Frantic. Frenzied. Flurrying. I can soundly vouch that life for every board student would have deviously swivelled into a similar order of words; and when these undulating tides of fate vociferously clang into the namby-pamby jetties of our life, all that ignorance which we feign shatters and words like Davies’ come to mind…”WHAT is this life if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare? No time to stand beneath the boughs, and stare as long as sheep and cows…”
So, pitted under the servility of class 10, when I come grimacing home, there is but one leeway where I can (thankfully) seek solace- where all the ignominious double-math lessons give way to plain introspection. Complete serendipity indeed! Where, engulfed by the puissant sanctity of foliage and the invigorating chirps of little garden birds, I can selflessly plunge into my sphere, a place tucked away in complete secrecy, impermeable, immune to everyone but myself.
Surprisingly, I speak not of a magniloquent chamber or one that is pretentious in any regard. I speak of an area adjacent to our dining place, unfrequented, just a wrought iron swing, 2 dim lights, flanked by an array of cacti, and bristling floral plumage! The place to be when I’m down and out, or hurt and saddened by reel and rout, or stumped, entwined in nervous wreck, demeaned, despised…a ridiculed speck…
Amazingly, just swinging too and fro, splurged into my sphere, reading Shakespeare, writing poetry, doing tarot or reciting verse to the whisking gusts conjures a feeling of nonchalance- rejuvenating-holy-exhilarating! I am able to connect up with myself wholeheartedly!
While I’m in my expanse, my volume, I feel like a defunct radio set…sans frequency, yet so reverberant in the white noice, as if I am no son, grandchild, student or friend but an aimless drifter, a helmsman in the desert, a tradesman in the tavern, a resilient human being- Nikhil- ONE.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Le Foodie essentiel (heartfelt confessions of the morsel'er)
Food. The mere noun stirs ecstasy by bringing to nose an array of tantalising aromas, to tongue an invigorating slurp of insipid saliva, to mind a pompous feast of eclecticism and to the good-ol’ belly, a fullness of inherent satisfaction. Evidently the quintessence of the ephemeral pleasures of everyday life, food is the unproclaimed prerequisite, the unprecedented indispensability, the absolute.
For centuries food has been rendered as the promiscuous allurer of mankind. It tempted, enticed, appeased and inveigled and continues to do the same with persistent audacity, in a manner both effusive and gratifying. From Napoleon’s perfumed cheese, to Italy’s stark wines, from lavish hints of Maharajah’s spices to the bland tang of Sushi, food has always transcended continental barriers in a diverse and unparalleled manner.
There is a very thin line that separates ‘eaters’ from ‘foodie’s’. The first, fastidious and hasty are those for whom fodder merely remains a necessity- an arduous round of spending, cooking, consuming and excreting. Then there is that latter minority that will put their heart and soul into the food and eat each crumb as if it’s the last they will ever have! I myself vouch to belong to the latter cult- those who display a true penchant and willing servitude for the grains, the true foodies, for whom seeking emancipation from the morsels, is but blasphemous!
Talk of anything from gulping gol- gappas to oozy spaghetti, slurping exotic shakes, delving into chocolate cakes, relishing ghar ka rajma chawal, polishing dosas with litres of sambhar, diving head- first into chaat papri, chomping chicken tikka with dollops of chutney, crumbling tarts or scrumptious pies, lip- smacking assorted fries; everything’s always on my mind (if not in my plate) to boost the immunity of my belly! Clearly, I couldn’t agree more with myself that “Condemning gluttony is sacrilege”.
I have penned down a tribute to the morsels in a composition titled ‘Ode To Food’.
Oh fabulously flavoured food, thou breath of my lunchtime,
Thine power is immense, thou make me crave,
And urge me to write this honest rhyme!
Thou conjure illusion on hungry mind,
Poised in the spoon like cherubic grain,
Oh enticer, thou make me a hungry swine,
And thwart my ability to hunger restrain!
Oh blossoming fushias, brewed in meat,
Thine fragrance ushers blissful slumber,
Oh root of merriment, fiesta and treat,
A myriad concoction on stove and lumber!
Oh pristine patron of calories and fat,
Fathoming every foodie’s dream,
Oh magnificent monopolists who hones my tact,
Oh patronising penalty of vile greens!
Oh fabulously flavoured food speckled with elusive flavour,
I beseech thee, mine everlasting penchant,
And wish thine charm my words can savour!
Fortunately for me, there shall always be two blessings in my life, in the form of both my dear grandmothers (Dadi and Nani) who really have some “je ne sais quoi” about their food, which has perhaps made me the passionate foodie that I always wanted to be!
Need I say more??
For centuries food has been rendered as the promiscuous allurer of mankind. It tempted, enticed, appeased and inveigled and continues to do the same with persistent audacity, in a manner both effusive and gratifying. From Napoleon’s perfumed cheese, to Italy’s stark wines, from lavish hints of Maharajah’s spices to the bland tang of Sushi, food has always transcended continental barriers in a diverse and unparalleled manner.
There is a very thin line that separates ‘eaters’ from ‘foodie’s’. The first, fastidious and hasty are those for whom fodder merely remains a necessity- an arduous round of spending, cooking, consuming and excreting. Then there is that latter minority that will put their heart and soul into the food and eat each crumb as if it’s the last they will ever have! I myself vouch to belong to the latter cult- those who display a true penchant and willing servitude for the grains, the true foodies, for whom seeking emancipation from the morsels, is but blasphemous!
Talk of anything from gulping gol- gappas to oozy spaghetti, slurping exotic shakes, delving into chocolate cakes, relishing ghar ka rajma chawal, polishing dosas with litres of sambhar, diving head- first into chaat papri, chomping chicken tikka with dollops of chutney, crumbling tarts or scrumptious pies, lip- smacking assorted fries; everything’s always on my mind (if not in my plate) to boost the immunity of my belly! Clearly, I couldn’t agree more with myself that “Condemning gluttony is sacrilege”.
I have penned down a tribute to the morsels in a composition titled ‘Ode To Food’.
Oh fabulously flavoured food, thou breath of my lunchtime,
Thine power is immense, thou make me crave,
And urge me to write this honest rhyme!
Thou conjure illusion on hungry mind,
Poised in the spoon like cherubic grain,
Oh enticer, thou make me a hungry swine,
And thwart my ability to hunger restrain!
Oh blossoming fushias, brewed in meat,
Thine fragrance ushers blissful slumber,
Oh root of merriment, fiesta and treat,
A myriad concoction on stove and lumber!
Oh pristine patron of calories and fat,
Fathoming every foodie’s dream,
Oh magnificent monopolists who hones my tact,
Oh patronising penalty of vile greens!
Oh fabulously flavoured food speckled with elusive flavour,
I beseech thee, mine everlasting penchant,
And wish thine charm my words can savour!
Fortunately for me, there shall always be two blessings in my life, in the form of both my dear grandmothers (Dadi and Nani) who really have some “je ne sais quoi” about their food, which has perhaps made me the passionate foodie that I always wanted to be!
Need I say more??
Saturday, July 12, 2008
~Ligue des Tragédiens~
Our sincerest laughter with some pain is fraught; our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought- in these puissant lines, resonant from Shelley’s ‘Skylark’, one can reckon his exhaustive attempts at generalising sorrow and concealing the burden of tragedy in the dominance of words. What he doesn’t know is that his words themselves have become lugubrious!
The 4th century B.C. was the ‘époque littéraire’, stemming from Aristotle’s epic The Poetics, which is rendered as one of the oldest literary gospels. It has through its various interpretations and applications from the Renaissance onward had a profound impact on Western aesthetic philosophy and artistic production. One of the most intrinsic concepts highlighted in The Poetics is that of ‘Catharsis’, which shall forever remain a historical footnote to Aristotelian conception. It refers to the sensation, or literary effect, that would ideally overcome an audience upon watching or reading a tragedy (a release of pent-up emotion or energy), auguring restoration, renewal and revitalisation in their minds.
The contemporary Ligue Des Tragédiens Méconnus (league of the unsung tragedians), known for their inconspicuous and elusive cathartic ways comprise Kafka, Borges, Murakami and Masud. This quartet, claim literary critiques, is bound together by a thin strand of ‘pathos’. Moreover, their work echoes ambushed sorrow and plain catharsis, suggesting that they have all brought forward the Aristotelian legacy.
Franz Kafka was one of the major German writers of the 20th century. Although Kafka wrote short stories all his life, most of them were incomplete with the exception of The Metamorphosis (Die Verwandlung) and The Dream (der Traum). Kafka and Catharsis have long shared a tumultuous relationship that sceptics claim were influenced by the last years of his life. Those, in which he had failed to stir approbation for himself. ‘Two men were standing behind the grave and were holding a tombstone between them in the air; scarcely had K. arrived when they thrust the stone into the earth and it stood as if cemented there’. He leaves the readers overwhelmed in the climax of The Dream that tells the tale of a man who is arrested by death on charges never disclosed.
Closely compared to Kafka is Naiyer Masud, known for his spare and seductive prose and most of all his eloquent Sufi- like style. Masud is little known outside Pakistan and sceptics claim that he began writing stories in early boyhood. His highly controversial Essence of Camphor (Itr- e- Kaafuur) and Snake- Catcher (Maargeer) tell us volumes about his style, capable of pulling the reader into the centre of an inescapable vortex, echoing surreal lines- Attempting to smell it one feels a vacant forlornness, but the next time around, breathing deeply, one detects something in this forlornness…voluptuous slumber.
In close proximity to Kafka and Masud, was Jorge Francisco Isidoro Luis Borges, an Argentine writer. Borges is known most for his cathartic stories The Garden of Forking Paths (El Jardín de senderos que se bifurcan) and The Circular Ruins (Las ruinas circulares), a tale of a magicians conquests to conjure the perfect individual . “It seemed incredible that this day, a day without warnings or omens, might be that of my implacable death”, blurts the magician when he is dabbling with failure. Borges was thus an artful stoic whose tales reeked copious amounts of catharsis. Catharsis has also found its contemporary in Haruki Murakami, a Kyoto born writer, prolific and profound. Murakami began writing at 29 and the journey has only commenced from there. His fantastical plots containing modernist rationale and conspicuous rhetoric are clearly visible through The Wind- Up Bird Chronicle (Dorobō kasasagi hen), the tale of Okada Toru, whose cat disappears and the seuqence of events that follow and Sputnik Sweetheart (Spūtoniku no koibito) the tantalising story of upcoming lesbianism in Japan.
This eclectic quartet comprising contributions both posthomous and contemporary can be called the undercurrent of modernist tragedy and catharsis, that one can discover and rather magnanimously accept only after reading them- the Ligue des Tragédiens.
The 4th century B.C. was the ‘époque littéraire’, stemming from Aristotle’s epic The Poetics, which is rendered as one of the oldest literary gospels. It has through its various interpretations and applications from the Renaissance onward had a profound impact on Western aesthetic philosophy and artistic production. One of the most intrinsic concepts highlighted in The Poetics is that of ‘Catharsis’, which shall forever remain a historical footnote to Aristotelian conception. It refers to the sensation, or literary effect, that would ideally overcome an audience upon watching or reading a tragedy (a release of pent-up emotion or energy), auguring restoration, renewal and revitalisation in their minds.
The contemporary Ligue Des Tragédiens Méconnus (league of the unsung tragedians), known for their inconspicuous and elusive cathartic ways comprise Kafka, Borges, Murakami and Masud. This quartet, claim literary critiques, is bound together by a thin strand of ‘pathos’. Moreover, their work echoes ambushed sorrow and plain catharsis, suggesting that they have all brought forward the Aristotelian legacy.
Franz Kafka was one of the major German writers of the 20th century. Although Kafka wrote short stories all his life, most of them were incomplete with the exception of The Metamorphosis (Die Verwandlung) and The Dream (der Traum). Kafka and Catharsis have long shared a tumultuous relationship that sceptics claim were influenced by the last years of his life. Those, in which he had failed to stir approbation for himself. ‘Two men were standing behind the grave and were holding a tombstone between them in the air; scarcely had K. arrived when they thrust the stone into the earth and it stood as if cemented there’. He leaves the readers overwhelmed in the climax of The Dream that tells the tale of a man who is arrested by death on charges never disclosed.
Closely compared to Kafka is Naiyer Masud, known for his spare and seductive prose and most of all his eloquent Sufi- like style. Masud is little known outside Pakistan and sceptics claim that he began writing stories in early boyhood. His highly controversial Essence of Camphor (Itr- e- Kaafuur) and Snake- Catcher (Maargeer) tell us volumes about his style, capable of pulling the reader into the centre of an inescapable vortex, echoing surreal lines- Attempting to smell it one feels a vacant forlornness, but the next time around, breathing deeply, one detects something in this forlornness…voluptuous slumber.
In close proximity to Kafka and Masud, was Jorge Francisco Isidoro Luis Borges, an Argentine writer. Borges is known most for his cathartic stories The Garden of Forking Paths (El Jardín de senderos que se bifurcan) and The Circular Ruins (Las ruinas circulares), a tale of a magicians conquests to conjure the perfect individual . “It seemed incredible that this day, a day without warnings or omens, might be that of my implacable death”, blurts the magician when he is dabbling with failure. Borges was thus an artful stoic whose tales reeked copious amounts of catharsis. Catharsis has also found its contemporary in Haruki Murakami, a Kyoto born writer, prolific and profound. Murakami began writing at 29 and the journey has only commenced from there. His fantastical plots containing modernist rationale and conspicuous rhetoric are clearly visible through The Wind- Up Bird Chronicle (Dorobō kasasagi hen), the tale of Okada Toru, whose cat disappears and the seuqence of events that follow and Sputnik Sweetheart (Spūtoniku no koibito) the tantalising story of upcoming lesbianism in Japan.
This eclectic quartet comprising contributions both posthomous and contemporary can be called the undercurrent of modernist tragedy and catharsis, that one can discover and rather magnanimously accept only after reading them- the Ligue des Tragédiens.
Monday, April 7, 2008
~Mata, Martyr, Maharani~
3 Glimpses- 3 contrivers of controversy
(1) The Mata
Margaretha Geetruida is a woman scarcely talked about. Grietje (as Margaretha was called) was born in 1876 and by the time she was in early adulthood, the strands of her life were enveloped by a diabolic intruder- war. At the tender age of 18, she moved to Hague and was thereafter married to a navy officer Rudolf McLeod. The couple then moved to Java where, following a tumultuous stint, Grietje began her autonomous journey to be an international concubine. In 1905, she began to win fame as an exotic dancer from Asia and by the time she retuned to Paris, she had become Mata Hari- Eye of the day. Promiscuous, flirtious and openly flaunting her body with a mystique that captivated both her audiences and public, Mata Hari was an overnight success. During the First World War, Mata Hari was viewed as a wanton and international seductress. As a widely travelled courtesan and oriental princess Mata Hari was intercepted as a traitor coded H-21 by the Gestapo, whom they thought was deployed by the French to distract the attention of their personnel. Termed first as an international concubine and later as a double agent, Mata Hari was executed at the age of 41, following a worldwide controversy.
(2) The Martyr
The ‘spy princess’ is a woman inconspicuously celebrated. Noor- un- Nisa Inayat Khan, or Noor was born to Indian Sufi Hazrat Inayat Khan (who was the grandson of Tipu Sultan, Maharajah of Mysore) and Begum Ora Meena Ray Baker in 1914. Although deeply influenced by the pacifist teachings of her father, Noor Inayat Khan willed to defeat Nazi tyranny. She did so by joining the French resistance in 1940 and trained in the Women’s Auxiliary Force as a wireless operator. Soon to be the first wartime woman to use wireless, Noor was deployed to Germany codenamed Nora Baker and there worked tremendously with famous underground French circuits such as ‘Prosper’. Her operations were executed under the code name Madeleine. During the interim of her stay at Germany, Madeleine also worked as a nurse and finally helped French political prisoners escape from the Gestapo. While at the war field, she dodged the Nazis till her eventual doom in 1944. Marked as a ‘Highly Dangerous Prisoner’ she was executed at Dachau concentration camp. Her timely escapes from German captivity were recorded in Nazi history as some of the most audacious. Noor was subjected to mass controversy for wartime espionage.
(3) The Maharani
Nobody would know of that slender and sleek, white Spanish maiden till the Maharajah of Kapurthala hadn’t chanced to drop into that bar one night. She was barely a bar dancer and her’s was a true rags to riches tale. Anita Delgado- the Spanish princess of Kapurthala- a seventeen year old, sitting atop a magnificently decorated elephant who made her entry into a small town in Northern India, while congregations flanked the streets, waiting to see their queen, whiter than the Himalayas. Anita Delgado was primarily seen as a figure of defiance and controversy because she had dared to marry an Indian Maharajah. While she flaunted her villas, tennis courts, jewels and Rolls Royce’s, the internal politics of the Harem encompassed her life too. Being some fifth wife of Jagatjit Singh was just an excuse for Anita, who stole parties and social gatherings and was subjected to every mans praise. Be it the voluptuous English officers, the Nawab of Hyderabad, or the Viceroy himself, ever body fell in love with the Spanish lass. But nobody ever thought that this exotic princess would end up entwining herself in one of the most forbidden incestuous controversies that have ever rattled the British Empire. She was desolate in the end and eventually returned to Spain, bereft of the love of her Maharajah or her kingdom. She breathed her last in the arms of her son Ajit. In July 1962, Anita Delgado Briones would at last rest in peace.
(1) The Mata
Margaretha Geetruida is a woman scarcely talked about. Grietje (as Margaretha was called) was born in 1876 and by the time she was in early adulthood, the strands of her life were enveloped by a diabolic intruder- war. At the tender age of 18, she moved to Hague and was thereafter married to a navy officer Rudolf McLeod. The couple then moved to Java where, following a tumultuous stint, Grietje began her autonomous journey to be an international concubine. In 1905, she began to win fame as an exotic dancer from Asia and by the time she retuned to Paris, she had become Mata Hari- Eye of the day. Promiscuous, flirtious and openly flaunting her body with a mystique that captivated both her audiences and public, Mata Hari was an overnight success. During the First World War, Mata Hari was viewed as a wanton and international seductress. As a widely travelled courtesan and oriental princess Mata Hari was intercepted as a traitor coded H-21 by the Gestapo, whom they thought was deployed by the French to distract the attention of their personnel. Termed first as an international concubine and later as a double agent, Mata Hari was executed at the age of 41, following a worldwide controversy.
(2) The Martyr
The ‘spy princess’ is a woman inconspicuously celebrated. Noor- un- Nisa Inayat Khan, or Noor was born to Indian Sufi Hazrat Inayat Khan (who was the grandson of Tipu Sultan, Maharajah of Mysore) and Begum Ora Meena Ray Baker in 1914. Although deeply influenced by the pacifist teachings of her father, Noor Inayat Khan willed to defeat Nazi tyranny. She did so by joining the French resistance in 1940 and trained in the Women’s Auxiliary Force as a wireless operator. Soon to be the first wartime woman to use wireless, Noor was deployed to Germany codenamed Nora Baker and there worked tremendously with famous underground French circuits such as ‘Prosper’. Her operations were executed under the code name Madeleine. During the interim of her stay at Germany, Madeleine also worked as a nurse and finally helped French political prisoners escape from the Gestapo. While at the war field, she dodged the Nazis till her eventual doom in 1944. Marked as a ‘Highly Dangerous Prisoner’ she was executed at Dachau concentration camp. Her timely escapes from German captivity were recorded in Nazi history as some of the most audacious. Noor was subjected to mass controversy for wartime espionage.
(3) The Maharani
Nobody would know of that slender and sleek, white Spanish maiden till the Maharajah of Kapurthala hadn’t chanced to drop into that bar one night. She was barely a bar dancer and her’s was a true rags to riches tale. Anita Delgado- the Spanish princess of Kapurthala- a seventeen year old, sitting atop a magnificently decorated elephant who made her entry into a small town in Northern India, while congregations flanked the streets, waiting to see their queen, whiter than the Himalayas. Anita Delgado was primarily seen as a figure of defiance and controversy because she had dared to marry an Indian Maharajah. While she flaunted her villas, tennis courts, jewels and Rolls Royce’s, the internal politics of the Harem encompassed her life too. Being some fifth wife of Jagatjit Singh was just an excuse for Anita, who stole parties and social gatherings and was subjected to every mans praise. Be it the voluptuous English officers, the Nawab of Hyderabad, or the Viceroy himself, ever body fell in love with the Spanish lass. But nobody ever thought that this exotic princess would end up entwining herself in one of the most forbidden incestuous controversies that have ever rattled the British Empire. She was desolate in the end and eventually returned to Spain, bereft of the love of her Maharajah or her kingdom. She breathed her last in the arms of her son Ajit. In July 1962, Anita Delgado Briones would at last rest in peace.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
~Diabolic Competition~
I’d like to begin my article, by discussing a very simple word- competitive. The word- competitive has developed a positive connotation. And this is to such an extent that those who lack that element of competitiveness are even being perceived as individuals having a lesser capability, in harsher terms- losers. While I do agree that the presence of competitiveness is essential to forge ahead and herald development especially when the stakes are so high today, but the essence of the word seems to be getting misted by us as it is being entwined in the lives of children at a horrific rate. Yes, young ones, far from the brink of adolescence.
It takes a strong voice and marvellous confidence to sing in front of an audience comprising the entire country. I am talking of the new trend of music programmes that have really beckoned the average child to put forward not only a voice but also their self-respect. Truly, the selection procedures themselves are demotivating enough for some and those who chance to make it through are swept away by an invisible tide of competition, fierce and gruelling. Is it fair to be selected amongst a hooting flurry of revelling audience and be called a prodigy first and then some two months later being thrown away from the show under the garb of elimination?
Well, according to me television programmes are unknowingly instilling in the young ones diabolic competition that too in some of the most irking ways ever! I agree that children want to see themselves on national television, but do they also want to see their families stricken with pestilence and their peers heaving with grief once they are conveniently eliminated?
Childhood is being lost in the murky reaches of competition. Since when did being a child involve literally begging votes from the nation and being idolized as a raunchy national sensation? It is not wrong to expose yourselves at a young age, but if the exposure is holistically yielding and safe, then not only is it less traumatic, it also sustains the essence of talent.
Moreover, children are being made to behave like ‘crafted adults’ and this appearance is rather incongruous. I remember seeing a little boy on television one day and was rather awed by his spirit. He spoke flawlessly on issues pertaining to love and told us his own love story (which I personally don’t think is true) and backed it up by pecking the host and showering flying kisses at the audience! The entire sequence was followed by a riveting song that urged a ravishing trot of hip shaking and made the audience whistle! Is this what parents really want to do? Do they want their children to be mollycoddled by the entire nation so that one day when their little one loses, the trauma shall shun the talent inside him/ her?
So, who is responsible? Well, according to me, a very large motivator of this diabolic competition is the media. Families have inculcated this halfway and the media that is airing such programs on television meets the other half. So, competitiveness no longer remains personal, it is being transmogrified into a social issue that demands sensitivity and care.
Really, this arena of competitiveness is rather intimidating. How can I forget what I heard some time back on one of the popular music shows; the brother of a seven year old spoke “We depend entirely on my little brother. With the money he makes on winning this competition, we’ll get our sister married and buy another house for ourselves!” I mean, is this what the sole duty of a little child remains? Should he not enjoy the fruits of childhood? I fail to understand how people can even think of treating children like sources for money? What difference does that leave between childhood and adulthood?
It takes a strong voice and marvellous confidence to sing in front of an audience comprising the entire country. I am talking of the new trend of music programmes that have really beckoned the average child to put forward not only a voice but also their self-respect. Truly, the selection procedures themselves are demotivating enough for some and those who chance to make it through are swept away by an invisible tide of competition, fierce and gruelling. Is it fair to be selected amongst a hooting flurry of revelling audience and be called a prodigy first and then some two months later being thrown away from the show under the garb of elimination?
Well, according to me television programmes are unknowingly instilling in the young ones diabolic competition that too in some of the most irking ways ever! I agree that children want to see themselves on national television, but do they also want to see their families stricken with pestilence and their peers heaving with grief once they are conveniently eliminated?
Childhood is being lost in the murky reaches of competition. Since when did being a child involve literally begging votes from the nation and being idolized as a raunchy national sensation? It is not wrong to expose yourselves at a young age, but if the exposure is holistically yielding and safe, then not only is it less traumatic, it also sustains the essence of talent.
Moreover, children are being made to behave like ‘crafted adults’ and this appearance is rather incongruous. I remember seeing a little boy on television one day and was rather awed by his spirit. He spoke flawlessly on issues pertaining to love and told us his own love story (which I personally don’t think is true) and backed it up by pecking the host and showering flying kisses at the audience! The entire sequence was followed by a riveting song that urged a ravishing trot of hip shaking and made the audience whistle! Is this what parents really want to do? Do they want their children to be mollycoddled by the entire nation so that one day when their little one loses, the trauma shall shun the talent inside him/ her?
So, who is responsible? Well, according to me, a very large motivator of this diabolic competition is the media. Families have inculcated this halfway and the media that is airing such programs on television meets the other half. So, competitiveness no longer remains personal, it is being transmogrified into a social issue that demands sensitivity and care.
Really, this arena of competitiveness is rather intimidating. How can I forget what I heard some time back on one of the popular music shows; the brother of a seven year old spoke “We depend entirely on my little brother. With the money he makes on winning this competition, we’ll get our sister married and buy another house for ourselves!” I mean, is this what the sole duty of a little child remains? Should he not enjoy the fruits of childhood? I fail to understand how people can even think of treating children like sources for money? What difference does that leave between childhood and adulthood?
Friday, February 15, 2008
BENAZIR~ Another Martyred Bhutto
Perhaps the whole world saw Mohtarma retire to her inevitably draped bed of flowers, blood and tears. As her peach coffin was lowered into the familiar sands of Ghari- Khuda- Baksh, she lay dead, but her spirit, entranced by the wanderlust of Jannat at once must’ve begun its journey. The crowds smitten with sorrow and pestilence collected coldly at her burial (chanting amidst wails) and rummaged through the sudden outburst for the ‘truth’ that lay shadowed in her death.
The Bhutto blood had always been tough. Zulfikar- Ali too, like his daughter, was martyred in his early fifties. Educated at the University of California and the University of Oxford, Zulfikar was known for his mercurial brilliance and wit. Becoming the 4th President of Pakistan in 1971 was indeed a great achievement, as was his entry into the United Nations as the youngest Pakistani ever. Zulfikar founded the Pakistan Peoples Party (PPP) in 1967 following which he delivered various speeches owing to his charisma (a trait seen in Benazir also). In 1951, Bhutto married Begum Nusrat Ispahani from whom four children were produced.
The Youngest- Shahnawaz had always been a high aspirant. His desire to excel in higher studies drove him to extend his hand abroad much like his father. In 1789, when the military dictator Zia- Ul Haq hanged Zulfikar, Shahnawaz was studying in Switzerland. But tragedy resurfaced in the Bhutto family just a year later as young Shahana (as he was called lovingly) was found dead in his French Rivera apartment in Nice, under mysterious circumstances.
Another child, not frequently talked about is Sanam, Zulfikar’s younger daughter. Since early womanhood, she kept away from politics and this is why she has ‘fortunately’ lived on as the only surviving blood relation of Zulfikar and Nusrat.
Zulfikar’s elder son Murtaza was born in 1954. A socialist rebel, he took to arms after his father’s assassination in dubious circumstances. Murtaza chaired the military wing of the PPP namely the al- Zulfikar and organized a number of attacks on Beirut, Damascus and Lebanon, under the garb of socialism. He too much like his father, died a matyr for Pakistan one evening, as a group of terrorists fired at his contingent, shooting incessant rounds at him.
The eldest daughter, born to the Bhuttos in 1953 was Benazir. Her name much like her quick witted personality meant ‘uncontrollable’. Tenacious and charming, Benazir was a rather shrewd young lass. This helped her lead the Oxford Union, while she studied at Oxford University. Later on, she was also invited to attend Harvard. At eighteen, she charmed everyone at Simla, when she had accompanied her father Zulfikar. “Part and Parcel of every discussion, Benazir also brought a smile to the likes of Indira Gandhi” reminiscences a witness of the Simla treaty in 1972. Benazir was sworn into office after her fathers assassination in 1979 to lead the PPP and then again in 1988 to become Pakistan’s first woman Prime Minister. After a tumultuous stint of over six years in hardcore ‘dirty’ politics, Benazir fled to London fearing a threat to her life.
During the interim, Benazir’s PPP operated from London with the help of her controversial husband Asif Ali Zardari, who had also served as Pakistan’s Environment Minister during Benazir’s reign. She lived safely for eight years only to return to her doom in 2007, just after addressing her last rally in Rawalpindi, following which a suicide attempt, made Mohtarma Benazir Bhutto Shaheed or Martyr.
The Bhutto blood had always been tough. Zulfikar- Ali too, like his daughter, was martyred in his early fifties. Educated at the University of California and the University of Oxford, Zulfikar was known for his mercurial brilliance and wit. Becoming the 4th President of Pakistan in 1971 was indeed a great achievement, as was his entry into the United Nations as the youngest Pakistani ever. Zulfikar founded the Pakistan Peoples Party (PPP) in 1967 following which he delivered various speeches owing to his charisma (a trait seen in Benazir also). In 1951, Bhutto married Begum Nusrat Ispahani from whom four children were produced.
The Youngest- Shahnawaz had always been a high aspirant. His desire to excel in higher studies drove him to extend his hand abroad much like his father. In 1789, when the military dictator Zia- Ul Haq hanged Zulfikar, Shahnawaz was studying in Switzerland. But tragedy resurfaced in the Bhutto family just a year later as young Shahana (as he was called lovingly) was found dead in his French Rivera apartment in Nice, under mysterious circumstances.
Another child, not frequently talked about is Sanam, Zulfikar’s younger daughter. Since early womanhood, she kept away from politics and this is why she has ‘fortunately’ lived on as the only surviving blood relation of Zulfikar and Nusrat.
Zulfikar’s elder son Murtaza was born in 1954. A socialist rebel, he took to arms after his father’s assassination in dubious circumstances. Murtaza chaired the military wing of the PPP namely the al- Zulfikar and organized a number of attacks on Beirut, Damascus and Lebanon, under the garb of socialism. He too much like his father, died a matyr for Pakistan one evening, as a group of terrorists fired at his contingent, shooting incessant rounds at him.
The eldest daughter, born to the Bhuttos in 1953 was Benazir. Her name much like her quick witted personality meant ‘uncontrollable’. Tenacious and charming, Benazir was a rather shrewd young lass. This helped her lead the Oxford Union, while she studied at Oxford University. Later on, she was also invited to attend Harvard. At eighteen, she charmed everyone at Simla, when she had accompanied her father Zulfikar. “Part and Parcel of every discussion, Benazir also brought a smile to the likes of Indira Gandhi” reminiscences a witness of the Simla treaty in 1972. Benazir was sworn into office after her fathers assassination in 1979 to lead the PPP and then again in 1988 to become Pakistan’s first woman Prime Minister. After a tumultuous stint of over six years in hardcore ‘dirty’ politics, Benazir fled to London fearing a threat to her life.
During the interim, Benazir’s PPP operated from London with the help of her controversial husband Asif Ali Zardari, who had also served as Pakistan’s Environment Minister during Benazir’s reign. She lived safely for eight years only to return to her doom in 2007, just after addressing her last rally in Rawalpindi, following which a suicide attempt, made Mohtarma Benazir Bhutto Shaheed or Martyr.
Friday, February 8, 2008
Wish list
(1) Villager
A diminutive shack perturbs me not
As long as it integrates my blood- brothers taut
A vivacious flurry of boyish souls
Shall resurrect my fields and enhance my goals
A lucid income if I may strive
So that I mustn’t a sickly mother deprive
A nominal saving for daughter’s wedlock
May rid me an array of burden and block
A prayer for seasonal harvest will
Adorn my land a whiff of money still
A vague frugal plan shall resurrect
And from my hardships debt protect
(2) Industrialist
A fine-cemented dwelling empowers us
As long as my share is autonomous
A frontier shall open for my young lass
If I may attune her with the societal mass
A blatant income lacking the strife
Keeping me young in the wrinkles of life
A phenomenal ‘giving’ for daughters jolly
So her nuptials may reek my monopoly
A venture of impractical politics
Lacking prayer, Vermillion or incense sticks
A malevolently etched forge plan
Adding monetary laurels to my rich clan
A diminutive shack perturbs me not
As long as it integrates my blood- brothers taut
A vivacious flurry of boyish souls
Shall resurrect my fields and enhance my goals
A lucid income if I may strive
So that I mustn’t a sickly mother deprive
A nominal saving for daughter’s wedlock
May rid me an array of burden and block
A prayer for seasonal harvest will
Adorn my land a whiff of money still
A vague frugal plan shall resurrect
And from my hardships debt protect
(2) Industrialist
A fine-cemented dwelling empowers us
As long as my share is autonomous
A frontier shall open for my young lass
If I may attune her with the societal mass
A blatant income lacking the strife
Keeping me young in the wrinkles of life
A phenomenal ‘giving’ for daughters jolly
So her nuptials may reek my monopoly
A venture of impractical politics
Lacking prayer, Vermillion or incense sticks
A malevolently etched forge plan
Adding monetary laurels to my rich clan
A Bemusing Romantic Reverie
4 / 5
Set in the exquisite and delightfully enticing backdrop of a zestful fairy colony, this version of Shakespeare’s highly acclaimed ‘comic revel’ is speckled with unmatched romp and foolery deserving to be called “a triumphant revival” of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
If you thought that gone were the days of those stupendous ‘musicals’ then think again for Michael Hoffman’s direction charms you with it’s scenic spectacles and troops of balletic fairies, often allowed to sway amidst a fancy riot of upholstery, a fine flurry of dulcet sounds and a truly indispensable blitzkrieg of hue.
Certainly, if you wanted gritty realism, you’d find scarce of it in the film. Instead, you find fairies, autocrats, rural buffoons and a bizarre mixture of captivating surrealism, moulded in which is the grace of magic and pungent human emotion.
The popular tale that traces its creation back to the 16th century could have never received such a magnificent tribute as this one. Hoffman uses his myriad experience to completely translate the happenings of fairy world and incorporate them into this immensely inviting comedy. Its lyricism, magical transmogrifications and cynicism are surely some of the most cunning ever. The supernatural and the mundane, the illusory and the substantial, all are shimmeringly blended.
Lysander (Dominic West) and Hermia (Anna Friel) are two fiery lovers, curbed by the forever patronizing Egeus (Owen Trusome) forcing them to drive their contorted lives into further complexities. Both run deep into the thicket of a forbidden jungle and find themselves part and parcel of a petty argument stemming from the misunderstandings of a bashful Titania (Michelle Pfeiffer) queen of immortals and her king Oberon (Rupert Everett).
Thus begins a tale of loud confusion as the suave and stoic Robin Goodfellow (Stanley Tucci) pleases master Oberon by trickling a drop of magic potion in the eyes of Titania. On another extreme, Puck jeers ‘Lord, what fools these mortals be!’; but the joke may be on him and his master when the voluptuously amorous Titania embraces Bottom(Kevin Kline) the weaver, his head transformed into that of an ass.
Love is treated as tragic, poignant, absurd and an outrageous brew of mayhem. Demetrius (Christian Bale) is another lover of Hermia, touched in the head- and his bum chum, the vivacious Helena (Calista Flockhart). Thus sets in a vivid tale placed on the threshold of magic bound by the terribly eerie potion song:
What thou see’st when thou dost wake, Do it for thy true- love sake
Be it ounce or cat or bear, Pard or boar with bristled hair
In thy eye that shall appear When thou wak’st it is thy dear!
With spectacular performances by Pfeiffer and Everett and told with a brave and attractive combination of fantasy, common sense and of airy feyness Michael Hoffman’s remake is definitely one of the most holistically meaningful films ever made. It is fiercely fantastical yet realistically evocative. “I wonder what she sees in him?” -mumbles a disgusted Oberon on seeing Titania fly to the ass turned Bottom- is a remark sometimes heard at a wedding or “He’s making an ass of himself” can be heard at receptions too!
Hence, a true visual treat A Midsummer Night’s Dream is surely one of those “delicacies” you’d want to enjoy while at the table with family or at the theatre with friends! A must see for one all! Such stories that illustrate the thin borderline between the human and the bestial are surely rare, making you feel you have woken after a long summery trance (lasting merely two hours!).
Set in the exquisite and delightfully enticing backdrop of a zestful fairy colony, this version of Shakespeare’s highly acclaimed ‘comic revel’ is speckled with unmatched romp and foolery deserving to be called “a triumphant revival” of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
If you thought that gone were the days of those stupendous ‘musicals’ then think again for Michael Hoffman’s direction charms you with it’s scenic spectacles and troops of balletic fairies, often allowed to sway amidst a fancy riot of upholstery, a fine flurry of dulcet sounds and a truly indispensable blitzkrieg of hue.
Certainly, if you wanted gritty realism, you’d find scarce of it in the film. Instead, you find fairies, autocrats, rural buffoons and a bizarre mixture of captivating surrealism, moulded in which is the grace of magic and pungent human emotion.
The popular tale that traces its creation back to the 16th century could have never received such a magnificent tribute as this one. Hoffman uses his myriad experience to completely translate the happenings of fairy world and incorporate them into this immensely inviting comedy. Its lyricism, magical transmogrifications and cynicism are surely some of the most cunning ever. The supernatural and the mundane, the illusory and the substantial, all are shimmeringly blended.
Lysander (Dominic West) and Hermia (Anna Friel) are two fiery lovers, curbed by the forever patronizing Egeus (Owen Trusome) forcing them to drive their contorted lives into further complexities. Both run deep into the thicket of a forbidden jungle and find themselves part and parcel of a petty argument stemming from the misunderstandings of a bashful Titania (Michelle Pfeiffer) queen of immortals and her king Oberon (Rupert Everett).
Thus begins a tale of loud confusion as the suave and stoic Robin Goodfellow (Stanley Tucci) pleases master Oberon by trickling a drop of magic potion in the eyes of Titania. On another extreme, Puck jeers ‘Lord, what fools these mortals be!’; but the joke may be on him and his master when the voluptuously amorous Titania embraces Bottom(Kevin Kline) the weaver, his head transformed into that of an ass.
Love is treated as tragic, poignant, absurd and an outrageous brew of mayhem. Demetrius (Christian Bale) is another lover of Hermia, touched in the head- and his bum chum, the vivacious Helena (Calista Flockhart). Thus sets in a vivid tale placed on the threshold of magic bound by the terribly eerie potion song:
What thou see’st when thou dost wake, Do it for thy true- love sake
Be it ounce or cat or bear, Pard or boar with bristled hair
In thy eye that shall appear When thou wak’st it is thy dear!
With spectacular performances by Pfeiffer and Everett and told with a brave and attractive combination of fantasy, common sense and of airy feyness Michael Hoffman’s remake is definitely one of the most holistically meaningful films ever made. It is fiercely fantastical yet realistically evocative. “I wonder what she sees in him?” -mumbles a disgusted Oberon on seeing Titania fly to the ass turned Bottom- is a remark sometimes heard at a wedding or “He’s making an ass of himself” can be heard at receptions too!
Hence, a true visual treat A Midsummer Night’s Dream is surely one of those “delicacies” you’d want to enjoy while at the table with family or at the theatre with friends! A must see for one all! Such stories that illustrate the thin borderline between the human and the bestial are surely rare, making you feel you have woken after a long summery trance (lasting merely two hours!).
The Vehemence and Malice of Garbage
Perhaps we are under the influence of some grave charm thus we have become completely ignorant of the fact that while we are brewing convenient cups of coffee at home, the colony dump is overflowing; its potentially hazardous garbage is encompassing our city Gurgaon and corroding its luxury.
The fact is that each and every scrap we toss aimlessly into the dustbin lands up in the dumps and thereon remains etched there. What we don’t seem to understand is the power possessed by a single flock of poly- bags or any such scrap for instance. Unknowingly it is constituting our doom.
Yes, it may sound overrated but the spite of garbage is tremendous. And in not standing forth pragmatically, we are letting the scrap engulf us. It seems we are in awe of it.
Gurgaon is termed the millennium city but with the new millennium came a new evil urge- (to make hygienic garbage disposal impossible or so it seems!), which has stripped us of a clean whiff and clean environs.
Everyday, while travelling to school, a third of my journey is consumed in blocking my nose so as to avoid the ghastly stench emitted by a local garbage dump. With the regular scraps of plastic and household junk, there are a series of astounding sights waiting to disgust you if not cause some disease. Crippled cows flock the vicinity coupled with fresh corpses of stray animals. Is this anywhere close to what our city government proposes under the garb of waste disposal?
If yes, then we are seriously in a stance of peril. Because the garbage lurching out there is capable of transmitting serious diseases caused by an array of pathogens. Bacteria and viruses are thriving and infecting the air we inevitably have to breathe.
So who is to blame? Certainly the poor rag picker cannot be accused conveniently because the first step of waste disposal, which is garbage segregation at home, lies in our hands. Most of the times we are unable to segregate the biodegradable waste from the non- biodegradable one in dustbins due to some severe superiority complex or lack of awareness and thus we occasionally palpitate for a clean breath.
Gurgaon is developing at a good rate no doubt, but they are issues like these that pose obstructions. And the issue of waste segregation is certain a drawback for us.
The colony dumps have become so polluted that now the question of refurbishing them is dim, but not queer. The garbage dumps that have recently been opened near our homes must be cleaned on a regular basis and as responsible members of Gurgaon we must ensure so if we want our societies to yield fruitfully.
The fact is that each and every scrap we toss aimlessly into the dustbin lands up in the dumps and thereon remains etched there. What we don’t seem to understand is the power possessed by a single flock of poly- bags or any such scrap for instance. Unknowingly it is constituting our doom.
Yes, it may sound overrated but the spite of garbage is tremendous. And in not standing forth pragmatically, we are letting the scrap engulf us. It seems we are in awe of it.
Gurgaon is termed the millennium city but with the new millennium came a new evil urge- (to make hygienic garbage disposal impossible or so it seems!), which has stripped us of a clean whiff and clean environs.
Everyday, while travelling to school, a third of my journey is consumed in blocking my nose so as to avoid the ghastly stench emitted by a local garbage dump. With the regular scraps of plastic and household junk, there are a series of astounding sights waiting to disgust you if not cause some disease. Crippled cows flock the vicinity coupled with fresh corpses of stray animals. Is this anywhere close to what our city government proposes under the garb of waste disposal?
If yes, then we are seriously in a stance of peril. Because the garbage lurching out there is capable of transmitting serious diseases caused by an array of pathogens. Bacteria and viruses are thriving and infecting the air we inevitably have to breathe.
So who is to blame? Certainly the poor rag picker cannot be accused conveniently because the first step of waste disposal, which is garbage segregation at home, lies in our hands. Most of the times we are unable to segregate the biodegradable waste from the non- biodegradable one in dustbins due to some severe superiority complex or lack of awareness and thus we occasionally palpitate for a clean breath.
Gurgaon is developing at a good rate no doubt, but they are issues like these that pose obstructions. And the issue of waste segregation is certain a drawback for us.
The colony dumps have become so polluted that now the question of refurbishing them is dim, but not queer. The garbage dumps that have recently been opened near our homes must be cleaned on a regular basis and as responsible members of Gurgaon we must ensure so if we want our societies to yield fruitfully.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Are the ‘Cows’ turning Chic?
There seems to be a raging spirit in Indians these days to adopt a more suave and savvy get- up. And owing to this expensive and elite behaviour, a new trend has come over the tide with the seemingly visible modernization. Moreover, a constant desire to succeed is inducing in the common Indian (who once was a product of soil and sweat) an array of fragrant western charms. India is no more the land of intimidating cows and gregarious thugs but an even worse concoction of societal confusion. India’s tryst with development is conjuring vivid images of the nation, robbing it of its ingenuity and showing the world what fallacious modernization means.
However, the prospect of this development is rather paradoxical. Take gaming for instance that has become a new and hot favourite among the chic Indian adolescent. Annually, India spends about two million rupees in extending its reach into the realm of gaming by adopting sophisticated devices. However this phenomenal investment that could have been used to develop human capital, is consequentially diminishing and only plundering the Indian treasury. The reason for this is that the average Indian kid lacks the ability and capability to delve deeper into gaming owing to two factors- the concentrated modernization and mere gaming apathy (stemming primarily from poverty).
It has been noted that from 68% of eligible non-handicapped gamers (i.e. the age group of 16-27) only 23% actually utilize their charms as an effective gamer. Others are either too poor or lack the initiation into gaming due to a sorrowful inferiority complex. So is the investment even worth it?
Further, with a constant flow of gamer blitz, handed down by Sony and Nintendo- to name two- another market is carving its niche in the Indian society. But since the gamers are only about 4% of the total population there is scarce knowledge about the future of gaming industries. “Will there even be skilled workers available to us? Also, most of the gamers eventually find more high paying jobs!” adds Rajesh Katheria, CEO of Dhruva India, a gaming firm.
Games have also been the cause for a series of highly perturbing ills like mental fatigue, damage to eyesight and most of all damage to personality as the average gamer is in an impressionable age. “It may be hard to believe but one seventh of our cases are due to psychological damage done by violent and chaotic games,” adds an anxious Madhu Mehta, dean of the brain healthcare institute in Hyderabad.
So the botomline is that even though India proposes Gaming Development as part of its national endeavours, the arena seems to be far from reach. The capital being invested is a sheer wastage and requires a cohesive and coherent understanding of the Indian society. And in order to raise the stakes of gaming in India, the government must propose a practical set of schemes that can educate the average Indian both economically and technically. There is a grave need to remove the obstructing apathy!
However, the prospect of this development is rather paradoxical. Take gaming for instance that has become a new and hot favourite among the chic Indian adolescent. Annually, India spends about two million rupees in extending its reach into the realm of gaming by adopting sophisticated devices. However this phenomenal investment that could have been used to develop human capital, is consequentially diminishing and only plundering the Indian treasury. The reason for this is that the average Indian kid lacks the ability and capability to delve deeper into gaming owing to two factors- the concentrated modernization and mere gaming apathy (stemming primarily from poverty).
It has been noted that from 68% of eligible non-handicapped gamers (i.e. the age group of 16-27) only 23% actually utilize their charms as an effective gamer. Others are either too poor or lack the initiation into gaming due to a sorrowful inferiority complex. So is the investment even worth it?
Further, with a constant flow of gamer blitz, handed down by Sony and Nintendo- to name two- another market is carving its niche in the Indian society. But since the gamers are only about 4% of the total population there is scarce knowledge about the future of gaming industries. “Will there even be skilled workers available to us? Also, most of the gamers eventually find more high paying jobs!” adds Rajesh Katheria, CEO of Dhruva India, a gaming firm.
Games have also been the cause for a series of highly perturbing ills like mental fatigue, damage to eyesight and most of all damage to personality as the average gamer is in an impressionable age. “It may be hard to believe but one seventh of our cases are due to psychological damage done by violent and chaotic games,” adds an anxious Madhu Mehta, dean of the brain healthcare institute in Hyderabad.
So the botomline is that even though India proposes Gaming Development as part of its national endeavours, the arena seems to be far from reach. The capital being invested is a sheer wastage and requires a cohesive and coherent understanding of the Indian society. And in order to raise the stakes of gaming in India, the government must propose a practical set of schemes that can educate the average Indian both economically and technically. There is a grave need to remove the obstructing apathy!
REPUBLICAN RAZZMATAZZ
Undulating chirpy, infinite faces
Unified we are
Magnanimity speckled with warm embraces
Unified we are
Resurrection yielding vast historic traces
Unified we are
Nestled in a brew of hospitable places
Unified we are
Amidst a flurry of glitz and glee
Unified we are
Each leaf that reeks ingenuity on tree
Unified we are
Ideals unravelling autonomously free
Unified we are
Seasonal rewards urge natural spree
Unified we are
Ecstatic in a diverse way
Unified we are
Echoes of the tricolour say
Unified we are
Fidelity urging us to pray
Unified we are
Cannons saluting republic day
Unified we are
Unified we are
Magnanimity speckled with warm embraces
Unified we are
Resurrection yielding vast historic traces
Unified we are
Nestled in a brew of hospitable places
Unified we are
Amidst a flurry of glitz and glee
Unified we are
Each leaf that reeks ingenuity on tree
Unified we are
Ideals unravelling autonomously free
Unified we are
Seasonal rewards urge natural spree
Unified we are
Ecstatic in a diverse way
Unified we are
Echoes of the tricolour say
Unified we are
Fidelity urging us to pray
Unified we are
Cannons saluting republic day
Unified we are
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