Bill Bryson’s A Short History of Nearly Everything
Throughout the book, I kept thinking how much work Bryson must have put into this book…, the amount of reading, cross-referencing, travelling, etc., he must have subjected himself to. All to know the why and how of things. Amazing. His effort was worth each page he must have painfully ploughed through.
It starts with discussing the ‘Big Bang’, weaves its way through the many inventions and discoveries that have changed human life since, and then traces the origin of life, right up to us. Not that it answers every random question you ever thought of (my favourite, when I was a kid, was ‘Are there black flowers?’). And I don’t think it was ever meant to be.
It’s a book that should have been written long ago ideally when I was a kid. So I would read it and realise science has more to it than what my textbooks made it out to be. I didn’t hate science. I quite loved it. But when things started getting slightly complicated, say, by Class X, chemistry seemed intimidating, physics dull, and biology was full of complex diagrams I couldn’t, for the life of me, fathom. I remember my biology teacher saying that half the marks apportioned to diagrams were awarded to the drawing and half to the labeling. I always made sure I got the labeling right. I had to, else how would you know a heart from a large intestine?
Coming back to Bryson, there were some chapters, especially the ones that dwelt on the age of the earth, which did drag. Now, how would it make a difference if the earth is 9,000,000,000,000,000 million years old or if it is 9,000,000,000,000,001 million years old? I would still prefer my chicken curry hot.
I do appreciate his efforts in going behind the scenes and bringing to light very shy scientists, or sometimes even laypersons who were never credited for their insight just because they were laypersons.
The book does remind me of Shivram Karanth’s column for kids in Taranga. You could send in any question on science to Karanthajja and it would be answered in the column. I did send in my black flower question but never saw it answered :(
It also reminds me of similar attempts to popularize science by a Kannada author, whose name eludes me now. If anyone reading this can, then please let me know. He was the son of a famous poet is the other thing I can remember about him.
22 March 2008
15 March 2008
Memories crowd my mind
A couple of months ago my cousins and I got together at my Dod Mava (eldest maternal uncle)'s house. It was such a rush of memory. We talked and talked of how:
we would sneak up to the 'bimblekai' (a very very sour berry which is green and oval-shaped) tree behind the house and grab handfuls of it. To make things better, salt would be stored in sacks in a sort of shed right beside the tree. So, there we sat in the afternoons, drooling, biting into bimblekai dipped in salt, squeezing up our faces because it was so sour, and thrilled because our teeth became sharp like daggers.
we just kept running. My grandfather's place is huge. There was one corridor through the middle of the house, both sides of which there would be rooms or halls (jagali). And then there was a parallel corridor on the other side of the house, which was used as a quasi-workplace and a quasi-dining hall during fesivals, etc. These two corridors were connected, of course, in the front and back. And whenever we got bored of all our games, we'd get this brilliant idea of running through the house along these corridors.
My brother, our two cousins and I... what a quartet! I was the youngest of the gang, and invariably, I would be the person to get caught by my grandfather. He sat on the wooden bench, a baanka as it is called. All he had to do was wait till I neared him and then put out his walking stick. He used the walking stick as a hook and pulled me backwards by the collar of my dress. He would release me after a pat on the head or a peck on the cheek, but it was agonising to see the others get ahead. Incidentally, this is the only memory I have of him. It is funny because I see my granpa and myself. Now, how can I see myself? Maybe my mind has built images of me as a kid from the pictures I have seen of a younger me.
We were always terrified a particular uncle who insisted that all of us sleep in the afternoon. How many mangoes remained uneaten and nooks in the areca estate unexplored because of these forced afternoon siestas. But things weren’t always bad. Many afternoons we got lucky: as soon as the uncle started snoring, we would slowly tiptoe across the upstairs hall and down the stairs. But here, too, I had problems. For one, the uncle was a light sleeper and the hall too big. And, I usually wore these horrible silver anklets, which wouldn’t come off that easily. So, you can imagine. One tinkle of the anklet and there booms Uncle, “You, get back here!” Everyone else would be ordered back, too. Their glares would then make me more miserable than the siesta.
But then, the human mind innovates: I’d bend down, hold each anklet up and make my getaway.
Hide-and-seek was the best game you could play in these old houses. Many corners of the house or even parts of the corridor would never be touched by sunlight, and we had enacted a law that you couldn’t put on the light. One had to feel his/her way through the cool darkness if one wished to catch someone there. The ‘hidee’ meanwhile had a merry time because he/she could see but not be seen.
I could go on... of how once my cousins and brother ganged up to give me sherbet spiked with tobacco, of our innovative kitchen at the ‘maala’ (open space where areca was dried) and even more innovative dishes (read imaginary or dished cooked with mud and stones) we served up, of our unsupervised dips in the river and mind-blowing hikes up random hillocks ... I really could go on. And this is just one part of the story, that is, these were our adventures at our maternal grandpa’s place. We had an equally great time at our paternal granpa’s place.
Hmm, silly nostalgic me.
we would sneak up to the 'bimblekai' (a very very sour berry which is green and oval-shaped) tree behind the house and grab handfuls of it. To make things better, salt would be stored in sacks in a sort of shed right beside the tree. So, there we sat in the afternoons, drooling, biting into bimblekai dipped in salt, squeezing up our faces because it was so sour, and thrilled because our teeth became sharp like daggers.
we just kept running. My grandfather's place is huge. There was one corridor through the middle of the house, both sides of which there would be rooms or halls (jagali). And then there was a parallel corridor on the other side of the house, which was used as a quasi-workplace and a quasi-dining hall during fesivals, etc. These two corridors were connected, of course, in the front and back. And whenever we got bored of all our games, we'd get this brilliant idea of running through the house along these corridors.
My brother, our two cousins and I... what a quartet! I was the youngest of the gang, and invariably, I would be the person to get caught by my grandfather. He sat on the wooden bench, a baanka as it is called. All he had to do was wait till I neared him and then put out his walking stick. He used the walking stick as a hook and pulled me backwards by the collar of my dress. He would release me after a pat on the head or a peck on the cheek, but it was agonising to see the others get ahead. Incidentally, this is the only memory I have of him. It is funny because I see my granpa and myself. Now, how can I see myself? Maybe my mind has built images of me as a kid from the pictures I have seen of a younger me.
We were always terrified a particular uncle who insisted that all of us sleep in the afternoon. How many mangoes remained uneaten and nooks in the areca estate unexplored because of these forced afternoon siestas. But things weren’t always bad. Many afternoons we got lucky: as soon as the uncle started snoring, we would slowly tiptoe across the upstairs hall and down the stairs. But here, too, I had problems. For one, the uncle was a light sleeper and the hall too big. And, I usually wore these horrible silver anklets, which wouldn’t come off that easily. So, you can imagine. One tinkle of the anklet and there booms Uncle, “You, get back here!” Everyone else would be ordered back, too. Their glares would then make me more miserable than the siesta.
But then, the human mind innovates: I’d bend down, hold each anklet up and make my getaway.
Hide-and-seek was the best game you could play in these old houses. Many corners of the house or even parts of the corridor would never be touched by sunlight, and we had enacted a law that you couldn’t put on the light. One had to feel his/her way through the cool darkness if one wished to catch someone there. The ‘hidee’ meanwhile had a merry time because he/she could see but not be seen.
I could go on... of how once my cousins and brother ganged up to give me sherbet spiked with tobacco, of our innovative kitchen at the ‘maala’ (open space where areca was dried) and even more innovative dishes (read imaginary or dished cooked with mud and stones) we served up, of our unsupervised dips in the river and mind-blowing hikes up random hillocks ... I really could go on. And this is just one part of the story, that is, these were our adventures at our maternal grandpa’s place. We had an equally great time at our paternal granpa’s place.
Hmm, silly nostalgic me.
27 February 2008
Why do you want to be scared?
I can understand why a new couple would want to watch a horror movie in a hall. But otherwise, why do we watch horror or thriller movies? (I don’t mean the murder mysteries, but the serial killer types. You know he’s out there and he’s gonna kill you. And mostly, we know his modus operandi, too.) Movie channels keep beaming them like nobody’s business. So, am sure they have some idea about what their audiences want.
So, why do we like to be scared?
1. Just too bored with the daily crap of our lives?
2. Get a kick out of seeing scared people running, getting hacked, mutilated, and the blood being sucked out of them. We just like to see blood? Just curious to see in which of the above ways will people die?
3. Because, it’s akin to what you feel when you see an accident on the road. You know it’s a gross scene, something you shouldn’t be keen to see, yet everyone crowds around, and you vie for a good view?
4. It’s way better than watching mushy stuff?
5. Helps you show off your sound system?
6. Fear turns you on? (Even better, being near a scared person turns you on?)
As is perhaps obvious, I don’t watch too many horror or shall we say supernatural movies. Serial killer types? No way. More than being scared, I find them so predicable. I did love The Sixth Sense, though. It’s sense of horror was so subtle, a quality you would never associate with a horror movie.
Was mighty depressed when I saw that my favourite channel BBC Entertainment too is going the scary way. They had such a good mix of shows, and now, of all things, they have shows like Primeval!!! Help!!
Sigh. Maybe it’s just God’s way of telling me to get back to reading. Yeah, Hollywood can even make the Devil boring.
So, why do we like to be scared?
1. Just too bored with the daily crap of our lives?
2. Get a kick out of seeing scared people running, getting hacked, mutilated, and the blood being sucked out of them. We just like to see blood? Just curious to see in which of the above ways will people die?
3. Because, it’s akin to what you feel when you see an accident on the road. You know it’s a gross scene, something you shouldn’t be keen to see, yet everyone crowds around, and you vie for a good view?
4. It’s way better than watching mushy stuff?
5. Helps you show off your sound system?
6. Fear turns you on? (Even better, being near a scared person turns you on?)
As is perhaps obvious, I don’t watch too many horror or shall we say supernatural movies. Serial killer types? No way. More than being scared, I find them so predicable. I did love The Sixth Sense, though. It’s sense of horror was so subtle, a quality you would never associate with a horror movie.
Was mighty depressed when I saw that my favourite channel BBC Entertainment too is going the scary way. They had such a good mix of shows, and now, of all things, they have shows like Primeval!!! Help!!
Sigh. Maybe it’s just God’s way of telling me to get back to reading. Yeah, Hollywood can even make the Devil boring.
15 February 2008
Moooovies
Lolita
It almost hurts when Lolita calls Humbert a pervert. Oh, doesn't she realise he loves her so? But then she is just 12 (in the movie she's 14) and he is way older and you shouldn't think it's love. He's obviously taking advantage of her. It's just lust. Right? If he's a pervert, let's call him so, eh? But it's obvious we've been carried away by Humbert's fantasies, and 'to be carried away', by definition, means that you aren't thinking, .
The one scene from Lolita that will stand out in my memory is the one in which she is reading a comic book and giggling to herself. And suddenly, she shuts her eyes, throws her head back and lets out orgasmic moans. The camera zooms out to show Humbert lying back on the rocking chair with Lolita on his crotch.
So, isnt she an adult, or well, at least almost there, the movie seems to ask. For a moment there, you had us, Mr Director.
[Thanks, M, and keep them coming :)]
Hotel Rwanda
The plot reminds one of Schindler's List. It makes its point by playing down violence as far as possible, except when it turns up at the doorstep of Hotel Rwanda. When Rusesabagina's jeep goes off the road and he steps down from the vehicle to see what's wrong, he simply cant take a step without tripping on a human body. Very strong scene that.
Munich
It's the story of five assassinators recruited by the Israeli government to track down and kill the perpetrators of violence at the 1972 Olympic Games. Action is standard stuff, but this movie is not really about action. As there is one killing after the other, the assassinators arrive at the inevitable questions: will the violence serve any purpose? When will it end? Why should we as Jews do like the Arabs? What then does it means to be a Jew? (“Jews are supposed to be righteous.”) What does it mean to be killing for one's country?
When Avner (Eric Bana)'s mother tells him she is so proud of the work that he's done, Avner just stares back at her with blood-shot eyes. And I think he's thinking, “You mean all the blood... all the devious ways in which we killed people... the children I orphaned, the nightmares that haunt me, you mean you are proud of all that? How could you possibly be? You dont know what you are saying, woman.”
On a different note: Eric Bana is so so intense. Ahem.
I had seen bits of this movie just a month ago under extra-ordinary circumstances. Coincidences don't cease, it seems.
It almost hurts when Lolita calls Humbert a pervert. Oh, doesn't she realise he loves her so? But then she is just 12 (in the movie she's 14) and he is way older and you shouldn't think it's love. He's obviously taking advantage of her. It's just lust. Right? If he's a pervert, let's call him so, eh? But it's obvious we've been carried away by Humbert's fantasies, and 'to be carried away', by definition, means that you aren't thinking, .
The one scene from Lolita that will stand out in my memory is the one in which she is reading a comic book and giggling to herself. And suddenly, she shuts her eyes, throws her head back and lets out orgasmic moans. The camera zooms out to show Humbert lying back on the rocking chair with Lolita on his crotch.
So, isnt she an adult, or well, at least almost there, the movie seems to ask. For a moment there, you had us, Mr Director.
[Thanks, M, and keep them coming :)]
Hotel Rwanda
The plot reminds one of Schindler's List. It makes its point by playing down violence as far as possible, except when it turns up at the doorstep of Hotel Rwanda. When Rusesabagina's jeep goes off the road and he steps down from the vehicle to see what's wrong, he simply cant take a step without tripping on a human body. Very strong scene that.
Munich
It's the story of five assassinators recruited by the Israeli government to track down and kill the perpetrators of violence at the 1972 Olympic Games. Action is standard stuff, but this movie is not really about action. As there is one killing after the other, the assassinators arrive at the inevitable questions: will the violence serve any purpose? When will it end? Why should we as Jews do like the Arabs? What then does it means to be a Jew? (“Jews are supposed to be righteous.”) What does it mean to be killing for one's country?
When Avner (Eric Bana)'s mother tells him she is so proud of the work that he's done, Avner just stares back at her with blood-shot eyes. And I think he's thinking, “You mean all the blood... all the devious ways in which we killed people... the children I orphaned, the nightmares that haunt me, you mean you are proud of all that? How could you possibly be? You dont know what you are saying, woman.”
On a different note: Eric Bana is so so intense. Ahem.
I had seen bits of this movie just a month ago under extra-ordinary circumstances. Coincidences don't cease, it seems.
05 February 2008
Second life anyone?
Have been wondering about the kind of virtual social lives we lead. No, I've got nothing new to report, but I keep getting amused by it. About how we detail our lives online, put them on display, have status messages inform people what exactly we are feeling, thinking or doing right then, etc.
The internet helps or even gets most people to express themselves. People, who otherwise dont write or sing or paint. Has the Internet created this urge in us or did people always have it and just needed some sort of medium to express it?
Am not saying everyone's blogging or anything but almost everyone you know who has access to computers and internet is on some or the other social networking site, with their photos, travelogues, list of their favourite everythings, etc. We are more eager to talk about ourselves, to build some kind of public interest in our personalities, and also feel at perfect liberty to know about other people's lives.
Something like this was so unknown till recently. Like, for instance, it's a bit difficult for someone as old as my parents to understand the point of creating a profile, say, on Orkut, putting your pic there, 'adding' friends, and then 'scrapping'. They rightly ask, when you can e-mail or chat or text, why scrap or write on someone's 'wall'? Well, I dont know. At least as far as social networking sites are concerned, it's peer pressure, herd mentality... you get the picture.
I do most of the internetty things I mentioned above, and more. It's been close to ten years now I think that I began to use the internet. And it still overawes me, when I stop to think of it. Will I still be so attached to the net ten years from now? Or will I be disenchanted and have a more enriched offline life? But the internet does help you beat the problems of time and space: it's easier to catch up with people digitally. Many a mind-blowing conversation has happened online.
So, I do treasure my online life. And even if the power's gone, the modem disconnects and I connect back to the here and now, the virtual reality is intact in my mind.
The internet helps or even gets most people to express themselves. People, who otherwise dont write or sing or paint. Has the Internet created this urge in us or did people always have it and just needed some sort of medium to express it?
Am not saying everyone's blogging or anything but almost everyone you know who has access to computers and internet is on some or the other social networking site, with their photos, travelogues, list of their favourite everythings, etc. We are more eager to talk about ourselves, to build some kind of public interest in our personalities, and also feel at perfect liberty to know about other people's lives.
Something like this was so unknown till recently. Like, for instance, it's a bit difficult for someone as old as my parents to understand the point of creating a profile, say, on Orkut, putting your pic there, 'adding' friends, and then 'scrapping'. They rightly ask, when you can e-mail or chat or text, why scrap or write on someone's 'wall'? Well, I dont know. At least as far as social networking sites are concerned, it's peer pressure, herd mentality... you get the picture.
I do most of the internetty things I mentioned above, and more. It's been close to ten years now I think that I began to use the internet. And it still overawes me, when I stop to think of it. Will I still be so attached to the net ten years from now? Or will I be disenchanted and have a more enriched offline life? But the internet does help you beat the problems of time and space: it's easier to catch up with people digitally. Many a mind-blowing conversation has happened online.
So, I do treasure my online life. And even if the power's gone, the modem disconnects and I connect back to the here and now, the virtual reality is intact in my mind.
03 February 2008
Time off
Two movies I watched recently: Taare Zameen Par and Mungaaru Male.
What drove me to watch the first one was Uber's high praise for it. It's definitely a good movie, but wouldnt quite put it in my list of all-time greats. It's just that it's so rare that Bollywood does anything out of the routine, that we cant help being thrilled.
In TZP, the parents are made out to be villains, which they may as well be. Blood cruelty, in this rampant sense, is a much unexplored subject though yes, we do have the exploitation of young love depicted in umpteen movies.
But the transformation from a child debilitated by dyslexia to one who's successfully managing it is a little too sudden, a little too 'filmy'. Yet, I'd say I have no complaints. Aamir, the director, may have a lot more to say than Aamir, the actor.
Mungaaru Male: Elru heldru chennagide antha, adakke nodide. The numbers were good. But was disappointed. The dialogues become a little too smart, and the twists a little too abrupt. What I did like though was the fact that a Kannada 'hero' could be chubby and cute and not dripping macho, and also not be a 'Rajkumar'. Yes, that needs to be celebrated.
What drove me to watch the first one was Uber's high praise for it. It's definitely a good movie, but wouldnt quite put it in my list of all-time greats. It's just that it's so rare that Bollywood does anything out of the routine, that we cant help being thrilled.
In TZP, the parents are made out to be villains, which they may as well be. Blood cruelty, in this rampant sense, is a much unexplored subject though yes, we do have the exploitation of young love depicted in umpteen movies.
But the transformation from a child debilitated by dyslexia to one who's successfully managing it is a little too sudden, a little too 'filmy'. Yet, I'd say I have no complaints. Aamir, the director, may have a lot more to say than Aamir, the actor.
Mungaaru Male: Elru heldru chennagide antha, adakke nodide. The numbers were good. But was disappointed. The dialogues become a little too smart, and the twists a little too abrupt. What I did like though was the fact that a Kannada 'hero' could be chubby and cute and not dripping macho, and also not be a 'Rajkumar'. Yes, that needs to be celebrated.
17 January 2008
Life, and living it
Ajji is standing beside me, peering into my laptop. I ask her if she wants to try her hand at the computer. She doesn't say anything, but comes closer, grinning. I type out her name in very big font. She reads out each alphabet, puts them together mentally, and says with a wide smile, “LAKSHMI.” She stumps me with her life spirit each time I see her. She always has been, all these years. Then, she asks if I can take pictures from the laptop. I say there's no camera attached.
“Oh, I wanted you to take pictures of me,” she says. Am a little surprised, but I just tell her that I can take pics from my mobile. “Oh good, then you must take pictures of me. You'll need it ... later ... give a copy to your mom here..., you too take a copy and go. Aamele bekaagtade (you'll need it later),” she says.
I understand, but only a moment later. My stupid grin disappears. I feel empty in the stomach. My mom is raising her voice over the din of the music am playing, and explaining some recipe to me. My eyes cloud over. I look at ajji, she's still smiling, standing beside me. I tell her I'll take her to a studio. She likes the idea.
My phone rings .... work calling.
Life's incredibly beautiful, isnt it, thanks to death?
10 December 2007
Soul jargon
Of late, am very conscious of the passage of time. Of how we get up, and cook and eat, and fight and run, and work and sleep and make love or lust. Of our struggles and passions; dreams - the ones we've seen and the ones we havent.
Ten years ago, 'What must I do?' was a question that had very definite answers, or at least that's what I was conditioned to believe. No such illusions today. In fact, 'What's the point of it all?' is a question that am quite fed up of, frankly. I have thought about it ever since I remember beginning to think.
It really doesn't matter what you do: time passes. You could have children, or maybe you could trade on the stock market. You could write books, or you could renounce the world, if there's anything called the world and if you could indeed renounce it.
I feel old today. No, it's not pessimism. (You cant be pessimistic or optimistic about life.
Well, life's life and there's not much you can do about it.) It's just a slow weariness. An intense desire for nothing. It's like wanting to sit on the sea shore. Am open to all that the sea brings me. But I will not move. The sea must come to me, and bring what it will. I have no desire to go to the sea, nor do I want to go away from it. I want to 'not be'. They call it 'zeroising' in bank jargon.
Another night is coming on. And all I want to ask you is, 'Can I hold you tonight?'
Ten years ago, 'What must I do?' was a question that had very definite answers, or at least that's what I was conditioned to believe. No such illusions today. In fact, 'What's the point of it all?' is a question that am quite fed up of, frankly. I have thought about it ever since I remember beginning to think.
It really doesn't matter what you do: time passes. You could have children, or maybe you could trade on the stock market. You could write books, or you could renounce the world, if there's anything called the world and if you could indeed renounce it.
I feel old today. No, it's not pessimism. (You cant be pessimistic or optimistic about life.
Well, life's life and there's not much you can do about it.) It's just a slow weariness. An intense desire for nothing. It's like wanting to sit on the sea shore. Am open to all that the sea brings me. But I will not move. The sea must come to me, and bring what it will. I have no desire to go to the sea, nor do I want to go away from it. I want to 'not be'. They call it 'zeroising' in bank jargon.
Another night is coming on. And all I want to ask you is, 'Can I hold you tonight?'
10 November 2007
Keep the candles going
1. After Singur and Nandigram, the staunchest of CPI-M supporters have had either nothing to say or have fallen silent. But some people are their usual cocksure selves. For instance, the Times of India. Day before yesterday, it led with a story that screamed, “Battle for Nandigram won.” My questions: (a) Who won the battle? The people of Nandigram or the CPI-M cadres? (b) For whom was the battle won? The people of Nandigram or the CPI-M cadres? (c) Is that something to celebrate? Quite a few of us have not forgotten that Laxman Seth, local CPI-M biggie, declared early this year that 20,000 odd acres would be acquired. It was then that Nandigram erupted, and the affected people formed the BUPC. So, if the BUPC was 'ousted' by the CPI-M, does it call for a celebration? TOI editors think so. This is the newspaper which got the 'Lead India' nautanki on the road recently.
2. If you can, get a copy of tomorrow's Dainik Statesman. The lead story presents the number of people killed during the last 30 years of Left rule: 55,000. And this is according to police records.
3. I think we must institute some sort of an award for fearless reporting and give it to Tara News for being the bravest news channel of India and all its Medinipur and Nandigram correspondents for being as intrepid as they have proved themselves to be. Truly, hats off to them. They smuggle cameras to conflict areas and send footages god knows how.
4. Gopalakrishna Gandhi. Yes, you are the last hope we have. Please take the one step you have been mulling about since the last couple of days. It's time you made the anarchy of this state official.
5. Oh, do remember to keep those apolitical candle light vigils going. As long as you light a candle and strike a pose, it doesnt matter what you do on election day. The movie buff bhadralok at Nandan was miffed because the film fest was disrupted by the Trinamul party. The bhadralok said on TV that though he was very sorry about what was happening in Nandigram, the film fest shouldnt have been disrupted, because the two things were 'different' and 'not connected'. The CPI-M owes a lot to people like him. I wonder what the bhadralok has to say about Mahasweta Devi's vocal presence in any protest relating to Singur and Nandigram. What could a novelist have anything to do with politics, he might wonder.
6. Bengal's fate in the recent past (that is, since the beginning of coalition politics) has been closely linked to the politics at the Centre. Tomorrow the Left and Manmohan Singh meet, ostentatiously for the nuclear deal. And Bengal's politics can go to hell, once again.
2. If you can, get a copy of tomorrow's Dainik Statesman. The lead story presents the number of people killed during the last 30 years of Left rule: 55,000. And this is according to police records.
3. I think we must institute some sort of an award for fearless reporting and give it to Tara News for being the bravest news channel of India and all its Medinipur and Nandigram correspondents for being as intrepid as they have proved themselves to be. Truly, hats off to them. They smuggle cameras to conflict areas and send footages god knows how.
4. Gopalakrishna Gandhi. Yes, you are the last hope we have. Please take the one step you have been mulling about since the last couple of days. It's time you made the anarchy of this state official.
5. Oh, do remember to keep those apolitical candle light vigils going. As long as you light a candle and strike a pose, it doesnt matter what you do on election day. The movie buff bhadralok at Nandan was miffed because the film fest was disrupted by the Trinamul party. The bhadralok said on TV that though he was very sorry about what was happening in Nandigram, the film fest shouldnt have been disrupted, because the two things were 'different' and 'not connected'. The CPI-M owes a lot to people like him. I wonder what the bhadralok has to say about Mahasweta Devi's vocal presence in any protest relating to Singur and Nandigram. What could a novelist have anything to do with politics, he might wonder.
6. Bengal's fate in the recent past (that is, since the beginning of coalition politics) has been closely linked to the politics at the Centre. Tomorrow the Left and Manmohan Singh meet, ostentatiously for the nuclear deal. And Bengal's politics can go to hell, once again.
03 November 2007
Music
When I sing, I feel something releasing in me. I deeply miss my music classes with Mrs Sampath. I learnt a bit of Carnatic music from her in Hubli, of all the places. As far as I know, she was the only Carnatic vocal instructor in Hubli-Dharwad, the cradle of Hindustani music in Karnataka. Pure stroke of luck that I found her.
When I first joined the classes, I was about 12; my voice was good, but raw... unused to modulations, to 'bhaava'. Mrs Sampath told us to practise at home at least once a week. Prashanti, the little brat and my music classmate, and I would 'practise' all the way from my house to Mrs Sampath's, a distance of about 15 mins. But the good thing about us was when we began to sing in class, we poured our heart out. And Mrs Sampath would be impressed, and would say, "So, you have practised."
But Mrs Sampath was no fool: soon, she told us that our voices were good and we sang well, but we had no bhaava. Now, what is bhaava, I remember thinking. And then she sang the same kruti that we had just sung, and I began to listen. I heard many sounds in her voice, many ups and downs, many twists and turns, many a thing that made me close my eyes and rock my head. (That's among the many similarities music has with the process of an orgasm: you cant stand or for that matter lay still when you are experiencing either.) And I knew I didnt produce these sounds; at least not then.
So, I began to practise. Not much, maybe an hour or two a day. I also began to listen to more music. One day at class, after I finished singing a pancharatna kriti, Mrs Sampath looked hard at me, as if trying to search for something, and then gave an approving nod of her head. The beginnings of musical insight - that's what she was looking for in me, and she said she found them.
Mrs Sampath was a perfectionist. Weeks used to go by with me stuck on a line. There was no going ahead unless she heard what she wanted to hear. It was excruciating for me because I could see where she was tweaking it a little, but to do that myself made me sweat. There was only one way to sing it the way she did: shut my eyes tight, map out her voice exactly in my mind, and imitate it. And, bingo! If you hear it right, you've got it. This was how I picked up Bengali, too. Works with language and music.
Must find a teacher here. Must practise, must sing, must breathe!
When I first joined the classes, I was about 12; my voice was good, but raw... unused to modulations, to 'bhaava'. Mrs Sampath told us to practise at home at least once a week. Prashanti, the little brat and my music classmate, and I would 'practise' all the way from my house to Mrs Sampath's, a distance of about 15 mins. But the good thing about us was when we began to sing in class, we poured our heart out. And Mrs Sampath would be impressed, and would say, "So, you have practised."
But Mrs Sampath was no fool: soon, she told us that our voices were good and we sang well, but we had no bhaava. Now, what is bhaava, I remember thinking. And then she sang the same kruti that we had just sung, and I began to listen. I heard many sounds in her voice, many ups and downs, many twists and turns, many a thing that made me close my eyes and rock my head. (That's among the many similarities music has with the process of an orgasm: you cant stand or for that matter lay still when you are experiencing either.) And I knew I didnt produce these sounds; at least not then.
So, I began to practise. Not much, maybe an hour or two a day. I also began to listen to more music. One day at class, after I finished singing a pancharatna kriti, Mrs Sampath looked hard at me, as if trying to search for something, and then gave an approving nod of her head. The beginnings of musical insight - that's what she was looking for in me, and she said she found them.
Mrs Sampath was a perfectionist. Weeks used to go by with me stuck on a line. There was no going ahead unless she heard what she wanted to hear. It was excruciating for me because I could see where she was tweaking it a little, but to do that myself made me sweat. There was only one way to sing it the way she did: shut my eyes tight, map out her voice exactly in my mind, and imitate it. And, bingo! If you hear it right, you've got it. This was how I picked up Bengali, too. Works with language and music.
Must find a teacher here. Must practise, must sing, must breathe!
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