In Memoriam

I love her. You know you love her when all day you crave to sit on that uncomfortable step, caressing her fingers and listening to all the tales they tell, both before and after you look how she closes her eyes when she kisses you with those oh-so-soft lips and even the yellow light glistening on her flawless skin can’t distract you. When you can voice that erupting sentiment only with a touch. When you discover more meaning to your existence because she was there.

She was there. When he did all those things of which we don’t speak. Both of them. How could he? After I made myself so vulnerable? After being there and staying there for him? After making mountains out of molehills and molehills out of mountains? I huffed and puffed and blew the house down. Sure enough, the three little pigs moved into the brick house. “Let’s see you break this,” they said. You know you’re in love when that sort of thing doesn’t bother you. When you’re telling her how bad you feel about this and that and you know she can’t for the life of her understand why you’re fussing so much for something so small and doesn’t try to either, you think to yourself – that’s not a flaw; it doesn’t take away from perfection. Thoda sa hurdurra, was it? Or the whole verse? Rehna tu hai jaisa tu. I’m humming again. She didn’t like it when I hummed but said she liked it when I sang. I’ll stop humming now. Sorry.

“Sorry. Can you forget about it?” You know you’re in love when the last thing you want to do is ‘forget about it’ but you tell yourself, “if that’s how she wants it, that’s how it’s gonna be.” When you silence all those skeptical voices – “no ifs and buts. So what if she’s being unreasonable? She’s having a hard time….… Oh come on! You need to be on your guard only with people who will take advantage of you when you’re being nice.” Fool. When it doesn’t take much to convince yourself that she knows who you are and has loved you for that, loves you for that. Right, that was Present Perfect and Present tense. That describes it better than anything else. It really was.

It really was. So tuneless! Oh if that isn’t a sign of love nothing is. When you remember that off-key, tuneless tune and words like ‘tumhari siva’ pregnant with meaninglessness for you. I really must have loved her if I can recall that. With fondness.

With fondness, she says it again. Makes me unforget what I forgot for her. Fondly makes me out to be a villain. You know, the-no-time-for-wife-I-must-work variety. And she, the ever-compromising wife who is willing to end it all – “talk about” “us”. But here’s the twist, one that Agatha Christie herself would have been proud of. She killed Roger Ackroyd. And to think she fooled me into thinking it could have been me! Roger Ackroyd, that pleasant Present Perfect man who would have grown old and happy if not for her. The motive? Not the usual ones – not money, not rage, not anger. No no, certainly not love. What was it then? If only this murderer kept a diary; if only she didn’t like everything off-the-record. But I do know one thing and believe it to be as true as the sky is blue. Yup, she did it. It was her.

It was her. Unrushed, the soft appeal of the Sunday white (not the strawberry suit this time). Walking towards me with the usual swish of her below-the-knee-but-just-above-the-ankle skirt, casually stopping the lovely hair from sliding across her yellow light reflecting cheeks. You know something is wrong when it’s not a Sunday or the Sunday white. You know something is wrong when you can’t bear to look at her. Earlier I needed a touch to convey meaning, now sight alone brings too much of it – past present and future Imperfect. You know something is wrong when she walks right past you. And you past her. You know something is wrong when the three little pigs in their brick house bother you again. You know something is wrong when she walks right past you and into the brick house with them. Them? Really? After all that they’ve done and undone? Despite crossing the uncrossable lines in the intoxication of the night? When did treachery, lies and seduction become less culpable than I? Unpoetic Justice from a self-proclaimed hater of poetry. As I walk past her and she past me, I notice that she’s left clues everywhere. I know why she murdered Roger Ackroyd. Both he and I were the red herrings all along. We couldn’t come between she and them. Maybe that’s why she killed him so cruelly? As I mourn over his death, I know something is wrong when I force myself to think – I loved her.

Guest

Closure.

Three knocks on the door that don't ask ' are you in?' but demand admittance. Door opens,

"You're a welcome change! Would you like to come in?"
Graceful entrance, unrushed.

"What would you like to do? Play a game?
Talk? Negotiate(,) if you prefer"

Responds by holding up a tea mug?

"Oh tea! That's fine by me. I'd like some myself thank you very much"

Tea poured into cups, two swift smooth motions. At the same time, boasting about clean nails. just for a second.

"Hey! I saw that. Are you mocking my incompetence?"

Perhaps all this is because of schooling. Strangers aren't allowed in the hostels I hear.
The past, that is.
The dust has settled, why make it rise? But isn't it better to live without dust at all?
The past, that is.
The show is almost over, let us smile during the finale at least. But are we thinking about the same show?
The past, that is.

Enough! The past, that is? was, no?
Lovely. eyes meet eyes. At last there is something, even if it is reproach.

"All right, now that we're done with tea... movie?"
slides the phone. talks in a wordless whisper? Yes, there are other people. Its not just me.

I return to my music. We bond noisily as wordless whispers continue.

Call is over now. Hands twitch. Eyes dart. Unrushed yet restless.

Time for a dance? Slow waltz or steamy salsa?
suddenly. Music gets louder, milk boiling on the stove, door bells ringing madly.

"Can't dance now!"

Phew!
Later,I begin to look. find what I want on the easy-chair.
Head on the knees, listening to music.

A hesitant rapprochement "we'll pass time by telling stories?"

"Oh sure sure. strictly about others."

There is laughter, sadness and everything in between. Now what?...
Fingers speak of possibilities.

And then the error. Down came the rain and washed the spider out.
"I must work, you know." Not a torrent of words, but maybe a torrent of meaning.

just as suddenly exits. Call from an Ideal perhaps.

But the door is left open.... And there is the phone... But these murmurs are drowned by the silence - vacant chair, empty tea cup and missing head phones. Music, but no headphones. Memories, but no canvas.
Past, no present.

But surely, there's no dance without music?
Wake up! Look around!

Wealth exists without wisdom.

P.S. - The noise of feet crunching gravel signaled the end. I couldn't bear to look. Not into the eyes. Not even at the graceful hand gestures. And the bangle-sound as she made the gestures. not like the not-looking made it any easier. But looking would perhaps acknowledge the truth - that I remain vulnerable. The end is never final - doesn't ensure the cessation of the hurt. Not sure what it does. Matchstick boy what will he do?

Delhi, Debate and Derrida

Blogging is a curious enterprise. When I started, I found that it was a cost-effective platform to write about things you think about. Soon, however, it becomes difficult to write without thinking about the 'audience' you're writing for. Now 'knowing the audience' is supposed to be essential for a good writer, but who really cares?

Just back from a debate in Delhi. I was unusually apprehensive about going to Delhi. Perhaps I was scarred as a child when I was sent to a camp near Delhi! I sort of understood what Freud meant by the 'unconscious' trying to force its way into the 'conscious'. I don't even remember the camp now. Forced myself to forget all the details - how much I hated the company, how difficult it was to manage in a strange crowd and how much I longed to return home. And yet, there it was, 'forcing its way' into my conscious... I have always wondered why I was so scarred by that experience. I've never been a person for the crowd or even wanted to be in a crowd so that by itself scares me a bit. And add to that the usual aggression of people from big cities, and you can understand how a ten year old me would have felt!


Here is where I feel debate liberating. It is an aggressive, competitive circuit and somehow I feel at home. Its not that I'm an exceptional debater. Just that I feel those seven minutes I get to speak are my own.. I can push everyone and everything outside my head, including an awareness of myself. I can hear myself speaking but I also know its not all of me. Its like the other, sub-conscious (or unconscious?) me is allowed to rise when I concentrate fully on debating. A strange thing indeed... that I can discover a part of myself by concentrating fully on something else. The self revealed, not through the other, but because of the other.

If this is an aporia then we can't but think of Derrida. The notion that there is no 'point', that there is no single meaning to any concept is fascinating. It is our desire for that point that makes us speak, write etc he says. Its not that there exists singularity which is dissolved when we express something. The gap between the signifier and signified is constant. Perhaps there is no 'me', at no point a single entity but always with a differance. So the true discovery of my self (myself?) can never happen with thought for that immediately involves a signification. So is there 'a being' without thought? Can we contest Descartes' cogito? How then do we know that we truely exist?


A long way from delhi indeed.

The Lessons that were Never Taught

Oscar Wilde once said that 'nothing that is worth knowing can be taught.' I disagree. I believe that the most important lessons can and should be taught, especially at school level. I am not concerend here with the variety of subjects that are offerred or the exam system, all of which are undoubtedly important issues. I am concered here with the way in which we are taught to 'identify' ourselves. I studied in a middle to upper class Tamil Brahmin school which, ostensibly, tries to, inter alia, 'enable children to imbibe our rich cultural heritage and values.' What this means is that we are taught to see ourselves as Tamil Brahmins who come from a middle/upper class background. We were never told explicitly to think of ourselves as Tamil Brahmins but most of what we were taught and almost everything we were exposed to ensured that we defined ourselves that way. We had 'Vedic Heritage' classes but we were never told that many scholars believe that this 'heritage' was only for a select few and that it wasn't something universal; we were made to listen to innumerable speeches on how India had a glorious past which was perfect for everybody and therefore, all of us should return to our 'old ways' so that everybody can be happy (there was even one gentleman who gave a rather long speech on how ancient India (if there is such a thing - some argue that India was 'born' on August 15th 1947) had planes, missiles and, if I am not very much mistaken, even nuclear weapons) but we were never told that the ancient period had its own share of imperfections and interestingly, none of the speeches touched on the Medieval period (popularly and incorrectly percieved as the 'Muslim' period). Therefore, the exposure was clearly one sided. However, it would indeed be unfair to blame the people incharge of the school entierly for the simple reason that perhaps they too were exposed to only these ideas. The problem, I believe, is systemic and therefore, more dangerous.

If we are taught to think of ourselves as 'Hindus' or as 'Tamil Brahmins' the problem is not only with the school but with the general idea that if a person happens to be a Tamil Brahmin, chances are that she will think of herself primarily as a Tamil Brahmin. This is more obvious in the case of Muslims. In the Afzal case for example, the issue seems to have taken centre stage not because people believe he did not have a fair trial or even because people are against capital punishment per se (these groups protest at every instance of capital punishment whether it be that of the people involved in assasinating Rajiv Gandhi or Dhananjay Chatterjee) but because he is Kashmiri and a Muslim. Therefore, if you are a Muslim, you better oppose the death sentence. Thus, it is because people are forced to give importance to their Muslim identity above all else that so many issues acquire a communal hue. Every person, as Amartya Sen argues brilliantly in his recent book, has multiple identies. A person can be a Tamil Brahmin, a lawyer, a carnatic musician, a critic of Hindi movies, an ardent fan of the Australian cricket team, a staunch Marxist and a feminist, all at the same time. So forcing a person, either overtly or covertly, to give priority to a particular identity will clearly violate her freedom. Therefore, one must recognize that each person can have multiple identities and that each person can, by a process of reasoning, decide which identity she will give importance to in any given situation. This will ensure that a person will not be compelled to oppose the death sentence awarded to Afzal because she is a Muslim because in this case, she may choose to believe as a lawyer (for instance) that the trial was fair hence the death sentence is alright.

How will we ever make people think in this fashion? School education, according to me, should help students understand that they have multiple identities and that they have the freedom to choose which one should be prioritized in a situation. It is improper and dangerous for them to try and make the students believe in a particular idea; they should rather help the students imagine themselves in any way they choose to as long as they have considered various other alternatives. Therefore, instead of making it seem like ancient India was a wonderland, the school should ensure that the students know that some people/scholars believe that it is. This will make the students think about the implications of such a view and also give them the freedom to define their identities. The schools therefore, have an important responsiblity of ensuring that students learn to understand that they have multiple identities. Therefore, this idea that is certainly worth knowing should most definitely be taught.

Towering above the best...

It's been a long time since I blogged, and I've been brought back forcibly to gush in endless depth (well not really, endless) about the genius of one man-the late, great, Marlon Brando.
I first watched Brando, most unfortunately, in 'Don Juan DeMarco' starring Johnny Depp and needless to say, took back no unforgettable memories of the great man and I would've scoffed disrespectfully at any suggestion that he was possibly the greatest actor Hollywood had ever seen. And then I saw 'The Godfather'...
He played Vito Corleone with rich sensitivity, intelligence and a quiet, unshakeable power. But the best thing about his portrayal of Don Vito Corleone was the magnetism that he brought to it; the way he could hold the attention of the viewers as Vito did, that of his men. And then, I began to believe that perhaps this old, fat man, who was the butt of every fat and weird joke in Hollywood, was once a giant on screen.

After watching 'A Streetcar named Desire' and 'On the Waterfront', I confess to being spellbound and inextricably in love with his brilliance. As Stanley Kowalski (in 'A Streetcar....') he was a shrewd but ignorant, loyal but insensitive and ignorant working class man clashing with the cultured, sensitive, delicate but duplicitous sister-in-law, Blanche Dubois. Outwardly he's loud, brutish, intolerant and animal-like - a remnant of the Stone Age as his sister-in-law believes him to be. Yet he is vulnerable and insecure and Blanche provoked him, unforgivably, by repeatedly pointing to his poorer background and unrefined ways and he sought to assert himself as “the king in his own home” and then he becomes, just an animal, as every passionate person must become when suitably prodded and without remorse he commits his crime. Then, there is that strange, scary but mesmerizing passion as he bellows for his Stella- there is anguish, and there is strength, longing and yearning in that cry. What woman could’ve refused him???
As Terry Malloy (in ‘On the Waterfront’), he is more of a boy- a little naïve, unsure of himself and wary of the world and its people. He only knows that he ought to play it safe because that’ll keep him out of trouble. With losing his one chance at being “a contender”, after taking a dive in crucial boxing match, he has also lost his ambition and merely ambles about taking care of birds with the neighborhood boys and showing up at work, where his brother’s clout, ensures that he gets paid for doing little work. But his conscience starts to prod him when he plays a part in getting Joey Doyle, the only kid in the neighborhood who had the guts to speak out against the local mob, killed. He is attracted to the victim’s sister, Edie, and tries clumsily to woo her and she, seeing through the tough cynical guy to the conscientious decent guy, falls for him. Guided by the pastor and striving to prove to her that he’s not a ‘bum”, he stands up for his rights and those of his townspeople.
Brando is so natural and sensitive to the natures and reactions of people that he’s brilliant. There’s this innate strength, whether good or bad, which makes one succumb to his charm and power and there will be countless victims year after year for as long print of his works of genius exist.

Orkutting

I know the word sounds really bad but I realized only today that one can do so many wonderful things on Orkut. Not only can you write testimonials (on a quid pro quo basis so that you get more tetimonals), add random people so that your friends list increases, go to the profile of strangers and get to know who they are, what they like etc., and go through the endless list of communities. Today I went to a community which was dedicated to justifying rape. They had interesting arguments like how rape is like arranged marriage and how only ugly women complain about rape because the men don't have sex with them despite the fact that these women force themselves on the men. And then you have these random testimonials which just have artwork; I'm quite sure noone knows what it signifies. Also, it is interesting to trace a family - for example, you land on the profile of X and you find that X's sister(Y) has written a testimonial for him, the next thing to do would be to go to Y's profile and start exploring that and so on... You actually get to know entire familes through this! Isn't it great!
Anyway, that will do for now children. Please take my advice and become avid orkutters. I shall, on my part, try to post regularly in order to impart such knowledge and wisdom.

Memories

I went to school today because Mr. Devakumar asked me to speak to the 12C students about Business Battle. I know for a fact that I cannot help them in anyway but I decided to go primarily because I wanted to sort of re-live the experience. Needless to say that I had great fun organizing Business Battle - whether it be Jaich insulting the computer teacher on her face or Naveen yelling at me for being thoroughly disorganized or trying to convince the teachers that Shriram shoudn't host the quiz (I don't think he has forgiven me for that) or having 'secret' meetings or fuming when certain people acted irresponsibly...

Having said all this, I think what I liked best about Business Battle was that I made some of my closest friends while organizing it. I am not mentioning names because I know that both of them will be embarrased and because I don't think it means so much to them; but it will suffice to say that without their help it would been the most dreadful time of my life. Thank you.

Another wierd thing about it was that I don't remember how it all came together in the end... the religious person in me would of course attribute it to God, which is another reason why it is special.

All this came rushing back when I opened our Business Battle 'file'. I don't think I helped the 12C students at all... but I still feel happy about all the memories. I know this is a silly, illogical and sentimental post but that is what was intended so I'm not going to justify it. So lets raise our glass to such happy memories....

Legitimacy for Dating...Questions

All of us know at least one person who is 'going out'/'dating' someone so everyone can understand this post. However, if you are going out with someone yourself, then stop. Read no further cause this entry will not interest you and may even irritate you. If you are, on the other hand, still 'single', then please continue reading and do tell me what you think about it.

This entry is a result of some (futile?) discussion on the subject of 'dating'. Admittedly, all of us like/have liked/will like someone. Does that necessarily mean we have to go out with that person? Well, the answer to that is simple - if you like someone, it implies that you enjoy their company and so you will want to spend more time with them and going out is one way of doing that. Fair enough. But what if you are already good friends with the person you like and spend a lot of time with her/him? [I request the reader to not misconstrue the above or what follows as an indication of my romantic interests. I have none AT THE MOMENT and am merely groping about in the realm of theory] In that case, the argument that you will get to spend more time with her/him fails.

The other argument advanced is that by dating someone, you'll have the feeling that that someone is 'there for you'. I have two disagreements with this argument - one, I would say, at the risk of being cynical, that since most of these relationships break sooner or later, usually sooner (I concede that there are some relationships that don't break but I maintain that these are only the exceptions) there is more pressure on one or both parties to 'keep it going'. Therefore, far from being reassuring, it actually leaves you in doubt - does she/he really like me or has her/his liking for me decreased etc. The second disagreement is at a spiritual level - if you are looking for reassurance, if you want to feel that someone is always there for you, wouldn't it be a better option to rely on something permanent like God or a Superior Force (assuming you believe in one) rather than relying on ephemeral things and getting hurt when they are less permanent than you thought they were? I am not going to discuss this issue with regard to atheists because I haven't given enough thought to it.

The third argument is that dating is fun. Quite frankly, I cannot counter this since (a) fun is a subjective standard so I cannot speak for anybody else - for e.g. if a person thinks getting pierced is fun, then it is so for her/him, I can't dispute it just because it is not fun for me(b) since I haven't dated anyone myself, I can't tell whether dating would be fun for me, according to my standard (this applies to 'you won't know how great it is because you haven't tried it' as well).

So when people say that they have a 'meaningful' relationship, do they mean they are having fun or that is reassuring or both? I certainly don't understand the reassuring part for the reasons given above. So where is the legitimacy for dating? Before you think I am living in a different universe, I have confession to make - I have "asked out" a person myself but haven't dated; in less sophisticated terms, she didn't say yes. So you think this post is just out of frustration? Well, in my defense, I have thinking about this off and on for a long time so it isn't necessarily because of frustration. But why did I "ask her out" when I wasn't convinced of the legitimacy of dating? I have nothing to say in my defense - I was indeed being a hypocrite.
Finally, I would like to 'solicit' your opinion on this matter although you may think I am totally weird for thinking about such things. I am not able to accept it completely though it seems to be the trend today and I think it is essential that we question at least this part of the 'dominant discourse' (it is post-modern jargon).

[P.S. This post has not been written by Ranjani - it should have been obvious (in her posts, you won't find words struggling to make sentences; sentences forced into paragraphs; and paragraphs made into a whole agaisnt their will) but nonetheless...