Screenplays and Mindgames

Notes from the Theatre Festival – 2

There is a low murmur around Chennai’s theatre groups – a grouse that dare note speak its name. Theatre regulars would know that the Hindu Theatre Fest started off as an event primarily supported by local groups. Last year, the event shifted its venue to the Academy, and its focus to national troupes. The stage was still larger this year with some international groups taking part, while local groups were pushed to weekday performances, diplomatically dubbed as “the Chennai Chapter” in the smaller Sivagami Pettachi auditorium. I suppose the cash strapped theatre scene in Chennai had little choice but to accept what was thrown its way.

Not an entirely negative development in the end. The Sivagami Pettachi hall is a cozy little place which is far more comfortable than the Academy besides which, the acoustics are a lot less unpredictable. And despite the inconvenience of the timing, the few shows that I caught were all sold out.

The first of these was directed by Samanth Subramanian, a debutant director and a peddler of several talents which include, besides occasional daubs of greasepaint, writing and quizzing (one of the members of the Landmark quiz winning QED mentioned below).

Scripted by Ariel Dorfman, the play explores the festering wounds of the Pinochet dictatorship through the torment of a woman (Paulina – Sunanda Raghunath) who thinks she has found the man who’d raped and tortured her during the regime. The accused (Dr. Miranda – Samanth Subramanian) intermittently protests his innocence to the extent he can make himself intelligible through his panty-gagged mouth. Paulina’s husband (Gerardo, played very effectively by Freddy Koikkaran), is a lawyer who lurches between shocked disbelief at his wife’s dementia and his concerns about apostatizing his passionate belief in the law.

The material was powerful, shocking and for Chennai’s conservative audience, rather scandalous. Despite being inured to the bohemianism of theatre folk I found myself squirming and fidgeting when Sunandha did a toned down (mercifully!) re-take of Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct! However, while her courage in taking up the role deserves appreciation, her tedious monologues, delivered in a drawling Tamil accent, only served to expose the geographical incongruity of the play’s setting.

Nevertheless, the strength of the script, some imaginative lighting and an inspired performance from Koikkaran (ably supported in the final stages by Samanth) prevented the play from descending into the sort of melodrama one normally associates with vernacular theatre in the city. The ending resolved the symbolic undercurrents into some stark and poignant questions about the pains of revolution and the insatiable, yet directionless, nature of vengeance…the gentleman sitting next to me, however, did not share my enthusiasm for it – he insisted on my providing a“JPH notes” style explanation of the conclusion!

A Landmark and a Quiz

“Shashtiabdhapoorthi” is how many a Mylapore mama with a predilection for drawing spiritual parallels chose to put it. Sixty years it’s been, sure, but I find the analogy misplaced. For the typical South Indian, the completion of 60 years signals the commencement of vanaprastha (even if it is in the concrete jungle these days!) – a time for retirement, contemplation and detachment. Hardly describes what’s going on in our country right now. It doesn’t get more materialistic or frenetic than this! "Sixty years young" is then, my clichéd take….

The media enthusiastically joined in the festivities, thankfully leaving Sanjay Dutt to his devices (pardon the unkind pun!) for a day or two. The Hindu, which had managed to keep Mr. Dutt within the confines (apologies repeated!) of the middle pages for the better part of his ordeal, expectedly put out the best tribute, adorned with a bouquet of priceless photographs.

But experiencing the wonder of India does not necessarily entail a collective wallowing in the past. While reminiscing about the lions of the freedom struggle is certainly a good way of working up the goosebumps, an equally effective method is to witness the miracles that our country serves up everyday, none of which is more heartening than the intellectual firepower of our young men and women. Here, more than anywhere else, the optimist likes to believe, resides our country..

My annual participation in the Landmark quiz has, therefore, less to do with hopes of covering myself with glory – the result is usually quite the opposite – than the reaffirmation of my faith in the spectacular repository of grey cells that is India. There was some vicarious pleasure as well – of the winning team’s (QED – which is threatening to become the Roger Federer of Chennai quizzing, having won the quiz last year as well) three members, one was a friend and another, a colleague…

Quizzing does not throw up too many stars but sometimes even the most exquisite leg glance (leave alone, the garish histrionics of Bollywood) pales in comparison to a solution stitched together from the slenderest threads of association between seemingly nonsensical bits of trivia– some of it is positively Freudian. These guys deserve much more than Rs. 40,000 in Landmark gift vouchers....

Happy 60th/6000th birthday India! Here's wishing you many more miracles!

Notes from the Theatre Festival

Cultural Awakening















Chennai’s cultural calendar finally begins to shed the sluggishness of a long and well, not so torrid, summer…The Metro Plus’ theatre fest has just rolled out its third edition, with a very international flavour, while Krishna Gana Sabha’s Gokulashtami concert series, running in parallel, is about as local as it gets…The Landmark Quiz lurks around the corner after which the city’s cultural scene should follow the pleasant example of the weather – Carnatica’s Bharat Utsav and the Hindu’s Classical Music Fest being among the events likely to throw up some dates you might want to block – leading upto the big daddy of Margazhi, the Music and Dance festival. Chennai is not quite Paris yet but it’s getting there….

Alas, the Music Academy IS a far cry from the Odeon. The Manipuri troupe that kicked off proceedings was disappointed with the size of the stage (a complaint that also surfaced during the Bavarian State Orchestra’s performance under Zubin Mehta’s baton a couple of years ago). The audience has its share of cribs as well. The scandalously cramped seats in the balcony haven’t yet seen the light of N Murali’s promises to rectify the ergonomic disaster that is the Academy auditorium.

The crowds seem to have voted with their feet – attendance was between 60-70% in the stalls and about 30% in the balcony. Not too many plays had less than 75% last year. One shudders at the thought of a laudable movement being reversed by audience apathy. C’mon folks – give that remote a break!

Men of Letters

I can’t remember any of the blurbs using “Experimental” as a prefix to the Theatre Festival but that’s pretty much what the plays on offer appear to suggest: A Manipuri dance-ballet in Meithei (Nine Hills One Valley), a play woven around a collection of press clippings (Three Strangely Normal Plays), a recitation of letters exchanged between Nehru and Gandhi (Dear Bapu)…whatever happened to good old screenplay? Is it any wonder that N Ram is willing to cough up a lakh of rupees for one?!

Anyway, the last of the above (Director - Mohan Maharishi) was unexpectedly engaging, giving even a small-time history buff like yours truly, some novel insights into the minds of the 2 chief architects of India’s post-colonial history. The parts were played (or should I say “read”) with flawless, if a little affected, eloquence by Bhaskar Ghose and Sunit Tandon. “Is-yous” for example takes you right back to Doordarshan News of the 80s with which, of course, both these gentlemen were intimately associated! Sabina Mehta was somewhat less inspiring in her role of providing random annotations to the epistolary exchange, slipping up once too often during her obiter dicta.

Magic Realism

It’s odd how closely one is able to relate to the equation between the two congress leaders, one that is defined as much by mutual respect as by a passionate difference of opinion – anyone who’s had a benevolent but overbearing boss, if there’s any such thing, would know what I am talking about.

Notwithstanding his remarkably forward-looking views on women’s empowerment, religion and the caste system, Gandhi’s muddle headed approach to socio-economic issues (in particular, his utopian ideal of a village based economy) is a source of endless frustration for an impatient socialist zealot with a clearly mapped out industrial vision for his country. Nehru’s directness and rationalism also come into conflict with the unfathomable methods of his senior colleague who, for all his principles, possessed a Machiavellian political mind and an extraordinary feel for the pulse of both the masses, and the rulers. Bursts of unreasonable irascibility followed by tactical retreats, a carrot in one hand and a stick in the other – Gandhi was a master manipulator whose ends Nehru could grasp only when he’d pull the occasional rabbit out of his hat – using a complete non-issue like the Salt Tax, for example, to set an entire country on fire (“magician” is a word Nehru uses repeatedly while referring to his mentor).

That a nation could emerge from such a Babel (we haven’t even touched upon Patel, Rajaji, Bose or Ambedkar – all political animals of different hues) was a minor miracle. And the fact that such a bhel-puri of ideologies has survived over 50 tempestuous years must rank as one of the most remarkable developments in modern history. But looking back, a cacophony of voices was probably the only thing that could’ve stitched together 300 million very diverse, and very opinionated, individuals…and oh! Despite all its holes, what a magnificent fabric we have woven, my countrymen!

A though-provoking pile of letters indeed…

Varsha

1.

Here she comes, dancing over the grateful plains,
Urns of nectar, unsteadily balanced on her sprightly shoulders!

Knead this clay, mother!
Caress, comfort, your fallen sons.
Mould, from this lifeless soil, pots of plenty and gods of war.

Ready to strike!
Hail, Howl, Hurl your lances
At these parched veins below, throbbing with desire.

Lap, greedy earth!
Sip, Slurp, Swig your thirst away
Drink till you drown yourself in an explosion of greenish bile

2.

Summer’s lusty breath, the lecherous fingers*
Of the sun upon her outraged breast.
Her glorious white robe, shredded and strewn
In silvery strands around her sullied feet

But now she rises, hot with shame. Puffy
Cheeks, purple with rage. Heart pounding
With the beat of vengeance and eyes blinking wild,
She draws the curtains over her oppressor!

3.

The poor wizened, wrinkled plain

Looks up and thinks aloud. Supine,

On his cracked bed, an impotent witness,

To heavenly caprices and celestial tussles.

“Welcome back, victorious one,

You must be drained from battling the sun.

But whilst you wipe the sweat off your brow

Your humble vassal begs to know:

Is it joy or scorn you pour?

Do you fling those buckets from your door,

To sprinkle hope on my withered hide?

Or to wash this worthless clod away?

You flow unbound, need no one’s leave
To fill my wells or flood my streams
But what if I had the discretion
To choose reason over artless emotion?”

4.

“So what if those tears trickle from a mugger’s maw,
That earthy whiff, the crab’s grasping claw?
I’m old. I’ve borne many a season’s whim.
Even the gentle touch of spring
Was but a flirting cloak for summer’s sting

What if she weeps in grief? Or drips with desire?
Or storms in fury over her violated honor?
Descend, fine incisors, gentle poison
Into my burning throat! I’ll take my chance again!
Fly away parasol, my shelter is the rain!”

* The reference is to the Himalayan River System

Between Heaven and Hell - the Basic Mountaineering Course

Before

The sun is yet to emerge from its dark womb and the rooster’s siren, still submerged in twilight’s heavy breath. But the day is shaken awake by a false dawn of flickering flash-lights. And footsteps pounding on the false ceiling above. Batch 282 of the Basic Mountaineering Course at the Directorate of Mountaineering and Allied Sports (DMAS), Manali, is drawn out of its cozy blankets and quartered into ropes on the campus PT Ground.

Batch 282 was a motley mix of 80 individuals between 15 and 45 with little in common except for an unhealthy obsession with mountains and an inexplicable appetite for physical pain. There was a bunch of local Himachalis for whom the rigor of the course was just an extension of their rugged lifestyles; students from Army and sports schools hoping (somewhat optimistically in hindsight) for an easy way out of their annual examinations; officers from the Police and the Armed Forces looking to broaden their horizons while lengthening their CVs; and finally, urban slouches like myself, lured by the cool sound-bites and fancy equipment of adventure-television gods, oblivious to the sweat and toil behind their glamorous façades. Or what sleeping in those beautiful snow-covered tents really felt like…

Tied Down

The first task at hand was to figure out a way to segment our batch into ropes. The “rope” referred to a 60 meters long coil made of some of the strongest fibers known to man….and to the 8 course-members tethered to it. Your rope is the guys you will sleep with, the guys you will eat with, the guys you will climb with…The rope will pull you up when you are down and drag you to your death. The rope is the fundamental unit of social organization in a mountaineering expedition.

My own rope coiled around me after a random allocation process that included a 200 metre sprint the purpose of which was never entirely clear - 8 guys, 2 countries, 2.5 generations, 6 languages, 3 social strata. Antakshari inside the tent until 1 in the morning. The only ice seemed to be in the mountains up above!

Picnic at Hanging Rock

“Yes Sir” is a phrase of considerable utility in the aspiring mountaineer’s vocabulary. “Faster boys!” “Yessir!”. “Give me ten!” “Yessir!” “Nincompoop!” “Yessir!”…Day 1 of the 26 day program began with a red-eye “fully geared” run (rucksack included) around Manali’s undulating streets. “We’ll take things easy on the first day” chirped our course leader, patting my burdened back, “just a light jog, eh?!”. I was not inclined to let his outrageous suggestion pass without protest but considering my rapidly worsening wheeze and the possibility of my already constrained physical resources being further taxed with a “punishment”, “Yessir” seemed as sensible a response as any…We trundled past Bengali and Gujarati vacationers, our ungainly strides amusing them as much as our trainers’ colorfully-worded reprimands, encouraging the onlookers to throw in some of their own epithets. A child tugged at the ice-axe slipping out of my sack and a pebble bounced off my helmet. Unpleasant, I told myself stoically, but infinitely better than falling into a crevasse or being buried in an avalanche.

The persecution of our muscles and sinews continued through the first week, breaking down the defenses of fats and lipids tucked away in remote recesses of the body that had, until then, stood their ground against the most determined diets and gym sessions. The physical intensity of “morning PT” would typically be followed by activities that demanded more than just strength and stamina. The “Holds” and “grips” that lead a climber to the top of a sheer rock exist not so much on its walls as in the chisel of the mind and the hammer of the spirit. Arms and legs are but supporting actors in the will’s scramble get a handle on success’ craggy, capricious face...now an impossibly smooth boulder to scale, now a vertiginous drop to rappel down; now a freezing, vicious torrent to cross…but we were still in Manali – the glaciers, moraines and ice-walls were yet to come.

Axed

By the tenth day, we were deemed sufficiently cleansed of our sloth and frailty to be tested out in the mountains. My rucksack, already bloated thanks to a daily diet of sundry climbing aids, now had to swallow a pair of clunky mountaineering boots! Struggling to get my freshly reinforced frame on my feet, I betted heavily against my making it even as far as the campus gate but many breathless hours later, DMAS’ ski lodge at Solang, 15 Kms from Manali, turned out to be a stiff but surmountable challenge.

Our first brush with the snow was at the 4400 metre peak of Patalsu. Winter had overstayed its welcome in Himachal, hibernating inside its white sheets even though May was well underway. As a result, our target, normally a “non-technical” peak in summer, was judged unsuitable for a troupe of half-baked Hillaries and we were turned back, some 500 metres short of the summit.

The delayed departure of the snow made for an interesting afternoon when we arrived at our training base camp at Bakkarthatch, a couple of days later. A patchwork of campsites lay scattered around a mound of sodden earth that was presently embalmed in the last vestiges of winter, indistinguishable from the snowfields that stretched for miles around. A return to our previous camp of Dhundhi was briefly considered but with 80 able, if less than willing, young men at hand, the course in-charge clearly had options. Orders were barked, sacks opened, and ice axes, shovels and picks pressed into service, swinging in frenzied arcs between the dazzling sun above and the glistening snow below. The archaeological divertissement was an expectedly onerous one, beset with oxygen malnourishment and exposure to a treacherous spectrum of temperatures - from the coruscating intensity of the heat on our backs to the numbing cold chewing on our fingers. But our homing instinct eventually proved powerful enough to rescue the entombed base camp from over 5 feet of snow. I collapsed on the freshly leveled campsite to claim my reward for an utterly exhausting day – the sight of the vast white trampoline that was Bakkarthatch, hooked on to a cirque of towering poles, all over 5000 metres in height.

The five days of physical labour that it took us to get from Manali to Bakkarthatch had me itching to get my hands on the curious implements that had burdened my journey. The next few days assured me that all of them had their uses for surviving the perilous vicissitudes of life over 4000 metres. But a workman needs more than just tools – standing on the edge of a sheer snow slope, preparing for a backward roll, all the preceding lectures about the commendable properties of the ice-axe in arresting a fall, felt about as reassuring as a politician’s promises. Ropes that would bend and twist at my every command back in Manali, assumed a stiff, icy and altogether uncooperative attitude in the mountains, chafing at my fingers and tying up my emaciated mental resources in knots more complicated than has ever been used in a climbing expedition. Ice proved a still harder nut to crack –tired, flailing ice-axes bounced off its unyielding walls in a pathetic imitation of the furiously energetic ice-climbs we were shown in the training videos!

26 days of training, I discovered, were somewhat inadequate to overcome the inherent ungainliness of a city-dweller but while my evolution into a mountain goat is still a few births away, I suppose I had imbibed enough to clear the battery of tests we were put through on our last few days (although to put things in perspective I am hard pressed to think of anyone who didn’t!).

Over the Edge

Kshitidhar was adorned with strings of black pearls that seemed to slithering, ever so slowly, up its slender neck. The molested mountain shook with fright and anger. Her tresses, white with rage, came undone and cascaded down her tremulous sides….I was at 16500 feet – at that altitude, it is not uncommon for the senses to indulge in a few games with the mind. But if I was unhinged, I was joined in my hallucination by a dozen-odd pairs of eyes, all of which were riveted on the same incredible spectacle. A rasping walkie-talkie shoved what seemed to be a wild illusion, firmly in the direction of reality…“The avalanche has passed and the white-out should clear shortly. Keep on the ridge – you’ll make it!!”

I was about half an hour late for an appointment with the top of Kshithidhar, which presently bore the burden of 20 of my batch-mates. Tired though I was after a 6 hour trek over 1500 metres, it was utterly frustrating to be stuck at the base camp while my colleagues were celebrating on top, just 400 metres above. But the rules were clear and made known to everyone before we left Backaerthatch: “Only three ropes – first come, first served”. That meant 20 members - I had reported into base camp at about 30. The consolation was that I had attained the qualifying height. Besides, our grueling stint in the mountains was now coming to an end.

All that now stood between me and civilization was a night of “jungle survival”. The clump of birches and firs amidst grassy slopes we were led to, 5 Kms from Solang, seemed to be stretching the definition of a jungle. Nor did the bears and leopards that purportedly ran rampage therein seem anything worse than a product of our instructors’ malicious imagination. Nevertheless, a stronger-than-usual evening shower and our arrival after sunset meant that this final hurdle of the Mountaineering Course was not entirely without its challenges. An enterprising rope-mate strung together a temporary shelter using our raincoats and although the wet earth continually pushed us down its slippery slope, my jungle survival experience largely involved snoring through an intense REM sleep.

Passed Out

The “passing-out ceremony” was a tad less glamorous than I might have hoped. No delirious crowds to wave my medals at – instead, a pitter-patter of feeble claps from my rope-mates, half of whom were busy being festooned with sundry trappings of mountaineering accomplishments themselves. The lunch that followed was certainly an improvement on the staple of rice and dal that we endured at Bakkarthatch but with trains and buses to catch, we were unable to fully savor the release of our repressed gastronomic desires.

The final hours at the mountaineering institute were charged with the sort of intense warmth that surrounds people who’ve been through a period of intense bonding but whose lives are unlikely to offer too many points of convergence in future. Not so much like a college farewell which alloys the despair of parting with the promise of continuity …More like a torrid affair that leaves nothing to be salvaged once its embers are extinguished….

Hung

The new joiners are just being bussed in. Batch 283 will be put through the punishing routine shortly. The heat of the training program will weld complete strangers into bosom buddies, ties that will be further reinforced by the ropes they are allocated to – stiff, gnarly little devils that constantly cut into your hands. Crude hill folk, pompous army-men, silly school-children. But up there, the only thing that stands between you and the deep gorges in the folds of the mountains…and the still deeper chasms in the folds of the mind.

The knots are gone now. My hands are free once again and the spirit soars to survey its re-annexed territories – much like the Golden Eagle that was the object of its envy during my confinement at Backerthatch. Yet there remains in these fickle fingers, a curious twitching for those ghastly ropes, irreconcilable with the calluses and cuts they’ve caused all over. The longing isn’t exactly an overpowering one – I’m done with knots and anchors and icy wastelands for the time being…but I know the scattered rope is regrouping even as I rediscover freedom….
The noose will begin tightening soon. It will get me in the end.

After

The Daily Mail Crossword

The Daily Mail is a rightwing British tabloid for whose hawkish views I have nothing but contempt. The same goes for that glorified bhaav copy that masquerades as a business newspaper- the Economic Times. But the Daily Mail crossword, duly reproduced by the ET, has become an addiction over the last 2 years, especially during my frequent aerial excursions around the country.

Unlike the Hindu crossword, overloaded with anagrams and clues that are often ridiculously obscure or downright incorrect, the ET crossword has no more than a smattering of jumbles - just as many as are required to tackle more challenging clues. Tougher, but infinitely more interesting. And almost always accurate.

Anyway, to cut a long story shot, the crossword was finally completed today. Hmmm, not quite...'Gun holding firm in Wales' was cracked only after a google search for a list of cities in that country (?). Brecon is (hopefully) the answer . "Woman who takes the cake" should be "Crumpet" but that does not quite fit in with " Feature funny fellow in talk"...so that's at least one incorrect although I've taken a wild guess for the sake of completion after changing crumpet to trumpet!

A small pat on the back, nevertheless, for filling all the squares in the grid for the first time even if a perfect solution is still elusive. Well, there's still a lot of flying time left this year!

Post Script (26/4/07)

A fevered consultation of the solution in the Economic Times crossword this morning led to the frustrating realization that the copy of the paper I received on the flight from Bhubaneshwar was the Kolkata edition. In the meanwhile, the evasive clue has been nailed down so it was probably just as well:

"Woman who takes the cake" should indeed be "Crumpet" and " Feature funny fellow in talk" could be "Chinwag", which agrees with the clue but is not a term I am very familiar with. However www.allwords.com assures me that it is a perfectly legitimate, albeit colloquial, word.

Vici!

Pantula Rama - Vani Mahal, 9/4/07

Accompanists

MSN Murthy - Voilin

J Vaidyanathan - Mrudangam

Monday saw a happy intersection of. Pantula Rama’s visit to Chennai and my own increasingly infrequent “home time”. Carnatic music’s stars may be away in Cleveland but some of them manage to cling on to their shine even in the blinding Indian summer.

The curtains unfurled to a gusty rendition of the Arabhi Pancharatnam. The prop for the Charanam lines was the Pallavi (Sadinchane) rather than the usual “Samayaniki”. An alaapana of Malayamarutham wafted in next and was well handled but for a tendency to risk the occasional misstep into the wid-ish gap between the Antara Gandharam and the Panchamam. Murthy’s violin was more cautious, sketching alaapanas that voted for brevity over exhibitionism. Manasa Etalortune was the expected krithi and in another departure from the norm, “Dinakara Kula Bhushanuni” was taken up for Neraval instead of “Kalilo Rajasa”. J Vaidyanathan grabbed the limelight here, soulful in his embellishment of the neraval, while latching on brilliantly to the flurry of Mukthayis and Jathis flying forth from the couple he was accompanying (MSN Murthy and Pantula Rama are partners, on and off the stage).

In the short alaapana of Kaapi that followed, Murthy once again produced the more elegant interpretation. Having just watched Scorsese’s “New York, New York” the previous day, I could not help being drawn toward certain (transposed) parallels. But Pantula’s comeback was an impressive one.

If I were asked to vote for the most versatile raga, Kalyani it would have to be – this emperor of the Pratimadhyama domain is as capable of conveying wistfulness and pathos as majesty and power; as suitable for vocal acrobatics as for serenity of expression. In this instance, the word that suggested itself from the raga’s considerable arsenal of adjectives was “breezy” - a gentle zephyr that swelled into a full-blown tornado in the tara sthayi. Pantula Rama’s vocal prowess is formidable even if her twister threatened to rattle the swarasthanas on a few occasions. A little more work on that front and we could very well have a voice rivaling MLV’s at the peak of her prowess. Murthy preferred to play second fiddle this time around with a marked emphasis on varja prayogas.

“Karu Velpu” is a krithi that I’d never heard, or even heard of, before the concert. I am not one of those who wring their hands with glee every time a rare krithi is presented. All too often, they turn out to be either clones of better known compositions or mediocre melodies that deserve their obscure fate. But it is indeed baffling that this gem is not sung more frequently. The power packed Pallavi consists of some 8-10 blistering sangathis (reminiscent of Dharini Tesulukonti) before yielding to a delightful karvai filled Anupallavi. The krithi was sung at a fairly brisk pace, opening up the possibility of a scorching 2nd speed swara session. It was a lesson for those with a tendency to launch into an overdrive during the swaraprasthara – start fast instead of speeding up. The jathis and korvais even at that breakneck speed served to underline the fact that Pantula Rama is as comfortable with rhythm as with melody.

Vaidyanathan’s tani was a short one continuing his good work throughout the concert. Variations in Tisram included a 1.5 avaratha korvai during the vinyasa and a final korvai of 1 avartha in Chatushram and Tishram. I do wish I had Ram’s flair for konakkol to describe it better.A pleasant Enta Muddo was among the 2-3 pieces in the tukkada section.

I wish we had Pantula Rama visiting Chennai more often. Maybe Kulkarniji and rasikas.org can do something towards that end!

Songlist (All Thyagaraja Krithis)
Sadinchane – Arabhi – Adi
Manasa Etalortune – Malayamarutham – Rupakam (RNS)
Mee Valla – Kaapi – Khanda Chapu (R)
Karu Velpu – Kalyani – Adi (RST)
Enta Muddo – Bindumalini
Other tukkadas in Senchurutti and Ananda Bhairavi
Ni Nama Rupamu – Sowrasthram - Adi

Here comes the Sun

The summer sun torches this April afternoon
And from his zenith proclaims, the nadir of my soul.
Divine arsonist! Cook my steaming hide!
Flay it! Wring it! And hang it out to dry!

Formidable meridian furious, raging blind!
Wash, white light, this empty vessel of mine.
Like Milton’s vacant sockets, deprived of sight,
Ignite this hollow with the flames of Paradise!

Torrid torment, come hither! Embrace me brother!
Plumb my oppressed well, its dark liquor
Boil, and distil to my quavering pen. Shake
My hand, Goldfinger! Scrawl your art on my humble scrap!

Alas, foul these rays, ablaze with heat,
But of vision bereft. Like Milton’s unblessed eyes
And deaf Beethoven, of genius shorn! Frugal
Faculties aflutter, on passion’s empty bluster.

Sun, eclipse my trance, stint your shine!
Or else plunge deeper, into this wasted mine
And drain me dry, have your fill, of my rancid wine.

The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam

A translated work invariably teases the reader into measuring the distance between the minds behind the endeavor - to descry the giant shoulders that prop up a mediocre translation. And the dazzling flashes of imagination that blind the reader to the ordinariness of the original. In all but the most closely related pairs of languages, the exercise of translation confronts the translator with two irreconcilable choices – fidelity to the original as against sensitivity to the aesthetics of the language in which the work is reproduced.

If Omar Khayyam is a household name today, his legacy is much indebted to the brilliance of his best known translator – Edward Fitzgerald. The following variants of the opening stanzas of the Rubaiyat amply demonstrate that Fitzgerald’s effort was more an adaptation than a translation:

From the First Edition
"Awake, for Morning in the Bowl of Night
Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight:
And Lo! the Hunter of the East has caught
The Sultan's Turret in a Noose of Light.

Dreaming when Dawn's Left Hand was in the Sky
I heard a Voice within the Tavern cry,
"Awake, my Little ones, and fill the Cup
Before Life's Liquor in its Cup be dry."

From the Fifth Edition
WAKE! For the Sun, who scatter'd into flight
The Stars before him from the Field of Night,
Drives Night along with them from Heav'n, and strikes
The Sultan's Turret with a Shaft of Light.

Before the phantom of False morning died,
Methought a Voice within the Tavern cried,
When all the Temple is prepared within,
Why nods the drowsy Worshiper outside?

Echoes of History
Any commonality of historical circumstances suggested by Fizgerald’s remarkably sensitive interpretation of Khayyam, seems belied by the remoteness of the British Empire, at the peak of its ever-shining glory, from the dismal rubble of post-Sassanid Persia. But the apparent differences overlook the suffocating similarity of their social environments – Shiraz’s vineyards were wrung dry by Islamic fanatics in much the same manner as Puritans and Calvinists throttled Victorian England.

It was perhaps a desire to break free from the corsets of 19th Century England that drew Fitzgerald to a work as heretical as Khayyam’s - one, that would surely have aroused as much indignation in the medieval Islamic world as Darwin’s postulations did in turn-of-the-century Europe, had it only been more widely known.

Philosophical Debt
It is difficult to ascertain how much of the metaphorical brilliance of the Rubaiyat would survive, stripped of Fitzgerald's translation although the exotic oriental flavor of his lyricism suggests that a good part of it might. But as regards the power of Khayyam’s ideas and the keenness of his philosophical inquiry, there is no room for any such doubt. Khayyam joins a gaggle of renegade philosophers from both the Eastern and the Western traditions, in particular the Epicureans and the Samkhyas, in divining the underpinnings of modern western society - materialism and rational secularism. He makes no bones of his contempt for the comforting teleological platitudes of the Semitic religions:

Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss'd
Of the Two Worlds so learnedly, are thrust
Like foolish Prophets forth; their Words to Scorn
Are scatter'd, and their Mouths are stopt with Dust.

Khayyam’s erudition in scientific disciplines, astronomy in particular, leads to a more reverential tone when he contemplates the value of knowledge but, in the end, it does not offer him any more solace than religion:

Myself when young did eagerly frequent
Doctor and Saint, and heard great Argument
About it and about: but evermore
Came out by the same Door as in I went.

With them the Seed of Wisdom did I sow,
And with my own hand labour'd it to grow:
And this was all the Harvest that I reap'd-
"I came like Water, and like Wind I go."

Degrees of Disbelief
Questioning existence and mortality can hardly be described as a novel poetic theme, even in the 11th Century. But what does stand out in the Rubaiyat is the stridence of its tirade against God and spirituality coming as it did, at a time of unyielding religious orthodoxy. It is worth comparing Khayyam with two prominent examples of skepticism from classical English poetry, both from around the Elizabethan era.

Shakespeare’s views on God have been subjected to many literary debates but the matter would appear to be settled by one of his most famous speeches:

To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause...

And continuing further along Hamlet’s soliloquy:

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
…When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?

If Shakespeare’s agnosticism comes across as terrified and ingenuous, Milton’s cynicism is subdued, going no further than a jibe at the received wisdom of his religion, with his thinly-veiled deification of Satan in Paradise Lost:

Let us not then pursue
By force impossible, by leave obtain'd
Unacceptable, though in Heav'n, our state
Of splendid vassalage, but rather seek
Our own good from our selves, and from our own
Live to our selves, though in this vast recess,
Free, and to none accountable, preferring
Hard liberty before the easie yoke
Of servile Pomp.

Words, not entirely incompatible with present-day ideas of liberty and democracy! Satan’s only vice, until Milton’s survival instincts cause him to blacken his protagonist’s character, is that his aspirations lie outside the domain of his powers. But even though his insubordination invites Heaven's deadly retribution, the Devil is poignant in remorse:

O Sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams
That bring to my remembrance from what state
I fell, how glorious once above thy Spheare;
Till Pride and worse Ambition threw me down
Warring in Heav'n against Heav'ns matchless King:
Ah wherefore! he deservd no such return
From me, whom he created what I was
In that bright eminence, and with his good
Upbraided none; nor was his service hard.

Milton’s God, on the other hand is cold, distant and autocratic - cruel to the rebellious Serpent and intolerant of Eve’s fickleness but obliging, so long as His Will is honored.

Caustic Brew
Khayyam is even less charitable. His universe has a mechanistic certainty, a perpetual motion machine flagged off by a God who’s is omniscient:

And He that toss'd Thee down into the Field,
He knows about it all--HE knows---HE knows!

But not omnipotent:

And that inverted Bowl we call The Sky,
Whereunder crawling coop't we live and die,
Lift not thy hands to It for help--for it
Rolls impotently on as Thou or I.

Even more scandalous is his questioning of God’s intent in plotting mankind’s destiny, brought out in a beautiful allegory that is introduced in the following stanza:

For in the Market-place, one Dusk of Day,
I watch'd the Potter thumping his wet Clay:
And with its all obliterated Tongue
It murmur'd--"Gently, Brother, gently, pray !"

Expanding on the idea in a conversation among clay pots subsequently in the poem, Khayyam delivers his damning verdict on God’s malicious errors of commission:

Then said another--"Surely not in vain
"My Substance from the common Earth was ta'en,
"That He who subtly wrought me into Shape
"Should stamp me back to common Earth again."

Another said--"Why, ne'er a peevish Boy,
"Would break the Bowl from which he drank in Joy;
"Shall He that made the Vessel in pure Love
"And Fansy, in an after Rage destroy?

None answer'd this; but after Silence spake
A Vessel of a more ungainly Make:
"They sneer at me for leaning all awry;
"What! did the Hand then of the Potter shake!"

The pent up frustration seeps out slowly at first, in a resigned acceptance of the inevitable:

While the Rose blows along the River Brink,
With old Khayyám the Ruby Vintage drink:
And when the Angel with his darker Draught
Draws up to Thee--take that, and do not shrink.

But eventually explodes in a defiant crescendo of rage:

Oh, Thou, who didst with Pitfall and with Gin
Beset the Road I was to wander in,
Thou wilt not with Predestination round
Enmesh me, and impute my Fall to Sin?

Oh, Thou, who Man of baser Earth didst make,
And who with Eden didst devise the Snake:
For all the Sin wherewith the Face of Man
IS blacken'd, Man's Forgiveness give--and take!

Incidentally, the reference to Satan is not corroborated by the original, leaving the reader to wonder once again, whether the fulmination is attributable to a scientific temper outraged by Islamic dogmatism or to a reluctant Calvinist indulging forbidden passions under the cloak of a translation.

Or, as is likely to be the case, a potent mixture of both.

Elegy on the Men in Blue

On soaring hopes our heroes flew
To the Caribbean shore, of glorious hue.
Anon they landed, with a gleam in their eyes.
Bestrode the earth and reached for the skies
In their cerulean suits – the magnificent Men in Blue!

Our stars were men of many talents -
Crooned and pranced in countless advertisements.
But what about the hook, and the chinaman?
Oh yes, that too! Once the shot is in the can,
And their mugs festooned, on flosses red and shampoos blue.

“We’ll knock the wind off the Windies’ sails,
And slice the Kangaroos’ swaggering tails.
The Springboks are hobbling, their stride flounders,
The Kiwis? They’re just here to make up the numbers”,
Drawled Dravid and his merry retinue – “we’ll beat ‘em black and blue”!

The Bengal tiger in the campaign opener,
Struggled to a fifty with sweat and labor.
But his neighbors, across in the east
Lampooned his effort with nonchalant ease.
And through the depressed dressing room, a dolorous breeze blew.

A chafed Chapell summoned a conference
In a belated effort to bolster confidence.
“Not to worry”! said he, “it was but a hiccup.
Just a little stumble on our march to the Cup.”
From his sermon with zeal renewed, emerged the Boys in Blue.

But their restored vigour notwithstanding
Their batting and bowling were both found wanting
When the Lankan lions roared to present,
To a billion bleary eyes, their darkest moment,
And to the humbled babes, birthday suits, to replace the tarnished blue.

Beyond Belief

The 20th century witnessed the emergence of tourism as an industry. It also effectively killed the traveler. The Marco Polos, Ibn Batutas and Hieun Tsangs whose serpentine caravans slithered through the darkest corners of the soul – the brigands around the corner, the snows plotting an avalanche, the wild stripes of the tiger, the last drop of water - have sired a legacy of winding queues at check-in counters where the only niggling uncertainties concern delayed flights and the availability of aisle seats. A million vacations roll by every year, on the red carpets of air-conditioned transfers and luxury suites, unsullied by the touch of the earth; too stoned from adrenalin trips - bungee-jumps and para-glides - to be able to smell the heady fragrance of the wet soil - drenched by tears of joy and sorrow pouring forth from the clouded layers of history…

Sir Vidia, with his acid tongue and boundless cynicism, doesn’t exactly answer to the description of a seeker. But notwithstanding his conservative tweed jacket and the rakish pipe sticking out of his mouth, he comes close to discovering what has eluded generations of loin-clothed Hare Krishnas and hippies, hoping for a hashish-enabled enlightenment on the banks of the Ganges – the spirit of a land.

Beyond Belief is a continuation of Naipaul’s travels in Islamic countries, a journey that began in 1981 with “Among the Believers”. The focus of the sequel, published in 1999, is on “excursions among the converted people” – or civilizations that have found themselves eroded, and partially erased, by the Arabism that, in the opinion of the author, comes ineluctably bundled with Islam. The cultures that come under the scanner as a result of this purported assault include Persia, Pakistan and the East Indies.

Naipaul’s investigation principally relies on an oft-mentioned diary that weaves together countless strands of random thought, patiently drawn out by the author from minds that do not always share his enthusiasm for clarity, detail and honesty. His language is decidedly more sophisticated than his deductive technique but the frequency of phrases like “The moment had passed” betrays the author’s preference for concentrating his attentions on the complexity of his subject rather than on demonstrations of literary prowess. The grounded-ness is also reflected in the nature of his inquiries – the hard evidence of history, politics and economics is brought to bear upon any inclination towards mystical flights of fancy. Conclusions are gleaned from the grime on the worker’s face, the furrows on the farmer’s brow and the blood in the soldier’s eyes. These islanded tales of humdrum contentment, frustrated indifference and cataclysmic devastation are fused, brilliantly, to shape magnificent continents – alive with rivers of blood streaming down the ages, forbidding forests of fear and horror, deserts of unrealized aspirations and towering mountains of hope.

One is unable to agree with Naipaul’s central thesis. It is difficult to argue, for instance, that Islam transformed Malaysia or Indonesia any more than the waves of Hinduism and Buddhism had done previously. Indeed, while traces of pre-Islamic culture are more than evident in these countries, none whatsoever remains of anything that might have preceded the Indic religions. The conflicts and contradictions that the author rants about are at best an illustration of a general principle that the psyche of a subjected culture inevitably suffers from a schizophrenic fracture, often resulting in a dichotomous ambivalence towards the past. This is no less true of Aryan India or Western Christendom than of Islamic Persia or Pakistan.

However, while Naipaul’s conclusions appear colored by his well-documented prejudices, they leave untouched, his extraordinarily perspicacious insights into the tormented, confounded civilizations he examines. No painstakingly filmed documentary, no detailed travelogue, no exhibition of photographs, not even an actual visit can match the unforgiving clarity of the mirror he holds up to his subjects’ souls.

The traveler has been rescued from extinction.

Sonnet

Dedicated to the master of the form, Sir W. And to a recent memory.

Thinking about Love

It strikes deep but with muted pain
Until, evulsed, it leaves the savaged heart,
Disemboweled of wisdom and possessed again,
By a reckless lust for its lethal shaft.

Secured, it invites the attentions of reason -
Burrowing in vain, through its endless tunnel.
But when it rumbles, weary of the investigation,
Muddy and muddled emerges, reason’s shovel.

Memories strung across its tortuous train,
Sparkle with pearls of laughter and ecstasy.
And others of lustre ordinary, fester in pain.
Bitter, but milder by far, than derailed love’s agony.

Foolish is prudence for damming its torrents, unaware
Of the flood waiting, for the levee to burst in despair.

Version 1.1

New. Hopefully, improved...

Thinking about Love

It strikes deep, but stifles its sting
Until expelled by the apostate heart
And conceited wisdom, in concert inviting,
The bloody vengeance of the uprooted shaft.

Secured, it attracts, the attentions of reason -
Burrowing in vain, through its endless tunnel.
But when it rumbles, weary of the investigation,
Muddy and muddled emerges, reason’s shovel.

Memories strung across its tortuous train,
Sparkle with pearls of laughter and ecstasy.
And others of lustre ordinary, fester in pain.
Bitter, but gentler by far, than derailed love’s agony.

Foolish is prudence for damming its torrents, unaware
Of the flood waiting, for the levee to burst in despair.

Plunging In

Testing the Waters
Che went in first, slicing through the aquamarine waters with a taut, streamlined elegance. A stark contrast with the knots in my stomach - and in my brow, weighed down by 15 kilos of diving equipment…and the dark dread of unfathomable depths…
BCD? Check
Weights? Check.
Releases? Check.
Air? Check.
Final OK?….uhhhh… Lubricated by the terror oozing out of my pores, I sidled down the side of my boat with all the grace of a collapsing iceberg. The sea lapped me up hungrily and flipped me over a few times, forcing me into an abject, umbilical posture of submission.
I suppose my unconditional capitulation was accepted – sanity eventually surfaced and I found myself floating, none the worse for wear, in the middle of the Sulu Sea. A silent prayer of gratitude was sent up to the genius behind such brilliant mnemonics as “British Women Really Are Fun” and “Bruce Willis Ruins All Films”, standing for Buoyancy Control Device (BCD), Weights, Releases, Air and Final OK – PADI’s 5 point pre-dive checklist.

Surfing to Sipadan
The Professional Association of Diving Instructors or PADI is the biggest name in recreational diving, and runs a huge network dive shops around the world. PADI’s Open Water Dive program, lasting between 3 and 5 days, is the most popular launching pad for adventures in diving and seemed to be just the thing for my upcoming vacation. After days of surfing through the infinite list of options on PADI’s website, I found myself heading for Sipadan, a tiny island off the coast of Sabah in Malaysian Borneo that claimed to offer among the finest diving in Asia.

Divers are not allowed to stay overnight in Sipadan and must base themselves either at one of the surrounding islands or at Semporna on mainland Sabah. Semporna, presumably a corruption of the Sanskrit word “Sampurna”, is a bustling fishing town that moonlights as a somewhat reluctant host to the flock of dive-pilgrims and sun-worshippers that homes in every tourist season. A sultry air hangs hot and heavy over its eternal summer, prodded unhurriedly along by the muezzin’s lackadaisical calls and the daily hullabaloo at the fish-market. The Semporna Mosque, an unremarkable structure shouldering a gaudy gold dome, is the town’s sole tourist attraction and the focal point of rows of stilted hamlets that reach out, in search of a livelihood, towards the bountiful sea.

Padding Up
Semporna’s paucity of talking points was probably just as well given the sweat and toil that PADI had in store for me. My welcome drink was inconsiderately substituted by the fat, intimidating tome that was PADI’s course material. I labored through its dreary pages with a long face, eliciting a welcome suggestion that I try the video instead. A troupe of bulging biceps and surfboard stomachs bounded onto the screen, proceeding to tackle a series of potential catastrophes with unflappable smugness…But one of the divers falls apart from his group, his oxygen running out quickly. The currents are getting insistent now, tugging hard at his tired limbs…and the blue deep eventually drags its hapless prey into an infinite, timeless void….

Che broke into my unsanctioned siesta with a sheet full of bathymetric brainteasers…I wasn’t quite prepared for a MENSA test on a diving vacation but did my best to navigate the maze of tables and charts he’d spread around me…It was to take him many exasperating hours before my torpid intellect could meaningfully respond to PADI’s daunting challenge.
Che is a cheerful South African backpacker who’s drifted in from the cold currents around Cape Town to join the many footloose souls engaged in an extended diving orgy at Scuba Junkie, one of Semporna’s leading dive operators. The atmosphere at the dive shop is a very social one, with a Babel of tongues and accents, cut loose by a sparkling array of spirits, transporting the little shack into a dreamy, techno trance, many worlds away from sleepy Semporna…

I went into my underwater training session the next day, tormented by a ringing headache. The key to effortless scuba diving is “neutral buoyancy”, jargon for being able to pivot up and down on one’s fins using only the breath to control movement. It looked straightforward enough when Che demonstrated his see-saw act, hands clasped across the chest, pulling back into a clock-wise direction inches before hitting the sea-bed…but my performance turned out to be rather more spectacular – a deep breath would send me shooting towards the surface and if I exhaled in an attempt to tame my flailing flight, I’d be dispatched in the opposite direction, like a punctured balloon, to a thorny reception of sea urchins. Che drank deep from his bottomless well of patience to impose some restraint on my ungainly underwater acrobatics although I never quite managed to replicate his perfect pendulum-like swing. In the end, however, my little routine was deemed worthy of PADI’s approval and I wasn’t going to fret about the elegance with which the result was achieved.

Atlantis
My newly procured certificate was duly invoked to book myself on the next available voyage to Sipadan. I headed out to the island with the languid sun, ushered in by a balmy breeze, settling heavily on my eyelids. The serene, turquoise waters seemed to rise oddly, in thin reedy stands fanning out into a darker green…Just as I began assessing the state of my consciousness, Che bombed into the sea, working up a wall of water that crashed down on me in a wet and salty assurance of reality - Sipadan’s shaggy mop of coconut trees peeped out of the horizon - it was time to gear up. British Women/Bruce Willis – take your pick…I’d never been very fond of Bruce Willis.
We went down on our amphibious quest, holding our BCD hoses above our heads in a reverential salute to our irascible host, earning ourselves a soft landing on its alien soil. My anxieties dissolved rapidly, in an ocean of stupefied wonder…in the celestial shoals of color that flitted past, darted across, hovered above, lurked beneath…in that hallucinatory expanse of refracted light and refractory senses...
The dive-masters would diligently rattle their oxygen tanks upon every manifestation of the Lord’s liquid imagination - the Lion Fish and his iridescent mane, smoldering inside a marine cave; Eagle Rays striking out of their sandy bed; Reef Sharks dozing on the sea bed, utterly unmindful of the damage to their reputation; Green Turtles ambling up with an outstretched paw…All too soon, however, the pressure gauge signaled the need to ascend. We went up to a depth of 5 metres for the mandatory “safety stop”, recommended for a number of good reasons, one of which is to prevent the lungs from bursting into smithereens as they expand during the ascent!
We hovered there, in suspended animation, beneath a gently shimmering veil that enmeshed the twisted angles of the sun when a rude fish tore into the tranquil fabric with a quick exploratory circle. Satisfied with his reconnaissance, he waved in his waiting comrades, thousands and thousands of them, to form a frenzied, black whorl around us, spinning my benumbed, disbelieving senses into a dizzy climax.

Unremarkable
Barracudas, Che tells me when are back on the boat – the explanation doing nothing to alleviate my delirious ecstasy. We chatter on, towards the Semporna shore. Its unremarkable mosque and unremarkable stilt villages gradually emerge from the setting sun. As does the unremarkable fish market, housing the stinking, bloody piles of the day’s catch…from that, oh-so-remarkable world, a few feet below…

FACTFILE
PADI Dive Certification can be obtained from hundreds of Dive Centres across the world including several sites in India and South East Asia. Check out http://www.padi.com/. Expect to pay about USD3-400 for the course including equipment. Shorter introductory diving courses are also available.

You should be able to swim continuously for 200 metres and float for 10 minutes in order to get a PADI Open Water License – no other prior experience or knowledge is necessary.
Scuba Junkie (www.scuba-junkie.com) and North Borneo Dive and Sea Sports (www.northborneo.net) are the two main dive operators in Semporna. Dives to Sipadan can also be booked through several dive operators in Kota Kinabalu. Visit www.sabahtourism.com

Semporna can be reached via Tawau which has connections to Kuala Lumpur and Kota Kinabalu. Tickets can be booked online through an international credit card at http://www.airasia.com/ or www.malaysiaairlines.com.

Staying on the islands around Sipadan (such as Mabul - http://www.sipadan-mabul.com.my/ ) offers a luxurious but expensive alternative to staying at Semporna. Accommodation options in Semporna include the Dragon Inn, built on stilts (50 – 100 USD per night) or in the dorms at Scuba Junkie.

Vegetarians will not go hungry but do not expect anything other than very basic rice and noodles. Make sure your dive operator knows about your dietary restrictions, if any.

Permits for Sipadan need to be booked at least a month in advance. Any licensed PADI dive operator in Semporna or Kota Kinabalu should be able to get it for you.

Ideally at least 24 hours should be allowed before flying out after a PADI course. Talk to your dive operator before planning your trip.

The operators mentioned above are reliable but Malaysia is gaining a reputation for credit card frauds. Talk to your bank for advice on suitable precautions.

Visa on arrival is now available to Indians – check with your travel agent for details.

Arar Asaippadar

After weeks of rushing from one Sabha to the next last December, the opportunity to watch a film on Sanjay Subrahmanyan, Carnatic Music's reigning prince, offered a diversion that was not altogether dissonant with the melodious gales of Margazhi sweeping across Chennai. There’s some reason to question the choice of the subject, given the number of masters, past and present, whose legacies languish undocumented...But the persona of Sanjay Subrahmanyam turns out to be a remarkably effective portraiture of the intensity of Carnatic music.

The documentary commences, very appropriately, with the Kalyani Ata Tala varnam and winds its way through a number of musical journeys before concluding with the song that gives the film its title. Prasanna Ramaswamy’s gift for visual metaphor is breathtaking, - a Begada alaapana tumbles down a frenzied maze of streetlights whereas Husseini floats gently along the backwaters of Kerala. In one of the film’s most striking moments, the clamorous crescendo of Kapaleeshwarar’s nightly “Urgolam” is abruptly muted to allow the gentle strains of Papanasam Sivan’s “Kapali” in Mohanam to waft in – the chaos of darkness yielding to the tranquility of dawn….

With due respect to the director’s talents, however, it is the fiery passion of its protagonist that is the film’s sheet anchor …from the doting father reading out excerpts from “Inspector Gopalan” on the bedside to the wild-eyed, hysterical gayaka, possessed by the raga rasa of Shanmukhapriya, Sanjay is a showman to the core - programmed to perform, designed for the stage. I suspect there’s a good career awaiting him somewhere in the vicinity of Kodambakkam if he chooses to prematurely terminate his association with music!

There are some gripes, of course – the director has a tendency to arbitrarily expand the canvas, probably with an eye on her primarily western audience who will no doubt lap up the dizzying exotica peppered generously over her oeuvre. For instance, one can understand the connection with Nagaswaram, given Sanjay’s (very successful) attempts to experiment with that bani, but the extended dance sequences seem somewhat contrived. Indeed, the film’s sub-consciousness veers more towards Tamil culture rather than Carnatic Music - not a single composition of the trinity that I noticed, in close to 90 minutes overflowing with music! If that was an accident, it was an unhappy one.

Some of the set-pieces also seem highly affected – the first is a conversation between the former editors of sangeetham.com, Sanjay and Sriram, about their soon-to-be-doomed website! In another shot, Nagai Muralitharan and Guruvayoor Dorai ham on endlessly about Sanjay’s vidwat…neither of these need have been spared the editor’s scissor…

Despite the complaints, this is the most evocative cinematic coverage of the performing arts I’ve seen since “Farewell My Concubine” Kaige Chen’s lyrical ode to Chinese opera. Even if you’re not into movies, the awesome alaapana of Shanmukhapriya alone, would be well worth your money.

A DVD will hopefully be out shortly and should set off Sanjay's many fans on a mad scramble for a copy.

A Capital Idea

The Indian Prime Minister, Mr. Manmohan Singh, recently revived one of the early casualties of India’s bumpy road towards a more efficient economy – full convertibility of the Rupee on the capital account. India’s original roadmap for convertibility, drawn up by Mr. S. S Tarapore, then the Deputy Governor of the Reserve Bank of India (RBI), is believed to be one of the most comprehensive, and most ill-timed, reports on the subject - Mr. Tarapore’s ambitious plans for India’s currency laws were prematurely swept away by the currency typhoon that hit Asian Markets in July 1997, less than a month after his recommendations were made public.
Mr. Singh, himself a former Governor of the RBI, hinted at the possibility of capital account convertibility while releasing a voluminous historical account of his ex-employer. The occasion could not have been more appropriate given that the Prime Minister’s musings could well mark a new chapter in the bank’s history.

Capitalizing on convertibility
The posited arguments for capital account liberalization, primarily greater efficiency of capital allocation and the imposition of macroeconomic discipline, are well documented although the lack of supporting empirical evidence provides ample grist for the skeptic’s mill. However, the validity of theoretical arguments would not concern the RBI as much the very real, and rapidly increasing, stock of foreign exchange it is confronted with. The mounting pile of currency, largely attributable to the RBI-managed “dirty float” of the Rupee, is now beginning to raise a stink among policy mavens who feel that the central bank’s continual interventions to suppress the currency’s upward mobility severely limits the bank’s monetary policy options. The renewed enthusiasm for convertibility is also partly the result of the growing global ambitions of corporate India, which is no longer satisfied with the meager, and often discretionary, concessions offered by what is seen as a restrictive currency regime. Things seem to have come a full circle from the early days of liberalization when the Bombay Club, an informal interest group of leading Indian business houses, lobbied hard, but without success, to stall the fledgling reforms process.
While the Asian Currency Crisis put paid to hopes of an early transition to a liberalized capital account, the government has been slowly steering the economy towards greater openness ever since. Current account restrictions were among the first to go - most transactions on the trade account no longer require government approval. Foreign Direct Investments (FDI) have been liberalized in all but a few “sensitive” sectors, as have the more volatile portfolio investments, now a force to reckon with on Indian bourses. However, while the capital account transactions of external entities are largely free from control, the RBI has been somewhat reluctant to accommodate the desire of Indian residents and corporates to access global markets. The government’s cautious dismantling of investment and borrowing restrictions on corporates has prodded the External Commercial Borrowings (ECB) limit upwards to 500 Million USD and that of foreign investments to 100% of net worth. Individuals must, however, remain content with a rather modest allowance of 25000 US Dollars per annum. Although exemptions from these norms are possible on a “case to case basis”, the numbers would seem to be out-of-sync with the rising wealth, and ambition, of Indians and their business interests.
The key outstanding items of the currency liberalization agenda include enabling a free float of the Rupee, addressing the short term overseas borrowing and investment requirements of Indian corporates and substantially increasing, if not completely eliminating, the overall limits governing access to foreign capital. Mutual Funds, meanwhile, expect that reforms will allow them to look beyond the country’s shores in their search for better investor returns.

Beyond dilemmas
Economic reforms in India, even eminently sensible ones, have struggled to cope with the country’s chaotic, agenda-ridden, and often ill-informed, political process. Seeing through a proposal with as contentious a claim to promoting economic welfare as capital account convertibility would require a satisfactory explanation of concerns on several fronts. The standard argument against currency liberalization is, of course, the experience of South East Asian countries in 1997. Empirical evidence against permitting free capital flows is further bolstered by a World Bank survey of 27 instances of capital inflow surges between 1976 and 1996 in 21 emerging markets – the study found that, in close to two-thirds of the cases, the inflows were followed by a banking crisis, a currency crisis or both. This apparent lack of compatibility between economic stability and freedom of capital movement is believed to result as much from the intrinsic inadequacies of emerging economies (in particular, shallow and non-transparent capital markets, unhealthy banking systems and fiscal laxity) as from sequencing issues such as, for example, the order in which the capital and current accounts are liberalized.
Of more relevance to India, which is largely free of the sort of crony capitalism that plagues South East Asian economies, is the impact of the proposed measures on monetary policy, the exchange rate and exports. A theoretical framework for analyzing the issue is provided by the so-called “Macroeconomic Trilemma” which contends that, of the three objectives of capital account convertibility, a fixed exchange rate and an effective monetary policy, no more than two can be achieved simultaneously. With controls on foreign investment already dismantled, the RBI’s attempt to pin down the Rupee, therefore, comes at the expense of a huge, unproductive reserve of foreign currency which, in turn, is believed to constrain monetary policy. On the other hand, letting go of the Rupee could result in impairing the competitiveness of exports including, in particular, the critical IT Services industry. This cautionary implication for liberalization is compounded by other limiting factors such as the questionable ability of India’s NPL-afflicted banks to cope with the rigors of the international financial system, the potentially inflationary effects of development spending under a free float scenario and finally, the widely feared, yet rather distant, prospect of a South East Asia style currency shock.
With many risks and few obvious benefits, argue some observers, capital account convertibility is neither essential nor desirable. The Indian Left parties, on whose support, the survival of the present government depends, lost no time in expressing their disagreement with the Prime Minister’s opinion which, they felt, was “dictated by (the) World Bank and corporates” and therefore “disastrous”.

Better luck next time
Doomsday prophecies notwithstanding, the ever-increasing stock of foreign currency is a real problem as is the need of Indian corporates for greater access to capital. With investor confidence continuing to soar on the back of rapid economic growth and improving government finances, chances of a large-scale capital flight in the foreseeable future appear remote. In any event, it is hard to see how convertibility would significantly add to the possibility of an investment exodus given that the usual suspect for such events – portfolio investment – is already a well-entrenched feature of the economy.
Free float of the Rupee would, however, pose a more immediate problem. An appreciation of the Rupee, as is widely expected to result from such an action, has the potential to pull the plug on India’s booming exports. The impact would be particularly severe on sectors such as IT services which, thanks to their negligible import requirements, have little use for a cheaper Rupee. Further, with inflation well under control, the need for an interventionist monetary policy in the short to medium term is not very evident. In short, while full convertibility is clearly in the interest of the economy, free float of the Rupee is a bit of a mixed bag. To complicate matters further, although free convertibility in the absence of a market determined exchange rate is theoretically possible, such a move has historically proven to be the perfect recipe for economic disaster.
As with most reforms initiatives in India, it is unlikely that anything will happen in a hurry. The RBI, for its part, was quick to set up a committee to revisit the issue under the stewardship of the same gentleman responsible for the production of the original report. Mr. Tarapore plans to come out with his findings by the end of July and would no doubt be hoping for a better hand from fate this time.

The Temptress

It is not the highest India’s Indian peak – not unless one imposes the rather stringent condition of requiring the recipient of that honor to be “located entirely within the country’s borders”…but Nanda Devi is arguably the most beautiful, and almost certainly the most enigmatic, of India’s many mighty mountains. The Devi’s shadow, cast from an imperious height of 7815 metres, spares few villages in the surrounding districts of Kumaon and Garhwal from its infamous caprices.
As with almost every Indian geographical feature of significance, the Devi has been assimilated into the endless pantheon of Hindu Gods and Goddesses – the locals revere the mountain as a manifestation of Shiva’s Consort, Parvati whose return to her native Garhwal, once every twelve years, sets the stage for the Nanda Raj Jat, an event that rivals the Mahakumbh in its significance for the region. The Jat begins from the village of Nauti and tests the faith of the Jatris with a treacherous 22-day march until the heart-rending formalities of parting are completed in the splendid isolation of the 22,000 feet high mountain pond of Homkund. The extreme emotions and physical rigors associated with the Jat is just one of the examples of the curious mixture of love and reverence with which the locals regard the shapely cone of ice that lords over their destiny.

Lacking the hardiness and resolve of the Garhwalis but as ardently desirous of the Devi’s blessings, I opt for the easier week-long hike from Ghat near Nandprayag to the emerging ski resort of Auli via the Kuari Pass. The route is known as the “Curzon Trail” following a glorious tradition of Himalayan misnomers that goes back all the way to Sir George Everest - Lord Curzon and his serpentine retinue were forced to jettison their hopes of crossing the Pass thanks to an unfriendly reception from a swarm of bees! His Lordship was, however, quite successful in breaking enough Garhwali backs to pave a surprisingly well-preserved trail all the way to the pass.

The trek begins with some hard hiking through rugged forested slopes but the Devi is not remiss in doing her bit to alleviate her devotees’ physical travails - lusty mountain streams, diaphanous waterfalls, lissome peaks, virgin woods, and bounteous maize-fields pass by in a pageant of visual delights that charm the senses into transcending pain…But these titillations are no more than feeble distractions dogging the pursuit of the more pristine beauty that lies beyond the Pass – the Devi’s Grace, shielded by the outstretched flanks of her gargantuan sentinels…

….The handsome triple-mount of Trishul (7120 metres) keeps a watchful vigil for most of the 4 days that it takes to clamber up to the Pass. At its foot lies the lake of Roopkund, the hideous contents of which have made significant contributions to the fascinating repertoire of Himayalan folklore - scattered around the lake and bizarrely complementing its snowy-white fringes, are a few hundred human skeletons! This icy morgue was until recently attributed to the Devi’s fury descending on the Dogri General, Zorawar Singh’s rapacious army. However, the remains have since been proven to have resulted from a Raj Jat Party losing its way while traversing the treacherous route to Homkund. Curiously, an anthropological analysis of the skulls revealed that the party was most probably a group of Konkanashta Brahmins from Maharashtra!

Another recent example of the mountain’s bloody appetite is the poignant tale of Nanda Devi Unsoeld. Willi Unsoeld, her mountaineer-father had named her for a peak he had fallen in love with as a young man. Nurtured on a daily diet of the mountain’s glory, it is not hard to understand Nanda Devi’s desire to meet her namesake. But her wish was granted rather too literally – she died from cold and exhaustion in her father’s arms, at the foot of the mountain. It is hard to resist the sentimentality of concluding, as the locals did, that Goddess was, after all, only reclaiming her own….

Mercifully, I had no such claims on the Devi’s affections…The trek from the camp at the foot of the Kuari Pass turns out to be a straightforward one - an hour’s hike with no more than a hint of oxygen-deprivation leads to a saddle-top which, in terms of effort-to-reward, must rank as one of the best bargains in the Himalayas! Although the Devi herself has yet to make her entry, a phalanx of white knights, led by the imperious façade of Dunagiri (7066 metres), stands guard over the northern and western horizons. My impatience for the Devi’s darshan urges me on to the 5000 metre high spur of Pangerchuli but she is in no mood to grant me an audience just yet – the veil drops, followed by a tempestuous fit …The mountain’s sanguine history weighs too heavily on my mind for me to even think of testing her will any further – the rendezvous will have to be on her terms.

She relents eventually at Chitrakanta, the last camp before Auli, just minutes after the Sun releases her from his passionate embrace…but her next suitor is already around the corner and as the sky slips into an inky drape, the Devi succumbs to the silvery luster of her night-watchman. The ethereal sight of this celestial union sends the mind on a strange journey to the other end of the sub-continent – to the green rice-fields and majestic gopurams of Tanjore, where one of the Goddess’ staunchest devotees lavished his unbounded love on what must be the most cherished of her followers’ countless tributes. It is unlikely that Syama Sastri ever visited Uttaranchal but his faith must have opened up splendorous vistas, of which my unseeing eyes absorb but a fraction. How else does one explain the uncanny appropriateness of his musical masterpiece in describing the glory of this vision whereas my own labored words flounder hopelessly, utterly unequal to the task?

“Saroja Dala Netri Himagiriputri Ni Padambujamule”
(Fold me into your Lotus Feet, O Lotus-eyes One, Daughter of the Snows)

My benediction is complete and gives my watery knees, the strength to take on the grueling descent to the grassy alpine meadows surrounding Auli. Whenever they do groan a little, all I need to do is turn around and bask in the Devi’s mischievous, yet indulgent smile…and I know I would gladly suffer another million painful steps for that beautiful sight…

The Wailing Woods

The intrepid explorer is something of an endangered species – there’s been enough digging and poking, seafaring and mountaineering, over the last few centuries to render wannabe Columbuses and Cooks about as relevant as their astrolabes. But even to the jaded traveler, sick to his stomach from feasting on wildebeest lunches at the Serengeti, the mention of Borneo, and the attendant vividness of Conradian imagery, is enough reason to pull out some of those old Bartholomews and Langenscheits from the clutches of dust and disuse….

Hemmed in by a cirque of islands - Sumatra and Java to the west and south, and the chaotic mess of the Celebes and the Filipino archipelagoes to the east – this cloistered Eden was used to a certain indulgence from Father Time…but even that Gentleman’s considerable influence could do little to shield the island’s chastity from the ravenous tides of commerce that swept across 17th century Asia. As the colonial powers lavished the Orient with all the craft they could muster, the fate of the East Indies hung on the outcome of an unholy barter between the two dominant powers in the region – the English and the Dutch. The exchange proved somewhat ambiguous in its implications for Borneo’s pedigree - with neither side willing to forswear the island’s charms, it was carved to pleasure the appetites of both masters. The Dutch part of this mixed legacy emerged as the Indonesian province of Kalimantan, while the English share made way for the Malaysian states of Sabah and Sarawak.

Hazy Outlook

The traveler’s dreamy vision of a pristine tropical paradise descends to a sobering touch-down at Kota Kinabalu’s bustling airport, which turns out to be substantially better endowed than the desolate landing strips of jungle lore. Sabah’s capital, with its pulsating malls and flashing neon lights, is emblematic of Borneo’s throbbing quest for a communion with the global marketplace, as it yanks itself out of its primeval womb, sawing feverishly on the cords that oppress its flight into the first world….

The impact on Borneo’s precious burden is alarmingly predictable - its handsome stands, relieved of their impregnability by the machinations of technology, struggle in vain against the suffocating grip of concrete creepers and the marauding armies of Caterpillars they support, blighting nature’s viral profusion with the regimented ugliness of palm oil plantations…The statistics are, for once, damningly truthful – the island’s forest cover has been plundered at a rate of 2 Million Hectares per year (half the size of the Netherlands); the proud denizens of this once-pristine domain, including the Orang-utan, the Sumatran Rhino and the Javan Tiger, have been reduced to the abjectness of squealing for mercy from the cardboard cut-outs of conservation campaigners. The oblivion of many lesser life-forms is exceeded only by our own awareness of their existence….

Smoke signals, warning against this scandalous exploitation, emerged, quite literally, from a devastating forest fire in 1997, one of the worst in recent times. As Borneo reeled under the resultant haze - a persistent feature of the island’s meteorology ever since – the authorities finally found the vision to rescue the few remaining feral oases from their impending despoliation. It is in one such measly strip of relatively unmolested forest that I decide to seek solace…

Monkey Business

The Sungai Kinabatangan, drains into the Sulu sea, following a leisurely meander from its origins in the mountains of Western Sabah. About 270 acres of secondary forest along the lower reaches of the river have been set apart by the Malaysian Government in a belated effort to avoid the ignominy of having to write off the country’s most prominent wildlife mascot – the Orang-utan. The ride up the river – in an antediluvian watercraft, salvaged from condemnation by the addition of a strident outboard motor – is not quite the journey into the Heart of Darkness I had come looking for. But while romance is in short supply, the promised wildlife sightings are not – I get my first glimpse of our tree-dwelling host well before I crawl into my hut at Uncle Tan’s marshy campsite. Alas, the preponderance of the giant ape in the area merits only half a cheer, for it is attributable as much to the effectiveness of conservation efforts inside the sanctuary as to habitat-loss elsewhere in the island.

The routine at Uncle Tan’s follows a well-trodden path, paved to perfection by 50 years of ecotourism in “Jungle Camps” around the world – a boat ride at the crack of dawn, a scramble across the jungle to work up the appetite for lunch, a second nautical drill in the evening to see off the sun, a nocturnal stroll to soak in the moonshine and so on...My multi-modal wanderings are frequently punctuated by visitations of the many brutes that pop out of the park’s colorful brochure - the Orang-utan, literally the “Man of the Forest”; the Proboscis Monkey of the pendulous nose and ponderous belly; the more conservatively designed Long-tailed Macaque; Kingfishers, Darters, Herons and a bevy of other feathered friends whose Latin names, chirped in a lilting Malay accent, dredge up dark memories of high school biology! I am unlucky with the rare Sumatran Rhino but considering that mammal’s density in Bornean forests, finding a needle in the proverbial haystack would probably fetch better odds.

Lesser Evil

For the time being, Borneo’s rainforests remain a well-kept secret that offers a great wildlife experience without straining the wallet or the nerves. Rampaging Land Cruisers haven’t checked in yet and 5-star tents are unlikely to be rolled out in a hurry…but the excesses of mass tourism are not of immediate concern to Borneo’s wildlife, given the far stiffer challenges posed by the palm oil and logging industries. Indeed, it is worth considering whether greater tourist interest, despite the unwholesomeness of its collateral baggage, might not command a better valuation for Borneo’s priceless ecological assets than competing claims have so far come up with. The abasement of Borneo’s magnificent forests with the tinsel garb of safari circuses is hardly a heartening prospect…but preferable, nevertheless, to the shame of complete denudation.