A lilting breeze
The fragrance of the night
The silent presence of a cloudless moon
Cozy flower buds with sheets drawn,
Drenched in twilight dew
The stars twinkle ever so slowly
The night remains forever.
Amidst the gentleness of Sahana
Would I desire the passing moment?
(to listen : click here)
What is the essence of time but the perrenial river that stumbles past every pebble?
What difference would it make which way the river flowed? Time’s Arrow by Martin Amis is a manipulative novel. I mean this in a good way. (Isn’t it sad that some words are forever canonized into having a negative connotation?) The book starts off with a man in a hospital, paralyzed and unable to move. This is the point where most novels would decide to end the story. Man born, grows up, falls in love, makes futile attempts at procreation, and is paralyzed by the humiliation of his inability. However this is where his novel begins in reverse.
A popular movie in recent times has been Memento which uses this concept to create an exceedingly well paced thriller about a man who at no point in time knows more than the viewer does. More so, Irreversible (a French movie) uses this same concept and toys with our sentiments about happy endings.
The book has a protagonist but the narrator isn’t the protagonist. One executes, the other refutes. From paralysis to well being, from love to unlove, and from death to life, this book dramatically questions our ability to understand the world around us as simply a sequence of events dictated by Time’s arrow. Sometimes I guess it doesn’t matter which way the arrow points.
It’s quite surprising for me that I was born into a divided world. We were divided on the basis of geography, class, society, community and in some cases, walls. I try to remember my first days of existence in this world. My memory obviously fails, sadly.
The question is, what do we imagine our world to be like? What happens if the image of the world begins to fall apart? What if it was merely a broken sheet of glass patched up in the fog? Hit the right note, and you can hear it crackle.
Goodbye Lenin isn’t a great movie by any means, but it tells a very beautiful story and provides a very interesting perspective of the events that followed the collapse of the Berlin Wall in1989. Christiane Kerner (Katrin Saβ) a woman grown up on the vitality of a socialist regime in East Germany lies in a coma through the period of the fall of East Germany. She wakes up in a new world- the world on the other side of the glass door- a world where the socialism is only in dictionaries. Her son, Alex Kerner (Daniel Bruhl) constructs an East Germany in her bedroom fearing that the fall of the Berlin wall could possibly be her worst nightmare. He takes care of every possible detail from fabrication of the news on television to using food containers with East German labels.
Love walks into his life in the form a young nurse, Lara (Chulpan Khamatova). His sister, Ariane Kerner (Maria Simon) is pregnant with a West German boyfriend- a weak metaphor that the child born is not child of a divided country. But perhaps such clichéd occurrences and obvious intonations are the strengths of the movie. The narrative is very moving since it talks about how the life of a people changed in a matter of months. On the scale of a century, eight months, the period during which the woman was in coma seems miniscule. Time is fleeing, and eternity is only worth an hour.
Occasionally, a veteran of East Germany always walks past Alex when he rummages through the trash for old bottle labels and says, “Look what they have brought us to. Is this why we struggled for forty years” The movie tries to look at what the reunification of Germany did to its people. To text books, it created a chapter to be read many years later- The end of the cold war. To the people, such wars are pittance. The advent of capitalism swept aside the failing economy of East Germany and its people were hardly able to keep afloat in its waters. The East German mark had depreciated to fifty percent of its original value. It appears to me that the socialist government started the disintegration of East Germany and the capitalist influx merely accelerated this process. Cosmonauts of the former socialist regime were now taxi drivers. Alex’s childhood hero was now counting change.
Art is a reflection of our times. It is the only way to hear of a story that never happened. It is the only way for us to even attempt to answer the question ‘why’. (In my view, this isn’t a scientific question but rather philosophical. Kurt Vonnegut would have said, ‘there is no ‘why’, there only ‘is’ when he alludes to the inanity of the interrogative.) No matter.
The movie ends on a sentimental note, Alex in monologue says, “She’s up there somewhere now. Maybe looking down at us. Maybe she sees us as tiny specks on the Earth’s surface, just like Sigmund Jähn did back then. The country my mother left behind was a country she believed in; a country we kept alive till her last breath; a country that never existed in that form; a country that, in my memory, I will always associate with my mother.” And that’s what the world of East Germany was. A world in the memory of a woman trapped in a room. Perhaps all she needed to do to see the world; was to open the door.
The movie is directed by Wolfgang Becker and features appealing performances by all its actors. Lara, Alex’s girlfriend is very appealing and stands a voice of reason in the imaginary world that Alex so meticulously and tirelessly builds through the movie but that’s simply a bias I happen to have.
The life and times of Michael K is a novel that describes the essentials of human existence. It defines the lack of purpose in life and its creation. To exist means to be free. Freedom turns out to be something raw, something that people can be rather unpassionate about but emotion has little do with this feeling.
Michael K is a beaten up worn out, presumably black male in South Africa, born with a disability- a cleft lip. At no point does Coetzee proclaim the race of K. I have a feeling the reason why the last name is an indefinite K also has to do with guarding the racial identity of Michael. Perhaps the disability is metaphorical in describing the disadvantage that plagues a whole race of people in South Africa.
Michael’s desire for freedom seems almost pathological, his lack of existence- peripheral.
The bond between Michael and the earth is the only things that connects him and perhaps drives his existence forward in a seasonal manner. The background to all this is a civil war that haunts South Africa. The manner in which he tries to completely dissociate himself from the war that surrounds him is rather humorous. It is almost as if war is a black hole that sucks everyone and spits out the bones. Michael is part of the war whether he likes it or not. As far as war is concerned it is numbers that matter- both enemies and heroes.
Sometimes the style of writing in this book seems bland. I’m inclined to think that the purpose is to convey the repetitive (perhaps boring) manner in which K passes his life.
The change of gear in the book where in the narrative voice changes over from being a description of events to the voice of the doctor is also quite interesting. It tries to ask and re- ask the same questions we hold for Michael through the course of the book. There are some answers that await the reader but for most part the ambiguity is maintained.
The life and times of Michael K has little to do with life or his times, but the reader ends up deriving all the pleasure from its perceived lack of content and the undeniably incisive manner of writing which is a very attractive characteristic of Coetzee’s writing.
The affluence of joy
a nostalgia of the fondest memory
a fall where all leaves remain
a winter that isn’t cold
age cannot feel younger
amidst the unchanging spring
with every falling note
and drifting melody
Kalyani, the world has little beauty
Why keep all of it?
As I sip on the sweet nectar of my orange juice for which I have a fetish to drink only at nights, I thought to myself what ‘Freedom at midnight’ might have really sounded like over the declining glass of OJ!
Long years ago we made a tryst with destiny, and now the time comes when we shall redeem our pulp, not wholly or in a full glass, but very substantially. At the stroke of the midnight hour, when the world sleeps, orange juice will awaken me to life and freedom. A moment comes, which comes but rarely in history, when we have to decide between Calafornia oranges and Florida oranges, from the old to the new, when a glass ends, and when the soul of a solitary orange, long suppressed, finds utterance. It is fitting that at this solemn moment we take the pledge of dedication to the drink the juice regardless of the type.
Slurp slurp.
All additives are purely fictitious and have no relation to whether or not Nehru consumed OJ. Anyway at such troubled times choice between most pulp, pulp, medium pulp, no pulp, calcium with pulp, calcium without pulp, vitamins pulp must have created more communal violence than that caused by partition.
Its been such a long time since I ever wrote something that the process of writing itself has become blurred. I can’t see words too well. The t’s dotted and the i’s crossed. Perhaps such things are fashionable or just downright cliched. Destiny works well for languages. The article and preposition always find a safe haven in a sentence. Misplaced or homeless ones simply do not exist. If they do, they become adjectives and pronouns. I wonder why the gap between writing and speaking has a deep abyss. There seems to be no reason why the voluntary motion of the mouth cannot dictate instructions to the hand. Meanwhile, reality sings to a different note. The point is, I should try to write more. I like it so much I wish I had more talent.
I wish I had a voice that is as loud as the media. It reaches the farthest corners of the country, and all one really needs to do to assimilate the information is to watch and listen while drinking your favourite brand of coffee. The poison then effortlessly slips between the tresses of the brain and scars the organ for life. If you are around in India during these times, the issue that might strike you as being very prominent is the sentence handed to Sanjay Dutt for his involvement with the Bombay blasts in 1992- 93. Some people consider the sentence excessive, others severely flawed, some call it justice and a large part of the country doesn’t give a damn about him and are more worried about their next meal. I’m quite pleased with the verdict. I’m not in a position to say whether six years is excessive or not because I honestly have no clue about how the legal system works. I also don’t think most people who pass comments about this in popular media are in a position to do this either. That said, the media isn’t making the length of the sentence the talking point. The question asked is about the sentence itself. Is handing out a jail verdict appropriate? By all means the answer is : Yes! I think the justice system works in a fairly straightforward manner. It looks at victims, looks at criminals and says one is right and the other is wrong. (I’m thinking interms of the spherical cow approximation here but it does work fairly well) If you possess something on the lines of an AK 56, a few grenades and have conversations with the underworld at bleak times, I doubt if the case is more complicated than assuming all cows are spherical.
I watched a popular show yesterday called “We the people” which as the name suggests is to echo the sentiments of the people. There is a debate with a panel selected to field the questions. Now lets squeeze the lemon of sympathy at Sanjay Dutt’s end. Squeeze it dry by putting up a highly biased panel that refuses to talk on the basis of evidence but prefers sentiments and that very annoying mode of argument- tangential subjects. Everyone refuses to talk about the point of contention because its much easier to claim victory in this sort of a forum by talking about everything else. “Hi, did you have lunch today?”; “ My new car is a snazzy Ferrari.” Everyone goes gaga over the car and forgets what was for lunch. Everyone on the panel agrees he was wrong but says that his apology and the life that he has lead for the last 14 years should suffice. What utter nonsense this is? The host remarks that, the purpose of prison is to reform or to keep socially unfit people away from society. I wonder why she chooses to be so naïve. People are not so forgiving and if one is a victim of an attack, punishment serves as a means to an end. What that end might be is immaterial, or whether there is an end is debatable.
Civilised societies resort to prison, some hundred years earlier, castration might have been the order of the day. The bottom line is that a wrong doer suffers in a manner that the court of law deems appropriate.
I think the common man is unanimous as far as the validity of the verdict goes. If the Letters to the editor is a measure of his sentiments, he has spoken and has spoken in favour of justice is above all. Unfortunately the voice of the common man is weak and feeble and is restricted to page 10 of a national newspaper. The voice of the celebrity is louder and so is his plea for (in)justice. A government that yields to voices of unreason is a government without a spine. I hope that the balance of justice will prevail. Can the media, please shut up?
If thought word and deed were all to form a spiral, vortex of the spiral lies in art. As I start writing this piece, one thought strikes me at the back of my mind- “How does one begin writing about the essence of art?” It isnt a philosophical question but is rather one of aesthetic value. Timeless and persevering.
Perhaps Lenin sums it up beautifully,
Ничего не знаю лучше «Apassionata», готов слушать ее каждый день. Изумительная, нечеловеческая музыка. Я всегда с гордостью, может быть, наивной, детской, думаю: вот какие чудеса могут делать люди … Но часто слушать музыку не могу, действует на нервы, хочется милые глупости говорить и гладить по головкам людей, которые, живя в грязном аду, могут создавать такую красоту. А сегодня гладить по головке никого нельзя — руку откусят, и надобно бить по головкам, бить безжалостно, хотя мы, в идеале, против всякого насилия над людьми.
Translation: I know of nothing better than the Appassionata and could listen to it every day. What astonishing, superhuman music! It always makes me proud, perhaps with a childish naiveté, to think that people can work such miracles! … But I can’t listen to music very often, it affects my nerves. I want to say sweet, silly things, and pat the little heads of people who, living in a filthy hell, can create such beauty. These days, one can’t pat anyone on the head nowadays, they might bite your hand off. Hence, those little heads must be beaten, beaten mercilessly, although ideally we are against doing any violence to people.
The human race has varied interpretations of art. From imitating life to being a balm for the human spirit, an exemplary example of human thought, a representation of the evolution of time, social structure, culture and ‘just being’ I guess it’s hard to say what art really is.
I remember reading one of John Keat’s greatest works- Ode on a Grecian Urn.
Fair youth, beneath the trees,
thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
A concise summary of the unchanging nature of art.
It is hard to imagine human existence in the current context without art. Art is a symbol of our times. The perspective that art provides is not one that is beyond reality but merely a reference to other dimensions of reality that we normally fail to percieve. The eye of the artist is one that looks beyond the horizon, past the sunset.
Perhaps I would do justice to this writing if I were to quote Shelly when he ends Ozymandias-
“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!”
Nothing beside remains: round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
How does one romanticise the concept of cooking? Well, take a little bit of Paris, garnish it with some white and red wine, a little bit of cheese on the side, usher in some of that French air, add, perhaps some mundane salt to taste, and top it off with a rat.(trailer)
Of course it is hard to resist the temptation to ask- where did the rat come from?
Putting a rat on the movie screen is as horrifying as taking the cigarette out of Humphrey Bogart’s mouth or perhaps to allude to incidents in recent times, allowing Paris Hilton to speak her mind! But alas, the faux pas in this case is admissable, especially when Pixar decides to commit something of this sort.
Most of us love the concept of food, some to eat and others to cook, some to devour, others to cherish. The central theme of Ratatouille is “Anyone can cook”. As much as food seems to be a utility to some, to others it is Monet. The sauce is on the pastel capturing the moment of sunset, a sprinkling of basil sets a gentle draft of breeze, and the tongue, the tongue relishes the moment. The stage is thus set for the central character Remy (the rat of course) to extoll his love for gourmet food and prefer it, ahem…to garbage. The opportunity to experience and taste come by, not long after he gets to cook in a gourmet restaurant in Paris. The rest is of course predictable fare but the charm of this movie lies in serving a frequently used platter on a gold plate.
To describe this movie, many words could be uninteresting. Few, too subtle. It is rather hard to talk about Ratatouille. Its like trying to talk about a place, like Venice….it is the experience that counts.
