A recent post by Manjula reminded me of a long gone period of my life. As the regular readers of my blog might be familiar, I spent a major chunk of my childhood with my grandparents. My grandfather used to take me to this nature-cure center where they gave me oil massages and put me inside a glass case to perform heliotherapy. In this manner they used to make a barbeque of me twice-a-week. By the time I came home I was sizzling and soon kids started calling me the red monkey.
Apart from that, I should have loved the massage sessions. Every alternate day, totally naked lying on a leather bed, two not-so-bad-looking nurses applying the oil and giving me massage from both the sides of the bed. Did I find it erotic? I don’t remember that part because I was only seven. I must have hated them back then I guess, as I recently heard my seven-year-old nephew declaring, “I hate girls!”
Kenyan author Ngugi (pronounced Goo-ghee) wa Thiong’o returned to his native land after an exile of 22 years, and he got this treatment. A few gunmen barged into his rented apartment, brutally tortured him and a relative, and raped his wife, Njeeri.
A four-man gang forced their way into the Ngugis’ flat at Norfolk Towers in the city centre on Thursday and beat up Prof Ngugi, torturing him with burning cigarettes and whipping him with the butt of a pistol.
The author, who lives in California, has been in self-exile in the US for 22 years. He had to flee his country for writing against his government. He had returned thinking the situation had improved. His writings used to be part of the school curriculum but a long time back they were banned. Ngugi’s politically charged writing documented Kenya’s repressive days and chronicled the country’s difficult transition from colonialism to self-rule.
Now that we’ve been talking of poetry, here’s an interesting article on the poet CP Cavafy. I like this section:
Cavafy lived above a brothel in the Rue Lepsius - about which he said, “Where could I live better? Below, the brothel caters for the flesh. And there is the church which forgives sin. And there is the hospital where we die.”
I think my lack of understanding of poetry manifests my lack of passion. Poetry unshackles the literary intellect. It also brings you the stillness I mentioned in a previous post. Every writer should indulge in poetry. It’s like a wrestler practicing yoga and the aerobics. You don’t only need strength, you also need flexibility and seamless body movement. Similarly, no matter how well you write, if there is no poetic fluidity in it, it sounds very dry and dead. I must assign a complete day just to read poetry.
A few days ago I had written a post on my observation of an ant. A giant colony of mutant ants has been found in Australia. A lot of inter-racial sex must be going on there in the vast wilderness. Some day we might be attacked by giant mutant ants.
Nature writer David Gessner has this to say about his four years spent writing about, what else, nature:
I AM SICK of nature. Sick of trees, sick of birds, sick of the ocean. It’s been almost four years now, four years of sitting quietly in my study and sipping tea and contemplating the migratory patterns of the semipalmated plover. Four years of writing essays praised as “quiet” by quiet magazines. Four years of having neighborhood children ask their fathers why the man down the street comes to the post office dressed in his pajamas (”Doesn’t he work, Daddy?”) or having those same fathers wonder why, when the man actually does dress, he dons the eccentric costume of an English bird watcher, complete with binoculars. And finally, four years of being constrained by the gentle straightjacket of the nature-writing genre; that is, four years of writing about the world without being able to use the earthier names for excrement (while talking a lot of scat).
Read the complete essay.
Remember Mom humming something trying to help you fall asleep? Or do you think only the filmi moms do that? My mother sometimes told us bedtime stories. The same old stories again and again. And we listened to them with unmitigated interest. Recently I was telling my nephew one of those stories. It was a rather boring experience because once I’m in bed the only thing I want to do is go to sleep. It is very hard for me to indulge in a conversation while I’m lying down, unless the conversation is really engaging.
For children I think it is more of a re-assurance. All children find their mother’s, or father’s voice, very re-assuring. They feel safe and comforted.
When we grow up the re-assurance is gone. The ghosts of the gone-by day and the insecurities of the coming day chase away the sleep.
Poet Nuala Pinson, a 66-year-old psychotherapist and counselor has launched a CD of poems and relaxation techniques to help people suffering from sleeplessness get some sleep. I think any kind of poetry can make you feel sleepy. Recently I tried to read Residence on Earth by Pablo Neruda. I was so dizzy I almost fell off my chair. I don’t mean any disrespect for the great poet, it’s just that may be right now I’m not in the right frame of mind to appreciate poetry.
Nobel Prize-winning poet Czeslaw Milosz died at the age of 93 in Krakow, Poland on August 14, 2004. His emotional and intellectually expansive poetry and prose were colored by his experiences from the wartime horror and political upheaval of the 20th century.
There were so many kites in the sky that you don’t even see that many stars at night. For us, the children, the 15th of August had less to do with the day of independence, and more to do with kite flying. There is a tradition of flying kites on the independence day. A kite, when it is high up in the air kissing the sky, actually signifies freedom.
The newer colonies no longer follow this tradition, but in Lajpat Nagar, where we used to live when I was in my early teens, kite flying on this day bordered around manic obsession. Even the adults couldn’t resist the thrill and took part in kite fights while younger children gathered around, clapping, shouting, jumping and cheering. Kits of different dimensions and hues dotted the sky-scape all through the day.
But the afternoons were comparatively quieter. The August afternoons are hot in Delhi and staying on the root becomes very difficult. Without a danger of my kite being cut, I was enjoying flying my kite that had been flown till a certain height by my friend. After giving me the string, he had gone downstairs. With my left hand I held the string, with my right hand I held my crutch, and my body leaned against the parapet, while the remaining portion of the manja (powdered glass-coated string used for kite flying) spread on the floor in front of me. The part of the roof where I was standing was shady due to a recent room constructed on the adjacent roof. As I loosened my manja, the soothing breeze took my kite higher and higher, making it easier to maneuver it.
Suddenly, a guy named Lucky emerged from the stairs, holding a big blue kite and a roll of manja. He grinned at me with a glint and prepared to fly his kite. I won’t say he was my friend. We were not on bad terms also and I often used to play chess with him. We were of same age, but he mostly remained aloof from the rest of us and was always involved in one or the other mischief.
“I’m going to cut your kite,” he declared at the outset.
In kite fights, people try to cut each other?s manja with their flying kites. It depends on personal skill, as well as on the quality of your manja.
“I don’t want a kite fight so stay away from my kite. I just want to enjoy flying it,” I said, knowing quite well he won’t leave me alone.
“Look, if you fly a kite, then you should be ready to either get cut, or cut the other chap. Since the other chap is me, and since I know you won’t be able to cut my kite, I’m going to cut your kite, and that’s going to be great fun,” he said.
I didn’t want to get involved in a kite fight due to two reasons. First, that was not my kite. My friend who had gone downstairs had lent me the kite. I didn’t want to lose his kite because I knew had he been there, Lucky wouldn’t have challenged, knowing quite well that my friend was an expert kite fighter. Second, I couldn’t manage it with one hand. To kite fight, you need two hands to maneuver the kite. In quick successions you have to let the manja go loose, or pull it back with both the hands very fast. When you loosen the manja, the kite begins to go up and it also begins to swirl. It has a head and a tail. If you want the kite to go in a particular direction, loosen the manja to make it swirl. While swirling, when the head of the kite is towards your desired direction, you start pulling the manja as fast as you can, and the kite darts towards that direction. So you generally have to take a swoop, go under the competitor?s kite, and again raise the kite with great speed. Whoever pulls and loosens the manja faster, cuts the other’s kite.
Soon, Lucky’s kite was flying brazenly in the sky. He was standing on the parapet, looking focused and strong. I wanted to call my friend from downstairs, but somehow it didn’t seem very appropriate. The whole neighborhood would come to know that Lucky was harassing the poor Pali (my pet name). I didn’t mind being harassed, but I minded many people knowing it.
He looked at me and asked, “Ready?”
I shrugged my shoulders. I knew I’d be holding the manja until it was cut, and then I’d role it.
“Don’t feel bad,” he said while moving his kite slowly towards my kite. “When I have cut your kite, I’ll let you hold my kite and you can fly it as long as you want.”
That seemed like an OK deal to me but still, I didn’t want to lose my friend’s kite. Sadly, I looked at my kite that stood gently in the sky, and I looked at Lucky’s kite that was approaching like a shark. I wished some other kite would come and cut his kite. Of course that was not going to happen because there were only a few kites and except for our kites, they were very away, uninterested in our affair.
I couldn’t loosen the manja, as it would mean losing more of it when the kite was cut. I could only save the portion that was already with me. Still, I let it loose and the kite started swirling and going down. Lucky’s kite was approaching from the left. He needed to swoop and cut my manja with his manja from below. When he swooped and when my kite’s head was facing rightwards, I held the manja tightly and the kite darted towards the right. Lucky’s kite missed my kite by a few inches. He chuckled in delight and let his manja loose to make his kite swirl. I knew the breeze had grown stronger. I let go a few inches of the manja and when the kite faced downwards, I held it tightly. My kite started going down very fast while Lucky’s kite was moving up. He was engrossed in the beauty of his kite.
Before my kite started darting downwards, I knew sooner or later it would take a turn, form a loop, and start rising again. Exactly that happened. Before Lucky, or for that matter even I, could realize, my kite was under Lucky’s kite and because of the strong breeze and my tight grip, was shooting upwards. Very amusingly, Lucky looked at my kite and prepared to dart his kite downwards to cut my kite. At this juncture, my sharp eyesight played an important part. I stretched my left arm as much as possible and waited for our manjas to make a contact. I could actually see where exactly both the manjas would meet. My kite was already rising up very fast and Lucky was tugging his manja to make his kite turn downwards. With bated breath and a stretched arm, I waited for the moment. As soon as saw our manjas made contact, I pulled my arm towards me with great force. It was not a sufficient pull for the manja, but it was the only pull I could provide with one arm. I had pulled my arm so fiercely that I had to clench my teeth and shut my eyes. I heard a loud “Oh teri!” which loosely translates to “Oh shit!”
When I opened my eyes, I saw Lucky wildly pulling his manja that was falling down from the sky like a smoky thread. His kite was fast eddying towards the horizon. My kite was still there, mildly swaying. I didn’t know how it happened, but I had cut his kite.
A Very Happy Independence Day to all my fellow Indians, and to those for whom independence holds a meaning.
With freedom comes responsibility, and I think responsibility is the whole essence of freedom. Freedom gives you choices to follow your own paths, which is good, as well as bad, because many among us have no clear notion of what path to follow. This leads to personal as well as public anarchy, the sort of anarchy we currently face in our country. Today, only people with muscle power are free. They have all the choices. They are the once who enjoy freedom to do whatever they want to do. It is totally at their discretion in what sense they want to use this freedom. They get this freedom from the constitution — a statute to make freedom available to all.
What about the common man, the man who does not, or cannot wield muscle power? Does he feel free? Do the winds of emancipation pass through the windows of his existence? I don’t think so. The common man faces hindrances that curtail his freedom in all facets of life. The difference is so galling, that a muscle-wielding man can construct an unauthorized swimming pool in less than two weeks, and in a village, it takes ten years for a water tank to get a government clearance. Wherever you go, the demon insurrected by the wrong usage of freedom is waiting to suck you dry. Whether it is a bureaucrat or a sweeper, they are so free that they don’t feel a need to work because no one can hold them accountable or take action against them. The freedom given to them gives them a security unparalleled in history.
Today, no woman, or even a teenage girl, can venture out without being harassed by those who think freedom to do so is their birthright. You cannot even take a leisurely walk without some perverted person lurking around. There are so many provisions to escape being punished, that the law of the country has been reduced to a mere travesty. The only thing that distinguishes an average policeman from a crook is, the uniform.
We are free to respect freedom. We are free to exploit it. We are free to work. We are free to not to work. Most of us choose the latter options.
Yes, we are a lot more free than we were a few decades ago, and a lot more irresponsible too. We elect incompetent and criminal leaders to lead us, we tolerate and propagate corruption everywhere, we destroy our environment beyond the point of restoration; all in the name of freedom.
Some of us may believe that some people deserve to be free (the following is, I know, politically incorrect) and some people don’t deserve to be free. This is dangerous, because who decides who should be free and who should be not? Something that seems outrageous now may seem ok with a newer point of view. No, I’m not saying raping a child will be cool after two hundred years. When freedom begins to be allotted according to who deserves it and who doesn’t, ideologies like Nazism begin to materialize. Some would say it is bad to be of a certain religion. Some would say gays and lesbians should not be free and some would say all those who stand up against wrong government policies should not be free. A recent religious figure in the Vatican enunciated that women belong at home and their primary job is serving the husband and taking care of the children. Many more sections can be barred, throttling any sort of free thinking.
Great things emerge out of chaos. So we can conclude that whatever are the side affects, freedom can never be discouraged, should never be discouraged. Societies that exist without freedom just exist (and perish, eventually) but they neither progress nor contribute anything worthwhile to the world.
The only mantra for freedom to survive and progress is responsibility. If we are responsible towards are surroundings, this will percolate into farther areas too. Responsibility generally leads to corrective measures. If you can own up a responsibility (I don’t mean owning up a responsibility for a terrorist strike or something of that sort), your shoulders are strong enough to carry forward, the burden, and the rewards of freedom.
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