First my cool,
then my curtsy,
last my silence.
My cool our pleasure
my curtsy my present choice
my silence to move ahead
Rules of the Game
I was watching a discussion between two guys on TV a few years ago.The first guy said, in the past 1000 years of literature in the Indian subcontinent, there has never been any real Indian drama. Either the plays were written in Sanskrit which was excluding the cognizance of the working masses, as the stories evolved around the kings and Gods or at the other end, the dramas that might have popped up in the folk lore were in vernaculars, and very specifically insulated from the life of the people with other tongues. And only after the independence the united Indian subcontinent has life that is lived in tandem, and the dramas coming out of such a life, are the only ones that can be called Indian Dramas.And among the lot, the pick are Badal Sircar and you.
The second guy[famous for his half-truth... yeah screen-play titled so] said you too.Actually its all the three.
Yeah, as you might have expected both agreed with their great analysis.
A decade later, saying “Rushdie is not a phenomenon, but she is: with one novel, got an international award, became rich, famous and gets media attention.”
the first guy wrote a play called “Heap of broken Images”, claiming only those who write in their mother tongue can do justice to literature. Well, he seems not to have got the money or fame she got with this effort too.
This she, is interestingly described by Tarun Tejpal as
“with aerobically toned sexy body has the biggest balls for an Indian writer, who is generous both with her time and money”.
But the point is , there was a folk art form all the time, which would cater to the poor working classes, in vernaculars as oral tradtion. Usually the players and the writers would be one/many of them, with some extra verbal skills, and used as time pass during the monsoon times, when no work on fields was due.
There were second type of itinerant performers who would come perform amongst these simpletons, and be paid in cash or kind[mostly], for the entertainment they provided. These were a bit more devoted and would be either more political social or mystic in their literary creations. I know some of the marvelous folklore from my own village and surroundings coming down for centuries. These literary works usually were performed by a single person, as “pada”s viz ge ge pada, kamsaLe pada etc or else with a group of 3 to 5 people, usually of the same family. They were again supported by the village working class, not the rich Zamindars, nor patronized by temples. Since they were dedicated to the art form for their livelihood, as a rule, their creations have more artistic attributes, than the once-in-a-while singing and dancing done by the working folks them selves.
The other major part of their performance was the mystic element which would bring God and his favors with in the reach of the religiously kept-out people. This inspired the workers to patronize them for more than entertainment-value of the performances.
On the other side there were Bhasa,KALidasa in Sanskrit and in vernacular pampa ranna and so on directly having the royal patronage.
The two started loosing distinction slowly in the middle ages during elaborate productions arranged for the working classes by the land lords. Yakshagaana etc and finally leading to touring talkies natakagaLu and nataka companies, like gubbi company etc .
During the same time the politico-economic status of the country was also undergoing severe changes, as to shift the balance of profitable remuneration, from the rich few patrons to the large number of working class. Here what worked was the number. Each paying an anna would be a huge amount compared to the patronage of the numbered rich.
So, finally this impact also got into the story lines of the content. The stories of kings were also there, but the stories of people like those in the audience started getting prominence. Thus we have landed up with the master pieces of Dhuttargi like Sampatthige SawAl etc.
The key factor, here is , in both form and content , the dramas all the while, were tailored to the paying audience. That’s it.
There is no more esoteric factor to it.
If Indiana Jones has an Indian element in the story line, the Indian market is also millions strong.
The writer, can write about the life he has lived and things he/she has strong relation with, thematically. But he always tries to tailor it to be affective to the paying masters. Hence the source coding and channel coding.
The form and content are decided by only these two, and manifested as per the artistic capabilities [prathiBhe] of the artist.
Recently, after inspiring (?) collection of or due to “the heap of broken images”, he has come up with his first Originally-English Play .
did you say
PLAYING BY THE RULES OF THE GAME?
Udara nimittham bahukrutha vesham !!!
All in the Game
One bored afternoon, I went with Raaga to attend the lecture of Srinivasan,[hoping my memory is serving well about his name], Cambridge trained micro economist, teaching at IIM Kozhikode. By then I was understanding economics well. To put it straight, while figuring out to live with out an income (:-(, I had touched the base.
In the lecture, while he was writing the equations and graphs I was , for a change, following everything he said.
Then asked the question
“what will happen in the limiting case of the integral which he was putting as the function to represent the distributed economic status of everyone in the society, nation,organization and government , with an inter linking, and inter reflecting nature?”
“Well, I dont know about any such limiting case, you must ask that fellow he is a mathematician , I am not!” …….straight came his reply.
But the professor sitting beside, with one of the more beautiful smiles I have seen, said,
“Idi Amin”.
And at the world level? I quipped !
Don’t we know! he smiled:
I smiled too!
Well, it seems only two of us were making sense of the lecture, rest were having, after lunch effects including the speaker!
I realized. I realized I had hope, my world has a place in reality and vice versa.
Five years before this event, a writer went to his auditor’s house, on a Sunday morning. Since the auditor would never come out of his room even a minute before the appointment, the early visitor was kept waiting in the hall, and was also treated with the rice bread ( Akki rotti, kai chuntney, world famous in that whole town) by the auditor’s wife. Since the writer was in a jovial mood, the auditor’s house wife, who had read all his novels; given as the complimentary copies, even before publications, complained, in her characteristic way,
“Yen Saar, eshTondu vOdiddEra, Adru nim muKKHadalli saraswathi KhaLene illa, neevu adyen bareethiro, jana adyen vodthaaro, naan bere kaaNe!”
With the mouth full of the delicious Akki-rotti and Chutney, the author could not give any reply before the moment passed to next in the conversation, but made an expression, which was too difficult to categorize as either acceptance or denial.
Since then, not going by that advice, he kept on writing books and that house wife read each of them, only to comment after finishing each, thale thinthaan aa vayya!
This author has recently written a ‘cover’ story, in his vernacular. A lot of debate has come and still going on, about it. After all why does any one write like that, which has communal LOOKING Bhava?
Usually at the limiting case of the persona, each one either knows how to leave, or how to get: he/she is usually an opposer or a supporter, when resolved ACTually. By figuring out a greater thing than any thing previously they are identified with, by supporting it, by adding value with their own individual experiential pedigree, they usually gain the greater acceptance and relevance. On the other hand, the other kind would also figure out the same thing but would find the most fundamentally antagonizing aspect to that power to oppose, again to get the same result of gaining greater acceptance and relevance. In both ways they would have increased one more dime in their value.
So, after achieving great linguistic craftsmanship and literary artistry, it becomes important to apply it to those things which matter most to those who matter most in the world, who can, in return, reward with what matter most. This decides the path that each one takes, depending on one’s the personal temperment, background and stamina.
See you can either win for Uncle Tom as Hemingway, or loose against it for Her Majesty as Eliot, to reach Stockholm. Both way it works the same.
This distinction is so easily manifested, by the titles of antagonizer’s works …. the list goes on
The Waste Land, Disgrace, Satanic verses, One hundred years of solitude, now on a minor scale this “cover” story um …
“He wrote great works before his 30. But since then people wont read him, critics don’t like him”, said Nadira Khanum about her husband.
“No body wanted him when he started, I mean his writing” says T Tejpal about the same guy.
Then he wrote about all that he could relate to in his pedigree, and just took the stand , which would look appropriate to those who matter most!
So,as an example which most likely to be in the mind scape of my reader;
Remember the sense of last two pages of “India, an area of darkness” ; meaning…
“Why did I ever bother about India?
As the aeroplane was about to land,
I was nearing Milan one of the most sophisticated cities of the modern times.”
He can only write about what he belongs to, but has to uphold the perspective as to relate to the one who matter most!
And then he wrote about those suppressed civilizations and their dangers to the Uncle, which on that 9-11 came true. With in weeks, pat came his Stockholm call.
[ Similarly, the uncle told another colored MIT MBA, with a white wife, heading an office; which no one listens to yet, to be peaceful while he tests his toys at some desert lands. He was. So, for his peaceful conduct, he too along with his peace loving office got a Stockholm call ! ]
So, a wild [mod[x] ie |x|]measure can be made that 9-11 was a job worth two dynamite medals in its impact! albeit in the other way!
Their lies the clue. But to add the vitality to those stands, both kinds, never the less have to live it all, and spend them selves, if they have enough virtues to!
Else , weep on saying
The woods are lonely dark and deep,
But I have many promises to keep.
Miles and miles to go before I sleep.
Miles and miles to go before I sleep.
Now the equations of Srinivasan, would culminate, well on the world stage, with the well implied entity, with its religious, political, economical and social facets. So, in every walk of life, ubiquitously every one is climbing the same rope, of course along its different threads.
90 years ago, when there was a voice differing from that of a naked fakir, who was thorn in the raj, they hurried to legitimize it internationally, with the Stockholm call, even if the lone supporter in Yeats too did not take it long to classify his work as “sentimental rubbish”.
Recently, another client of that same auditor had deleted my “write up on his student and friend”, , form his “signature” blog.
“HenDathiya koNeya baagilannU thatti, appaNe padedu voLa hOguva nEnu saBhya, Adare subbaNNa kakka santha… “Clip Jiont
Of course he has more than his writings to reaffirm in his affiliations along many threads of that rope.
Well, he climbed the rope long ago, and reached the Jain foundation’s podium.
Now this another author who recently wrote his much debated book, has found a way, appropriate to his antagonistic persona, to oppose the most opposed by those who most matter, to move towards that podium.
Didn’t that great communist and socialist writer, in Tamilnadu, in a matter of two years of shockingly saying “what the uncle Tom does is right”, get the Jain-call to the podium last year?
After all why else would Eliot say, that ticket to Stockholm is one’s ticket to ones own grave. After that one can rest in peace!
So, instead of debating and opposing him, in print or blogs, just wait for that Jain foundation’s call. That would end his progression!
Well, even that ever impatient, roughly elephant; left out of its group[hinDanagalida ontTi salaga], also said during his Jain-call year,
“Iddiddralli Jainaru paravaagilla. dAna dharma mADthAre!”
Anti-incumbency factor may turn the next government at the parliament to those, who can find this ‘cover’ story interesting, for its scope of use,misuse and abuse they can make of! and then …. that all awaited call!
Even now, the lady [un]luck , who can put her devine mark on the 2 Rupee coin, may push for a call!
Its all in the game.
[Yeah, there is that great surprise when our neighbour refused that dynamite money, saying it would be demeaning to be compared with Henry Kissinger who had made a Sweden trip earlier.]
Blogonomy
Two young men, take the blame
One is Praveen, Zahir, other’s name
One means expert; other, to express
My word has both, in Its Flame.
Poor are their hearts
Dull are their wits
who only need, in tiny bits
even the cake and such sweets
They are seldom eaten so
Cherry once, once the flour
Half the distance, for a step
One seldom reaches the door
All in the name
What’s there in the name?
As per the traditions, some typical jobs, works, posts, and such would end up as the surnames along the generations. It’s a ubiquitously prevalent practice all over time and space. Now I have been mesmerized by two names, rather what has happened around them.
Kempu means red color in kannada. When used in names, to ease its contiguous pronunciation and conjunction with other parts, it would turn to kempe or kempa as in kempa-amma or kempe-rAya etc.
wruddi means development.
wrudda means developed or one with attainments and accomplishments.
grAma wrudda means some one who is well developed (rich) and prominent in the whole village.
During its etymological metamorphosis it turned out to be gAvuda and now gowda.
The most prominent with that name in the recent history, is Shree Kempe Gowda maharaja, the leader who is credited to have built the town, which eventually developed into today’s
Bangalore.
70kms away, the name that was making rounds during those days in my school and our dinner-conversations was that of an exclusive shop, full of toys and dresses for kids. It never made any sense to me who spent quarter century waiting for those parcels of old discarded cloths from the affluent
Mysore relatives. But it’s name was interesting. It was named Kids Kemp.
Located in the road named after the king, the second part is derived from his name. It was a Kid’s shop on KempeGowda road, hence Kids Kemp.
More than a decade later, that shop opened a bigger branch on Airport road. But the name was Big kids Kemp. This was a very important step in proliferating the word Kemp out of Kempe Gowda road. It had started to signify, more of less, a niche shop. It had assumed a meaning of its own.
Recently I saw a make shift saari shop named Sri Lakshmi Saari Kemp, and another make shift niche shop selling 15 types of Dosas named Ganesh Dosa Kemp. The evolution was complete. Only entry into Webster’s is pending now!
All this happened in front of my own eyes, in a matter of two decades. Is this called Globalization?
The second case is more involved.
It is a tradition that has some living and many not so, examples.
In the earlier days, I mean before three thousand years or so, it was of great importance to maintain the fire, for its many utilities in the house. So, each day the men of the house, would take care of keeping a fire burning at some designated place non-stop. This ritual was called agni kArya, and those who did it religiously were called agnihOthri. This has even come down to present times in some families I know.
[Many of those families talk only in Sanskrit in their homes, making it difficult to discern the nuances of our reception. One day, when I visited one such family, their 3 year old kid was incessantly plucking my pen from my pocket, to play with it. I was in a fix; could not even reprimand the kid nor allow it to play with my pen, which could get damaged in its hands. Then intervening, its mother shouted “nA Karomi vatsA” , interestingly that naughty kid understood and went off, to play with his own toys.This brought to my mind a story by Gorur. In that story, during a ShrAddA in a similar Sanskrit speaking family, a kid was playing with a ball, which went into the ritual area. The head of the family became angry and wanted to shout in kannada MumDe ganDa , but had he uttered any non Sanskrit word his vow would be broken and he had to take bath and do other purifying rituals to cleanse him back from the loss of vAkShuddi. Then he shouts vidhavA pathi!!]
But that is fine if the name indicates their acts. Else too, if they take a liking to those acts once done by their fore fathers, ok, “to each his own.”
Don’t raise eyebrows about Rathi Agnihothri’s Cabarets!!
But there was a YagnyA, performed during Vedic times, and the most recent record of it I heard of, was in late 1800s. In that a very healthy, fully adult cow would be sacrificed. Since those rituals are very rare, for any one who accomplished them, following all their intricately specified rules and regulations, usually a title would be given to him bearing the name of that YagnyA. Since such accomplishments are rare it is a norm to carry such a title for generations too. Now there is a great cry to stop the cow slaughter by many people and there are congregations and movements in that accord. Even a political party with that as one of its manifesto came to power at the centre and established their leader as the prime minister of
India.
The name of that YagnyA is VAjapEyA and one who does it is given the title VAjapEyi.
!!!
shAnthi shAnthi shAnthi-hi!!!
We Wake
The midsummer night's dreams are becoming
too indulging that they stretch in time
all day.The reality seems one of the
options for mind, where as to not to loose
myself from its option I need to bootstrap our
status quite cohesively albeit with some morbid
disentanglement from the long acquainted way
ward traits. The whole thing culminates in the day's
cliffs and troughs , getting assimilated by
evening of the evening into the dark night which
leaves me to me, to gaze at the past rage,enrage
and the garbage since dawn.The whining pathos some
times pull me to the edges of the known world into
uninhabited spaces.On one such occasion I bought
a weekly which sells at the shop, only 3 copies a week
compared to the popular one which does 25. While
going through that diverged progeny of its parent
weekly, I saw a book being serialized in it.It is
a scathing take on the first epic of our civilization.
The fact that I would have undone all the
civility by that time of the day, does not
make it an anomaly to look being its reader.
Though it does not interest me much,I
flick to the next page. But I cant bury my
reminiscences unvoiced, of that book ,
he had got me to read two decades ago.
The voices of the past haunt , with its
image mollifying my fragile serenity.
The weekly is Lankesh by Gauri Lankesh and
the book is Seethayana by Dr.Polanki Rama Murthy.
In the dark chambers of the night, as the
world seems going apart, I clutch to that
singularity called hope. The integrity that
I impart to it, draining my vitality transcends
my relevance beyond now.Along with time.Only
to discover many new "now"s. Which just toss
me to the next.The monotony of this truely
has reached the nadir now. The only escape
from this now is the now of a different kind.
A fully actual one, with all virtues and
the real one. A self contained cocoon which
spawns all my restlessness around it like
the thread which webs insulating me from
the chaos in and around. During the
transitive aberrations like these , an
"interpreter of maladies" due to the
"inheritance of loss" it makes.
Then my vanishing persona wakes.
yes true.
We wake.
It happens
Some days ago there was a series of
non-events that got to the extreme to
leave me frustrated.I was going through
the reactionary work of D.R .Nagaraj,
Allama Prabhu Matthu Shaiva prathibe,
which had such a tone of
criticism of the prevalent nationalised
view of Indian Philosophy,
of Das Guptha,that
it really popped up many interesting
points regarding the issues
of translation and the vernacular's
socio-anthropological so
called singularities. In a very deep
sense I was really going through a
very piece of reactionary literary
scholastic work..As the going got tough,
as my correspondence works met
a dead end during week-end, I decided
to go to the canteen and sip
tea with "colorful"
view around and finish this book,
which I had prioritised to be
before I go ahead with my mail
works.Then as usual there were many
attractive girls, some with boys
many without!, being themselves,
chatting and in abandon. I wonder
are these girls more beautiful
then those of the previous generation
or that these get them selves
suitable haircuts and dress to
maximise the impact, rather than the
monotonously dressed and monotonously
done hair of the previous generation?
after all how can I say! The impact
being a serious function of the
readiness of my self to get impacted ,
makes an objective assessment impossible.
So, any way I just bask in the
thrill of the moment that my circumstances allow me to.
And there was this group of 5 girls
sitting around diagonally facing me,
two tables away, making huge noice.
I was thinking how destituted
the rigour of my work
is making me, by placing a demand on my
time so tight, that I am surely
without any concession, to be devouted to
this lone cause while life with
so much of "these" around me,
gets un touched and unfelt. In a
vague flight of delussion I was
thinking how would it be if I would
go and and talk to them, and
have some fun? Allas there was no
reason for me to relate to them or identify
with them which made this fantasy an
impossibly abberated reality.
Hence I turned the page to delve into
the objection Nagaraj finds in the
ideological ways of Allama with the
anthropological diversions of the
Veerashaiva Movement and how he
compromises his epistemological stands.
Then I survived that hard core analysis
and entered the section where he
addresses the objection of Allama about
the Tatvamasi of Adishandkaracharya.
Then I suddenly heard Hello,
I look up and the girl from that
group whose morphology had achieved
the maximum share of my attention
span is infront of me! I said yes!
but with an annoyed
face as if to make it clear that
I was being disturbed from my study.
She asked "Do I know you?" I Dont
know, pat came the reply. Then she said
"I mean I thought I had seen
you some where." I said "may be!"
Well, at this level, since I did not
have any genuine desire or affinity
for an aquaintance this really annoyed.
I looked annoyed too. Then she asked
where am I from, I told about
my college and my stint at the
company and the Institute. The girl
appologised and went off.
I was since at a very interesting
stage of the book reverted back with
no momentum loss, from this what
could have been a sweet diversion.
I went back and finished the book.
Meanwhile I finished two more cups
of tea. While that girl again was crossing me,
I just asked her had she been to
Institute for some reason,
as there is a chance that she
might have seen me there?
She bluntly said ,
"Look We were playing a game called
'who dares?' ".
In that we have to do some
thing daring. I was asked to
come and ask about your
details which I did. Apart from that
it was nothing else.
"I have never seen you and sorry for
your inconvenience".
uff As Always !!! Why me? Well,
I did not even have the
next page of the philosophical
text to revert back. I just
had to tell myself...
It happens Dude!! It happens!!!
Moral of the story:- There is some
thing about my exterior, atleast,
which makes girls need "daring"
to approach me! Its time I correct
it completely and become inviting...
I dont have much time
... Soon I shall be swept off my feet,
by my other half...
I am getting ready mate!!!
Hymn++
With kaveri tribunal’s verdict and city corporation giving water once in three days, the ritual of baths are solemnized by
gangecha yamunechaiva godavari saraswathi
narmade sindhu kaveri, amazon nile mississippi
jalesmin sannidhinkuru
With the battle field getting bloody between norton McCaffe and AVG, each would invite proliferation of virus along with the ever-spying software popularly called WindowsXP, before booting system [with internet connection]
Apa Dhuurthanthu ye bhootha, ye bhootha jaala samsthitha
ye bhootha viGhna karthaaraha, the nashyanthu shivaagnaya
After the boom of IT and ITES the anthropology of our academic times goes by
Aakashaath pathithan thoyam yathaagachchathi saagaram
sarvavidyaa arjanethi software prathigachchathi
With the computers becoming smarter, and people becoming intricately dependent on them, not just functionally……… well all of us becoming just clients of at the human ends for big servers.
So? the ever enchanting invocation of
Kshyisali shivethara kruthi kruthiyalli
moodali mangaLa mathi mathiyalli
kavi rushi santhara aadrarshadali
sarvodayavaagali server-rali
ad sari aadre… client-alli?
—————
yeno
idamittham….
Projections!
I read about “Future Poetry” by Aurobindo Ghosh. I don’t know what he meant by it. But here is the way, I see it happening.
One side effect of being on the road, away from the desk, even when the freewheeling effect of studies, is running like a persistent asymptote, in the back ground, is an inter disciplinary spillover.
Time scaling is an important concept for all the DSP guys.
Explanation: If we have two similar graphs[with x-y axes],one below the other, and if we have the scale markings on the x-axis of the top and the bottom graph by hours and days respectively, if we bring any figure from the top graph to the bottom intact, we are indeed scaling it by a factor of 24, as there are 24 hours in a day.
This process has very deep philosophical and epistemological strings attached to it. It is a very often used tool in many mathematical procedures.
Instead of working further problems towards finishing my work, when I stupidly while away, a thought pops up!
Now how will it reflect in poetry?
That late lyricist, had penned a crisp popular anthem in Taal, as
Ramthaa jogi vo ramthaa jogi
sAri madushAlA pI Aya
mI ek pal me sadiyA ji AyA
Yes this is the apt example! in a second or moment [Ek pal ],
centuries [sadiyA] are lived..
Now coming to infinite series, we have a more immediate example. In my post called “blogonomy” [http://recognition.wordpress.com/2007/05/08/blogonomy/] the last two lines are the representation of
summation, i from 1 to infinity, of N divided by 2 times i is always less than N.
Now I am gone.
Safer World!
One guy lost his mother soon after his birth. He was encouraged to be a learned man, and was tutored a lot in philosophy, oriental mostly. This guy was mainly supported by his Grandpa who , a rich man, devoting all his resources to make him “wise” and may be enlightened. Suddenly his grandpa died (:-( . This guy lost direction, left college, went on shouting from as many podiums as he could, he went out of his mother organization shouting at its poster boy some horrible shit, got married blew up all his grandpa’s money, had three kids, moved out of family, got some other patron in a lonely European woman (what is it with these single western women? Do they think oriental guys as some hunky mysterious, and fascinating? ). Lived with her on her money; May be he wanted more!, so one day said , in the words of G-1, “Bulb hathkothu”= “I am enlightened”. He from then on revived his shouting, this time with lowered sound and greater malice. In small groups and staying amongst those who paid his bills. Finally he died.
Alas, the world has less audio noise for his demise, and much less malice and contempt in air.
There is a guy who, usually takes Hollywood stories, Pakistani music , casts non-superstar materials and churns out films, when he is not “selling his wounds”[in affective way] as he ran out of them due to his rate of blabber. This guy befriended that recently died guy, 3 decades ago, to come out of the clout of another “enlightened ” man. He seems addicted to the need to cling to one or the other. This late guy was a master in getting guys clinging to him[paying his bills!], by telling they are not.
The poster boy of his former mother organization was famous for “making his listener’s head empty” putting them in “pathless land”, while this guy was notorious for making the listeners’ “heads missing” , applying Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle to people, or some thing close to it, challenging the notion of their being!
The poster boy died of cancer, while the later due to spasms in his heart last month.
The senior undid all he did, went and apologized to those he had hurt, albeit after they died in front of their graves in secret, while the recently died one was master of saying self-contradictory things.
Both shared their given names. Both felt hopeless about the other, but related to essentially.
In my wandering years, my pathless manners got their stuff visited, and for those memories, here is an obituary.
Thank God, there is death!
Even for …
Mistaken by birth,
Messed up in Life,
Abducted by Salvation,
Rescued by DEATH.
Zindagi veeran banjar
jis se ut gayi basthiya
Zindagi Khola samundar
jis me DUbi kaStiyAn
Jisko kahtE ho Janam
Vo maut kI SuruvAt hi
Zindagi kya bAth hi
Zindagi kya bAth hi
