Flanagan's Wake

I like Richard Flanagan already. He has won this year’s Booker Prize for ‘The Narrow Road to the Deep North’ that I have not read. I have read nothing by him, but following the award the search has yielded some wonderful insights.

Of course, I like him for saying that he is “ashamed to be Australian” because of the environmental policies of the government. But, what is more interesting is how he gets into the mind of another real person. A good writer does not only create characers out of thin air. S/he can make the most simple reality appear profound or mystical or mythical.

Flanagan has done it with David Walsh that I now know so much about Walsh and so little about Flanagan. This he manages to do without any self-effacing sophistry. In fact, he pushes the boundaries of language to create something out of somebody. In the essay for The New Yorker, he wrote:

Attempting to describe Boltanski’s devil is like trying to pick up mercury with a pair of pliers. At fifty-one, Walsh has the manner of a boy pharaoh and the accent of a working-class Tasmanian who grew up in Glenorchy, one of the poorest suburbs of the poorest state in the Australian federation. His silver hair is sometimes rocker-length long, sometimes short. Walsh talks in torrents or not at all. He jerks, he scratches, and his pigeon-toed gait is so pronounced that he bobs as he walks. He is alternately charming, bullying, or silent. As he looks away, he laughs.

This comes somewhere in the beginning, so it has to be tantalising. Flanagan certainly knows about a good way to grab attention. From his subject as arriviste, to his perversities, his enterpreneurship of the arts and his inner demons, it is a sheer treat.

Walsh’s favorite novel is “Crime and Punishment,” and conversations with him can sometimes feel like talking to the deranged narrator of Dostoyevsky’s “Notes from Underground”: possessed, but rarely less than compelling. His obsessive desire to explain makes his thoughts sometimes seem to proceed algorithmically. Though the condition has never been diagnosed, Walsh and those around him believe that he has Asperger’s. It would explain his extraordinary gift with numbers, but it is hard to know where the condition ends and bad manners start. Walsh’s rudeness is legendary. “Let’s face it,” a close friend told me. “David can be a complete cunt. But he is also the kindest and most generous man you will meet.” Walsh funds a major tennis tournament, the Moorilla Hobart International, as well as Hobart’s MOFO music festival. There are also many and ongoing private kindnesses: kids he sponsors at Hobart’s Quaker school, support of several families, and friends he constantly helps. Pointing out that Walsh has always spent more than he has earned, Ranogajec said, “David was never motivated by money.”

I doubt if the idea behind the Booker Prize is to make you fall in love with a person the writer writes about, but here you have it. I am in love with David Walsh and I couldn’t be bothered about finding out anything more than I know about him through Richard Flanagan.

The side villain

Sudhir on the left in both pictures

We know about the big names, we remember the characters they essay, the titbits about their personal lives that make it to the gossip columns.

We remember the clothes they wore, the way they styled their hair and made up their faces. We remember the good guys and the bad guys who made the good guys look good. This was before grey became trendy. It was all black and white. The black bow-tie, the white shoes, the white jacket. Or the velvet gown that reminded of last night’s sins.

It was a world of sin. The flesh beneath the flounces of voluptuous molls. The dark lips chomping on cigars or blowing smoke rings into other eyes. And in this world, somewhere behind the curling smoke was Sudhir. I do not know his real name. It is there somewhere, but I don’t care.

He was the leering presence in neon-lit rooms, the one with the lighter, the guffaw, the fake laugher. And the sneer. He was the sidekick with so much attitude that you could not forget him. He spoke as though he was biting right into his gums or chewing or sarcasm had lodged itself on his tongue. You knew what he would do and how he would do it. No surprises. It was just like the formula you expected from a hero.

It set me thinking about those who stand and stare who we rarely notice. Each time a Sudhir dies, a satellite that circles the centre disappears.

Mind It

Still from 'Life of Pi'

"He wants to see the actor's mind in a shot." Actress Tabu said this about Ang Lee who has directed her in 'Life of Pi'.

It was so beautifully put, but what does it really mean? Is the actor's mind reflecting the character or her/himself? Or, is one superimposed on the other? 

Can one see a thought? If so, then the actor contemplating the motives and behaviour of the character would be methodical rather than spontaneous. Is thought not instinct?

You might suggest that premeditated thought cannot be instinctual. But, is there no lapse between thought and action?

Say, we play several roles in life; some we 'perform' because we are directed to - by precedent, norms, or for specific reasons. Is our failure to do so adequately a failure of thought or of action?

Think about some disabilities where the mind is hampered by lack of motor movement. These are unfortunate natural or accident-induced circumstances. However, even those of us who are not so restricted find that we cannot always act out our thoughts. Our thoughts are dependent as much on the manner in which they are received as on how they are conveyed. So, do they remain our thoughts anymore?

If the other person could see our 'mind in the shot', going by Ang Lee's expectation, then would we necessarily be understood? How often do we tear our hair in frustration that what we seek to convey has either been misinterpreted or whooshed past without even a moment of being acknowledged?

Can you read my thoughts? Routine question. But are you reading your own thoughts while trying to decipher another's?

Recently, someone sent a message in response to a call I made. It said, "I wanted to thank the thought." Was my act removed from my thought? Or, does the thought hold greater validity? Had I not acted upon the thought, would a person know? Can there be more than one thought for our actions and many ways to act based on one thought? 

If you can see a mind, then you are probably seeing not just what is but what might have been and can be. Mind or minds?

(c)Farzana Versey

Many-layered women and memories: Yash Chopra's lamhe

How often have some of us quoted the lines, “Main aur meri tanhai aksar baatein kiya karte hai” (my loneliness and I often talk to each other) and “Kabhi-kabhi mere dil mein khayal aata hai” (sometimes, my heart thinks these thoughts)…they encapsulated the cinema of Yash Chopra and of many of our own lost and found memories.

He has been called the King of Romance, and perhaps rightly so, but I’d not limit him to that. There are two ways of seeing a movie – the way in which it is projected and the emotional chord that touches us. I do like the sight of large expanses of tulips and love expressed in song right in the middle of these flowers, but it is in the tight close-ups, the speaking eyes, the quivering lips, the short lines and longer monologues that we may find something more to relate to.

Yash Chopra was most certainly not making candyfloss, and I am not saying so because he is no more. I cannot think of a single weak woman in any of his directorial ventures. Even in Deewaar, made famous also by that one line “Mere paas ma hai” in the conflict between the two brothers, between good and evil, it is so obvious that the mother figure had nurtured the good. The son was not making the choice; she had made him capable enough to have her close to him. And in the death scene, when the bad son lies in her lap, he does not need any god. His retribution is complete.

It also quite blatantly showed a non-traditional woman, despite smoking and living with the man, as someone in control of her life. There did not appear to be any judgement passed on her, nor did it look like the guy was doing her a favour and making a good woman of her.

In Kabhi Kabhi too there was the ‘other’ man/woman. Imagine a situation where a woman on her wedding night sings a song based on the poetry of the man she was in love with. Here was readymade material for a tear-jerker. Instead, she chooses to move on and build a beautiful and happy life. The man, now the other, also happens to be the other to his own wife, who when taunted with her past (and a daughter from that relationship), chooses to confront him about his double standards and makes ready to leave rather than live with the hypocrisy.

In Trishool, the ‘encounter’ scene between father and abandoned son relied on just one truly cutting sentence, when the younger man tells the older one, “Aap mere najaaiz baap ho" (You are my illegitimate father).

Yash Chopra did deal with 'irregular' relationships within the ambit of mainstream cinema. That is why it was difficult to hail him for these qualities and instead many chose to stick to the romantic genre, which can actually mean so many things.

Take Daag. Much of the film was relegated to the indoors, in the dark. A man with two wives, reuniting with his old love and having to stealthily convey it, “Mere dil mein aaj kya hai, tu kahe tau main bataa doon, teri zulf phir sawaroon, teri maang phir sajaa doon…mujhe devta banaakar teri chaahaton ne pooja, mera pyaar keh raha hai main tujhe khuda bana doon”. Trapped in circumstances, all he can do is ask her if she will permit him to express his feelings. The stream of worship-godliness is woven into this narrative.

With Lamhe, he broke so many shackles. A girl falls in love with the man who was in love with her mother. Of course, she does not know it, and her mother did not know about his feelings either, since she was in love with someone else who she married.  Here too, the young woman is strong-willed, expressive and even when she discovers the truth, she makes him realise that he loved an idea, a thought. Those moments – lamhe – were lost.

I find it strange that this is seen as the Elektra Complex (in fact, it is mistakenly referred to as the Oedipal Complex). Freud is a good way to study anything, but the girl grows up without even seeing the man, who is her guardian. She is also in love with an idea, expressed with birthday gifts that she leaves unopened. It is that heartbeat of meeting him when she is old enough and sees a man, a male, who she first had a vague idea about and who became real enough to fantasise about.

Yash Chopra’s last film as director was Veer Zaara. It is perhaps one of the finest ‘messages’ in terms of communalism, Indo-Pak relationship, prisoners (real and caged by love), and nostalgia. However, he did not stop at the pining. He gave it a fitting ending. Yes, I did wonder why the Pakistani woman came to India and lived her life as she would if she had married him. The answer lies in every moment he spends in chains behind the prison walls, incarcerated without trial, aware that he was protecting her honour. This sounded old world, to an extent even regressive. How important is such honour? But this was early years after Partition; it had to do with families, reputations. It had to do with love that had to be silenced.

Greying, but still running about and active, she does not regret the life she chose. She built a new life, without any monument, without fanfare. We know of it only towards the end when he is free, aided by a strong and empathetic woman lawyer. We know if it when he holds up one of her anklets from those many years ago, not as shiny anymore, that he had kept as remembrance.

 “Main pal do pal ka shaayar hoon

Pal do pal meri kahaani hai

Pal do pal meri hasti hai

Pal do pal meri jawaani hai.”

Sahir Ludhianvi conveyed this best in the Kabhi Kabhi song - My poetry, my life, my identity, my youth are but for a moment or two…only those who create lasting impressions understand the value of such evanescence. 

PS: I have not named the characters deliberately, for as I implied in the beginning it could be you, it could be me.  

Character Assassination

Due to the untimely demise of one of my characters, I was in mourning and could therefore not submit the story on time.

This is a real note I sent years ago. A colleague had entered my name for a short story competition by the British Council. I was not terribly enthusiastic about such events, but since it required imagining, it was par for the course. I thought nothing about it and since I was not accustomed to writing for a reason, I wove the words at a leisurely pace.

A tap on my shoulder and a thick envelope served as reminders that I paid no attention to. The date of submission was gone. I folded the sheets of paper and put them in the envelope – the address and stamps were ready. My friends were still enthusiastic. I quickly grabbed a page from my diary and wrote down the note:

“Due to the untimely demise of one of my characters I was in mourning and could therefore not submit the story on time.”

What else could I say? I am not good with formal letters. Besides, it was succinct and happened to be the truth. The cat in the story had died. Obviously, I had killed it. Yet, its death was a departure, a turning point.

Recently, an Indian media house gave an award to a novel and the jury used a curious phrase for its choice: one of the reasons was “for its non-judgmental attitude to the characters”. How does a writer not judge a character when s/he has created it? This is not immaculate conception. You sweat over it, love it and get suffused in it, for however brief a time. The judgement lies in the nature of the relationship. The writer is the initiator and woos the character. It is possible that the character might mirror the writer. Introspection is also judgement. You are pronouncing a verdict on your thoughts and feelings.

Any objectivity would be forced. The character is because you are.

Back to my old story, I had written it for myself. In those days, there was no audience I was seeking or speaking to.

A few days later, rather uncharacteristically, I got a note from the British Council. It said, and I will rely on memory and promise not to exaggerate, that indeed I had missed the date of submission and rules would not permit my work for consideration. However, my accompanying note was rather interesting and caused much amusement and they could not but let me know that although the story would not be included in the competition, it was noticed.

I wondered whether dead cats could lick the cream.

Dil abhi bhara nahin: Dev Anand

Evergreen, evergreen…how many times has one heard and read the word to describe Dev Anand. When he died last night at the age of 88, still brimming with ideas, this would only make the evergreen tag squeeze in more adamantly.

No one noticed that his hair looked awkward, his skin sagged, his scarves and jackets sought to cover rather than make a statement as they had done earlier, and his lips quivered when he spoke. He had grown old, but was holding on to a shaky pillar to build foundations that would not last. His later films lacked panache, they flopped. He said it did not matter and would go on to his next project.

Did it really not matter? This was a man who was completely a people’s person – from his stylised acting to his flashy clothes, he wanted to be noticed and accepted. But he too fell for the evergreen image that was built around him.

A few months ago on a talk show he spoke about how even today there are girls who would be quite willing to get close to him. He was not gloating, and it is entirely possible that aspiring starlets would want to use him as a stepping stone. Yet, it was a sad moment. Sad to watch him regurgitate a fantasy, even if it was real.

His reality was often a fantasy. Some have called it optimism.

I first watched one of his old films on our building terrace. There was a projector and a bedsheet served as the screen. The movie was Hum Dono. We got two Dev Anands. Imagine seeing these delicious black and white images from what seemed a distant past under a starlit sky. Already a film junkie, these moments became part of my non-formal education. It helped when the family would recount their first exposure to the particular film. Or how my mother on her first English film outing, a Gregory Peck movie, was so angry that the Hollywood star was “copying hamara Dev Anand”. The fact that it was quite the opposite did not make a difference to her.

That Dev Anand overdid it was an intrinsic aspect of his persona. He hammed, but delightfully. He made you believe that he was like this. And you know what? He probably was. His body was perpetually leaning towards some unknown person or a far-away place. His neck performed acrobatics. He was like a tableau – every part of him, every expression, a stand-alone performance put together on one stage: himself.

As an actor, he would perhaps qualify as the first real urbane urban character of post-Partition India. He even pronounced his name in a posh manner: Dev-er-nun. He took to Bombay and portrayed it in such an uninhibited manner. Think of Taxi Driver where even the streets looked chic in the dark. He was a man who loved beauty. I would not call him an aesthete; his idea of pulchritude was of polish and varnish. Not quite superficial, but most certainly overt. He did show criminal characters and even portrayed them, but they were charmers. He showed poverty, but no real dirt. This was not his scene.

As director he took greater control, and he stuck to his urban concerns. Again, he did not delve too deeply, although Hare Rama Hare Krishna is indeed a landmark film. When he played the Professor Higgins part in Man Pasand, it did seem like reality for once. He had created quite a few female actors – Zeenat Aman and Tina Munim being the most prominent.

Again, in recent interviews he talked about how upset he was when Zeenat Aman chose Raj Kapoor. For him it was not about a role, but some sort of betrayal. His affair with Suraiya is a fascinating example of how he would go against type when he wanted something. It is said that she would sneak out and they would meet quietly, away from the prying eyes of her conservative mother. The man who one would imagine shrugging such inconveniences off – “Har fikr ko dhuein mein udaata chalaa gaya” (I smoked away all worries) – seemed to understand the delicacy of such shackles, as in his beloved singing “Chhod do aanchal zamaana kya kahega” (Let go off me, what will people think?), but not without a riposte: “Inn adaaon ka zamaana bhi hai deewana, deewaana kya kahega” (this world too is crazy about just such tantalising excuses, so what’s a crazy man to do).

It was clear that he was a romantic, but pragmatically so. Not one of the Alps types, he wooed women through the haze of cigarette smoke or a curl of his lower lip. The music in his films was essential, not merely to take the story forward but to help us stop and look at what else he could do. It was in the song sequences that he shone best and was a natural at.

There are several, but I want to stay with these two.

The romance:



and

The optimistic angst:

Teri duniya mein jeene se, tau behetar hai ke mar jaayein
Wohi aansoon, wohi aahein, wohi gham hai, kidhar jaayein

(It is better to die than live in this world
With the same tears, the same sighs, the same sorrows trailing where does one go)

Just watch him. Does it look like he would want to give up? He is addressing god, but his demeanour is challenging. And the child’s musical interlude – innocence? Hope?

Post Script: I cannot end without mentioning that sometime towards the end of 2000 I got a hand-written note from him saying that he enjoyed my columns. I wanted to cry because those were days of my tears. I could not meet him, but the words of one of his songs from Hum Dono, the first film of his that I had seen under a starlit sky on a bedsheet screen, echoed how I felt.

Kabhi khud pe, kabhi haalat pe rona aaya

Baat nikli tau har eik baat pe rona aaya

(I sometimes weep over myself and sometimes over what’s happening to me

And when I speak about such sorrows, I weep for those sorrows too)

Who's afraid of Liz Taylor?

There are images of her beauty. It’s gone. It was slowly going away, except for those speaking eyes and tranquil mouth. These were skin-deep. I don’t know if Elizabeth Taylor was among the greatest as far as her acting prowess goes. Larger-than-life she was and it was only fitting that she portrayed Cleopatra.

But it was not as the haughty queen with those outsize headgears that she shone. It was in languid repose as she half-crossed her legs in a seduction ritual that she did. It was a ritual; she was playing the queen beckoning the mighty, yet she was wallowing in her own sensuality.

This wallowing was most evident in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf. I had already read Edward Albee’s play, had soaked it, torn through it and in some ways it is still lodged inside me. I can well imagine how Liz Taylor might have had to strip herself, her ego and her vanity to enact Martha, whose drunken whiplashing tongue was also her vulnerability.

It isn’t fair to judge people by the characters they enact, but from whatever I know of her, Martha she seems to be. Martha married to George, a history professor. A partnership where both are bound by an imagination – a child that does not exist. This is not a review, but Liz did have mythical ideas and her relationships of convenience were many. They were convenient for her loneliness and it was convenient to those who found in her loneliness space for theirs. Of course, it was also about money.

How she used her money, especially later in life. Without taking away any credit from the humanitarian causes she supported, she wore big hair that surprisingly highlighted her limpid eyes; she already had big breasts and these on her rather small frame did appear like she was caricaturing herself, telling the world that some things always remain large.

She was among the first major stars to come out with a fragrance: White Diamonds. I have it but rarely use it. It’s much too strong for my taste. And I don't like the bottle. Fake diamonds encircling the neck of a shapeless glass dispenser. The only thing is that it has been around for a few years and still smells the same.

Her worst personal move was to marry that truck driver guy, not because of his lack of economic and social stature but she did not need toy boys. She needed lovers, people who would woo her. And if she had to spar, it would have to be with an equal. Some Larry was not the guy.

Think of the devastating line Martha delivers to George during one of their brawls: “I swear, if you existed, I would have divorced you.” George is not up to much but he has an intellectual aura about him. Her denying his existence, therefore, added weight.

And in the dark shadows when the light struck her face and the deep lines, there was so much embedded within their folds. So much left unsaid even as she spoke. There was beauty in that, a beauty that has no name.

If you could feel Martha, and Elizabeth Taylor, then to her question, “What do you take me for?” like George we might reply, “Much too much”.

- - -

I read somewhere that the NYT carried an obit piece that was written four years ago and the writer had preceded her. It is supposedly common practice by newspapers but I can't help wondering about how mercenary it is.

Character Assassination

I scrolled through the list of contacts on my cellphone. Tried first name, last name, middle name, nickname. Nothing. I could not find him. He was gone. Did he disappear or was he deleted? A gentle soul, I recall. He had shown me his city, taken me home, made me feel at home. Put up with my whims. We had sat in the muddy lanes on rickety charpoys and he took pictures of me with a bunch of kids. I saw the child in him, the man in him.

Salim was not there in my contacts. I wanted to get in touch. Call him up.

After days and days of feeling frustrated, I realised that I had forgotten his name. His name was not Salim. I had to change it to protect him. My guide in Peshawar had become a character in my book. And we don’t have real details of characters, do we? Often, we don’t have real details of people, too.

Sometimes, details give us too much meat and make us forget the bones, the stuff that flesh clings to.

Murder, She Said?

I do not recall reading any book on rape, murder and serial killers specifically because of the subjects. I am, therefore, a bit surprised to find a study that states women fear becoming victims of crime so they turn to true crime books in an effort to learn strategies and techniques to prevent being murdered.

Reported in the inaugural issue of Social Psychological and Personality Science (Sage), Amanda Vicary and R Chris Fraley go on to say that by understanding why an individual decides to kill, a woman can learn the warning signs to watch for in a jealous lover or stranger. By learning escape tips women learn survival strategies they can use if actually kidnapped or held captive. It is possible that reading these books may actually increase the very fear that drives women toward them in the first place.

Unless these books are specifically of the ‘How To’ variety, this sort of assertion, and even the flipside of it, is quite disingenuous. We may imbibe by reading and characters do settle in our psyche if they are potent. But these rarely apply to how we conduct our lives. There may be people we meet who seem like someone we have read about; it is often the intriguing qualities that stay with us. I don’t think when we see an orphan we think of Oliver Twist or everytime we find a thief we go, “Ah, Fagin”. I have chosen a simple example to show just how simplistic such studies can be.

There may be books on rape that a woman reads about but she will not be prepared for it. Have they talked to rape victims? Did they see the signals? If not, does it mean they don’t read the right books?

About being drawn to such “gory” stuff, there appears to be an element of negativity attached to it, as though this is not quite a woman’s thing to do. Even more appalling is the assertion, “But we do know that women, compared to men, have a heightened fear of crime despite the fact that they are less likely to become a victim.”

Less likely according to what yardstick? On what basis is this heightened fear measured? This is not a competition of who is victimised more and on what basis. The fact is that crimes are committed and both women and men are killed, maimed and psychologically and physically abused.

It appears we are a bunch of crime-fearing females. Imagine a woman enters a bookstore wearing a long jacket, all covered up, riffles through the pages of some romance novels and then stealthily her feet take her towards the gore. She sees knives, blood, and bodies on the cover and thinks, hey, this just might save me as she reads the back jacket. At home, she lounges on the sofa – after bolting all the doors and windows – and then gets drawn into the thriller. Instead of just reading it and perhaps getting a little spooked out, she makes mental notes of what to look for and what to avoid.

And then the bell rings and the child she has given birth to stands there with muddied clothes and she lets out a scream, “Help!”

The study reveals that women learn to be very very careful because women don’t understand something called mystery.

Oh, duh. Give me a break or I’ll bite.

What is your good name?

A friend is writing a novel. She is stuck. Not with the plot, not with the characters, not with finding a publisher. She does not know what to name them.

“You are lucky, you wrote non-fiction,” she told me.

Although mine is non-fiction, due to the sensitive nature of some political aspects, I could not disclose the identities of some people...so it was finding names. Fortunately, there weren’t many such ‘characters’. But it was really a task...someone’s real face would stare at me and I had no idea what to do about it.

Imagine if you were writing about a bald character and named him Samson? As the familiar faces came to haunt me, I tried to fit in what would sound right. I had to also keep the Sunni-Shia-Mohajir thing in mind. Whoever said non-fiction does not require creativity?

One of these hidden people got a copy of the book. Now, quite naturally, he wanted to know if he was a certain person. I said, no…but I had forgotten what I had named him. Off I rushed to my Press copy, clicked on ‘find’ and typed out one item of his clothing (yes, I like these details) and found him. Needless to say he has only read his portions! Another person did not like the name I gave her: “It is the name of one of my relatives and she is quite ugly.” Oh, well…

Strangely enough, I suspect that if I were to write fiction I’d use names of people I know. And make them into real ghoulish characters…that would be fun. (Incidentally, that is just a needling strategy, with the hope that someone somewhere names someone somewhere Farzana, with little horns, knotted hair, frothing at the mouth…here is an idea for free.)

PS: Okay, so one has written non-fiction. Now you know what the problem is? Some people who should be doing things have said, “Yeah, it is, but it is so personal.”

People want realistic characters even in novels and here when they get the real, and some really weird, they call this personal. Arre, eik-eik museum piece hai…so why do you want museums and stuff?