Blog of Laughter and Forgetting (Few Hundred Words of Garbage)

Sunday, April 30, 2006

Crappier Than I Imagined: Obituary Of My Blog

I have been writing blogs for 22 months now. I must have written about 180 blogposts or so. And yet, when I tried to re-assess my blog and read many of them today, I failed to spot 10 blogposts that I could sincerely say I liked. I have always known that I should not write; years ago I took a vow never to write. And yet, I started writing this blog, initially just to write crazy things and pull other's leg; but then I got pulled into it and started writing 'seriously'. I knew all along that what I write is mostly crap. But still, today when I strated reading my blog, I aimed to identify a dozen blogposts of mine that I liked. I failed to locate even 10!

Hence I changed the name of the blog today, and I hope that this would prevent the few readers of my blog that I have, from finding it and reading anymore. I spent many hours writing this blog, and so I am still hesitant to delete it altogether. However, I hope that none of them will find this blog again.

It's a different issue to be crappy in a field and to not know it; but it's an extreme pain to be constantly aware of one's shortcomings and be aware of the fact that one can never improve upon it. I once again realize that I should have never written a blog!

I hereby declare the formal death of my bullshit blog!

The Master of Hedonism

I was thinking about hedonism, and then I felt that maybe I should read about the master of hedonism a little. And then, as it happened with me many times earlier while writing a blogpost, I found that his birthday is tomorrow, the 1st April. I do not know if it all happens by chance each time, or just that all these info, which I obviously keep reading many times, sit in some hidden parts of my brain and suddenly spits themselves out when the time comes. Of course, it is also true that on any given day, many people are born and many die; so naturally, some or other person I know about must die today, tomorrow or on any other day. (For example, Toshiro Mifune also was born on 1st April; last year, I wrote a blogspot entitled, Part Samurai, Part Ronin, on that occasion.)

The point, however, is why do I have to think of hedonism today, while his birthday is tomorrow? I don't have an answer for that.

What is hedonism? In very simple terms, it's the pleasure principle (Sigmund Freud would perhaps call it id: his id, ego and superego being associated with pleasure principle, reality pricniple and perfection principle, respectively). Hedonism asserts that pleasure is the highest good; thus, it can be defined as the doctrine that our behavior is motivated by the desire for pleasure and the desire to avoid pain.

The first time I came to know about this word was while reading, The Book of Laughter and Forgetting, by Milan Kundera. Kundera often talks of hedonism in his books.

I remember, when I still used to read and post comments frequently in the Marquez yahoo group, in reply to one of the posts there I once refered to Marquez, Kundera and Rushdie as the three major exponents of magic realism. SRC, an even bigger jerk than me from Calcutta (an Enginner with an MBA degree, who was married for a couple of years, and had a young kid, would resign his job with a multinational company within a few years to pursue his passion: writing. I don't know where he is now!), responded by telling that Kundera was, above anything else, a hedonist. I attacked him telling that he read the cover-page of "The Book of Laughter and Forgetting" and was quoting from there like a parrot. He was maturally offended; but it did not turn us into enemies. As I can see now, he was just a dedicated Kundera lover and every word that came from Kundera was lifeline for him.

Brought up with heavy doses of half-cooked Hindu philosophy, I was more used to consider sacrifice as the ultimate virtue. By the time I read Kundera, however, life had taught me that all my principles and thoughts were obsolete, and I was just a complete moron, marooned on a remote island. So naturally, I was very intrigued when I first came across the term, hedonism.

Do we all not look for happiness in life, and try to avoid pain? We all pursue different things in life only to make our life more comfortable at one level or another; all we seek all the time is happiness. We may not have a clear idea as to where where our happiness lies, or what consists our individual happiness; nevertheless, we all pursue it. Maybe that's a part of the machanism in our Genes!
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Sources:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hedonism
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Milan_Kundera
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Toshiro_Mifune

Note: Due to momentary lapse of reason, I confused May 1 with April 1, as is evident from this blogspost. Maybe the day for my going fully insane is nearer that I previously thought!

The Burial of the Dead!

"April is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour."

That is what T. S. Eliot wrote in his poetry, The Waste Land. But is April really the cruellest month? Can one, for that matter, brand any particular month as the cruellest? Cruellest to whom? On what basis? (I'm not trying to put forward an unqualified criticism of Eliot's poetry; what I write here are thoughts that crossed my mind while reading this poem today nce again.)

Back home where I come from, April is a scary month; the annual series of storm and the first thundershowers accompanied by heavy rain always occur in the month of April. Lots of destruction take place during that month. But then, my place belongs to a zone of highly scissmic activity, and so, any month could be the cruellest month!

Do memories need a particular season to be revived? No! Sometimes the simplest events can revive seemingly unconnected memories. Memory is like the pebbles a kid picks up on the sea shore and collects; one never knows what remains in the memory. Sometimes people forget highly significant things, while remembering the most insignificant things. In a sense, memory is both a boon and a curse to human beings!
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Source: http://www.infoplease.com/t/lit/wasteland/burial.html

Knock-Out

Patiala was known in the hostel for three things: his Lee shoes, his nanchuk and his habit of reading detective novels day and night. His real name was PC; but everyone called him Patiala, a place from where he did his junior high school. If he was one of the toughest looking guys in the whole batch of newcomers, I was perhaps the thinnest and weakest one!

And that's the reason Patiala developed a liking for me. I mean, he felt pity for me and to make sure that I did not get beaten out by anyone, he suggested that I go with him to meet him childhood friend BT.

BT was one of the most promising and ferocious young martial arts practitioner at the time in the entire state, and was competing in National level competitions. However, BT's achievements were not commensurate with his skill; he actually won far fewer matches. PC explained me why that happened: BT always wanted a knockout. He let his opponent hit him as many times as they wanted, and only waited to deliver that perfect punch (or kick) that would kncok his opponent out. It was perhaps a good strategy for professional competitions, but in time-bound competitons, he often did get the chance to deliver that blow within the few minutes. Thus the crows was often not his!

I did not have to go to meet him; one aftenoon he appeared at PC's door. PC introduced him to me and informed that he should tutor me the basics, to which he willy-nilly agreed. However, due to my shyness (and to a large extent, my laziness) I never went to him to really learn martial arts.

For outlaws (and officially considered, the junkest of the junk) we did pretty well. Patiala scored a little less than me and I scored only 1 mark (in total) less than the two guys in the hostel, who studied day and night. Many of the studious and good students fared really bad; the course was fully revised that year and they, being used to spoon-feeding, had no idea what to study or how. We, on the other hand, were too stupid to try to remember things; all we did was to try to understand things! Looking back, I now find that our score was the product of just 15 minutes of study per day on an average, at the most! Patiala went to Down South to do his Engineering , and I stayed back in the same college for my undergraduate. I have never again met either of PC or BT.

After many years, I now feel that some of us are doing exactly what BT did back then: waiting to deliver our knock-out punch. Most of us will possibly never get a chance for that, but I genuinely hope and expect that fate will provide a few of us with that chance some day!

I keep my fingers crossed.

Outlaw at 73!


I have always objected to my friend, X's (not the real initial of her name) smoking pot. Her defense is standard: she smokes pot only once a while; my counter argument is standard: by smoking, a woman not only harms her health, but also that of her kids when she has them.

And yet, whenever I talk to her about Willie Nelson, I always mention the facts that he did not pay taxes for long, and that he smokes pot and even went on the radio to ask people to protest against the ban on marijuana.

So, one day she hit me directly: why do you object to my smoking pot, while you seem to glorify Willie's smoking pot? I did not have a convincing answer to that!

However, the fact remains that I like Willie Nelson's voice and music, and consider myself a fan of him.

Happy Birthday, Willie!

Friday, April 28, 2006

The Importance of Being Shameless!

BH and SS talking
My computer suddenly started talking in Greek yesterday. I mean, it suddenly declared that there were some spywares in it. As usual, I was pissed off; but having no knowledge about such things I decided to wait for JA. When I chekced for him, he was already gone, and so I decided to wait for him.

Today, when I checked for JA, A let me know that he won't be in until the 16th of May, as he was getting married.

Having no other option, I went to BH (Dr. BH, to be precise) and asked him to have a look at the computer. He did and told me that there were spywares in my computer.

Meanwhile, I emailed my friend, SS, who works with the ISD as a system security manager (or something like that), and asked if he would come down for 10 minutes. He asked me to call him back and then promised that he would come down soon. He did so; however, the 10 minutes extended to 2 hours.

Among them, BH and SS downaloded anti-virus and system security softwares and put the computer on a virus check. SS promised to come down again on Monday and check for spywares.

The moral of the story: be shameless.

If I were an European or an American with Western sensibilities, I won't have ever asked SS to come down; my ethos would have perhaps prevented me from using a friend. But being from a differnt land/culture (and a selflish person at that), I could still call a friend, take the liberty to address him with the choicest Punjabi abuses, and then demand of him to come down and check my computer. When SS informed me that he should charge me $100 an hour, I had the audacity to use even more sophisticated abuses, which apparently kept him amused!

Oh, how I love shamelessness!

Thursday, April 27, 2006

Anecdotes from a Love Affair (Mostly Truth!)

I often claim that I never turned my back on anybody; I never ended a relationship. Actually, that is not completely true! I denounced one of my first loves; I turned my back on someone who was very dear to me for years. And this blog is about that. I've rarely mentioned about it, or took part in any discussion; in effect, my abandonemtn of my love was complete.

But before that, let's talk about cricket! Not cricket per se but some stories about cricket and its personalities.

The first name that comes to my mind is that of Andy Roberts. Extremely fast and deadly and equally briliant, Andy Roberts was the only bowler that Indian batsman Sunil Gavaskar was ever scared of! Gavaskar opened the Indian innings for almost two decades, facing fastest bowlers beginning with Colin Croft to Washim Akram, Jeff Thompson and Dennis Lillee included. Gavaskar had his unique technique, what they called smelling the ball after Hanif Mohammed ("Sunil would smell the ball before deciding whether or not to offer a shot... He was that good"), as his antidote to bouncers. A short man, Gavaskar used to just pull his head a foot backward when bombarded with a bouncer, and every bowler who tried to hit him with one invariably failed.

Sunil Gavaskar never used a helmet, which was not a good idea, going by the fact that Nari Contractor had to go blind on one eye after taking a hit from Charlie Griffith. But then, when Srikkanth was hit by Akram, the ball broke the rods guarding his face and hit him. Akram would later tell that a bowler could not be held responsible if a batsman missed the line and got hit! After all, the bouncer was one of the most potent weapons in the arsenal of a fast bowler. (Srikkanth was a batsman who never had any regard for any bowler. I still remember watching him hit 4 consecutive boundaries in the first four deliveries in a Test match by Joel Garner, the tallest bowler ever in Cricket, and then getting bowled on the last ball of that very over!)

Why was Andy Roberts ferocious? As one of the most informative guys I ever met in life told me once, Andy knew that a good batsman always looked at the eyes of the bowler at the final moment of delivery, and based on that could see where the ball would drop and what kind of delivery it would be! So, what Andy did was to roll his eyes when he jumped to deliver the ball.

Andy Roberts was part of the quartet of fast bowlers of the West Indian cricket that included Michael holding (the whispering death), Joel Garner and Colin Croft (to be later replaced by Malcolm Marshall). This was a group formed by Clive Lloyd, after his team was destroyed by the bowling of two Aussies, known as Lillee-Thompson, that comprised of Dennis Lillee, one of the best bowlers of cricket of all time, and Jeff Thompson, arguably the fastest bowler ever. Lloyd did not want to rely on just 2 fast bowlers; he wanted 4!

There is a funny story about Michael Holding. During a Test match between the West Indies and England, Holding was to bowl to English player Peter Willey, which the commentator quite accurately described as "The bowler's Holding, the batsman's Willey".

Malcolm Marshall, one of the best fast bowlers and most beloved cricketers died of cancer in 1999; he was only 41!

However, none of them could reach the pinnacle that Courtney Walsh achieved! Walsh had 519 wickets, the highest tally of wickets in Test cricket then, when he retired. He was one of the most gentlemanly players of cricket; he never objected to an umpire's decision, never lost cool or, shouted at or argued with anyone. He did not make a Pakistani batsman out by Mankad out technique (one of the 9 ways to send a batsman packing, made use of famously by Indian bowler Vinoo Mankad, and thus it being known as Mankad out) in the World cup of 1987, and which led to West Indies' being eliminated before reaching the Semi-finals.

(To quote from Wikipedia: Mankad caused controversy in 1947/48 on India's tour of Australian cricket team, when he ran out Bill Brown backing up in the second Test. In other words, he broke the wicket at the non-strikers end during his run-up while the batsman at that end was out of his ground. He had done the same thing to Brown in the game against an Australian XI earlier on the tour, but his running out of Brown infuriated the Australian media, and someone run out in this way is now sometimes said to have been "Mankaded".).

Many of those info were part of our daily talk. some of these were obtained from books or radio commentaries. Cricket was in our blood and in our thoughts!

And then, in 1987, when during the Reliance cup Semi-finals, Sunil Gavaskar, one of the best batsmen in the world and a master of front-foot batting, went out in front-foot and got bowled by Philip DeFraites of England, my love affair with cricket was over.

I turned my back on cricket forever, and never looked back!
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Source:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sunil_Gavaskar
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nari_Contractor
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Krishnamachari_Srikanth
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wasim_Akram
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Clive_Lloyd
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dennis_Lillee
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jeff_Thomson
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Michael_Holding
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joel_Garner
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Malcolm_Marshall
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Colin_Croft
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sir_Garfield_Sobers
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Courtney_Walsh
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vinoo_Mankad
http://www.telegraphindia.com/1060219/asp/sports/story_5866755.asp

Think of the Don (and Lulu is there!)

(Lulu with her friends)
Don Lulu Bolivar (I'm joking, she is just Lulu; though she was born on 17th Dec., the day Don Simon Bolivar died) is a friend from Mexico. I met her online in 1999. I used to chat in Cyberspace then, and suddenly someone called lulu sent me a request for talk. It was Unix machine, and talk was the program we used back then. Yahoo messenger had either just, or not yet, arrived. My login was, in a way, androgynous, a reason I found many people were eager to chat with me.

Lulu, however, just logged on for the first time and was trying to check what it had to offer. We had a chat. She did not know much English back then; but then she never studied English at the level we had to. We continued to chat, and then moved on to Yahoo messenger.

Over the years, I came to know about two more Lulu's. One is the woman who sang the theme song in "To Sir With Love", the other being a poem by Orhan Veli Kanik. However, I still prefer the original Lulu.

Meanwhile, Lulu studied history, did her Bachelors and then went to do a Masters. She plans to do a PhD. For the past one year or so, we have been out of touch, but I'm sure I will again hear from her.

Last Walk is the Fastest II

In the first part of this, I mentioned how Gabo described the last jounrney of Don Simno Bolivar. Gabo ended the book with the following:

"He examined the room with the clairvoyance of his last days, and for the first time he saw the truth: the final borrowed bed, the pitiful dressing table whose clouded, patient mirror would not reflect his image again, the chipped porcelain washbasin with the water and towel and soap meant for other hands, the heartless speed of the octagonal clock racing toward the ineluctable appointment at seven minutes past one on his final afternoon of December 17..... through the window he saw the diamond of Venus in the sky that was dying forever, the eternal snows, the new vine whose yellow bellflowers he would not see bloom on the following Saturday in the house closed in mourning, the final brilliance of life that would never, through all eternity, be repeated again."

Gabo was writing on behalf of the Don; so he can make it look as if the Don knew everything. (What is centain, however, is what the Don said while summarizing the extraordinary saga of his life towards the end of it: He who serves a revolution plows the sea). But life is different; no one lives the same life twice, and so none of us knows in advance when we meet someone for the last time, the last time we exchange a few words with someone.

Maybe that is life's curse; but maybe, that's its blessing too!

In Defence/Defense of My Memory

It seems that I could still rely on my memory to a large extent, as is proven by the following:

"At that time the Magdalena river interested me more than the glories of the central characters. I began to know it as a child, traveling from the Carribean coast, where I had the good fortune to be born, to the distant, fogbound city of Bogots, where, from my first visit, I felt more of an outsider than in any other city in the world. As a student I sailed the river eleven times in both directions, traveling on steamboats that came out of the shipyards of the Mississippi already condemned to nostalgia and possessed of a mythic call that no writer could resist."

(How to Avoid the) Usual Bullshit: Quoting the Master

The following is from the epilogue the master wrote for his book, The General in His Labyrinth:

"Vinicio Romero Martinez, the biographer of Bolivar, helped me from Caracas..... To him I owe the providential warning that Bolivar could not eat mangoes with the delight I had attributed to him, for the simple reason that the mango would not reach the Americas for another few years."

"Finally, Antonio Bolivar Goyanes - a distant relative of the protagonist and perhaps the last old-fashioned typesetter left in Mexico - had the kindness to revise seven different versions of the manuscript with me in a millimeter-by-millimeter hunt for contradictions, repetitions, irrelevancies, mistakes, and typographical errors, and in a pitiless examination of language and spelling. In this way we surprised in flagrante a soldier who won battles before he was born, a widow who went to Europe with her beloved husband, and an intimate luncheon for Bolivar and Sucre in bogota when one was in Caracas and the other was in Quito. Nevertheless, I am not very certain that I should give thanks for these two final pieces of assistance, for it seems to me that such absurdities might have added a few drops of involuntary - and perhaps desirable - humor to the horror of this book. G. G. M."

Now, for those who do not know, the Master suffers from dyslexia due to which he write many common spellings wrongly, a reason he was excluded from inviation for a literary conference in Spain in 2004, provided I believe what A. A., a passionate Gabo-lover, reported! (I would believe her, because it was her, who also provided me with Gabo's phone and fax numbers!).

If you read my earlier blog on bullshit, you must have noticed that what I said about this mango episode was not completely accurate either. I mentioned that Gabo made them both eat mango together; while, in reality these were two different incidents as you have read here. I won't change my words in that other blog, however, because not only it shows that relying on one's memory is not the best thing, but also because my blog against bullshit also conains its own bullshit!

The Comment That Would Never Be!

A few weeks ago,I wrote a blogpost about Kinky Friedman. And then someone put a comment about it. He is apparently an ardent Anti-Kinky guy, and he wants Kinky defeated. He points out 5 million inconsistencies in Kinky's stand over the years.

Now the first point is that my blog is NOT a political commnetary. As a totally disillusioned person with all politics, I don't care as to who says what in politics. I do not believe that there is any saint in politics anywhere anymore. So this comment should be outright rejected.

It should also be rejected because it's of the lenght of a Dostoyevsky novel. I don't want a comment to be longer than my blogspot, and that too a comment that is not relevant to the posting.

So I am never going to publish it.

But then, I agree that everybody has a right to comment on things in the public domain, such as my blogpost. And so I will not like to decline its publising either.

Hence it will always be there,a comment neither published nor rejected.

Authors I Can Comment On!

This morning, I was trying to think the name of the authors, on whose work I can comment with at least some fairness. The criterion I set for myself was: If I read at least 50% of the books each author wrote, I can possibly comment on their work. I consider here only the books that I read in English, in original or in translation.

And the outcome? I can find only a few names at the moment:

1) Bertrand Russell
2) Gabriel Garcia Marquez
3) Milan Kundera
4) John Steinbeck

Franz Kafka, Geroge Orwell and Albert Camus could possibly be included; but I'm not sure. (My list does not include Harper Lee, because she wrote only one book!).

On Reading a Book

Someone gave me the book, "The Kite Runner" about a month ago, who said that it was her most favorite book and who wanted me to read it. Of course, true to my style, I made insulting comments about the book the moment it was given to me, thus leading to reactions such as, "...You made fun of my book the minute I gave it to you and I don't forget that easily! You can't get away with that kinda thing." (She perhaps never expected me to read this book, or at least she claimed that it did not matter; but I anyhow started reading the book and hope to finish it soon. But that is a sidenote!)

However, I have not yet reached the page 100 of this 300+ page book and hence I cannot comment on it. However, I noticed a few things that made me write this.

This same person often passionately 'ridicules' me for my stand that everything in life is grey, instead of the usually perceived black-and-white. (I put ridicule within quotes, because the ridicule is usually in a friendly way! I say usually, because sometimes it's done not in the friendly way!). Also once when I told her that I think that if there is a God, he has much better and important things to do than to worry about my petty problems, she 'vehemently' protested against this statement of mine and said that God has time for everything and everyone.

But then, when I started reading "The Kite Runner", her most favorite book, I came across a couple of sentences which are exactly in tune with what I said. On page 15, what I read was: "The problem, of course, was that Baba saw the world in black and white. And he got to decide what was black and what was white. You can't love a person who lives that way without fearing him too. Maybe even hating him a little." Then, a few pages later (perhaps it was page 18) I also read: "If there's a God out there, then I would hope he has more important things to attend to than my drinking scotch or eating pork."

Did she possibly not read this in the book she loves most, and notice it? Was it that the grey talk she heard from me was the first time she heard this? If she is so opposed to my aloof, nonchalant stand, how could she digest that statement in the book so easily?

I have not yet finished the book, and so my words here will be based on speculation. She reads, she thinks and things that she sees pains her (On the contrary, nothing pains me, because I see everything in grayscale!); she is an intelligent person.

Why did then she overlook it? Actually, I do not know. As I mentioned, my words are based on speculations. It could be that she read and remembered those phrases in the book. It could be just that she did not agtree with them, and when I said the same things, she found them even more disagreeable, coming from a live person in real-life talking! I don't know.

Psycho-analysis of somebody is not what I do for a living, or as a hobby! I am not qualified to do so; nor do I like it. What I want to write here, instead, is a thing or two I feel about reading a book (with, obviously, some blatant self-appraisal).

When we read a book, often we like certain things and dislike some others, while remaining pretty neutral to some other things said in the same book. If the same book is given to a few different people to read, what each of them remembers is a subjective matter. What points intrigue or interest me need not make any impact on you. The same could be said about a bunch of people watching the same movie in the same room. Each of them would have a differnt story to tell, if they are asked to descirbe the movie. It's kind of Rashomon!

I generally retain much of a book (or a movie, for that matter) when I read it. It's not because I'm smart; it's just a by-product of the way I read a book. I like to keep going back and forth, read and re-read many of the lines and incidents, and then at a point, I retain many of these things. It could also be the by-product of the fact that I live in a virtual world, with not much to do, without many friends or many real-life distractions. And so, when I read a book, perhaps I can put my whole into it. I do not know!

(When I was doing my last years of school, I met a couple of friends, who knew that I usually studied for very short time and that too, only sporadically. They also noticed that I often used to sit in darkness outside the dorm and just gaze somewhere. This made one of them, P, comment that, "Studying for him is like meditation", because he thought that I used to sit outside and think and analyze what I read. Nothing could be further from the truth!

However, the fact remains that I rarely opened a textbook and so when I studied, I could put my whole heart into it, and retained almost everything I read. But then, even while reading textbooks, I, like everyone else, had things that I liked and remembered, and things that I disliked and never cared to remember!

The other friend, S, once remarked that he used to get nervous when he saw all our classmates studying dilligently; as far as I was concenred, however, he said he felt similarly when he saw me not studying but playing cricket instead.)

Return of the Native!

My entire childhood and the teen was under the spell of printed letters; like many others, I believed every word I read. It would take me years to find out that many of the things I had read back then were pure bullshit and some extrenmely stupid and ignorant people wrote those! The same applied with everything braodcast by radio (TV being still not there).

During 1979-1985, there had been a Students' agitation in my state, and the cnetral goverment heavily censored the state-owned Radio and then TV programs. By 1980 or so, many of us would lose our faith on the national radio, and would listen to BBC or VOA for 'accurate' news!

In Feb. 1983, my state was swept by a wave of communal violence and bloodbath. Thousands of people would lose their life, and the BBC TV would telecast one such communal violence live! During all the time,one name of would have a very prominent place: Mark Tully. I still remember the Spring day in 1983 (when my town was still under curfew and sinpite of it we were all on the roads, the administration having a shortage of security forces, and thus failing to implement the curfew with full force) when we wintnessed and a series of cars with "Press" stickers pasted on them, passing through.Apparently, Satish Jacob, Mark Tully's deputy was in one of the cars.

Then after 1984, Mark Tully would exclusivley cover the Punjab movement. Being a foreigner and not being allows to enter Punjab, Mark Tully would send SDatish Jacob to do the on-field reporting for him. It must be bizarre for someone, who was born in Caccutta and thus an Indian in a way, to be banned from freely moving around. but then politics is not governed by emotions.

Over the years, I read a few books by him., And what I can tell is that this person has either put enough effort to learn about Indfia, or has earned effortlenssly; but either way, he has observed a lot and often drew the correct conclusions. In his book, No Full Stop in India, for example, he mentions his discussion with his servant, an untoucnhable man recently promoted to be his cook, regarding his faughter's arranged marriage. Tully had undergone a couple od divorces bt then and was living with his then girlfriend.

What the cook told Tully was something interestind, and somthingTully had to agree with: Ibn your country, you fall in love, marry and then divorce. In my country, we marry, fall in love and never divorce.

I dont know if the pictiure is so rosy anymore; three of the guys I shared the same corridor in the same University for years during my Hyderabasd days, had to end their weddings in divrice, two of them perfectly arranged!

But all I can tell is that Tully's observation and love for the country where he worked for decades was obvious. But that is not surprising. This is the country, where a few American Baptist missionaries published the first journal in Assamese (1829-1860 or so), or a Bulgarian missionary, Father Camil Bulke, published the first Hindi dictionary; this is the country where people almost forgot about Sanskrit, until a German scholar, Max Muller, pointed out the extreme similarities between the Sanskrit and German (and other European) languages.

Why do I remember him?

During my undergraduate days, many of the guys studying English literature in our batch and others joined as Assistant Editors in many English language newspapers. They were good at writing; they were smart people. But at the same time, they were the bunch of most hard-headed fools I would ever meet in my life. They were all full of shit and almost everything they wrote was completely biased and dogmatic. If I ever need to define "Yellow journalism" with prevision, all I would need to do is to remember and refer to their names. After that, I lost all respect for most newspapers published from my state.

Then, during my Delhi days, I would read an exclusive interview with Mark Tully in The Times of India. The two things of that interview that struck me were as follows:

The first was that Mark Tully said that the basic tenet of journalism was not to sensationalize. A journalist must report with a detached involvement and not as an active participant. He is not suppsoed to take sides or include his opinions while reporting (Looking back, I think that exaggeration is the major reason that Gabo could never shine as a top-notch journalist!)

The second thing that he said was even more interesting: he said that the TV craze was transient and radio would again return. I found it hard to believe. (I had denounced radio by 1985, when I bought a casssette player and within 2 years, my cassette collection touched 400!). We used to play radio in Delhi; but it was because, due to the poor design of the apartment we rented, we did not have the place to put a TV, and so we did not buy one.

The introduction of FM radio was what made me get back to Radio. My friends MK and DA would accompany me when I went to buy a radio in 1996. It was a slick, small Philips radio with a powerful speaker. We even gave it a name: Tinku. Tinku would be very popular among some of my friends in the hostel I lived; he often used to travel to two other rooms when I was out, and used to sing songs for the guys there. Perhaps Tinku's slick, compact size was the factor that made him so popular.

Over the years, I have listened to radio a lot (I play a radio at my work all the time, a habit I got into during by Gal Galach days!). So much so that, now I have been planning to buy a short-wave radio to listen to International stations. However, something or other does not fit my bill: either the radioset does not have an in-built AC adaptor, or that the size is big, or the reviews are bad, or it is not available in Amazon.

Now I live in a country, where every car has a radioset, and where many people actually play it and listen to radio while driving. And then, when I think about my transformation from a TV/Cassette Player buff (all my late teen and undergraduate days) to a radio-listener, I always remember what Mark Tully had said in a distant day of 1993!
_________________________________________________________________
For info: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mark_Tully

Wednesday, April 26, 2006

The Prophet: Bootleg Version (Challenging Gibran)

Yes, I would challenege Gibran! (Note added in proof: And pigs will fly!). Jokes apart, no!, not that! But here I will jot down my opinions/obsevations on issues such as friendship, teacher and love etc., things I do not usually like to discuss.

What is friendship? Sankrit literature has a very beautiful verse on the definition of friendship; hpwever, what it mentions is the purest form of genuine friendship, a friend who would accompany you irrespective of whether it is for a celebration or to the execution ground! such friendships are, if not non-existent, extremely rare!

But what could be a working definition of friendship? I don't know. But what I know is that friends do not come in dozens. A person may (if he is lucky) perhaps come across at the most half a dozen friends in his entite lifetime. I'm aware of the fact that my yard-stick is set at very high standard, and my analysis is very harsh; but I genuinley feel that one can not have a lot of friends in life. I also feel that many of our miseries stem from the fact that we sometimes consider very unworhty people to be our friends and bestow friendship on them.

What is a teacher? I use the term, teacher, here in the Indian sense of Guru! Could any person, who taught me in the school of college be called a Guru? I disagree! To me, Guru is something much more sacred, much deeper, much more respectful; Guru is someone with whom I share a much deeper connection. As the Sanskrit scripture says, "Guru is the god of creation, the god of sustenance and the god of destruction; Guru is the ultimate truth."

Given the option, I would like to envision Chanakya as the ultimate Guru, someone who would hand over his years (possibly decades) of work to a 10-year old kid and ask him to go to the town and sell it (so that the money could be paid back to the kid's uncle to free him from the slavery), because Chanakya has seen in the kid the only chance for the revival of India. Thr kid will be Chandragupta Maurya (son of Mura), who would push the Greeks out of India and whom Chanakya would guard day and night, thus foiling the plans of someone as innovative and diligent as Rakshasa. I call him Guru, because he does not bullshit, he does not try to feed Chandragupta with the idea that the World is a bed of roses, but rather exposes him to various aspects of life and train him to handle and defeat all odds!

One does not need to teach soneone to be one's teacher. Every person learns from many different people in his life, and each of them could be a teacher to him. A person's social status, academic qualifications, age amd other criterions do not matter; one can learn from almost anyone and thus, can find a teacher in anyone. The only criterion is: from whom one learns!

Love: What is love? Can a platonic relationship be love? Or does it have to be all-consuming to be called love? I cannot decide. But I know that Bertrand Russell used to travel for hours by train each weekend to meet a woman 6 years his senior to have a cup of tea with her. Russell was in love! But then he was only 21 years old and the year was probably 1893! Could such love be possible in 2006? Who can tell?

How does one know that there is love? Does "love come to town"? How does one pursue love? Could one possibly even pursue love? Could one generate love? I am not sure. But I know that most of the so-called love is usually plain infatualtion; it dies the moment the two people go out of each other's sight. That is perhaps the reason that we often say: Out of sight, out of mind.

I also know trhat proximity and familiarity make love happen or blossom. One slowly gets used to a person one often meets, talks, works together and then one starts sharing thoughts, feelings and liking grows. Once liking develops, it's just a matter of time (provided conducive conditions pevail) for it to metamorphize into love.

Can one pursue love? Perhaps not. I personally do not believe that one can develop likings; it's a mutual thing. One may go out on date, drink, eat, even seep togehter; but one cannot create love. The magic, if there is such a thing, has to develop on its own. Surely, various factors help; but there has to be some inherent flame for love to be born. But I am also aware of the fact that white there could be the instant chemistry -- the so-called love at first sight -- in rare cases, but often, love is a by-product of familiarity and friendship.

How does one recognize love? In my opinion, when two people are in love (or at least mutually attracted to each other), it shows. It may not show to the world, but it shows to themselves, and each of them knows it at their heart! The few fleeting moments they spend together, the insignificant things they do or say make their heart filled swith a joy or some kind of unknown contentment. Love in, in essense, the feeling of well-being of a person that is augumented by the presence of the other person.

As my American colleague says, the best period in a courtship is when one is not sure if it's really love that is there or, is one just imagining! According to him, once one confesses one's love to the partner, the fun is over, even if the partner accepts and reciprocates it. It's actually very true! Long ago, a friend of mine told me that if one is really in love, one does not proclaim big things, onew does not continue to reassure one's partner oroneself about it; one just continue to be in it. What he said was diametrically opposite to what we read in books etc., but 15 years later when I look back at my life, I can see that he was correct!

Is love divine and blind? Perhaps not! Like all other human relationships, love is also need based. But more than other relationships, love also involves a business angle because unlike other realtionships, which do not involve pre-conditions, love hints at the chance to its leading to something long-term or permenent, and so, risk analysis and other such things happen; thus, love becomes a business venture. That is, people usually have the buyer's mentality when they have more than one options for love, and try to buy the best with the resources at hand. Perhaps that is the reason that throughtout the ages, Princes have been more successful in love than poor Poets and Philosophers.

Personally I don't even think that proclaiming one's love is necessary. I can love a woman and yet never feel the necessity to proclaim or confess it. To me, what matters more is the well-being or contendedness thatI feel, rather than telling the other person how I feel about her. Who knows, she may never feel about me the way I feel for her! Who knows, she may even take offense for it! (The fact also remains that I have always been a cynical and an escapist, and so, I would never risk a known friendship in the quest of an unknown love! Not after knowing what Gil Vicente said about it.). I'm not one of the bravehearts, who are willing to sacrifice friendship at the altar of love. For me: I will embrace love if it comes to me, but I won't go in search of it.

What then is the difference between love and friendship? Love invariably gives rise to possessiveness (it's like what some cynics say, "Everything is fear in love and war"); friendship is not. People in love try to change the other person; in friendship, one simply accepts the other! A person in love would like to see one's partner in the best of health, spirit and looks etc., and many a time, demands made by a partner regarding such issues to the other (to be the best!) ends up being considered nagging. Love , as they say, does not consist of looking at each other, but rather gazing outward towards the same direction together.

(Long ago, I had a friend who never drank a drop. I drank, but I hid it from him, for fear for being disgraced in his eyes. But finally, after two years or so, he came to know about it (or he had known it all along; it's just that he told me then that he knew!). I felt bad and asked him if his view regarding me changed foever, of if he would stop considering me his friend. He told me: You're my friend. Do what you want, and you will still br a friend. Even if you kill a man tomorrow, you will still be my friend.

Quite mature thought, coming from an 18 year old! After so many years, I still consider him a friend, and as luck would have it, almost every time I visit home, I meet him quite by chance!)

Since I talk pretty harshly about love and other such issues, am I a total pessimist? Or am I just a hypocrite, because as someone puts in, the songs I listen are "very romantic, and even a little cheesy"? I think, at the heart of our heart, none of us is a total pessimist. If it were the case, we would have hanged ourselves long ago. But since we do not do that, that means that we've not yet lost our hopes (in life, on love and other demons) and that's why we keep going.

Since I refered to Bertrand Russell, I end this with a quote, from my memory, by Russell that I read sometime in 1989-90, and thus could be not toally accurate. I remember the cover of the book where I read it, but fail to recollect the title. Perhaps it was Marriage and Morals! I'm not sure though! (I have two names coming to my mind right now: Marriage and Morals, and, In Praise of Idleness.)

"Those who have never known the intimacy and companionship of happy mutual love have lost the best thing that life has to offer; surely, if slowly, they realize this, and the resulting disappointment leads them towards envy, oppression and cruelty."
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Sources:
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Khalil_Gibran
http://leb.net/gibran/works/prophet/prophet.html
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Prophet_(book)

Tuesday, April 25, 2006

Bringing Out The Dead! (A Mail from S. W.)

I logged on to my Gmail account today to check if the documents I forwarded to myself arrived safe. Those are important documents: the final draft of a paper. But I needed space in my email account and so was forced to delete them. I just wanted to make sure that they were there in Gmail and Yahoo accounts.

And then I saw a mail from S. W. I saw him mentioning a password. There was no mention of my name, and so I thought it was a Spam mail. But then I saw another mail below which states the following:

"Our sincerest apologies for the delay in replying to your request.I have set the password of your account to a random string, andI have already sent it to you in a separate message. Please log in and change the password to one of your own choosing."

S.W., an alumnus of MIT, is one of the guys who maintain the system.

Nothing could have made me happier. It was the first email account I ever had in my life (No! Actually second, but I discarded the first one when I opened this in the same domain), it was the first free email service I ever used, and this is the website that gave me many good friends Including Lulu. This is an website with which I have been associated for almost 10 years now, ever since my first email account in 1996.

But then I did not log onto it since Sept, 30, 2005 and then failed to recollect my password in Jan., 2006. Usually, I can remember such things, and if forgotten, always retrieve it by trial and error. In 2002, I forgot the password completely, and then the account was removed; but I was lucky enough to be able to open another account with the same login. But not this time!

Then I wrote a mail on 26th Jan to the staff, and waited for a reply. And then when no reply came, I finally gave up!

And then, after 2 months and 29 days, I see the mail from S.W., sent on 22nd April.

I am back to the roots!

The Old Folkie and The Boss!

When I newly arrived here, I was once talking about music with some people I knew. I told them that I loved Billy Joel's songs such as, "We did not start the fire" or "The River of dreams". Going by their reactions and facial expressions, I felt that some of them would soon have heart attack, something for which I would never be able to forgive myself; for them, it was a cardinal sin to like someone as old as Billy Joel. One of the magi was more cordial to me (maybe becuase my stupidity made that person have pity on me), who told me that one might like Billy Idol, but not Billy Joel. (Later on, I would check to find out that Billy Idol is only 5 years younger to Joel; but perhaps the violet patch around his eyes, his yellow color hair and all other such posh, modern, smart things make his acceptable and trendy.). When I told them that I also liked Phil Collins' music, then laughed loudly on my face; perhaps that was the most ludricrous thing they ever heard.

On another occasion a year later, I, in my stupidity, would ask one magus if it was him with whom I had a discussion about Country music a few days ago. It was obvious he was gravely hurt by my stupidity, he told me that if I had asked this to someone from an younger generation, one would have taken it as an insult. He, however, in his magnanimousness, forgave my stupidity and did not take offense!

Thus I never dared to tell that I respect Pete Seeger and love his music. Perhaps they would have castrated me if I had told them that I loved the music of someone in his late '80s. I am sure that none of the magi knew about him, and Pete Seeger's name wass the ultimate unfashionable, stupid thing to mention in front of such wise people.

However, being the stupid person that I am, I still stand by my word: I love and respect Pete Seeger, because when many great and smart people pissed in their pants when McCarhty screwed them, Pete Seeger dared to defy McCarthy and stand alone, for which he was blacklisted for a decade. This is the same Pete Seeger who, at the age of 86, walked on the streets of New York with a saxophone in hand, taking part in protest march against the Iraq War. That is perhaps one of the reasons that when a 79 year old, feeble-voiced Pete Seeger made a tour to land as remote from his homeland as India, people there faught for a place to attend his concerts!

If Old Folkie's "We shall overcome" will be the anthem for the civil rights movement (perhaps in conjugation with, or as predecessor to, the more intelelctual "Times they are a-changing" of Bob Dylan), his "Where have all the flowers gone?" will enocourage a generation to protest against the Vietnam war. His life and activism would also encourage Harry Chapin (the "Cats in the cradle" guy), who gave him the monicker of Old Folkie, to perform in 100 concerts a year for charity!

The Boss, on the other hand, composed his "Born in the U.S.A." decades later, harshly criticising the US foreign policy (It is interesting to note that Ronald Reagan later used this song as his election campaign song). The Boss was a draft dodger incidentally; he went to attend the military physical tests and was declared unfit to fight. People who listened to his live performance of the song, "The river", are coignonat of this fact. (His friend, Oliver Stone, would go and fight in the Vietnam war, only to turn into one of the most vocal critics of the whole war for decades to come!). Pete Seeger wrote and sang, "Draft Dodger's Song"as a protest. The Boss has, over the years, been involved with various charities and social issues.

So, it is naturally interesting when the Boss releases an album with songs written by Pete Seeger. As CNN headline says, "Bruce Springsteen escapes from the box", which further adds that, "With 'Seeger Sessions,' the Boss digs into musical past".

Springsteen's interest in Seeger's songs grew ever since he recorded "We Shall Overcome" for a tribute album in 1997, a fascination towards which songs like "John Henry," "Erie Canal" and "Oh Mary, Don't You Weep" later contributed. He said: "I wasn't aware of the vast library of music that Pete helped create and also collected. Just this whole wonderful world of songwriting with all these lost voices. Great stories. Great characters. The songs have lasted 100 years, or hundreds of years, for a reason. They were really, really well-written pieces of music. They have worlds in them. You just kind of go in -- it's a playground. You go in, and you get to play around."

As CNN puts in: The Seeger Sessions" featured Springsteen making an album in record time. The rock hall of famer, who in the past went years between releases, did the new album in three days. The 13 songs, plus two bonus tracks, were recorded inside the living room of a farm house at Springsteen's New Jersey home -- with the horn section playing in the hall.

There were no rehearsals, no arrangements, no overdubs. Springsteen wasn't even sure if the results would become an album.

"It was just playing music," Springsteen said of the sessions. "I didn't have any intention for it. I knew that I enjoyed making this kind of music. ... It was really just purely for the joy of doing it. It was a lot of fun.".......

The songs once sung by Seeger "shine a continuing light on a whole set of not just wonderful stories, but obviously a lot of social issues, the direction the country is going down," he continued. "There's still a place for a lot of that music."

Once Springsteen decided to forge ahead with the project, he called Seeger with the news. Seeger asked which songs would be on the record.

"He'd start giving me the history of each song," Springsteen said. "He actually knows about all those things. So it was an enjoyable conversation, and I hope he likes the record."

As CNN mentions, Springsteen had no concerns about audience reaction towards his new album, because he considers that change is necessary for any successful musician. He expects that his adventurous fans will enjoy the album. As he tells: "Your job as an artist is to build a box, and then let people watch you escape from it. And then they follow you to the next box, and they watch you escape from that one. ... Escape artistry is part of the survival mechanism of the job. If you want to do the job well, you have got to be able to escape from what you've previously built."
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Source: http://edition.cnn.com/2006/SHOWBIZ/Music/04/25/music.springsteen.ap/index.html

Monday, April 24, 2006

Ole Man River! (Desperados Waiting For the Train)

Almost everyone learns a thing or two from the old people. Perhaps in no other book it's as vivid and poignant as in The Old Man and the Sea.

Listening to "Desperados waiting for the Train", a song written and sung by Guy Clark, and later performed by the Outlaws and included in their 1985 album, Highwayman, reminded me a story about an old man and his two young disciples. The old man used to describe in detail the sexual escapades of his youth with the fisherwomen in the crudest language, and his disciples listened to it patiently. But then they also learnt other things from the old man. For them, it was the much-needed training in the school of life. They were Anton Chekov and Maxim Gorky and the old man none other than Leo Tolstoy.

Desperados Waiting For A Train

AND I'D SING THE RED RIVER VALLEY
AND HE'D SIT IN THE KITCHEN AND CRY
RUN HIS FINGERS THROUGH SEVENTY YEARS OF LIVING'
WONDERING, LORD, HAS EVERY WELL I DRILLED RAN DRY
WE WERE FRIENDS, ME AND THAT OLD MAN
LIKE DESPERADOS WAITING FOR THE TRAIN
LIKE DESPERADOS WAITING FOR THE TRAIN

HE'S A DRIFTER AND A DRILLER OF OIL WELLS
AND AN OLD SCHOOL MAN OF THE WORLD
TAUGHT ME HOW TO DRIVE HIS CAR WHEN HE'S TOO DRUNK TO
AND HE'D WINK AND GIVE ME MONEY FOR THE GIRLS
AND OUR LIVES WAS LIKE SOME OLD WESTERN MOVIE
LIKE DESPERADOS WAITING FOR THE TRAIN
LIKE DESPERADOS WAITING FOR THE TRAIN

FROM THE TIME THAT I COULD WALK HE'D TAKE ME WITH HIM
TO A PLACE CALLED THE GREEN FROG CAFE
AND THERE WAS OLD MEN WITH BEER GUTS AND DOMINOES
LYING' ABOUT THEIR LIVES WHILE THEY PLAYED
LIKE DESPERADOS WAITING FOR THE TRAIN
LIKE DESPERADOS WAITING FOR THE TRAIN

AND I LOOKED UP AND HE WAS PUSHING EIGHTY
AND THERE WAS BROWN TOBACCO STAINS ALL DOWN HIS CHIN
TO ME HE'S ONE OF THE HEROES OF THIS COUNTRY
SEE WHY'S HE ALL DRESSED UP LIKE SOME OLD MAN
DRINKING' BEER AND PLAYING' MOON IN FORTY-TWO
LIKE DESPERADOS WAITING FOR THE TRAIN
LIKE DESPERADOS WAITING FOR THE TRAIN

THE DAY BEFORE HE DIES I WENT TO SEE HIM
I WAS GROWN AND HE WAS ALMOST GONE
WE JUST CLOSED OUR EYES AND DREAMT US UP A KITCHEN
AND SANG ANOTHER VERSE TO THAT OLD SONG
"DON'T CRY, JACK, IT'S ONLY JESUS COMING"
LIKE DESPERADOS WAITING FOR THE TRAIN
LIKE DESPERADOS WAITING FOR THE TRAIN
LIKE DESPERADOS WAITING FOR THE TRAIN

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Source:
http://www.cowboylyrics.com/lyrics/clark-guy/desperados-waiting-for-a-train-5.html
http://www.lyrc.com.ar/lyric/W/Willie%20Nelson,%20Johnny%20Cash,%20K_Desperados%20Waiting%20For%20A%20Tra.html
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maxim_Gorky
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anton_Chekhov

Farewell Waltz (Keep the Werewolf in Mind)

People who either read this blog or are interested in Gabriel Garcia Marquez, know about his suffering from cancer, and about a poem entitled, "La Marioneta" (The Puppet) that made rounds in the internet, making many people belieev that it was indeed composed by Gabo. He later made a statement that he could never write something so kitschy.

Warren Zevon, on the other hand, wrote the following song, when he was suffering from a rare kind of lung cancer and his days were numbered. It was included in his last album, The Wind.

(Warren Zevon died at Los Angeles, on September 7, 2003). The Wind was declared a gold album in December 2003, and Zevon received 5 posthumous Grammy nominations, including Song Of The Year for "Keep Me In Your Heart".

Intellectuals may find Keep Me In Your heart kitschy; however, I like this song very much because it is devoid of any bitterness, or the helplessness of a person looking at the eyes of death. It was more of a farewell hymn, or a Swan Song.
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Keep Me In Your Heart
written by Warren Zevon & Jorge Calderón

Shadows are falling and I'm running out of breath
Keep me in your heart for awhile

If I leave you it doesn't mean I love you any less
Keep me in your heart for awhile

When you get up in the morning and you see that crazy sun
Keep me in your heart for awhile

There's a train leaving nightly called when all is said and done
Keep me in your heart for awhile

Sha-la-la-la-la-la-la-li-li-lo
Keep me in your heart for awhile

Sha-la-la-la-la-la-la-li-li-lo
Keep me in your heart for awhile

Sometimes when you're doing simple things around the house
Maybe you'll think of me and smile

You know I'm tied to you like the buttons on your blouse
Keep me in your heart for awhile
Hold me in your thoughts, take me to your dreams
Touch me as I fall into view
When the winter comes keep the fires lit
And I will be right next to you

Engine driver's headed north to Pleasant Stream
Keep me in your heart for awhile

These wheels keep turning but they're running out of steam
Keep me in your heart for awhile

Sha-la-la-la-la-la-la-li-li-lo
Keep me in your heart for awhile

Sha-la-la-la-la-la-la-li-li-lo
Keep me in your heart for awhile

Keep me in your heart for awhile
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Sources:
http://www.lyricscafe.com/z/zevon_warren/136.htm
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Warren_Zevon

Thursday, April 20, 2006

Hitler on a Bummel

Hitler

Nietzsche

J K Jerome and his book

Predictions

20th Century killers
LAnin, Stalin, Mao, Saloth Sar and others

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adolf_Hitler
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Friedrich_Nietzsche
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jerome_K._Jerome
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Three_Men_on_the_Bummel

Friday, April 14, 2006

In Search of Stupidity: (De-Intellectualizing Myself)

Having born and brought up in a small town, and being the son of an honest lawyer (yes, though it sounds oxymoron or a joke, such species, however rare, do exist!), the only luxury we could afford (and desired) were books.So from very early days, we read. (There was, of course, another luxury: a walk in the evening with my father that often ended at the home of Maniram Dewan, a lawyer named N. Ahmed, whom we called by this moniker. I had a permit to go everywhere including the spot where his wife did her daily namaaz, and I knew quite a few secrets, real or imaginary, of his daughters, though I did not understand what those secrets mean (which were, by all means, quite innocent information, to keep the records straight). Some other times, I went with him to the market and so I knew each spot where he would stop and chat with his evening friends over cups of tea and snacks.)

I knew some of his tea friends and they knew me. Half of the town was his friends beginning with Mubarak, the neighborhood elephant driver, who used to bring a filtered cigarette for him, to the District Judicial Magistrate, who would explain to me why a judiciary-related job was nore satisfying than an executive one. I would know M. Dutta, a very honest magistrate, who inspite of being single, had to borrow money from his home, because he blew up most of his salary on books. As my mother would often lament, if my father went to buy a couple of items from the market at 6-00 PM, he would return only at maybe 9-00 PM, loaded with half a dozen cups of tea and a lot of stories and jokes.

However, it was him who encouraged us to read. At one point of time, we used to purchase 17 magazines each month. There was absolutely no restriction as to what to read and what not. We bought everything: from sleezy, detective magazines to film magazines to heavy, serious literary periodicals, and all of us read all of them, without ever raising the question of impropierity of the things contained. In that way, I had a very liberal upbringing (we also had another set of luxury: a bunch of domestic animals: cows, goats, ducks, pigeons, each with its own human name, and all of who were treated as family memebers, and a cat who ruled the home!). Actually, almost all my life, I always bnought a book in each city I visited.That is a holy ritual to me, in a sense.

I slowly started to getting attracted towards philosophy and psychology during my early teens, after I discovered a textbook on philosophy that my father had studied as a part of his B.A., which he did in Philosophy and Economics. By the time I would finish my undergraduate, I was quite capable of misinterpreting many a thing said by some renowned philosophers and I would often quote (or misquote) them. But I would continue to think that I learned a lot about philosophy.

Then when I started talking to HKN in Delhi, he told me that reading good novels actually gives much more information and insight about foreign, distant societies rather than trying to gain such knowledge by reading serious books. He suggested to me that Milan Kundera and Gabriel Garcia Marquez were two good authors to begin the journey with. I would remember his words, and though I often planned to buy the books by Kundera, I won't actually act upon his words until January, 1999.

Then a series of unfortunate events in my life during 1997-1998 pushed me to solitude, and I would decide to live away from everyone and indulge in only reading. It was a defense mechanism, but not only did it work out, but also it gave me the opportunity to read a lot of good books. I'm, in a way, thankful to all the people who deserted me and turned their back on me, because that was the truning point in my life, the point at which I seriously transitioned from Philosophy to Literature.

After reading a series of books quite voraciously, I felt really inadequate about my level of understanding. I felt that I was not smart enough to go to the depth of the books, and wrote to HKN asking if he too felt the same way. I don't remember what he said, but I remembered that he replied, and in each of the mail, I misspelled "inadequacy" as "inadequecy".

I would move out of India in 2001, and would meet SdV. It was he who would inroduce me to Terry Pratchett and Robert Rankin, a vulgar version of Pratchett. I would resist, but then would give up. SdV would tell me how Dr.O, the torch-beating intellect of the group, had reacted equally negatively first, but later got convered to Terry. (When Dr. O. would leave after 6 months, SdV and I would go shopping for hid farewell gifts, and would gift him with a couple of Terry Pratchett books, among other things).

It would take me a year and half to find that it was Douglas Adams, whose style and rhythm both Pratchett and Ranking copied; but that is a personal opinion. Nevertheless, it was SdV, who made me read things I had detasted and considered "pulp"; it was he who made me watch movies such as Monty Pythin, which I would have considered junk. But thanks to his infleunce, my de-intellctualization had begun without my knowledge, and I would convert to a man, who now eagerly waits for Mad TV and enjoys movies such as "Soul Plane" or "Rush Hour II".

I still read serious stuff, I still watch serious movies and love them; but I no longer hold any negative feelings ot opinions reganring light, popular, pulp things.

The Man They Killed

I first learned about him, when he was hanged by the South African Apartheid-era government of Peter Botha. He was executed for the allegedly killing people, an accusation the young poet refuted till the end. Nelson Mandela was still in prison and the end of South African Apartheid was still a thing of the remote future.

One day in 1993, I would enter the room of CSB at the Jubilee Hall, the most prestigious hostel of the University of Delhi. On his wall was a printout (or a page from a journal), on which was a poem. I usually remember such things quite well; but still, what I will write below is entirely from my memory and so, there may be inaccuracies in it. (This is one of the few poems I failed to locate in the Web yet!)

"I am proud of what I am
Proud of what I did in my life
My blood with rain over my land,
My life,
My only life,
I give it to freedom."

What intrigued me more than the poem was the name of the poet at the bottom. It was him.

I would never know if he really commited any murder or was simply framed. A radio drama broadcast by the all India Radio was based on the view that that he was just framed. But then I don't know the veracity of the drama. I do not even know if Athol Fugard or someone of his stature ever wrote on this issue;I have very little information.

However, the fact remains that Benjamin Moloisi was executed on the 18th of October, 1985; he was only 30!

Bomb!

My freind Abhijuit lives very near Jama Masjid in Old Delhi, where a couple of bombs exploded this evening (INdian time). I hope he ans hiis family memerber are fine! to be rritten

Thursday, April 13, 2006

Last Walk is the Fastest

The year was 1830. Sucre, the worthiest of his generals, would be assassinated as a result of political conspiracies, wihtin a month or so. Most of his deputies were against his presidency/dictatorship. Finally, Rafael Urdaneta, an upright man who dared to tell the Don on his face what he did not want to hear, conveyed the message to him: The Don had done enough for Colombia. Now he could do a last favor: he could leave Colombia forever and go away.

The Liberator, the title Simon Bolivar earned after liberating 5 (6 at present!) of the Latin American countries at a lightning speed, was a broken man by then. His plan for Gran Colombia had already failed. He was already suffering from tuberculosis and his most trusted general, Antoni Jose de Sucre, had decided to take a break and go home. General Santander was waiting to revolt, and there was none to support him.

"The General in His Labyrinth" is centered around the last few months of Don Simon Bolivar and his final, fateful journey. Of course, since was written by Gabo, the "grand Magdalena river" would occupy, as usual, a central place. But he would also describe the savannas and other things in detail.

What impressed me most about this book was Gabo's description of how the General was passing though landscapes that he would never see, and people he would never meet again.

Who knows when he makes his last journey? Does one know that it is one's last journey when the journey is in progess and one is making it? Do we ever know when we meet a friend for the last time? Can we ever imagine that this is the last time ever in our life that we would talk to this person? We may even make many plans with that person in question for the future, talking about meeting again, while in reality, we may never again meet that person.

History, however, offered a chance to the Don to meet his deputies once again. Urdaneta, upright as ever, sent him an invitation to come back and reaccept the Presidency. Nevertheless, fate would play a cruel game! Don Simon Bolivar, the Liberator, would pass away on 17th December, 1830 during his return journey, without ever becoming the President of Colombia again.

Living in Truth! (Arrogance Personified)

It was an autumn day in 1992 when RK would point out to a person in a navy blue blazer and red tie and ask me if I knew who he was! On being replied in negative, he told me that it was VMK, the most knowledgable professor in the department. His source: Das, who was one of VMK's dearest students and friends.

It would be almost a year and half, before I would attend his lectures. Of course, he was there in our lab course since the fall of '93 , but he would give us a course beginning only in January, '94.

The arrogance of the man was obvious from the beginning; it was clear that he knew about it, enjoyed it, and loved to shimmer in it. He would inform us that he would give us a course of macromolecules, which is another name for Polymer Chemistry, but since he won't be able to teach us Statistical Mechanics, which was obviously his first love, he would combine both and give us a course on Physical Polymer Chemistry. Someone asked him if the course was entitled, Advanced Polymer Chemistry, to which he retorted, "No, unlike the courses given by other teachers, my course is always basic. This is Basic Polymer Chemistry.". And then, as an afterthought, he added, "But my basic course will be much more advanced than their 'advanced' courses."

He then handed us over a few photocopied pages; in it, there were written in his handwritting the names of 35 books from which he would give us the course! He was always that way. At least, that's what he told me!

Over the next couple of years, and during my visits to Delhi, he would tell me lot of stories. The most impressive of them all was about his Professorship interview. When he appeared to be interviewed for a full professorship, GS, a professor of Organic Chemistry who did hid PhD from Oxford (or was it Cambridge?) and was proud of it, was the chairman of the interview committee. To the utter dismay of VMK, GS stasrted asking him question on Thermodynamics, a field VMK seemed to know in an out, and in which GS need not have the most comprehensive knopwledge. Irritatedf beyond repair at the questions hurled at him, VMK finally retorted, "Why are you asking me things you have no idea about? Why don't you ask me things you know? Why don't you better stick to Organic Chemistry?"

As VMK would tell with obvious pride later, the expert from the University Grants Commission commented, "I have seen many different kinds of people;but have never seen a man as arrogant as him."

VMK would be made a full professor, though!

He also once told me a story about a Prof. B., who taught physics at St. Stephen's and who went to do a PhD (or was it Sabbatica?), who when asked by his host replied that he taught Quantum Mechanics. However, he failed miserably to the questions asked by his host, and also failed to complete the homeworks assigned to him. His host then said to B. "You have only taught quantum Mechanics; but you have never understood anything."

According to VMK, B. often used to narrate this story, and laugh at himself. VMK told me that B. was an interesting character, and that I would really enjoy meeting him. He even promised to introduce him to me. However, as fate would have it, I never got a chance to avail that offer. ( I would never know if this really happend with B, of if this was just a story made by the man himself; but it is always a nice thing to see a Professor of the best college in the country making fun of himself, that too sitting in the college cafeteria and accompanied by VMK's laud laughter! One required enough guts to do that, I suppose.)

The Physical Chemistry division at the University was rumored to be cursed: 6 of the professors were bachelors/spinsters. I once asked VMK why he never married, and what he told was the most honest (and most true) answer/explanation I ever heard. He told me that he sepnt the best years of his life working day and night in some labs in Rice University and other places (he spent a total of 9 years for his PhD and postdoc) and then when he looked back, it was already late. He also told me that once you are in your 30's, going for a traditional arranged marriage almost becomes impossible, becuase as one grows older, one becomes more and more inflexiable and one becomes more and more possessive about one's own space and views etc., thus making the option of compromise less and less probable.

VMK loved to have a good time, at his or other's expenses. He was kind of the King in the coffee club in MMK's office. About 10-12 profesors from Chemistry and Physics and St. Stephen's used to his ministers and deputies; the central easy chair belonged to the King, from where he ruled! They often used to laugh about other teachers, but also about themselves. Water was constantly boiling in a jar on the hot-plate and If you visited them, you were often offered a cup of coffee.

His jokes were an integral part of the depertment welcome and farewell parties. Most his jokes were insulting teachers; but while he woulc laugh at himself, most of his colleagues took those personally and took offense. They also felt that VMK made those jokes to insult them. (Of course, VMK did that for sure; but then most of them were airbags without much contennts.).

For example, he used to tell a joke about the death of a poor teacher, for whose burial the villagers approached the rich man in the village and asked for 200 pounds. When he asked why they needed the sum and they explained it to him, he gave them 1000 pounds and said, "Go, bury 5 of them!"

Another of his jokes was about a student who attended only one class on Quantum Mechanics, never again to return to the class. And then, when he had his exams, it turned out that he scored 99 out of 100 in that paper. Obviously, everybody in the department was surprised and they called him and asked how he managed this. He replied, "Regretably, I attended one class and I got so confused that I could not answer the first question. Hence I could score only 99 and nor 100!"

He also told an anecdote, in which a very renowned scientist at his old age was found stiting with undergraduate students, attending a young Professor's classes. If I am not wrong, it was James Clark Maxwell, as VMK told us. When a professor noticed his being there and expressed his surpise, another professorcommented. "He has learned so much that he no longer qualifies to be a teacher."

That was VMK. He spared none, including teachers like himself.

His most interesting anecdote was about the father-son duo of Bragg. They won the Nobel Prize in Physics in 1915, when the son Bragg was only 25 years old! Now, as VMK mentioned, the father Bragg was both an excellent researcher and teacher, while son bragg was a first-rate scienitist but very poor teacher. When the son Bragg started giving his first lecture at the University, one student sat in the front row and constantly looked at the roof, never taking any notes. When Bragg asked him why he was not taking down any notes, he told that he already had the notes. On being told that that was the very first lecture given by the teacher in his entire life, the student replied, "But my father used to attend your father's classes."

He was brutally honest; he told on our (including the toppers in the class) face that all of us were just very ordinary, average students. The only student he would praise was Das. He told that when he had given them a course on Statistical Thermodynamics, Das used to explain the whole lecture just after a class was over. His classmates used to refer to him as the Professor, and sos did VMK. When Dad would decide to pursue his PhD in India just to be with girlfriend, VMK would scoff at him by saying, "Stupid guy; another Victim of romance! He does not know what he is doing." (Das would end up at Harvar -- a place more suitable for someone of his calibre -- a few years later!).

His questions used to be extremely tough, and there was no way to mug up things and write in the exams. If you did this, you would eventaully score a zero, because he already changed the character tables and other such things, so that everything has to done on your own, and everything you wrote from your memory in the exam would be 100% wrong. (He often used to tell about an open book exam he conducted in the '70s. The students were very happy and excited at first, and they carried loads of books to the exam hall; but then, once the question papers were handed out to them, to quote him, "Ganga and Jamuna started flowing out from their eyes!")

When the students of the Organic Chemistry specialization used to go to complain to their Professors because they only scored 40 out of 50 (and not 45), he used to chuckle and comment, "In my course, they used to dance if they scored 10 out of 50, because they only expected 5!" That was him. He used to say that if a student scored 48 out of 50, it did not show that the student was brilliant; all it showed was that the teacher did not know what to ask and how.


to be wtitten.... vmk


filmfare
oxalic acid

tea
sartre
tie HUji, time to die
shine like star
morning 7-00


Red sweater guy, from USA.
IGNOU book, money and teaching
eyesight
Hyd operation
sartre
dinesh
liver

Sources: http://nobelprize.org/physics/laureates/1915/index.html

Snow in Africa (Or How to Avoid Usual Bullshits)

Those who have read Milan Kundera's "The Art of the Novel", must have noticed how blatantly he labeled "Kramer vs. Kramer" and "Dr. Zhivago" as shining examples of kitsch! I have not seen Dr. Zhivago, but even with my limited understanding, I could see that the former is a very typical, ordinary movie, which publicity made look like a masterpiece.

However, what I want to mention here is certain strange things I came across in print, things that should/could have been easily avoided, things that make no sense at all!

Most people know about the Band Aid concert in 1984, in which various famous musicians performed non-stop for 24 hours to collect donations for the famine-ravaged Ethiopia. Most people also know that Bob Geldof of the bandBokmtown Rats, was the initiator of the whole effort. He also hold another concert entitled, Live 8, in 2004.

Geldof, a heart-broken man with a divorce under process and trying to forget everything in alcohol, happened to come across a BBC documentary on the famine in Ethiopia, and then decided to do something for the people there. Apparently, he had enough persuasive power to line up many top-notch musicians of the world. This event generated enough awareness among people, collected lots of money, brought an honorary Knighthood to Geldof, and converted him from "Bob the gob" to a "Foul-mouthed Messiah".
__________________________________________
Band Aid - Do They Know Its Christmas

It's Christmas time
There's no need to be afraid
At Christmas time, we let in light and we banish shade
And in our world of plenty we can spread a smile of joy
Throw your arms around the world at Christmas time

But say a prayer

Pray for the other ones
At Christmastime it's hard, but when you're having fun
There's a world outside your window
And it's a world of dread and fear
Where the only water flowing is the bitter sting of tears
And the Christmas bells that ring there are the clanging
chimes of doom
Well tonight thank God it's them instead of you

And there won't be snow in Africa this Christmas time
The greatest gift they'll get this year is life
(Oooh) Where nothing ever grows
No rain nor rivers flow
Do they know it's Christmas time at all?

(Here's to you) raise a glass for everyone
(Here's to them) underneath that burning sun
Do they know it's Christmas time at all?

Feed the world
Feed the world
Feed the world

Let them know it's Christmas time again
Feed the world
Let them know it's Christmas time again

(Bob Geldof & Midge Ure)
_________________________________________

The part that always intrigued me is "And there won't be snow in Africa this Christmas time", which is totally absurd. I mean, there are only two countries in the entire African continent that ever have snowfall: Algeria and South Africa. But snow in Ethiopia? Never! At least, as far as I know, there never is any snowfall in that part of the World.

Why did Geldof write this then? One might agree that the song was aimed at the rest of the world, mainly the developed world and so associating snowfall with the Christmas was not only necessary, but also perhaps appropriate. But does it allow someone the poetic justice to say something so absurd?

This reminds of a book I read a few years Ago. It was a book lent to me by my then colleague SdV, and it was entitled, "Caesar: A Novel" that belonged to the Masters of Rome Series and was written by Colleen McCullough, an Australian author. I loved the book. But then I stumbled upon a fact mentioned in the book -- that it was September and the winter was coming to an end in Rome, which was something I could neither fathom nor digest.

And then I tried to think why the author would write this? The answer was clear to me: as an Australian person, it was natural for her to be used to such seasonal changes.

But this is nothing compared to what I have to read in my language. I subscribe to a magazine published from my state, which is considered the best journal in my language, and which was edited by a multi-faceted pesonality: a PhD in nuclear physics from the Imperial College, a University professor, literary figure, moviemaker, playwright, director of dramas and editor of a whole series of college/university level textbooks. He was very meticulous about not letting mistakes creep into his magazine and, to a large extent, he succeeded in doing so.

But then in 1997, he was diagnozed with prostate cancer and had to go to the Unites States for his treatment. The owner of the magazine then took over as editor as well. And all hell broke loose since then. (People back home still praise the magazine left and right, but some of the things that get published now in that magazine makes me cringe. I wonder if there is any editing at all!)

For example, someone wrote in 2003 that Subramanyan Chandrasekhar, known as Chandra lived in Chicago city. Chandra, the winner of Nobel Prize for physics in 1983, had died on August 21st, 1995 (I remember this clearly , becuase Linus Pauling, another giant and Nobel Laurate in Chemistry and Peace, and who perhaps missed another Nobel, had died on 19th August, 1994!).

Another person mentioned in a story that Newton never won the Nobel Prize for Relativity but for something else. Newton died in 1727; the Nobel Prize was founded in 1900! The Nobel Prize was thus founded almost 275 years afer Newton's death. This was just a small mistake on the author's part; perhaps he meant Einstein all along, and it was just a slip of the pen. It's the duty of the editorial board to correct such obvious mistakes. And they failed in doing so. Perhaps they did not have someone from a science background, or someone informative, or maybe they just did not care!

This magazine has over the years spitted out a lot of such bullshit, things that could have been easily corrected. But who cares!

In my view, the most blatant bullshit ever that is published in this journal, comes from a person who is supposedly a foreign affairs expert (for the magazine, at least) and who writes about the Middle-East conflict. Following Soviet era policy, not only he blindly supports Arafat, but also writes lots of absurd things about the whole issue. For example, Ehud Barak, the Labor Prime minister of Israel (and politically the most leninent of them, all as far as the Palestinian conflict goes) is, to our columnist, the most hard-liner Likud Prime Minister, due to whose stubbornness the Oslo accord failed. Anyone who knows anyhing about the developments in the whole issue, knows that Arafat or any other Palestinian leader would never succeed to get what Barak offered them including East Jerusalem.

I do not know if our columnist mistakes Barak for someone else such as Begin or Sharon, of if he smokes pot, or if he's just a plain asshole!

This brings me back to the Master! In most of his later books, he adds a few pages telling some interesting things. For example, he mentions in the introduction of his, "The Story of a Shipwrecked Sailor" that the only justification for writing the book after 15 years is that, "I promised to him that I would write the book, and I'm not a man to go back on his words."

In the epliogue to his "The General in His Labyrinth", he mentions how he committed a blunder and which almost passed unnoticed, until a friend of his pointed it out to him and saved him from embarrassment. In this histrorical novel, Gabo described a meeting between Don Simon Bolivar and Field Marshal Antonio Jose da Sucre, and they ate ripe mangoes, among other things. The year was either 1829 or 1830 (Sucre, in his mid 30's, was assassinated on the 4th of June 1830, if I remember correctly)! In reality, mango had not yet arrived in that part of the world yet!

What makes Gabo the Master is that he does not feel ashamed to accept his folly and even mentions this, a thing he could have easily avoided penning down!

Our authors (and the editor) should perhaps read, "The General in His Labyrinth" to learn a thing or two about editing/writing, if not to learn the Latin American History.
__________________________________________________________________
Sources:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Band_Aid_(band)
http://www.lyricsdownload.com/band-aid-do-they-know-its-christmas-lyrics.html
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_countries_receiving_snowfall
http://query.nytimes.com/gst/fullpage.html?res=9803E5DF143BF93BA15752C0A9639C8B63
http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0380710854/102-5490813-8303328
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Isaac_Newton
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Linus_Pauling
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Subramanyan_Chandrasekhar
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ehud_Barak

Patner: An Obituary (Patner is Alive and Kicking Though!)

To be written..

Wednesday, April 12, 2006

Do(u)g Day Afternoon!

I read, "The Hitchhicker's Guide to the Galaxy" and other novels by Douglas Adams in a huge, hardbound, bumper volume, as late as in 2003! That incident made me appreciate his work, because his was an original style, which Terry Pratchett, robert Ranking and many others would generously copy and steal!

I don't want to write what chapters or stories in his books impressed me. Most people anyhow read his books. However, I do not believe that many people know what I am going to tell, becuase it comes from the introduction of his bumper volume.

What Adams described was very simple. The year was 1974 or so, he was in Norway, and not having enough money to buy food, he opted for a couple of bottles of very strong local beer and was lying in a field for a whole afternoon. And then he tried to find his way back.

He tried to ask a person for directions, but it turned out that he was deaf and dumb. After a while, he tried another person with similar luck. He was alreasdy confused a little, but his brain, lightened by the strong beer did not make him think much about it. But then when he met another person and asked him for duitectioncs and turned out that he too was deaf, dumb and blind, he almost went nuts!

being written