The howl...

Nights seem more evanescent than days, even though the night passes without much occurrence. I cannot see the moon today. Possibly, there is no moon.

I am deeply fascinated by the idea of howling at the moon. Today, I felt like doing so. But I can't spot the moon. Such howling, where the wolf is said to invoke spiritual guidance, perhaps occurs in a state of cloudiness.

Spiritual guidance is often less mysticism and more a communion with oneself. We wish not to be guided so much as we want to be unknotted. The howl is more deeply-felt than any invocation conveys.

Sartre was born today...was? is?

I said I was an Existentialist without quite knowing what it meant. Between the crevices of poetry and philosophy, my life was worming its way. I hid my growing teenage form behind big books – shy, afraid, unsure. Among those saviours was Jean-Paul Sartre.

I admit the initial fascination was for the great love story. Simone de Beauvoir seemed to be the perfect foil. It excited me to know that people could have open relationships. Later, I realised that such freedom does not prevent the tumult, the feeling of being tied down, of role-playing.

What Sartre gave me was intangible. An acceptance of nothingness. Confidence about angst.

But, was it just so pat?

“Anything, anything would be better than this agony of mind, this creeping pain that gnaws and fumbles and caresses one and never hurts quite enough.”

I recently told someone, “What pain is pain if it does not stay alive?” This is not self-destructive. The mind that keeps one agonising is what keeps one awake.

There are many views about Sartre, some accusing him of not being true to his own ideas. I prefer seeing it as ideas overtaking. He was not quite perfect, and would probably find the thought of perfection reprehensible. I am not providing a detailed essay on his works. I confess that at some point I outgrew them. He is indeed the pop star of philosophy – to my mind a strange mix of Woody Allen, T.S.Eliot and a brooding Marlon Brando.

I don’t want to go into a detailed discussion on Existentialism. I would have to agonise over it, for I am dealing with ennui. Sartre would comprehend this!

There is another quote I’d like to examine:

“Life has no meaning the moment you lose the illusion of being eternal.”

This is so complete. If I were to deconstruct it, then he has captured the very essence of existence. Survivalists may not wish to even go there. The moment we think of life as an open-and-shut case with death as the destination, then we are rather obvious pragmatists. And fatalists, too. The eternal does not exist in real terms, therefore one has to imagine it. Life cannot be defined, but it has meaning and value only if we know that it is a continuum.

And he said it best:

“That God does not exist, I cannot deny, That my whole being cries out for God I cannot forget.”

Illusions. Eternal.

© Farzana Versey

Sunday ka Funda

When the first showers were awaited, I thought to myself — the gutters will spew out and we will smell the filth. Early this week, I was in the kitchen and even before I could hear the sound of drizzle touching on the window sill, a fragrance lifted in that small space. It was the one we talk about, of the freshness of earth.

How does it happen? We have concrete streets. Where does this 'open' soil come from? There are patches of green in the vicinity; a few trees. They must quench their thirst and let out this earthy breath.

I was overwhelmed and just stood there 'drinking' in the scent. Nature, as always, silenced me.

It is a few days on and now it's a downpour. It brings us news of water logging, disrupted public transport, structures falling down. The lakes need water, drought-prone areas have been parched, grains need to grow and reach our tables, even as there are mandatory pictures of urchin kids bathing in the showers near the gutters whose smell I am put off by from my high floor and insulated life. They sleep on drenched slabs of public space. The monsoons have overdone it.

Nature overwhelms in different ways.

This afternoon, as the sky darkened, I shut out all thought and listened to some elevating music. Ustad Rashid Khan's voice is the most soothing thunder one could possibly listen to. This one is in Bengali, a language I barely understand. But, then, did I know how the rains would turn out to be?



---

Last year I had captured 'Rains from my window': http://youtu.be/uztqiwldRyQ

Updated

The video link to 'my rains' (re-posted the link) is particularly poignant now, for last night one of the trees 'fell' — "what if the tree falls?" I ask in the voiceover. But it hasn't really fallen. The root is adamant. It is the branches that could not withstand the lashes of rain and the gusts of wind.

Quote uncoat

“Keep up with the Joneses”

This means you want what others have, and that is not good. Right?

Wrong.

There is an assumption that each thing on this planet is monogrammed for individual consumption and enjoyment. Since it is not, we have no choice but to keep up with the Joneses, the Janardhans and the Jaffers. Most objects are essentials; some are luxuries. To desire these only because somebody else has them is considered materialistic. But, think about it. What if you do not know of anybody who has them and still crave for them? Who are you then competing with? The Joneses inside you?

You go shopping and the person next to you at the counter has selected something nice. Suppose it is table linen. Her eye espied it first; perhaps you missed it. You might ask for a similar set. Are you keeping up with anyone? You like the look on a magazine cover and want it, if it means a lipstick or other cosmetics. Are you competing? The best way to judge how stupid this theory is to visit a sale that offers huge discounts. Then everyone is keeping up with the Joneses to just get hold of items that are close to reaching expiry date, are no more a fad, or, in the electronic world, have been replaced by upgraded versions.

The problem is that we only seem to notice the tangible. The assertion is restricted to what we can see. The ‘materialism’ of competing with thoughts – not in the sense of brainstorming or expanding on ideas – to spread one’s own wares is far more acquisitive. Intent is sometimes worse than action.

Also, one has to be rather insecure to believe that by keeping up with the Joneses you will lose yourself. It might happen if you strive to be a clone. I have several objects that many others do. It is how I use them that will tell me apart.

And to be honest, I do get a kick thinking that I too might be the Joneses that others breathlessly want to keep up with…

Sunday ka Funda

I've been discarding quite a few bits of writing. They don't read too bad; they might even be good in parts. But something seems not right when I internalise it yet again from where it came. There could be an explanation. Here's one that may or may not apply...

From 'Incense Burner', a Zen story:

A woman of Nagasaki named Kame was one of the few makers of incense burners in Japan. Such a burner is a work of art to be used only in a tearoom of before a family shrine.

Kame, whose father before her had been such an artist, was fond of drinking. She also smoked and associated with men most of the time. Whenever she made a little money she gave a feast inviting artists, poets, carpenters, workers, men of many vocations and avocations. In their association she evolved her designs.

Kame was exceedingly slow in creating, but when her work was finished it was always a masterpiece. Her burners were treasured in homes whose womanfolk never drank, smoked, or associated freely with men.

The mayor of Nagasaki once requested Kame to design an incense burner for him. She delayed doing so until almost half a year had passed. At that time the mayor, who had been promoted to office in a distant city, visited her. He urged Kame to begin work on his burner.

At last receiving the inspiration, Kame made the incense burner. After it was completed she placed it upon a table. She looked at it long and carefully. She smoked and drank before it as if it were her own company. All day she observed it.

At last, picking up a hammer, Kame smashed it to bits. She saw it was not the perfect creation her mind demanded.

Sunday ka Funda

A young student of Zen was going to the market to buy vegetables for the monastery where he was studying. On the way he met a student from another monastery.

“Where are you going?” asked the first student.

“Wherever my legs take me,” replied the other.

The first student pondered over the answer as he was sure it had some deep significance.When he returned to the monastery, he reported the conversation to his teacher, who said: “You should have asked him what he would do if he had no legs.”

The next day the student was thrilled to see the same boy coming towards him. “Where are you going?” he asked and without waiting for a reply continued, “Wherever your legs take you, I suppose. Well, let me ask you . . .”

“You’re mistaken,” interrupted the other boy. “Today I’m going wherever the wind blows.”

This answer so confused the first boy that he could not think of anything to say. When he reported the matter to his teacher, the old man said: “You should have asked him what he would do if there were no wind.”

Some days later the student saw the boy in the market again and rushed to confront him, confident that this time he would have the last word. “Where are you going?” he asked.“Wherever your legs take you or wherever the wind blows? Well, let me ask you . . . . ”

“No, no,” interrupted the boy. “Today I’m going to buy vegetables.”

(A Zen tale)

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

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.

Lady Gaga's Mirror

She echoes my writer self. I am sitting here looking into what seems like a well, but I am dragged into it and soon the reflection is not water. It is solid matter as I hit my head on the ground.

Lady Gaga's quotes from a piece she wrote for 'V' are being showcased for reasons of her narcissism and obsessiveness, but she is delving deep. That well I was looking into could be her.

For two days I did not write. Deliberately. It was deliberated upon. Until now, I was utterly charmed by my ability to slake my thirst with words. The happenings around pummelled me and I was left gasping or angry or wounded. It has often affected me. That is not as worrisome as my complete subservience to what I write. What I imagined was a natural part of me I realise now to be an addiction. Some might say it is pleasant, but it has had a deleterious effect. Not because someone decides to seal my fate, or cannot fathom the complexity of certain thoughts, or finds them simplistic for their world-view is not my world-view and most prefer Disney characters to the dark nooks, unless one can caricature them, and the media so loves to do that.

The effect it has is internal. I begin to feel ill when I do not write. I get irritable, I do not behave normal. There are a couple of people who have seen me in this state and it is not nice. I transform. Writing can be a huge part of my life, but must it replace it? I was cogitating upon these when Lady Gaga’s words touched a chord immediately. Let us travel together through some of what she said and what it means to me:

I have said before that I am a master of escapism, which many attribute to my wigs, performances, and my natural inclination to be grand, but perhaps that is also a lie. Maybe I am not escaping. Maybe I am just being. Being myself.

Think about the many situations writers write about. When do the lines between creation and creator just tumble over each other? I write a lot on topical issues and one might not imagine it possible to escape from what is reality while analysing it. It is. I am reacting; this is cathartic and therefore escape. All purging is escape, a denial of retention. I hate to say this, but I believe that by responding to everything around one becomes a puppet, even if the subconscious self does the string pulling.

Is this me, these wigs of ideas, the grand stand that may in fact appear to be lies if seen from the perspective of one ideology that negates another? I know I am being myself. Yet…and here is Lady G again:

The lines for myself have become so blurred now, I know not the difference between a moment of performance and a moment of honesty. If you were to ask me to remove my Philip Treacy hat at a party, in truth it is the emotional and physical equivalent of requesting I remove my liver. Talk about giving “clutching her pearls” a new meaning! I know not the difference between the hair that grows from my head and the teal wigs that grow from my imagination. They are the same. They are both honest, and always have been. So maybe I know nothing of “the art of escapism.” I was just Born This Way. I revere the dream to be real. I am always, and shall forever be, private in public.

Private in public. Think about it. Writers sit in their worlds, making new worlds – places, people, verse, prose, plots. We go back to cook, eat, bathe, shop, have relationships, and even ‘connect’ with real anonymous people. What is the truth here? The latter is a fact; the truth is larger, in that it is the submerged imagination ticking away. I know that if you take away my words, I cannot tell you who I am. I have forgotten.

I watch television and even the soaps seem to be ‘material’ to explore, to deconstruct, to analysed.

I read the newspapers and every bit looks like it has to be torn apart. I, too, am not ‘escaping’, for I know that each time I make a travel itinerary, it is with the intention of writing. My plans work around that – the laptop, pen drives, notepads,several pens and pencils to doodle. I go shopping in these new places and, of course, something happens that invariably leads to an experience. It could well be interesting, but after I have picked up the bags and sat down for a coffee, I bring out my little notepad or my phone and am jotting down observations. Do I not taste the coffee? I do, perhaps give it more importance than it merits.

So, what happened in the two days I did not write? I took a dust cloth, wiped the laptop, and then sat down, immobile for long, because I ceased to exist. The food, the shower, and the clothes I wore were things stuffed into what seemed like an automaton. I began to feel nauseous, drowsy and my hands went numb. Yes, numb from not writing.

These are withdrawal symptoms and I took a good look at myself in the mind’s mirror and saw imaginary lines scrawled on my face – incomplete sentences. I am doomed. My escape has become my life.

Sunday ka Funda

Sometimes, it is the sheer helplessness of their positions that make people come together. What is reputation? How we are viewed by others. Does their perception make us those things? It takes a rich zamindar to make a prostitute see this, but the lyrics could apply to any of us. Why do we become slaves to what people think and say? They see labels, they see invisible branded iron rod marks on us and then make up their minds.

As these simple lyrics state, and I translate liberally:

Such is the way of life that every dawn is turned to dusk
So what are you when even the revered Sita had to go through fire?
Why weep over verbal ire?
People will say things, for speak ill they must


kuchh reet jagat ki aisi hai, har ek subah ki shaam hui
tu kaun hai, tera naam hai kya, sita bhi yahaan badnaam hui
phir kyon sansaar ki baaton se, bheeg gaye tere naina
kuchh to log kahenge, logon ka kaam hai kehna




* Movie: Amar Prem
* Singer: Kishore Kumar
* Music Director: R D Burman
* Lyricist: Anand Bakshi
* Actors/Actresses: Rajesh Khanna, Sharmila Tagore
* Year/Decade: 1971

- - -

This song came flashing to mind because they are telecasting the film this evening and, of course, despite certain old-fashioned stereotypes, it is a beautiful love story...the sublimity contrasting to the brothel locales. In a manner of speaking, we aren't the walls we are pinned against.

3 Readers in Search of a Writer

X, Y, Z belong to three nationalities and do not live in their homelands. We first ‘met’ on the page and the monitor screen. I was a byline. There was communication beyond that, but I remained a Person Who Wrote (PWW).

One day I met them in person. It was not the first time I was meeting readers, but the first time I was meeting such disparate people within a span of days in one city.

X and I had the longest correspondence and talks and he knew quite a bit about me; he also knew what was not there. In effect, I came away feeling like a curiosity that had been satiated. I was still the writer, the metaphor for a person. I was familiar but that sense of familiarity was black on white. I never became grey or blue or red or pink…and if I did it was as a ‘colourful’ character. The writer became a character. If my blood had been drunk it would have only congealed into ink.

Y is a new recruit! We exchanged only two notes; the first time he was ticking me off because I had written something about his area of expertise and he felt I was wrong. I said I was right about my right to be wrong, and he agreed. So, we were okay. Then, we met. It was nearing sunset and I was dying to look at the sky in all its flaming brilliance. I sipped iced tea; he stuck to Earl Grey. It was an amazing chat, completely metaphysical, and he did what I often do – drew various patterns with his hands on the table: pyramids, squares, other shapes to highlight a point. I don’t know when exactly, but he mentioned a personal incident from my life in passing. I immediately reacted, “How do you know?” He laughed, “You wrote about it!” I did not expect that as someone new he would have read this. More importantly, those pyramids and squares, so meaningful in our debate, now became me. I was also an atom, a molecule, something you brought to the table. I was a PWW.

Z knew me from my book, primarily. He had written a few times, and had got fairly acquainted with my work. He invited me home and I would have met his wife and child, but it was too short a notice. So it was dinner at a club without them. Fun insights about his life, about the diaspora. He asked little. Towards the end of the meeting, he said, “The moment I saw you, I said this is F. Frankly, if you were not what I had imagined, I would have been devastated.” Again, I was the writer, except that he had imbued me with the flesh and blood of his imagination. Yet, the imagination was about what I wrote. During the conversation he had said, “I see you as completely liberated…” I paused. I knew what he meant. As an Indian woman writing on certain subjects I am seen as a bit of a rarity, especially the language I use. In fact, I am told it has little to do with my nationality. I am bold and far too upfront even by normal western standards. Z was, like many others, projecting that onto me as a person.
The parting shot, just before I left, was most amusing and interesting. “But, you can also be quite frightening. There is a divinity about you that seems to go contrary to that other image.”

I chortled. I began to think of a halo around me, but again it was either as a writer or as an imagined person going a bit against that which he said he had also thought about.

It has made me contemplate about whether I want to be seen as just that. Recently, I did not write for a while. One of the reasons was, as I mentioned in Who moved my bubble?, to unwrite myself.

From being a curiosity, a pattern made on the table, an imagined entity, a bagful of words seeping out on the sand, leaving small little imprints and occasionally metamorphosing into crabs clinging to what will be washed away.

Even more importantly, in this supposed bonfire of the vanities I was in fact trying to reclaim my person. I realised only later that although I knew all along that these three people are hugely accomplished in their fields, have interesting experiences – professional and personal – by seeing them see me as only a writer, was I not seeing them only as readers? The difference is that I know them from what they say or do; they know me from what I write.

What sort of synergy is possible in such sharing? It also makes me wonder whether there can be any equitable understanding. Different perceptions aside, does the reader not have the upper hand? S/he can see you as you are, as you could be, as you may not be, as they think you are, as they want you to be, as they hear you are. There is no room for factual analysis at all. Strangely, the subjective makes you into an object.

I used to crave the company of people who had not read me. One friend would boast that she had met me without having read a word and wanted to stay away from my writing as much as possible to see the real me.

As the friendship evolved, she often remarked, “You are so transparent. I can read you like a book.”

The Eye and Eyes

That week in England, just before I was to leave for home, I decided I had to see the London Eye. Although it was unashamedly touristy, I felt this urge. On reaching there I was told there was a technical problem and it might open only at noon; it was 10.30.

I walked towards the Dali exhibition, then sat on a bench and starting writing something morbid, my pen twisted at an angle as though reluctant to commit. A few people hesitated before asking me to take their group pictures. I felt like taking back a digital memory as well. I managed half a smile and returned to my place.



An old woman came and sat next to me and unpeeled a sandwich wrapped in plastic; it looked stale as dry crumbs fell. She remained expressionless, looking nowhere but at the target of her hunger. There was so much desolation in those few minutes – was that her lifetime?

So lost in thought was I that I decided to walk back towards the gate. There was already a queue. I had not bothered to exchange my counterfoil for a ticket. I ran quickly and was being ushered into one capsule. After the metal detector and the rummaging of the bag, the security person asked, “Anything sharp?” I had already moved ahead but I called out to him, “Yes…”

He arched his eyebrows in a query…what??

“My mind!”

I did not wait to see his reaction.

Inside the capsule we were told to take precautions since we would be going very high and could feel dizzy or get sick. I started clicking – the sky, the river, the Big Ben, Westminster Abbey, buildings, others in the capsules, people below – tiny figures. We all look like crumbs from stale sandwiches.

As we were descending, an announcement was made that our pictures would be taken by a remote camera and we should all move to the North-east side. Everyone stood…well, most did. A bit diffidently, I felt I too needed a souvenir. I ambled to a spot. When I went to collect the picture, there were several flashing on the monitor.

I was there with the thick line that ran across the capsule dividing me into two. The girl at the counter apologised, “Sorry about that.”

“Not at all. That’s me, all right.”