affect you directly. Most of these issues will not be highlighted prominently in the media unless people take an active interest in them. We should not be oblivious to some of the most serious problems which face the nation. We, the privileged section of the society, have the access to information and if we make our opinion heard, we can make a difference.

There was a unique anti-reservation protest organized by IIT Delhi students in 2006. They took to the streets and pretended to do the job of mending shoes and sweeping roads. I am opposed to caste-based reservation in higher education but this incident amazed me. The protestors wanted to convey that reservation would force them to do such ‘menial’ works! This strips bare the mindset of the social elite and the disrespect shown towards a large number of Indians on the basis of their profession. We nurture these prejudices from infancy. I also have to fight and neutralise the biases that social conditions have injected into me. We can’t change the system as long as we don’t change ourselves in a multitude of ways. For a better India, we have to do much more.

New look trams in Kolkata

2008-12-12T07:49:00.000-08:00

I logged in to my Orkut account some time back. My college friend Abhijaan had uploaded some photos. There are new look trams on the streets of Kolkata! For years we have been seeing the old battered trams, one of which (coloured blue) can be seen in the first pic. The place shown is College Street, where three years of my college life were spent, where life goes on against a charming backdrop of all things old and an age gone by. The new tram looks like a contrast to my memories of College Street. Wow! What a pleasant surprise!

The cycle of religious extremism

2008-12-10T12:40:00.000-08:00

Violence in the name of religion is not new to India. In the wake of the blasts that rocked Indian cities and finally the 26/11 attack on Mumbai, the radical groups advocating a Hindu backlash will aim to garner popular support. The Gujarat riots were ‘justified’ by reference to the Godhara carnage. A large section of Hindus feel that purging of the ‘treacherous’ Muslims is an immediate necessity. There seems to be a growing sense of frustration among a section of Hindus that the ruling Congress Party has played the card of ‘vote bank politics’ to appease minorities and compromised on tackling Islamic terrorism within the country. Radical Hindu groups have earned popular support and Narendra Modi has emerged as a hero! On my last visit to hometown Kolkata, I met quite a few people who expressed their support for Modi. That’s not too surprising, after the Left Front government of West Bengal forced controversial Bangladeshi writer Taslima Nasrin to leave the state following protests by Muslim fundamentalists. This is not the only time that the Communist-led government had sung to the tune of Islamic hardliners and earned the label of being ‘pseudosecular’.

The nation is under threat from both Muslim and Hindu fundamentalist elements. Each act of crime has led to another. The end of this chain is not in sight, unless the state machinery proves to be a neutral force that cracks down hard on any form of terrorism, before an eye for an eye makes us all blind. Godhara led to the Gujarat riots. The hatred of Gujarat sowed the seeds for the string of violent blasts this year, carried out by Muslim groups within the country.

The terrorists of 26/11 came from Pakistan. It is difficult for the ordinary Indian citizen to gauge how much control the Pakistani government has over the Islamic terrorists operating inside that country. The responsibility of dealing with terrorism having its roots in their own country belongs to the Pakistani government. Suffering from frequent bomb blasts and a highly volatile political atmosphere, Pakistan is in a state of utter chaos. Does Islamabad’s denial of any sort of Pakistani involvement stem from the fact that the stability of the government will be under threat from the Islamic extremists and their loyalists in the armed forces if action is taken against them? If Pakistani authorities are unable to contend the terrorists in their homeland, India may have to take charge and it is up to the higher authorities of our country to decide if military strikes on Pakistani soil are a suitable option. An Indian citizen may feel that our government should consider armed intervention. But let us also accept that everyone on the other side of the border is not our sworn enemy.

A few days back, I was reading the account of a doctor who had rushed to the Taj during the terrorist attacks. He is a Muslim. I read about some other Mumbaikars who had helped the victims of the attack. Many of them were Muslims. Some radical groups have been advocating a Hindu backlash. That will only help us to alienate the vast majority of Muslims who have nothing to do with communal clashes and instill in them an added sense of insecurity, leading to more people from the minority resorting to violence . One week before 26/11, I had come across an interview of the President of the Hindu Mahasabha. She demanded that India should be declared a Hindu nation and anyone who is not a Hindu must be treated as a second-class citizen and denied voting rights. One section of Hindus will view this as the only way out. This is a cause for concern. Pakistan is a huge threat to the security of Indian citizens and the terrorists bred over there want to see us divided in the name of religion. When we spread hate and widen the communal divide, the terrorists are victorious. If the UPA government at the centre fails to gain the confidence of the vulnerable section of Hindus, who can toe the line of fundamentalists from a sense of insecurity, deeper problems will be in store for us.

A backlash in the name of religion is bound to fuel a violent chain of reactions. Neither the fundamentalist Muslim nor the fundamentalist Hindu of India can be allowed to pose a threat to innocents, which will produce more terrorists. Pluralism is intrinsic to the idea of India and the force to combat the barbaric acts of terrorism has to be ruthlessly secular.