Vacuum

Human

2011-12-13T12:17:00.001-08:00

We stand on a thin sheet of glass. The crack begins from a distance. It approaches us, serene in its purpose. The crack passes beneath our feet, the sound of dry twigs snapping in the woods. The glass breaks uncertainly, a little island beneath us sways. Our bodies turn freely. The glass beneath no more pushes back. The air is shrill, like a siren warning of rupture. The island of glass is still stuck to the hinge. We are suspended between contradicting ideas of glass. Layers of glass stretch everywhere. We exist there, motionless. We crave for an explosion, to wipe out those infinite edges. Nothing happens.

Rough love

2011-12-04T17:18:00.001-08:00

My love lies in tatters,

In the memory of someone I never knew,

In the beauty of a lonely imagination,

Through shards of glass,

My love builds alone.

My love asks for ideas,

After all, she wants salvation,

We have lived as ordinary for too long,

In her precious moments,

My love thinks of her death.

My love lies on her bed,

With explosives around her breast,

I am to raise her,

And send her on this journey of pain,

My love loves.

My love tries too hard,

To imagine a world that isn’t there,

She thinks she will fix it,

With the will of her heart,

My love will lose.

I did not make this world, but I see it.

She will die quickly,

And I in pain,

My love will not live long enough,

But I will see the end.

Bombay Homes Part 1

2011-11-26T00:22:00.001-08:00

The first time I took a place for rent was a small room, with a small kitchen and a tiny bathroom. It was in Andheri East, beyond the residential colonies, by a wide field. The field was used for Shiv Sena functions. Every evening the greatness of Balasaheb would waft in through the wide window, the harsh loud speaker under the orange sky. All around the building were garbage dumps. Even the inside had garbage strewn randomly, making way for dog shit here and there. Right next to it a Tamilian ran a dosa shop. I would buy a masala dosa for 26 rupees, a better option than the vada pav, the chutney for which vaguely resembled the muck in the open sewers. A pack of mongrels handled security quite efficiently, chasing me a couple of times. It was a good place to write. You could sit by the window, look out over the fields at the posher buildings of Poonam Nagar, and contemplate the beauty of austerity. Maybe that was the reason I did not manage to write a single word in the few months that I was there.

I have lived on my own before, but this was the first time I was managing things, talking to the broker, the owner, and such extremely stressful activities. I was also in a city I did not know very well. Bombay has a population of over 12 million, crammed into a makeshift urban dream. So things go wrong. Like they did when one day water stopped coming to our 7000 rupees a month room. Tushar and I spent hours checking the pipes, the 500 liter tank, and the taps. We called the owner and the broker, who walked around with great confidence, tapped the pipes, declared everything fit, and went away. But water didn't come. In the middle of the night we would walk across the main road to pee. We called the owner again. This time he came with a disheveled man who said he was the plumber. He too went around knocking the pipes and declared them fit. They then launched into a lengthy explanation about water pressure. But how only one room on one floor can have pressure problems for itself they couldn't explain. We used to get very little water, which was rationed strictly. Tushar and I even fought once over it. I became intimately familiar with mall bathrooms. Kind friends often donated their bathrooms. Every second morning we would try to call the owner or the broker. They both had bhajans as their caller tones. The broker's began with the words, 'Om ganapataye namo namaha, Shri Siddhivinayaka namo namaha... ' Most of the time they would ignore our calls. Sometimes our helplessness would get through and one of them would grace our hovel with his presence.

So we decided to leave. We had paid a security deposit of 15 thousand rupees. I told the owner he could deduct the last month's rent from it and return the rest. That was unacceptable to him. He shouted at me and threatened to evict us. I tried to explain that this is the custom. Once you have notified the owner of your decision to leave, you do not pay rent. Someone was being dishonest, and if memory serves me correctly, it wasn't me. After making phone calls to the owner and broker for three days continuously, he stopped pestering us. But the hopes of getting the rest of money were slim. He called me two days before we were going to leave and shouted again. He wanted the room cleaned. I wanted to tell him that when he had given us the keys there were stains all over and I had spent 100 rupees getting it washed with chemicals. We cleaned the room.

On a busy evening Mithkari, the owner, and Ghanashyam, the broker, came to bid us goodbye. Mithkari was suddenly the epitome of kindness. I realized why when I remembered an innocent South Indian boy who had come to see the room two days before. He wanted to bring his wife there. They had just been married and wanted to make a home in Bombay. He had asked me in English, 'Everything is okay here?' And I had replied, 'Yes'. Balasaheb's men were celebrating outside, while Mithkari asked me if I had paid the 50 rupees donation for the Ganesh Chaturthi festival which was 10 days away. I told him I had. He looked at me in a paternal way and said, 'Patle ho gaye ho.' 'You have become thin.' I smiled politely. He then asked me, 'Kitna dun vaapas. Aap batao. Dekho haraam ka paisa nahin chahiye mujhe. Bolo, Kitna?' 'How much should I return? Look, I don't want dirty money. Tell me, how much?' His kindness overwhelmed me. Thankfully, he didn't wait for me, and asked, '6000?' I couldn't believe my ears. I had thought we would get fifty percent back if we were lucky. I was on the verge of thanking him when Ghanashyam spoke up. 'Arre nahin nahin. 5000 kaafi hai.' Mithkari nodded his head. 'Haan 5000 kaafi hai.' He looked at me and asked me again if I was okay with it. Seeing that he was really concerned, I nodded. What a wonderful man, I thought. He is robbing me of only 2000 rupees.

On our way out, I looked at the garbage strewn streets with children playing and wondered about Mithkari. He wasn't such a bad guy. Ganesh chaturthi tents were being erected over the garbage. Balasaheb's loud speaker was announcing the greatness of Shri Ganesh. Bombay's lights burned through the darkness.

A Makeshift India

2011-10-10T16:48:00.000-07:00

A pro-Maoist filmmaker friend recently told me of the fighters roaming the malarial jungles of central India - 'We want to die. Death will liberate us.' For a brief moment, I thought I glimpsed an insanity in his eyes. If not death, the insanity would surely liberate him, I thought.

There is nothing unique about the Maoist insurgency. It is a natural consequence of a haphazard nation-building process. In the last 60 years, the modern nation-state of India has been very lucky. It has not fractured due to its numerous resistance movements, many of them fueled by separatist ambitions. Attributing this to a greater sense of purpose is akin to citing supernatural reasons. India is not magic. It is chance.

Statesmen like Nehru painted a picture of India which was far from the truth. As many, far more clear-sighted thinkers have pointed out, there is nothing immemorial or predestined about India's borders. The territorial identity we came to recognize as our own was a mixture of British administrative convenience and post-Independence military might. The territories we ended up losing - a source of great nationalist trauma - were never 'ours'. The very notion of 'we' is stretched. As has been pointed out many times, the Punjabi in Amritsar understands the Punjabi in Lahore, and not the Tamilian down South. The power of consumerist-Nationalism is such that it overwhelms ingrained historical differences to uphold an artificial construct. Most of the Media have worked very hard to present a cohesive picture of the nation. When saffronized history hasn't helped, they have turned to the last refuge of militarist behavior - Sport. But such is the nature of human society, that you cannot suppress genuine discontent for long. It is interesting thus, that in recent times, in spite of raging separatist movements across the land, the Media finds itself unable to come to the most obvious conclusion. India is not magic. Its chance.

It is understandable that Nehru's generation would have the picture of an inevitable India. The notion of a collective identity was essential in sustaining the Independence movement. What is sad is that the generations after his were unable to tear themselves away from Nehruvian hope and idealism to a more pragmatic position. The generation of men like Amartya Sen and Amitabh Bachhan continued to seek refuge in a flawed conception of this land. In a mirage of collective denial. What this generation did, is damage further the remote possibility of keeping this bundle of regions together.

It is natural thus, that resistance movements have claimed large parts of the land. These are not movements driven by coherent ideologies, like those of the twentieth century. These are resource based, thriving on decades of neglect and discrimination, and thus far more dangerous. The Maoist insurgency is a wild, and by now rather widespread, effort to reclaim the shreds of dignity still left, towering over mineral-filled hills. To think it will subside is folly. The same goes for the Kashmiri liberation movement and insurgent groups in the North-East. Everywhere, is a combination of scarcity, neglect, and often straightforward abuse. These are not, as aging liberal patriots would like to believe, exceptions. Neither are these regions 'left behind', as the saying goes. These are populations for whom history now has a different meaning. Most of them have diverged to such an extent that they make moderate and sensible strategies like 'greater dialogue' seem impotent. They don't just want to get away from 'us', but crave a radical rupture from their pain-filled pasts. Extremist groups offer that dream. We can do nothing to make it better.

Many think the solution lies in military action. But violence legitimizes their struggle. It gives a sense of meaning previously unknown. It united people in their hatred of the aggressor. That is not a feature of these examples alone, but a permanent one of the human landscape. Military action will make matters infinitely worse. It is not a matter of whether military action is justified, as many spend their hours deliberating, but of the simple fact that it doesn't work.

India may not fracture. Military might, after all, can force people in and out of homes. But parts may cease to function. Like a body some of whose organs fail. It may not be these very movements or extremist groups. But similar such uprisings, feeding on a tradition of pain. Many parts will continue to thrive of course, moving intolerably towards Western riches. Celebrate that. And prepare for more extremist attacks. Safety is an ephemeral concept, one we should be ready to abjure.

But if one thinks that that is not a great way to live, then one will have to face, and acknowledge, the naivety and cowardice of earlier generations. And then one will have to deal with his own illusions. We will have to face a spectrum which ranges from the fresh-faced MBA to an insurgent hiding in the mountains who 'wants to die'. We will have to look at this nation-state for what it really is - a makeshift India.

Images

2011-09-18T12:04:00.000-07:00

I was in an old room. Spacious, with wide windows to one side, a high ceiling with an old fan turning on eternal momentum, and slightly fading walls, resplendent in their silence. An old room, at night, the soft creaking of the fan, as I lay down. And I see a human hand, severed at the forearm, resolutely crawling down the floor towards me. Again and again, I felt it come near and go away. Sometimes into the other room, where it pranced about, the horrible hand. I could then see it, through the open door, play among the slippers. A resolute hand, light blood stains giving it character.

I got up after some time and pursued it. I had to throw it away. I had to conquer it. Defeat it. I ran after it, the old rooms like a soft mirage, the hand crawling through invisible cobwebs. I ran out after it into the balcony. It tried to hide under the open window. I reached out, with my feet, and clasped it. I pulled it towards me, and tried to throw it outside. It landed back inside. I caught it and threw it out again. This time it fell, down below. Into another man's dream.

This may seem absurd. But it had the taste of a nightmare. I felt disturbed for some time, after waking up. It was a nightmare. I thought of some meaning the dream could have had. Something I should do. Some hidden purpose. And then I realized with a jolt, I was searching for meaning. My mind was craving for some meaning. But there isn't any. A dream means nothing. It is a fragment, forever ambiguous. It says nothing. It has no purpose.

I may see my hand again. I think it sneers at me. Maybe we will become friends.

The Anna Scam

2011-08-21T11:43:00.001-07:00

Centralization/Top down decision making increases chances of corruption and malpractice. Decentralization/Bottom-up decision making reduces them. That is because 1) There is greater chance of moral hazard within a centralized system. Too much power in too few hands. 2) In a centralized system there is insufficient information. In small systems e.g. Municipalities, informational problems are not that big. 3) Centralized systems, rigid and goal oriented that they are, suppress errors. That makes them fragile. They remain calm till wild variations fracture them. Thus centralized systems, in the present complex and uncertain world, are dangerous (e.g. Soviet Russia, Maoist China, American foreign policy, Jan Lokpal) (e.g. of small & decentralized – Switzerland, Muhammad Yunus, Esther Dufflo) (You can find the original arguments in Nassim Nicholas Taleb's writings)

The entire Lokpal deal reeks of top-down centralized imposition of justice. That is naive utopia. At that level, two authorities will turn out the same as one. What any such movement requires is a bottom-up approach. Many small and autonomous units. But that is not the lokpal movement. On the contrary it prides itself on presenting one coherent approach to a deep-set problem like corruption. That is folly. There is greater chance that if implemented, the Jan Lokpal bill will increase corruption in the long run. It will put to much power into too few hands. It is also the most impractical, given its judgement time-frames, and will have to make decisions with incomplete information and will suppress discontent as the failure begins to show. The Lokpal will not only damage, it wont even know it is damaging.

India is a messy land. And no amount of pretend-coherence or centralization will help. It will just repress further. Anna is projecting, in a more secular fashion, his old RSS ideas of 'one central solution' (maybe unaware all the time). And a mostly consumerist middle class is embracing it. It shows, at best, a simplified and flawed conception of the complexity of this land. In his arrogance, he thinks that he can conceive of one solution (however geographically spread out) for this deep-set malaise affecting 1.2 billion people who mostly do not identify with each other, except for a conception of nation-state only 60 years old. And so he creates a media event out of it, waves the flag, and we run to change the world! Had Gandhi been buried, he'd be rolling in his grave.

I fully agree that we have to 'do' things. Yes to positive change too. But it is essential to know what change we are talking about. It cannot be this top-down imposition. It has to be bottom-up. Please refer to the work of Esther Duflo, the development economist, and her approach. They are called the ‘randomistas’. They follow a system of randomized trials similar to the ones followed for medicine/pharma. They do small things for a group and then observe whether it is working compared to another group, which is the placebo group. Then they widen it a little to see if it is still working. I hope you can see what I mean by bottom-up tinkering. I think these more humble and cleverer methods are a way better choice. They have their shortcomings, like how to set up a fair trial. But those shortcomings are nothing compared to Lokpal’s punish-the-kid-if-he-misbehaves.

Most people do not know that before Grameen Bank, Muhammad Yunus had tried out another project (original story in Tim Harford's Adapt). I think he borrowed money for farmers to buy high-yield seeds. It failed. Then he came up with the idea of giving these small loans to women in villages. And it worked. Yunus, through simple bottom-up experimentation was able to transform the lives of so many poor Bangladeshi women, and thus families. He was experimenting. And his model may not work equally effectively everywhere (Afghanistan), but what he has done for the poor in Bangladesh, and other impoverished countries, cannot be questioned. All through small, grassroots trial and error. He did not assume he knew how to solve the problem. He experimented.

The important thing here, as you can see, is that Yunus failed once. But it didn't hurt the system as a whole. It hurt only him and a few businessmen. And he was there to try again. But if the Lokpal fails, it will hurt millions. Most importantly, once instituted, you wont be able to do away with it. For it will simply be too powerful. Do you think, if it is not performing well, those who are running it will stand up, put up their hands and walk out? No. They will keep trying. And covering up. That is the way large institutions work.

We need hundreds of Muhammad Yunuses and Esther Duflos out there trying and failing for a better life for the impoverished. Not some rigid, naive, media-savvy, pseudo-revolutionary like Hazare. I too would like to believe that it is possible to bring slightly greater well-being to this cluttered and complicated land. But I cannot, for that very reason, let my emotions get the better of me.

The End of Sanity

2011-07-13T04:08:00.000-07:00

All sanity is the same. Like all peace, and most kindnesses. The reverse, fortunately, offers endless variety. Finding refuge in the slum of genuineness, one discovers the untold pleasures of pain. The fragility of sanity looms like a voluntary mirage of sorts, easier to leave, than to return to.

The beauty of war is that it offers this thrilling respite from the ravages of certainty. Travelling across wounded landscapes, one can notice this magical energy that thrives on violence. Not just the random violence of the lower levels, but the central ideas that govern human nature. In destroying, war rebuilds in a way essential to the cyclical obsessions of civilizations. It is not just inevitable that we destroy, it is necessary.

Technology has produced this numbing sensation of ugliness. But where it takes away from beauty, it also lends itself to it. The prospect of biological warfare is far more fascinating than lone men with rifles in the trenches of the world wars. It is but obvious, that newfound power and control will be used on the species itself. The scale of pain it can cause, the unconscious fear it generates, the denial exercised by the multitudes embracing optimism and humanism (and other such impotent illusions), and the sheer delight the weapon can bring, is one of the best ways to grasp modernity.

In the labyrinthian complexity of insanity, mass psychopathologies show themselves with such clarity, it has a horror unparalleled. The only respite sanity could possibly provide, is probably that of boredom. An occasional foray into systematic illusions.

The Beginning

2011-04-23T11:51:00.000-07:00

The good thing about heavy rains was that it washed away all the blood. These rains did not fall on the streets. Or on any kind of solid land. It fell on water. Seawater. And on the walls of the buildings. The only stain was that of water. Fresh drops mixing into the brine below was a visual effect attempted by designers long back. Water was not always blue back then. It was often black, with a few splotches of red. Vast stretches of undulating green met the eye from the top of skyscrapers. That we managed through those times speaks of our tremendous will-power and technological strength. Often those two were the same thing.

The boats often tossed up food parcels smeared in blood. You never knew who was lurking round the corner. There wasn't food inside them really. Not food the way my grandparents or even my parents understood it. These were pills. Pills of different sorts. I wont go into the details now. But they served the purpose. One had to have the ability to discern between the different pills. Between the dope and the nutrition. For the addict of course, the dope was the nutrition. The distinctions blurred beyond a point. The pill I preferred was one called ACL. What this little dark brown ball of powder did was pretend to be alcohol. It wasn't, of course. But to an entire generation brought up on ACL it didn't matter. It was our alcohol. And we swallowed it with a certain artistic pride.

In those days H used to be regular visitor to my floating palace. We were convinced that during one of our long philosophical journeys the seawater would carry away the building. H was a philosopher. Maybe that took away his evolutionary advantage. But he was the kind of nihilist I liked. Not the brooding type. But rather optimistic. He genuinely felt that our homes needed to float away. The grasp on land was an illusion we needed to abjure. We would only be free when our decaying homes got carried away by huge sea-waves. Then amidst the sharks and giant squids the human animal would find real freedom. The exact contours of this freedom H was never able to outline. But detail was not his forte. He was more the kind of philosopher who presented a blurry larger picture not really of the future but of his own fantasies. I valued his friendship. It was rare. For he provided an old-fashioned kind of leisure. That of conversation.

If you dove into the water below, you would chance upon the remnants of a civilization. Mostly cars, heavier machines, smaller buildings which drowned long back, and if you traveled deep enough, you would see the blurry texture of what was once called a street. But no one did it then. Diving into the water, 'going down' as it was called, was a taboo. The Past was a taboo. We didn't need it after all. Even when people died they wanted to move upwards. The ancient Zoroastrian funeral was a fashionable thing nowadays. For it also provided a kind of boring spectator sport. The vultures had of course evolved in some strange ways. They devoured the corpses faster. It was becoming prosaic, and it was time for something new.

I remember, that day H and I discussed the boy who decided to bleed to death on the slanted slab of concrete right outside his front door. One of the prominent cults was one that stood for Bloodletting. One of those regular reactions to modern medicine. This was a kind of protest. Where the thirteen year old boy bled to death in front of a camera from numerous points in his body and all the while moaned in pleasure. This was a kind of personal apocalypse. A slightly unfair reaction some conservatives might say. H flitted between different viewpoints, unable to decide whether he condemned such loss of life in a time of low fertility or celebrated the act. But I had decided inside already. It didn't matter.

The thing is, the blood didn't remain. It mingled into the water and then sped away. Into the ever deep, dark ocean. It wasn't the rains then. It was the water that washed away all that blood. The seawater that formed canals of globalization for us. The seawater we looked at. The seawater we loved.

Modernity

2010-11-23T13:06:00.000-08:00

I fear modernity will prove to be pernicious. We will eventually discover what we have lost. But it will be too late. We would have lost our intellectual capabilities to the ravages of time and progress. We will be physically weak, dependent on medicine, damaged by surgery. We will be at home between layers of poisonous air. Unable to hear softer sounds, touch the paper books are made of. We may never watch our children play on real green grass. Look at their little feet bristle against the tiny green blades. There is too much to lose. Too much pain.

A few I spoke to, told me that this has been the concern of many 'sensitive' individuals throughout recorded history. I do not disagree. What I find surprising, is that in spite of knowing this, people continue on the same path. Their faith in modernity grows with each passing day, and instead of heeding the warnings of those who have had clearer vision, they dismiss them as exceptions, or as a paranoid minority. What these same people also fail to understand is progress(technological) such as ours is exponential. The damage we have done to both mother nature and ourselves in the past hundred years is nothing compared to what we may do in the next few years. And its impact on nature and human society is non-linear. That is, the risks pile up, and one fine day explode.

But beyond all this, my concerns are mainly aesthetic. How can an entire generation sit before a computer screen in a sterile corporate office? Do they not find it revolting? Or have their aesthetic senses undergone such a drastic transformation that they actually like it? All that is fascinating about human life, and society, they are willing to miss out, for some money to buy exactly those things they themselves produce in those sterile offices. It is downright hilarious. And it scares me.

Our ability to fool ourselves scares me. Our ability to show extremes of faith in illusions scares me. What scares me most in all this, is the ease with which we are distancing ourselves from beauty.

Strunk & White for filmmaking

2009-08-18T17:57:00.000-07:00

William Strunk Jr. and E. B. White wrote in their book ‘The Elements of Style’ the following paragraph.

“Vigorous writing is concise. A sentence should contain no unnecessary words, a paragraph no
unnecessary sentences, for the same reason that a drawing should have no unnecessary lines
and a machine no unnecessary parts. This requires not that the writer make all his sentences
short, or that he avoid all detail and treat his subjects only in outline, but that every word tell.”

The lines were written by Strunk in the original book, and while writing the introduction for a later edition, White had the sense to mention them in the introduction. The ‘Elements of Style’ of course is about writing in English. But the idea expressed here is very important for filmmaking. I’d like to say it like this.

“Vigorous filmmaking is concise. A scene should contain no unnecessary shots, a sequence no
unnecessary scenes, for the same reason that a drawing should have no unnecessary lines and a
machine no unnecessary parts. This requires not that the filmmaker make all his scenes short, or
that he avoid all detail and treat his subjects only in outline, but that every shot tell.”

Of the hundreds of theories on filmmaking I find this the most fundamental and its application the hardest. It is hard mainly because it is quite difficult to determine which shot is unnecessary and which is not. In Strunk’s mind things were black or white. Either a word was important, or it wasn’t. I don’t know whether he ever considered that one word could be less important than another, and therefore its contribution though small, still be helpful. For those who live by grays and fractions, the decision-making could indeed be tough. But it is an approach I’d consider worthwhile.

Later on in the introduction, White quotes Strunk again. This time as Strunk makes his axiom a little softer, and for me, clearer.

“It is an old observation, that the best writers sometimes disregard the rules of rhetoric. When
they do so, however, the reader will usually find in the sentence some compensating merit,
attained at the cost of the violation. Unless he is certain of doing as well, he will probably do best
to follow the rules.”

Strunk wasn’t that inflexible after all. But what he does with this last paragraph is take the argument into the realm of individual preferences. And from that realm, unfortunately, the argument can never come out.

I have a feeling the book is full of such lessons, or as I like to consider them, approaches.

Calcutta

2009-05-10T12:57:00.000-07:00

Calcutta is beautiful to the eye. Old houses with discolored walls, their shutters looking out into often-crumbling streets, street lamps out of a period film set, and colors of local political party posters effortlessly holding time within them. Fading architecture seems to challenge ideas of modern urban development. I don’t know how strong those walls are. But they live on, artistically unkempt. A huge city and a small world; with yellow and red nightlights and lovely evening breeze. It’s alive, yet dead. I see fire-crackers up in the sky; with the sounds of old buses roaring past sleeping Bengali homes. I could stay awake through day and night listening to transitions in sound. It’s a playful battle between the hot, humid envelope of air, and the cool river breeze periodically blowing it away. Layers and layers of living; bustling nonchalantly. Like in a colorful, populated dream.

One could fall in love very easily here, in the soft evening mood. I can imagine a beautiful girl laugh in a taxi down Southern Avenue. Sometimes the lusty glances under the lights of Park Street. Long conversations and long silences by a lake. What are we going to do with our lives, where are we going to go? Desires and pretences. The wind could languorously blow her black hair back. Taxies and thoughtful ice-creams at night and never going home. I want to stay in love. I never want to go home.

It’s modern and stagnant. It’s dirty, disorganized and dilapidated. And intelligent and sensitive. It has dark lanes and green streets. Aggressive, talkative people. Some would say argumentative. I wouldn’t venture that far. Everyone has an opinion. And most are worth shit. It’s complacent and cantankerous.

After the rains we climbed up to Birbal dada’s terrace. The dark sky with a few clouds left, and scattered night lights from the buildings far away. The shapes of coconut trees swaying to the nearly-cold post-rains breeze. He told me he used to sit there, watching life unfold in the busy street below, when he was younger. I told him I could sit there with a girl. Trying out the first tentative steps of love. Or silent and sad as the relationship vanished slowly into the haze of city smoke. And after everything I could return and introspect. That subtle sadness in my heart and the joy of freedom. The wind moans before a storm. At night, Ron and I walk around Lake Club, thinking of possible names for characters from a story. Thinking of the name of the story itself. And we come close to the dark lake, lights imprinted on its surface. The water surface glistens, manacled in calm. It looks like another sky.

I leave tomorrow for the hundredth time. When I return again, my eyes would have grown older. The city may have changed.

It takes time to go beyond that initial anger. Calcutta is not my home. It will never be. I don’t know where home is, or what home is. Except that when I find home, I’ll be calm. Calcutta is my parents’ home, their parents’ home, their brothers’ and sisters’ home, my cousins’ home. But to me, a beautiful city of love and discomfort. A little memory island; confusing, and wonderful.

Another one

2008-10-23T10:57:00.000-07:00

The dangers of seeing too late. I spent years looking out for them. Always alert. I didn't sleep for a long time in between. My gun was that part of my hand. And then on a busy, rainy street they smashed my window with the butt of a pistol and shot me through the head. The bullet entered from the left, and maybe spent some time inside my head. It fucked me bad. All those hours I had spent staring at the endless sea rang inside my head. All the time wasted. And then there was blood in my eyes, in my ears, in my mouth. There were waves of blood, deep red. My conscience bore that red, like a deep scar. If I'd died I would have grieved. Now I sit paralyzed in this dry armchair in this sterile ward.

The whole point is, I can't die right now. Its just not the time. I think regret is this exceptionally beautiful thing that haunts you like an enraged lover. Very very sexy. To throw it away would be a crime.

I am still very young. Though I have killed many, stolen some, I have never asked for their forgiveness. I am not sorry. That's not good or bad. Its just fucking reality. I love the rain, I have fallen in innocent love, I have helped a friend, and I have calmly fucked up many lives. God won't touch me. I am also a genius. A genius with compassion and a goddamned fucking pervert. If I said "contradiction" it would be hackneyed and old fashioned. So I say original.

I, am holding storm within me. Storm when I see the nurse bending before me, and storm when I see injustice. Storm when I feel pain, and storm when I am alone. I feel like a storm. I sit paralyzed and feel like a bloody storm. Can you believe that? Can you believe that?

I am visualizing the big bang.

Title

2008-09-09T09:28:00.000-07:00

How strange a mood is? Though lying in an unreachable place it affects the surface of perception. Without making itself obvious or crude. And a beautiful ride from Bangalore to Chennai on that Krishnagiri road helps it. The greens on both sides, some hills, and lovely clouds scattered heavily all over the sky mingle with the mood and make many other things worthless.

My father says he will find his ultimate peace in the Himalayas. He wants to settle there one day, when he is done with this urban mess. And my mother says, true peace, you've got to find within yourself. It doesn't matter where you live, the people you are with, or any of all that. A truly peaceful person can be at calm anywhere.

I love the mountain idea. I hope to go there and drown in the pure calm myself , when I am done satisfying my worldly ambitions, or failing in the process. But my mother's words too seem to make a lot of sense. When you carry turmoil within you, it makes no difference. Because you carry it with you wherever you go. However beautiful the place, your insides will keep churning and disturbing you, and that peace will forever evade you.

I am too young to know or understand what these two are talking about. I am too young, inexperienced etc. to understand my own feelings. But one day I hope I get closer to some truth.

Part II

2008-06-07T13:45:00.000-07:00

I, I don't know what I am doin' here. I saw those three kids on the street, they were smiling at me. Do you know what I do for a living? Do you know? I lie. Thats what I do. I lie and I create pieces of imagination. All in my head, and then out into the world. Its like this storm of treacherous ideas. I am destroying so much everyday, like on some subconscious mission. I am what you'd call a craven genius, a genius at evasion. Never quite facing it all for the fear of it just finishing me. The funny thing is, I don't mind ending now, or tomorrow. There isn't so much I love in life anyway. But something there is, out there, that I don't wanna face. Something I can evade for the rest of my life. Who knows about things? Just tell me, who knows about things?

Now we had a world back then that could be rationalized. Or atleast that is what people believed. That they could actually understand the world and its intentions. Today, today I don't get a goddamned thing. Learn from me how to fuck up your life. You know, these are moments of complacent self-criticism. You shouldn't misunderstand. You won't know me from this conversation. But then, will you know me otherwise? I feel like those colorful lights going out of focus. You know, at night on the streets, just keep looking and they'll blur.

That day was real bad. I just felt like everything would die and rot. And then dry up, and my throat just started contracting. I saw people gettin' killed and their blood filling up water tanks. You know, those huge ones housing blocks have. I saw blood everywhere. This deep red, absolutely aesthetically percieved. I fell down and broke I think. How long can you take it?

Everyone I loved went away. Like I committed some crime. Like its a sin. I think I have forgotten their faces. But I remember I used to always make love to my wife very softly. She likes it that way. Very softly, no funny business. Even the most inconsequential touch was soft. She just vanished, or did I go blind. I don't remember very clearly. But its not painless you know. The pain just doesn't hit immediately. Takes a little time. Then all the people dying. Bad business I say. We, are all a bunch of fucking murderers aren't we?

I saw children that night, without any inocence, cruel and brutal. They were throwing stones at me. Those stones had an interesting texture. I felt some pain near my temple. I touched it and saw some blood in my hands. I think you people found me a little after that. I was shouting I think, when you found me.

You see, I was asking god why he had forsaken me. I was asking him why he was giving me so much pain. My soul felt wronged, the tears in my eyes weren't deliberate. You see, I didn't realize when they came out and drops fell into the blood on the ground. I couldn't find them after that. I was asking god why he left me all alone with so much pain to bear and without the strength to kill myself. I am a coward you see. Then I don't remember the rest. I blacked out I think. But that was a high energy moment.

I feel better now. Much better. Could you give me my medicine now? I would like to go to sleep.

Part I

2008-04-17T20:17:00.000-07:00

While climbing the stairs to the terrace she thought of something interesting. An expanse of broken housetops would greet her with guarded warmth. And she would wait there. She could have taken a book, or a magazine or something, had she known how to read. But sounds made much more sense. Loud sounds when they inhabited the terrain, a part of her head died. She couldn’t understand it, why it felt numb. But she was witnessing something original. And that was more important than everything else. Original could have been dull. Like revolution was prosaic, and so was poetry. But they all spoke of beautiful white flowers. She understood a few small things; like strong men and women could try hard and yet lose. She stood on her terrace.

Gunfire erupted somewhere nearby. An old man was crawling on the ground. He wouldn’t have approved of her presence. She looked at him lying dead in the distance. Her father would have asked her to go inside. But that only happened in the movies nowadays. She deserved her share of blood, if only to see. So she waited for people to die, so she could see what really happened. How did they die? What happened right after? What did the killer do right after? Her curiosity gone suddenly, a wave of revulsion and grief broke itself against the walls of that house. She couldn’t cry properly. The loud sounds again started somewhere and she felt numb.

She would have liked to look inside her mind. She would have liked to bury herself deep inside her mind and drown out those sounds and forget all that blood. But then in some time she would feel lonely and thirsty. And she would come out again curious. Everyone she had loved had loved her back. They just went away somewhere and left her in that old broken house to wait. Blood stained the streets and walls of that city and she waited for it to dry. Her beautiful face had learnt lines and wrinkles. And she had crossed the stage of counting details. She knew there was a long journey ahead. Slowly her mind would come apart and she would sleep.

A little more thought

2008-04-13T15:28:00.000-07:00

A very old man sat in the armchair staring at the evening. He was so old he could have died and yet not known. I went and sat besides him on a stool. And I suddenly felt like telling him everything. For once in my life I felt like pouring my heart out and crying. His face wrinkled and impassive he just looked at me. After you have lived every bit of of your life and are waiting to cease you don't need words. Words, the thoughts behind them, they seem like far-away leisures. I had tried so hard for so long to understand. He seemed distant. Some men experience a lot. Some experience little but that little has a far greater impact. You feel more from little, you learn more. I closed my eyes, they felt heavy. It would rain that night and he would shiver. His house was older than him. Did I ever lie to myself? No, I never did that. But maybe I couldn't see the truth for a long time. It took me time and reflection, and suddenly one day god knows what the reason, I saw a little. The old man was looking at me smiling slightly.

"I get tired of waiting." He spoke in a voice I seemed to have heard long back. "Those women in the village, they will start singing." I had heard the women sing late in the evening. I carried my bitterness around, they were singing now. For some more time I waited with him. Then I left. One day when I am very old, I will end up like that, desolate.

Hmm...

2008-01-27T00:41:00.000-08:00

likeness one day vanished,
and all our thoughts built into years,
just fell into each other,
like a small city after a hurricane.

Determined we built new thoughts,
new expansive structures that made us proud,
we floated in them joyous,
and likeness one day vanished again.

Determined we built new homes,
new roads, new lives,
Structures bigger and better,
and pleasure and thrill was there again.

Like water we just rose and collapsed,
not listening to anyone,
Searching everywhere for that likeness,
Which made us happy.

Likeness one day vanished,
and left us with little to say,
except with some knowledge,
that likeness always vanishes.

Graduation Day address at Bishop Cotton High School, Bangalore – 2004

2007-12-11T06:27:00.000-08:00

By Subroto Bagchi, COO, MindTree Consulting

Graduating Class of 2004, Mr. Principal, Teachers, Staff Members and parents,

As the Class of 2004 leaves the hallowed portals of this institution, I want to tell you about a very special person. It is conventional and customary to thank your teachers, your parents and God on this great occasion of your life. To that list, I want you to add someone who is not expecting to be added; a person whose commitment, affection and gentle presence have had an important role in shaping the last ten or twelve years of your Cottonian experience. His name is Papanna. Do you know him? Is there someone here who can possibly recognize him?

Papanna drives an auto-rickshaw, bringing children to this school everyday. He has been doing it for the last twenty years. Children have come and gone, teachers and principals have come and gone but his loyalty has not waned. He has not sought other pastures, but has been there – come rain or shine.

Papanna says he is 51 years old. His mother died at childbirth – something not uncommon in 1953. The maternal mortality rate is India is a high 540 per 100,000 births, according to a report from the State of the World's Children, 2004. Only 43 per cent of Indian women get skilled attendants when they deliver babies and 60 per cent receive antenatal (post childbirth) care. Hardly surprising, therefore, that so many women die either while having babies or immediately after.

His father worked for a drama troupe. Born in a family with many children and relatives, but denied a mother at birth, Papanna was neglected from the very beginning. He recalls that his relatives did not take care of him. However, the absence of love in one’s life does not take away the power to love others. The manner in which Papanna has brought up his own two sons is a great example of shunning self-pity and giving in plenty to others what one is denied in one’s own life.

Papanna went to a government school near Hoskote, where he studied up to the fifth standard. Between life’s many ups and downs, he grew up to become a young man and started work as a coolie. Sometime during that course, he had his tryst with destiny. He began ferrying schoolchildren in a cycle rickshaw. Since then his mode of transport has changed but his purpose has not. That is all he does today, many decades afterward.

Along the way, Papanna met Papamma. Apart from the wonderful coincidence of matching names, it was truly a match made in heaven. To each one of you, some day, I ask God to give some one as loving as Papamma as your life partner. One day, you will realize that affection and companionship are more valuable than mere success.

When all seemed to be going just right, something awful was waiting to happen around the bend. One day, while repairing his house, Papanna hurt his leg. People like him do not have access to proper medical care, and the leg turned gangrenous. A doctor asked that the leg be amputated. He and Papamma signed documents of consent. A chance meeting with another doctor saved his leg. But the trade-off required was that he could not pedal his cycle-rickshaw ever again. Just as life was testing his resolve, in the years ahead, your own resolve will be tested many times over.

Papanna’s livelihood was under threat. However, a friend suggested that he borrow some money and start ferrying the school children in an auto-rickshaw. He borrowed money at a whopping 36% interest from a moneylender – know that we are talking about the days before micro-credit. That money was not enough. His friend agreed to give him the rest. You will find out, as you grow older, that giving is not a function of having. The more people have, the less they give. There is more giving amongst the have-nots than amongst the haves.

Papanna’s auto-rickshaw arrived. Ever since, his day has started at 6.30 every morning. He goes door to door to pick up his charges, their school bags and their lunch. He carries his precious cargo everyday, without fail. Papanna brings the children to their classes and goes back home at 10.30 in the morning to have his breakfast. Then, he returns to prepare his multi-school routine and begins to reverse the sequence of the morning as afternoon approaches.

Papanna lives in a one-room house in Adugodi. If you have reached the Mico Bosch factory on Hosur Road, you have gone too far. Just before that is an open drain and before the drain, to your left is a bunch of auto-repair garages. Behind these is his one room home where he and Papamma have lived and raised their two sons.
A screen separates the living portion from Papamma’s kitchen. Another secures a small portion that serves as the bath. The family uses a community toilet.

Papanna and Papamma had great hopes for their two sons – Babu and Prabhu. They enrolled them in Bethany, a good school, but the boys could not cope. It is not enough to go to a good school—one needs a supporting physical environment as well. The boys failed in their class examinations. Papanna did not give up. He did not write them off. He tried again. This time, one was sent to Stracey and the other to RV School. One son went up to the ninth standard and the other up to the tenth. Babu, the older boy started driving Papanna’s auto-rickshaw to ferry school children.

Papanna’s auto-rickshaw was ageing. Someone said that it was time he bought a rear-engine vehicle. It would cost him thirty five thousand rupees. He had all of ten. He borrowed the rest from the same moneylender who had financed him earlier. Since then, Papanna has paid every single installment on time. He still has nine thousand to repay. Some day he hopes he will manage this.

In Bangalore city alone, it is estimated that there are about a thousand auto-rickshaw drivers like Papanna who ferry children to school. They work on the basis of a complex network. A child may go through one or two hubs – changing more than one vehicle, as the principle of aggregation takes over. A driver hands over his charges to another driver and the children finally reach their destinations, either school or home.

Papanna earns about six thousand rupees a month. From this, he pays for the fuel and upkeep of his vehicle before he has money for his family and himself. But he is content. He says he is happy that his family has never had to starve. Their small world has its own moments of fulfillment. He says that he has been able to dream many dreams. He tempers that with the need to anchor every dream to the responsibility for enacting the same. In a world where desire outstrips happiness, it is so important to bridge the gap with contentment.

His two sons have grown well. Babu has graduated from an auto-rickshaw to a Maruti van. A family whose child he used to ferry offered him a deal. He could ferry kids using the family van so long as he did not charge them for it. Babu’s younger brother, Prabhu, works for a software company as the office boy. Papanna is a proud father because his sons bring their earning and leave the money with him. Whenever they need to go to a movie, they ask Papanna for money. It is a symbolic arrangement but its impact is substantial to a parent’s happiness.

My young friends, today is the beginning of your life’s impacting journey into an eventful, exciting future. Coming from homes that could afford your education, coming from a school that was ranked the best in the country, you are already on your way to great personal success. As you get there, remember that there is a Papanna somewhere in your life. It is easy to relegate him to the position of a faded, happy and occasional remembrance. That is because he will never show up, he will not contend for your attention or favor.

Above every other measure of success, I wish graduating Cottonians the capability to create “inclusion”. Life depends on it. With those words, allow me to present Papanna, who very kindly agreed to accompany me to your graduation ceremony today.

Ladies and Gentlemen: Please give him a big hand.

Dead Man Walking

2007-12-09T13:14:00.000-08:00

A few days back I saw Dead Man Walking. Susan Sarandon, Sean Penn, and directed by Tim Robbins. When the film started the only thing I really noticed was the Indian back-ground music, and my mind was debating its efficacy. By the end, I realized this was probably one of the most sublime films I have ever seen. So beautiful, so deep. Since this post is not for those who have not seen the film I wont briefly narrate the story. It wont make a difference anyway, if I were to say its about capital punishment or that its about a nun and a death-row convict. Who ever truly understood a film just by reading someone else's feelings about it.

Some things I really loved. Susan Sarandon does not wear a habit. The whole deal about her not wearing one, the difference it made to her character was immense. She seemed much closer to everyone else, as if the habit is a pretext. She looked softer, more human. I don't think I would have cared much for this film had her character worn a habit. Those small parts in between where she is driving her car, thinking, and travelling by the fields outside. Her home, the children playing around. The close-ups in those key scenes between her and Penn, some of just the eyes. It is well known that close-ups are a great device to build tension, or any strong feeling for that matter. But to get the right expresssion, the right light, the right color, and keep it for the right duration, therein lies great storytelling. Great great storytelling. The balance of course. Noone is wrong, noone is fair. And finally, my favorite field, the photography. Deacins (Kundun, The Shawshank Redemption) painted. I don't know whether it was more of him or Robbins, but it doesn't matter. It was beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. That last track shot, from the chapel window moving back. Or the evening profile shot of her sitting in her armchair in her front porch. It was beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.

It is very very rarely that i feel like crying while watching a film. But the part where Penn confesses to her, with a "Yes ma'am", and with her eyes and voice full of tears she tells him about dying with dignity. That made me want to sob. I never really dreamt I would want to sob for a rapist.

The music as I said, Indian classical. A piece by the late Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan also. In the beginning I was wondering, will this be suitable. By the end, and even now, I cant think of Dead Man Walking without that soft Indian background score. I really don't know why Robbins chose that kind of music. Maybe to suit a story as deep as this, I don't know. All I know, is I am fortunate I watched this film. Very fortunate.