Responsibility? My arse!

This is quoted from Calcutta's The Telegraph newspaper of Friday September 5, 2008:

"[Ratan] Tata also told The New York Times that he thought farmers genuinely wanted a different way of life, using new skills in new jobs.

'As each generation develops, the children of the rural economy must decide whether they want to continue to work on the farms', he said."

Great, Mr Tata! And what should we eat then, the Nano? the Indica? the cellphone and Internet bandwidth? steel?

I'm amazed that the scion of one of India's most respected industrial families can make such irresponsible statements. This is also not the first time he's said something like this. Earlier this year, at the Auto Expo in New Delhi he made a similar statement about people in Bengal needing to decide whether they want development or agriculture.

Actually, I'm not amazed. I'm sick of these industrialists who believe that their profit-making, pollution-creating devices are signs of "development".

Witness one more instance where the Tatas have gloriously fucked up. Greenpeace has been waging a very real protest against the Tata's Dhamra port project.

“The TATAs have demonstrated concern over their brand image, but not about the impacts their port construction will have on the turtles and their habitat. They do not seem to care that close to one lakh TATA customers have asked that the port be shifted, or that over 200 national and international scientists and academics, including over 30 turtle experts, have called for the port to be stopped. They are not bothered about the fact that fisher forums, representing the interests of thousands of fishermen in Orissa have called for the port to be halted” said Ashish Fernandes, Oceans Campaigner, Greenpeace India.

Read all about it here.

And the less said about their broadband and Internet services, the less you'll have to read my rant.

So here we are with India's premier industrial behemoth and their so called corporate, social and environmental responsibility. As I said before, my arse!

I think we also need to add our voices to things like this apart from crying out for non-violence and peace in our lives.

Who are these people?

Who are we? Who are we, who question established precepts, argue the considered opinion of mass media, and as someone rather unfairly put it, are intellectual wankers?

But then who are we, we who are confident of our identities, our capabilities, our place in the scheme of things even if not endorsed by official authority? Who are we who observe, experience, digest, process, understand (or not) the onrushing ocean of text, images, sound, smell, touch, feelings, emotions, and still not drown?

Why is it that the artistic, the creative, the truly innovative affects us more than the money that can, or may not, be generated from it? That we mostly choose the art, and not the money, and are happier for it?

Who are we who question our own ideals, as we also find wanting the ideals of others? And if we leave aside political, economic, military and religious ideals, then there really isn't much to make a choice from other than the creative spirit.

Why do we from across countries and continents, rivers and oceans, mountains and forests, connect at a common point where our skills and abilities, our wealth and means, our status in society, our origins and backgrounds, are of no consequence? They say 'birds of a feather', 'like minds'... They are right.

But they are not us, even as they acknowledge us. And even as they do, they would rather ignore us, in many places thwart us, certainly laugh at us, even eliminate us. And the many who do this, are they who are family, community, colleagues, neighbours. We who will not go to war with them, run the rat race with them. We who will not avenge ourselves but seek to resolve conflict, find common ground, make peace.

I don't know who we are, but I am finding more of us. Are we a marginalised, widely dispersed, loosely coalesced, thinly populated conglomeration of not just thinkers but actively involved individuals who are there to balance, and on occasion, even tip the scales?

Who are these people, we who live right there among you?

--------------

I see people who are supposed to know better standin' around like furniture.

There's a wall between you and what you want and you got to leap it,

Tonight you got the power to take it, tomorrow you won't have the power to keep it.

- From The Groom's Still Waiting At The Altar by Bob Dylan in Shot of Love (1981)

A Death In Mizoram (and other reflections on life)

RAVI ADVANI: November 1, 1966 - August 6, 2008


Written: August 7, 2008

Ravi Advani died yesterday. The fourth of my contemporaries, one more of my closest friends, who went well before his time. But what is this time that we have an illusion of? What is this concept of time we have, where it is not quantified by mere numbers, but as an undefined period or space between birth and death?

I don't know. I'll leave such querying to more scholarly minds. Yet I cannot but help contemplating this aspect of our lives. We accord time such value, such importance. And then when our pre-conceived notions of life do not fit into this 'time' we believe is allocated to us, we are at a loss.

Still, Ravi, 9 years younger than me, has passed on. He died of many complications which wrecked his body over the years, finally resulting in a multiple-organ failure that ended his life. Of course he neglected himself. Of course he chose to consume alcohol in excess. Of course he lived life with the sure knowledge that he had plenty of time.

It was this last mentioned guarantee which he gifted himself that determined the way he wanted to live his life. He lived life to the full. Once more, another indeterminate and vague concept. The fullness of one's life is bound or controlled by individual circumstances. Ravi enjoyed his life in the best possible way he could. He used humour to buttress his weaknesses and failures, of which he had plenty. He bore no ill-will or grudges for any length of time. This too ensured that people took advantage of his warm heart, a generosity of pocket he could least afford, and his status as a bachelor without family of any kind. He gave in easily to others' whimsy and overbearing attitudes.

So when the time came for the truth of friendship to be put to the test, these so-called 'others' were found to be sadly lacking.

It was his destiny to have come to Aizawl in Mizoram and find his place on earth ten years ago. Before this move, he lived in Calcutta, the city of his birth, where we met. Just a few months before his migrating, he had been diagnosed with tuberculosis and was in a very bad way in the hospital. My late parents insisted on bringing him home to our house where they cared for him, nourished him, and ensured his recovery, just as they would have done for their own children.

Having lost his own parents at a very young age, Ravi had no real family of his own. There were relatives scattered here and there, but he never talked of them much, and certainly not in a special manner as many of us tend to do. He claimed me and my family as his own and yet he suddenly disappeared without notice and we lost touch for more than 5 years.

And then in Aizawl he found another family, another set of true friends. Makuka and his family, and the good doctors Jane and Zothan. They were the only people he talked of regularly, animatedly, and with all the emotion one comes to bear upon when talking of people one loves and who love you back. Unconditionally.

It hardly mattered that there was no blood connection. The last ten days of his life spent in a hospital was when, once again, this Mizo family of his did what blood relatives should normally do. They arranged for expensive medicines and bottles of blood, paid his bills (he was stone broke), sent him meals thrice a day, took it in turns to stay nights with him, and constantly kept me and my sister updated with his progress, or lack of it.

It was at their urging that I eventually decided to come see this friend of mine, someone I'd known for 20 years. Nearly half his life. Despite my not wanting to see him in the condition he was in, I realised we were brothers and it was the least I could do. I flew to Aizawl with a bad gut feeling and a heavy heart. He called me in the morning yesterday telling me that my flight was as per schedule, and that I should get him some fruits unavailable in Aizawl and the new book by Jhumpa Lahiri. At Lengpui, Aizawl's airport, I sent a text informing him I'd arrived and that Makuka was driving me up to my hotel. His last communication with me was a text in reply to tell Makuka that he wanted freshly boiled country chicken (a Mizo speciality) for dinner that night. I later learned he died an hour and fifteen minutes after that. The time I must have entered my hotel room.

Once again, his Mizo family showed what it means to be considered as such. Makuka brought Ravi's body to his own house, where his sister and others laid his body for people to pay their last respects. The entire neighbourhood and community, more than a hundred people, gathered to keep vigil till late at night with us. Most of them did not know Ravi, or had a nodding acquaintance with him. Yet they and the YMA, the Young Mizo Association, organised everything. From making and serving tea and food for all visitors, making his coffin, transporting it to the Chanmari cemetery, digging his grave, and today, to sealing his final resting place. The graveyard is on a hillside, and it is rocky, and at the end there were some 80 people who made sure the mandatory six feet was dug so that his burial could happen that very night itself.

I had been using his mobile phone to inform all the people in his contacts list about his demise. What I was really trying to do was somehow connect with a blood relative so that someone from his family would know. But I was not successful. Instead I received a call from an obstreperous, uncouth, arrogant man from Delhi who claimed to be Ravi's friend for four years (4 years!), who actually had the unmitigated gall to question our decision to bury him and not cremate him, since, he said, Ravi was a Hindu and had apparently told him sometime in the past that he had wanted this.

I think I knew Ravi better than anyone. We spoke almost every day once we renewed contact some 5 years ago, often merely enquiring about my normal, daily routine. He shared many of his thoughts with me. One thing I knew for certain was that Ravi was not religious. In fact he avoided such people and places as much as he could. At the end, it was the people who looked after him and who, as Ravi was keenly aware, were real family, who took the decision to inter his remains rather than burn them.

The horrible man from Delhi, a certain Vicky Chauhan, did not even know that Ravi was in hospital until he got my text informing him of his death. Who are such people who suddenly want to make decisions about what to do with a dead Ravi when they least cared for him when he lived? All they were, were good-time buddies. They used Ravi's position as the manager of an airline agency to get confirmed air travel during peak periods, on the assurance of gifting him a bottle or two of whisky, a valued commodity in Mizoram where prohibition is law. In fact, they would also help consume that whisky gift. I feel excessively violent as I think of these scum of the earth, and I would have no regrets if someone cremated them alive.

My third visit to Mizoram, though in extreme contrast to my earlier two, has again been a valuable learning experience for me. I am completely enamoured of this place and its people. I consider myself an honorary Mizo, not because they conferred it on me, but because I am honoured to consider myself as such. It is due to Ravi that such a feeling overwhelms me about this treasure-house of a people in the north east of India.

We in urban, urbane, globalised India have much to learn from them. Or perhaps re-learn. We need to once again absorb what I fondly term the tribal traditions that keep them together and strong in times of need and stress, and in times of joy and happiness. Basically, at all times.

In the cities of the plains, we are self-centred, self-absorbed and selfish, doing things more for their social acceptability and trumpeted acknowledgement rather than for the sake of doing it. This intangible, precious quality of doing good for others without question or motive reposes only in a handful. In Mizoram, it is the quality of its people completely.

The death in Mizoram of my dear friend Ravi Advani is not an end. For me, it is a beginning. I have found true friends who have easily inducted me into their families. I have also been witness to the true Christian spirit in action, something that for so long has been theoretical, perhaps liturgical knowledge for me. I saw it in my parents and a few others which I took for granted, rightly assuming it to be their nature. Now I'm happy to know that such a spirit exists in an entire community and people.

In contrast, there is Ravi's employer of eight years. The man minced no words to publicly denounce Ravi's philandering ways at his wake, and over the next two days when I met him again to pack and collect Ravi's personal effects. Neither was he sparing in the self-praise and congratulations he awarded himself as he told me and others of the 'lakhs and lakhs of rupees' he had spent on Ravi's medical treatment over the years. Yet he never had one good thing to say about Ravi whom he had kept questionably employed for 8 years, other than to be slightly impressed by his PR skills.

Of course the man is a non-Mizo, even worse, a Bengali, a person of my 'exalted' community. To some, that itself would be a moot point, as his origins are not of Bengal. In the three times I have visited Aizawl, I was made acutely aware of the regard non-Mizos have for Mizos. They are vile in their vituperation and slick with their abuse and slander. This feeling is especially strong among the Army in their avatar as the Assam Rifles. This same attitude is perpetuated by the non-Mizo businessmen and traders who profit tremendously from doing what they do in Mizoram. (Some of them have even married Mizo women...)

In all the Mizos I have met over the years (and I have met a great number), I saw no such reciprocal tendency of attitude. In fact I sensed, and empathised with the alienation which has been forced upon them. I see this alienation mirrored in the advertisements that litter the pretty mountain sides in which handsome Indians (non-Mizos) pose to seek the necessary custom of Mizos for cellphone services, cars, TVs, et al. Why, when these companies are anyway spending millions to advertise, can't they find Mizo models to do the same, and not further perpetuate this alienating attitude? It would, to my reasonably long experience, make good marketing sense. There has been strife and bitterness in the past between Mizos and non-Mizos, but the present generation have left those memories behind and are making sincere efforts to integrate with the mainstream Indian identity. The media too have made no real contribution to furthering such ties. Other than creating special shows, pages and such which mostly examine political happenings with immense erudition and nothing else, mainline newspapers, periodicals and TV channels have miserably failed in their purpose of also being a unifying factor in our lives.

Ravi's death in Mizoram has opened doors and windows for me. I shall be eternally grateful to him for doing this, not by dying, but by having chosen to make that place his home eventually. And giving me pleasant and worthwhile insight and understanding. The more I look at these, the more I appreciate that we are not separate communities, or races of people with fixed identities, creeds and morals.

We are, finally, human beings, and that is all we shall be able to take with us when we too die.

A 'Wonder-ful' Jazz Chord!

Stevie Wonder is playing his first gig in Hong Kong and the place is absolutely packed to the rafters. In a bid to break the ice with his new audience he asks if anyone would like him to play a request.
A little old Chinese man jumps out of his seat in the first row and shouts at the top of his voice 'Play a Jazz chord! Play a jazz chord!'. Amazed that this guy knows about the jazz influences in Stevie's varied career, the blind impresario starts to play an E minor scale and then goes into a difficult jazz melody for about 10 minutes. When he finishes the whole place goes wild.
The little old man jumps up again and shouts 'No, no, play a Jazz chord, play a Jazz chord!' A bit annoyed by this, Stevie, being the professional that he is, dives straight into a jazz improvisation with his band around the B flat minor chord and really tears the place apart. The crowd goes wild with this impromptu show of his technical expertise.
The little old man jumps up again. 'No, no! Play a Jazz chord, play a jazz chord!'.
Well and truly annoyed that this little guy doesn't seem to appreciate his playing ability, Stevie says to him from the stage 'OK, smart ass. You get up here and do it!'
The little old man climbs up onto the stage, takes hold of the mike and starts to sing... 'A jazz chord, to say, I love you, and I mean it from the bottom of my heart..'

______________

Thanks to Tubby for the forward!

The Anglo In Me

As far as everybody else was concerned I was an Anglo-Indian. A “tesuwa” - a derogatory term for Anglos which has origins in older Hindusthani and Bengali.
My non-Christian friends and acquaintances were hard pressed to believe that a name like “Patrick” coupled with the distinctly Bengali surname “Ghose”, who had a father named Sydney Ghose and a sister, Sharon Ghose, were in truth, not Anglos. In fact, even today, there are many ignorants who believe that an Indian with a Christian sounding name who professes Christianity must, by default, be an Anglo-Indian.
Those who believed and accepted this so-called anomaly in nomenclature became my close friends, while the rest stayed and strayed on the fringes of my attention span. So I grew up in a khichuri – a kedgeree – of cultures; a background as diverse as it was holistic. In later life, I can sincerely claim that I am a 'pure' Indian, as opposed to being a Bengali, a Punjabi, a Marwari, a Gujarati, and so on, ad infinitum.
Since I was mostly unidentifiable by way of culture, and my mother tongue Bangla was as easy on my tongue as was English and Hindi, I soon realised I had attained a freedom that others perhaps strived for, stuck as they were in the box of community and cultural identity. This of course chagrined my mother no end as she attempted to thwart such insidious thoughts by teaching us advanced Bangla, and insisted on my being tutored in Hindustani classical music and Rabindrasangeet vocals while I also actively participated in the church choir, even as my sister was sent for Bharatnatyam dance classes and learned Bach and Chopin too on the hired piano.
The building, and area we lived in contributed greatly to the sense of cosmopolitanism. Our apartment building, 'Palace Court', was owned by a Muslim. In this imposing old complex of sixty spacious two-bedroomed flats, lived families originating from the entire spectrum of ethnicity from all the states in India, as well as members of the Armenian, Chinese, Jewish, and Parsi communities, not least of all being the Anglo-Indians. I also remember one or two of the flats were usually occupied by foreigners working in some concern or the other based in Calcutta.
It was Calcutta then. Not Kolkata. An insensitive re-naming the city does not deserve. Calling it Kolkata does no justice to the others who have also made this city what it is, what it was, and what it will be. Kolkata is only what the Bangla language names it. Just as Hindi speakers call it “Cull-cuth-ta”. An occasional south Indian lapse would say “Cullkoota”. Everyone else called it Calcutta. Besides, there was never a Kolkata in history.
Early years of a Protestant Christian upbringing within a home that was always proud of its Bengaliness, yet broadly accepting of all cultures, communities and creeds, gave me a sense of what being really Indian could be. Our home life was liberal, but well disciplined. It straddled with ease our dual ethnicity, core moral values, and a tacit acknowledgement of rebelliousness that went back a few generations on both my mother and father's side. Quality education, often mistakenly referred to as 'extra-curricular' by others, was given equal importance: music, the fine arts, a quest for knowledge and better understanding, a love for the mysterious and unknown in both the natural and supernatural realms of life, the need to serve the community without gain or profit, the joy of a deep-rooted, unconditional love, all these made me and my sister what we are today. I have every expectation that my daughter too will show similar signs of upbringing.
That was written with no intention of contesting or being in conflict with the ways my friends, and others I have made the acquaintance of since, were raised. Even when I see the differences and don't care for it. Because my upbringing was also about tolerance. Perhaps I sound smug and conceited, but again, that is not true. I was also taught to love the life that one had, regardless of spiritual promises, in all its fullness. Depression, doubt, anxiety, sorrow, were but temporary phases that needed to be gone through to experience what the better stuff was really all about. The only sure thing was death. Everything else was what you made of it.
And this last point is where the Anglo in me comes to the fore. I have always thought this community of people exemplary in the way they lived for today, for the moment. As if genetically imbued with the clarity that comes from certain extinction. They were already a dying race of people, a sub-race if one wants to quibble, even as they were born into the history and culture of the Indian subcontinent, to which they contributed in no mean way. They wanted to achieve immediately, tomorrow was too late. I learned too from those who could be considered exceptions to this rule.
They were, even in those days for me, a community programmed to self-destruct. Those who stayed on in India from choice were already achievers of the highest order and therefore found no good reason to immigrate. Today, having merged into mainstream Indian life and ways, they are hardly distinguishable from anyone else but for their Christian names and their achievements, and their proud but largely ignored proclamation of being Anglo-Indian. Self-destruction as a community unit.
Those who emigrated for whatever reason have absorbed and inculcated the desired ways and life of the country they chose to make a new life in. Once again, self-destruction for the Anglo-Indian identity. They are also the ones who perpetuate nostalgia but ignore ground reality.
And the ground reality are those left behind with no choices, or few and far between. Abandoned without pride in identity, marginalised from mainstream India, with nothing left to look forward to but irregular charity from Church and overseas philanthropy, these Anglo-Indians are going to destruct anyway.
But that was not what fascinated me. That was more like a back-of-the-mind awareness. What really fascinated me was their love for the good life. The good life was not what might today be associated solely with the accumulation of wealth for its sake. The good life was the love of good food, music, good clothes, good times, whatever was affordable within their means. And the means was not always in concurrence with the reality of their bank account! This again sounds very superficial and you may say does not do justice to the Anglo-Indian, but to me they seemed to be having a better time with less than many I knew who wailed about not having a good time because they did not have more.
I remember Horace, a purveyor of fairly good, illegal narcotics, who told me one day, in a drawling voice made husky by cannabis, 'They keep giving birth to Christ and killing him off every year so that they have an excuse to feed me and my kids for free with rice and dawl, men! So why should I change my name to Harish?' This was said in response to a stoned enquiry from a non-Anglo who was impressed by Horace's fluently spoken Hindi and Bangla and had asked him why he didn't change his name. And Horace answered me knowing my first name, thereby enveloping me in a mutual and common identity. In any case, non-Anglos in the area and many of his clientèle, would refer to Horace as Harish. Identity was useful and useless, depending on where you sat. A dualism even had advantages if you played it right. But being marginalised was not what the Anglo-Indian wanted.
In church was where they came into their element. It boosted their sense of identity which was intrinsically woven into the religion. The church, charity work, teaching and nursing as vocations and not as mere sources of income, the performance of music, community work, tithing, all these things made them memorable not as fulfilling of duty, but as doing it for the love of it. That though was for the advantaged. The disadvantaged benefited from this, and often took undue advantage. And that is how it is everywhere.
It was while participating in church activities, and often in school, when I realised what it felt like to be marginalised. It was a dim awareness, but a significant one nevertheless. I would understand its implications much later in life. In church, when political undertones and overtones, especially during diocesan elections or committee discussions to organise group activities happened, I witnessed how the majority of the non-Anglo congregation would intentionally start creating ethnic groups – AIs vs non-AIs - to gain power and influence opinion. Despite all things being equal in the eyes of God, very few of the Anglos had the wealth, social position, or a wider political influence to make a difference in the way things happened or were done, even if they had a solid argument for it. It was not that the Anglos were above and beyond politicking with equal fervour and passion, it was just that their numbers did not give them the edge.
In school too, a similar scenario was enacted in multiplicity all over the playing field, the classrooms, and I now know, the staff rooms and quarters. We began to have less and less AI students and teachers. Their voices and presence were diminishing and none of us actually noticed too much.
In all these situations, I was pretty close to my Anglo-Indian friends and so I got a picture of the other side. Many of their parents and relatives were deeply affected by the trauma and agony of their marginalisation. The talk of immigration to Australia, the UK, Canada was avidly intensifying, and did lead to large-scale exodus in the 60s and 70s. To an outsider all this may seem so petty or insignificant, but church was a small community within the larger population spectrum, and it was important for every member to keep it that way. It was a sense of common identity, a shared conviction. Among some Anglos, the threat of 'Bong' (read Hindu) domination was a form of extreme paranoia. Many were convinced that the Bengali members, the majority of whom had no Christian names, were really Hindus, wolves in sheep clothing, who wanted to “take over”.
Down the years, I see that their paranoia seems to be partially justified, except for the fact that religion played no important role in it, other than to be paid lip service. Many of those Bengalis and non-Bengalis but not Anglo-Indians, gave scant regard to either Christian or Hindu tenets and core philosophy, and simply became political animals who wanted power and the potential accumulation of wealth through loopholes in the system and outright corruption. Not very different from our countrymen who were not Christian churchgoers, yet who also claimed an indemnity within their own religious beliefs and sects.
Yet there were still fairly large numbers who remained. These Anglos have slowly become what their forebears would not have wanted: integrated into the mainstream. It seems to be a natural sort of justice brought to the rough British experiment with genetics in the 17th and 18th centuries. The same can be said to be true of children of Anglo-Indians who emigrated and were born in the adopted country of their parents. This subsequent generations, without much knowledge or feeling for India other than a second-hand nostalgia of their parents and grandparents, have also become integrated members of the communities and citizenry of their country of birth.
It is also important to note that today many Indians (here I am distinguishing them from Anglo-Indians for the purpose of this commentary), do not any longer prioritise ethnicity, community, caste, or creed in our daily lives. Other class distinctions have arisen, mainly brought about by the consumer culture of globalisation but that is not of importance in this context. An essential “Indian” identity has begun to come about. My argument is that this “Indian” identity is the natural successor of the cosmopolitanism of early independent India which was prevalent in cities like Calcutta (not Kolkata).
Perhaps the evolving of my “Indianness” took a different route and employed a different method. I do know that apart from the upbringing my parents gave me, the Anglo-Indian community was intrinsically responsible for such an acute understanding of my identity. And from the Anglos who remained behind, I have learned to seek and find satisfaction in my life in India, never looking for it on foreign shores, as others who were not of Anglo-Indian heritage from earlier generations did, as did my peer group and subsequently thereafter, but who were never really marginalised like the Anglos were.
Perhaps the Anglo in me is the Indian in me. Perhaps there is no difference.

Of murder, music, football and...

(This entire piece was written about a month ago. Because of the lackadaisical attitude and the utter incompetence of our very own global, multinational, corporate behemoth - the Tatas, access to their internet service was disrupted for more than 15 days. So it is being blogged now.)

The news is full of murder. People murdering others by violent means. Lovers killing lovers, parents killing offspring, partners killing business associates, rivals killing competitors. Over the last few months, newspapers and television channels have revelled in the gory details. The newspaper which claims to be the largest circulated one in the whole wide world took 'balanced view' to its extreme. A few days ago they were quite clear that it was the dentist father who killed his adolescent daughter and the manservant. Not even 3 days after that, they quite unashamedly absolved that very same father of the accusations they had piled on him by revealing his cellphone records which they now said proved his innocence! Cellphone service providers too it seems, are not above rising to the occasion to grab some of the newsworthiness such crime stories have.
Why do we have this fascination about crime as if it were some sport? TV, print, street gossip are all rife with rumour, suggestions, allegations, and of course, the solutions - all depending on how you look at it. It's all a matter of perspective.
The only thing more murderous than the weapon or motive is the indifference. Take the husband/father in another recent case who chose to remain incommunicado with his wife and daughter for several years as they were mentally ill, yet lived in the same apartment with them. The two women were served food by the cook in the room they stayed confined to. If it hadn't been for the employees of a shop below who complained about the smell, the husband would not have noticed that his wife had died, attributing the decaying smell to uneaten food rotting in the room which apparently was usual, according to the statement he gave the police. Indifference was the weapon here.
As you can see, I too have fallen into the attitude I criticise as I passed judgement back there. Our urban, urbane, uber-sophisticated indifference, couched in cynicism, the ability to differentiate in logical, rational terms will be (has been?) the undoing of a generation that grew up in the 60s and came of age in the 70s.
*******

The History Channel showed an hour-long documentary on Jimi Hendrix and his last album: the seminal, the wonderful, Electric Ladyland. (THC showed an acetate copy label of the pre-release record reading 'Electric Landlady'! Jimi was really pissed.)

I heard Jimi first when I was a pimply-faced, just-turned teenager. Are You Experienced changed my taste for music forever and my continuing fascination for Hendrix and intense love of his music has persisted to this day. I knew instinctively back then (as did millions of others), that Jimi was way beyond the rock music that we were listening to. So it surprised me to hear in this documentary, that he was actually unnerved about asking Steve Winwood to play on Electric Ladyland, quite sure Steve would not want to do so. And Winwood of course, who did play on the album, had only unstinting praise for My Man.
In my post-adolescent years when my love for jazz began to overpower my interest in rock music, I was pleasantly surprised to find Hendrix mentioned in detail, and in glowing terms in thick learned volumes on the history of jazz. He spanned all the genres it would seem, even after he was dead. Miles Davis had even made a public statement that he would have loved to do an album with Jimi. Apparently, there are bootleg recordings of the two jamming in some late-night jazz joint, something Hendrix was wont to do with many musicians from the jazz, blues and rock worlds.
The new genre of World Music has lost a major influence on their style with the untimely death of this genius. Or perhaps not. Eddie Kramer, his long-time recording engineer said in the documentary that Jimi's music would last, at least, for the next 100 to 200 years. Winwood rated his music as classical, meaning everlasting, and if anyone, he's more than qualified to make such a statement.
I often use Jimi's music as a wellness pill, a panacea, a restorative, a mood-upper or mellower, and I have friends who do the same. For me, listening to Hendrix nowadays is a private thing. I don't normally play his music in general company, other than by request. Not everyone I know who loves music likes Hendrix with the same intensity that I do. On rare occasions, when one or two like-minded friends get together, we have a long session of Musique Hendrix, preferring it continuously over other favourites of ours. More than any other dead musician I love and respect, the void that Jimi Hendrix left behind is one that I too regret deeply.
It is not just the music that could have happened that I miss. It is how he would have further influenced lifestyles, thinking and opinion. He is certainly an unpublished author, and had he been alive there would have been a book or two by him; he would have made films (he did the music for Rainbow Bridge), and he would have pre-empted current digital music capabilities easily, and far more convincingly. His experimentations with the available technology of those days itself was pathbreaking. In fact, his tinkering has led to much of the new technology used for performing and recording music these days.
James Marshall Hendrix, Jr. May he live on. And on!
*******
Football. Quite a game. 90 minutes of hard kicks, fancy footwork, streaming sweat, tears of rage, grief and joy, and quite often, a bit of blood. I'm watching UEFA 2008 on TV and I'm Lovin' It, as one of the sponsors of the championship puts it. Never having been a major cricket fan, and usually, not a fan at all, I am ignoring some cricket championship happening right now somewhere in which India seems to be doing extremely well. I know, because the same channel telecasting the football is also doing it for the cricket.
In fact, I'm glad India does not ever qualify to compete in international football tournaments. We don't have the mental attitude to be fast and furious. We are a people given to intellectuality. We need to strategise, plot and plan in painstaking detail, use our famed mental abilities to win. Football, while requiring a fair amount of strategising and a politicking bent of mind, also requires the capability to instantly revert to sheer brute force when the situation demands it. And that is very often on a playing field.
We Indians can't really do that. Our psyche is born and bred of deep thoughts and theories. Brute force will use up too much energy required by the brain. So we can't attain any sort of international standards in the game of football. On the other hand, while doing quite well in field hockey in several encounters, we must remember everyone on the field is armed with a long, hard stick, and can hit back. The Geneva Convention somehow applies to this sport, so brute force is well contained here with diplomacy holding sway. Anyway, that's my theory.
*******
And what else? I need to write on four items here. No, not by demand of some editor breathing down my neck, but just a little clause I have inserted into my agreement with myself as a writer. There are some who can write every day on almost any subject, regardless of how mundane, implausible, convoluted, or simply unreadable and boring their writings are. They are the little children constantly jumping around in the classroom putting their hands up for every question, usually the hyperactive ones suffering from attention deficit disorder. The ones desperately seeking attention. Their understanding is that if the mountain is there, it should be climbed.
However, reaching such heights is quite another thing. Because if a blog exists, does it have to be written? Must heights always be scaled? Should we always be seen to be doing?
I write because something moves me and urges pen to paper, fingers to keyboard. I may also write trash and bore, but I at least spare you a daily diatribe.

Pop Psycho

He wrestled with Wisdom. As they come, Wisdom had the proportions of an overweight Sumo wrestler, overwhelming with his presence. Wisdom moved ponderously, as if scrutinising exactly why each and every molecule in his being functioned. It could be boring to watch Wisdom move, and as he wrestled he felt a sleepiness overcome him.
He shook his head vigorously to stay awake. He was Experience after all was said and done, a distinguished product from the Hands-On Learning Institute. Wisdom pondered Experience's head shake. This movement told him many things.
One, that perhaps his hold on Experience had jarred some nerves, which suitably agitated caused a shaking of his head. Two, that Experience was falling asleep watching him move and had shaken his head to stay awake. Three, Experience was trying some sort of deflective manoeuvre to distract him, Wisdom, from the intensity of his grip. This thought resulted in Wisdom doing a bit of head shaking himself.
Four. Wisdom couldn't actually think of a fourth reason, but he knew it would come. It always did. Patience was Wisdom's mother after all. Besides, he ate Experience and his ilk for breakfast and supper, preferring a healthy snack of published words for a midday repast. Wisdom always gained from experience. It didn't help much with his weight problem, but then that too was alright.
Experience, armed with his qualifications from the HOLI, and with the agility and energy of youth on his side, began a series of intricate moves which would allow him to escape Wisdom's hold. He was part summer lightning, part monsoon thunder, part desert wind. Sudden, ferocious, fast.
Wisdom released his hold. He would get Experience in the end, and he knew that. It was the Way of Things. Experience would be made to share, to not keep for himself alone what he had learnt.
Experience, flush with a Pyrrhic victory, steps back to review the situation. Wisdom stands immobile, dark,beady eyes watching the younger opponent, bent from the waist, palms resting on thighs. Experience squats on his haunches a distance away, taking deep breaths. He realises Wisdom is an ocean of many experiences, much knowledge and the constant, random processing of it all. He himself is a mere pond of specific experience and particular learning, with instinct as the big fish swimming in it.
Yet he knows his victory will be short-lived if he does not work out a new strategy. Experience wants to be the major say in matters. He wants that hands-on learning be of better advantage than accumulated wisdom. How he will manage such a win is still to be seen. Experience stands up again, stands tall. He knows his renewability is a tremendous force he controls. By comparison, Wisdom is ancient, creaky in his bones, and pain possibly lasts longer for him.
Experience, in full swing again, rushes in. It's a sudden tactic, executed for surprise. Wisdom has seen it coming, and takes a small step aside. Experience rushes headlong into a nothingness which, a moment ago, was something, specifically a solid portion of Wisdom which could be harmed. As he flounders past, Wisdom in his inimitably imponderable style, grabs Experience by the scruff of his collar and hauls back, arresting his flight into the void.
In his ears, warm breath scented by clove and mint, Wisdom whispers: “Life sucks and then you die, till then, enjoy!”
In the blink of an eye, Experience is transmogrified within Wisdom's digestive system. Experience adds to Wisdom's bulk before he even realises it. Experience becomes an iota of Wisdom and of course, learns his final lesson. Wisdom also knows there will be more like Experience coming his way, pretenders to the crown. He will wait as he has always done. A wise hunter is never greedy and waits for his prey to come to him.

Everything Falls Into Place

It's not often that I get the opportunity to work on a project which flows gracefully and easily like a piece of good music. Literally.

And its never happened that I was part of a project that had music, specifically jazz, as the hinge, perhaps the pivot the entire project was created on.

Christopher Dell, a jazz and contemporary music vibraphone player from Berlin, visited Calcutta in December at the invitation of the Goethe-Institut Max Mueller Bhavan. A visiting faculty of architecture theory at the University of Fine Arts in Berlin, Christopher was fascinated by how public spaces were being utilised in this much-loved, much-abused city of mine, with particular reference to the hawkers and street vendors. The so-called informal sector.

For a first-time visitor, Calcutta/Kolkata's crowds, traffic, noise, dust, and the apparent chaos can be frighteningly overwhelming. A lot of this can be resisted sufficiently if you're just passing through, or are here on work which necessarily insulates you from 'real-time' Calcutta/Kolkata. What you get is a temporal sensation which slips one's mind the moment you're out of the city, and if it does register for longer, it soon seems like television blur, white noise.

But from within this first layer of sensory cityscape, Christopher expresses a desire to perform music in some of the public spaces of C/K he has visited during his short stay in December. He will be back in February for a month as an artist-in-residence. We both concur to take this project forward as what is already beginning to emerge as a pretty wacky exercise in documentation, also having a basis in some research and interviews.

Christopher arrives in the last days of January and we walk around the city with Ranu Ghosh, who will handle the cinematography. We mutually agree upon ten different locations where Christopher will perform with a borrowed vibraphone on a rickety, home-made stand. The instrument has been graciously loaned by Anto Menezes, one of Calcutta's (and here it's definitely Calcutta, not Kolkata) early generation of wonderful jazz musicians, people who made the city swing then. Today age and infirmity no longer permit him to perform, and the vibraphone, gifted to him even more years ago by Victor Feldman, is a tacit reminder of those “good old days”.

Which then brings me to the next layer, the tacit one, of this strange project. The presence of hawkers occupying valuable space on the city's pavements is a tacit one. Officially, they are illegal by C/K's municipal laws. Yet, a National Policy from 2004 states that such street commerce must be included in state and city governance and urban planning. A tacit acceptance of the 'informal' sector. At the same time, a deeper understanding of political approbation and unmentioned corruption becomes a tacit issue. The often surprising opinions, facts and figures we gain from the interviews we conduct with hawkers and office bearers of their joint action forum, the police, the municipal authorities, an architect and a city-centric NGO, as well as what we glean from the press and other learned published writings is an enlightening process for me, even though I am born and raised here in Calcutta/Kolkata.

Even when Christopher performs in the public street locations; even when we intervene with two cameras, two boom microphones, a crew of ten occupying public space temporarily with our ideas and physical presence; even then people tacitly accept us – with numerous questions no doubt – but certainly no hostility and definite enjoyment.

What is the purpose of this? A question that repeats itself constantly during our 3-day shoot like a refrain in a song which has forgotten to go back to the 'one'. A favourite reply of mine asked a question in response: Did you like it? Every answer I got was a 'yes'. In which case, I would then say, our purpose has been served. Perhaps I sounded a tad smug, but as Christopher pointed out, the very fact that questions were being asked is enough to say that the interventions worked.

Yes, questions did come hard and fast from the temporary audiences, as did the questions that confronted us. And the answers were not always forthcoming; and if they were, not always easy or comfortable. The hawkers of the streets are not a problem that has some cut and dried solution. They need enablement. Urban public space is not something to be paved and barricaded for the exclusive use of some. It is as much organic as it is made of cement and mortar.

Shopping malls of international and ultimate design, housing expensive global brands sold to a minority, occupy a monstrous amount of square feet which is woefully underutilised. Secondly, the potential of such icons of globalisation as employers and income generators is pitifully low compared to their capacity to generate waste and dispose plastic, and also as compared to the same happening in a larger area dominated by street hawkers and vendors. These hawkers are an essential link in a chain that provides licit opportunity and income to a wide hinterland of semi-urban and rural workers and cottage industries.

This same chain then extends the other way to serve a huge clientèle who not only cannot afford the goods on display at the malls, but do not even want to consider the wares on offer at such places.

Christopher's interventions are not meant to identify black and white zones. There are none. Nor is his music announced with a label that defines it, puts it in a box. He intervenes temporarily (we all do) like the hawkers he performs amongst. His free jazz improvisations on that resonating instrument use the environment and ambience as a catalyst. He responds and reacts to the physical attributes of each place, to the noise, the smells, the colours, the flavours which assault every sensory nerve. These then superimpose a layer on to the music, as if underlining the primary layer of the city itself, as it shifts and changes every second like the living organism it really is.

The audience crowding about him on all sides, reluctantly making way for our cameras and microphones, have never seen such an instrument nor heard this sort of music before. A sahib, a white-skinned foreigner dances with his four mallets to a rhythm all his own derived from the energy he feels around him. And the people respond and react and stare and wonder with easy acceptance. Which then moves it from the tacit to the fully acknowledged, and appreciated. This shift brings the layers closer, perhaps moving one above the other, blurring differences, changing priorities, raising questions.

I keep wondering how such a project would have worked in any other Indian city, and whether it would have worked at all as it has in Calcutta/Kolkata. Christopher is certain it would not make the slightest dent in transitory life in Germany and most of Europe's streets.

And here's another realisation for me. Jazz is of instant appeal to every one. Actually music is.

The persons on the streets, not weighed down by definitions of genre and style, listen with pleasure. They instantly allow these musical interventions into the collective realm of their immediate sensory perceptions. The 3 to 5 minute performances touch a chord in them, peeling back some layers they normally blanket themselves with to deal with day to day life. For a brief moment musician, audience and environment become a seamless whole. I can sense, we all can, that the project has acquired dimensions in its making which we had not contemplated during our pre-shoot scouting and discussions.

Christopher must have also heard horror tales of India and more especially Kolkata's reputed inefficiency and lethargy, before arriving. In the beginning, he was never completely confident that his and our shared ideas were ever going to get off the ground. His precise German psyche was affronted daily by situations and conditions that caused tremendous uncertainty and heartburn, the epitome of which was the year's first bandh or general shut-down suddenly announced the evening before our last shooting day. Nevertheless, things didn't turn out as expected, and surprised us all with everything falling into place, even if a day late.

Christopher Dell's vibraphone interventions were accompanied by simultaneous interventions of two cameras and microphones. He reasoned that I too, in my capacity as the project coordinator, intervened by 'appropriating' public space temporarily. The audiences who surrounded him as he played free jazz improvisations were acutely aware of us and our recording equipment, probably following our doings with as much interest as they did Christopher.

Their acceptance of our intrusions into 'their' space, and conversely, their temporary interventions into the documentation of our ideas, created a channel of constantly flowing energy that worked for us all. I had become, we had all become, an integral part of that transitory public space as we simultaneously became onlooker and performer.

Even in a private-public space like the pavement outside the City Centre shopping mall where the lack of energy was perceptibly evident and people kept a wide margin between themselves and us, we felt ourselves turn into observers as the audience, consciously unaware, performed for our cameras. Like the young man who came in front of the camera and slicked back his coiffure with a few rapid runs of his fingers through his hair before peering over a shoulder to watch the show. Or the three young women who showed only passing interest in our goings-on but keenly looked at another young man standing there. And some who looked up to the skies to watch a passing jet plane and follow its flight path with all the enthusiasm of small children.

Finally the question that crept up on us was not why we were doing this, but what were we achieving? Does art have to achieve? Must a process of documentation, no matter how irregular, have to achieve anything? Should everything have a purpose? A means to an end? Isn't just creating awareness, or the mere dissemination of knowledge, achievement enough? Must an understanding also be conveyed?

While we achieved our basic purpose of documenting the interventions in public spaces, we perhaps also managed to transform the space we were temporarily occupying into a microcosm of the total public space we all occupied. This resulted in people questioning our intentions, and often our sanity in a jocular way. These questions must have led them to in turn question their own presence in those spaces.

All of a sudden each intervened space, for a brief moment, became a motile carving in bas-relief on the rock of humanity that surged through and temporarily occupied that public space. The music, the jazz on vibraphone, sucked up the energy built up, responding to the shifting environment and becoming the sculptor of that carving. In fact, the entire making of this film was approached like a piece of jazz music: we improvised constantly, yet always remembering that there was a definite structure we had to adhere to.

From what was initially conceived as a mere documentation on film which would accompany more substantial text, we ended up with a documentary film that complements the book, Tacit Urbanism (yet to be published). The 36-minute film, Kolkata Monodosis: Temporary Interventions in Public Spaces is a collaborative effort that tries to look at the issue of urban public space in a light-hearted manner, without ignoring the serious nature of the issue. The book, broadly speaking, examines the use of urban public space, the culture it spawns, and the underlying questions of economics, politics, globalisation, capitalism, society and law. The two together hope to raise questions in the reader/viewer's mind by offering an alternative perspective to what has already been tacitly acknowledged and openly portrayed, and yet may still not be entirely acceptable, or palatable.

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For video clips of the film, visit the Goethe-Institut webpage.

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For more pictures on the filming of Kolkata Monodosis, go here.

Another Aizawl Diary: Sunday - Tuesday: Part 2

SUNDAY
Seilen Haokip is the spokesperson for the Kuki National Organisation. The Kuki are a minority tribe in this region dominated by the Meitei, Mizo and Naga tribes. All three tribes geographically exist in the region of present day Manipur, northern Myanmar, north eastern Bangladesh, Mizoram and Nagaland. The Kuki occupy most of the mountainous lands of Manipur, which is almost 90% of the state, and the balance in the plains is taken up by the Meitei, the political masters of the state.

Historically, the Kuki have been maligned, betrayed, and generally sinned against. It began from British times and continued by India. It is only of late that the central government has negotiated an understanding with the KNO, and this should soon reach public awareness. Seilen, an articulate academician, is a Kuki himself, and I can see the fervour in his eyes. He is troubled by many things he has learned and has to deal with. Yet, he speaks for many of us when he says they want a comprehensive understanding of their situation and that peace and amity can only be achieved within the framework of the Constitution of India. Their stated objective is statehood and not secessionism. They want to be given the right to administer themselves. We already have examples of similar political demands in Jharkhand and Uttaranchal, though the latter is more administrative rather than political.

There are plenty of separatist, militant organisations in this region with the UNLF, a Meitei group, and the NSCIM, a Naga group, most radical in their demands. The Kuki also have their own, but these groups demands are from the government of Myanmar. The KNO are not considering any others than those Kuki who are already legally resident in India, mostly in Manipur.

I learned a little bit more about India once more. There's so much of these areas that we are blissfully uninformed about. I recall a call from a friend in Calcutta on my first day here who expressed genuine surprise that I had chosen this particular destination for my vacation. His parting words to me were to be careful I didn't get caught in a presumed crossfire between militants and security forces. Many in mainland India believe the north eastern lands to be constantly in a state of strife with no peace or security at all. My only question to them is how do they think most of the citizens of these areas survive quite happily and successfully day to day? We have serious strife and turmoil in the mainland as well, never forget. And these issues are about identity too. Identity relating to community, belief systems, and the constantly burning issue of the rich-poor divide.

What's different here? Probably the media and vested interests making more of the separatist and secessionist demands of the extremists than is actually warranted. And not adequately acknowledging peaceful and reasonable movements like the KNO who want to work within the Indian polity. This is more significant and important, despite the aura and fascination that extreme activism holds for some sections of the youth.

Seilen must return to the family. It's his son's fourth month today and understandably wants to be home with them after our long chat. I put him in touch on the phone with my dear friend and senior journalist, Paranjoy. They plan to meet in Delhi next week to see what can be done for the right and proper media coverage.
*******

Jane and Zo have a castle in the skies. Literally. I can see their house from the balcony of my hotel room. It perches at the edge of a hill just below the Aizawl Theological College at Durtlang. (Dur means cloudy and Tlang means hill in Mizo, by the way). Its location offers a wide-angle view of Aizawl city sprawled across seven hills. Absolutely amazing, and when viewed at night as I did, very charming too.

A long staircase goes straight down to the roof of their house from the private carport. Zo calls it his “Stairway to Heaven”, an obvious reference to the Led Zeppelin anthem of our musical yesteryears. It's the first time I'm entering a house top down. Well, second time, when you count last year's visit.

They are a well-informed, urbane, and delightful couple with two very well brought up sons. It was a pleasure meeting them the first time, and it is equally a pleasure this time. Over whisky and dalmoth bought at a BSF canteen, we exchanged notes and talked of this, that, and the other. Jane's home cooked Mizo meal was worth all the many helpings I took. Bai – a most wondrous dish that is like a soup flavoured with pork pickle, the Mizo chilli, and cubed portions of the stem of a cousin of the banana tree! There was also a tasty beef curry, dal made with local saag, a fish curry, boiled and salted river snails, boiled squash, and a green salad which featured the roots of the onion plant, and of course sticky, reddish Mizo rice. Too much!

Jane joked that maybe Ravi needed to get married to a Mizo girl so that I could have more such meals. Ravi called the suggestion, “Food for thought”. I think he sounded serious.

MONDAY
I start receiving Bijoya greetings through SMS from Calcutta early in the morning. The Pujas have passed me by and I didn't even miss it!

Ravi comes over to the hotel and we spend a lazy morning chatting, listening to music and demolishing a healthy portion of a bottle of whisky. The hotel kitchen today has also cooked Bai and we ask for it. This is different from what we had last night. It is more like a thick soup made with the leaves of the kochu plant. It has a smoky flavour and is absolutely delicious with the Mizo rice. Later we walk down to the bazar and I buy a kilo of Mizo rice to take back with me. I have this fascination of buying the local rice from wherever I visit and it is the best souvenir I can think of. Also bought latkhora – the flavoursome juice of a lemon that is widely available here. It goes well with vodka!

TUESDAY
The last day here but I don't feel sad. I know I'll return. It's not goodbye, but see you soon. The Bengali has a nice way of saying it when they part company, “Ashi - I'll be back”. A sense of continuity is important for the human spirit. The last two days here in Aizawl have had picture perfect weather. The air sparkles with the sunshine of incoming winter through the moisture of the rain that still seems to be hanging around. It is bracing and invigorating. We down a quick one for the road and set out downhill to Lengpui.

At a small village bazar near the airport I decide to buy some local produce. The papayas look healthy. There are fresh bamboo shoots and ginger on the stalk. There's ginger flowers, the latkhora and its juice in reused bottles, herbs of various kinds, the dried and sliced peel of the latkhora which can be used for flavouring dal and curries, even tiny river crabs in small palm-leaf containers.

Airports anywhere are the same in their boring drudgery of security rituals. We've got more than a hour before the flight arrives from Imphal. Coffee, cigarettes outside in the car park, and hi-hello to people who Ravi knows helps pass the time. And then, in a short while I'm airborne and winging my way back to Calcutta. We fly way up high over Bangladesh, knowing that from the height we are at. Can't make out much, what looks like a wide winding river which at one point forms an oxbow lake. Airline food is always bad.
******
Calcutta is in the process of dismantlement. As I drive back from the airport, Puja pandals everywhere are being stripped down to their bamboo frameworks. This seems to be the eternal state that the city is in. A process of disrepair, a breaking down, and then quick-fix repairs to last a season at the most.

Yes, there is great art in the Pujas, but why is it so temporal? Is this a reflection of the Bengali psyche? Where we can only create beauty for a moment because we know it cannot last? Or is it that we do not attempt to create something that will stand the test of time? Are we shallow beings eventually? All the Bengalis, and the only ones who have left lasting impressions are pictures in a history book, just names of roads and institutions.

The solidity of the mountains and its peoples is a source of strength and inspiration for me. It renews my faith in the simple goodness that unspoilt nature offers you. This is why I must always go back to the mountains.

And Mizoram will always be a preferred destination.
___________

For more of my pictures of Aizawl, click on the picture below.

Mizoram Oct2007

Another Aizawl Diary: Thursday - Saturday: Part 1

THURSDAY
I have once again run away from the mass hysteria of Calcutta during the Pujas. And for the second time running, opted to be instead in Mizoram, Aizawl more precisely. Apart from having my good friend Ravi here, I have become quite fond of this place and its people. Plus of course the chance, and the second one this year, to be up in the mountains.Okay, the mountains of Mizoram are not the Himalayas or even close to it, but they are mountains, and it's where I always prefer to be for some quiet time. It's why I'm here. Quiet time. Well, I have brought some work with me, but I already know I'm unlikely to complete it. Maybe I don't intend to?

The monsoon never wants to let go. It wanes, and just when you begin to look forward to the dry, slightly cold spell that we deign to call a winter in Calcutta which will surely follow the monsoon season, the rain returns with a vengeful fury. That's how I took off from Calcutta. In blinding rain. And then we popped through the clouds to stunning sunlight. But we rode over thick, roiling clouds for the good part of an hour all the way to Imphal.

Taking off from Imphal for Lengpui airport of Mizoram was uneventful since it wasn't raining there. But just as we approached Lengpui, the captain announced that we may have to abandon landing there as visibility was bad and the instrumentation down at air traffic control had some technical problems. The aircraft cabin groaned in unison and there was nothing to be done. But land we did. And that was such a good feeling. I really hate flying in planes. I don't have a fear of flying. I just don't care for it.

(But some time in my life I need to experience a ride on a hot-air balloon. And some paragliding.)

Here I must make mention of a couple of notable incidents that occurred prior to my departure to Lengpui in Calcutta airport. The first was at the Indian Airlines, now Air India, counter. I had a discounted ticket and the Economy fare counters were brimming with passengers, most of whom were re-confirming cancelled flights from the day before. A baggage handler came up and asked me my flight details and then took me to the Golden Edge, the frequent flyer counter, which already had a passenger checking in before me. The lady at the counter seeing me wait redirected me to the empty Executive Class desk. I was checked in without any hassle. Not only that, the baggage handler at this counter wrote out my cabin baggage tag with my name and destination in beautiful calligraphic handwriting!

The second incident was at departures security. I had a matchbox and cigarette lighter in my hand baggage and no one removed them. So much for anti-terrorist measures!

Ravi of course greeted me on my landing and took care of my Inner Line Permit formalities. I have no idea why the government carries on with this. The ILP is mandatory for any non-Mizo. You fill in a couple of forms with the usual trivia about yourself, cough up a hundred and a half, and you are permitted to stay there for 15 days, or 7 days, or whatever. No verification of any sort is done by the police personnel stationed at the airport for this purpose. I'm not sure if foreigners or non-Indian passport holders are treated differently.
**********
The Chaltlang Tourist Lodge of the Mizoram government remains in the same state of partial disrepair as I left it the last time last year. I've even been given the same room overlooking the graveyard, with the balcony facing the eastern hills. Ravi and I stand there giving ourselves a Manali buzz and I spot that beautiful house up on the hill opposite my room where I had been a guest for a couple of hours during my last visit.

I enquire with Ravi about my warm hosts from that evening and he immediately calls up Jane who's driving back from work. She tells me Zo, Zothan, her husband is at the Tourist Lodge at that very moment making reservations for an upcoming seminar. Ravi gets hold of him and we sit and have a few drinks from one of the bottles I have brought in from Calcutta in my room. Jane and Zo are both doctors independently in charge of a couple of important units of the Mizoram government's health department. He has to go, and leaves us with an open invite to his house one of these days before I return.

FRIDAY
The next day Ravi and I catch up for lunch after his work. We walk quite a bit and I take in the sights and smells from Chanmari to the Burra Bazar area to Treasury Square and Secretariat, the main government areas, and finally to the 23 Assam Rifles HQ in Khatla. Probably 4 kilometres.The Indian lunch at the Ritz Hotel was more than a disappointment. It was a disaster. Both the dishes looked and tasted the same despite having different names and meats. And the less I talk of the taste, the less of phantom indigestion will I suffer. Anyway...

Around the corner from the hotel we come across a blind lady singing a Mizo song karaoke style. She has a PA setup run on a scooter battery and she does have a nice voice. I feel generous. But we walk a bit and see another blind man with a similar setup. A few paces later there's a third blind karaoke singer. My generosity has its limits.

We briefly go to a couple of offices to meet people Ravi has work with. He knows a lot of folks in this town. We also meet up with Ronnie, my cousin's brother in-law who owns 'Hustler', a gift shop in Burra Bazar, and we plan to down a few together one of these evenings. The Burra Bazar has a different look, feel and smell than its eponymous cousin in Calcutta. Aizawl's BB is crowded but surprisingly clean. Its nice to walk past small shops, many with entire families manning them, rather than vaguely glide past plastic-and-steel 'outlets' in shopping malls. A shopping mall has come up here – Millennium Centre – but it did not seem to be one. It had the look and air of an office building where all the employees were absconding to watch a cricket match on TV at the neighbourhood electronics shop window.

We drop in on Jane in her office. She gives us black tea and biscuits and some pleasant conversation. We then walk on to the Assam Rifles HQ to meet with another pal of Ravi's, Major Aman Puri.
*********
The Army and civilian worlds exist in parallel. And ne'er the twain shall meet. Except when you need booze in this one of three Indian states that have prohibition. Alcohol is one of the staples of Army life, and its perennial availability in military canteens is the meeting point for civilians who have the privilege of accessing that fertile source of intoxicating spirits. Purposeful? Could be.

The Army has its own agenda as to its large, and more than obvious presence here. It is unnerving and not quite everything it is cut out to be. But I shall reserve further comment. Let's just say I wish it wasn't so overbearing.

Aman himself is an astute, articulate young officer destined to go places. Both he and his wife come from a couple of generations of military backgrounds, so he's a natural defence personnel. He's clear that there is antagonism among Mizos for non-Mizos and the military. He deals with it by being high-handed when requests for the military alcohol quota come in. He wins his Pyrrhic victory and everyone's happy.

(An afterword: there is partial prohibition in Manipur, I'm not clear how. It is commonly known that the supply of illicit liquor is run by one of the hardcore groups supporting the state government from the outside to finance their operations. Prohibition in Mizoram and Nagaland is Church driven and influenced. And we all know why they have it in Gujarat, Gandhi's land. Ha, ha.)
*********
At this time of the year, the monsoon season, clouds are a wispy, overwhelming presence. You wake up to bright sunshine and look forward to a clear day, when without notice, the sun is wiped out by thick cumulo-nimbus monsters. You see them approaching up the valley seemingly at snail's pace, and then in a couple of blinks, they are floating mistily around the hotel and my room. A smell precedes them, and then pervades the immediate environment.

It is not an unpleasant odour. It is like smoke coming off the burning embers of some light wood. It is also damp, leaving moisture on my skin. At one point, with enough gathered, a suffocating sensation overcomes me.
For an hour or so, the clouds waft about, and then depart lazily up the mountain sides to congregate on the tops, giving the city a loose turban of dirty white. Rain is an inevitable feature and it brings a chill to the weather. Even when the sun is let free of its prison of vaporous fleece to shine down on us soaked creatures, the chill factor remains. You know now winter will begin to trudge its heavy way into your life in the next couple of weeks.

SATURDAY
Beraw Tlang is up another mountain that lies opposite Aizawl. It is a picturesque place and the right location for a tourist lodge. Ravi and I get there when it is raining but that soon stops. We sit out on the open terrace and I imagine the wonderful potential and possibilities for a place like this.

The approach to tourism here is one of relaxed basics. The goods on offer are simple enough to give pleasant memories but somehow I think more value can be added. Mizoram is a place for nature tourism. Thankfully, it has no religious spots because that brings with it quite a different breed of tourists who are demanding, careless of local sentiments, and uncaring for all but their selfish creature comforts while they make the journey to commune with their gods.

Mizoram's natural beauty is the grace reflected in its peoples. Strange I don't see many birds here. Of the feathered variety, that is. The women of Mizoram though, have an Oriental beauty that is delightful. No matter how overtly Western their way of presentation, strong elements of their own culture and traditions adorn their dress sense, their mannerisms, and their outlook.
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Tourism is as much about the land as it is of her people. Ravi, perhaps because of the position he is in and also because he is a very amiable guy, knows many interesting people. I have never usually been disappointed with the people he has introduced me to. I've already mentioned Zo and Jane, and will say more about them a little later. Then the last time I visited there was the ex-Chief Minister, the charismatic Mr Lalthanhawla, who unfortunately is away in Delhi for medical reasons, so I miss meeting him this time.

This time I met Makuka, one of 7 brothers and a sister and their respective families who all live together in what they call a “colony”. It's a large, joint family property, a tribal thing, and I absolutely love the concept. The nuclearisation of family life in the cities has its own problems even as you cite the advantages. Such “colony” life is a stronghold against urbanisation in many ways.

Makuka is a musician first and foremost and a man after my own heart. He gave up a fairly prosperous business as a contractor to do his own thing some years ago. Which is music. He has trained himself to be a better drummer through correspondence material for 10 long years and continues to do so waiting for the right moment to do a public performance, even though he was already a reputed drummer in the music scene of the North East. Right now he represents music equipment manufacturers like Yamaha, Behringer and so on, selling, installing and training the buyers in their uses.

His son, Boom, is a guitar player with his own band, Boomarang.
They are now considered one of the top rock bands in this part of the country, and have gone on to win some fame and fortune in mainland India as well. While I'm not too crazy about the sort of music they play, at least they're composing their own stuff, and considering the background he comes from, Boom will eventually turn out to be a big name one day.

We talked of many things: music, politics, religion. The adda of Calcutta's Pujas was taking place in faraway Mizoram as well! We agreed that music competitions on TV shows were sad and of no real musical consequence. If such great singers are being generated every year, where is the scope for these competition winners to progress in their musical careers, find their own niche, and not have to depend entirely on the vagaries of a blatantly commercial recording and distribution industry that is only keen on Number One pop hits?

Makuka was just back from a bereavement in the family in Belgaum down in Karnataka. He was thoroughly moved by the way he was treated there and he was emotional. We discussed what being Indian meant for us. I propounded my own theory of secularism which I say is the implicit acknowledgement of separate communities, and hence the divisions that exist within the fabric of our nation. What secularism for India should actually mean is the existence of peace and understanding among all communities and peoples, regardless of their faith and culture. This can be unique only to India with our rich variety and diversity that becomes interwoven with a tacit Indianness. One of Makuka's brothers, David, is a Congress MLA. It looks like the essence of the true Congress spirit exists in places like Mizoram rather than in mainland India where it has been severely eroded.

Makuka is also very Christian in his lifestyle. No, he is not a Bible thumper. He just lives the life and doesn't need to advertise it. Praise and worship for him is through music and sincerely keeping the faith. He and his family have adopted the child of an ex-prisoner and is educating and caring for his well-being. They have taken in a woman of slight mental retardation who works as a domestic help in his house along with another woman who was a prostitute. They are not servants. They are part of the family, and I am introduced to them accordingly.

...continued Sunday - Tuesday:Part 2

Mizoram Oct2007