Whoever appeals to the law against his fellowman is either a fool or a coward. Whoever cannot take care of himself without that law, is both. For a wounded man shall say to his assailant, "If i live, I will kill you. If I die, you are forgiven". Such is the fucking rule of Honor.
God. Lamb of the fucking God is one band you do not want miss the live show of. They are five crazy fellas who can pay a prostitute 30 pounds for cleaning their van topless. They are five people who can break any fucking neck without even touching it. They are five fuckers who literally fuck the crowd with their performance. Thursday, 10th of June 2010 goes down as one of my most memorable nights as an audience to a music event. Lamb of God are the biggest thrash metal band on this planet.
It was at first a major surprise to find that a band as popular as Lamb of God is was touring India. And I was one of those unlucky ones who were going to miss it. But this thought was not uncomfortable. I knew I would be in Europe and that come June and I will get to see some of the biggest gigs. And after coming to Europe and bemoaning the fact that none of the sonisphere shows are going to be in The Netherlands, I was heartbroken. But there is always the Messiah, the Lamb of God. Only that this time it literally was. I came to know this when I was randomly going through the websites of the most popular music halls in Hengelo, the sexy Metropool. And they had a very casual mention of Lamb Of God. My goodness...i could not stop gazing at the screen for at least 5 minutes. With a capacity of hardly 850 metal heads, how does LOG fare? And was it actually true? I searched the web for anything connected to LOG and Hengelo and found nothing. Finally I decided to visit their webpage and much to my delight, they had the mention of Hengelo on their page. Fucking awesome. I was delighted. And I am still thrilled.
I saw the ticket price and it was 22 bucks. This was out of equations. Why were they touring so cheaply? More shocked than excited, I anyhow bought the tickets. Interestingly, I woke up half an hour early to buy the tickets, and reached the university 1 fucking hour late. No issues, though, and not a care. I felt like I was the richest man in the world. I have been listening to the online radio for almost 25 continuous days now and was totally bored with their playlist. This was going to be one heck of a night and I knew it. One thing that did not go well down with me was the reason why they were touring Hengelo, and in an indoor area, with 22 buck tickets? Perhaps a promotional tour for their new album.
We were at the place on time, and hardly had we entered, when we started hearing screams and blasting drums. I was going insane in that atmosphere. People, booze, smoke, piercings, leather, punks...odor, music and screams...but this was not LOG. Definitely not. They do not have this many number of breaks within their songs, neither is the drumming so dull. The vocals are not clean and the guitar riffs are damn heavy. And this was just at the entry. I rushed up to the Jupiler stage. It was Kudra Mata, the local band with some new stuff. They were cool...the bassist was very natural and the drums came very easily to the drummer. One very interesting thing was that they had a complex song structure with multiple meters within single songs. The drumming breaks were well done and the vocals were strong. The guitarist, I thought was not as proficient. There were no guitar solos, and the band’s sound rode heavily on the drums. The monotony of the songs was what perhaps ruined their moment. But still thumbs up to them for their headlining act. They had laid all the pins and someone had to set the ball rolling. And it was Lamb of God.
The concert began with their song "In your words"...and the ball was set rolling. Crazy riffs, fast tempos and very subtle and puritan drumming. "Set to Fail" similarly, was not the typical LOG song I thought, since the vocals were remarkably different. The drums were the same (cool, sharp and fast as usual), thanks to the great Chris Adler, and the groovy riffs made the air very thumping. They had half done their job. The only thing that was lest was their customary and legendary songs. "Walk with me in hell" is the classic song where they use Randy's powerful vocals and Morton's guitars to express the lyrics. "Something to die for" is one of my favorite songs, and they made sure they did not change anything about it. The thrashing of the drums and the intense growling and then the nice tempos make it a head banger's delight. "Hourglass" is a very difficult song to perform live, and Adler rightly admits so. But they are Lamb of God. The man on the wheel chair was the hero of the night with his undying love for metal and thrash. He had come to watch LOG perform when he could not move his hands or legs. And believe me, he rocks, and LOG made sure he enjoyed every bit of the show. He was on the stage with them. Cool. Somebody challenged Randy; it seemed from his tone and then came "Contractor", a real fast song. I was almost neckless by that time. They had given us the ultimate treat of metal. They had performed their classics with and their new stuff. It was time for some serious motherfucking shit. Followed next, "Laid to Rest", the rule of honor, "Omerta", the motherfucking invitation to the "Rednecks" and the one I had never heard before, "Vigil". The series was real loud and groovy. To round it up with a fucking circle pit, they did the real speed metal "Black Label". Pure thrash, pure speed and pure head bangers' ball. No other band can do such things with such ease, such feel and such effect as LOG.
The vocalist had grown his hair, the others seemed to be Dumbledores, the crowd was fucking dedicated with every person singing every word with the vocalist, banging their heads in frenzy and screaming, guzzling the unlimited booze flowing in that hall. The metal fucking heads, with all the leather, studs and piercings, the punks with their hair weirdly done, the tall sturdy guys doing the circle pit and the man on the wheel chair...Willie's plectrum and the playlist...awesome. I just missed out on the trademark flag that the band uses. Shit.
Going by the set notion of democracy, it is not very difficult to imagine some kind of a political structure wherein a collective conscience of community is at work to address the aspirations of the community. And it is not difficult either to imagine something like a powerful tool through which the shape of the aspirations is doctored to meet the ideology, that is so very not-of-the-community. Not for nothing has it been called the influence of corrupt eloquence over the unintelligent majority, and for all the right reasons, some dub it as the necessary safeguard, against humanity’s inclination towards injustice, in as much capacity for justice as it can.
Some of the very confusing identities that have masked that notion of this form of government are equality, justice, liberty et al and for an incisive clarification, an understanding of the democratic system worldwide, and not just of any particular region, particularly one as diverse as that of the subcontinent, and one as inconsistent as south Asia, where only “few” countries have democracy as the form of government, formal or real notwithstanding, is required. The comparisons to the societies of the States and the United Kingdom are almost as necessary as inevitable. What brings more specificity to Indian democracy is its root in the heavily plural society. The Americans might have well called democracy as the triumph of the fifty one percent over the will of the other forty nine percent, but when we set out to discuss in the purview of the Indian democratic system, the numbers become more and more hazy. It no longer remains just an equation of numbers, but a more meticulously, and inadvertently, charted out concept to bring to fore, a united will of the state, the composition of which is very volatile. At the best, what we can make of the democracy in the southern asia as such is to form specificities, regional or derived from it, to the general democratic theory.
The Republic of India, or if it is democratic republic, for the records, has hardly seen 60 years of free political society. The consistency though has been remarkable, in terms of the persistence with a form of governance that had almost become brittle in the formative years of the Indian nation. With global concern and remarks against democracy, and keeping in mind the then contemporary state of Indian civil society, it deserves more than an effort to keep the faith going in the sub conscience of the people. And this might very well have been the reason behind the Indian elite choosing this form of rule. The form of governance that was initially thought out as the set of principles rather than as a form of governance, has traced an upward path in terms of achieving the principles that it had set out for, but simultaneously has not been able to distance itself with the material aspect of power relationship. The social structure acquiring a different form and a subsequent meaning, the established dominance -I would not prefer calling it hegemony- of the historically superior caste taking a backseat and the renewed interest in the Hindu unity have been hallmarks of the history of Indian democracy.
Prominent, also, is the improving focus on the regional forces, or rather regional effect over the national political scene. The decline of the congress party has not been an isolated event. The continuum has been complemented by the more than willing response of the masses, and those of the so called lower castes. What this has done is to bring to conspicuousness the role that people actually can play in determining the contours of the democracy. The politics of obedience has gradually transformed into the politics of the people’s call, and thereby has had increasing effect on the policy making of the state. The figment of imagination –As I would not be a master, so I would not be a slave- or the other way round, has become more and more salient in the case of Indian democracy. As opposed to the British system, where the concept of universal suffrage found a late implementation, the success of Indian democracy can be attributed to its almost immediate resort to universal adult suffrage. This has all along ensured, even if only on paper, an equal say of all the sections of the society in the formulation of policies and the welfare towards the people.
Ever since the first of Indian statesmen emerged on the political scene of India, they demanded the equality in terms of representation of the masses. The demand for more representation of the natives in the governing bodies embodies the concept of democracy very strongly within it. The importance of an inclusive democracy was highlighted, and with it was highlighted the fact that the minorities, and I mean the political minorities, needed some voice to raise a concern amongst the higher echelons of governance. To bring about a visible change in the societal order, a section of the society needs to give a tongue to its concerns, and demands, and even to the fact that rights are not things meant to decorate articles or sections in books, but a thing of practice. This pronounces the contestation principle of a democracy. And for a healthy democracy, both these principles assume paramount importance. Contestation had always been the hinge of argument, and still is an important issue that needs to be addressed in the Indian democratic setup. How freely does the political opposition drag the majority, the functioning government into the box, or how freely is the policy making process and the policies that come out as a result scrutinized by the voice of the dissatisfied, the opposition. Important point here, I think should be that scrutiny never implicitly states a total rejection of the policies in favor of self proposed ideals. India heavily boasts of a very old argumentative tradition, something reflected since centuries in the public as well as private sphere of Indian society, and the functioning of the legislature should hinge upon this aspect of debate. The second principle, one of inclusiveness, guarantees a logical and sound inclusion of groups in the democratic institutions and processes. People’s rule does not mean people electing representatives from a group of similar minded people who do not have any body to minutely peruse their way of “leading the people”. The participation of multiple parties in the legislature to some extent vouches for the representation of all “major” factions of a society.
Having talked about the principles that lead towards a “more” successful democracy, we need to talk about the guiding principle of democracy –the proposition that all men are created equal. Whether this equality forms the basis of a better democracy, or whether a successful democracy leads to more of an egalitarian society, the one I mean without social difference between sections of people, is the matter of concern. The aforementioned principles of democracy are largely taking into account the practice of electoral equality, or political equality to be subtler. What this does is that by giving political equality to the socially or perhaps economically unequal society, we tilt the bridge towards a majority which is lower down the societal ladder. Ultimately, the influence of this section of the society, the one in majority, is bound to change the way the society functions, at least in the electoral institutions. What this may not achieve though is the social equality, since the respect amongst fellow men is one thing, this kind of action may not be able to generate. On the contrary, it may quite handsomely end up in an antipathy towards the lower rungs of the society.
Contestation and participation encompass the ideas of acceptance and tolerance. Though a diversely distributed demography marks the landscape of the country, the diversity is such highly localized that the horizontal perspective does not seem to hold any particular relevance in determining the political contours. And here come the pillars of acceptance and tolerance. Whether or not the above two principles are applied with acceptance as the core or a very blunt tolerance, determines the position on the scale of continuum, that democracy is. A continuous variable, democracy can’t just be quantified into values to indicate the success of the system. Stressing upon this fact, I think the role, or perhaps the place of equality in a democratic system assumes a great importance. Whether or not can a system be called undemocratic based on the level of equality it vouchsafes for its citizens is a point in question. Now analyzing the democratic societies that have been in existence, and healthy existence, I mean, or similarly, analyzing the possibility of setting up of democratic institutions that embody the above mentioned principles, we can assert that neither of these is a precursor to the other. Equality does not imply democracy and democracy does not predicate equality. Social and political equality, on one hand and economic equality on the other are determining coefficients of the efficacy of a functioning democracy, and not simply values that debar a system from being called so. As I mentioned earlier, the unavoidable reference to the western democracies, on which our system is very largely based upon, we see that even though the States had a fair number of parties contesting, it became even fairer after the civil rights revolution. In the British Kingdom, even though there was a very vigorous contestation of the participating groups, the participation became even better with the extension of the franchise to all classes. This ensured a progress from the already existing and sound democratic system. On the other hand, assuming equality in the society, there is no democracy without elections. History has witnessed nation states awarding fairness to all sections of its subjects, and still not being democratic. So the assumption that democracy or equality is in some way related to being the other’s cause or following from the other is a flawed one.
So what basically has the Indian system been over the years? Has been successfully pledged equality to its citizens and simultaneously, been efficient in carrying out this pledge? Since we know that there is considerable amount of inequality in the Indian society, social, economic political, whatever, and though the constitution safeguards the right to choose their own representatives, a great majority of the Indians have not been able to find a voice to their concerns. This brings us to the point of discussing the path that Indian system of governance and the composition of the political scene have taken.
Sometimes I cannot understand some things. I know you think it is most of the times. But the problem is that those of you who say so are most of the times ignorant of the fact that it is you who are incapable of doing so, as far as my state of mind is concerned. I will cite some examples. Someone said to me yesterday about her liking for some piece of work, that I did not like somehow. I simply remarked that I knew the reason why. And surprisingly I got a NO back. What the heck? How do you know what did I think? If I say I thought you have a decent level of affection within you for the author, what would you say? Or simply, If I say you like anything that you do not understand, would the answer still be a NO? Perhaps, I should have said that you like those because you tend to locate yourself within the plot so to say, or may be you see the author grossly involved in the plot, writing something that he connects, even if remotely, to you. I think I knew why you liked it because it is very apparent from the writing that it is not new, and not very exotic as such. Tell me why do people in Bengal still flock to Mithun flicks, or Sunny Deol flicks grab considerable eyeballs still in Northern India? How can someone justify people still having fantasies with some typical south indian action film? I do not understand.
So, the reply I got was a very weird one. She said that every such tale brought tears in her eyes, and that the writing was so realistic. Oh my God! I had an unintentional smile on my face. There are two kinds of sweet people. Ones who are actually sweet and the others who are stupid enough to be labeled sweet. I myself have been in the second category few times, but I was freed of all doubts regarding the other person. The only difference was that the adjective should not have been sweet but naive.
The pity with the world is that most of us find comfort only when we see some mishap having direct or indirect forbearance on our lives. And most of us enjoy this. I do. I like people coming up to me and condoling with me in times of distress. And for that matter, I do not want to come out of it, or present myself as someone who is very carefree, regardless of the fact that he is troubled by a lot many other issues. On the contrary, I find pleasure in forming my own issues and drifting around with that grief stricken and that very not-smiling, serious face of mine. Attention grabbing techniques? Certainly one of those. At this point, I ask for some digression, since attention grabbing techniques have been mentioned. The other day when the professor asked the girl about her notes, I was waving mine. The reaction was simpler. "Vivek, are you trying to send some feelers to her, as if you want her to share notes with you". "I wish I could have succeeded, Ma'am". Smiles all around. I have better techniques I guess.
So, I was talking about some things that I do not understand. I was traveling the other day in the train from Delhi to Guwahati. I saw this slum area near the Guwahati station. The train abruptly stopped outside the station. The area was full of trash, I mean both the people and the surroundings. Trash and people you might say is very radical on my part. Yeah, it is, but I doubt you would have had second thoughts had you witnessed what I did. The setting is not one that typically fits the slum area. This was not anything different but it had a strange atmosphere looming large over the roofs of the huts that were built. The sanitation was at level zero, because I could see people actually using the paths they use to walk for toilets, the drains were nothing but a very shallow channel provided to drain away any water that crept into the locality from the nearby drain, and the broken sewer pipe, to the other half of the same drain. It was disgusting. The place was likely to be a dumping ground for the human waste from all around the city, and the huts were built over the mounds of the waste. The "roads" leading into the area and further into the huts were the ones where the pigs bred. I am not writing anything other that what I actually saw.
The broken telephone booth served as a perfect irony in that weird landscape, a piece of happening and touching photography for one of the fellow travelers. I was appalled. Not only at the sight, but also at the attitude of the fellow traveler. All this this while complaining about the locality and its inhuman condition, he was abusing the people as well, calling them all sorts of weird names, Bangladeshis being one of them. What surprised me was that he blamed the inhabitants for all that was there, overlooking the rehabilitation problems they might have been facing when they shifted here. After all no one sleeps on human waste and a mound of rubbish, beside a dog and a couple of pigs, out of choice.
I am no humanitarian or some activist who aims at pointing out the fact that the government has ignored these people, leave alone doing something. I will write just that I saw. And I hope this evokes as much pity and sympathy as some monotonous, banal piece of fiction does,if not more, and gets instrumental in having people shed a tear or two at the plight of the ones who are not fortunate as we are.
Amidst all this jargon, a sudden violent drama unfolds. The train is still halted, waiting for proper signals may be, or perchance the driver needed some recreation and refused to go any further without it. The event might as well have provided him one. The small man, I thought he was a Nepali, comes shouting out of a shack, with a stick in his hand. He was a short fellow, sturdy, but i thought he could have done well with a little more clothes and some more hair on his head. So, he has this stick, log I dare call it, in his raised hand, and following him come out a pair of boys, small,very small. He starts lashing out at them. They are helpless. The neighbors all come together, not for the help of the boys, but as spectators. And as I would have expected them to form a group at the site and do nothing, they did not. After a moment or two, only the man and the boys were in the picture, again. The man still shaking with anger, shouting abuses at both the children and at his shack. The children wailing, swollen after the treatment. I thought he might have been drunken. And that it might have been a routine for him and the children, the boys.
Someone said it was not a routine work. He might have been disturbed by the daily income troubles, and was frustrated. The other person commented on his wife's unfaithfulness, confidently stating that he understood what the man was rumbling all the time. I do not know. I was stuck on the apathy of the people. Apathy in the sense of total ignorance. They all of a sudden became oblivious of their surroundings, what was happening around them, the man, the boys, the exercise, the train, the thundering sound of the clouds...everything. They did not stop at anything. The Nepali went off with his stick somewhere into the trash. The local boys came around with their football, and started playing. The football hit one of the boys who had taken the beating, and he forgot about everything else. He got up to play. Everything had changed in a while. A woman, disheveled hair, dusky complexion rendered dirty somehow, wiping tears, and trying to cover herself uncomfortably in that sari of hers, comes out of that shack, goes straight to the boys, hits them hard, pulls them by their ears and drags them back into the hut. The game continues, without the feeling of any interruption. The boys begin their crying again.
The passengers find amusement at this. Someone clicks at, and records, the sight of the woman's naked breast that kept popping out of the insufficient clothing she had. Some other, sophisticated passengers find this place fitting to dump out all the waste they managed to have collected through out the journey. Some football fans simply wonder at the finesse with which the street boys were playing. Amongst the few others, a couple goes out into the hill and begins asking the locals something in the native language. I was simply staring out of the window, cursing the driver to have stopped at a filthy place like this, with filth all around, and filthy people all around.
And now when the person says about the connection she established with the characters in that imaginary writing, I think about the futility of human life. (Errr.....where am I leading towards....). We relate more to things that we fancy we were a part of rather than being able to put ourselves into the positions of reality. Why do we empathize at the tragedies of some imaginary creations when we have all the misery in the world to be a part of, to be a spectator to, and to be a cause of as well. Why do we find pleasure to imagine ordeals when we have live accounts of such, imprinted on the canvas that we behold every moment? I know not.
This is simply one of the things that I do not understand.
Let's go back in time. Retrogressive...no, not in the exact sense of the word. Simply that I am writing something that happened almost three months ago. And it might as well be news for some. (I wonder why I always write for others, and not for myself). December somehow always gets associated with things rosy, despite the gloom hanging heavy in the atmosphere. The rose in our case is quite a puffed one, and somehow manages to defy the famous Anarkali (yes, the one from Mughl-E-Azam) quote regarding thorns and roses.Such is the association with roses that their physical presence is almost unavoidable. We move through the path strewn with rose petals to the bed of thorns.
So, I went to his place. The Salim, I wouldn't hesitate calling him such fancy names, now that we know about his habits. And did I mention, this Salim happens to be my best friend. He has got this weird habit of laughing whenever he sees me. Half the times the explanation is supposed to be my hair, and the remaining half my shirt. This time it was no different. I had just done my hair, and courtesy that barber, who was so unwilling to cut my hair according to my wish that I had to be satisfied with the goose-flesh kind of hair that was left, and the white shirt I was wearing looked decent enough to fit 3 of my size. Somebody remarked that I was looking no better than an urchin, and only 4 days later did I realize this when I was frisked by the mahila police at the Guwahati station. The possible explanation could only have been molestation, I thought. The sky blue jeans went well with my Bata slippers. He was no fashion icon either. He uncannily looks like a jackal, with that mole somewhere near his nose, and that shabbily done facial hair. The hair on his head comes not even metres close to Salim's but still somehow, with the rosy Anarkali, he would do a perfect Salim.
He was supposed to come to my place before we went to the rose garden, (I hope you get the drift), but Salim, rose and drowsiness go hand in hand. I knocked on his door, and the lady that opened simply kept staring at me. I had never seen his mother, and simply took her to be her.
"Can I see Salim....?", enquiringly.
"Sorry...we are not mughal gharana", the door shuts with a bang.
"Oh, please wait, (Jodha bai, I whispered under my breath)...I meant Anurag"
"He is sleeping"
"But he is supposed to have woken up by now. Would you mind doing the needful ma'am"
"Let me see...oh! and you can come inside"
Thank you very much, rajputani.
He comes in black boxers, and the hair which should have been undone is perfectly groomed. After a second I realize that it is Salim that I was looking at. The Salim with over 800 wives in his dreams.
He quickly gets ready, and without surprise, he did not need much time. Just a pair of trousers, ugly creamy ones and I found myself travelling at 40 kmph on the elegant Splendor.
"Dude, we are really going...I can't beleive"
"Why don't you concentrate on the road ahead?"
"No, I mean her father is a professor at such and such place, and I am afraid..."
"Shut up chicken shit, and let me do the talking if he pulls up a gun, alright?"
"But...OK"
I was carrying a monkey cap to pose as a credible explanation for my hair. The sudden draught was enough to get me shivering, and that retard thought I was nervous. Anyway, we were greeted with a no-expression-on-my-face look, by someone who I came to know only seconds later was the supposed gardener (if you get the metaphor), and that prevented me from second thoughts. We had come to meet her, but that Salim utters his name, the brother's, and I have to see the unforgiving face of...whatever. My only words were her name and the reaction was a confused look. He more or less understood. We were left in the company of the unflinching father, and four chairs. I was looking around to make myself at home and he was concentrating on the door the brother went through. All of a sudden, i see her peeping from behind the trees, from her terrace, and the only sound I heard was "O! Shit, they actually came"
Yes, she had someday asked me to come to her place. And as it always is with December, the previous day I had a brief sojourn with the other lady with the same name. I do not remember much after that.
When we proceed towards examining the finer details of any form of art, we inadvertently decide upon tracing the background, be it political, be it social or be it an isolated form of existence. As highlighted by many eminent thinkers of the past and modern day, art as such is construed to be followed from and to follow, in itself, a very general form of a thought from which it emanates. The broader meanings of art, pertaining to recreation, somehow dilute these finer details. The ideas upon which the art is built, the process undergone in the interim (from the conception to the tangible execution of that thought), and the effects of the output on the environment surrounding the thought; not solely does this sum up the concept of art, but the overt aspect more or less is contained in these. The essence of this art however, needs an expression for itself, a mode, and not just means, to reach the final target, if at all it is meant to. Ignoring, luxury of which we can afford ourselves with, while discussing the theoretical basis and the desired outcome of the same, I proceed on to discuss the form, though most entertaining, but simultaneously, the broadest, the most diverse and at the same time, a very concerted form of expression, of representation and in terms of the effects, the domination.
I must however, disclaim at this juncture, the inclination towards the absurdity of, and the assumption itself that all art is meant to be interpreted in a way that goes on to conform with the most suitable ends, the contemporary society or the history as such. The point here is to credit the creative genius of the artist through an appreciation, even if positively critical, and not just undermine and belittle the effort citing the possible parallel to an existing culture or even an ideological hegemony. Art is as it should be, and the rights of democracy or the diktat of liberty guarantees every second individual to draw a totally different meaning as it should, but the fact that art is not ephemeral or temporal imparts a lasting soul to that form of art, and the success of that art lies in its ability to speak for itself, and not just be a passive mode of expression. Allowing many an interpretation of an art diminishes the motive behind the creation by a magnitude so great that the original gets lost somewhere in the middle pf these assumes states of mind the artist had been in. The success of art, methinks, is the connection it establishes with the spirit of the medium through which finds expression and the one where it is impressed upon.
Rang De Basanti is a quintessential form of that art, the art that has a soul, the art that is meaningful, all the time being very pertinent to the contemporary mindset of the society, and never forgetting that it is just an nart not a didactic or a doctrine, and hence it has to be vocal, simultaneously, about the plebeian connection as well, for what is art if not vulgar, what is memory if not shared, and what is an idea if not popular (I mean made known to the outside of its conception). The movie, (I think my first usage), aims at the conscience of the audience, it carries with itself, the idea of integrity and truthfulness, the burden of responsibility, the Promethean man, the feeling of a community, the strong undertones of love, the idea of knowledge from the prism of power and the expressions in their manifestations thorough the protagonists. It has a very nuanced hint of the effect of the third eye, the eye of the foreign, the effects of the beholder, the terms of conformity with the third eye and the solidarity and the degree of mutual acceptance of the no-so-own.
Sue is a Briton, with roots that can be dug up to the imperial, so to say, the colonial master, Britain. The ancestor is shown to have been an important figure of the British presence in on of the most exemplar colonies, India. The light in which the story sees a path is the confession of an outer falsehood by a "seemingly" conscientious British "ruler". He finds it immoral to carry on the duties he has undertaken with the burden of responsibility. He has to execute the barbaric, violent natives, who at the same time, he says, were epitome of patience and persistence. This clearly brings out the paradox. The intimacy between the two parties is reflected through the mutual acknowledgment of qualities which overtly may seen hostile but somewhere there is a resonance of thoughts. And Sue, in her capabilities sets out to uncover this aspect of British thought. We see a dichotomy in the psychology, the exact manifestation of the acceptance of the evil, but framing it as a necessary evil. We can also project that individual evils are not subject to any hegemony. That the source of the knowledge is a very instrumental part in the way that knowledge is assimilated, that the form of that knowledge is itself not dissociated from the source. We see a Brit commoner, personally disturbed, but for the greater purpose assumes a falsehood. We see a seeker of truth, a desire to present the alternative side of knowledge.
The college kids, or boys as I must call them, represent an aspiration, the aspiration of a future that is independent of their present and past. The boys symbolize a feeling of emotional solidarity within a community however small it may be. The boys represent the "let-live" form of thought, when we come to know of their past and the present. The college represents a place of connectivity, a forum to rid oneself of all the individual strains, of backgrounds of families, or of emotions; and indulge in the shared ideas of liberty, of fraternity. There are strong currents anti-social elements, which represent the idea of a moral right of a particular form of aspiration to bring within its fold, the offshoots of the broader society. The hooligans represent the false notion of exclusivity of belonging, to a particular school of thought or definition of community. The introduction of the western immediately projects the incorrect perceptions of the west about the east, and the east of the west. This also presents the ideological hegemony present in both the societies.
The plot introduces the terms of the shared oneness. We can see the reluctance transforming into tolerance and then metamorphosed into acceptance and belief. Through this process, we are shown the re-representation of the Indian underground terrorist movement during the colonial rule; the lackadaisical attitude towards one's nation in the boys, even after having been active instruments of representation through a nationalist view.
The plot takes a turn and assumes a serious nation-towards march when the friend is killed in a crash. The representation again plays its part in the power circuit and through the media, it finds a general acceptance. Behind the scenes we are shown the concerns and the dismissal of these concerns by the power circuits through thr tool of representation. The truth is projected through the tool of virtue and morality, through the concept of linear and empty time, where in the viewer unknowingly fits the trajectory of the strong and then we see the rising of a common sentiment. The peaceful gathering and the tailoring of the opinions to meet the personal ends, is shown very meticulously. The conscience of a nation is shown through the candle scene. The following story constantly projects the mis-representation of the truth as the false, and simultaneous anger about the real-politik in the conscience of a people. The impulsive childish response of the protagonists ends with the slaying of the minister, and yet again this attempt bears no fruit. In this fact and the subsequent story, we are shown the concept of Gandhian time, where the myth is truer and stronger than history. The boys repeat the process of self surrender but are assumed to terrorists, and killed. We know nothing of what becomes of Sue, and the later stages after their killing, but this definitely is the point of view of a nationalist in the makers.
The creators, in short, try to present, if I may, represent the Indian history, through the present. The ideology of art speaking aloud for itself succeeds, as I find myself writing my view about it. Was it meant to be interpreted in the way I did? We never know. What we know is that whatever be the purpose, this art traces the bits of the formative stage of a nation, parallels it with the current state and seeks to make a comparison which even though might not have been intentional, it successfully does.
I have lately been disturbed a lot. Sometimes due to my own doings, and other times, simply. But the other day, may-hap, did something to alleviate a bit of this pain. I was at the department coffee shop, simply staring at the faces, hungrily gorging themselves with their pastries and sandwiches, when I had nothing to eat. Huh...I think I mentioned about the dearth of money. Yeah, I have been going hungry for nearly 5 days now. I think I should now try and go for a record. The mess here serves no better than cow-dung, though I doubt the purity of the mess food compared to the hype surrounding the benefits of cow-dung. I couldn't ask anyone to feed me with something...I am already in a huge debt...financially, emotionally...whatever. So, with my tongues hanging out, I had to ask one of the professors to help me get a cup of coffee. The professor winces at the stall owner, and I knew he was not very excited. Then something remarkable happened. Chitra came up to me.
No, fools, not to get me something to eat, but for perhaps some class notes. I wonder what made her do so...the charisma surrounding my persona, or the standing hair on my head, and chin alike...All the more, she, I think, is the only one who has never noticed me in the class. I don't carry any stationary (is it -ery?) to the class, and she never noticed this. Cool...So she comes up to me, and asks for the Network Theory notes. I am surprised. Was this something to propel me to committing a suicide? Nothing more disturbing could have occurred to me, ever in my life. Now I know that I like that subject a lot, and that I know a big deal of networking but people don't want to accept that. The professor randomly decides to award me two entwined naughts, the friend of mine mocks at me, yes the Cisco friend, and I have this pretty girl asking some help on networking...My life has been one perfect epitome of paradoxes and ironies. I hate people from IIT Guwahati, and i am dumped into the same institute. I look down upon the seven something pointers and i have been inflicted with this curse of remaining in the seven something bracket forever...and fighting to maintain that, of late. I enjoy Networks the most and I perform the worst in the same. The pretty girl seeks help in the networking course. FUCK.
OK, forget about this...I thought i was writing something about happiness. By the way, my Cisco friend always finds it odd when I am not moaning about my sorrows...hihi...So, when I saw her coming, i tried to fish my pockets for something that could allow me to exchange coffee with the shop owner. And fortunately for me, I get my id card. And before she could utter something I had deposited my id card with the out there, and waved him for a coffee.
"Hey, could you help me with something on networking"
"I am afraid, why don't you ask the topper...I mean he should do a better job to satisfy your needs, of all kinds (a silent chuckle erupts into a broad smile)"
"No, i couldn't understand..."
"Coffee??"
"...the part that you discussed with Bose...regarding CSMA CD...you see..."
"Ek coffee aur de do (signaling at the coffee-wallah with all the pride I could garner)"
"...Oh com'on...I won't have coffee...Bhaiyya mat dena...(turning towards me)...I dont like these coffee they prepare, and by the way, I didn't ask for the coffee...!!!"
"I thought you were..."
"No, first let us talk something about the collision..."
(Of hearts, i would have fancied).
Blah...Blah...Blah.
Yeah, somehow I managed to escape that brutal assault of hers, in any possible sense that could have been. And while on the topic, i noticed the silent pink lips of hers...She was wearing a pink frock...and that accentuated the pink of her cheeks...and the pink smell of her perfume reminded me of...nothing, exactly. The conversation ended with a customary thanks giving.
The rest was all painted in pink, the moment onwards. I thought of something relating to pink, in a way yellow relates to jaundice. After the classes, I thought of asking her out. And you bet I did.
"Hey, Chitra, umm...ok, I am not happy that you refused a coffee with me"
"What?!!!??"
"No, i mean i thought it would have been kind-of nice to share a cup of coffee with you"
"Oh! sweetie, I don't like the coffee here, I told you...please don't feel bad...and don't you dare think I am arrogant...(a chirping laughter)"
"Oh...no...I just...just thought that(a foolish laughter)...but now i know more and better, i think...right!!! (pass on a smile, and you bet she reciprocates). Ok so I guess thats all for the day..."
"I am afraid, Vivek, pretty much"
"OK, so have a nice time...an tastier and healthier cups of coffee"
I turned away with that, calling my friends name, and asking for a lift.
"Are you free...i mean you don't have any prior commitment for the evening do you???"
"No, but i have to go for...yea I am absolutely free...why??"
"No, i thought we don't have labs and I am not doing anything this evening...so why not give you a chance to share a cup of coffee with me...!!!"
"But you don't like this cafeteria, do you?"
"No, dumbo, and thats why i asked if you were free...so that we could go out for the..."
"Are you hinting a date with me...(a sheepish grin)"
No, I am not. But then, don't people suck at metaphors. For that matter, I don't know if I do. Six and ninety hours it has been since I last smiled. Six and ninety hours since I have been disturbed by fits of unhappiness, and as many hours since I ate something. I wonder why not-eating goes hand in hand with not being happy. I had a pack of cigarettes though, to calm down my nerves, and some aural exercise with Pink Floyd and Opeth. Contrasting images do I generate, I know, but my life has been tracing pretty much the same course. And while I try to drain out the depression, the Doors do no better than pull me back to their eternal haunting end, the end of everything that has meant or should mean, life for me. Why does the pain need to be exacerbated? I mean, why do I imagine more and more pain for myself, even when I have reasons to be happy? I know, I am not doing any better. I know there is no pain, and nor do I want imagined sympathies.
I can listen to the clamor outside, while I am sitting at my desk and reflecting on possible sadness that is to befall me. They are celebrating the birthday of some lousy bastard, that brat who banged his chick the other day, and now is profusely distributing cases of liquor to celebrate his happiness. I like whiskey, but I am in no mood to have some now. What do I raise the toast to? The two unkind noughts entwined together on my mark-sheet...or the hazy prospect of getting a job...or perhaps even bleaker the possibility of securing for myself a candidature in some management exam? Perhaps it is the unwillingness to go for an internship, or the idea of missing my sister's marriage. I don't know, I am not sure. The cigarette, just like the fading smile on my face, seems to be burning out very fast. Let me smoke my bit...
Yeah, ITC should actually be banned for producing such kickass packs. I am looking forward to switching to cruder forms...Meanwhile, the thought that troubles me at the moment is that I am not getting any help from my neighbor. I don't have any money, my jeans cries for salvation, and I am hanging on to it as the only refuge. Oh! and I just switched to Black. Fuck. Eddie Vedder haunts me to death. Do I have a troubled love life. Ehh....No. What do you expect from me? A screwed up life with nothing to cheer about? I am perhaps the only one to have something to cheer about. Someone told me about appearances that people conjure up, in order to look despondent when they actually have bags full of weed, and the moments of elation that follow...while others simply hanging their tongues out, licking every piece of ass that comes their way, and proclaiming their tryst with happiness, when every night they get fucked by the ideas of reality. What next...of course this is not a bit relieving, but still I am trying to ease myself, with a false hope that this forum saps out the sorrows of my fortune. Weird, right. But does barking at the tree produce any movement? Bark your lungs out, and the tree moves not a whisker. Write loads of accounts when actually they are products of your skewed hindsight.
Someone knocks at my door, and asks me to join him in their celebrations. I agree to come within moments. I know I am not going. In the meanwhile, I was going to use that stall to drop a deuce, but somebody left it looking like a toilet mummy. Huh...no comfort even in my answers to the nature's call. What the hell !!!
I was somehow admitted that year, and with all the experience I had, I was regarded as the bravest and the most mature boy, in the class…yeah, some were two years and some one year younger to me. Those fools had some kind of connection with tears and departing parents, and just could not manage to hold them back, even during the class, and I thought I was the only one who felt some freedom from the homely (dis)comforts and hassles at the school.
Getting back to the point...I used to have a superb calligraphy. But in due course of time, it was all ruined…reasons…the education system. Stop assuming things and read further. So, I had this teacher who was not very fond of me, and one day scolded me, I think unnecessarily. That was it. I only scribbled in my notebooks that day, and on, and now I just can’t seem to get rid of the habit. Second…I used to be a studious student, I used to work hard, and without much of results. What was even more barbaric of the teachers was that they didn’t think I deserved passing in subjects like MORAL SCIENCE and DRAWING. Huh…morons…didn’t, in fact couldn’t, even realize that I was the one with the best hand at drawing INDIA’s political map, with all the states. The worst part of it was that over the years, and following the continuous drawing debacles, I have lost my perfection. Moral science, I think the ones who know me should explain better.
What do I do next? I stop studying and the decision immediately bears fruit. I get the first second rank in my life. A moment of realization of the futility of the education system, or perhaps the fact that I was not in the best of schools. Anyhow, something revealing that I learn, and quite unconsciously, is that you ought to have a good relation with your teachers. Damn you, I don’t mean anything physical. Only that you need to be the apple of the eye, through your active involvement in the rubbish of the class or the academics. The latter of course helps, simply because once you manage to create a reputation, it continues for the rest of your life. At least this is what happened to me. And the only thing it does is that it destroy anything that qualifies as an intellectual or, academic, for that matter, capability in you. It carries with itself, as sense of false security, a false sense of satisfaction and the detrimental effect of blunting your sharpness. Now, what happens is that you score only in the subjects that are not absolute. Yeah, I scored only in History, or Geography (this one was objective), English, Hindi and Moral Science. (I should have hurled my M.Sc marks in the face of the one who detained me, and said, “Now take this, in your face, asshole”). I barely managed to pass in Math, or Physics. I did well, though, in Biology, and Chemistry, and ironically, I am in the career that would not even remotely connect to Biology. (I enjoyed all the subjects I did well in, for the record).
So, after my matriculation, I go to this Kota place, and there too, education disappoints me. It so happens that we are required to take tests on a regular basis, and upgraded or downgraded, depending on our results. Now, the lesser mortals like me can barely manage to pull off some 70 percentile, and hence find ourselves in the bottom of the merit list. Education manifested the imperfection. Here, I should mention an important observation, of one of the toppers…he said that education did its bit in bringing out the perfection, but examination of that bit of education effectively overrules the verdict of education. He would then go on to say, behind my back, that may be some possessed lesser degrees or superlativeness in some areas. Now Mr. Topper, wherever you are, let me get my message to you very straight…this form of education does nothing more than establish fools like you as the kingpins of our society and we all know how the society fares. Or more of an admittance, yes, some of us are not perfect in all ways, and my point of contention is the validity of my opening statement, and in that sense you and your education fail miserably. So does swami Vivekananda, who so ignorantly went to claim this aphorism.
I am now in supposedly one of the best colleges in India, and what is manifested out here in students is no less than shocking. Very unwittingly, most of them discover their potential in terms of booze and cigarettes, or weed so to say, some of them realize they were not meant for studies, and decide to pursue a career in sports, the remaining bastards are good for nothing people who simply waste the government’s money. A few others, who find comfort in music or literature, curse the choice having been forced upon them, and don’t give a damn to whatever happens of the hopes they had managed to raise over the past 17 years. I am not trying t make a commentary on the status of the schools in India, but my point is the social system regarding education and the academic inabilities to cope up with them, leave alone molding them. What educations uncovers in places like here, and not only here, almost everywhere, is that half the people are dumb, the remaining have a share amongst them who should not bother the society much and the choicest few, who manage to surface as the perfect, are the ones who are, generally, the most inappropriate form of perfection.
It is of course a point to be made, about the form of perfection that had been talked about. I mean, how the perfection in music can be manifested without a proper guidance in music. You can’t just mug up some physics formulae about frequency and quality and stuff, and claim to have perfected the knowledge of music. Bull shit. And how can the perfection in sports surface through some, let’s say mechanical theories. You don’t calculate the trajectory before throwing a cricket ball or hitting a football. And they don’t teach you proper literature or that stuff here. So, my basic contention is that the form of education that has been widely accepted, and of course I am totally writing account on the basis of a personal experience, needs to be changed, even if in the idea of the system.
A good example would have been the thoughts of the legendary Gandhi, or the suave Vinoba bhave, who had this concept of taleem, or education from the very roots. Now, we had the British question the highly value based form of education in Indian culture, and even plans of wrecking this value system. My point is that without even the modernity introduced in the education of their period, the Britishers had the fear of the system of education prevalent in India. Yeah, we owe our current system of education to Lord Macaulay, who during Lord William Bentick’s rule made an assessment of the Indian form of education, saying its ancient form of education was its greatest strength and to colonize India, we must first enslave this education. And where do we stand now…the lack of this education, the one for the development in the individual as the primary objective, the one where one takes education out of an interest in the respective field, the one where nothing of the domain of knowledge is commercialized, nothing of the development aspect is compromised, none of this is to found. As the Acharya says that education just for the sake of it, just for the hope that this education is just a means for not the enlightenment of the self, but just that it might one day help you break away from the cruelties of the world economy, and perhaps, the idea that one might not have to be involved with any form of physical labor, is no education at all. I don’t know, if I am correct in judgment, but the Indian economy is now-a-days more of services oriented. Where is the manufacturing sector, where is the investment in education, where is the investment in the basic living amenities, where is the investment in the moral sentiments of the nation?
Our education is particularly dominated by mainly the left brain subjects, like math, science or language (the poor bystander), the right half things like arts, craft music and others are simply ignored, or considered as extracurricular…and the education which deals only a half of the brain, is not only incomplete but also dangerous, so to say. ‘Ek sachchâ shikshak apne shishya kâ bhi shishya bankar rahta hai. Yadi is drishti se apne shishyon ko sikhâne kâ kâm karenge to âp unse bahut kucch pâyenge.’ (Gandhiji). In the modern India, where do we find teachers, with a genuine interest in their teaching? All they have become, a bystander remarks, is t(r)eachers. Education is now becoming result oriented, and cut throat. The cause is not far from known. The society, after colonization, had derived too much from the western form of learning, and that too in a corrupt way. Gandhi said, that the motive of education should have been to develop the head, hands and the heart, whereas in today’s education, the hands have been atrophied, only the half of the head is in the focus, and the soul, the heart have been totally ignored. Where are we heading towards? The English Babu has gone, and we are still burdened with the yoke of the Brown Saheb.
I think I have talked enough to successfully get you away from my blog for once and for all, but let me mention one last point. The idea behind the manifestation of perfection should not just be confined to the left hemisphere, but extended as well towards the development of the overall structure of the knowledge process. Why do we need education after all? Yes, of course the purpose of education was civilizational advancement, and we all know that no technological progress can be ever viable without the proper realization of the purpose of that idea. Never should we tend to confuse the purity of knowledge, by aligning it with ulterior motives, and never should we try to quantify things which are much more valuable to the civilization, in absolute, material ways. The concept of education, I don’t know about elsewhere, but in India needs a paradigm shift, and one man who thought of this has long departed from amongst us. This cannot be achieved without a general introspection of desires, motives and the very purpose of education. It is not just about literacy, or may be about freedom from physical labor or profit, for the record. It’s about learning, the idea of education is not just to absorb things, values and knowledge, but to assimilate it in a way that contributes towards the wholesome advancement of the soul, mind and last and certainly not the least, body. It’s about the choices, the stress on their freedom, at the same time, a concerted effort towards the proper guidance of these choices that promotes the value of education.
Today we are still living in a transitional chapter of the world’s history, but it is already becoming clear that a chapter which had a western beginning will have to have an Indian ending if it is not to end in the self-destruction of the race. At this dangerous moment in human history – the nuclear age – the only way of salvation is the Indian way.
Education should not try to manifest the perfection, in a way that has been misinterpreted by the Brown Sahebs, but strive towards a general harmony between the mind, the body and the soul. Once again, Education should not be dictation, but didactic. Education should not surface the imperfection, but look to find the areas of perfection and further polish them. Education should not a yoke, friends, but a will.
Well, let’s admit that education is (not) the manifestation, as it’s touted to be, of the perfection already in man. I mean all through these years, perhaps some 17 odd years, one thing that never quite manifested itself was the perfection. And in perfection I mean the conventional, educational perfection. On the contrary, all that this education process has done to me is turn me into a dispassionate, and importantly, all the more, an imperfect state. Yes Sir, I have strong points to validate my opinions.
Let’s go back in time. I attended my nursery for three consecutive years. Aghast ? No, it was not an overly enthusiastic bid to get my education right from the basics, and the foundation of which had to be laid thrice. Call it the unfortunate turn of events, my first stint was in the local school, when out of enthusiasm, though at the right age, I decided to join my sister, elder to me, to her school. I ran into some trouble with the class teacher, then the principal regarding something which I don’t remember, and was thrown out. Yeah, my parents had to get me out of the school. And it was there I developed strong negative images of the word MADAM. Moving on, I was admitted to perhaps one of the better schools, better only in the sense that they were more organized in their process of throwing out children from lower kinder gartens. After one full year of my hard work, regardless of humiliations I had to undergo while there, I worked hard for my exams. I took my exams and the result…you never know those “bitches”…the ones clad in white gowns, calling themselves the all the pious names they could think of, and in the end only managing to fuck up (pardon my language) a little boy’s future. I did not go to the class to receive the result, may be because I was absent due to something I can’t recollect, again, and then they refused to give my performance card, and you can’t go any further without the performance cards. To sort out this issue, my mom and my brother, dressed up handsomely in a coat in a bid to pose as my father, went to see the “bitch”, and to pronounce the names that I have attributed to her even louder, she not only decides against giving my result card, but also denies them an audience. What the fuck…How pitiful her state would be, when she comes to that she missed the chance to boast about being the principal of the school to which the district topper belongs. Any how that “bitch” deserved it.
Mt. Assisi was perhaps the only one that would embrace one of those it had shunned in history. Did I mention about my second stint. Not completely, I think. So, I went to the Assisi for the admission, and they showed me a battery and asked me what it was. I replied NIPPO. They said, OK son you know a little too much to be in the nursery, and rejected me. I still don’t know how my being able to read NIPPO could pose such a threat to them. Perhaps, I should simply have said a battery. The second qstn was something I don’t remember, again (I know it kind of bugs you to read the things “again” and “again”), about building bridges with some blocks of wood. I made the Eiffel tower, literally, and still I was rejected. What more did they need? Perhaps a dumbo, who they could teach, peacefully. My uncle and my father decided to talk to the principal, once “again’ a classic example of the “sister”-and-“mother” fucking fathers and brothers (even if you take their positional titles and transliterate, it remains the same) of the “maternity”, and present my impressive CV. The petition, “sir his sister and brother are also in the same school, and so it is unjust you reject him. Plus, he has the first hand experience of such and such schools.” Pat comes the reply, and to the truest of his natures, “You can take them out as well”. Phew….and long day at the office, it had been for me.
