Sunday, 27 January 2013

Suffering=Life


Porn.Buddha.Khuki.Haneke.Siddhartha.Sisyphus

 Pornography is the depiction of acts in a sensational manner so as to arouse a quick intense emotional reaction. What would be the reaction to the pornographic reality of the world? Does it turn me on? Or does it make me disgusted/guilty? Why has art been created? To stimulate imagination, to transform everyday human intervention, or to reflect the ordinary human experience or maybe related to it. Over the past three days, I have been indulgent in the pornographic reality of the world. And I am disturbed, shocked, helpless and maybe now even more aware of the finite condition of the human body and the infinite suffering of the human experience.


 What is suffering? The first noble truth according to Buddha, Dukkha. Thus, translated would mean; to live is to suffer. I hope we all are on the same understanding as to how it is far more of a magnanimous concept compared to pain. During our lives, we inevitably have to endure physical suffering such as pain, sickness, injury, tiredness, old age, and eventually death; and we have to endure psychological suffering like sadness, fear, frustration, disappointment, and depression. Although there are different degrees and variations of suffering and there are also positive experiences in life that we perceive as the opposite of suffering, such as ease, comfort and happiness, but nevertheless life in its totality is imperfect and incomplete, because our world is subject to impermanence. But the question is why am I writing all this, is it just one of those nihilist outbursts in one’s life or did someone mug me or did my girlfriend leave me or am I broke. I guess these reasons would be too trivial for me to write on Suffering, which you and I have been inflicted from, the time we were inducted in the human species.


 My work in the slums and the municipality education system had been exhilarating but at the same time has been an exposure to certain emotions that existed but I was indifferent to and one of them being the permanent existence of suffering. These past few days have been strange of sorts for me, ironic to the fact that it was the first time we had an extended weekend vacation, which innumerably meant some time to reflect, read and watch. However, at the end of these days, I feel sad, disturbed and helpless, and the 64th Republic Day has particularly been not so joyous for me. The reason being “Suffering”.


A philosophical novel of about 100 odd pages by a Nobel Prize Winner, a story about a young man’s quest and pursuit of enlightenment. I flowed with the story as if flowing with a peaceful river. As a man of this ‘Sansara’, perfectly stuck in its vagaries and uncertainties...Herman Hesse’s Siddhartha is an interesting and enlightening text in one’s fantasy, search and quest for bliss, enlightenment and nirvana. And accepting or at least being aware of the inevitability of SUFFERING.


     Amour is an extraordinary movie, it is not at all enjoyable nor is it entertaining. Though after the two hours of torment, you would have never regretted watching something like this. Michael Haneke famous for raping the audience, in the literal sense of the word, hits the bull’s eye actually, with this immensely sad, depressing, melancholic tale of death and suffering. Georges and Anne are in their eighties. They are cultivated, retired music teachers. Anne becomes ill, and the two hours is a meditation of this blissful couple’s embracing of separation, old age, death, sickness, pain and SUFFERING. The film is not for the faint hearted nor is for the strong hearted, because the voyeuristic peep into the old couple’s tragedy, consumes you, torments you; and makes you feel guilty and hopeless of the finite inevitability of life. All of us have this really lofty romantic idea, of being with someone and growing old and dying together. This is your fantasy in the most visceral and profound ways ever portrayed on cinema. It will reassure you on the idea and importance of love and life, but more importantly will make you scared of the horrific fact of life, that one day all of us will have to die and our bodies will decompose, whether you die of an accident or starvation or in a bomb blast. I would certainly say old age isn't easy, or indeed it is a joke on our mortal creation. This is what Ebert had to say about the film, “This is now. We are filled with optimism and expectation. Why would we want to see such a film, however brilliantly it has been made? I think it's because a film like "Amour" has a lesson for us that only the cinema can teach: the cinema, with its heedless ability to leap across time and transcend lives and dramatize what it means to be a member of humankind's eternal audience.”


 Khuki wants to live, wants to go to the hills, wants to get married, wants to play with children...but she cannot. She cannot because she has to look after her family. She is Durga, her father loves Yeats and Wordsworth...and Khuki lives in this planet of ours, where dreams and aspirations fall secondary to survival. But we are not alone...lonesome souls floating in the universe of existence, we are interconnected to the agencies and environment around us, and are in a symbiotic relationship. What if this symbiotic relationship is parasitic, the host destroyed by the virus. One of the most profoundly made Indian films, called Meghe Dhaka Tara by the master Ritwik Ghatak...shows a hauntingly musical portrait of a seamless endless universe, and a claustrophobic human existence. Meghe Dhaka Tara translated as The Cloud Capped Star is arguably Ghatak’s (a confirmed alcoholic) finest films,The Cloud-Capped Star is a dark melodrama set in late Fifties Calcutta about a refugee family and the struggle of Nita, the oldest daughter, to keep them afloat and together. It is a bitter critique of the family as institution and also of the harsh social and economic conditions arising from Partition - the trauma that defined Ghatak as an artist. With its sparse script, audacious expressionist soundtrack and a startling cinematic elegance, The Cloud-Capped Star is undoubtedly a modern masterpiece - infinitely compassionate and humane while remaining resolutely unsentimental. It is that cry of Khuki in the hills, “I want to live” which echoed in my mind for quite some time after being witness to such a film. Death and suffering are inevitable, I hope or assume that concept is crystal clear.

 Back to Buddha, I came across this wonderfully created manga on Buddha by the Japanese artist Osamu Tezuka. Go to your nearest bookstore, and you can see the beautiful and peculiar interpretation of Buddha by Tezuka. I am not much of a graphic novel person but intend to read some in the future. However, an anime was made based on Tezuka’s creation called Buddha: The Grand Departure. What fascinated me was the gritty humane treatment of Buddha. The animation feature covers the early phase of Buddha’s life, from his birth to his onset of the journey of enlightenment. The questions which grappled Buddha in his early years, are indeed profound but also timeless. The question of Suffering, Life and Death. What is remarkable about Tezuka’s manga is the imaginative retelling of Buddha’s life, where one does not only explore Buddha but also many other fictional creations and characters who are bound by the futility of birth, destiny, fate, death and the futility of violence. It is deeply moral but never ventures out to be moralistic. It is serious but playfully serious, Tezuka adopts the middle path.

What we may need maybe some divine help, some benediction.

Benediction, Patti Smith, Dancing Barefoot....
She is benediction 
She is addicted to thee 
She is the root connection 
She is connecting with he

(oh God I fell for you ...) 

The plot of our life sweats in the dark like a face 
The mystery of childbirth, of childhood itself 
Grave visitations 
What is it that calls to us? 
Why must we pray screaming? 
Why must not death be redefined? 
We shut our eyes we stretch out our arms 
And whirl on a pane of glass 
An afixiation a fix on anything the line of life the limb of a tree 
The hands of he and the promise that s/he is blessed among women. 

(oh God I fell for you ...)



Sunday, 20 January 2013

Sushi..Jiro..Libretto


Sushi..Jiro..Libretto 

 Sushi can rightly be called the top most designer food in the word, it is a Japanese food consisting of cooked vinegared rice (shari) combined with other ingredients (neta), usually raw fish or other seafood. I had the pleasure of eating Sushi first time at an upscale Japanese restaurant in Delhi, and the taste was something quite unique and peculiar than what my palate had ever experienced before. It was one of my good friend cum mentor and his girlfriend, who are obsessively inclined towards the Orient, who introduced me to such a delight to relish.



 This post is not about sushi but the art of sushi, which I came to appreciate and was mesmerized by in this beautiful documentary called Jiro Dreams of Sushi, directed by David Gelb. The story focusses around Jiro, a 85 year old world class and proclaimed as the greatest Sushi chef and his art of making sushi. David Gelb's Jiro Dreams of Sushi is indeed a definitive work of art on food and food making. This 81 minute documentary focuses on the daily ebb and flow of work in Sukiyabashi Jiro: a minuscule, ten-seat, three-Michelin-star sushi restaurant in the Ginza district of Chuo, Tokyo. The place is run by father and son pair Jiro Ono and Yoshikazu Ono. To sum up the movie, it is basically Jiro lives to make sushi, and sushi exists to be made by Jiro. Jiro comes across as a Master Musician and an opera conductor working on his piece and his artistic and creative genius no less as compared to Mozart or Vivaldi.



 The movie is a meditation on art, artistic genius and yearning for perfection seen through the prism of a master chef  a relentless man, who is totally immersed in his art and yearns for constant improvement with his every next work. The detailing, strategy, repetition, focus, passion and energy, the man devotes is inspirational, admirable and also, painstaking difficult. What percentage of a genius is comprised of intuition and experience, is one of the important question which the film throws up. A man at such an age enjoying his work or art is a delight to watch. One of the important sub text of the film that constantly hovers is that one day the reins of power will have to change and the restaurant will be taken over by Yoshikazu, his eldest son. The relationship between the father and the son transcends boundaries of kinship into a relationship of master and apprentice, artist and admirer and even competitive rivals. 


   
 I have never been an avid follower of Cookery Shows and never indulge myself in the food porn of Master Chef and TLC shows, but this sweet little insightful documentary was indeed a revelation in the art of food and food making. I would suggest anybody who enjoys eating or cooking, has to watch this gem.  Here is the entire film...Watch the Bruce Lee of Chefs!



Wednesday, 9 January 2013

A Conversation with the Moon






A Conversation with the Moon

Oh, Moon

Wandering veiled in the dark reaches of the night

Leave, for this ghetto is not worthy of you.

This ghetto, where in the dead of the night,

Honour is auctioned away;

Where human beings are just another currency,

And love is a dishonoured word.

Where is it always the season of tyranny;

And nothing but the agony of torture

Where the children of poor;

From birth to eventual manhood,

Only hear the singular pounding of the looms,

Like a mother’s lullaby.

Oh moon,

Wandering veiled in the dark reaches of the night
Leave my ghetto.

(The transliteration of the above Urdu poem)

 This movie is one of those movies, which make you realize how the magic of cinema enthralls us and how the fascination of reel life allows us a portal of sorts from the perils of everyday lives. Superman of Malegaon like Scorsese's Hugo, celebrates cinema.

P.S.Here are fifty reasons why you should watch the movie.
The complete movie : 

Monday, 7 January 2013

Ghetto Of Vijaynagar


The Ghetto Of Vijaynagar



 I lived for almost three and a half years in a ghetto, a truly urban, modern Indian ghetto in the capital of our country. My life in Stephens along with the Kafkaesque experience in the ghetto of Vijaynagar helped me shape my world view and become smarter, I mean street smart. I was in Double Storey which was the impoverished and the most marginalized part of the neighbourhood. And don’t get fooled by the name Double Storey, because it was not planned in an urban sense of the word where all the landscape was planned to have the buildings only two storeys high, instead it was one of the most horrible and absurd architectural failures. Anyone who has stepped into Vijaynagar will attest to this. The flats are designed like a railway coach and the buildings have no space between them, and the narrow passageways are home to the cows and buffaloes, which make passing through them an adventure of sorts.

 The area was inhabited and owned mainly by Sardars, who had migrated after the great Exodus of 1947. It is funny how such a caravan can affect one’s consciousness and ideas of morality. Because the men and women in Vijaynagar whom I met and engaged with, were one of the most corrupt as well as alienated souls in the world. Every second man in the ghetto is a broker, a pimp for flats. The locality boasts of many men who drink abundant and many families who fight frequent. The eateries and food joints are pathetic, serving you the shittiest food at almost unbelievably high prices. Moreover, it is only in Vijaynagar you will find a joint named Thapa Eating Corner, owned by a lisping and stammering Punjabi who probably does not know that Sikkim or Darjeeling are in India. There are numerous Nepalese young boys vending paneer momos and listening to Nepali songs, and cursing Indians in their native language.


  The flipside of the ghetto is the vibrant and noisy student and campus life. Owing to its proximity to the University, it houses a larger number of students who otherwise have not got hostels or cannot afford expensive localities. So, on any day in the ghetto one can see a large number of students who are studying graduation or post-graduation in colleges at the University or are simply, there after numerous attempts to even cross the FYear mark. The ethnography of the students are mainly from the North Eastern States, almost like a harlem or a China town in USA; a distinct flavour cut out from the common topography of the city. There are innumerable fights between different groups, colleges or ones with different preferences. I was also part of one GREAT fight which was dubbed by many as ASSAM Vs Darjeeling, which included quite a blood spilling and other things. Pretty Funny, Ain’t it?

  It is only in this ghetto where you will find girls dressed in their best clothes and vanity to buy vegetables. A tea stall near the toilet where young IAS aspirants and other highly educated men, talking about nation building schemes, over tea which tastes like cow piss. A park which is filled with young boys and girls in the middle of the night, to the haziness of the smoke of their joint in their hands. A shop which sells more cigarettes than rice in a day. A swine, disguised as a man to sell cigarettes and water in the night at prices, unimaginable. A drunk man as fat as three Old Adnan Samis to sell the only food available in the night. Cops who are more interested to get a girl through you than to check you for drugs. Flats designed in the worst way possible but rents to make you shit in your pants. A place where an evening walk would mean a visit to Outram Lines or Majnu Ka Tila, which could be compared to religious pilgrimages. An area where one can see the cows in a trance returning back to their cow sheds, without any assistance routinely every night. A place where visitors can be easily marked and ogled at. And Holi being the favourite festival, where everyone eats an ice cream. And a visit to buy liquor, is a test whether you can retain your cell phone.

This was my ghetto…The Vijaynagar…The Legend Lives On….Nostalgia, The Crack, Baby!

P.S. Patel Chest is the nearest tourist attraction.


Sunday, 6 January 2013

Films#1 @2012



Films#1 @ 2012



These were 21 favorite films of the year I watched, these include both Indian and International, home video or big screen, old and new, released and unreleased, feature and documentary, ticket bought or illegally downloaded…. (In random order)

Ship of Theseus, (India), Anand Gandhi, 2012


Ten, (Iran), Abbas Kiarotsami, 2002

400 Blows, (France), François Truffaut, 1959

Miss Lovely (India), Ashim Ahlwalia, 2012

Holy Motors, France, Léos Carax, 2012

Gangs of Wasseypur, Anurag Kashyap, 2012

Superman of Malegaon, Faiza Ahmad Khan, 2008

L'Inde Fantôme (aka Phantom India), Louis Malle, 1969

Megacities, Michael Glawogger, Austria

Cheeni Kum, Balki, India, 2007

Zelig, Woody Allen, USA, 1983

The Seventh Seal, Ingmar Bergman,Sweden, 1957

The Fountain, Darren Aronofsky,USA, 2006

Drive, Nicolas Winding Refn,USA, 2011

Head On, Fatih Akin, Germany

2046, Wong Kar Wai,Hong Kong, 2004

Gandu, Qaushik Mukherjee, India, 2011


Boogie Nights, Paul Thomas Anderson, USA, 1997

Midnight in Paris, Woody Allen, USA, 2011

Cache/Hidden, Michael Haneke, France, 2005

Big Easy Express, Emmett Malloy, USA, 2012

Special Mention: India Untouched, Stalin K, India, 2007

Moonrise Kingdom, Wes Anderson,USA 2012


Thank you moifightclub for some brilliant reccos and Peter Bradshaw for wonderful criticism.
P.S.
Here is an awesome website to keep your updated on cinema from the prism of an overtly excited and tweeting addict and totem of film enthusiasm in India.

Saturday, 5 January 2013

Sheep Man


 Who pays a visit? The Sheep Man

 Last night I was visited by the Sheep Man, yes the Sheep Man. He came in my dreams, but it was so real. It was actually far more real than the rays of the sun the next morning and the caffeine in my morning coffee. I can vividly remember the Sheep Man sitting across me, in his worn and tattered costume which was reeking of some smell which quickly filled the entire room, and in moments became part of the atmosphere. He was around 70 kgs and five feet ten, with ounces of fat hanging at different places, clearly suggesting the Sheep Man was not running on the treadmill for a long time. He asked me for a cigarette, and looking at the Goldflake condescendingly frowned that he only preferred Milds, but smoked it nevertheless.

  
 I was speechless looking at the apparition who had suddenly appeared out of nowhere. For the sake of a conversation, I asked him, whether he had heard the latest Bob Dylan album.

He answered, “Idon’tlistenEnglishmusic.”

 I had missed, and then a long stench of silence pervaded us. He stared at me with a blank, motionless expression of void, a kind of look, which makes you question whether you really exist or not. After the bout of silence, which I cannot say lasted for how long, but would have been really long, like one of those moments when hours and minutes cannot define time but the experience of it running very slowly, and one does not need to look at a watch for its validation.

He stood up and said; “Thewaterofthefourriversacrossthemazeispolluted.”

I did not understand a word of the Sheep Man, what did he mean?

Before I could ask him anything….

I was lost in the darkness of my sleep once again.

Next morning, I was a different man, one who had seen a religious revelation of sorts. I made coffee for myself, read the newspaper in the balcony and on investigation of the room found some fibre like substances on the floor of my house.

It was indeed sheep wool.