Indian Christianity on a furlough

(The article was originally written for The Herald of India and was published under the title 25, yet no Christian)

THE WEEK, one of India's leading current-affairs magazines, has a cover story on 25 most valuable Indians. This Independence Day Special issue aims at celebrating, in the words of Shobhaa De, who wrote the opening note on values, "people who have impacted one billion lives directly or indirectly during the past one year". Whether they did have an impact on the entire one billion and also if these are truly the most eligible 25 valuables are questions that I wish to put on hold for a while.

Though the publication of this list wasn't supposed to be an Independence-Day event we have in schools, where all major religions are needed to be adequately represented in a show of 'unity in diversity', the ideal behind our national ethos, what I found intriguing is the absence of a Christian from the list. And one shouldn't be too hasty in pointing out the inclusion of Ashis Nandy. To be fair to the publishers, they seem to have conjured a 'facts-based' list, where the religious backgrounds hardly mattered. But on the eve of the sixty-second anniversary of Independence, this might give something to Christian communities of India to think about.

Christianity claims to have been around in India for over two millennia, but it seems it took a break for entire last year; perhaps it was too nervous about Madam Sonia Gandhi's Catholic connection resurfacing in the election year, or perhaps too shocked since killings in Kandhamal last August.

Had Mother Teresa been alive, she probably would have made it to the list, if nothing else then perhaps just for the sense of balance, religious as well as that of gender. There are three women as compared to 22 men in that list. And though T.N. Seshan believes Mata Amritanandmayi is a great soul too, he chose to pen the paean for Sri Sri Ravi Shankar, whose educational work in rural areas he highly appreciates and whose Sudarshan Kriya keeps the 76-year-old former Chief Election Commissioner 'energetic'.

For far too long, the Nobel Peace Prize winner, the Blessed Teresa of Calcutta, had been a sole representative of the Christians, for the Roman Catholics as well as non-Catholics, and definitely within the media. I remember, once a friend wanted to work on a documentary about the nurses in India, and he asked a reputed Indian journalist, a liberal Muslim, for some clips he had, which my friend thought he could use. Apparently the journalist replied that if it were something involving Mother Teresa, he would have given it but not now!

One of our most celebrated artists, M.F. Husain, paid glittering tributes to the diminutive frail nun from Albania by painting her as Mother Mary nursing the bruised body of the crucified Christ, a symbol of the sick and the poor dying uncared for on the streets of India. On the flip side that also means legitimising only one aspect of Christian faith.

Christianity in India cannot merely remain a religion of uncommitted piety, uncommitted to social, political and economic changes, that is. The poor and the suffering of the country need impartially dispensed compassion, but they also need ethically inspired intellect dedicated to press for structural changes at all levels of our shared life. The hand of compassion must be joined with the hand of critical engagement in a gesture of service to the nation. The task of moral and spiritual regeneration of the country that was visualised by every concerned Indian in that watershed year of 1947 could not be wished away by Indian Christians.

And today when we celebrate the anniversary of our Independence, the burden of the promise of new India must weigh heavy on the Christian chest.

In the year 1971, when the nation was still in its 20s, Nayantara Sahgal published her, if I remember correct, sixth novel, The Day in Shadow. The novel was inspired by real events in the author's life and like her other novels, this one too is imbued with her concern for emergence of a more humane India, which is fast sinking into a stupor generated by corruption in high places, petty politics and cruelty in human relationships. The reason I am reminded of this novel is because it is one of those rare ones where you find a 'Christian' character unbound by stereotypes. Raj Edwin Garg, who though doesn't share his father's religious convictions, brings Christian values, and occasionally Christian 'language', into public discourse. He is a 'brilliant, rising Member of Parliament', an independent, who seeks to find ways to propel the country out of the impasse between the 'Reds' and the 'reactionaries.'

He often enters into a good-humoured banter with his mentor, and father's friend, Rama Krishna, who in the last pages of this open-ended novel seems to have come terribly close to resolving the conflict between Hinduism and Christianity and finding a way to harness the energies of these two mighty streams of spiritual energy for the regeneration of the nation. Even though a work of fiction, this novel testifies to a time and occasion, or at least a possibility, when Christian thought was neither considered alien, nor marginalised, nor a minority view in relation to the so-called mainstream. Most importantly, it wasn't a dialogue between a Western Christian and an Indian Hindu. Here you have Indians on both sides examining the problems from two different angles and towards the end more sympathetic to the other view.

After all, the object of their concern was the same. Just as a note for those who think that the depiction of Christians in novels is not really a matter of particular concern and this novel by Sahgal is not a special achievement, one only needs to look at some of the recent novels, for instance, Tarun Tejpal's The Alchemy of Desire, where the only achievement of one Christian character is the number of bottles of whisky he has piled up in his backyard, or one can look at M.G. Vassanji's The Assassin's Song, in which the blind drunk presbyter of the Shimla church, tumbles into the protagonist's room, and has to be escorted home by his son. That is indeed the image of a Christian in many a mind, a jolly good fellow fully committed to having a good time till the Second Coming, untroubled and unmindful of any such list.

As for Ashis Nandy, the only hardcore academician in that list, he will agree that my observation, which set me off, is not that flimsy. Ashis Nandy comes from an elite Bengali Christian family; he really makes it look that he has come out of it.

Nothing sentimental about college education

I just came across an interview Tarun Tejpal gave to a career magazine. The interview had a rather catchy title "India's rich fund temples, not educational institutions", but what was of interest to me was his recounting of his college days. I felt a bit lofty that he did his BA from my city, though not from my college. DAV College in Sector 10 would too be proud of its alumnus. There is only one problem—Tejpal admits that he did not attend a single class in those entire three years! That obviously means that his "education" happened outside the institute and his college was merely a document-provider, giving him an official-looking piece of paper, a testimonial that he is a graduate. And barring some elite institutions, which mostly teach sciences, colleges in India are perfect breeding grounds for autodidacts. Two of my classmates immediately come to my mind, one has ended up being a bureaucrat while I saw the other selling vegetables in a mandi, sitting alongside men, most of whom, I am pretty sure, never had the chance to see how a degree college looks like from inside. College education was incidental to life pursuits of these two classmates of mine. I am increasingly of the opinion that for most of us Indians, it is not the education system that decides what we will end up doing in life but other things such as our family background and the web of social relationships we are part of. In this sense, perhaps, Indian education system is still a bit medieval if not ancient, where things like caste and class limit one's vocation in life. This, of course, is not to generalize, individual freedom does exist and perhaps in many other cases children find it easy to slip into the role their parents once performed (talking about roles, Shah Rukh Khan and Hrithik Roshan are examples of individual freedom and family legacy respectively), but there have been umpteen number of cases where undeserving candidates get selected at the cost of people really cut out for a particular position. We do meet such professionals who are there because of a plug and not because of merit alone.

Sunday that Splintered Humanity

(The article originally written for The Herald of India, published as Black Sunday)

In 1992, just like this year, 6 December was a Sunday. We got up early morning to claim a cricket pitch before some rival teams came and denied us the chance to have a game on a much-awaited weekly holiday. We won the spot but I think we lost the match; and, when we got back home in the evening we heard the news that Babri Mosque has been pulled down. The news did not have much meaning for me. I was neither a Hindu nor a Muslim and lived in a largely non-politicized city. There weren’t any Muslims among our playmates and, as hindsight, we were saved the exchange of uncomfortable glances. Most guys I played with were Hindus and Sikhs but they seemed not too interested in this news item either. Those were the days when Sikh terrorism was still palpable in our parts; Hindu–Muslim conflict belonged to the Partition era. In any case, all of us teenagers loved our cricket more than anything else and were more interested in India playing first one-day international cricket match against South Africa the next day. I was fascinated by the Proteas; by the fact that they were no minnows though they had just started playing international cricket. I had fallen in love with that electrifying fielder at backward point, Jonty Rhodes and worshipped White Lightning Allan Donald. The historic match was played on 7 December 1992 at New Lands, the first ODI to be played in South Africa. India lost that match, much like our team the previous day. India’s best fielder and captain, Mohammad Azharuddin, another of my idols, dropped not one but two catches. Catastrophic as it was, it was a sort of thing that happened on a cricket field and an Indian fan had learnt to make peace with such debacles.

Meanwhile, the reports of Babri demolition and subsequent analyses were multiplying every single day. For a brief moment, next day, I listened to a panel discussion on the same. What caught my attention was what one panelist said. If my memory serves me correct, he very categorically declaimed that that event had disconcerted each and every Muslim in this country; how else could one explain Azhar grassing those straightforward chances. Is this true? Or is it just a fantastic conjecturing—I asked myself but could not decide. This was something far more disturbing than India’s capitulation in Cape Town could ever have been. In fact, it was at that moment the name Mohammad Azharuddin began signifying the notion of Muslim to me. Before that it only meant a dashing middle- order batsman and a supremely agile fielder to me, whose feats I secretly wished to emulate.

As a child, after Indira Gandhi’s assassination, I had learnt to neatly divide humanity in three—Christians, Sikhs and Hindus. After Post-Mandal agitation, as a pre-teen, I became aware of another set of categories to divide my friends and acquaintances—General, SC and OBC. While I was knocking at the gates of adulthood, in December 1992, humanity further splintered.

These divisions were real as I once found a younger man explaining to me the difference between Hindus and Muslims. We are so different—he said to me—We worship full moon and they worship new moon; we pray with our palms joined together but they keep them apart; we pay obeisance to the rising sun looking east, they turn towards west to pray.

Surface differences like these became creeds of separate nationalities.

Those who wanted to begin a movement of one people only gave birth to unbridgeable differences between one individual and the other. Those who thought they had won that spot in Ayodhya on Sunday, 6 December 1992, lost their souls bit by bit, category by category.

The house I left behind

I forget the context but wife said, "It seems we have been living in this house for a long time." "Yes," I said, "in fact, to me it seems that we never lived in that old house." That old house is a government accommodation where we spent first three years of our married life and where before that I had lived about seven and a half years of my bachelorhood. That was a house from where we married my sisters. The house my nephews and nieces fondly called 'nana home' and my mother's side of the family, 'guddi da ghar'. Nearly eleven years of my life were spent in that house and about another seventeen in that same, what we call, colony. But I do not miss it. Why? Why am I not nostalgic about that house? I only think about it when I am thinking of changing address in one document or the other. And even then I only think about the combination of some numbers and letters that comprised our address line. Nothing more.

Perhaps, we always knew that we had to leave it one day. Perhaps because my peers had all gone (one of them from this world), their nurse mothers having retired or, at least in three cases, died. Perhaps it was simply that we were at last able to move out from the unmindfully architectured and hurriedly fabricated dwellings. I use the term fabricated deliberately, because these belied the idea of decent housing.

But those houses shaped us. Gave us invaluable lessons in space management, for example. We were taught to be thankful for what fate (State) bestows upon us. And in turn, we continually shaped them. We tried and made those our own by experimenting with things like furniture and paints, doorhandles and commodes, by constructing extra rooms with corrugated-iron roofs, by growing a mulberry tree in the backyard, where we often saw some of the most exquisite birds stopping by to amuse our kids and make us adults curious.

After all this, if I am not nostalgic, am I ungrateful? I don't think so. Individuals in the service of the State deserve respectable housing for themselves and their families. The architects, the builders and the contractors must be sensitized to the needs of people who, though will not personally commission them and whom they will perhaps never meet face-to-face, inhabit the city envisaged by that savant of an architect, Le Corbusier.

Maybe, by nature I am not sentimental about places. But I do feel strongly about the arrogance, and callousness, with which government houses are constructed. And this strong feeling overpowers any amount of nostalgia my old abode can hurl at me.

My Orkut "Today's Fortune"

I am no sucker for those trite thought-of-the-day quotes, though I have begun to enjoy the occasional "Today's Fortune" on my orkut page. There was one I quite liked some time back and I had sent it to some of my friends, especially the ones suckling gloriously on Facebook, which incidentally, with some notable exceptions, gathers every triviality under the sun under its imbecile aegis. Well that day the fortune was:

Watch what you say — of those who say nothing, few are silent

But what I got today made me write a blog post. I did send that one too but without any catty design. It was, in fact, I must admit, a moment of edification. Some friends did reply. Here are some of the responses:

1. I miss orkut :(
2. Couldn't agree more. Thanks for sending it my way. Here is something similar: Imagination is the reality waiting to be created. Or, Imagination is reality-in-waiting.
3. Fabulous quote. True and liberating.

I was glad that these words did have a power to lighten up quite a few of us. It seemed to provide a key to some of the issues we continue to grapple with inside ourselves. It did give us a reason to be hopeful. It spoke gently and confidently to something deep inside us that refuses to surrender to hedonistic cynicism of the times. And most importantly, it became alive because we shared it among ourselves. By the way my orkut "Today's Fortune" read:

The best way to predict the future is to invent it.

First blogger's park

Five of us met for the pretentiously named "First Blogger's Park" on Tuesday, 3 November 2009. I was glad that we all could make it despite it being a weekday. We already have one blog post on that meeting. Fellow bloggers it was great to spend time with you! Writing has meant so much, and so many things, to each one of us. I am sure we can have a series on this one topic alone—what has blogging done to, or done for, me. There were many things that we randomly picked and mostly left unfinished but perhaps that's a good sign; we all are brimming with ideas, which would sooner or later be turned into "written expressions". And while I hope we are encouraged to spend more time in solitude tapping on the keys, I also want to make some time in coming months to sit and unwind in the same company. Looking forward to meet you more and grow together with you all. One regret! We did not click any picture. So I am putting this painting I came across by chance on the Internet, by "a professional quilter, author, fabric and pattern designer". (Picture: http://valoriwells.typepad.com)

Dirty education!

A little distance from the new house we have recently shifted to is a slum. Our house is in Mohali and the slum technically belongs to the union territory of Chandigarh, the quintessential modern city that was supposed to be "unfettered by past" especially the filth that that past has accumulated over centuries. While I drove with my wife this morning past that slum, euphemistically called a "village", we wondered what happened to the residents in the monsoons, for some houses were actually built over the sewers while a channel of dirty water flowed below them. And as we were trying to clear the scenes of that obscenity from our minds, I caught sight of two little girl students of a local school relieving themselves in the open. They were in their uniform so they couldn't have been two urchins who were never taught the rules of propriety and the need of hygiene. Their classmates played close by and some of them would have taken a "bathroom break" sooner or later. Yes, it was a school.

A naïve question. Is one allowed to run a school without a bathroom? Schools are being run without libraries. Schools are being run without classrooms, furniture, blackboards. Schools are being run without teachers. Who gives a damn about bathrooms when schools are being run without conscience? The conscience of a nation is dead when two little school-going girls have no option but to sit on a garbage heap close to their playground to pee. The conscience of a nation is dead when the poor are deceived with empty rhetoric of Right to Education. The conscience of a nation is surely dead when, quite literally, the filthy rich businessmen begin running the education show, and that too with only one aim—to find ways to fish for another rich man's fortune through the fishing rod of his child with a bait of "world-class" education.

This is not a one-off incident. Today itself I found two reports in the city edition of The Tribune about abysmal conditions in our schools. One is about a school in another "village" around the city of Chandigarh, where 200 students share one toilet and about four are locked for the use of teachers. Another one is a story about a school in Fatehgarh Sahib where fire-fighting equipments are thought to be as useless as bathrooms in our neighbouring "village".

(Pictures: From the two news reports)

Before I lose more

While clearing my table this afternoon, I came across a piece of paper on which I had scribbled something while I was in Goa in April. On the last day of our national sales meet, just before the closing, I wrote this in a jiffy. I might lose the paper sooner or later, so posting this here.

I thought I lost my pen
But what I lost were
My thoughts
A 24-hour journey from Delhi to
Goa was spent
Playing cross and noughts
Without the pen, of course

The mind was at work
Though it couldn't quite work out
The whole point of journeys
Of life, the mystery of
Lost clout
A pointless discourse

Many things were going on
Were all put on hold
One thing went on unstoppable
You see, couldn't help growing old
Nothing else got worse.

— 9 April 2009, Cidade De Goa, Goa

The Good, the Bad and the Ugly of Elections 2009 – II

The good was, of course, the freshness of youth. Young MPs have been in focus and to many this is sure sign that politics of this country will change for the better. But this optimism is paradoxical. The good and bad are not that distinct perhaps. Vir Sanghvi has made a point. Most of the young MPs are actually second- or third-generation politicians, heirs of a family business. Commenting on this he says, "A disturbing proportion of them were born into political families." Disturbing indeed, as he goes on to name the political heirs running the nation. And mind you, not all are young : Farooq Abdullah, Prithviraj Chavan, Salman Khurshid, Dayanidhi Maran, Selja, G.K. Vasan, M.K. Azhagiri, Parneet Kaur, Ajay Maken, Bharatsinh Solanki, D. Purandeshwari , Tushar Choudhary, Jyotiraditya Scindia, Sachin Pilot, Jitin Prasada, R.P.N. Singh, Prateek Patil, Agatha Sangma, D. Napoleon. And then Sanghvi goes on to name other dynasties. Naveen Patnaik, Chandrababu Naidu, H.D. Deve Gowda and his son. I think he gave a special thought to this sentence when he wrote about the Badals: "In Punjab, the Akali Dal is a family business run by Chief Minister Prakash Singh Badal and his millionaire son, Deputy Chief Minister Sukhbir Singh Badal." I found that truly amusing. He points out dynasties in BJP: Vasundhara Raje, whose son Dushyant Singh is an MP, Manvendra Singhand so on. Towards the end of his Counterpoint in today's Hindustan Times he makes a chilling observation:

But family-dominated politics is a closed shop. Entry is open only to those with the right credentials of birth. Outsiders are banned from entering. And slowly but surely, true democracy is replaced by a kind of feudalism in which the peasants are given the right to choose between various aristocrats. The peasants can never enter the ruling class because the wrong blood flows in their veins.

Good and bad are in front of us. Intertwined. Can we begin a process of untangling the two? Sanghvi pins his hope on the "dynast" to free politics from the clutches of "dynastyism". But shouldn't the reviver search for talent beyond the obvious quarters. Maybe he is doing his best. But maybe the aam aadmi shoudl do his bit. Perhaps there is a way the youth of this country can serve in politics despite the lack of the dynastic patronage. That will be good indeed.

The Good, the Bad and the Ugly of Elections 2009 — I

Let's start with the ugly. That's easiest to spot. While in the NDA rally in Ludhiana on 10 May, Nitish Kumar clasping Narendra Modi's hands was a slimy sight, what was uglier than that was Badal Junior, Sukhbir, hugging the Gujarat chief minister. As a member of a minority community that suffered state-sponsored pogrom, one wonders how Sukhbir could embrace that shameless trader of death. What values, or lack thereof, does this espousal exhibit? That's for students of politics to decipher. I would go back to poetry. To a poem to be exact that my friend Laltu wrote after the Gujarat riots of 2002. The poem was in Hindi. Here is my English translation that I discovered recently on my hard drive.

It's too late

Little black drops can be seen from afar
Sitting in the bus we overlook them
Assured no matter how difficult the journey may be
In the end each one will get back home

The cold that freezes on the windowpanes
Pushes us close together
We don't know that what rains out there
Is clotted blood; even the blood of the real
That burns
And we still smell it in coals of memory
No longer startles us
Suddenly the bus turns on a bend
And with a start we wake up

The sound must be of the clouds
We think and our bus
Plunges in chemical smoke
It's too late
By the time we see
Gujarat
Written on each other's faces.

© Laltu

Key to the Deadlock

I

Deadlock is a curious situation. The whole universe is caught in a state of an intriguing impasse. Nothing is really happening. Nothing of consequense, that is. Yes, there are terrible things happening, like the massacre in Sri Lanka, but if one looks closely, this is a stage in deadlock where one contending faction has made a manoeuvre and the other is going to respond soon to neutralize it. And by factions I don't mean Sri Lankan Army and the LTTE. In old-fashioned terms, in T.S. Eliot's words

The world turns and the world changes,
But one thing does not change.
In all of my years, one thing does not change,
However you disguise it, this thing does not change:
The perpetual struggle of Good and Evil

There is a fight of principles. Each has a bag of good and evil mixed, out of which they hurl the sin-stained clusters of their innocence on the other. A lot is happening in Nepal, Pakistan, the general election in India too and far off three ladies (four, if you count his mother, or some failed love affair) have pushed the success of one man in South Africa. But is there a breakthrough in sight? There is a seeming movement though. People are wanting to get married. Houses are being bought. A friend is graduating in the USA. Another one is going for poetry reading in Europe, despite the fact that poetry makes nothing happen. Now the latter phrase is W.H. Auden's who was a 'committed' poet himself and wrote that line to commemorate another 'committed' poet (W.B. Yeats). Poetry does not break the deadlock. Poetry, in fact, is the mainstay of any deadlock, promising deliverance, yet not delivering on the promise. It is the opium of the aesthete. It gives hope. It defers the fruit of that hope. Yet in this janus-faced relationship with deadlock and hope, poetry performs a useful function. It helps survive in the deadlock, in the eye of the storm. Auden comes to mind again as in his "Musée des Beaux Arts", he highlights the co-existence of suffering and indifference, the deadlock of apathy and tragedy. This record, this recognition compels endurance, the grandest virtue for this age. There are few things possible, perhaps, only in poetry.

II

It's 11 May today and by sheer coincidence I chanced upon this little gemstone of a poem by Joel, which, incidentally, he wrote on this very day many years ago, when 'existentialism' was in vogue and people typed not on computer (which means I exercised my editorial discretion while italicizing "can" and "may" at the end).

can/may

Always, of course
One chooses: the eternal
Curse of the blessing of free will.

One may praise
If one wants to,
Though
One may not die
If one wants to

One always can
But not always may

© Joel V David

A poet and a friend

One function of the poet at any time is to discover by his own thought and feeling what seems to him to be poetry at that time. — Wallace Stevens

I am not a poet. And, if one agrees with a poet's function as Stevens puts it, I am certainly not one. But then recently I have this urge to engage with poetry. Not read poetry but engage with it and of course that includes reading of poems. I wonder what is behind this urge. Perhaps it is a thought of a poet friend who has long left writing poetry and who now is moving out of this city. But as he shifts base, I sense the poet returning, or rather reawakening, in him. He feels it too and the other day we did talk, perhaps for the first time in thirteen years, at some length about his poetic self. And that poetic self is perhaps—I have my fingers crossed—becoming prominent once more. He is non-commital about being a writer of poems again. Even if it is so, I suspect that there will be a dash of the poetic in most things he does. Joel David published his first collection of poems, The Bowl of Silence, with the Writers Workshop in 1991. It is a slender volume of nineteen poems. Talking to him I realize how seriously he once persued the art and craft of poetry. He is an image of the poet Stevens had in his mind when he wrote that sentence quoted in the beginning. Stevens, as a matter of fact, is (was?)one of Joel's favourite poets. As an undergraduate commerce student in Baring Union Christian College, Batala, Punjab, Joel once gave a three-hour long lecture on poetry of Wallace Stevens to the postgraduate students of literature. In the recent conversation I had with him he spoke enthusiastically about his keen interest in the technique of poem and how he thought that one poem creates its own world beyond all theories about what poetry is. He is not preoccupied with that at the moment. But there's something else poets need. To be in touch with their inner selves. And Joel is lingering there. In solitude. That's the beginning of poetry anyway. The first poem in his collection gives the anthology its title and goes like this:

THE BOWL OF SILENCE

Where is the bowl of silence now
the one we dipped into so often, and emerged
with a sudden face brought up, upturned and lit,
speaking new words, words spoken, spent and born again:
food and drink you know not of.

When we but lisped, did we say and did we hear,
did voices come to us from flaming bushes?
Or, caught in the rush of words, did our stumbling tongues
pick and choose wrong ropes and tangles: did we know
food and drink the world knows not of?

To be born and be moulded—did we ask
for crafted lives, manufactured ideals—were we cast
in bronze—did we search our minds, sound our depths?
Now, floundering, blind in the floodlit blaze, do we eat
food and drink we know not of?

What of our souls, when in the troubled midnight watch
something rises like mist, clings and softly curls?
Invisible, barely felt, the hand of someone touches me.
Who comes? A gentle spirit longing for home, bringing
food and drink I know not of?

© Joel V. David

A favourite picture

Drawn by my 5-year-old niece.

Wisdom of the years ... so far

John Milton lamented the missing "inner ripeness" in On His Twenthy-Third Birthday. I moved away from that milestone ages ago but full blooming of creative, and even mental, faculties is nowhere in sight. I told a friend this morning that the wisdom of my years is (I am not telling my age) that I can still be fooled.

At my age
You are no longer a child
..................And being wild
At birthdays ought to be a thing of the past

It’s time to realize only a child jumps
At the sight of a gift
And teenagers are given birthday bumps
..................................These joys never last

But when you still can be fooled at my age
You must know you’re not yet a wise sage

You are still prone to deceptive art
Because a believing child still lives in the heart

Sunday Worship

I went to attend Sunday worship service at the Chandigarh Bible Fellowship this morning. I have been an erratic attendee at this fellowship. An SMS from a friend in the fellowship inviting me and my wife to join them for this service made my dithering self decide what I wanted to do with this Sunday morning.

It does help to seek God's face in a company.

The opening passage that was read from the scripture did exactly what scripture is supposed to do to a parched, cracked, yearning human heart.

16I heard and my inward parts trembled,
At the sound my lips quivered
Decay enters my bones,
And in my place I tremble
Because I must wait quietly for the day of distress,
For the people to arise who will invade us.

17Though the fig tree should not blossom
And there be no fruit on the vines,
Though the yield of the olive should fail
And the fields produce no food,
Though the flock should be cut off from the fold
And there be no cattle in the stalls,

18Yet I will exult in the LORD,
I will rejoice in the God of my salvation.

19The Lord GOD is my strength,
And He has made my feet like hinds' feet,
And makes me walk on my high places.

These are concluding lines from the book of Prophet Habakkuk. They grabbed my attention as I saw myself in that image of fig tree failing to blossom. The thoughts of failure and unproductiveness had plagued me since the weekend began. The Word restores me somewhat.

It does help to hear the Word in a company.

Indian Wrestlers

There was this very interesting compilation of facts about Indian wrestlers in yesterday's Hindustan Times. I just loved it.
And many congratulations to Sushil Kumar for winning a medal for India in Olympics. But it was very sad to hear that he did not have masseur and then there was a story in Express about dismal conditions these Oympians have to live and practice.

Jason Lezak: The Hope and Glory of Michael Phelps

Will he? Won't he? The million-dollar question about Michael Phelps winning seven gold medals in these Olympics would have been answered in negative rightaway but for the 32-year-old Jason Lezak, who almost single-handedly quelled the French challenge in 4 x 100 metre freestyle relay. BBC website had the headline Phelps wins second gold in relay. It was the team event that could have spoiled the party for the young American, but as it turned out, it was the adrenalin pumping through his oldest teammate that saved the day for him. In this picture above, BBC did capture the rapture of someone who is sure to become legend in the sporting annals of the world. But I would have appreciated a picture of the old—old by the standards of average age of swimmers—warhorse Lezak too. He deserves to be seen as much as Phelps. I had to look for three other websites before I found this group picture, in which Lezak is second from the left. The members are, from the left, Cullen Jones, Lezak, Phelps and Garrett Weber-Gale (AP Photo/Thomas Kienzle). Phelps, of course, is the star and one that will hog the limelight in days to come, but for me this race and this day belongs to Lezak. This not-so-young swimmer has certainly proved right what his woman compatriot, Dara Torres, 41, said a couple of days earlier, "...the water doesn't know what age you are." What a phenomenal woman she is! Her team has won the silver.
Meanwhile, Lezak did manage to make headlines, even if he missed his share of photographers' flash!

1. What a race! Lezak keeps Phelps' hopes alive (Associated Press)
2. Phelps can thank wingman Lezak for this one (Fox Sports on MSN)
3. Brilliant Lezak keeps Phelps on Olympic target (AFP)
4. Teammate Lezak is lifesaver for Phelps (news.xinhuanet.com)
5. Jason Lezak made sure Michael Phelps still has a chance for 8 golds (International Herald Tribune)

Abstract Art: A Shot in the Arm

I loved this one! Recently, as a promise to a friend forced me to rekindle my interest in art, this little comic strip gave me some valuable insights into the philosophy of abstract art.

Change of look!

I gave a new look to my blog. It's first time in more than two years that I tried a new layout and design to arrange my variegated mental emissions. And it's not bad. The sans serif font gives it a neat, typical Internet look and blue is the colour I can live comfortably with. I have also added a cricinfo widget, though I am not sure if I want to keep that forever.

How many other people are trying something different these days? Sehwag, I heard, is practicing switch-hitting a la Pietersen. Pietersen is in the midst of change himself as he captains England for the first time in a Test match.

Hockey needs to change. Indian hockey team will not feature in this year's Olympic games in China. They have been adviced to follow Korea's example and adopt a more European style of play. By the way, China needs to change its Human Rights record for the better.

Out there is Zimbabwe Mugabe is in talks with his rival Morgan Tsvangirai. But is the old fox going to change?

Ban on SIMI is not changing.

Abortion law in India is not changing, as pronounced by Union Health Minister Ambumani Ramadoss.

What has certainly changed—without any controversy—is the look of my blog.

This Is Not A Tribute To Aleksandr Solzhenytsin

The reports of Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn's death were obviously the big news of the day. I had tried a few times, unsuccessfully, to read him in the past. I tried reading his One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich at least twice and suspended it even before I was halfway through. Too much for me to handle I guess. This might have been a compliment to his writing. The cold—the way it is cold—in that book left me too uncomfortable. Perhaps, living in north India made it difficult for me to imagine that kind of cold but the real power of the pages that I did manage to read was in the description of the grinding manual labour, the hopeless schemes to get close to the fire, the conspiracy to hide a piece of bread. All this demanded too much from me.
I also started reading his The Gulag Archipelago once. I left it because I thought I needed to train my brain muscles by reading the smaller one first. That never happened of course. But I did start reading it. I am reproducing some lines out of what I read from the opening chapter, "Arrest":

But the darkened mind is incapable of embracing these displacement in our universes, and both the most sophisticated and the veriest simpleton among us, drawing on all life's experience, can gasp out only: "Me? What for?"

And this is a question which, though repeated millions and millions of times before, has yet to receive an answer.

Arrest is an instantaneous, shattering thrust, expulsion, somersault from one state to another.

We have been happily borne—or perhaps have dragged our weary way—down the long and crooked streets of our lives, past all kinds of walls and fences made of rotting wood, rammed earth, brick, concrete, iron railings. We have never given a thought to what lies behind them. We have never tried to penetrate them with our vision or our understanding. But there is where the Gulag country begins, right next to us, two yards away from us. In addition, we have failed to notice an enormous number of closely fitted, well-disguised doors and gates in these fences. All those gates were prepared for us, every last one! And all of a sudden the fateful gate swings open, and four white male hands, unaccustomed to physical labor but nonetheless strong and tenacious, grab us by the leg, arm, collar, cap, ear and drag us in like a sack, and the gate behind us, the gate to our past life, is slammed shut once and for all.

That's all there is to it! You are arrested!

And you'll find nothing better to respond with than a lamblike bleat: "Me? What for?"

The grim passages recounting utter helplessness and dislocation demanded discipline, and resolve, I was incapable of rallying. I left this one and pursued—and not perused—One Day.

I once browsed through his Cancer Ward in the Russian section of the A. C. Joshi librabry in Panjab University. I had read a reference in some other book of the moral dilemma one of the characters faces. I picked up the mangled copy—mangled not because it was a popular book; just neglect and insensitivity—and read through some paragraphs. The patients there had some very sharp discussions going on. But then there's so much you can read between stacks, even if the sick are making some telling comments about damaged bodies and souls.

I have pulled out the two novels I had bought long time back from a second-hand bookdealer. The sombreness that accompanies his death might have an effect on my efforts next time I get down to read him.

The paranoia-makers, the Maoists of Nepal

The king has abdicated the throne in Nepal. That's good. Maoists have become a major force in the mainstream political scenario. That's not good. That's bad. Very bad. Recently, in a magazine, they have come up with this accusation against the Dalai Lama that he is brainwashing the Nepalese children of Tibetan origin in the schools run by Tibetans. The Maoist publication go on to say that he is raising an army of Tibetan-Nepalese against China. And this he is doing on America's insistence. Maoists are going to be as bad, if not worse, for Nepal as the erstwhile king. The superstition of king-as-god will be replaced by Mao-as-god. Is Nepal moving from one dark age to another?

I like sports!

Roger Federer lost in the third round of the Cincinnati Masters. Croatia's big-serving Ivo Karlovic sent down 22 aces to overpower world No. 1 7-6, 4-6, 7-6. Federer, however, still keeps his cool and calls it a good year so far, and thinks that winning gold in Beijing and US Open will make it a great year. Is he the only one, who is not getting it? Anyway, one must give it to him for his composure and optimism. Perhaps, he will deliver what his fans so desperately want him to. As for the ongoing tournament, can anyone now stop Rafael Nadal from going into the Olympics and the US Open as the top-ranked tennis player in the world? Novak Djokovic meets him in the quarters. Let's see how he holds up against the marauding Spaniard.

Meanwhile, in Galle Test, the great Sehwag-Mendis show is on. Ajantha Mendis has 4 wickets till now out of 6 that went down. Virender Sehwag has scored 181 out of India's total of 302, that's about 60 per cent of India's total score. He has hit Mendis out of the ground four times, who otherwise has terrified everyone else. Murali doesn't have a single scalp to show. Will the tail hold on to allow Sehwag to go for a double century? Will Sehwag hold on? RECENT! Murali got Kumble stumped. Mendis got his five-for. Sehwag is eight short of a two hundered. Jayawardene needs two wickets.

Freddie Flintoff comes out with an inspiring performance after England caved in for 231 in the Edgbaston Test. South Africa are 256 for 6, not too far ahead of England. That's the kind of Test match I love to see. Freddie has 4 for 68 so far. If he gets another wicket and a 50 plus score in England's second innings, he will be back in the spot that he so richly deserves, the best all-rounder in the world.

On Judas and the like

Somebody has decided, based on the set of answers I gave in an online quiz, that I have character affiliations with Judas, the disciple who betrayed Jesus. I took this quiz on Facebook that purportedly reveals which biblical character you most closely resemble. The conclusion: apart from being left-brained I am also depraved. It told me I am like Judas, and the caption runs: traitor to Jesus. I never gave it a second thought; until I saw a note on my Facebook home page that such-and-such friend of mine is like Solomon. Wow, so in my case too the breaking news must have been flashed on the home page of all my contacts. Well, this might have caused many to gloat, "we always knew, it was coming to that" but some others must be just scandalized. Some kind friends may have avoided talking to me about it to allow me to save face. I went to my profile page and this is the picture I find there . Not very pretty, huh? Even if you consider it a joke. Anyway, this character analysis was based on a set of about six questions, one of them being, what kind of music do you like? Now does, say, being a rock and roll fan make me Judas? Did rock and roll music make Judas Judas? I am reminded of a Cliff Richards song. (The excerpts from the lyrics are given at the end.) The questionnaire never questioned my use of money or concern for the poor. Neither does it judge how easy it is for me to fall for few pieces of silver. It asked me my hobbies instead! I wonder how easy it is for people to be judgemental. How easy it is to apply formulas to complex human personalities. And how easy it is for people to fall for these.

Moving away from this inane quiz designed by some fanatic daft let me turn to Judas Iscariot. For every serious and thoughtful student of Bible Judas is a mystery. Recently, in the light of ongoing revisionist project in biblical scholarship (or what passed as scholarship), some experts offered a completely new picture of Judas. The story was run on National Geographic and the viewership was second to the 9/11 coverage. It was about Judas, the dedicated disciple, the most loyal disciple. The disciple who had too carry out the most arduous task. And this Judas was Jesus' closest companion. The story, however, was almost discredited. Read this article for more details.

The possibility of a different Judas has always fascinated human mind. Nikos Kazantzakis's The Last Temptation of Christ (1951) has a very interesting viewpoint regarding Judas. Here Judas resembles the Judas of Gospel of Judas, though it is not based on it. In the film version Judas is a nationalist, a zealot who wants to free his country from the clutches of the imperial Rome. He is the one who is sensitive to some special vocation of the carpenter Jesus. He expects Jesus to carry out his messianic duty and deliver Israel. He is upright, and violent, and also caring towards. He persuades Jesus to start a revolution and also warns him that he will kill him if he betrays the revolution. Harvey Keitel has portrayed a wonderful Judas in the film version. In the picture above he is on the right.


The classic question is what could Judas do? It was prophesied that Christ would be betrayed by one of his own. After this clear divine fiat how could a mere mortal challenge it? And by challenging wouldn't he be obstructing the way of salvation for mankind? Let me not step on the territory of theologians and carry on with my impressions of Judas.


Judas and Judas-like characters are fascinating. Japanese writer Shusaku Endo relentlessly pursues the question of silence of God in his modern classic Silence (1967). The story is as much about the search of Sebastian Rodrigues for his former teacher who has now apostatized as it is about the many failings of Japanese convert Kichijiro. Kichijiro is modeled on Judas. Like Judas he rats on the priest for 300 silver coins. In the novel he has lost his family because they refused to apostatize; he alone agrees to do that by stepping on the image of Christ, the fumie. But he keeps coming back to the priest even in his confinement and keeps asking for forgiveness. And then keeps on betraying. The dilemma of Kichijiro is why should God make weak people and then expect heroic things from them. But even as an apostate he remains most constant companion to the priest, who later abandons the faith himself. Endo's writes to examine whether the betraryers and the traitors, the apostates and the "backsliders" are able to capture and experience some attribute of God that never becomes real for those "holier-than-thous" who never had to make difficult choices in their lives. Sebastian Rodrigues had to give up that triumphant, and hence lopsided, version of Christianity. Godliness is not an imperial creed. Devotion is not a all about singing victory songs. Believing in God is not about knocking the opposition off but sometimes laying down the most prized-possession you have, even your creeds.

Now here is that Cliff Richards song I mentioned above. Great lyrics and some neat ideas to think about.

I want the people to know

That He saved my soul

But I still like to listen to the radio

They say that rock and roll is wrong, we'll give you more chance

I say I feel so good I gotta get up and dance

I feel good every day

'Cause Jesus is the Rock and He rolled my blues away

Well now they say to cut my hair

They're driving me insane

I grew it out long to make room for my brain

But sometimes people don't understand

What's a good boy doing in a rock and roll band

And I feel good every day I refuse to lose it

All I wanna I know from all of you is

Why should the devil have all the good music

The Sport of Marriage

My wife thinks I am relishing Federer's fresh failure at Roland Garros. When Rahul Dravid's Bangalore .. umm ... what was it called? Royal Challangers were being clubbed one match after the other during IPL, her thoughts were much the same. According to her womanly instincts I harbour deep jealousy for every male sportsperson she likes. It is wrong in Dravid's case and doubly so in Federer's. I was never a fan of Dravid. Neither did I dislike him. That's how I feel pretty much about everyone in the Indian Cricket team. That's something that often exasperates my father, besides his daughter-in-law. However, after Boris Becker the only tennis player I have followed is Roger Federer. Anyway, she is right in being suspicious of my apparent lack of sympathy and even some form of outrage at Rogers' rout. She might think that I am deprived of elemental humanity . I might as well be from another planet. From Mars? I want to explain the phenomenon to myself! I would like to suggest to myself that I have attained some enlightened state of cosmic detachment. It doesn't bother me much when my heros bite dust. I guess, I am finally shedding last of the remaining scales of youthful passions.
While Bjorn Borg thinks Nadal is going to win at the All Englad Club this year, Greg Rusedski, in a bright analysis, echoes the same note. By the way, Djokovic is beginning to figure in these kind of analyses, which clearly points towards more problems for Federer and, of course for Nadal. More for Federer, whom he defeated in Australian Open Semis, than for Nadal, I guess. Nadal is one of the strongest players on the circuit and is constantly improving. There is this nagging feeling that I must adjust my expectations, rethink my hopes and arrest my ardour. Sampras, on the other hand, sees no change of crown at the Wimbeldon. How I wish Sampras is right! So am I waiting for Federer to bounce back? I am. I sure am. And after that annhilation in the final (Federer lost the last set in a jiffy, 6-0) I am waiting for a resurrection, for the underdog to do well. (After Dravid's team had lost 9 matches against 2, I sincerely wanted him to win last couple of ties). I hope Sampras is right. And I hope Federer gives me a chance to prove to my wife that she hasn't married an alien in the literal sense of the word.

French Open 2008 Men's Final

Nadal and Federer are into the second set of the French Open final. Nadal is leading 2 games to 1. He absolutely destroyed Federer in the first set; Fedex lost 6-1. That's not the kind of match I had expected. And right now with a drop shot Federer levelled it at 2-2. Everyone cheered for him for just holding his serve! Federer lost his first service game in this set. He managed to break Nadal's later. I wonder if this is going to be Roger Federer's most humiliating finals defeat ever!
This is an interesting coverage. Apart from the two gentlemen sweating it out in the middle--it was cloudy to begin with, sun has just come out--there are two women whose nervous selves are frequently showcased by the camera. Mirka is one. Who is the other one? Nadal's best-kept secret? Nadal goes ahead 3-2. Federer serving. He's got to 30-0 easily. Is this a sign of a revival? Rafa returned a powerful forehand. No chance for Roger to even move. 30-15. Roger's girl Mirka looking at the floor. Caressing her brows. Her prayers are answered. Scores level 3-3.
Federer is hitting the ball into the net too often. He is having to work hard. There's another long one. Nadal leading 30-15. It goes to 40-40. Federer had the advantage. He hits it in the net. Again. It's 40-40. Now avantage Nadal. 4-3, Nadal holds. Federer gives it to the net. 15-15. Federer tries different thing. Comes closer to net. Nadal hits another powerful forehand. 30-40. Avantage Nadal. Federer must be nervous. He runs close to the net. Rafa hits it long. Federer finds the net AGAIN. Avantage Nadal. Everyone is clapping, cheering Fedex up. Merci. Federer makes it 40-40. Commentator says "Well done, again" Everyone is so desperate for him. He is desperate himself. Finds the net again and screams. Wipes some sweat off. Nadal moves quickly and doesn't let go of the advantage. Deep volley and Rafa breaks the serve. Nadal serving for the set. 5-3. A very long rally at 15-0. Nadal gets more and more precise with each shot. 30-0 for Nadal. Another long rally before Federer tries something cute. Plays it with soft hands and deposits the ball in the net. 40-15. Rafa gets first two sets. 6-1, 6-3.
I gotta go! Have an errand. Will miss the moment when Nadal equals Borg's record!

Rememberance of Things Past: In Short

I wonder if I don't have anything to say anymore. It's been more than five months since I last posted anything. Indolence, indifference, apathy? Or have I lost confidence in my readers. Ok, the last one was plain vanity but there has to be a reason for not writing. They call it writer's block, but to claim that would be a sacrilege. I am no writer nor was meant to be. Anyway! Let's reminisce. Just snapshot of months gone by.
January--Goa, dogs in the pictures, dog basking in the sun.
February--a friend announces decision to emigrate.
March--Reunion of family in bits and pieces, Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, Holi, huge tax deduction.
April--Banaras, Sarnath, The Art of Getting Left behind, Krishan Chander "Luck is a residue of design", Tagore, Kailash Kher's Ya Rabba.
May--New Jersey, New York, off centre, old friend, G. K. Chesterton, Raymond Carver, Akreit, Scent of a Woman, French Open, Yahoo Answers, House hunting,

The Tale of a Dark Priest

I bought this novel about two years back but only now got the time to read it. It was short novel, 130 pages, so I was able to finish it quickly. It also helps me overcome the guilt that I keep hoarding the books, without actually reading them. Kala Padri a Hindi novel by Tejinder (the novelist just uses his first name) is set in the tribal areas of Chattisgarh and follows the growth of James Xaxa, a young man of Uraon tribe, who is studying to become a Roman Catholic priest. James is a 'talented' and intelligent young man who is expected to make it big, go to Rome, meet the Pope in person and spent three years studying theology. But he is also acutely sensitive to the socio-political upheavels that are happening all around him and which prompt him frequently towards poltical activism. There is also Soselene Minz, a young woman friend who gradually becomes more than a soundboard for his ideas and thoughts. The novel goes into the intricate details of the lives of tribal Christians and brings out rich and complex narrative of India's social, economic, political fermenting. The narrator of the novel is a young man called Aditya, a bank official who has recently been posted in Ambikapur. The working of the bank, especially the corruption disenchants him and he often spends time with his somewhat idealistic friend James Xaxa and Soselene Minz. And it's with them and through them that he's able to clear the cobwebs of prejudice and ignorance, and allows the novelist an incisive narrative.

(काला पादरी, तेजिंदर, नेशनल पेपरबैक्स, नई दिल्ली. 2005)

Back to reading ways

After a long hiatus I have resumed my reading. These are a few books that I recently finished. The first one is biography of a Marathi poet-reformer written by J. C. Winslow and the next three are novels by Japanese writer Shusaku Endo:

1. Builders of Modern India: Narayan Vaman Tilak
2. Scandal
3. Deep River
4. Silence

Apart from that I have read a couple of short stories by Laltu. The first one is "Jab Brazil Mein Suraj Sir Par Tha" (When the Sun was Overhead in Brazil) and second is"Nitai Bhikhmanga, Premika Aur Kavita Ek Maut Ki" (Begger Nitai, Lover and Poem of a Death)

Both of these stories by Laltu have a male narrator, in the first one he is a narrator proper, while in the latter he is writing a letter. The stories are a richly complex mix of a male yearning for meaning, a dream of social equity and longing for the woman increasingly drifting apart. Both the stories are a fascinating study of educated middle class urban male who has excelled in academics with tenacity, overcoming crippling effects of economic disadvantages and who has nurtured a vision of social transformation. A host of Indian men are cast in this mould. There are so many of them, who have gained higher education, dream of change, so many of them have found that it is not easy as the structures of inequality and exploitation have percolated very consciousness of our nation. And so many of them cannot let go of the dream either. Fighting personal problems, relationship issues and professional disappointments so many still want that dream transformed into concrete reality.

Writerly Question

There are things that I want to write about. Things like the upcoming US Open final between Roger Federer and Novak Djokovic. Things like novel of Endo Shusaku that I have been reading. About Vir Sanghvi's polemic against Mother Teresa in today's newspaper. The first fills me with excitement. I am looking forward to it. The second one requires me to be solemn and meditative. The third makes me melancholic. I wish I had the patience (and more importantly, skill) to integrate these three events seamlessly in one piece of writing. Sometimes I wonder if it is possible to write about life fully.

Some Books on Shelfari Shelf

Stuck in the Schindler's Lift

I am glad I am not claustrophobic. Since the day we got the lift working in our office I have often had one thought—What if the lift gets stuck in the middle? I never actually answered, or sought to answer this rather morbid flash of fancy. Today, I seem to have gotten an answer—if the lift develops a glitch, press the alarm button and the lift operator will do something.

.....There was a power breakdown as I just boarded the lift this morning. I was alone in the lift and no sooner did it reach the first floor than the lights flickered, the fan ceased to hurl the tepid air and the lift stopped. I caught myself smiling gleefully in the full-length mirror. No, I am not claustrophobic, it is confirmed. My phone was fully charged and so I could spend a day talking to the reporters from the news channels if need be. I called Jagdeep, my office mate and told him how I was stuck. We both were amused and we hung up. He didn't think necessary to come down and it didn't make sense to me to call him. It was physically impossible for him to come anyway; the lift was stuck and all of us hate stairs (Jagdeep and I especially, even though our waist sizes are beginning to become unavailable in the market). In the meantime the door of the lift slid open but instead of the passageway there was a wall in front of me. I was on the first floor and the lift is not meant to stop there so that logical opening is walled up. I didn't feel like Anarkali and I didn't bother wondering who decided this and why. I was only too happy relishing the prolonged moment of my fortitude. Then I heard some commotion overhead. Our security incharge and the lift operator were executing a plan to rescue me. With soft jerky movement the lift began to ascend. I overcame the wall and a new dawn was setting in through what seemed like a skylight in my prison cell. As I moved up, the passageway of the second floor became a skylight, then a window and then a big window.

.....In this picture on the right you can see the floor level of the second floor. I was thinking to climb up and go over but didn't want to do anything unless asked to. No movement without instructions. Our security guard, Shiv Shankar ji, came to check and then shouted to pull more and then ran up to, I think, do the pulling himself. The hiccupy motion of the lift continued. And the big window began to grow into a proper door, a welcoming gate to glory which awaits people who have endured much in life. I was thinking that my whole office would have come down to give me a hero's welcome but as you can see in that picture there was no one, oh! heartless world. Anyway, Shiv Shankar ji, came back. By the time the lift had moved few inches up. I was still not stepping out. Not before somebody had noticed my travails. Only Shiv Shankar ji was there, the man with Bholenath's dual eponym. He couId at that moment burn me to ashes by his supernatural third eye—Sir why don't you come out. More than request it was an order, actually admonishment. He perhaps wanted to say—You fool what the heck are you still doing there? Who are you waiting for? For me to play on my damru so that you to start your monkey business (This should not be taken as a reference to the company I am working for, or to the work I do there). His veiled annoyance was justified because I could just step out of the lift now as easily as mounting on a single step. In the second you can see the difference in floor level of my lift and the second floor. And that foot that you see is of Bholenath's. Only one foot is visible because he is now the Natraj, getting into his most iconic posture. Come up sir—his voice thundered. And I meekly climbed up to his level. The level which is more awesome than the Olympic pedestal. And I trudged, unmindful of the fact that this little misadventure has had been a double blessing to me. One I have found the answer to what happenes when a lift gets stuck and secondly, nobody seemed to notice that I have come half-an hour late to the office.

Theme: Delay

Continuing with the same theme, of delay, I am reminded of few lines that I wrote many-many years back, in 1999 to be precise.

--एक--

एक अलसाई कोंपल देर से फूटी
एक पत्ता देर से हरा हुआ
साथ वाले
.........और
साथ की टहनी वाले
झूमते हवा के साथ
गाते थे चिड़ियों के साथ
वो दोस्त थे सारे

नया पत्ता
कुछ देर से पैदा हुआ

न हवा का रुख़ समझता था
न गीत चिड़ियों का पहचानता था
उसका कोई दोस्त न था
उसने बहुत देर कर दी पैदा होने में
या शायद
...............बहुत जल्दी

--दो--

वो उगा
उस टहनी पर
उसी पर उसे उगना था
वो पैदा हुआ
क्योंकि उसे ही पैदा होना था
हरे रंग पर हक़
............उसका भी था
हवा का रुख़ उसकी मजबूरी न बना
चिड़ियों का गीत
........उसके गुनगुनाने को दबा न सका

वो टहनी
वो पेड़ वो साथ वाले पत्ते
उसके थे
क्योंकि ये उसी के होने थे

Distraction: A Double Edged Sword

Looking at my last couple of posts I have become painfully aware of how much catching up I need to do. I haven't gone back to the books I bought as far as four years back. The "latest" music I bought hit the charts three years ago. Gadgets people are about to discard have come to my notice only in the most recent past. LATE. LATE. LATE. I am late while catching trains. My colleagues panicked last time when I was travelling with them. (Aside: Mention of colleagues brings to mind that I am often late for the office. Hope my boss doesn't read this).

Time oppresses me. Clocks, watches and calenders are my worst tormentors. Every year my birthday gives me jitters. I am reminded of John Milton's ode he wrote on his twenty-third birthday. I don't think I will be able to write anything like that even on the twenty-third anniversary of my resurrection. Those who know me know how John Keats rattles me. He died at the age of twenty six, having written some of the best verse ever composed. Nietzsche published his first book at the age of twenty-eight.

Last night I watched the movie Lola (1981) by the German director Rainer Werner Fassbinder . The man died next year, at the age of 37. By that time he had made about 43 full-length feature films. That's more films than he was old. The movie, by the way, was hugely engrossing. From the first frame where Marie-Louise aka Lola (Barbara Sukowa) is combing her hair till the last shot there was no let up. The dialogues, the visuals, and of course the performances were all class. One scene that stays with me is von Bohm (Armin Mueller-Stahl) passionately playing on his violin.

But of course, I am getting distracted here. I am not supposed to be discussing the movie but my struggle with the relentless march of seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, decades. That's a whole legion against a solitary me. And this solitary me cannot afford to be distracted in the face of this formidable opponent, guided by veiled or perhaps a faceless commander. Distraction is snake in the grass. Wish I were more disciplined, even like Fassbinder. On the other hand, it's possible that distraction is my most potent weapon against a single-minded obsession. On my MSN blog, Mindscape, I changed my introduction. Till now I had this written there: Looking at my life I am increasingly becoming convinced that God sends some people to be drifters. Floaters. My nickname there was DrifterAshish (I have changed that now).

Even this blogwriting is a kind of distraction. I had decided to utilize the off today to write the book review I have been planning for quite sometime. However, this distraction is endearing. I'd rather make a provision for diversions and digressions in the life-and-death battle of purposefulness.

Come Away With Me

Bought this grammy award winning album by Norah Jones a few days back. The title song is one I have enjoyed the most though Don't Know Why was the award winning record that year. Also bought Kailash Kher's Kailasa.
Meanwhile I have also updated my Mindscape. Updated my profile, changed the "More About Me" box, added two playlists.
It's Saturday today and though a long to-do list is throbbing in my head--adding a separate rhythm to Norah Jones's dulcet voice--I just don't want to get away from my comp. Its a pleasant, very unlike-June day today, and perhaps the best day to get over with the errands. But to sit here and go tap-tap on the keys seem to be the most important thing to do.

Ummmm ... I better get going.

1. I have to return the DVD, which didn't play last night.
2. Visit the bookshop and find out if the books I had placed an order for have come or not.
3. Buy some M-seal to mend the cracks in door.
4. Order lunch.

Anniversary

I am four days late in celebrating this.

11 April 2006 was the day I started putting together this motley collection of my thoughts. I haven't been very regular in updating this. But that just reflects what I am, I guess. Begin with a bang and don't worry how it ends.

Having said that, I am not going to let it end with a whimper.

Blogging has been a great experience to say the least! I have friends stopping by and occasionally leave a comment. Some of them started their own blogs. Hope they continue. There have been some exciting conversations. And I realized that even maintaining a casually written diary also require a huge amount of carefulness, even research. Not to mention, what a fantastic way it has been, in many ways, to discover my own self. I think, poets derive the same kind of pleasure writing poems which I have extracted from this exercise of blogging.

This morning when I talked to Laltu--one of the inspirations behind starting this blog--he asked me immediately if I had added something here. I am adding it now Laltu. Hope you keep adding stuff at your space too. Voices of sanity are few and far between.

To celebrate this anniversary I must mention a most flattering incident. Last Sunday Joel talked to me saying that the previous evening as he was driving from one end of the city to another to deflate some stress, he realized that he needed to speak to someone. At 2.00 a.m. he thought of giving me a call. Call me selfish, but instead of knowing what bothered him, I was just too glad to know that he thought of me at that moment.

On this blog I want to confess that the most flattering thing in life is to be of use to people who have always been a strong support to you. People you have learnt from. People who invested in you and patiently (even painfully) waited for you to grow. Being rememberd by someone like that is an awesome feeling. I was so overwhelmed by this feeling of gratitude that today I called people who made difference in my life. I called Laltu. I called NKO. I called Akshaya. I will be calling a whole list of people now.

Meanwhile, Joel, I wish that you activate your "Thought Spot"

Remembering Brahmabandhab Upadhyay

2007 is the year of death centenary of Brahmabandhab (Brahmabandhav) Upadhyay. This 11th February is his birth anniversary. Some of us are trying to organize a discussion around the life and ideas of the man. I just wrote a small introduction which we intend to send along with the invitation, since we don't expect many people to know about him. Here is what I wrote

Brahmabandhab Upadhyay: A Very Short Introduction

Upadhyay’s short life of 46 years or so spanned one of the most creative periods of Indian history, when India as a nation was in the making. A number of the key-figures of the nation-building process – Debendranath and Rabindranath Tagore, Keshabchandra Sen and Pratapchandra Majumdar, Annie Besant, Ramakrishna Paramhansa and Swami Vivekananda, Bipinchandra Pal and Aurobindo Ghose – to name but a few, encountered his forceful personality. Upadhyay was in the thick of the struggle to form the soul of modern India - Julius Lipner

Upadhyay is one of the enigmas of modern India and … a potential embarrassment to those who invoke him – Julius Lipner

Brahmbandhab Upadhyay was born on 11 February 1861 in Bengal. A fiery intellectual – Vivekananda-like in scope of his vision of spiritual revival of India, like Aurobindo a nationalist to the core, and a comrade of Tagore as the latter materialized his idea of Shantiniketan – Upadhayay was a trailblazer in many ways. An editor of religious as well as political journals; an itinerant preacher challenging most cherished ideals of his day; a nationalist who sought self-respect for his motherland; an educationist; a sannyasi. He treaded on a terrain with no guidance from the past, and made possible creative synthesis of knowledges arising from East as well as West. But sadly the hero of cultural awakening lies forgotten by a large majority of Indians. A genius like him is not necessarily popular, as the comment above suggests. However, those who wish to give the hero his due, those who seek integration of experience and faith, those who wish to understand the soul of twenty-first century India must get into conversation with the ideas, the ideals and the life of Brahmabandhab Upadhayay.

1861 - Born as Bhabanicharan Bandhopadhyay in a Brahmin home. Comes under the influence of Keshabchandra Sen in his boyhood.
1887 - Initiated into the Church of New the Dispensation of Keshab
1888 - At the age of twenty-seven goes as a Brahmo teacher to Hyderabad in Sindh, and there chiefly through his friendship with two missionaries, Redman and Heaton gradually became convicted of the truth of the resurrection of Christ and his co-eternal Sonship. Reads Faa di Bruno’s Catholic Belief
1891 - Baptised in February by an Anglican, affirming at the same time that he did not thereby join the Church of England. In September becomes a Roman Catholic.
1894 - In January starts Sophia from Karachi. Dons the ochre robe of a sannyasi. Takes the name Brahmabandhab, the friend of Brahaman (Theophilus in Greek).
1897 - Emphasizes the potential of ‘Vedantic Theism’ and formulations of Shankara
1898 - Writes in Sophia, “We are Hindu so far as our physical and mental constitution is concerned, but in regard to out immortal souls we are Catholic. We are Hindu Catholics.”
1899 - In March, monthly Sophia is discontinued. Followed consecutively by two short-lived journals – the weekly Sophia and The Twentieth Century. Both publications include political discussion on topics of the day. Adopts a nationalist stance and becomes unsparing in his criticism of the behaviour of foreign Christian missionaries and of various actions of the British Government.
1900 - Works closely with the poet Rabindranath Tagore in developing the famous ashram at Shantiniketan
1902-03 - Pays a visit to Europe. Disappointed with the west.
1904 - Starts a daily Bengali newspaper Sandhya, culturally and politically anti-British.
1907 - Undergoes prayashcitta, the penitential rite by which the excommunicate formally returns to the Hindu fold. On September 10 arrested by the British Government on a charge of sedition. On October 27 dies while recovering from a hernia operation. Cries “Thakur, Thakur”

Christmas wish for the newly weds

I really enjoyed watching this video. Hats off to Nippy who found this!

एक प्रिय कवि का अध्ययन

"आपका प्रिय कवि कौन है?"

जब भी यह प्रश्न पूछा जाता है तो असद ज़ैदी का नाम सहज ही ज़ुबान पर आ जाता है।
आज ही उनकी कुछ कविताएं बीबीसी की वेबसाइट पर पढ़ीं। एक उठा कर यहां चिपका ली है।

मेरे ब्लॉग का भाव कुछ तो बढ़ा।

नृतत्त्वशास्त्री
नृतत्त्वशास्त्र! इस काम में दिक़्क़त यह है कि अक्सर लोग इसकी बारीकियों को समझते नहीं. मोटे-मोटे सवाल पूछते और ख़ुलासा करते-करते आम आदमी तंग आ जाता है. आखिर क्यों नृतत्त्वशास्त्र? जवाब में एक रोज़ नाटकीय अंदाज़ में मैंने कहा : माट सहाब, जब तक इस दुनिया में नर और नारी हैं, जब तक नृ और तत्त्व हैं, तब तक शास्त्र रहेगा और शास्त्री लोग भी. पास खड़ी देहातिन बोली : ‘ तो शास्त्री जी, कछु शादी ब्याउ भी कराऔ?’ और अपने टूटे-फूटे दाँत दिखाती हुई हँसने लगी. उसकी ननदसे भी रहा न गया : ‘अरी भौजाई, यो तो खुदई कुँआरे एँ. ये का करांगे शादी-आदी!’ कई लोग सस्वर हँसे थे : हा-हा, हो-हो, हा, हि-ही, हू! तो इस तरह परिहास के बीच चल रहा है अपना काम, फ़ील्ड रिसर्च. लोग मेरा अध्ययन ज़्यादा कर रहे हैं, मैं उनका कम.

आखिर की पंक्ति ही शायद इस कविता के अपहरण का मुख्य कारण है।

रिटर्न टू इनोसेंस?

पहले सोचा कि एक हिंदी का ब्लॉग अलग से लिखूं। Excusively in Hindi। लेकिन हिंदी और अग्रेज़ी का लिखने वाला मैं तो एक ही हूँ। हिंदी बोलना पहले सीखा। पहला प्यार हिंदी है। हालांकि अंग्रेज़ी से भी उतना ही प्यार करता हूँ। और यह स्थिति दो नावों में सवार होने जैसा दुस्साहस बिल्कुल भी नहीं है। After all I Am Plural।

वैसे हिंदी के लिए एक अलग जगह सुरक्षित रखने से यह बहुलता समाप्त तो नहीं होती। बिल्कुल नहीं। आने वाले समय में शायद अलग ब्लॉग बना भी लूँ। Let's see.

हिंदी में लिखने की इच्छा काफी समय से थी। ठीक एक हफ्ते पहले लाल्टू को पहली हिंदी ईमेल लिखी। उसके बाद से हर रोज़ सोचता रहा कि लिखूंगा। और आज इतवार के दिन छुट्टी को भुना रहा हूँ। परिवार के बाकी लोग बाहर दिसंबर की धूप का मज़ा ले रहे हैं। इस पोस्टिंग के बाद थोड़ा समय उनके साथ भी बैठूंगा।

दरअसल हिंदी में लिखने के पीछे एक कारण लाल्टू का ब्लॉग भी है।

दूसरा कारण जो कि शायद पहला कारण है और जो मैं उपर बता भी चुका हूँ वह है हिंदी से प्यार। या शायद तुलनात्मक रूप से हिंदी से थोड़ी अधिक घनिष्ठता। मातृभाषा पंजाबी है। ईश्वर ने चाहा तो कभी पंजाबी में भी ब्लॉग लिखूंगा। पंजाबी में कुछ अनुवाद तो किया है परंतु मुक्त रूप से, अपना कुछ भी नहीं लिखा। हां, कुछ एक चिट्ठियां ज़रूर लिखी हैं। मुझे याद कि जब मेरी सबसे बड़ी बहन अपनी पढ़ाई के लिए लुधियाना में थी तो मैं उसकी अंग्रेज़ी में लिखी चिट्ठियों का जवाब पंजाबी में दिया करता था। मैं शायद पंजाबी में ही अपनी भावनाओं को ईमानदारी से अभिव्यक्त कर पाता था। लेकिन अंग्रेज़ी या हिंदी में बेईमानी है ऐसा कहना सरासर ग़लत होगा। घर में बचपन से पंजाबी ही बोली जाती रही तो मैं चिट्ठियां किसी और ज़बान में कैसे लिखता। गैर-हिंदी भाषी, गैर-भारतीय मित्रों के साथ अंग्रेज़ी बोलते हुए भी बहुत निकट अनुभव करता रहा हूँ।

तेरह-चौदह साल कि उम्र में अपने एक बहुत ही करीबी दोस्त को हिंदी में ढेरों चिट्ठियां लिखीं। आज भी कई बार चैटिंग करते हैं तो रोमन हिंदी में ही करते हैं।

अब शायद हिंदी - पंजाबी में लिखने की दिशा में सोचने से अपने बचपन और अपने आप को और अच्छे से समझ पाऊं।

"Bachelors, it's your call now."

Bhartesh wanted to know if I am on Orkut. Of course I am, though I still have to gauge its utility. He said he didn't find me when he made a search. "Your location is Chandigarh, right?" "I guess so." I logged in to see if it was. It was. However, there was one change that was needed to be made in the profile.

In fact I had been wondering how would I declare it here, in the cyber world. But it wasn't much of an issue. Jesse had announced it long before I got the chance to proclaim that I am married. So I am not exactly breaking news in the virtual world. But still ...

Pooja and I got married on September 28, 2006 in a civil ceremony.

As I clicked on the radio-button preceding "Married," I did feel a tinge of nostalgia.

But before you read too much into the signifier let me put on record my two months ten days old experience: "The mystery of marriage far outweighs the brouhaha, the bravado and even the blessings of bachelorhood"

So when you hear it said: "Its not good for man to be alone" Pay heed. That's God speaking!

Nostalgic teacher!

Time: 4:07 PM

The archives of my teaching days in colleges and the university are already beginning to get dusty! Or so I thought until this morning when Bhartesh called me to wish Happy Teacher's Day. The first one to do so. Then as I reached my Bible college and we began the worship, Muskaan's sms came :-)

At 10:30 Pritika called. Besides the felicitations we talked about poetry scene in Bombay and in the North. Then Nishu came out of her self-imposed exile to pamper her haggard pedagogue.

That wasn't all ... Muskaan has sent an e-card with some terrifically flattering lines...

And if you know Muskaan, she wasn't finished yet ... there was a bouquet waiting for me as I went home to lunch. WOW! Chennai and Chandigarh are not exactly twin-cities ... Thanks!!

Akshiptika a former student of mine studying Sociology in JNU sent another lovely sms. She amazes me.

In the Bible college Rashmi Ranjan was the first one to shake hands with me. Isha, Rajkumar and Naveen followed. Anil caught me on the stairs. My collegues Sampath and Aying reaffirmed our collective calling as we wished Happy Teachers day to each other.

Gursheek, my dear friend and a former collegue was the latest one to wish me.

Thank you all!

UPDATE:
Time: 11:51 PM

I reached home at 10:45. There's another bouquet waiting for me. From Bhartesh and guess who ... Muskaan.

The charm of 786

7 August 2006

Many of us remember the number 786 etched on the miraculous insignia that saved Amitabh Bachhan's life in that definitive cinematic achievement called Deewar. The insignia, Billa no. 786, was seen again in Coolie, another Bachhan starrer. When the date reads 7/8/6 something as magical as the movie or as block-busting as the Big B himself is sure to tantalise our appetites for bliss. Bachhan's magic and human penchant for fetish combine to give us a great metaphysical succor. Muslim scholars may continue the debate weather the number itself is authentic, and hence blessed, or not, the population on the subcontinent, Muslim and non-Muslim alike stays mesmerised with the number. There are people, we've heard, who have made it a minor goal of their lives to collect currency notes whose numbers end with 786. Lakshmi bearing the mark of Bismillah is certainly a good omen; paisa, somehow, becomes more permanent. Its purchasing power remains the same but its significance is not in the mundane, material, monetary value. It becomes a spiritual sign.

The charm of the date however is countered by the day; MONDAY. Monday morning blues almost faze out the confidence the date conjures. Mondayne morning versus blessed Bismillah.

Notwithstanding the meanings we ascribe to it, hope this day inspires us to make new, non-mundane beginnings!