Alcoholics Synonymous

Alcoholics are abusers of the drink of course. They are also users. They use people for purely selfish reasons; for any personal advantage and gain without so much as a token thank you. They are egoistic; manipulative; arrogant; dishonest; opinionated right up to the brim, overflowing even; have no compunctions about doing what they do; know that what they do is right, and never need more than a bit of glib justification to establish their case.

I have friends who are alcoholics. I know people who may not be friends but are alcoholics. I know alcoholics who have been through detoxification and rehabilitation often, are apparently clean, sober, going through the Program, yet retain the qualities I've mentioned above. Of course there are exceptions, but I do not include them in this rant of mine.

One alcoholic, a friend since childhood, lost his mother recently. In fact the reason he had been in a rehab for three months till the day his mother died, was because of the inhuman treatment he had meted out to her. The reason he had to part company with his wife and two sons was because of the consequences of his alcoholism. The reason he is unemployable is alcohol. The reason his mother died was due to the effects of his abuse which caused a deterioration in her already frail, medical condition. Today I consider him a previous friend. A person as easily detested as you could be indifferent to.

I know that AA requires moral and emotional support for a recovering alcoholic/addict from his family and friends because they say it is a family disease. An incurable disease that affects all those closely connected with the abuser even if they themselves do not share his choice or consumption of intoxicant. Alcoholics know that. And because they have this crucial piece of knowldege, they knowingly take advantage of it. They then expect the world and its uncle to support them in all the ways they themselves are too lazy or reluctant to do, which is everything. If they could get you to wipe their bum after they take a dump, they would. Everyday. Every time.

Alcoholics are insecure, but show off as if the world turns because the sun shines out of their arse. This is evident from their I-centred talk. It's always "I did this", "I did that", "I said it first", and notably, "But I didn't do it!". This ex-friend, at a prayer meeting for his late mother, when asked to say a few words, only talked about how he returned to this city to be with her after his father passed away, implying an unselfish sacrifice. He talked of what he did for her, he talked of being the devoted son he never was. Not once did he even mention the contribution she may have made to his existence other than calling her his mother. I know for a fact that even in private, he has expressed no remorse or regret, or even shed a crocodile tear.

The first two days out of rehab, he really seemed to be on the rocky road to full recovery. We were impressed, both with his progress and the good that the rehab had done for him. Yet, once his mother had been consigned to earth to complete her cycle of dust to dust, and he became increasingly aware of his inheritance (not a fortune, but no pittance either), he regressed to his former self. His alcoholic self. His true, real self. He reverted to being immodest, insufferable, inexcusable in the shortest possible time. His excuse for not returning to the rehab as he had promised when he was released for his mother's funeral, was this: "They've taught me to face reality, to handle the outside world, and if I don't start doing that now, when will I?" That's glib. Impressively so. In normal circumstances, he would have been there another three months at least. His counsellor told me that, adding that while he was improving, more time was necessary for a complete recovery. This ex-friend told me how he doesn't like his counsellor for many reasons, not least being that person's inability to be intellectual. I believe his counsellor just saw through him and was in the process of making him reveal his true self, when the mother's death interrupted matters.

This guy used the rehab as a good excuse to stay out of prison which neighbours and well-wishers of his mother wanted him to be in. He had a clean-up as it were, at a long, rigorous, but healthy vacation, and now with no further responsibilities, with easy access to a fair bit of cash, and the pretentious, misplaced sympathy of certain people who don't actually know him, he is going to become a rich alcoholic. For a while of course. Till the money is all drunk up, till his cirrhotic liver and his preferred lifestyle send him to an early grave. I can only hope it will be a timely one.


One other alcoholic I know has never been in rehab or through detox. He fortunately has no family to abuse and spread his disease to. He too shares the same qualities as the one above, but in varying degrees. He is obssessed with proving he is India's foremost competitive bridge player, is perhaps the only stock market trader in the country who did not make money in the fleeting boom period recently, and denies his alcoholism vehemently.

A third one, or as he likes to call himself "a recovering addict and alcoholic", currently benefiting from the Program to only stay clean, is similarly warped in the head. Offering to place him in an income-earning opportunity, I also gave him a friendly warning that the employer already knew of his previous addiction problems and it was a good chance for him to prove his capabilities despite the reputation that preceded him. He so surprised me with his almost crazed, hysterical reaction to this warning of mine, that I have resolved never to help him again. All he does is attend AA/NA meetings every evening, and surfs the Net all day looking for women who will pity him enough to marry him, if not, just lay him. Meanwhile, his older brother accommodates him, takes care of his expenses, doing more than he should, and getting used once again in the bargain he has made with his sibling to stay clean.

It perhaps is not possible for organisations who work with addicts to both rid the abuser of his dependancy as well as clean up his way of thinking. I believe the three persons I've mentioned above were already messed in their minds and their true personality types merely accentuated by the abuse of the intoxicants. They sorely need serious psychiatric help but who's going to help them get it? Not me!

And just as a by the way: "The Globe, issue 2, 2005, is a special issue, "Launch of Indian Alcohol Policy Alliance." A few statistics: 62.5 million users of alcohol in India; per capita consumption up 106.7% over 15-year period; sale of alcohol growing at 8% a year; 270,000 people die each year due to use and abuse of alcohol..."

What is it with us Bongs?

Travel east to west down south Calcutta's main artery. The one that links the round traffic island from Ruby Hospital to Alipore. Once you cross Bijon Setu, the flyover spanning the train tracks of Ballygunj Station and enter the chaos of the Gariahat area, you will see a rather remarkable sight: jewellery shops in quick, crowded succession.

Being a bit of a nitpicker (do they also term that anal?, I decided to count how many such shops there were over two days of travelling that road. On the left, between the flyover and the Gariahat crossing, there are 42. On the right, 36. From Gariahat to the Rash Behari Avenue and SP Mukherjee crossing, there are 28 jewellery shops on the left. I haven't actually bothered to count the number on the right. From the last named crossing to Chetla bazar, there are another 11 on the left, and about 18 on the right. That's when you almost reach Alipore. They don't need jewellery shops in Alipore. The denizens of this upscale area wear and possess enough to be classified as mobile jewellery displays themselves. In Alipore they mainly have outlets that sell all sorts of edibles. And banks. With locker facilities.

Now why there should be 135 jewellery shops on a 3-4 kilometre stretch of road is anybody's guess. And they say that Calcutta's citizens are poor. That, as a thumb rule, the "market" in Calcutta is depressed, down, accounting for about 20% or less of all-India sales figures for consumer goods. Yet Mr Biyani of Pantaloons, probably India's most successful, home-grown and fastest growing retail chain, has gone on record to state that he considers Calcutta to be the retail capital of India. What? Aren't we the poor cousins?

I decided that if I must torture myself, I might as well do it to the max. An initial guesstimate tells me that there are about that many pharmacies, medical laboratories, clinics and similar medically related outlets along the same stretch of road. Their density levels per square feet are perhaps not as glutinous as the jewellery shops but they exist. And at this point, I also need to make a note that all these shops seem to be doing well from outside appearances.

The third phase of my informal survey shows that there are thrice the numbers quoted above of eating establishments of all sizes, shapes and quality on that very same length of road.

So what is it with us Bongs? Eat as if there's no tomorrow, buy jewellery to flash at those who have none, (and those who have too much to prove that we too have it), and then go to to the medical establishments for our cure-alls and panacea to overcome or suppress the sensations and symptoms that arise from over-indulgence and overextended credit lines? That is as good an explanation as any! If you have a better one, I'd love to hear it.

Open Window 3

Thick, black cables stretch heavily across the span between two of the street lamps which flank my window. They are TV and broadband internet cables and at least two of them connect to my house. In the mornings avian life squats there, waking me. Raucous and intelligent crows, ever on the lookout for a morsel; chattering sparrows, hyperactive and temporal. In Bangla we call them shalik, I guess the English word for them is mynah, but I'm not sure. These brown, black and white birds with red beaks had a little ditty associated with their sighting when I was a kid: “one for sorrow, two for joy, three for letter, four for toy, five for diamond, six for gold, seven for...”. I can't remember the rest of it! They are a noisy lot as well, but kind of musical compared to the previous two. And of course there are the pigeons which roost in crevices, atop ACs and other wall furniture of my building and the one adjacent to it. Their muted warbling and gurgling is comforting. A pair which nest on top of an air conditioner shaded by a ledge in the adjoining building have just had a pair of chicks and they are extremely protective of their offspring.

The traffic island as a roundabout for vehicles, can confuse an unaware pedestrian. I find many of them randomly trying to cross diagonally to or from the island to get to the other side. What results is a scary wait for minutes on end as drivers race by, unmindful of these jaywalkers. The trick is to walk the circumference of the junction, to cross a single street at a time and get to the other side. Longer yes, but safer and less strenuous. I've often wanted to shout this suggestion out, especially to senior citizens and those carrying children in their arms, but they may get distracted and perhaps cause an unfortunate accident.

Vagrants and the mentally unstable or unsound abound at this junction. This morning I saw three of them. A grey bearded waif of a man sat on a curb, ignoring the traffic that rushed inches past his toes. Her head completely shaven, dressed in someone's discarded blue printed kaftan, a mentally unsound woman roamed for an hour or so under my window, giving unasked for directions to auto rickshaws which halt here to disgorge passengers. The third, an almost naked man, black with dirt and grime, lay supine on the narrow pavement which encircles the island, walking away only when it rained.

The addicts skulk in a corner of the junction that has overgrown bushes and stunted Ashoka trees. They are all rag pickers and from my vantage point, I get glimpses of them 'chasing the dragon'. Sometimes they get chased away by the shopkeepers nearby, and sometimes they get picked up at night by policemen acting on complaints of petty theft. They steal almost anything to support their brown sugar habit, and we have small metal grills over drains and concrete manhole covers missing from our driveway every now and then.

There's a man who carries clay matkas twice a week and wisely follows the circumference of the junction to get to the other side. One day, the largish clay pots clustered in a wide cane basket resting on a wooden board with castors, is wheeled along by him. On the other day, in a different sort of cane basket, he carries clay hundis or what might be called 'piggy banks' on his head. Both times he heads in the same direction and I wonder who his customers are who need such large quantities of clay pots every week.

This open window lets me look out on to a world that is as distanced from me as it is an integral part of my life. Sights, sounds, smells abound. I may not be able to touch, but they touch me... ...in places I can't reach?

Open Window 2

The view from my window being top-looking-down, I often have the pleasure of some down-blouse sightings. Many passengers disembark from auto rickshaws with their backsides first. When they are shapely and definitely female, the view is enchanting. I have a few favourites among the regular, daily passers-by and I keenly watch out for them, sorely disappointed when they sometimes don't show up at their expected hours.

I heard about a guy who set up a camera at a window of his office, recording that point-of-view of the activity on the street below him for 12 years. I'm told he calls it a work in progress. I once had a video camera with me for a week, and never having had access before to such a piece of equipment for so long a time, I filmed life from my window at all times of the day and night. It was fascinating to see what I'd filmed when I played back the tape. After about three days, I began to notice a recurring feature in the film – people carting loads, carrying burdens. Animals too, though not as many and as frequently. The other interesting feature that showed up was of people using public and private transport, the interaction of humans and machinery. Candid camera if you please.

At this point in time, at 11:54 tonight, three yellow vehicles of the Kolkata Municipal Corporation, outfitted as tankers with swivel arms and pipes, are making enough of a racket to wake the dead as they clean the drains of this junction my window opens out on to. Yellow taxis are parked strategically around this 6-point crossing, and the sodium vapour street lamps give Vivekananda a dirty yellow tinge. There are about 12 lamps at this road junction and at night the view is remarkably jaundiced.

I'm listening to Donovan, once, and unfairly known as the Dylan of Britain. Wonder where he is today? Two of the songs in the compilation I have are aptly suitable to this piece I'm writing. The following are lyrics from Season of the Witch, “When I look out my window, so many sights to see / And when I look in my window, so many different people to be / That is strange, so strange...”. The other is Mellow Yellow, “I'm just mad about Saffron, And she's just mad about me / They call me Mellow Yellow...”. Both colours figure in this open window topic of mine but probably not the way Mr Leitch imagined it.

(Ah! Google and Wikipedia have informed me in 14 seconds that Donovan, though afflicted by a tendency to keep disappearing off the musical map every so often, released an album in 2004 called Beat Café. What I didn't know was that he apparently was a great friend of The Beatles and collaborated on songs with them. Well, well... don't you just love trivia?)

One of the streets which meet at this junction is directly in my line of sight across the traffic island. It leads south into the super built-up density of Behala, but more importantly, it acts as a passage for the wonderful southern breezes which Calcutta is blessed with most of the year. A scientifically informed person told me it's known as the Venturi effect. Let's not get into an overdose of trivia though... Suffice it to say, during the monsoon, the breeze is cool and damp and even if I could afford an air conditioner, I wouldn't need one with this breeze blowing through my open window.

Open Window 1

I may have a problem. I get claustrophobic if all the windows are closed in the room I'm in. Regardless of the weather, at least one window should be partially open. In heavy rain as well. A few raindrops never hurt anyone...

The window of my room looks out on to the busiest part of the locality I live in. It is a junction where six roads meet around an eye-shaped traffic island that has recently been renovated. The island has a statue of Swami Vivekananda painted in a glossy shade of virulent saffron. SV in stone faces west-north. He has his back to two much smaller statues painted in glossy milk-white which too have their backs to him and they face south-east. I wonder if it's some Vaastu influenced positioning. Strange... These two figurines in their typically seated position on the gate-posts of this little island are those of Shri Ramakrishna and Ma Sharada Devi, SV's real life gurus. SV's statue is in the middle where the pupil of the eye should be and is enclosed by carefully tended foliage of different shades of green. Somehow the designer of this installation has managed to fit in the colours of the national flag into the whole scheme of things. When dusk arrives, a man comes and switches on lights which shine on spraying fountains that ring the railings enclosing the island and its occupants. Every morning, another man balances on the locked iron gate and religiously garlands the statues of Ramakrishna and Sharada, after removing the dried garlands from the day before. The island and garden are ornamental, and the public cannot enter or use it. It serves no purpose other than to minimally regulate the heavy, unruly, constant traffic flowing noisily around it and under the view from my first floor open window.

A friend once commented, after visiting for the first time, that if we could somehow mute the noise of traffic, the sight could be akin to an acid trip without taking recourse to LSD. I had to agree. The noise is deafening. The roar of buses, horn-happy drivers, revving engines, broken exhaust pipe mufflers, loud voices of passers-by and irate drivers are a fugue in cacophony.

The world passes by under my window. People... Animals... Things... Somewhere between 2 and 4 am there is a distinct respite in the traffic noise and the streets are eerily empty of human life. Stray dogs rule then, and once a week a man herds goats down the road, presumably to be slaughtered. The patter of their hooves on the tarmac sounds ghostly when I'm in bed in the dark. The sodium vapour street lamp casts a glow through my open window that etches pictures from my imagination into the ambience.

One night, awakened by the strained growling of a diesel engine under tremendous stress that was rattling the glass panes and causing seismic vibrations to course through the walls of my building, I looked out to see a lorry carrying three huge, thick logs of wood trundling off. As the noise began to fade into an echo, leaving behind a hollow silence, I turned to return to bed when jingling bells suddenly punctuated that emptiness. The moment was surreal. In my sleepy state, as if in the grip of some psychotropic substance, I watched a small wooden cart drawn by an emaciated pony, carrying milk canisters, canter around the corner and up another street. The bells were strung along the harness, and their sound was an amazing contrast to the lorry's that had just gone by.

In retrospect, that scene was a film noir camera moment from a B-grade movie with nothing available to record it but my mind. I imagine the long, terrified scream of a woman in the silence left behind by the horse's bells. Cut to shadowy presence in darkened window looking down on street from where scream originated.

Imagine a Google-less World!

Google is quite amazing. Really! Okay, even if I do state the obvious... Well to move on, I had loads of time to kill and a good broadband connection, so after idly updating the Google taskbar on Firefox (there's an update out for this also for those who want to know), I googled an old girlfriend's name, someone I still carry a torch for. And guess what? To state the obvious in boring repetition, I found a reference to her on the 7th page.

Now I expected her reference to be in the category she specialised in as a professional, but no, her name came up in an associate site of bharatmatrimony.com. Surprise, surprise! It was an endorsement from her husband, and he spoke about how they connected through BM, a fairly detailed account of him and HER meeting, and how they married eventually.

Amazing, huh? They call this the Age of Information Explosion. They say there's an overload of information, often overkill. But we can never have enough, can we?

Can you imagine a world without Google? I shudder horrifically!

His Bobness!

Tomorrow Bob Dylan will attain an age of 65 years. O yes! Milestone and all that, for a man who is something of a milestone himself. I first heard him when I was probably ten years old. What I mean is consciously heard him. My young blood in those days wanted The Stones and The Beatles, The Swinging Blue Jeans (“Hippy, Hippy, Shake!” – anyone remember that one?), little knowing what the slightly boring voiced singer of the wind blown anthem meant to those guys! And then one day in my life, Bob Dylan hit me a musical blow I’ve never really recovered from.

That’s almost the same thing that happened to Lou Majaw of Shillong. For the last ten years or more he has been instrumental in planning and organising a BD birthday tribute in the Meghalaya capital. It has also extended itself to a performance by Lou and the Ace of Spades in Calcutta’s Someplace Else. Not exactly an ideal venue (is there any?) but it does till a better one comes up.

Let me also tell you that other than Lou, musicians I respect as much as I do Dylan make up the Ace of Spades. There is of course Nondon on drums, Hiltu-da – Lew Hilt on bass. And the inimitable AJ – Arjun Sen on lead guitar. I also have a slight edge. I know them all at a very personal level and spend a lot of time with them when this show, and similar shows happen. With AJ and Lew living in Delhi, these are great times to get together. So we hung out before the show, rapping and exchanging notes, listening to music, partaking of The Park’s generosity, and waiting for 10 pm when it would be time to go down to SPE.

Nondon arrived punctually as he always does, and some laughs and repartee later, guitars on shoulders, remembering to take their room entry swipe card, we lifted downstairs. SPE was crowded, but it’s such a small space that 10 people can make it look like a full house. Majaw changed the opening song onstage five minutes after they’d decided what it would be upstairs, but that was all right. They’re experienced musicians who can handle any given situation, and I really mean any.

But I will not tell you which songs they sang. If you’re a Dylan freak or fan, they will all be familiar, and if you’re not, then maybe you should have been there. What I will tell you is that they were mostly like what Dylan himself is, a constant reinvention of the known, often drifting off into unexplored places and then finding their way back home. The purists were not happy, but then BD was never a purist either.

Later, post-performance, the band was not happy with the evening. They felt a big hole had been left behind. They are some of the most intensely self-critical guys I’ve seen. It’s what makes them great musicians too. I felt that the energy which comes back from an audience was lacking too. SPE’s greatest failing is this. It is too much of a scene where alcohol intake supersedes the music one comes to listen to. It’s an altogether head banging, feet tapping session rather than a serious listening effort so the band can’t feed off audience response and give back in kind.

Nevertheless a good time was generally had by all (I love this cliché!). Reasons? For some, much money was spent on booze, so they were compelled to. For others, listening to great musicians, who themselves have grown up listening to His Bobness, is in itself a treat to be savoured. And for many of the younger generation, who have not had the opportunity to be intensely exposed to BD and others of his ilk my generation heard, they got their chance at extremely good second-hand lessons.

His Bobness has inspired personal and creative reinvention as much as he did to himself and his art. That’s why the world will always pay tribute to Bob Dylan.

Gour Khyapa!

We hoped that the full moon of Buddha would charge the atmospherics and enrich our evening. We hoped that the heavy “pre-monsoon” showers which inundated the day would not continue in the evening.

Man proposes, god disposes is a convenient adage to use even for the die-hard non-believer.

Buddha Purnima gave us a fleeting glimpse of her rare beauty before she was smudged from our sight by the rain clouds. As soon as that happened, it began to rain, the one thing we desperately hoped would not.

But Gour Khyapa had spoken to the skies, and it did stop after a brief downpour. The rains may have wet the floor, but it did nothing to dampen the spirits of music lovers congregated on the rooftop of one of south Calcutta’s best known landmarks. There were barely twenty people when it was time to start, and there were a hundred when Gour was in full voice.

An enchanted evening was had by all is putting it mildly, even diplomatically. Gour perhaps, is not in full form these days due to his ill-health. Yet he sang, he danced, he made witticisms, and passed often politically incorrect comments; and those who have seen him perform when he was at his peak were reminded of those days of yore. Whatever it was, Gour can still entrance like few performers can.

When I’m at great music shows, I cannot but recall Stevie Wonder’s lyrics from his song ‘Sir Duke’: “Music is a world within itself / It’s a language we all understand”. Gour sang in Bangla, but what did that matter to a large part of last evening’s audience who didn’t know the Bengali language, yet sat there mesmerised? They were captivated by the language of music and that was enough.

Requests poured in from listeners who had heard him perform twenty years ago and would never forget his songs. There were others who sat at his feet and sang every word along with him. A friend, a very able blues harp player who had never heard Gour before, was moved enough to take his harmonica out at one point and jam with the mad Baul. I swear there was a crackle in the air and it had nothing to do with the lightning that scarred the overcast skies!

For those who may not know (and I include my own ignorance), Baul geet is significantly influenced by Hindusthani classical raags and raaginis. However, because of their free ranging spirit and their open minds, Bauls merge one or more raags to create a tune and feel of their own, and add a distinctive flavour that is not possible if one sticks to the classical tradition. Gour is one of those very few learned Bauls who knows the raags or raaginis his songs are based on, and later, after the show, he discussed this aspect at some length with a classically trained musician who had been one of his enchanted audience.

I find it necessary to describe the setting for the show. It perfectly suited the ideas we have about what we would like to do in our interactive project with folk and ethnic musicians.

The stage was the open rooftop of a popular market building flanked by a constantly buzzing flyover that spans the crossroads of the busiest locality of south Calcutta - Gariahat. Our neighbour was the police thana. In addition to us, the silent spectators of the show were a multitude of beautifully nurtured potted plants, the angular steel structures of giant billboards, a cellular phone tower, the slatted façade of a huge AC cooling tower, and the squat ugly boxes of smaller air conditioners. Random sacks of cement and stacks of new bricks were unintentional art installations which enhanced the sculpted setting. It was as urban an ambience as you could get.

The audience was urbane, most comfortable when speaking English. The performer was a man from rural Bengal, who in the first few moments gauged his listeners, peeped into our souls with his vast experience, his understanding from the philosophy he lives, and then sang for us because we wanted to listen.

When Gour Khyapa sings even the gods pause to listen.

****

Once it stopped raining at 8 we had no rain till midnight, and then we had to regretfully pack up amongst protests, requests, and promises for future shows.
___________________________

The first two photos are by Santayan. My sincere thanks to him.

Bauls

The pronunciation does not rhyme with Gauls, and so should not lead to adolescent humour as it did when I told someone about this community of wandering minstrels from Bengal, and he had difficulty pronouncing it. It is Ba-ools, more or less.

The Bauls are more than wandering minstrels. They are philosophers, mystics, observers and commentators, rebels; and by their own admission, mad. However, this lunacy is not the kind that warrants psychiatric or psychological attention. It is the madness of the man seeking his “inner being” through his love of god. Again, this god is of no particular denomination, and Bauls can be from Hindu, Muslim, Buddhist religious communities and any beliefs in between. Defining their belief system is itself a major task.

The Bauls’ music is simple and evocative. But it also has hidden meaning in straightforward, sometimes off-the-cuff, lyrics. They pluck out examples from normal, human daily living to sing of the oneness that must be achieved in mind, body and spirit so that we can all live a life of divine sustenance. The Bauls tradition is oral and so the language of their songs change with the times they are in, making them of great and instant appeal to the common man and intellectual alike.

There’s plenty more about Bauls, but I will end this post with just one more fact.

Today, May 9, is Rabindra Jayanti, Rabindranath Tagore’s birth anniversary. Tagore, as a poet-musician-philosopher, derived immense inspiration from Baul music and it greatly influenced many of his compositions and thinking. In fact, people with musical sensibilities and interests should not forget that Tagore was probably one of the first “world” musicians. While his learning was in the Indian classical tradition, he broke away from its rigidity and incorporated Baul, Bhatiyali, Murshidi and other Bengali folk and ethnic music influences, as well as used his understanding of Western classical and other music from Britain to add those distinctive flavours in his music, which thankfully, was not the mass-produced “fusion” of today.

In Bangla, the term “baul mon” (literally, the baul’s mind) depicts the state of mind when everything that is material and of this world is left behind to seek that certain spiritual realm, forever out of our grasp.

Look out for my future post on The Bauls of Bengal

For all those rock music fans: Garth Hudson of The Band recorded Purna Das Baul in the late 60s and an album was released called Bauls at The Big Pink. Anyone got it?


Painting by Jamini Roy

Look out for my future posts on the Bauls and use the link
Bull's Run on this page if you'd like to see a private performance of the Baul, Gour Khyapa on Buddha Purnima, 13th May 2006.

Age

I have commenced living the 49th year of my life.

What is that supposed to signify? Forty plus years of ignorance and bliss? More than forty years of swimming around in a shallow pond? Over forty years of never knowing the difference? Forty nine years of experience gained and lessons learned?

Age has the notion of becoming a millstone around one’s neck. Certain behaviour, certain wisdom, certain expectations make demands on one merely because one has reached a chronological point in time in one’s otherwise insignificant life. Suddenly, what you are most expected to share are memories.

As you age it becomes a barrier to re-employment. Age significantly reduces one’s physical capabilities. Age diminishes possibilities of getting financial aid and income opportunities. Age debars one from insurance, and reassurance. Age gets you back-handed compliments. It earns you wary respect, often condescending.

So who needs to age? As The Man said, who said almost everything that my generation had to say, wanted to say, never thought of saying, I want to be "Forever Young"! Or, just be ageless...?

Eyes

Eyes are fascinating features of we humans. I see more of a person through their eyes than from their conversation.

Young eyes see better
They know who I am
They watch very carefully
And don’t give a damn.

Older eyes know better
Though myopic in sight,
Years of watching everything
Have let them see the light.

Ancient eyes in cataract
Don’t want to see anymore,
And in their mind’s eye
They’d rather, remember days of yore.

My eyes watch in silence
In my head the voices speak,
I watch the watcher watching
And drown in the depths of sleep.

Magic

Another of my attempts at verse!

Deep in the heartland,
In the forest that entraps the night
Under its leafy shade,
In the hollows beneath rocks,
In streams where the water sounds,
And my fingers in it can feel the wet,
I look for magic.

On a stage stuffed with gimmickry,
Lit bright, as nimble fingers prestidigitate,
Simulate wizardry,
In the wide open eyes
Of child and adult in me,
As my breathing pauses –
I look for magic.

In the silent sanctuary of a church,
Behind the oil lamps in a temple,
In the moonwashed smoky night of a flaming pyre,
Beneath the high eaves of ancient caves carved in love,
I seek the truth,
I burst my skin,
I look for magic.

In the house, on the street,
And on the grinding tram beneath my feet,
In the hushed halls of education,
In the warp and weft of celebration,
I look for magic
In the wrong places.
The magic is in me.

Ummm...?

"You cannot escape one infinite...by fleeing to another; you cannot escape the revelation of the identical by taking refuge in the illusion of the multiple"
Umberto Eco, Foucalt's Pendulum

A Matter of Sex

What is this obsession with sex we humans have? My question is not why we have sex, the answer to which is as obvious as the differences in gender. It concerns why we are obsessed with everything that may be directly, indirectly and remotely connected with the act of sex.

Animals (and the word encompasses all living creatures except humans and plant life) have elaborate mating rituals, often strange behaviour leading to sexual congress and the ultimate and natural need to procreate. It is normally seasonal and limited to an annual event.

We humans not only have sex all year round, anytime, anywhere, anyhow; we are also particular about discussing it in depth, displaying it, debating it, being deviant with it, desiring and denigrating it, never getting enough of it physically, mentally or spiritually; and are either apathetic or empathetic to this original requirement to reproduce our kind.

Yes, we are humans with brains that allow us to think, analyse and process information, and respond to external stimuli. And we can’t help doing so. In all honesty, this piece of writing itself is a by-product of our obsession with sex and all it means to us.

Yet, why? Why is sex is so important to us even if it has moved beyond the ultimate goal of procreation? I don’t believe there are any easy answers.

The phenomenon is not new either. Very early on in our civilisation as we know it, texts on the act of sex began to appear. Nudity portrayed in art became popular. In modern times, once photography was invented, pictorial renditions of sexual acts were commonplace. Today the bulk of the Internet’s economy is driven at a furious pace by websites offering sex.

Again, why? Because there are millions who will have their most satisfactory sex by hearing and watching images and reading text on the WWW, never really experiencing the other sensations of touch, taste and smell with anyone but themselves, and if they’re lucky a partner.

Because there are other millions who will use the portrayal of sex on the Web for titillation, and then look for opportunities to experience sex themselves. Another possible answer.

A third. Because the human imagination is a greater force than what the human mind instantly perceives from received information. The Internet’s portrayal of sex, even though many sites claim to leave nothing to the imagination, is still limited to what it can audio-visually offer the viewer. It cannot account for psychological, demographical, geographical, medical, educational, legal and social factors that will affect those who seek sex on the Internet.

It often seems that the demand for information and imagery of sex, and the accompanying facility to discuss sex issues at a common, amateur level, far outstrips the availability and supply of such services. Sex is an industry that only registers continuing growth, remaining unaffected by political, economic and social conditions. No laws or social strictures are adequate or comprehensive enough to cover the exploitation by the sex industry. Is it because millions wish to be exploited?

Valid as well as populist research on sex and its diversities receives generous funding and often ecstatic approbation. News with a sex angle to it receives intense media attention. Censorship of works of art for reasons related to sex is more common than for political reasons. In fact, politics can be deeply impacted when a sex angle comes into the frame.

Music, graphics and imagery, text, clothing and lifestyle accessories, all sell well when sex is introduced into it in one way or another. Marketing gurus infuse flavours of sex into their strategies to ensure better returns. Our obsession with sizes and shapes is undeniable. Who’s taller? Who’s bigger? Who’s longer? Who’s thicker? Who’s better? Who’s prettier? Who’s shapelier? Who’s perfect? All these seemingly innocuous questions link up in some way with sex.

Child sex, geriatric sex, same sex, animal sex, sex, sex, sex. The mystery of sex. The canons of sex. The fascination of sex. The language of sex. The secrets of sex.

As I said earlier, no easy answers and far too many questions.

And the fact of the matter is, these questions will not even cast a blip on the radar of human sexual activity.

The Woodstock Generation

I’m reading a book called No Logo written by Naomi Klein and first published in 2000. It’s been written lucidly, with great clarity and is a seminal work. She has been called “a young funky heiress to (Noam) Chomsky” and this book of hers has been termed “visionary”, “a riveting, conscientious piece of journalism and a strident call to arms”, “a bible for anti-corporate militancy” and “a powerful and passionate book”. Fortunately enough, for once the back-cover blurbs have got it right.

While I will not tell you what the book is all about, the title and those quoted blurbs should give you a fair indication. I recommend you go across to your favourite bookseller and get yourself a copy. You will not regret it even if you consider yourself an extreme corporate guerrilla. What I will do is quote a sentence from the book, one of so many sentences which made a forceful impression on me.

“What struck me most was that the debate revolved entirely around the sanctity of the past, with no recognition of present-tense cultural challenges.” - Naomi Klein’s comment on the controversy surrounding Woodstock ’94, the 25th anniversary festival of the original Woodstock of 1969.

I was 12 years old when Woodstock happened a couple of continents and oceans away from India. I got to see the movie (in a censored version) about five years later. (Today I own a DVD copy of the full version known as “The Director’s Cut”). But I also know that the ‘69 Woodstock affected me quite a bit and influenced subsequent changes in my life. I recognise some of the changes and others of my peer group have their own, making it a sort of ‘psycho-communal’ sharing of a second-hand experience.

India was undergoing changes and adjustments of her own, and being the urban, educated elite that we were because of our advantageous circumstances, we could not not be affected by what was taking place in the USA. For many of us Woodstock made an immediate impact and we alienated ourselves from our own culture. For some, we learned lessons for the future which have proved right and wrong and this may have given us direction. Still others, reacted negatively to it and called it a hippie plot to dominate the world. A contradiction in terms if there ever was one!

Whatever Woodstock may have meant then, it has been for many of us a catalyst in our lives. The hippieness of that Love and Peace thing made me even more conscious and aware of my own country, its myriad peoples and culture, and the fact that the hippies were coming to my country to be enlightened, while I saw mine in their country! My becoming aware of just that one fact has influenced my life to a great extent. It has prompted me to chose my current lifestyle, my political and ideological leanings, and the sort of work that most satisfies me, an antithesis of all that young people are presently being taught at business schools in India.

But we cannot forget those who continue and choose to live in “the sanctity of the past” believing it to be the be-all and end-all of a life worth living. The repetition of history only occurs for such persons who imagine an ideal time that has passed and can never be rediscovered. They remain afraid of the present and the future because of the unknowns that hover in it and do all they can to propagate a way of thought that holds no benefit for future generations. They have not learned from the past. They only want to relive their version of it.

And that probably is also what Naomi Klein is attempting to reflect upon in her book. The branding of our lives and the “logo-isation” of it is what is being questioned. The global village has shrunk to become a single market where the cross-fertilisation of cultures has no place and everything we say, do and think is influenced directly and indirectly by aggressively marketed brands. In so doing the brands have become us and as consumers we no longer influence the brands.

I strongly recommend the following two books as additional reading for an insight into the changes since Woodstock 1969 was a happening that influenced other peoples who have Western culture thrust upon them and absorb it willingly.

§ Media Control: The Spectacular Achievements of Propaganda, Noam Chomsky, 1991-2002. First Indian edition from Etch, an imprint of Natraj Publishers, Dehra Dun.
§ Mediated: How the Media Shape Your World, Thomas De Zengotita, 2005. Bloomsbury Publishing, London.

THINGS

This was written on the first day of this year. Yep, that's how long its been since I've posted something! So enjoy... and I hope you will do some serious thinking too.
_______ ??? _______


On New Year’s Day a TV channel is showing a re-run of that fat, ugly American’s documentary film that pays sneaky homage to outrageousness. A date in history, in its reversed US form, whose numerals share similarities with temperature measured in Fahrenheit is offered to us as a burning topic for a new year that is yet to recover from a tsunami and American colonialism in Iraq. I’m sure we can look forward to the fat man’s take on that as well.

Things are everywhere. They tempt as objects of desire; as must-haves; as odes to disposable incomes; as the fruits of a surging economy. Things are wanton in the flaunting of their beauty, their cutting-edge technology, their colours, styles and patterns. Things project the exuberance of youth; add fuel to an already overwhelming desire among the older-aged to revert to a younger time that seemed to have slipped by unnoticed, unexplored.

Things have human form too. Things that grab single, lonely people to dream of future companionship and perhaps just physical comfort currently deprived of. Beautiful young things dressed to please with their sculpted bodies, armoured in a sheen of glamour, in their minor celebrity status, wanting to be more revered occasionally than the front-page mentions.

There are things that a rare but growing section of the urban, urbane population also wants. The things that allow one to devote to a common cause; to commit to a social concern; to return to one’s roots; to nature; to life perceived as simple because it entails taking up residence in villages and farms, as compared to life in an urban setting. Things desired to help escape from other contrary things.

Things are everywhere. We wallow in their desirability; the secret promises they hold, their perceived assurances. And we create these things. Often such things beget other things, so with one thing obtained it needs to be complemented with another, requiring the support of a third, the balancing out of it with a fourth, until the breeding of want is insatiable, and prurient desire overtakes all our senses.

We want a happy new year, a prosperous new year. A new year better than the one before, better than the all that have passed. We want a new year that will give us health, wealth, love, joy, music, success. We want all we can get. Desire and its consequent fulfilment of want is of prime concern.

Perhaps, one day, a new year will come without our wanting it, or anything that is contained in it.

And that day we may also acknowledge in all honesty, the one thing we do not want, the one thing we all most want to avoid, delay, and deter; yet the one thing completely inevitable: death – is the one thing we can never do without.

disturbing the silence

We let silence fill the gaps
After words have been said,
The truth is in the spaces,
Once our voices leave our heads.

There’s music in the silence
If you stop to listen still,
In the space where words aren’t spoken,
Where there’s a mind with a will.

But I speak as I do,
Disturbing the silence yet,
Comprehending it all,
And not understanding any of it.


August / September 2005

india music

The casual listener from overseas will probably know the music in our country from the great classical traditions - hindustani and carnatic. those in the uk will know of bhangra rap and its ilk, and those from asian, east european and african parts will be familiar with the canned music from the huge indigenous film industry. the more knowledgeable and of course seriously interested will have heard the folk music especially the baul music of bengal. what many don't know is that there's a largely ignored but select population of musicians who are doing stuff that may be considered "western" but is truly original, talented and music that eventually makes great listening! very few of them are able to come out with recordings since the typical commercially minded music industry doesn't know its arse from its face. though some of them have been lucky once, like 'skinny alley' from calcutta, to get released by virgin. but that wasn't their greatest album anyway and i think they've got better stuff coming... however if any of you are ever in india check out HFT from delhi - they have a website - hftmusic.com - and you can download their music. they are a killer trio doing non-vocal music that is undefinable but immensely enjoyable. there's rudy wallang's band from shillong in meghalaya - i think they're called 'soulmate' - blues, rnb, soul... there are many others. there has recently been a spate of bangla bands - musicians singing very rock and folk oriented songs with bangla lyrics, something that originated in bangladesh but that is quite trite and amateurish if i want to be nice to them. luckily there are a small number trying to make amends and remedy that by doing some very serious music which doesn't copy completely but is influenced and inspired. know what i mean? unfortunately googling or other searches give you a lot of crappy info about modern music in india. maybe i should start one myself? anyone willing to help out?

Edited 09jul06 to correct HFT's link.

Is there hope still?

Cleverness is acquired, intelligence is attained. But what the hell, does anyone give a damn? A degree from a college seems to be the level of "intelligence" anyone aspires to. Having thus acquired the qualification that they have merely paid for and not really studied for, a job is the next factor to be considered. Once obtained, a level of cleverness is attained. This cleverness is gained from watching others more experienced make mistakes repeatedly, listen to others make excuses that justify a lack of work ethics, and emulate others who, due to a lack of any constructive work, sit around and politic, and try to hamper good work from getting done.

This then makes one clever, better suited to handle today's competitive, career-oriented lifestyle. These are the majority who will in some way or the other rule destinies, strongly influence collective decisions of economic, political, military and social significance in the not too distant future.

Is there hope still?