Adab @ Baithak

Freedom of the Heart

Saturday, July 16, 2005 | 3 comments

by

Balaji Rajam

Trudging along the highway of life
Locked up in the coffin of routines
The remains of the human spirit
To be cast in the fires of mediocrity

Free as a feather in the breeze
Soaring like a shooting star
No fetters to hold it down
Childhood saw the best days

Effervescence and ebullience kept it alive
All through the journey of youth
But weary and tired from the struggle
To stay ahead in the rat race

The career trip marked the journey
chained by expectation,
Bruised by the shattered dreams
In the journey to success or pursuit of a mirage?

The yearning to break away, the desire to be free,
Lies in a heap, in a forgotten corner of the heart
Waiting for a day, when redemption of the soul
And freedom of the heart is finally true

Trial 5

Saturday, July 16, 2005 | 0 comments

by

Saurabh Datta

Tere Bin

"Ladies and Gentlemen, Presenting Rabbi Shergill"

And then the singer started crooning a number amidst large applause.

Tere Bin
Sanu Sohnia
Koi Hor
Nahio Labna

Somewhere in the crowd she heard the song. Thinking. Remembering. The song had a trance effect on her and she suddenly was in the back of a car, in a faraway town, sitting holding his hands, as the driver drove.

They had met just a few days back and since then it seemed life had been a roller-coaster. So near yet so far.

Once on their way back, as they sat on the back seat of the car, the same song played.

"I love this song, it has beautiful lyrics", he said.

"I don’t understand Punjabi, what does it mean?"

"It has beautiful romantic lyrics. I will translate it for you. It says, without you oh my love, I wouldn’t find anybody else. Someone who gives peace to my soul, and who can indulge me"

"Its beautiful!"

She put her hand on his. His fingers slightly moved over hers. They hadn’t ever held hands. He put the bag on his knees and their intertwined hands behind it, lest the driver would see.

"Tell me the whole meaning of the song. I want to feel the song."

Jiven Rukia Si Tun Zara
Nahion Bhulna Main Saari Umar
Jiven Akhia Si Akhan Chura
Rovenga Sanu Yaad Kar

"I still remember the way you had stopped. I would not forget it ever in my life. The way you had told me, someday you would remember me and cry."

She held his hands tight. They looked at each other, and then she closed her eyes. He looked out of the window.

He was fast becoming unsure. Maybe things were moving a bit too fast. Maybe… He didn’t know.

Hasia Si Main Hasa Ajeeb
Tu Nahi Si Hasia
Dil Vich Tere Jo Raaz Si
Mainu Tu Kyoun Ni Dasia

Tere Bin Sanu Eh Raaz
Kisi Hor Nahio Dasna
Tere Bin Peer Da Ilaaj
Kis Vaid Kolon Labna

"I had laughed a strange laugh, but you hadn’t laughed. There was a secret in your heart, which you didn’t tell me. Without you, who would tell me this secret. Without you, who would cure me of this."

A tear ran down her eye. She held his hand tight. And looked at him. He was looking out of the window. He couldn’t look into her eyes.

The car stopped. She had to board the bus from here on. They walked to the bus, hand in hand. She booked her luggage. His arm around her, he hugged her. She had tears in her eyes. He was stoic.

The bus was about to leave. She settled down on her seat and looked out at him. Her out stretched hand on the closed window. Tears down her cheeks. He didn’t speak. But mouthed the words, "I am sorry." And he moved away.

She looked at her out stretched palm on the window, and pushed it back down. Maybe he was right. Things couldn’t work out between them. She closed her eyes and cried.

"Hey, why are you crying. Do you know Punjabi?"

She was suddenly back at the concert with her colleagues.

"Nah, don’t know. Sorry. Lets go from here"

They moved. And she looked back at the singer. Wiping her tears she moved ahead.

Tere Bin…

Freedom

Saturday, July 16, 2005 | 10 comments

by

Summiya Nizam

Hands reaching out from furrows deep
and nameless faces crying out loud
Skies pouring fire with flaming ether filling lungs
Skin dripping off bones as vultures feed

The deafening silence, the roaring whispers
and shrivelled hearts shrieking for mercy
Blinding currents coming down as armed men
Watching over, cloaking mummed thunders

Minarets lonely stand over barren cemetries
Truce was too severe a word.
Dawn cringes to tread into desolate enclosures
as inky darkness howers with tyranny

Irreparable voids as wreckage and ruins
pour thawing tears behind shattered egos
Premonition should have been delivered
before the compensation for autonomy with existence.

My Heart!

Saturday, July 16, 2005 | 1 comments

by

Zahra Bodabhaiwala

If only my heart was mine,
I’d pin it on my hair,
Or perhaps ,
Adorn my wet lashes with it.
Alas ! If only my heart was mine

Lonely heart of mine wonders,
What I’d do with the Sun,
with its lovely golden rays.
I’d probably crush them
To rub its gilt on my body.

If my heart was mine,
God would be reflected in my eyes
Maybe shine through them on stymied world.
Or perhaps,
I’d reach the skies,
And pick handful of stars,
To enliven my dull soul.

If my heart was mine,
Mirror would love me,
Plain and ordinary that I’m,
Wouldn’t disappear,
If I tried to touch myself.
Wouldn’t fool nor embarrass me,
Leaving me distraught.

If my heart was mine,
No sorrow would accompany,
If I willingly give it away.
I needn’t laugh to tide over
The flood of tears within me.
Separate thoughts, and myself
If I wanted, without the world’s consent.

If only my heart was mine,
Soft petals, when crushed
Would leave lasting fragrance: every time.
Fleeting glances would leave,
Permanent impressions on my mind.
And I wouldn’t have to wonder,
What to do with armful of happiness.

Memory

Saturday, July 16, 2005 | 4 comments

by

Pathik Ibrahim

"Stop doing that!"

"What?"

"You know exactly what I am talking about."

"As a matter of fact, I don't."

"You are picking your nose again."

"That is the most ridiculous allegation. On second thoughts, I don't understand why I should classify your statement as an allegation. That would imply that I feel alleged, that I have to admit a feeling of doing something wrong, even if only as a possibility. But then, I did qualify my classification of your statement as an allegation by calling it ridiculous. So I think I am consistent. By the way, I was just scratching my nose."

"How do you manage, ever so invariably, to give the act of scratching a nose the appearance of a finger surreptitiously entering the crevices of that podgy, oily oversized thing on your face?"

"I think you are blind as a bat."

"O my god! Why are you such an ass all the time? Why do you start feeling guilty as soon as you realize that you managed to behave normally for the tiniest bit of time?

"Bravo, Bravo! Such astute analysis from this tiny little head of yours. Does it hurt with all the calculus? Should I give you a massage?"

"Just shut up. You disgust me with your petty retorts and your appearances."

"Dearie, dare not ask me to shut up ever again! I have had enough of you and your tantrums for the day. Since I have no interest in playing "golf" today, I will not stick around to engage you."

"You seem to fall below yourself everyday. I just want to linger on to find out, only as an observer, the depths to which you will stoop. And "golf", you will never play on my turf, you little piece of turd! How dare you? You still rate as the worst piece of meat I ever had."

* * *

We have known each other for almost ten years now. I was eighteen then, full of hope, rearing myself on everything from Eighteenth Century Romantics to French Existentialists and, as a result not surprisingly, struggling to find my own identity. I wanted to write, tell stories and explore the human condition with words — my only friends at that time. My hours, after and during college, were spent in remarkably exciting and challenging company — on occasions with Heathcliff's passion and others with Mersault's existential dilemma. I was supremely content with their worlds, always acutely aware that the distances between our worlds would never be bridged. At that time, most other people my age were busy experimenting with their selves, the other sex and whatever high they could lay their hands on; I respected their urge to expressly find their identity but never for a moment felt their efforts the necessary means to make a transition from being an awkward teenager to an identity-clad adult. But I could always sense that I made them uncomfortable, there was something in me that intimidated them. I did not spend much of my precious little time thinking about this mundane aspect of my life — after all, I always had another Gide or some such on my table waiting for me. But the mundane did reappear in different guises at times and intrigued me enough to spend a few hours, ever so occasionally, in introspection.

I did not seem to have any signs that most people consider alarming, the tell-tale signs of a damaged psyche. My parents were not dead or divorced. On the contrary, they nauseated me with their saccharine sentimentality towards life in general and especially towards each other. The one thing that could have had a damaging effect on me was the strange sound that used to escape the paper thin walls separating our rooms. I am not talking about a regular creaking of their bed — never violent, a dull monotonous drone of a creak — every night without fail at half past ten. I excused them for being human. However, within fifteen minutes of the keenk, keenk, keenk…, the shrillest of noises escaped the parched throats of my satiated father; a strange rejoice after the calm fuck. A celebration so uninhibited, it intimidated everybody within five hundred feet, undoubtedly pleasuring my mother more than my father's feeble attempts at the other "act" for its sheer bravado. After twenty three years of pious matrimony, she was used to sleeping between his snores and catching the rest of her beauty sleep in fifteen minute power naps spread throughout the day. One would often find mother snatch a moment while the phulka turned from the flat piece of dough on the griddle to a bulbous, feathery creature. At times I would have to nudge mother awake because the phulka was getting too dark around the edges. But she always recovered in time; her phulka, as she put it, was always 'just right'. But I digress; I could never fathom how this pale, middle class, distinctly average human — my father, of course — suddenly achieved the status of a giant and let out such an imperious battle cry every night. I had been trying to understand myself by reading Freud and I still had no explanation for the outrageous behavior of this average, average man.

* * *

"Do you snore?"

"No, not really. To be honest, I really wouldn't know since I am usually asleep in that state of the world."

"I guess someone will have to sleep with you to find out."

I was in college the first time I saw him — a strange looking boy-man, with angst-laden expressions, shouldering the burden of the entire mankind. He seemed like a natural choice for a friend; he did not care about most things that revolted me and it did not seem to matter that he was not terribly interested in anything in general. We had at least one thing in common — our mutual interest in me, especially the ants that invaded my pants. We hit it off straightaway, spending hours talking about nothingnesses and making love at every possible chance. I was having a great time, not having to think about a mysterious future, talking of the top off my head about anything under the sun and not getting judged by my only friend. I always marveled at his special ability of looking at relationships, people and events without pre-conceived notions. He would not judge, he would not want to be judged. We would read together, anything that would be available from the dilapidated college library, from Dostoyevsky and Camus to Murakami. We had a veritable personal library within the library, where we would hide the entire collection by a particular author we had agreed upon to be the flavor of the month.

And then, just like that, I was pregnant. He was in supreme command of his emotions, a sign of things to come. He was very clear that we should get rid of the unborn encumbrance. So we set upon the task of finding enough money just like Mathieu and Marcelle in Les Chemins De La Liberte. However, we didn't manage to get really far. I could not bear it any longer. I wanted to have my moon cycles so bad that I blurted out everything to my mother, who heard everything, managing I suspect, a little bit of a wink and nod while I wallowed about in self pity. Our families decided that it was in our — all of our — best interests to get rid of the baby. I was consulted for a brief moment, and told right about then about the entire process. I was scared, I was nineteen. My first love's love child's execution was planned with the minutest detail; and He was involved in that dastardly act. I could never imagine how insensitive he had been through all the torture that my soul was subject to. I had nowhere to go, I was asked to shut up, I was nineteen.

* * *

My parents moved to the city in 1995. My father told me about their decision in his very predictable, practiced and emotionless voice after dinner at a local Chinese Restaurant.

"How would you feel if we moved to the city?"

I had been with my parents for eighteen years now. The fact that this question had been asked meant that everything had already been deliberated upon — the apartment, the grocery store, the internet service provider and of course their jobs at the prestigious University. Getting the offer from the University meant a lot to them — two serious academics stuck in a provincial town's college. They were excited as only academics can get, as only my parents did. We went out for dinner that night and they spent the entire fifty minutes at the Chinese restaurant debating the virtues of capital controls in Malaysia. Their prognostication was that Malaysia would perform a lot better than other countries in East Asia because of these controls. Being very familiar with these episodes of heightened intellectual activity around dinner time, I had kept myself busy separating the fun from the Chow in my Chicken Chow fun. Although the level of academic discourse on our dinner table was always very comparable to any international conference on the Missed Opportunities for Development, the greasy MSG-laden food at the restaurant was a welcome relief for my palate, kept chaste everyday by the boiled vegetables and rice. I was expecting mother to break the news to me but I think they had realized that Dad asking the question would squash all possibilities of even a tantrum, let alone a minor revolt.

"So when are we moving?"

"Why do you always make it sound as if you are not a part of the decision making process in this family?"

"Because I am not. Dad, please, you really do not have to do this; I am excited about moving — big city, more girls and more than one place to get cigarettes — awesome!"

"Excellent!"

Dad stopped listening as soon as I had exonerated him.

* * *

It was almost summer when I first saw her. She was dressed in blue — the only color that showed on her was blue. I could almost scream at the very sight. Even her toe nails were painted blue to match her blue footwear. I had never seen anything so outrageous, audacious. And she had that smile on her face, her lips parted just enough to show her teeth and a little quiver over her upper lip. I felt a really strong urge to kiss her. After that strange sighting, we did not see each other for a while, at least I did not. But her sudden question about my snoring habits, one afternoon, did not in the least surprise me — she was the only person in my circumscribed world who could have asked that question. I answered her the only way I knew how to answer questions. She did discover soon after that I did not snore. We went together on a college trip to a hill station hundred miles from the city; some fifteen of us and we slept in one large room. She chose a spot right next to me, and the morning after pronounced me snore-free.

I was amazed at the interest she used to show in me. Everything I said turned magical as soon as I saw it reflected in her eyes. This was a remarkable change in my life — everything I said in front of my parents was invariably shred to pieces by their monstrously analytical minds. "Consistency and rationality above all else", my father would pontificate. She, on the other hand, would let me wander, search, create and be a constant source of encouragement. I was happy after a really long time, probably the first time in my life. We would spend hours together, listening to really old tapes from our parent's collection — from Talat Mahmood (her mother's favorite singer) to Chopin's Piano Concertos (my father's music). She had a remarkable facility for words when it came to music, she would gently colonize the space between two notes with her acute observations and then suddenly put her lips on mine. It was magical — the moment, her touch, the entire ensemble.

And then suddenly one day, she was pregnant. I was trying to think, calmly about things to come; who should we talk to, should we find ways of getting rid of it or should we keep it. I knew she wanted the baby but once out parents got into the act, all hell broke loose. We were just nineteen. I was never sure about having the baby, but I convinced everybody else that we should respect her wishes. She was nineteen, but she was also a prospective mother. The most challenging interactions I had on this patently emotion ridden dilemma were with my parents — their cost benefit analysis nauseated me. Not surprisingly, my parents were extremely calm through this fiasco. We had a dinner conference, to which she was given a guest pass and it was decided that till we turned twenty one, my parents would give us a monthly allowance but we will have to stay in their house. Everything was meticulously planned; no escape clauses and once the details of the contractual agreements had been mutually agreed upon, my mother laid out the boiled vegetables and rice. I decided to rebel, if she wanted the baby, we shall have the baby. We still had 7 months and together we started thinking about getting the money for the nursing home, a list of possible creditors and names for the baby. My parents decided to ignore this slight change in the "business cycle" — I could almost hear my mother say, "This too shall pass".

I was not with her when she got back from college that day. I saw her pallid face, drooping eyes and the blood on her jeans and stood petrified for a moment. Her mother was with her; we had lost our baby in a miscarriage.

* * *

'Heathcliff had knelt on one knee to embrace her; he attempted to rise, but she seized his hair, and kept him down.
—"I wish I could hold you," she continued bitterly, "till we were both death! I shouldn't care what you suffered. I care nothing for your sufferings. Why shouldn't you suffer? I do! Will you forget me? Will you be happy when I am in the earth? Will you say twenty years hence, 'That's the grave of Catherine Earnshaw. I loved her long ago, and was wretched to lose her; but it is past. I've loved many others since: my children are dearer to me than she was; and at death, I shall not rejoice that I am going to her: I shall be sorry that I must leave them! Will you say so, Heathcliff?"
—"Don't torture me till I am as mad as yourself," cried he, wrenching his head free, and grinding his teeth."'

"Ah! The wretched Bronte! Poor soul, she should have seen at least some of this fame. I hope she knows that she is being read. But Babu, why do you subject me to this?"

"Because I love you."

"I love you too, hon."

Memories of a Landscape

Wednesday, June 01, 2005 | 0 comments

by

Raania Durrani

Extracts from a larger body of work produced in Bennington, Vermont 2002/2003

October 7th 2002 — Metaphor and Meaning in landscape

The landscape develops and is related to the movement of those who inhabit it. Landscape is a visual documentation of lives. Lives develop and are related to the formation of the land. The jelly in the bowl contracts and expands the way I ask it to. My movement dominates its form. The landscape is the jelly in the bowl. It has been walked and lived on for time that cannot be summed up in words. The weight of the life on the landscape tells it where to rise and where to drop. Life and landscape, movement and colour, scale, size and structure — are all related.

There the mountains were not part of the terrain; they were simply the terrain. That is the place where the landscape is so overpowering that sometimes the life on the landscape is ignored. But the life there is simply incredible. The landscape so large and frightfully vertical makes the people and the green bow down in modesty. Life is warm, inviting and so mystical. The landscape hides the secrets of the people. Embraces their belief and provides them shelter to protect their simplicity from exploitation.

The mountain though large and powerful is accepting; finding spaces and making way to integrate. The river that runs through its gaps and the highway that flows around its mass— are all examples of its nature. The mountain so high, and so above everything is still humble. It is afraid to touch the sky, grab the stars or kiss the moon. It just sits below the blue enormous mass, a mass more enormous than itself. It is like watching the two fall in love over and over again. In the day the mountain blushes in the heat of the sun, accepting and reflecting. The wind blows each cloud into the mountain attempting to shyly touch its white body. The whole day — the sky and mountain play these games. At night the moon and stars caress the tiniest crevices of the mountain with their soft light. At night the heat calms down, and they sit all night realizing their love. The mountain and the sky are the kind for who future emerges in the night. Their romance touches the landscape and serves the people, changing their lives, evoking love in them and the patience to appreciate and adore. The mountain in the day is confidence and inspiration for its people. At night it is the once who keeps their secrets.

October 8th 2002 — Memories of the Morning

Something about the air this morning reminded me of Hunza. The mid-morning air on a fall day in Vermont made me think of the early morning of a summer day in the Karakorams.

A clear image came to mind. I thought of when I would wake up early morning in Karimabad, and come out of my room wrapped in a warm shawl. Before me would be a wall, an incredible wall. It was lit up by mustard sunshine, which was purified by the snow-capped peaks that it would reflect on. Then the sweet Hunzai man, who had a mustache, would walk down the terrace stairs. He would smile at me, and greet me with the genuine, 'peace be on you'. He would then ask me what I would like for breakfast.Few minutes later, he would come back with cooked milk tea in a kettle, accompanied by a Hunza version of the Pakistani Omelette.

The Hunza food is as simple and uncomplicated as the Hunzai people are. As I would eat, I would watch the mustard light grow stronger on the seven thousand-meter mountains before me. I would watch the mountain as if it were a painting. A painting of many colours and many details. Or like a sculpture of many angles, and several tool marks. How landscape is pure art would amaze me — how no colour combination in landscape are wrong would challenge my mind. How the creator is the artist would make me feel humble and shy. All my efforts to art and aesthetics are so small, I thought. But each morning as I stared and felt the crisp air on my ears and cheeks, I thanked the creator for giving me the senses to be overwhelmed by his creation.

First Stars

Wednesday, June 01, 2005 | 1 comments

by

Rida Tariq

The darkening firmament
heralds the approaching night.
Watching, I reflect and
I see my life,
besmirched by a dark loss...
I look at the smoky sky
and I wonder why,
Surprised at the likeness
of the dim welkins and
my fogging life
Once more
I rub my cold feet
as I soliloquise---
How cold can one be!
And
As the hurt of it all sinks deeper
Warm fears threaten to erupt
My eyes now afraid to blink
keep staring towards the heavens
and I see them melt---
The first stars of a long night.

Ramblings Of A Confused Mind - II

Wednesday, June 01, 2005 | 1 comments

by

Saurabh Datta

He was confused. Walking down the stairs of the town hall, hands tucked in his pockets, his face covered with woolen scarf, saving him from the winter chill. The scene had a definitive murkiness to itself. Was it his state of mind or was it for real? He tried to re-collect what had happened.
It was so surreal.
While sifting through the rubble in an archeological site located just north of this sleepy little town, he had stumbled upon a strange box. It was covered with mud. But that didn’t hide the intricate carvings on the box. There were inscriptions which he couldn’t decipher. He wondered how such an obvious object could not catch the eye of professional archeologists.
He picked up the box and cleaned it. The inscriptions were in what seemed like a mix of small and bigger lines. Curious, he opened the box. The latch was hard. It was not opening. He applied a little more pressure and the latch clicked. The click sound was so loud that it echoed all around him. Suddenly he was afraid. He had seen The Mummy last week on HBO. And the thought of uncovering such a box was bringing him mixed emotions of joy and dread.
Temptation got the better of him. He held the latch and opened the box. To his amusement, inside the box was a film roll negative. There wasn’t much sunlight so he couldn’t gather what was the roll all about. But it seemed strange to find a film roll after going through the emotions of temptation and dread. May be the Mummy happened only in the movies.
He took the roll and drove back to a photo studio. The place was owned by a friend, who allowed him to use the lab. He got down to developing the roll. In the red light of the dark room, he saw the photographs developing.
He suddenly caught the table for support. An all of sudden dread had gripped him. The pictures had him lying on the floor in front of the town-hall, covered all in blood. Just at the foot of the stairs his body lay, shredded with bullets.
He was confused. Was this some kind of a joke? Fate was playing a joke on him. He had heard of storied of Abraham Lincoln knowing of his death before hand. But how could this be. He was just an ordinary man. Yes, he had been cruel in some ways. But what was this?
He tried looking for more in the pictures. There was a car. A familiar face looking out of the window. Was she going kill him? Yes, they had problems, but why would she kill him. In an instant he realized it was her friend who was instigating here. He had ignored him. People had told him she was having an affair. He had ignored. He loved her despite the problems.
He looked closer. Her friend was also there. He was crouched in front of him, as if hiding something. May be the gun!!
He fell back on the chair in the red light draped lab. He was supposed to be at the town hall in an hour. He would kill them before they did him. He had always been a winner. He would prove this to be a joke.
He checked his gun and walked out.
He drove his car to the town hall. Before stepping out, he checked the bullets. He would kill them before they did him.
He went in and finished his work. And then came the time he was waiting for.

He was confused. Walking down the stairs of the town hall, hands tucked in his pockets, his face covered with woolen scarf, saving him from the winter chill. The scene had a definitive murkiness to itself. Was it his state of mind or was it for real?

He saw him standing at the foot of the stairs. She was in the car. Looking out. Hiding her face. He walked as if not noticing her. He pushed the safety latch of his gun. Walked to him and pulled the gun on his face. The man seemed to be speechless. Suddenly something hit him in the leg. He pressed the trigger.
As if in slow motion, at the same instant one of the guards saw this man pull out a gun on the Mayor. He did what he was taught to do. He pulled the safety and in an instant opened fire. Hitting the man in the legs first. As he opened fire, he slipped. And the shot went awry. It hit the assassin in chest. The man fell down.
The guard moved fast to secure the Mayor. He was also lying on the ground. He turned the mayor around. He had been shot in the shoulder. He was safe. A woman came running out of a car. And crouched at the dead assassin. Other guards also came in to secure the location. Meanwhile he walked to the dead assassin; there were some photographs on the ground near the body. He picked one and fell back at what he saw.
It had him standing over the body of the assassin looking at the picture.

Ek Patjhar Ja Raha Hai

Wednesday, June 01, 2005 | 2 comments

by

Gurinder Singh

Ek patjhar ja raha hai.
Ek patjhar ja raha hai.

Dard ke antim pahar mein
Asha ki chandni taley ullas ka sagar jhilmila raha hai
Ek patjhar ja raha hai.

Subah ke dhundalke mein lupt koi
Jeb me padi hansi khankhanaa raha hai.
Ek patjhar ja raha hai.

Raat ki hayat ka bujh chuka deepak,
Nabh mein sarson ke phool sa sooraj lahlahaa raha hai
Ek patjhar ja raha hai.

Heaven

Tuesday, May 03, 2005 | 1 comments

by

Zahra Bodabhaiwala

Last night,I dreamt that,
You were on your way to Heaven.
Clad in sparkling gold,
Your wild hair swept on your shoulders.
Your big brown eyes
Bright with excitement…
…On your way to Heaven !!

I tried to hold you in my arms,
Not wanting you to go,
Pulling away,
You said; Heaven’s waiting for me !
So, I let go…….

Tell me then,
Did you dance crazy the way you wanted?
On your tunes and not The Drummer’s,
Did He listen to you,
The way I did!
Was the mud there gold,
With accessories from Jupiter or Pluto,
The way you thought it would be.
Or is Heaven overrated like Love!

Did you find in Heaven
That you desperately looked for,
While you were with me on Earth?
Did the fellows there make you
Smile, laugh more?
Wiped tears away from
Your mahogany eyes?
Or did you lie to me
And went there
Looking for YOU instead?

Haven’t slept nor dared to breathe.
Since you died in my arms,
I have died a thousand times.
Wandered aimlessly, without a clue,
My mind in angst,
Wrecked with the thought,
Did you find your Heaven
The way you wanted ,…
Or should I follow you…
If it has proven worser than Earth ?

The Hungry Tide: A Book Review

Tuesday, April 26, 2005 | 0 comments

by

Sumanya Anand Velamur

This review may be downloaded as a Word document from here.

The following review was written with a focus on the community and its development.

The Hungry Tide is a novel set in the Sunderbans. Piyali Roy, an American of Indian origin, comes to the Sunderbans in search of the Orcaella brevirostri or the Irawaddy Dolphin. A cetologist by profession, she is unsuspectingly thrown into the events of the story. A typical independent American, someone who likes to be left alone, she for the most part, tries to keep to her business. But the tide country pulls her into the story. In many ways, Piya can be considered the protagonist, because she shares a value system with the reader (most probably urban and western). So Piya’s reactions to that indigenous culture would be understandable to the reader. Kanai Dutt, a businessman in Delhi who specializes in different languages, comes into this mini community in order to read the letters written to him by his uncle, Nirmal. But, he too becomes intensely involved in the story, so much so that his self-composure and self-confidence that is so striking in the beginning, is destroyed by the end of the book. Kanai again represents a typical male chauvinist urban dweller. His initial interest in Piya is purely sexual. There are certain places in the story when Kanai’s literary and intellectual talents surface but only momentarily, for he has been forced to make a business of his talent. Fokir, a member of the community is a fisherman by profession and one may argue, the protagonist of the story. He specializes in catching crabs. He is the typical tribesman, proud of his traditions and heritage. This ‘noble savage’ aspect of his character makes him extremely attractive to Piya.

Piya and Kanai met each other on the train to Canning. After they parted ways, there is a section where Ghosh describes Piya’s unpleasant experience with government officials and the nexus they have with big businesses, in this case the owner of a launch who obviously tries to cheat Piya. As a fallout of this event Piya lands in Fokir’s boat where she spends a couple of days and nights with Fokir and his son Tutul. Meanwhile, Kanai reaches Lusibari and there he finds that Moyna, a trainee nurse in the hospital, is missing her husband Fokir and son, Tutul. In Fokir’s boat Piya catches her first glimpse of the Irawaddy dolphin. Throughout the journey Piya is taken up with Fokir and the rituals he performs. And for her, this last gesture of leading her straight to the Irawadddy dolphin only increases the mysticism surrounding him. They did not seem to feel the language barrier that existed between them. They just seemed to understand everything the other says.

The package that his uncle Nirmal had left for him before his death some years ago contained a notebook where Nirmal had written about Morichjapi, an island in the Sunderbans. Nirmal, a Marxist from Calcutta, came with his young bride Nilima to teach in a school in Lusibari in 1950. Originally from Dhaka, Nirmal had come to Calcutta as a student where he subsequently married Nilima, an enterprising student whom he had the good fortune to teach. Coming from a highly educated background that was also known for its tradition of public service, having been involved in the Congress party, she was mesmerized by the passionate and fiery lectures given by Nirmal, her English teacher. She pursued him relentlessly and announced her marriage plans to her outraged family. Subsequently, the couple settled in Lusibari. The plight of women in the Sunderbans was shocking to Nilima, who began the Mohila Saghoton or the women’s union that later became the Badabon Trust.

During the British era, a Scotsman, Sir Daniel Hamilton had a vision that the fertile lands of the Sunderbans could produce gold. He learnt that this land had been occupied before but people were driven out by tempests, tides, crocodiles, tigers and above all the Forest Department that acted as if the land was their ‘kingdom’. The mangroves, the prime vegetation of the land, make it impossible for people to live, and once they are gone erases all evidence of their sojourn there. In 1903 he bought ten thousand acres of the tide country from the British sarkar. He opened the land to people who were willing to work. At that time, land was such a scarcity that people came in droves. They left their petty differences and came to work hard and control the unruly land. Predictably, the tigers and the crocodiles began killing people and soon Sir Daniel started rewarding those who killed these predators. Daniel Hamilton’s vision involved creating a utopian society where there wouldn’t be any exploitation, where men could be farmers, poets and carpenters all at once. He had also evolved his own currency which carried the inscription, “ The Note is based on the living man, not on the dead coin. It costs practically nothing, and yields a dividend One Hundred Per Cent in land reclaimed, tanks excavated, houses built, &c. and in a more healthy and abundant LIFE”.

The community was relatively new and had to contend with natural disasters to survive. In this case the land itself was the enemy of the people. The Sunderbans are an immense archipelago of islands formed by the Ganga as she makes her way to the sea. The uniqueness of this area is that the tides submerge whole pieces of land and throws up new sandbanks where earlier there were none. So almost everyday, there is a change in the landscape, making it a very difficult terrain to conquer. This also explains the title of the book, The Hungry Tide because the tide seems to swallow whole masses of land. Added to this, the kind of vegetation it offers is nothing short of fatal. The mangroves and the wild animals that lurk within are a constant source of threat in this region. This also gives the tide a predatory nature as humans become the prey. Even the existing folklore revolves around this hostility of the land. For example, the tales of Bon Bibi who is supposed to keep the forests safe for the people, safe from Dokhin Rai, the bad Demon. Moreover immense destructive storms are known to hit these lands, sparing nothing as they destroy everything. In fact, the novel ends with precisely such a storm.

Another source of concern is the government, i.e. the forest department. In its efforts to conserve wildlife, the government does not consider the lives of the people living there. In the incident involving the forest officer dispatched to guide Piya in her search for the Irawaddy dolphin and Fokir, first the forest officer insists they take a certain launch because he may benefit from the proceeds. Moreover, the launch owner and the forest officer demand a lot of money by way of pay. When Fokir’s boat is seen at a distance fishing in off-limits waters, the officer gives chase. When they catch up with the small boat, the forest officer points his rifle at Fokir and tells Piya that he is a poacher. Most government policies for conservation of natural wild life are effective only in keeping the local people, fisherman, hunters etc from reaping the benefits of the land. Where as big business, for the most part, gets away with exploiting the land. Ultimately, Fokir had to pay huge amounts to get rid of the forest officer.

In another incident, Moyna, Fokir’s wife tells Kanai, that there is no future in fishing since the nylon nets that are used to catch the prawns are so fine that they succeed in catching the eggs of the prawn too. Nilima had tried to ban these nets because with the momentum that fishing and trading had gained, it only meant the death of the fish and an imbalance in the marine ecosystem.

In yet another incident, the Fokir’s boat nears a village and drops anchor for the night. During the night they witness the killing of a tiger by villagers. They learn that the tiger had been troubling these people for some time and had killed many people as well as some animals that belonged to the village. When it attacked a poultry shed that night, the villagers locked the shed and set it ablaze, thereby killing it. Next morning, forest boats were seen to make their way to the island and the people were punished. What is glossed over is that the tiger has been a natural predator in these parts and the people have taken the most logical obvious step of collective action. Also, there is a difference between a primitive and poor people, struggling against the destructive forces of nature, killing a tiger, and that of big business interests poaching tigers. One must also remember that a primitive and poor people provide and are part of the ecosystem unlike mass forest destruction carried out by business interests.

Moreover, these people have their own form of conservation. Their folktales tell of the good land controlled by Bon Bibi, their goddess, and the dangerous land controlled by Dokhin Rai, the bad demon. Whoever ventures into this land may not return alive. There is also a symbiotic relationship that the tide people have with the rest of the ecosystem. This is reflected in one incident where Ghosh describes how a pair of Irawaddy dolphins herd a school of fish towards the boat, in the process getting a catch themselves. The government needs to take cognizance of that. After all, the idea of forming a community is to make a collective effort at battling the forces of nature. One is again reminded of the hungry tide, as the tide of the government that swallows all efforts to settle made by people.

Another issue is that of refugees coming in from Bangladesh. As a sad fallout of communal politics and the division of Bengal into East Pakistan and West Bengal, the Sunderbans were divided. So many refugees crossed over and finding lots of land available to them decided to settle there.

That is the basis of the Morichjhapi story. Kusum, another important character in this story, also Fokir’s mother, is one of the people who has settled in Morichjapi. Kusum’s father is killed by a tiger and Kusum’s mother is in search of a means of livelihood when she is sold into the immoral trade by a local pimp who promises her a respectable job in Calcutta. Kusum herself is rescued by Horen, a distant relative, who places her with the Baodabon Trust. That is her first meeting with Nirmal, Neelima and Kanai, a small boy at the time. She later marries a fellow migrant from the tide country. There, Kusum comes in contact with the refugees from Bangladesh. These people were the “poorest of the rural poor, exploited both by the Muslim fundamentalists and the Hindu upper castes”, dalits from the Bangladeshi Sunderbans. When these people crossed the border during partition they were met with the Indian police who took them to the settlement camps in Madhya Pradesh. The land was so different from the tide country land that these people could not live there. Sometime in 1978, they heard of a large empty island on this side of the Sunderbans called Morichjhapi. Battling the police and other government authorities, these refugees left their camps and started making their way towards the east. Kusum joins them for she too hankers for the fertile land and the rivers of the tide country. Unfortunately, Morichjhapi is detailed for tiger conservation. Consequently, there were many confrontations between the people and the government. The notebook that Nirmal leaves for Kanai to read is all about the resistance that these refugees offer to the government. To Nirmal, it acquired a revolutionary colour. Again, one gets the feeling that government ideas are skewed for the land that the refugees occupy is reserve land detailed for forest conservation.

Who are the good Samaritans? There is a dilemma that visits many do-gooders at various points of time in their lives. Which is good – propogating revolutionary ideologies or helping people cope with existing circumstances? There are differences that exist between Nirmal and Neelima that is reflective of this paradox. Neelima, like a typical enterprising social worker, established the Badabon trust and began empowering the women in the community. Her biggest achievement yet is the establishment of the hospital in Lusibari. A successful hospital, it also trains aspiring nurses like Moyna. Nirmal, does not approve of this kind of social work. His contribution to the community is by recognizing the revolution waged by the Bangladeshi refugees and taking part in it and writing about revolution. In fact, Neelima goes so far as to tell him not to go to Morichjapi since his anti-establishment actions will not help the Trust or the hospital. Her philosophy is to work with the system at changing it from within; his philosophy, on the other hand, is to work against the system by changing it entirely through revolution. This particular dynamic in their relationship is reflective of not only the paradox between the different kinds of ‘do-gooders’, it is also reflective of the paradox that exists all over India. When is it time for revolution? Can the work done by people like Neelima be nullified just because they are more practical?

Development is another issue that Amitav Ghosh tries to raise questions about in the novel. The idea of development being an issue in this novel may be contested as being far-fetched and consequently, speculative. Indeed, the community's origin itself is enterprising in nature because these people answered Sir Hamilton’s call. So there is no reason why these children of such a hard-working and futuristic people should not be, in fact, ready for change and a better life.

There is a section in this community that is enterprising, wants to progress, earn more, be educated and in other words develop into a community much like any other urban community all over India. Moyna, Fokir’s wife, is one such person. Nilima describes her as “ambitious and bright”. Without any support or encouragement from her family she had educated herself in the neighbouring school. After finishing with school, she wanted to go to college but her family balked at the idea. So they got her married to Fokir, who could ‘neither read or write and made his living by catching crabs’. But determined as she was in her ambitions she was successful in making Fokir shift to Lusibari so that she can take the nurse training course in the hospital built by the Bodabon Trust. Predictably, she does not want her five-year-old son, Tutul, to catch crabs for a living and prefers that he go to school. There is no future in crab catching. Fokir finds these concepts difficult to understand. So development at what cost? Is development a human right or are human rights the first to be discarded in the pursuit of development?

Most of these issues are general social issues. The Sunderbans are a microcosmic representation of national and international (pertaining to the Third World) social issues with minor variations. Ultimately, they represent the skewed priorities and policies of a government that achieves sanction from a process that is exclusive of certain communities and certain people.

Apart from being a novel that raises many social questions, The Hungry Tide primarily tells of the personal stories of Piya, Kanai, Fokir, Kusum, Nirmal and Neelima. The novel deals with conflict and affinity in personal relationships. Piya is attracted towards Fokir and vice-versa. Kanai is attracted towards Piya and Moyna. His urban and elite chauvinism makes it difficult for him to understand what makes Fokir attractive to Moyna and Piya. He goes so far as to ask Moyna if her ambitious nature would not prefer a successful man like himself to a primitive man like Fokir. Therefore, there is a visible and obvious hostility between Fokir and Kanai. This hostility reaches its climax in the incident where Fokir successfully scares Kanai out of his wits when they are rowing together in Fokir’s boat. That is Fokir’s way of showing he is the master of the tide. A similar parallel is seen in Nirmal’s adoration of Kusum pitted against Horen’s love for Kusum. The author goes into great depth in describing the work of a cetologist or a marine biologist; his history of the tide country also seem to be well-researched. Both shows of scholarship only increase the reader’s conviction of the story. Also, the authors description of Nirmal, a Marxist, shows both the glory of Marxism and the poignancy inherent in it. The author also shows sensitivity to people and emotions, a quality found in another of his novels, Shadow Lines.

Ghosh, Amitav. The Hungry Tide, Ravi Dayal Publisher, New Delhi, India, 2004.

The Woman Within...

Friday, April 22, 2005 | 6 comments

by

Balaji Rajam

Her mis-timed giggles
Her nonchalant hair toss
Her pouts of fake anger
Are just glimpses of the li'l girl within

The tears on her cheek
The compassion in her eyes
The affection in her heart
Are just shades of the mother within

Her playful ruffling of my hair
Her burst of laughter at my jokes
Her reassuring grip on my hand
Are just traits of the good friend within

Her furrowed eyebrows at my laziness
Her anger at my reckless spending
Her concern at my falling sick
Are just faces of the wife within

Her changing of roles
Faster than she changes her clothes
And her ease in every single one
Is nothing but just the true woman within.

At Night

Thursday, April 21, 2005 | 2 comments

by

Amena Farooq

The moon and I,
We come out at night —
She with her pale light,
I with my pale hopes —
Feeble folk afraid to face
The merciless illumination of the day.

She comes out when
Her anaemic glimmer
Can outshine the rest;
I take refuge where my brightness
Is my orange bedclothes,
The glare from my laptop screen
And the naked kitchen bulb.

My pride is plated with gold
And wrapped in raw silk.
It sits on the mantelpiece
And crawls closer to the edge every day.
Soon it will tumble into the blazes
And I will let out one last shriek,
One last firework shall I see,
A dismal display
Eclipsed by the bustling skies of day.

thoughts penned during war (Afghanistan)

Thursday, April 14, 2005 | 1 comments

by

Sumanya Anand Velamur

Wearing my opinion on my sleeve
— A little label 4" long , 3" wide —
In a little place in the world
Where I'll neither be seen nor heard

The place has claims to injustice too
I did not protest — with any label blue
Against the riots so near.
So why now and why here?

Is it because it is someone else?
A war somewhere else?
Easier to blame than to be blamed?
Stand up for people you don't know — unashamed?

In the bus I elicit smiles from a few people
With my opinion on the label
Perhaps they think, “what a wannabe”
Perhaps they think, “In time she will see.”

For a time I muse, “Perhaps I AM a wannabe.”
“Perhaps, in time, I WILL see.”
“Is this what this is all about?”
A faint flickering flame swiftly snuffed out!

Further along, in an un-peopled path, a child
Looks as if to plead, “Pray, stay wild.”
There is no place for musings now
Youth is all about the ‘here’ and the ‘now’.

Ramblings of a Confused Mind

Thursday, April 14, 2005 | 1 comments

by

Saurabh Datta

He lay there battered and bruised under scorching sun. Unable to move he was in terrible pain. He could not even raise his hands. Sweat mixed with blood from his wounds trickled all over him. He could not think of anything. Only what seemed to be comprehensible was the severe pain he felt all over. Apart from the pain, which he now felt a part of himself, he was at complete peace with himself and his surroundings.
And suddenly his world began to tremble. His whole body was shaking now. His mind trying to re-collect and re-examine his current state. Where was he and what was this trembling and shaking all about?

As if someone heard his minds plea, there was a loud whistle. Was there a train approaching? What was a train doing here? Where was he? And then he saw a green light. It…it was a signal of an approaching train. Oh God, he was on a train track. This realization brought back the pain he had till now found a part of his existence. He could barely open his eyes. They were swollen. Using immense will power he opened his eyes. He saw a train turn towards where he was lying. It seemed to be a super fast.

He tried to shout, but he could not. He did not have the energy. Tried raising his hands, but they wouldn’t leave the ground. The hot train tracks burning into him. His legs were not responding. He felt immense pain and remorse at himself.

He wanted to react to the situation. But what would that yield? The pain again seemed to go into the background. His mind became clear. He had a choice to make. Either he could try to get off the track and save himself or he would let the train run him over and finish all misery once and for all. He had to decide this, and that too fast as the train had turned the corner and was coming nearer and nearer. The whistles of the engine getting louder and louder.

He closed his eyes trying to think. Suddenly, as if in a slide show, the pictures of his life came dancing in front of him. He saw his childhood. His parents. Remembered their aspirations. He saw his school. His friends. His first date and the movies. He saw the wrong decisions he made, and why he was where he was right now. And as soon as he thought that, the pain became excruciating. He opened his eyes and saw the train even closer. The whistle louder and piercing.

But there was no way to get out of the current mess. Part of him wanted to end it all. Finish it off once and for all. People would cry for a few days and then they would lead their lives. With the amount of pain he was in, the crushing of his bones by the incoming train would not even feel much. Or may be he would suffer an arrest from the shock. He was realizing what death was like. He was seeing the difference between life and death. And as far as he thought of his current self, there wasn’t much of a difference.

He weighed his options. He could not move his body an inch. Would someone come crashing down like an angel and take him off the track or would the train stop. But these things only happened in movies. Not in real life. He was destined to die here.

But somewhere inside him, someone wanted to live and show the world what he was made up of. He was a born fighter. A person who came back from the ruins like a Phoenix. He would fight and get over his despair. He wanted to live.

The voices within were getting as loud as the whistle of the approaching train. But now he had an answer. He wanted to live. He wanted to fight. He tried to move his legs but could not. Using all his power, he was trying to trudge his way out. His body was not co-operating, but he tried on. The train was now even closer. Using his elbows he tried to trudge, but could not. And the anguish became so much that he resigned to die here on the track. He closed his eyes, remembered his parents and God. And with Elvis’s song on his lips, he closed his eyes.

‘Good bye mama, pray for me… …I was the black sheep of the family… …a hundred miles… …miles..from home’

The tracks were shaking because of the incoming super fast. He was waiting for the pain to end. But why was it taking so long? Why does this moment of truth have to be in slow motion? And then there was a shrieking sound. That must be it, he thought. But still the pain persisted. He tried hard to open his eyes. The train was passing in front of him. He was on the other track.

Tears rolled down his eyes. He tried to smile. The pain was easing out. He shouted in ecstasy. Miracles do happen. He had been given a new lease of life. Now nothing could happen. He lay there feeling himself getting better. The tracks were still trembling but he paid no heed to it. What a relief, he was alive. He could go back and create a new world. He lay there getting his strength back.

And then came a loud shrieking noise. He felt a big thud. After that, nothing. The signal of his track was green.

Welcome, new Week

Thursday, April 14, 2005 | 3 comments

by

Prabhu Rajagopal

Like the early bird singing merry across
the dark skies eagerly awaiting the caress of fresh warmth,
I welcome the new week, rejoicing in the joy
Of pervasive greyness vanishing in a hundred hues of crimson

Like that chirpy one that lets its song glissade
Into wind humming through empty vistas of sorrounding space,
I welcome the new week, letting go bygones,
Into the torrents of time that speeds into the unknown

As mists blown away by cheering breeze, knowing,
When the hour arrives, no illusion can halt progress anymore
I welcome the new week, enraptured in the rapture
Of tender light dancing on velvet ripples of lakes below

Peaks! the earth seems nearer,and plains Oh! earth's
further off; but like the bird, flying undeterred by appearances
I welcome the new week, poised, that, the journey's Ahead-
And Brooding over falls,is just surrendering to the apparent

And like that bird persevering at another attempt
at seeking shelter in the loving embrace of the golden horizon,
I welcome the new week, greeting another chance,
to never return, to forget the false, in remembrance of Truth.

My Masks

Thursday, April 14, 2005 | 2 comments

by

Natasha Ali

I wear not one, but many
Masks that protect me and shelter me.
Hide and disguise me,
From this big, and I’ve been told--Bad World.

My Mask is a necessary evil.
It is a robe that allows me to be “proper” and
“harmonious”
with those in this world.
And yet, it allows me moments to myself.
And a chance to retain my individuality.

There may be a smile on my lips,
But an ache in my heart.
No one need know,
I have my blessed Mask.

Turmoil rages within me.
Anger has a place there too.
But, my cherished Mask allows me
To keep the face I show the world--Serene.

At first, I mocked
When told I needed a Mask.
But learnt the hard way
That frankness and honesty are but foes.

Alas,
Total trust I dare not give anymore.
It brings me but pain and anguish.
Along with a wish………
That I had been wiser in my ways.

Now,
I know.
I survive.
By wearing my Masks,
And showing a different face.

Untitled

Wednesday, April 06, 2005 | 10 comments

by

Nidhi Khurana

I close my eyes and open the door
To a world of possibilities and allure
We'll see what life has in store,
Ah yes, we'll see for sure.

From the castle's perch, I see a virgin road,
winding up the country to my door,
Through lush meadows and sun-kissed farms,
Balmy air wafts in to soothe a sore.

I hear in distance the sound of light steps,
Anticipation shining in my eyes,
I scurry to the foyer clutching at my dress,
And as I start to open the door,
It just flies open in my face,
A gust of wind and of him, no trace!

Fantasy spins beautiful yarns of gold,
embellished with diamonds and lace,
Alas, life's brutal and cold
Dreams get shattered in a jiffy,
and the eternal dreamer falls from grace!

Shakespearian And Jonsonian Comedy

Wednesday, April 06, 2005 | 3 comments

A Brief Discussion by

Amna Afzal

[This article can be downloaded as a Word document from here.]

Criticizing Comedy

In comparison with tragedy, the growth and criticism of comedy as a genre is a considerably more complex subject to tackle, as it has been explored in much lesser measure. There may be two reasons for this:

a) The relatively greater profundity of the issues which tragedy deals with; and,
b) Critical discourse on tragedy rests on solid foundations, as Aristotle’s treatise on tragedy is extant while that on comedy has been lost.

The Nature of Comedy

So what, one may ask, constitutes a comedy? What is its nature and purpose? As Sydney has put it:

Comedy is an imitation of the common errors of our life, which he [the dramatist] representeth in the most ridiculous and scornful sort that may be; so as it is impossible that any beholder can be content to be such a one.

Or to put it another way, its purpose is to create laughter to the end that men’s lesser faults may be made to appear ridiculous and so may be avoided.

Keeping in mind the fact that all artistic endeavors and manifestations of artistic expression are variable with time and place, the following passage covers our present purpose in exploring Elizabethan comedy; to wit,

...the mass of Renaissance comedy is seen to settle itself into some sort of intelligible pattern, if the survey of it is stretched to cover English, Italian, French and Spanish variations of it. In all these countries the problem was similar: it was the attempt to gratify a world-old sense of the comic or ludicrous at the same time as a new sensibility of the romantic.1

Comedy therefore, may be said to cater to two instincts: the sense of the ridiculous and humorous in human life, and the perennial interest in the romantic. This may obviously take a variety of forms, as it did in the European theatres, but the most perfect combination of comedy and romance was achieved in England, not surprisingly especially in the works of Shakespeare.

Elizabethan Comedy

The Elizabethan dramatists were required to produce plays that represented a juxtaposition of what was romantic and comic; this presented some difficulties as the two elements seemed resistant to harmonious amalgamation.

Romance, in its pure form, as found in Medieval literature, focused on chivalric heroes dedicated irrevocably to their loves, overcoming various obstacles and encountering fierce monsters in precarious adventures in order to prove their worth to the loved one. This was the spirit that the Elizabethan dramatists tried to adapt for comic purpose, but something went amiss: they could not make comedy out of romance without undermining the seriousness of affairs of the heart. Inevitably, the comic element predominated, with something a little farcical, even in the inexhaustibility of the hero’s love for the heroine.

The basic plot remains the same: there are people who fall in love, and there are complications in their path, and all is resolved happily in the end; the complications simply take on the nature of farce, with much confusion generated through strange twists and unlikely coincidences.

Shakespeare’s Comedy

Shakespeare comes into his own as a dramatist in his comedies, much more so than in his tragedies, because the comic is congenial to his temperament. Comedy has always been less entrenched by rules than tragedy and so it was in comedy that Shakespeare’s genius achieved its zenith

Shakespeare’s comedy is not satiric; it is poetic. It is not conservative; it is creative. The way of it is that of the imagination, rather than that of pure reason. It is an artist’s vision, not a critic’s exposition.2

Shakespeare is romantic and sentimental; he is all for love, choosing simple tales of wooers and their wooing, ’it was a lover and his lass’.

His comedies, and particularly Twelfth Night, follow much the same pattern. Intrigue, deception, disguise and a surreal atmosphere of unreality seem to recur. Farcical elements, Malvolio in Twelfth Night, are thrown in to compound the comic effect.

In Comedy of Errors, a series of laughable situations arise from the great physical likeness between two characters who are mistaken for each other, and a comparable pattern is found in Love’s Labor Lost. Shakespeare’s more mature comedies, in which Twelfth Night is generally bracketed with Much Ado About Nothing and As You Like It, evince much the same elements but are more skillfully executed and exhibit a more finished dramatic purpose.

Twelfth Night

The device of confusion of identity seems to have been popular with Elizabethan audiences, which is perhaps why Shakespeare repeats it so often in his comedies. In Twelfth Night, a lady, Viola, disguised as a page, serves the man she loves, Orsino, in the courtship of another woman, Olivia, only to find her rival falling in love with herself. Olivia takes Viola’s twin brother Sebastian to be the object of her love, while he is perplexed at her advances, having never seen her before. With more confusion added in the subplot, with Olivia’s steward, Malvolio, her uncle, and her uncle’s friend Sir Andrew Aguecheek, who is trying to woo her, plus the smart maid Maria whom Olivia’s uncle ends up wedding, the play is a veritable hotchpotch accentuating the perils of love.

It is all resolved, of course, recalling Rosalind’s shrewdness in resolving the love troubles created in As You Like It. Olivia gets her pageboy after all, in the guise of the pageboy’s twin, who is providentially of the right sex. Orsino returns his page’s love, who conveniently turns out to be a woman.

Jonson’s comedy

Ben Jonson, setting himself apart from the rest of the dramatists, contemptuously said that their comedies had to be of a duke in love with a countess, the countess to be in love with the duke’s son and the son to love the lady’s waiting maid with other such cross wooing. His comedy then, needless to say, had little of the inconsequential and romantic about it.

Jonson felt that comedy, as distinguished from tragedy, in which the remote or the ideal does not hinder and may even help the dramatist’s purpose, had lost its touch of life in romantic extravagance.3

Jonson’s comedy is essentially didactic, recognizing with Sydney that laughter is a means to an end and not an end in itself. We are to be amused, certainly, but not merely to be entertained: we are to recognize ourselves in the follies we are invited to laugh at.

The parts of a comedy are the same with a tragedy, and the end is partly the same. For they both delight and teach.4

As tragedy works out its morality by the effects of pity and fear, so comedy achieves its aim which is also ethical, by mockery of baseness and folly in their lesser degrees, by ’sporting’, as Jonson puts it, ’with follies, not with crimes.’

Volpone

Jonson tells the Universities in the dedication of Volpone that his ’special aim’ is ’to put the snaffle in their mouths that cry out, we never punish vices in our interludes.’

What is striking upon reading Volpone is the apparent seriousness with which Jonson regards comedy. For him, comedy is not farce, not pure entertainment, though that too has its place. To him, comedy meant that there would be a wider audience to appeal, and by luring people with the promise of entertainment, he could have them stay to gain instruction.

Volpone is made up of stuff that one would not normally class as being humorous. The vice being castigated is avarice, which leads a character go for as far as being prepared to prostitute his wife and another to disinherit his son. Volpone, in his self indulgence, goes so far as to attempt rape. None of the characters, with the possible exception of Peregrine, are likable, so degenerate are they, so steeped in vice.

The play revolves around Volpone deceiving people who court him for the money they expect to receive at his demise. He extracts valuable presents from them, leading greedy gulls on, expecting to be his sole heir. What starts out as a game ends in serious hurt for all parties concerned. The focus is on vice and corruption in society, the folly of man and the prevalence of sin: hardly comic themes, and yet, Jonson is consummate in his comedic art.

Jonson and Shakespeare: Varying Approaches

Shakespeare’s comedies are, broadly speaking, more good-humored. Both Jonson and his more celebrated contemporary had the acumen to perceive mankind’s folly in all its stark reality, and the skill to put pen to paper to illumine it to best effect. Their manners of doing so, however, are as distinct as their personalities were.

Several elements stand out as being most disparate in Shakespeare and Jonson’s comedic technique:

Shakespearian comedy lacks an overt didactic purpose, while Jonson’s whole art is predicated on an ethical agenda. Jonson himself claims in his prologue to Volpone,

In all his poems still hath been this measure,
To mix profit with your pleasure

Jonson is more satirical:

As for satire, he was committed to it by his conception of the purpose of comedy. The audience must laugh to some end, and the play must deal with some folly and cure it by its ridiculous presentation. A comedy was a ’comical satire,’ as he styled more than one of his plays.5

Shakespeare is not concerned with satire: his vision, if just as piercing, is less judgmental.

Jonson makes a plea for real life, for ’deeds and language, such as men do use’. He is firmly grounded in the real facts and issues of existence. Shakespeare, on the other hand, transports his audience to Illyrias, lands of fantasy and unreality where anything is possible.

Jonson is careful to maintain a certain degree of originality in his work: familiar as he was with much literature, he never lifted the plots of his plays from anterior sources. Volpone and Twelfth Night themselves constitute an excellent case in point: Jonson declares in the prologue that the play we are about to see is wholly original, while Twelfth Night apparently has very close parallels in an Italian comedy, Inganni, of the sixteenth century.

The most striking difference is, of course, Jonson’s lack of concern with the romantic element, while Shakespeare’s comedies are largely built upon romance.

Shakespeare’s comedies end in all being well, while Jonson is not overly concerned with shielding his audience’s sensibilities.

Jonson saw language as the mirror to man’s soul: dialogue is of paramount importance. Although, Shakespeare’s language is beautiful (with the possible exception of the earlier comedies, such as The Two Gentlemen of Verona), much comic effect is derived from other techniques that Jonson despised.

Conclusion

...Jonson’s mode of drama is properly and intentionally different from Shakespeare’s. Jonson is no more trying to draw complex Shakespearian figures and failing than the later Picasso is trying unsuccessfully to paint embrandt faces...Jonson…is not in the tradition of intimate, human comedy which links Chaucer, Shakespeare, Fielding, Browning, and Dylan Thomas...but belongs to a more critical and satirical body together with Congreve, Pope, Oscar Wilde, Bernard Shaw, and T. S. Eliot.6

References

1. H. B. Charlton, Shakespearian Comedy, p. 17
2. H. B. Charlton, Shakespearian Comedy
3. G. Gregory Smith, English Men of Letters: Ben Jonson, p. 78
4. Ben Jonson, Discoveries, Chapter VIII
5. G. Gregory Smith, English Men of Letters: Ben Jonson, p. 80
6. David Cock, Introduction to Volpone, p. 13

Pieces

Saturday, April 02, 2005 | 5 comments

by

Rajat Dua

My heart is but an ordinary heart
And its pieces, no treasures they hold
Pieces a million, like specks of dust
Torn away by the wind apart

Broken it lay, pieces blowing away
Till moistened by tears, they stopped their sway.
I asked you silent, I asked the world
Why break my heart, why make it pay.

The answers never came
But the wind changed its way
Brought the pieces back together
Though it will never be the same.

Yes, my heart is but an ordinary heart
And its pieces, no treasures they held
But now its mine, just mine to keep
Never to be torn apart.

A Child's Paradise

Thursday, March 31, 2005 | 4 comments

by

Alakananda Sengupta

(written during the Iraq war)

A display of fireworks lighting up the sky night after night;
Cherry bombs exploding in celebration of everything that's right;
Everyday a holiday - no school to attend, no homework to complete;
The entire world a playground, with toys, and packets of food to eat
Falling from the sky.

No parents to scold you, no aunts and uncles to complain anymore
About your childish misdeeds - no restrictions, no responsibilities to fulfil as before
Towards them; the entire world is in mayhem - freedom and liberty for all...
And but for the fear, the pain and the sorrow, you could truly call
This a child's paradise!

Life is Short

Thursday, March 31, 2005 | 3 comments

by

Zahra Bodabhaiwala

Life is short...
So minimally, pathetically
Unjustifiably short...

Before you know, ...
The one you loved & fought,
With consistency and accuracy,
Of the latest torpedo.
One who promised to share
Your ups and downs
Little, if not more!
Has decided to be gone.
Leaving you cold and numb,
If not dead!

Before you know,
Your 'great idea',
Is outdated by someone else's',
Success for which you toiled,
Several nights in a row,
Doesn't taste as good,
With an ulcer !

Before you know,
Your day starts looking,
Like your nights,
Sea whose salt you could breathe,
A decade earlier.
Today,seems outlandish and unique.
Once, you were your child's,
Center of The Universe.
Today, you're thankful
He chooses to play chess with you.

Life is short...
Rightly so.
Would it be good enough,..
If it was long drawn out,
Treacherously unending,
Intolerably achingly infinite?

These Hands

Thursday, March 31, 2005 | 12 comments

by

Amena Farooq

If my life
Is on my palms,
Then my soul must be
In my hands.

And if I touch you
With these hands,
Will you feel my soul
Or just my skin?

For you can love suede
But can you love the pig inside?

And you can love my eyes
But can you love
The tears they hide?

And if my soul
Is dark and deep
Then will you dive
Or will you leave?

Sometimes people
Like me
Cut their wrists
To let their souls free.

All they need
Is to hold
Somebody's hand.

The Prism

Thursday, March 31, 2005 | 4 comments

by

Biswanath Dutta

Why does it beat?
Why do I hear the rhythm?
When I already know
that I couldn't pass through the prism.

Things looked rosy,
and everything else was fine.
Darn! those strings,
lest I would have crossed the line.

The strings were taut,
and strong as steel.
Oh! a perpetual hindrance,
that I always feel.

Those shiny white things,
that tempted my eyes,
now look pale,
filled with vice.

Desperate to try
to make the strings dance
with the hope of letting loose
I hold my belief in chance.

It still does beat!
I still hear the rhythm.
Like the sun rays I will!
I will pass through the prism.

The Lost Tricycle

Thursday, March 24, 2005 | 8 comments

by

Gurinder Singh

The shimmer of chrome,
Ruddy translucence,
Rumble of hollow vinyl
And the muffled fragrance of the off-the-shelf
novelty.

Dangling rakishly from dad's hand.
Suspended like animation.
Eyes, wide like two full moons,
Glued.
Breath bottled up within the tiny breast.
Love, at first sight.

The small personal revolution;
The voyages into the distant;
Whirligigs of heady discoveries;
New friends and new enemies in conquered territories;
The Columbus and the unchartered sightings of
innumerable Americas.

Poof!!
Gone.
All gone,
Into the vortex of years.
The shimmer mangled into refashioned knick-knack,
The Red seat buried in a gutter refusing to decompose,
The wheels melted into a newer cycle of usefulness.

The lost tricycle.

Watercolor Memories...

Wednesday, March 23, 2005 | 0 comments

by

Nidhi Khurana

Watercolor memories, painting the canvas of my lovesick soul,
Oh darn, why the heck I ask do you come back haunting,
Driving me up the proverbial wall.

Oh, I want to run, run (as) hard as I can,
In an eternal race that I am choosing to lose,
No, I don't give a damn,
And I won't spare a thought,
If this unsparing world calls me a loser,
Or else a recluse.

Another reverie breaks in woefully unsought,
Raking up fires in a tumultuous draught,
I stand alone in the pouring rain,
Thinking a shallow moment,
My love's labor's been in vain,
And, Christ! I don't deserve this pain,

Then something snaps hard within,
Is it my heart's chord or something akin?
And suddenly this reassuring truth dawns,
Pain is a treasure that only true love spawns,
And then I begin to savour the pain,
And strangely feel warm in the rain.

I am a sinner, whose penance lies,
In incoherent ramblings, in unabashed sighs,
Memories, memories, of myriad hues,
The rosy pinks, the moody blues,
Chase me, wear me, rip me apart,
Hit me, pierce me, break my loveless heart.

Then again, I wonder why he keeps at the dreary task,
For I reckon my love was too sweet to last.
Your memories may burn me and beat me to the finishing line,
But take my word, honey, I shan't ever be thine.

Defiance

Wednesday, March 23, 2005 | 8 comments

by

Nidhi Khurana

You drive me to tears so often,
You cut my heart to pieces like none else;
I writhe in the pain of unrequited love, courtesy you
And yet, I am defiant I'll love you to my grave.

I can't think of a person I've cursed more in the past year,
Nor can I think of anyone I've prayed for with greater fervour,
Lord help me..so drunk am I on you;
That all the world excepting you has faded into a blur.

Do you love me?
Do you care?
Do you ever gaze at the moonlit skies;
And blow me kisses through the warm night air?

Though I know all the answers,
I'll lay a wager with you and ask you to a dare;
Call me insane or what you will,
But I'll love you to death, whether or not you care.

Home Truths

Wednesday, March 23, 2005 | 0 comments

All is not as it seems in Reshma Ruia's tender farce
Review by

Richard Turner

Kavi Naidu is an extraordinary young talent in poetry. At least, he and his mother think so. The Anglophile mother and son - she with her Nehru Appreciation Society, he with his imitation Shelley and Keats - keep a romanticised England alive in dusty, Seventies Delhi.

Leaving college, the narcissistic Kavi falls in with a group of young literary radicals, featuring the glamorous and sexually 'liberated' playwright Sharmila Sharma, Binoy with his unusual cigarettes, the lesbian Urvashi, and the group's mentor Seth, the 'Asian Shakespeare.' The latter is in fact a bullying womaniser in whose long shadow Kavi Naidu is to travel to London, as a Commonwealth Poetry Prize hopeful.

Leaving behind his government job in the Education Ministry and a marital mismatch with the religiously devout Kamala, Kavi finds himself an unwilling sexual partner to the nymphomaniac wife of the High Commissioner.

Thus begins the poet's awakening to the realities of English life. Alcohol and sex disorient him, and a disastrous weekend at the crumbling country seat of the dysfunctional Lord and Lady Weinberg sees his own ideal of the English gentry collapse. Further excursions into the urban wastes of London and Manchester complete Kavi's disillusionment. All is set against a background of Seth's relentless one-upmanship and punctuated by a parade of grotesque characters.

In Something Black in the Lentil Soup (BlackAmber Books, 2003), debutante novelist Reshma S. Ruia has clearly drawn on her own experiences as a writer born in India and settled in England. More than that, she has brought a vivid imagination to bear on her characters in this wicked satire on the social mores and literary lives of both countries.

Kavi Naidu is wholly believable as the deadpan first person narrator. We have all met this earnest young man with his rose-tinted love of Shakespeare and the BBC World Service. Fragments of Kavi's third rate poetry scattered through the novel add a touch of authenticity to Reshma's spoof autobiography. You sense that she feels some affection for her foolish hero, even as she drags him into increasingly humiliating social scrapes. The novelist's real achievement here is in creating and sustaining this character who somehow toils indefatigably on, in the belief that his work is actually any good. There are few real belly laughs. Kavi Naidu is the joke.

The usual suspects are assembled as the targets for Reshma's satire. She has taken the easy option in depicting England as a land of free love and uninhibited alcohol consumption. No doubt needing to contrast the two countries for comic effect, Reshma's stereotyping is unhelpful and wildy inaccurate. To romanticise India, which in fact has got its own share of prostitution, AIDS and alcoholism, by over-emphasising the dissolution of a foreign country is to perform a disservice to both. Lecture over.

Reshma's sympathy for her male characters is refreshingly unselfish. We have become used to the feminist perspective, where the author enjoys a literal embodiment. Reshma's men may bluster, but they are ultimately passive playthings to the women in their lives. This exposes another weakness in this novel, inasmuch as Reshma's women are often her targets, using sexual attraction to manipulate and advance their own interests. The character of Naina Mistry, wife of the High Commissioner, is the ultimate example of the type.

A final and lesser criticism is merited for the factual inaccuracies in this book. India's Bajaj scooters and Premier Padmini cars revert to their Italian identities here, while in England the errors are geographical. Westminster Abbey becomes a Cathedral, Liverpool Street is 'Liverpool Station' and the former Saxon kingdom of Northumbria is a 'principality'.

But this is a light-hearted and absorbing novel. At its best, Something Black combines the dry social observation of Anita Desai with the hilarious anarchy of Tom Sharpe. This is a very promising debut.

To IPFC SNOBS

Wednesday, March 23, 2005 | 3 comments

from

Sarah Ahmad

to IPFC Snobs ... The place by the people, for the people, of the people.
So, quite simply, it's the people then innit?

I wandered into a world of strangers
Each one a new face, a new style
They took no notice
I did not exist, yet
But I was determined to make waves.

Slowly I found my feet there
Established a rapport, gained a repu
They knew me
And loved me, I think
And finally I knew I'd arrived.

Let me sneak you a peek into it
And introduce you to my 'peeps'
The wimps and geeks
And nerds and jerks
All mine, forever and for keeps

Snooty, first, as she's popularly known
Remarkably brilliant, a sight to behold
Heman's the man
I wrote him an ode
Both of them with hearts of gold

Smarajit next, and I can't say his name
A mega-watt smile and character to match
Guri's a charm
A veritable catch
These two are the top of the batch

Amena, Divya; beauties with brains
Lovely, alluring, worthy of note
BD my fave
Sarcastic old goat
If I picked a PM he would get my vote

Ardy, Sayantam I cannot forget
Shoot out a flamebait & they won't resist
Sairam's the same
Won't ever desist
You want a good fight? These 3 will assist

Mehmal, the darling of all of us Snobs
Fascinating female, and gorgeous to boot
Manuel I adore
He's quite a hoot
Exciting, appealing and totally cute

Shounak makes my heart go boom
A hottie and simply the best of the bunch
That's it, the end
Coming to the crunch
All you who I've praised, you owe me a lunch!

Ode to Hemanshu

Wednesday, March 23, 2005 | 4 comments

by

Sarah Ahmad

In the midst of calamity, terror and vice
He stands out, a beacon of hope and respite
Soft-spoken, delightful, engaging and kind
A bite of good humor, a beautiful mind.

Tranquil and soothing an aura he has
Knowledge is power that he will amass
Debate and decide and define, that he must
If you're taking sides, be sure he'll be just

I thought he'd be boring, droning and stuffy
You look at his DP and think: he ain't fluffy
But to my surprise and my joy I have found
He's quite an amazing guy to have around.

IN FOCUS...

LATEST POSTS

Freedom of the Heart

Saturday, July 16, 2005 | 3 comments

Trial 5

Saturday, July 16, 2005 | 0 comments

Freedom

Saturday, July 16, 2005 | 10 comments

My Heart!

Saturday, July 16, 2005 | 1 comments

Memory

Saturday, July 16, 2005 | 4 comments

Memories of a Landscape

Wednesday, June 01, 2005 | 0 comments

First Stars

Wednesday, June 01, 2005 | 1 comments

Ramblings Of A Confused Mind - II

Wednesday, June 01, 2005 | 1 comments

Ek Patjhar Ja Raha Hai

Wednesday, June 01, 2005 | 2 comments

Heaven

Tuesday, May 03, 2005 | 1 comments

The Hungry Tide: A Book Review

Tuesday, April 26, 2005 | 0 comments

The Woman Within...

Friday, April 22, 2005 | 6 comments

At Night

Thursday, April 21, 2005 | 2 comments

thoughts penned during war (Afghanistan)

Thursday, April 14, 2005 | 1 comments

Ramblings of a Confused Mind

Thursday, April 14, 2005 | 1 comments

Welcome, new Week

Thursday, April 14, 2005 | 3 comments

My Masks

Thursday, April 14, 2005 | 2 comments

Untitled

Wednesday, April 06, 2005 | 10 comments

Shakespearian And Jonsonian Comedy

Wednesday, April 06, 2005 | 3 comments

Pieces

Saturday, April 02, 2005 | 5 comments

A Child's Paradise

Thursday, March 31, 2005 | 4 comments

Life is Short

Thursday, March 31, 2005 | 3 comments

These Hands

Thursday, March 31, 2005 | 12 comments

The Prism

Thursday, March 31, 2005 | 4 comments

The Lost Tricycle

Thursday, March 24, 2005 | 8 comments

Watercolor Memories...

Wednesday, March 23, 2005 | 0 comments

Defiance

Wednesday, March 23, 2005 | 8 comments

Home Truths

Wednesday, March 23, 2005 | 0 comments

To IPFC SNOBS

Wednesday, March 23, 2005 | 3 comments

Ode to Hemanshu

Wednesday, March 23, 2005 | 4 comments