(Published in BDNews24 online, November 26, 2010)
Scandal and sensation is part of everyday life anywhere in the world. Like an epidemic, it has occasional flare-ups and then subsides into a subliminal mutter, all set and waiting to erupt once again into a storm that hits headlines in print, on television and over the Internet. Over the past few weeks, an epicenter has been India, a land-building scam vying for public attention with one focusing on the telecommunications industry and many others just waiting for their share of the media spotlight. It is all about high level politics, contacts, licenses, permits and, obviously, a great deal of money. With that quantum of power comes a lot of privilege, many perquisites and even more permissiveness, at least in the local ethos. And all along, though everyone knows, nothing can be proved or used in a court of law. Not so much because it is not useful and useable evidence, but because the process of untangling it all would be too time-consuming, too messy and just too complicated to deal with on a fast-track basis.
Transparency International’s latest ranking of 178 nations by their perceived level of corruption indicated that India had fallen three places, with most Indians being labeled “utterly corrupt”. Congress President Sonia Gandhi recently said that the fast pace of economic growth in India was happening at the cost of a “moral universe” that was “shrinking”. The biggest noise was perhaps made at the Commonwealth Games, which concluded not too long ago in Delhi, and was coloured a darker hue by the taint of corruption in places that should, ideally, have been clean and whitewashed, with no hint of anything that was not above board and honest. And, as the latest nail in the ethical coffin, Ratan Tata, a very respected industrialist with a huge and immensely successful conglomerate to his name, told the story of how he was asked for a bribe by a government official when he was thinking about starting a new domestic airline.
In everyday life too there is a great deal of wheeling and dealing, some of it astonishingly underhanded. There is corruption everywhere, from the parking lot attendant taking a little something to find you a good space ahead of the waiting line of cars to a minor minion at the local municipality office who wants to be “induced” to expedite signatures so that you can buy your new home. We have all faced it and are usually so inured to it that we do not find it strange, let alone dishonest, any more. I am as much part of this cycle of a little bad-tinged good as anyone. When I was just 14 years old I got a driving license that stated that I was 18, just by handing over a surprisingly small amount of money to the official at the local authority office. When I was rather older, living alone in a city that was not mine, Delhi, I was asked blatantly for some money to escape dealing with a court appearance when I took a right turn against the sign, never mind that the sign was nicely hidden in a tangle of leafy branches of an overhanging tree, thus giving me no indication that what I was doing was not allowed. Since then, life has not been all honest either – most recently, we gave a traffic policeman a little pourboire to let us off the offense of jumping an unexpected red light at a crossroads. All in the urgency of getting somewhere to get something done without the wait and accompanying hassle.
The current news focuses on much larger instances of wavering morals. There is no traffic policeman to bribe or government minion to coax into granting favours. Huge amounts of money are involved and people in positions of greater power are part of the scenario. From the Commonwealth Games, where the issue of accountability was clouded by accounts that were fudged on a massive scale, to the Adarsh housing society, where premium apartments were built ostensibly for war windows but bought at extraordinarily low rates to less needy souls, to under-quoting and over-charging bidders for a new-generation telecommunications service, the dirt is flooding into the public domain and the figureheads who were supposed to maintain a code of conduct and the dignity of their post are falling off their self-attained pedestals, fast. And as each scandal is unearthed, rodents who were part of the tangled web woven around it desert the fast-sinking ship, ratting, as it were, on their superiors whose orders they were merely following. Who takes the blame? Who accepts the responsibility? Who pays the price of these shortcuts to a better life for themselves? Who knows!
But life is not all murky in these parts. We do have honest officials, politicians who are not corrupt and a great number of ordinary citizens who will not resort to the easy route to wherever they are going. It all takes a little longer to get there, that is all. If you have the time, honesty is still, after all, the best policy.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Saturday, November 20, 2010
The great divide
(Published in BD News Online, Bangladesh, November 19, 2010)
Once upon a very long time ago God created man and, of course, woman. One school of thought maintains that woman – let’s call her Eve, since that would be more convenient and comprehensible – was formed from a bone from the ribcage of the man – Adam, again for more convenience. A Greek myth says that Pandora, the first woman, was a gift given to men by Zeus to punish them for having received fire, stolen from Prometheus. Zeus – oh, wise man! – commanded the creation of the first woman, a ‘beautiful evil’, destined to give birth to descendants who would torment the race of men. That was, perhaps, one of the last instances of men acting with wisdom and foresight. And it did, just to even out the points, give women the power to deal with men and men the possibilities of telling really bad and chauvinistic jokes.
Be that all as it may, the fact of the matter is that in Asia the woman has to live with a strange balance of power. In many parts of India, for instance, like in some clans in Kerala and certain communities in the northeast, the woman reigns supreme in a society that is still matriarchal and matrilineal. In the bustling commercial capital of Mumbai a tiny proportion of the female population fight battles like the glass ceiling and gender equality, while in the rest of the teeming metropolis, there are bigger wars to face, from everyday and startlingly casual sexual abuse to exploitation, poverty, hygiene, health…name it and the woman must arm herself to conquer it. Driving buses through the crowded streets, steering trains along the maze of the commuter network, working on construction sites, directing films, catering lunch services - today there is little that women do not generally aspire to, frequently struggle towards and usually manage to do better than their male counterparts. There is almost always a male bastion to breach, an age-old barrier to clamber over, with sari, high heels, make up and all. In the process, an aggression builds up, slowly evolving into a core of steel and fire, hiding a tiny kernel of softness and sensitivity.
Mythology that stretches its legends across the world have examples a-plenty of a woman’s life not being an easy one. Consider Draupadi, daughter, princess, wife, warrior, heroine of the Mahabharata. She had to deal with not one husband, but five, all because of a thoughtless command from her mother-in-law to her husband – share your prize with your brothers, said Ma-in-law to Arjun, the prince who had shot the arrow that won the hand of the princess. A literal translation of the command into action gave Draupadi five men to be wife to – some interpretations see it as various aspects or face of the same man. Along the way, the poor woman had to deal with poverty, deprivation, manual labour, humiliation and, as the ultimate insult, sexual abuse, where she was stripped in front of a full court of gawking men. But she won, with a little divine intervention, and is now considered a paragon among women.
And there was Sita, wife of Lord Rama, hero of the Ramayana. She went from being a foundling in a field to being a pampered princess and then the wife of a princeling revered as the Ultimate Man. But there was more to Sita than most people who are told the story as children usually think about. She was taken from a safe, happy, luxurious home with promises of being the queen of a kingdom. And within a short time of being married, she found herself living in a forest, surrounded by wild animals and wilder demons, and then was whisked away by an amorous man with an amazing ten heads to his island in the south. One deadly war later, she found herself back with her husband, all ready to resume life as his queen, at the closing of a full circle of adventure. But a tiny voice – a male one, the ancient texts say – demanded proof of Sita’s virtue and the unfortunate lady had to go through trial by fire, at which point she decided she was fed up of men trying to run her life and walked away to a more bucolic existence with her sons.
And somewhere along the way, a different consciousness stirs…
Women like myself, an admittedly privileged lot who do not need to worry about the next meal, a roof overhead or clothes to wear, have seen their mothers and seniors fight the battle and, for the most part, win. Our paths have already been cleared and made ready for our stiletto heels to tick-tock along. We have decided to focus our energies not on waging that ancient war, but using the hard-won territory to make ourselves more comfortable as we fight newer, more relevant battles, whether to find new territories to conquer or mould those we already own to suit our particular situations. Today we see what is traditionally considered ‘male power’ as a sort of convenience for women – go ahead, guys, tote that luggage because it is too heavy for us, we would rather not get calloused palms; go through that door first because anything nasty out there can get you rather than us; sit on that lone free seat in the train, we do not want our nicely laundered clothes to collect the leftovers of the previous commuter; get that promotion at work, we will fix all the messes you make when we take over and come out smelling of roses. Go ahead, be men. We are happy being who we are: women.
Once upon a very long time ago God created man and, of course, woman. One school of thought maintains that woman – let’s call her Eve, since that would be more convenient and comprehensible – was formed from a bone from the ribcage of the man – Adam, again for more convenience. A Greek myth says that Pandora, the first woman, was a gift given to men by Zeus to punish them for having received fire, stolen from Prometheus. Zeus – oh, wise man! – commanded the creation of the first woman, a ‘beautiful evil’, destined to give birth to descendants who would torment the race of men. That was, perhaps, one of the last instances of men acting with wisdom and foresight. And it did, just to even out the points, give women the power to deal with men and men the possibilities of telling really bad and chauvinistic jokes.
Be that all as it may, the fact of the matter is that in Asia the woman has to live with a strange balance of power. In many parts of India, for instance, like in some clans in Kerala and certain communities in the northeast, the woman reigns supreme in a society that is still matriarchal and matrilineal. In the bustling commercial capital of Mumbai a tiny proportion of the female population fight battles like the glass ceiling and gender equality, while in the rest of the teeming metropolis, there are bigger wars to face, from everyday and startlingly casual sexual abuse to exploitation, poverty, hygiene, health…name it and the woman must arm herself to conquer it. Driving buses through the crowded streets, steering trains along the maze of the commuter network, working on construction sites, directing films, catering lunch services - today there is little that women do not generally aspire to, frequently struggle towards and usually manage to do better than their male counterparts. There is almost always a male bastion to breach, an age-old barrier to clamber over, with sari, high heels, make up and all. In the process, an aggression builds up, slowly evolving into a core of steel and fire, hiding a tiny kernel of softness and sensitivity.
Mythology that stretches its legends across the world have examples a-plenty of a woman’s life not being an easy one. Consider Draupadi, daughter, princess, wife, warrior, heroine of the Mahabharata. She had to deal with not one husband, but five, all because of a thoughtless command from her mother-in-law to her husband – share your prize with your brothers, said Ma-in-law to Arjun, the prince who had shot the arrow that won the hand of the princess. A literal translation of the command into action gave Draupadi five men to be wife to – some interpretations see it as various aspects or face of the same man. Along the way, the poor woman had to deal with poverty, deprivation, manual labour, humiliation and, as the ultimate insult, sexual abuse, where she was stripped in front of a full court of gawking men. But she won, with a little divine intervention, and is now considered a paragon among women.
And there was Sita, wife of Lord Rama, hero of the Ramayana. She went from being a foundling in a field to being a pampered princess and then the wife of a princeling revered as the Ultimate Man. But there was more to Sita than most people who are told the story as children usually think about. She was taken from a safe, happy, luxurious home with promises of being the queen of a kingdom. And within a short time of being married, she found herself living in a forest, surrounded by wild animals and wilder demons, and then was whisked away by an amorous man with an amazing ten heads to his island in the south. One deadly war later, she found herself back with her husband, all ready to resume life as his queen, at the closing of a full circle of adventure. But a tiny voice – a male one, the ancient texts say – demanded proof of Sita’s virtue and the unfortunate lady had to go through trial by fire, at which point she decided she was fed up of men trying to run her life and walked away to a more bucolic existence with her sons.
And somewhere along the way, a different consciousness stirs…
Women like myself, an admittedly privileged lot who do not need to worry about the next meal, a roof overhead or clothes to wear, have seen their mothers and seniors fight the battle and, for the most part, win. Our paths have already been cleared and made ready for our stiletto heels to tick-tock along. We have decided to focus our energies not on waging that ancient war, but using the hard-won territory to make ourselves more comfortable as we fight newer, more relevant battles, whether to find new territories to conquer or mould those we already own to suit our particular situations. Today we see what is traditionally considered ‘male power’ as a sort of convenience for women – go ahead, guys, tote that luggage because it is too heavy for us, we would rather not get calloused palms; go through that door first because anything nasty out there can get you rather than us; sit on that lone free seat in the train, we do not want our nicely laundered clothes to collect the leftovers of the previous commuter; get that promotion at work, we will fix all the messes you make when we take over and come out smelling of roses. Go ahead, be men. We are happy being who we are: women.
Book review
THE CHAPEL AT THE EDGE OF THE WORLD
by Kirsten McKenzie
Conflict is often a route to miracles, a time when unlikely friends are made and bonds forged that could last a lifetime. Many stories like this one emerged from the darkness of World War II. This book is a gently written, vaguely disconnected and very readable fictionalised record of one of these wonderful tales. Once upon a real time, when battle raged across what used to be Europe, a group of soldiers taken prisoner during the war came together to create something that exists even today – a small chapel on a hill on a small and desolate island in Orkney, where the PoWs are stationed. They built it from salvaged material, nuts, bolts, scrap found in the mud, and home-concocted paint. And they learned how to see faith as not some kind of saviour, but as a way to be thankful for what they found within themselves.
The story begins when the artistic Emilio and Rosa, childhood sweethearts and just formally engaged, are separated by war. He, along with others from his unit, are trudging through the desert, weakened by heat, a lack of water and proper food, and are taken captive. As PoWs, they are shipped off to Lamb Holm, on a tiny island which seems like the edge of the world. There they learn to live with each other and, in essence, with themselves. Emilio finds friends in Paolo, Romano, Bertoldo and others, sketching everything and everyone inside and outside the small hut they call home. A priest takes a small makeshift mass, but it is not enough for Emilio, who longs for a real church, one with an altar and a picture of the Madonna framed by elaborately patterned arches.
Suddenly, it all becomes possible. Italy surrenders to the Allies and is out of the war. So the prisoners are no longer prisoners, but men free to live as they wish. But there is no one who tells them how to go home. So they make lives for themselves on the island and, soon, a small place from where they can speak to God. Emilio designs a chapel in abandoned Nissan huts, making it beautiful, artistic, simple, with all the devotion and skill that he, the artist, has in his soul.
Meanwhile, back in Italy in her little village on the banks of Lake Como, Rosa becomes embroiled in the local resistance movement. She finds diversion in Pietro, in the excitement of subterfuge and the attempted escape of Rachele and her father, Jews who attempt to flee the persecution they face. And, of course, there is Heinrich…
Both stories, forming a whole by virtue of the connection between the two protagonists, have their moments of drama, of grey dullness, of suffering. At the end, which is actually where the book starts, the married couple are visiting the island – Emilio is not all there in his mind, while Rosa tends him with all the devotion but not quite all the love that she has. Bertoldo is still young, his memories of trauma buried either too deep to be felt, or felt to deeply to be shown. And all that really matters is the small chapel at the edge of the world.,,
by Kirsten McKenzie
Conflict is often a route to miracles, a time when unlikely friends are made and bonds forged that could last a lifetime. Many stories like this one emerged from the darkness of World War II. This book is a gently written, vaguely disconnected and very readable fictionalised record of one of these wonderful tales. Once upon a real time, when battle raged across what used to be Europe, a group of soldiers taken prisoner during the war came together to create something that exists even today – a small chapel on a hill on a small and desolate island in Orkney, where the PoWs are stationed. They built it from salvaged material, nuts, bolts, scrap found in the mud, and home-concocted paint. And they learned how to see faith as not some kind of saviour, but as a way to be thankful for what they found within themselves.
The story begins when the artistic Emilio and Rosa, childhood sweethearts and just formally engaged, are separated by war. He, along with others from his unit, are trudging through the desert, weakened by heat, a lack of water and proper food, and are taken captive. As PoWs, they are shipped off to Lamb Holm, on a tiny island which seems like the edge of the world. There they learn to live with each other and, in essence, with themselves. Emilio finds friends in Paolo, Romano, Bertoldo and others, sketching everything and everyone inside and outside the small hut they call home. A priest takes a small makeshift mass, but it is not enough for Emilio, who longs for a real church, one with an altar and a picture of the Madonna framed by elaborately patterned arches.
Suddenly, it all becomes possible. Italy surrenders to the Allies and is out of the war. So the prisoners are no longer prisoners, but men free to live as they wish. But there is no one who tells them how to go home. So they make lives for themselves on the island and, soon, a small place from where they can speak to God. Emilio designs a chapel in abandoned Nissan huts, making it beautiful, artistic, simple, with all the devotion and skill that he, the artist, has in his soul.
Meanwhile, back in Italy in her little village on the banks of Lake Como, Rosa becomes embroiled in the local resistance movement. She finds diversion in Pietro, in the excitement of subterfuge and the attempted escape of Rachele and her father, Jews who attempt to flee the persecution they face. And, of course, there is Heinrich…
Both stories, forming a whole by virtue of the connection between the two protagonists, have their moments of drama, of grey dullness, of suffering. At the end, which is actually where the book starts, the married couple are visiting the island – Emilio is not all there in his mind, while Rosa tends him with all the devotion but not quite all the love that she has. Bertoldo is still young, his memories of trauma buried either too deep to be felt, or felt to deeply to be shown. And all that really matters is the small chapel at the edge of the world.,,
Amitava Das - Interview
(Published in the Hindu Sunday Magazine, 14th Nov, 2010)
There are two aspects of Amitava’s show, currently on at the Sakshi Gallery in Mumbai, that strike a viewer: the amorphous, almost Rorschach-ian forms on the canvas and the general mod of pain. His works are home to bright splashes of colour, to near-fluorescent hues, to light-reflective gold and silver, to what seems to be the occasional sequin (but is actually a kind of paint cleverly used), but there is an anguish that seeps into the air as you stand in front of Tamra and the Wounded Tree, or Inflicted Wounds or even the diptych titled Wounded Earth, without really looking at the names neatly placed alongside. As the canvas reveals its various facets, you start seeing, understanding, where the darkness is, where the tears come from: Small strips of medical sticky-tape, carefully placed on the paint, centred by a red blotch, a wound given rudimentary first aid. There is nothing specifically delineated, but much that is felt, unsaid, emanating from the thought that has created the work. And in the gentle wash of pain, there are small stars of celebration, of joy, as in Vivaho, where the couple stand shyly separated by a dividing line, the red sprays perhaps of the flowers in the garlands that will soon make them one…
Delhi-bred and based Amitava Das, a Bengali in accent, appearance and sensibility (even though he avers, albeit with a smile, that the people of Kolkata need to grow out of an obsession with Tagore and Rabindra Sangeet), showed in Mumbai after a hiatus of six years. “I have shows in other places,” he says, “it is not possible to show only in one place all the time!” He refuses to classifies his work, insisting that “When I work, I do not work from a particular point of view saying it belongs to a particular style or phase or school. It is up to the viewer or anyone who can appreciate my work to classify it; I don’t believe in doing so – a true work of art doesn’t belong to any school or anything else.”
A graphic-cum-exhibition designer by professional, Amitava studied at the Delhi College of Art even as he worked on various shows, mainly designing pavilions for India in major trade fairs and events abroad. “The last project I did before I quit (exhibition design) was to design the India Pavilion for the Cannes Film Festival. That was the year Devdas was the official Indian entry.” It began many years earlier, but the true importance of this field and his contribution to it came in 1984 – “I did a show that gave me a space of 23,000 square meters – it was the Hanover Industrial Fair, and India was a partner country. The next day, they stopped showing India of the past and started showing modern India - that is the impact that we had!” Amitava remembers that “in 1989, the same thing happened. Trade through fairs is the new culture, the way of thinking - that is why there are so many art fairs today. India has slowly become a global partner in almost every field, especially in the visual arts.” He believes that this is evident in “the fact that Hollywood actors want to act in Bollywood these days!”
Indian art is fast gaining a position of great respect in the international realm. However, “Many people try to showcase their work from their point of view, which is wrong. We should try and showcase our work from our cultural point of view, from the Asian or Indian point of view,” Amitava insists. “We have to act according to international terms – this is something that India should try and change, so that our point of view is recognised. We should be able to make art from this region be seen and acknowledged and recognized the world over as having a unique cultural identity. We should not have a complex about that. We should feel that we are strong, that this is our/my art.” This, he feels, is hardly a simple issue to deal with. “The problem is that we do not have the right promoters. Also, we do not have good art writers, or the right backing – not government backing, since the government should not interfere, but should merely provide support. Otherwise red tapism and bureaucracy will not allow art to grow.” In this, though, self-promotion, is not a player, since promotion is “not my job – that is what the galleries or art writers and promoters should do.”
With many years of experience backing him and his own feeling of satisfaction in helping younger artists, Amitava has some advice to give. “Young artists should work sincerely and consciously and with respect for art and for their own culture. I cannot advise them on how to promote themselves. But, of course, the whole world has become far more transparent now, with the Internet, and there is a great revolution happening in communication. Facilities are available, and now younger artists have to have a different way of presenting their work, but they should always remember that the mind is far more important than the information that is available to it. Too much information has to be matched by a point of view.”
So what is the magic formula to find success, especially internationally? The painter explains his perspective that “Certain artists have been recognized, but there are so many more who are good but do not have promotional avenues and ways of being seen and noticed internationally. If you want to participate in a biennale, for instance, you have to do a certain kind of art – multimedia or installation, perhaps. That should not be a factor in selection, though it tends to be. I don’t accept it.” How does he manage to keep ahead in this kind of environment, especially since competition is, to put it mildly, cut-throat? “I paint, I draw, but I don’t do installation art or sculpture – after all, I have done that on a very large scale in exhibition designs! And my work was more architectural then. I do not feel like doing it now since I have already done it, though with a different purpose! In Moscow some years ago I was given a huge glazed wall to work on, wonderfully brightly lit by the sun. I did a tapestry mural with the help of 250 women from Mehrauli village, through an NGO, and they wove my design on canvas with felt to show a Krishna Leela.” Amitava makes it clear that “I am not against installation art – I appreciate it greatly, but feel that it is a greater organizational feat than an individual one. Many works of this kind today are not original, but derivative to a great extent.” And, to make it worse, “Many younger artists are confused about it and so do all sorts of things to grab attention.”
Inspiration for the veteran artist comes from many sources, “film, music, poetry, anywhere”. Many years ago, “I divided my attention into study work and my own work ever since I was in art college. By the fourth year I had a successful one-man show.” Family support comes, even though “My father originally wanted me to study commerce, be a CA, have a career. So after school I joined the commerce course, but quit soon enough. At the time I never took art as a subject since I did not like the way it was taught. I would visit shows, read, watch others – that is how I learned enough to get into college.”
Commerce and art need not be separated, Amitava says, since “Ultimately, artists need to survive. Why should they keep the old image of the jhola-carrying struggler? They should have the best of whatever is available, a good life and lifestyle, so why not aim to sell?” But intentions as an artist should be clear, “You should not play to the gallery. That’s why I never depended on anyone – I was independent, worked for my living and did art, since it was my passion.”
There are two aspects of Amitava’s show, currently on at the Sakshi Gallery in Mumbai, that strike a viewer: the amorphous, almost Rorschach-ian forms on the canvas and the general mod of pain. His works are home to bright splashes of colour, to near-fluorescent hues, to light-reflective gold and silver, to what seems to be the occasional sequin (but is actually a kind of paint cleverly used), but there is an anguish that seeps into the air as you stand in front of Tamra and the Wounded Tree, or Inflicted Wounds or even the diptych titled Wounded Earth, without really looking at the names neatly placed alongside. As the canvas reveals its various facets, you start seeing, understanding, where the darkness is, where the tears come from: Small strips of medical sticky-tape, carefully placed on the paint, centred by a red blotch, a wound given rudimentary first aid. There is nothing specifically delineated, but much that is felt, unsaid, emanating from the thought that has created the work. And in the gentle wash of pain, there are small stars of celebration, of joy, as in Vivaho, where the couple stand shyly separated by a dividing line, the red sprays perhaps of the flowers in the garlands that will soon make them one…
Delhi-bred and based Amitava Das, a Bengali in accent, appearance and sensibility (even though he avers, albeit with a smile, that the people of Kolkata need to grow out of an obsession with Tagore and Rabindra Sangeet), showed in Mumbai after a hiatus of six years. “I have shows in other places,” he says, “it is not possible to show only in one place all the time!” He refuses to classifies his work, insisting that “When I work, I do not work from a particular point of view saying it belongs to a particular style or phase or school. It is up to the viewer or anyone who can appreciate my work to classify it; I don’t believe in doing so – a true work of art doesn’t belong to any school or anything else.”
A graphic-cum-exhibition designer by professional, Amitava studied at the Delhi College of Art even as he worked on various shows, mainly designing pavilions for India in major trade fairs and events abroad. “The last project I did before I quit (exhibition design) was to design the India Pavilion for the Cannes Film Festival. That was the year Devdas was the official Indian entry.” It began many years earlier, but the true importance of this field and his contribution to it came in 1984 – “I did a show that gave me a space of 23,000 square meters – it was the Hanover Industrial Fair, and India was a partner country. The next day, they stopped showing India of the past and started showing modern India - that is the impact that we had!” Amitava remembers that “in 1989, the same thing happened. Trade through fairs is the new culture, the way of thinking - that is why there are so many art fairs today. India has slowly become a global partner in almost every field, especially in the visual arts.” He believes that this is evident in “the fact that Hollywood actors want to act in Bollywood these days!”
Indian art is fast gaining a position of great respect in the international realm. However, “Many people try to showcase their work from their point of view, which is wrong. We should try and showcase our work from our cultural point of view, from the Asian or Indian point of view,” Amitava insists. “We have to act according to international terms – this is something that India should try and change, so that our point of view is recognised. We should be able to make art from this region be seen and acknowledged and recognized the world over as having a unique cultural identity. We should not have a complex about that. We should feel that we are strong, that this is our/my art.” This, he feels, is hardly a simple issue to deal with. “The problem is that we do not have the right promoters. Also, we do not have good art writers, or the right backing – not government backing, since the government should not interfere, but should merely provide support. Otherwise red tapism and bureaucracy will not allow art to grow.” In this, though, self-promotion, is not a player, since promotion is “not my job – that is what the galleries or art writers and promoters should do.”
With many years of experience backing him and his own feeling of satisfaction in helping younger artists, Amitava has some advice to give. “Young artists should work sincerely and consciously and with respect for art and for their own culture. I cannot advise them on how to promote themselves. But, of course, the whole world has become far more transparent now, with the Internet, and there is a great revolution happening in communication. Facilities are available, and now younger artists have to have a different way of presenting their work, but they should always remember that the mind is far more important than the information that is available to it. Too much information has to be matched by a point of view.”
So what is the magic formula to find success, especially internationally? The painter explains his perspective that “Certain artists have been recognized, but there are so many more who are good but do not have promotional avenues and ways of being seen and noticed internationally. If you want to participate in a biennale, for instance, you have to do a certain kind of art – multimedia or installation, perhaps. That should not be a factor in selection, though it tends to be. I don’t accept it.” How does he manage to keep ahead in this kind of environment, especially since competition is, to put it mildly, cut-throat? “I paint, I draw, but I don’t do installation art or sculpture – after all, I have done that on a very large scale in exhibition designs! And my work was more architectural then. I do not feel like doing it now since I have already done it, though with a different purpose! In Moscow some years ago I was given a huge glazed wall to work on, wonderfully brightly lit by the sun. I did a tapestry mural with the help of 250 women from Mehrauli village, through an NGO, and they wove my design on canvas with felt to show a Krishna Leela.” Amitava makes it clear that “I am not against installation art – I appreciate it greatly, but feel that it is a greater organizational feat than an individual one. Many works of this kind today are not original, but derivative to a great extent.” And, to make it worse, “Many younger artists are confused about it and so do all sorts of things to grab attention.”
Inspiration for the veteran artist comes from many sources, “film, music, poetry, anywhere”. Many years ago, “I divided my attention into study work and my own work ever since I was in art college. By the fourth year I had a successful one-man show.” Family support comes, even though “My father originally wanted me to study commerce, be a CA, have a career. So after school I joined the commerce course, but quit soon enough. At the time I never took art as a subject since I did not like the way it was taught. I would visit shows, read, watch others – that is how I learned enough to get into college.”
Commerce and art need not be separated, Amitava says, since “Ultimately, artists need to survive. Why should they keep the old image of the jhola-carrying struggler? They should have the best of whatever is available, a good life and lifestyle, so why not aim to sell?” But intentions as an artist should be clear, “You should not play to the gallery. That’s why I never depended on anyone – I was independent, worked for my living and did art, since it was my passion.”
Tuesday, November 09, 2010
Cubicle connections
(The Times of India Crest Edition, November 6, 2010)
Make friends, influence people and move on. That is the story in today’s get-ahead-fast world, where changing jobs is fairly easy, the after-effects of the recession notwithstanding. Once upon a time a career was all about staying with the same organization for years, even decades, steadily slogging on in a job that was about stability and loyalty rather than rapid advancement and incremental salary jumps. Now it means being on the constant look-out for a better opportunity, a better paycheck, a better position, even a better commute to work. With each experience, there is a take-away, be it a store of memories – some good, some entirely forgettable – or a higher visibility in the field. Then there are the friends made at work. These ‘office friends’ are special, a non-sexual yet intimate relationship with people who share the work experience, personal and professional angst, often the same boss and, almost always, lunch. But there comes a time when the dabba with a BFF yields to a cup of coffee with a headhunter and, soon, a new job. Everything changes, from the work itself to the boss to the location of the office, with new friends, new gossip circles and new timings. Keeping in touch with that BFF is suddenly more difficult and meeting, even more so. Lunch dates become increasingly infrequent, telephone calls gradually peter out and then, startlingly, those same close friends are seen more as other people’s Facebook buddies. But some are lucky and manage to keep in touch with friends from various jobs. Networking sites and modern communications make it easier, they say, albeit sometimes with a tiny tinge of regret at the sweet sorrow of the parting when a job hop was done.
“I fly solo,” says Arun Katiyar, who now works as a consultant in the content and communication space, “no office, no colleagues, no politics, no back biting”. He “changed jobs on average every two years between 1982 and 2007 when I worked for others. But in that period, I worked 18 years for the same company, my assignments and job profile changing almost every two years.” He does not make friends quickly, “But I have been often told I have a big smile by everyone other than my wife. Obviously, even a small smile at work and with colleagues does wonders.” He has been fortunate enough to work with people who are “young and have the energy to stay in touch with me. Often, when I travel, even to places like San Jose, past colleagues turn up to accompany me for dinner or a drink. The world is kind and forgiving place!”
Indu Prasad, producer of an auto website, has changed jobs “as often as the next phase of life happens”. She does not make friends easily, but needs that “special click that happens only with a few people”. Former colleagues are still part of her life and she manages to keep in touch “all the time - they are some of my closest friends”. As she explains, “You spend more than half the waking hours in office and they become your buddies, a surrogate family of sorts.” But she admits that the contact “has decreased. You have your work, life, love, universe and some people do fall off your planet. And the level of interaction that you have when you are in the office is not there. Keeping in touch over chat or phone is not the same.” But for Prasad, “It's part of moving on. But the important thing is we still make time for each other whenever possible. That might be once in three months instead of every week, but that is not bad either. Facebook and Twitter have changed the timelines of keeping in touch. It also helps when you call each other once in two months to take up conversations instantly, since you already know what's happening with the other person.”
For Alok Bhatnagar, a senior digital professional, changing jobs has been “purely circumstantial”. He makes friends very easily, he says, and “I keep in touch with my peers from my former offices - less so with seniors and juniors, but I do talk enthusiastically if anyone from there calls me.” He has a degree of equanimity when it comes time to move on. “I think that I have resigned myself to the fact that one needs to leave behind office friends when one changes jobs. I always promise to be in touch and somehow do manage to do so one way or the other.” Social networking helps; “My contact level has increased thanks to everyone now joining FB. And the feeling of missing them is completely gone!” But he has another bond that is stronger, since “With some of my office friends, I have had a deeper relationship than only work. In fact, I have a set of friends (former colleagues) with whom I try to do at least one annual outstation holiday trip. Our families are also closely integrated.”
According to psychiatrist Harish Shetty, “Office friendships have a range of variables – there are different networks established: trust, wherein you trust your colleagues with personal matters; expertise, where you learn from colleagues, go to them when you have work problems; love, when the person is more than a friend but less than a lover; guru – a papa figure, or godfather, who becomes a lover sometimes; and buddy, the person who is always around, to keep you company or give you money when you need it or take you to the hospital when you have a crisis.” Some of these may overlap, while others remain as they are, no matter what happens.
Aligned to friendship and bonding is a level of competition at work. Vying for the same position, for a higher annual increment, even for a better work-station or desk near a window can cause some friction in the closest relationship. As Katiyar remembers, “There was competition. And it was a lot of fun. I remember working with two other people in a newspaper and when we left, we found ourselves working for the same magazine. We were good friends, but also wanted the best assignments. Over a period of time, we learnt to work on assignments together or to help each other. But the outcome was not always pleasant. However, today, with almost two decades between then and now, it seems like the right thing to have happened. No regrets!”
Bhatnagar admits that “There has been competition at work, but the feeling goes when one quits. There can be exceptions here, especially if there has been negativity in the relationship. However, those are people whom you would not call office friends.” He believes that “Friendship can never be forced. It comes when you realise that the other person is temperamentally compatible. I do not think any of my friendships in office were a matter of propinquity.” And, along the career path, if he comes across those people again, “Yes, I am open to work with most of my office friends again.”
Prasad, on the other hand, would prefer to keep the two worlds apart where some of her former ‘office friends’ are concerned. Parting made no major difference, as “Some people you miss because your friendship was beyond office lunches, parties, shopping, bitching, etc. They become your friends without the constraints of geography or time zones. Some others you miss because they made the job fun. You realise that your learning curve was better while working with some people than with others. And yes, there are more that are lunch / dinner / drinking / shopping / travelling buddies and, thank God, those things can still be done even if you are not working together, only, not as often!” For her, “Our friendships have evolved beyond the work place and I like that space.”
Katiyar “knew I'd stay in touch with some of them and that felt good. Even more importantly, many of them expressed the fact that they would like to work with me in the future.” But there is a faint feeling of regret sometimes, “Sometimes I do feel bad when I hear about major developments in their lives from others. Recently, an ex-colleague and now a friend who runs a restaurant with a business partner took over his partner's share of the business. I heard about it from another friend. I felt a twinge.” He does also miss some people “for the conversations and the many common things we shared. When I think back to those subjects/ discussions, I wish I could ping them, just for old time's sake. Friendships with some people who were not part of the office I worked in, but were in the organization, have endeared despite the fact that we did not share any ‘closeness’ of office space. I think it was more that we shared some views of life, shared something deeper than proximity.”
And did competition play a role in the relationship? He says, “Yes, there was competition. And it was a lot of fun. I remember working with two other people in a newspaper and when we left we found ourselves working for the same magazine. We were good friends but also wanted the best assignments. Over a period of time, we learnt to work together or to help each other. But the outcome was not always pleasant. However, today, with almost two decades between, it seems like the right thing to have happened. No regrets.” For Katiyar, even as one door opened, another was firmly shut. “I don't think I want to work with them again. I'd rather have them as friends. You know the funny thing about life? Office colleagues can become friends, but friendships can be easily destroyed by an office environment.”
As Shetty explains, “Even when you change jobs, you still maintain some relationships across the board. Most young people today have no loyalties towards establishments and infrastructures,” he says, “the brand is yours alone, resume is yours. Networks stretch across borders of jobs; companies may compete, but your friendships endure. There is a crisscross of friendships that does not break and does not come in the way. Young people are clear about what they want from a friend.” He feels that “These are fantastic friendships, with no workplace loyalty but more bonding to peers, so there is a lot of acceptance, along with a lot of bitching at times, a lot of forgiveness, and connectivity always. The interactions may be short, in bursts, but it is beautiful.”
Make friends, influence people and move on. That is the story in today’s get-ahead-fast world, where changing jobs is fairly easy, the after-effects of the recession notwithstanding. Once upon a time a career was all about staying with the same organization for years, even decades, steadily slogging on in a job that was about stability and loyalty rather than rapid advancement and incremental salary jumps. Now it means being on the constant look-out for a better opportunity, a better paycheck, a better position, even a better commute to work. With each experience, there is a take-away, be it a store of memories – some good, some entirely forgettable – or a higher visibility in the field. Then there are the friends made at work. These ‘office friends’ are special, a non-sexual yet intimate relationship with people who share the work experience, personal and professional angst, often the same boss and, almost always, lunch. But there comes a time when the dabba with a BFF yields to a cup of coffee with a headhunter and, soon, a new job. Everything changes, from the work itself to the boss to the location of the office, with new friends, new gossip circles and new timings. Keeping in touch with that BFF is suddenly more difficult and meeting, even more so. Lunch dates become increasingly infrequent, telephone calls gradually peter out and then, startlingly, those same close friends are seen more as other people’s Facebook buddies. But some are lucky and manage to keep in touch with friends from various jobs. Networking sites and modern communications make it easier, they say, albeit sometimes with a tiny tinge of regret at the sweet sorrow of the parting when a job hop was done.
“I fly solo,” says Arun Katiyar, who now works as a consultant in the content and communication space, “no office, no colleagues, no politics, no back biting”. He “changed jobs on average every two years between 1982 and 2007 when I worked for others. But in that period, I worked 18 years for the same company, my assignments and job profile changing almost every two years.” He does not make friends quickly, “But I have been often told I have a big smile by everyone other than my wife. Obviously, even a small smile at work and with colleagues does wonders.” He has been fortunate enough to work with people who are “young and have the energy to stay in touch with me. Often, when I travel, even to places like San Jose, past colleagues turn up to accompany me for dinner or a drink. The world is kind and forgiving place!”
Indu Prasad, producer of an auto website, has changed jobs “as often as the next phase of life happens”. She does not make friends easily, but needs that “special click that happens only with a few people”. Former colleagues are still part of her life and she manages to keep in touch “all the time - they are some of my closest friends”. As she explains, “You spend more than half the waking hours in office and they become your buddies, a surrogate family of sorts.” But she admits that the contact “has decreased. You have your work, life, love, universe and some people do fall off your planet. And the level of interaction that you have when you are in the office is not there. Keeping in touch over chat or phone is not the same.” But for Prasad, “It's part of moving on. But the important thing is we still make time for each other whenever possible. That might be once in three months instead of every week, but that is not bad either. Facebook and Twitter have changed the timelines of keeping in touch. It also helps when you call each other once in two months to take up conversations instantly, since you already know what's happening with the other person.”
For Alok Bhatnagar, a senior digital professional, changing jobs has been “purely circumstantial”. He makes friends very easily, he says, and “I keep in touch with my peers from my former offices - less so with seniors and juniors, but I do talk enthusiastically if anyone from there calls me.” He has a degree of equanimity when it comes time to move on. “I think that I have resigned myself to the fact that one needs to leave behind office friends when one changes jobs. I always promise to be in touch and somehow do manage to do so one way or the other.” Social networking helps; “My contact level has increased thanks to everyone now joining FB. And the feeling of missing them is completely gone!” But he has another bond that is stronger, since “With some of my office friends, I have had a deeper relationship than only work. In fact, I have a set of friends (former colleagues) with whom I try to do at least one annual outstation holiday trip. Our families are also closely integrated.”
According to psychiatrist Harish Shetty, “Office friendships have a range of variables – there are different networks established: trust, wherein you trust your colleagues with personal matters; expertise, where you learn from colleagues, go to them when you have work problems; love, when the person is more than a friend but less than a lover; guru – a papa figure, or godfather, who becomes a lover sometimes; and buddy, the person who is always around, to keep you company or give you money when you need it or take you to the hospital when you have a crisis.” Some of these may overlap, while others remain as they are, no matter what happens.
Aligned to friendship and bonding is a level of competition at work. Vying for the same position, for a higher annual increment, even for a better work-station or desk near a window can cause some friction in the closest relationship. As Katiyar remembers, “There was competition. And it was a lot of fun. I remember working with two other people in a newspaper and when we left, we found ourselves working for the same magazine. We were good friends, but also wanted the best assignments. Over a period of time, we learnt to work on assignments together or to help each other. But the outcome was not always pleasant. However, today, with almost two decades between then and now, it seems like the right thing to have happened. No regrets!”
Bhatnagar admits that “There has been competition at work, but the feeling goes when one quits. There can be exceptions here, especially if there has been negativity in the relationship. However, those are people whom you would not call office friends.” He believes that “Friendship can never be forced. It comes when you realise that the other person is temperamentally compatible. I do not think any of my friendships in office were a matter of propinquity.” And, along the career path, if he comes across those people again, “Yes, I am open to work with most of my office friends again.”
Prasad, on the other hand, would prefer to keep the two worlds apart where some of her former ‘office friends’ are concerned. Parting made no major difference, as “Some people you miss because your friendship was beyond office lunches, parties, shopping, bitching, etc. They become your friends without the constraints of geography or time zones. Some others you miss because they made the job fun. You realise that your learning curve was better while working with some people than with others. And yes, there are more that are lunch / dinner / drinking / shopping / travelling buddies and, thank God, those things can still be done even if you are not working together, only, not as often!” For her, “Our friendships have evolved beyond the work place and I like that space.”
Katiyar “knew I'd stay in touch with some of them and that felt good. Even more importantly, many of them expressed the fact that they would like to work with me in the future.” But there is a faint feeling of regret sometimes, “Sometimes I do feel bad when I hear about major developments in their lives from others. Recently, an ex-colleague and now a friend who runs a restaurant with a business partner took over his partner's share of the business. I heard about it from another friend. I felt a twinge.” He does also miss some people “for the conversations and the many common things we shared. When I think back to those subjects/ discussions, I wish I could ping them, just for old time's sake. Friendships with some people who were not part of the office I worked in, but were in the organization, have endeared despite the fact that we did not share any ‘closeness’ of office space. I think it was more that we shared some views of life, shared something deeper than proximity.”
And did competition play a role in the relationship? He says, “Yes, there was competition. And it was a lot of fun. I remember working with two other people in a newspaper and when we left we found ourselves working for the same magazine. We were good friends but also wanted the best assignments. Over a period of time, we learnt to work together or to help each other. But the outcome was not always pleasant. However, today, with almost two decades between, it seems like the right thing to have happened. No regrets.” For Katiyar, even as one door opened, another was firmly shut. “I don't think I want to work with them again. I'd rather have them as friends. You know the funny thing about life? Office colleagues can become friends, but friendships can be easily destroyed by an office environment.”
As Shetty explains, “Even when you change jobs, you still maintain some relationships across the board. Most young people today have no loyalties towards establishments and infrastructures,” he says, “the brand is yours alone, resume is yours. Networks stretch across borders of jobs; companies may compete, but your friendships endure. There is a crisscross of friendships that does not break and does not come in the way. Young people are clear about what they want from a friend.” He feels that “These are fantastic friendships, with no workplace loyalty but more bonding to peers, so there is a lot of acceptance, along with a lot of bitching at times, a lot of forgiveness, and connectivity always. The interactions may be short, in bursts, but it is beautiful.”
Book review
(The Hindu Literary Review, November 7, 2010)
DAYANITA SINGH
Penguin Studio
231 pages
Rs4799
This is an unusual book. Eponymously named, it features the work of photographer Dayanita Singh and writing by Aveek Sen and Sunil Khilnani, as well as a set of emails from Mona Ahmed. Taken as a whole, rather than each of its parts, it is not a book about photography, or a book of writing on photography, but a synergy between the two, where the writing complements the photography and the photography offsets the writing, with each illustrating the other. The volume is divided into ‘stories’, in turn with the obvious classification of ‘writing’, which tells stories with words, and ‘pictures’, which tell their own versions of the stories with light and shade.
The introduction itself tells the story of the photographer and how she became one. The “fall off the horse”, as it is described, when she realised what she was going to be, came when Singh was just 18, taking pictures as part of an academic project for her first year at the National Institute of Design. At a concert by tabla maestro Zakir Hussain, she was stopped from taking photographs and protested with a vow of “one day I will be a famous photographer and then we will see.” It is incidents of this kind, personal, intimate, that make the academic tenor of the writing more digestible. And it is indeed academic in writing style, well-researched, lucid, erudite and occasionally tough going for the average reader of ‘coffee table’ books - which this is very likely to be seen as by most people.
Sunil Khilnani speaks of the holy city of Kashi in What To See In Benares, the lead-in to I Am As I Am. The setting, the mood, the dirt, even the sounds and smells of piety and how they are all, strangely enough, captured on film (or pixels) are suddenly left behind at the stone walls of the Anandmayi Ashram. At that point, the images take over. And there is an overwhelming sense of serenity, of acceptance of simplicity, of innocence and gentleness. The same kind of cloistered feeling comes in Singh’s Ladies of Calcutta, of which Aveek Sen writes in Fiction in the Archives. There is a sense of travelling back in time, to a place where life is slow, studied, purposeful and all feminine. The women and their accoutrements pose – their images are slowly and deliberately taken apart and as carefully put together again in evocative prose.
Sen’s A Distance of One’s Own, and its accompanying set of photographs in Singh’s Go Away Closer, is not as obvious and easy to understand. There is an eerie emptiness, a desolation that comes with the images, and, as Sen says, “Departure and arrival become mysteriously inseparable”. The writer’s The Eye in Thought which goes with Sent a Letter explains the progression of images in a “diary-like” set that grew from the way in which Singh’s mother Nony presented her own work. Like any book worth owning, it can be seen, savoured, put away and then looked at again with a new pleasure, the essay and the images forming a coherent unit.
Blue Book, prefaced by Sen’s A Land Called Lost, bursts suddenly, shockingly, into colour after a series of black and whites. The ‘leaving behind’ is complete, the objects pictured are abandoned, but there is also a feeling of anticipation, of waiting, of knowing that something urgent, eventful, will happen not too long hence. Dream Villa is, as Khilnani writes, India by Night, its colour, light and mood weird, spooky, a story being told even as something lurks behind the door at the edge of horror…or could it be overweening joy? The last piece in the book is Sen’s Difficult Loves, writing that is sheer poetry, even as it fairly pragmatically discusses Singh’s work and its intent.
But all this apart, perhaps the most moving story in this book is Myself Mona Ahmed, three emails from Mona Ahmed to ‘Mr Walter’ (Keller). She talks of her life and her own evolution, as a child in a fairly stable home, her castration, her adulthood as a eunuch, her small joys and large griefs, her love, her isolation. It is touching, the images bringing on tears at times, the writing even more. Her words in 2000, “Suddenly I felt better, maybe it was the magic of the old woman, or the gods took pity on me” could be the bon mot of the entire volume – there is magic in the words, enchantment in the pictures.
DAYANITA SINGH
Penguin Studio
231 pages
Rs4799
This is an unusual book. Eponymously named, it features the work of photographer Dayanita Singh and writing by Aveek Sen and Sunil Khilnani, as well as a set of emails from Mona Ahmed. Taken as a whole, rather than each of its parts, it is not a book about photography, or a book of writing on photography, but a synergy between the two, where the writing complements the photography and the photography offsets the writing, with each illustrating the other. The volume is divided into ‘stories’, in turn with the obvious classification of ‘writing’, which tells stories with words, and ‘pictures’, which tell their own versions of the stories with light and shade.
The introduction itself tells the story of the photographer and how she became one. The “fall off the horse”, as it is described, when she realised what she was going to be, came when Singh was just 18, taking pictures as part of an academic project for her first year at the National Institute of Design. At a concert by tabla maestro Zakir Hussain, she was stopped from taking photographs and protested with a vow of “one day I will be a famous photographer and then we will see.” It is incidents of this kind, personal, intimate, that make the academic tenor of the writing more digestible. And it is indeed academic in writing style, well-researched, lucid, erudite and occasionally tough going for the average reader of ‘coffee table’ books - which this is very likely to be seen as by most people.
Sunil Khilnani speaks of the holy city of Kashi in What To See In Benares, the lead-in to I Am As I Am. The setting, the mood, the dirt, even the sounds and smells of piety and how they are all, strangely enough, captured on film (or pixels) are suddenly left behind at the stone walls of the Anandmayi Ashram. At that point, the images take over. And there is an overwhelming sense of serenity, of acceptance of simplicity, of innocence and gentleness. The same kind of cloistered feeling comes in Singh’s Ladies of Calcutta, of which Aveek Sen writes in Fiction in the Archives. There is a sense of travelling back in time, to a place where life is slow, studied, purposeful and all feminine. The women and their accoutrements pose – their images are slowly and deliberately taken apart and as carefully put together again in evocative prose.
Sen’s A Distance of One’s Own, and its accompanying set of photographs in Singh’s Go Away Closer, is not as obvious and easy to understand. There is an eerie emptiness, a desolation that comes with the images, and, as Sen says, “Departure and arrival become mysteriously inseparable”. The writer’s The Eye in Thought which goes with Sent a Letter explains the progression of images in a “diary-like” set that grew from the way in which Singh’s mother Nony presented her own work. Like any book worth owning, it can be seen, savoured, put away and then looked at again with a new pleasure, the essay and the images forming a coherent unit.
Blue Book, prefaced by Sen’s A Land Called Lost, bursts suddenly, shockingly, into colour after a series of black and whites. The ‘leaving behind’ is complete, the objects pictured are abandoned, but there is also a feeling of anticipation, of waiting, of knowing that something urgent, eventful, will happen not too long hence. Dream Villa is, as Khilnani writes, India by Night, its colour, light and mood weird, spooky, a story being told even as something lurks behind the door at the edge of horror…or could it be overweening joy? The last piece in the book is Sen’s Difficult Loves, writing that is sheer poetry, even as it fairly pragmatically discusses Singh’s work and its intent.
But all this apart, perhaps the most moving story in this book is Myself Mona Ahmed, three emails from Mona Ahmed to ‘Mr Walter’ (Keller). She talks of her life and her own evolution, as a child in a fairly stable home, her castration, her adulthood as a eunuch, her small joys and large griefs, her love, her isolation. It is touching, the images bringing on tears at times, the writing even more. Her words in 2000, “Suddenly I felt better, maybe it was the magic of the old woman, or the gods took pity on me” could be the bon mot of the entire volume – there is magic in the words, enchantment in the pictures.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Khalil Chishtee interview
(The Times of India Crest Edition, October 16)
Art today is not just about aesthetics, but more about making statements, voicing an opinion, getting a point across. Everyone has something important to say and many artists use their inspiration to say it in a way that is ‘hatke’, different, eye-catching, attention grabbing. Forty-seven-year-old Khalil Chishtee, a Pakistani by birth who lives in the United States, has a lot to say about the world as it is now, about lost faith and belief, about courage and, with his medium, the state of the environment. He uses trash bags made of plastic, apart from other materials that somehow do not grab the same kind of attention, and has said that “This is the beauty of the contemporary art world that it understands the importance of content than durability.”
The content he creates is in the intent of his works – he explains his view that “humanity is tormented by its compulsive need to categorize and differentiate along any number of physical, cultural, political and economic factors, ignoring the obvious common denominator of our human-ness that makes us alike”. Blame II (2008), for instance, is a graphic representation of crucified martyrdom, while Broke Messiah (2009) has a male figure hung on a wall, the legs mere shreds of plastic skin. Figures suspended upside-down seem to dance, in Unbearable Lightness of Being II (2010), and I Love My Dad (2010) and I Love My Mom Too (2010) are less graceful, almost awkward and caricaturish.
Khalil studied at the National College of Art, Lahore and California State University, Sacramento, and has been part of a number of shows in the US, Pakistan, the UK, Singapore, Hong Kong and the Middle East. This is his first exhibition in Mumbai.
How would you define a “plastic age”? Or is that a literal meaning that you aim at?
'Plastic age’ means literally a plastic age. If you look around you, you would see plastic everywhere; in fact, in all new technology, plastic is the main ingredient used. This is the one material that we use the most.
Why do you use trashbags?
Although I use many materials apart from trash bags to make my art, but I think this plastic speaks the language of our time. Things and trends change within no time in our fast paced lifestyle - if something is very trendy or pricey today, it could become trash by tomorrow.
I Love My Dad and I Love My Mom Too have been called ‘comic’, ‘cynical’ and ‘disrespectful’? Why? Do these pieces make any comment on your relationship with your parents or other family?
Disrespectful? Interesting, this comment! In Pakistan elderly people snub youngsters with, “No one ever told you how to talk to elders?” We hide our wrongdoing in the name of respect or trends. I Love My Dad and I Love My Mom Too refers to all those who live in foreign countries and consider themselves to be ambassadors of their homeland. They are the one who will sell everything in the name of culture, religion or patriotism. If you look at the form of these sculptures, you will notice one Muslim child is carrying a larger-than-life-sized head, exactly the way people in the subcontinent carry wares on their heads and sell them on the streets. To me, when immigrants say great things about their home countries, they are trying to say they love their father or mother, but what is the big deal about that? All of us do love our parents – but we need to learn how to love other people’s parents as much as our own.
You straddle two worlds with many differences. For the US, Pakistan is not all good and vice versa. How do you maintain an emotional/intellectual balance?
Art has made me different from any ordinary individual. To look at things without preconceived ideas or a fixed mindset is a gift that my work gives to me. I can easily see and understand these differences – after all, when you see a ditch, it’s easy to avoid it. I can easily see what Pakistan is doing wrong politically and what America is doing in the name of helping others. I cannot reduce myself to become Pakistani or American; I am a human being who is trying to see things clearly without clinging on to any one thing.
Does your art reflect your life across cultures? How?
I see myself as someone who has lived all his life in the East and now lives in the West. My art is whoever I am.
What are the identities you are recycling here?
When you recycle plastic it remains plastic; but when you recycle people, they change from Indian to Pakistani, from Pakistani to American, or from Hindu to Christian and from Buddhist to Muslim. What I am trying to find out is whether there is a tiny bit of a chance that they become human, which is a greatest and truest identity.
Your sculptures show men (no women?) who are in so many ways anguished, tortured, in pain. Why?
Being a man, that is the only body I am familiar with and have the ability to say anything about. Where a woman’s body is concerned, either I would romanticize it or look at it with some preconceived ideas; I cannot do justice to it because I have very little information about it.
I think ‘anguished’, ‘tortured’ or ‘pain’ are big words for me, but I speak about the suffering one goes through in life. I know we all seek happiness and go to extremes to find it, but in reality there is only one true happiness that I am familiar with: suffering. It is when you get to that state of clarity that you understand that all other forms of happiness are a denial of suffering, which is to live a lie.
You are passionate about Urdu literature and poetry. How do you channel that in your art?
I studied in an Urdu medium school as a child, so it’s very easy for me to read and write in that language; like every other Urdu reader I am a big fan of Mirza Ghalib’s poetry. In some of my work I am exploring his romantic verses in a political context.
Art today is not just about aesthetics, but more about making statements, voicing an opinion, getting a point across. Everyone has something important to say and many artists use their inspiration to say it in a way that is ‘hatke’, different, eye-catching, attention grabbing. Forty-seven-year-old Khalil Chishtee, a Pakistani by birth who lives in the United States, has a lot to say about the world as it is now, about lost faith and belief, about courage and, with his medium, the state of the environment. He uses trash bags made of plastic, apart from other materials that somehow do not grab the same kind of attention, and has said that “This is the beauty of the contemporary art world that it understands the importance of content than durability.”
The content he creates is in the intent of his works – he explains his view that “humanity is tormented by its compulsive need to categorize and differentiate along any number of physical, cultural, political and economic factors, ignoring the obvious common denominator of our human-ness that makes us alike”. Blame II (2008), for instance, is a graphic representation of crucified martyrdom, while Broke Messiah (2009) has a male figure hung on a wall, the legs mere shreds of plastic skin. Figures suspended upside-down seem to dance, in Unbearable Lightness of Being II (2010), and I Love My Dad (2010) and I Love My Mom Too (2010) are less graceful, almost awkward and caricaturish.
Khalil studied at the National College of Art, Lahore and California State University, Sacramento, and has been part of a number of shows in the US, Pakistan, the UK, Singapore, Hong Kong and the Middle East. This is his first exhibition in Mumbai.
How would you define a “plastic age”? Or is that a literal meaning that you aim at?
'Plastic age’ means literally a plastic age. If you look around you, you would see plastic everywhere; in fact, in all new technology, plastic is the main ingredient used. This is the one material that we use the most.
Why do you use trashbags?
Although I use many materials apart from trash bags to make my art, but I think this plastic speaks the language of our time. Things and trends change within no time in our fast paced lifestyle - if something is very trendy or pricey today, it could become trash by tomorrow.
I Love My Dad and I Love My Mom Too have been called ‘comic’, ‘cynical’ and ‘disrespectful’? Why? Do these pieces make any comment on your relationship with your parents or other family?
Disrespectful? Interesting, this comment! In Pakistan elderly people snub youngsters with, “No one ever told you how to talk to elders?” We hide our wrongdoing in the name of respect or trends. I Love My Dad and I Love My Mom Too refers to all those who live in foreign countries and consider themselves to be ambassadors of their homeland. They are the one who will sell everything in the name of culture, religion or patriotism. If you look at the form of these sculptures, you will notice one Muslim child is carrying a larger-than-life-sized head, exactly the way people in the subcontinent carry wares on their heads and sell them on the streets. To me, when immigrants say great things about their home countries, they are trying to say they love their father or mother, but what is the big deal about that? All of us do love our parents – but we need to learn how to love other people’s parents as much as our own.
You straddle two worlds with many differences. For the US, Pakistan is not all good and vice versa. How do you maintain an emotional/intellectual balance?
Art has made me different from any ordinary individual. To look at things without preconceived ideas or a fixed mindset is a gift that my work gives to me. I can easily see and understand these differences – after all, when you see a ditch, it’s easy to avoid it. I can easily see what Pakistan is doing wrong politically and what America is doing in the name of helping others. I cannot reduce myself to become Pakistani or American; I am a human being who is trying to see things clearly without clinging on to any one thing.
Does your art reflect your life across cultures? How?
I see myself as someone who has lived all his life in the East and now lives in the West. My art is whoever I am.
What are the identities you are recycling here?
When you recycle plastic it remains plastic; but when you recycle people, they change from Indian to Pakistani, from Pakistani to American, or from Hindu to Christian and from Buddhist to Muslim. What I am trying to find out is whether there is a tiny bit of a chance that they become human, which is a greatest and truest identity.
Your sculptures show men (no women?) who are in so many ways anguished, tortured, in pain. Why?
Being a man, that is the only body I am familiar with and have the ability to say anything about. Where a woman’s body is concerned, either I would romanticize it or look at it with some preconceived ideas; I cannot do justice to it because I have very little information about it.
I think ‘anguished’, ‘tortured’ or ‘pain’ are big words for me, but I speak about the suffering one goes through in life. I know we all seek happiness and go to extremes to find it, but in reality there is only one true happiness that I am familiar with: suffering. It is when you get to that state of clarity that you understand that all other forms of happiness are a denial of suffering, which is to live a lie.
You are passionate about Urdu literature and poetry. How do you channel that in your art?
I studied in an Urdu medium school as a child, so it’s very easy for me to read and write in that language; like every other Urdu reader I am a big fan of Mirza Ghalib’s poetry. In some of my work I am exploring his romantic verses in a political context.
Monday, October 04, 2010
Book review
(Published in the Hindu Literary Review, Sunday, October 3)
SARASWATI PARK
by Anjali Joseph
(Harper Collins)
Anjali Joseph has been listed as one of the top 20 writers in Britain below the age of 40. Her book, Saraswati Park, has been collecting astonishingly favourable reviews, as being ‘beautifully rendered’, ‘impressively assured’, ‘unhurried gossamer prose’ that is written with ‘wit and delicacy’ and much more that is laudatory, flattering and so much else that it seems like a serious case of severe hyperbole rather than genuine critique. To some extent, this is indeed deserved, since the writing is polished, crafted, with flowing paragraphs and some interesting turns of phrase. But where it hits a roadblock, for me at least, as reader, reviewer, is the story itself.
Saraswati Park is about a man and his family who live in Saraswati Park, a housing ‘society’, as it is called in Mumbai, a Harbour Line ride away in the suburbs. It is a small bubble of slow calm, as many of these places still can be in the metropolis, where neighbours become family and the troubles of one are shared by all those who exist closely around them. Many of these matters are never acknowledged aloud, but are known and sympathised with, often discussed over the dining table around the high-low din of prime time soaps and mulled over through the afternoon episodes. It is the women who are keepers of all secrets, who have the discretion of a spy with the intuition of a fisherwoman. Even in the thick of the hustle and hurry world that is the city, in the very centre of all the activity, outside one of the busiest commuter stations in the world, there is a tiny oasis where time, like the cliché, seems to have stopped, or slowed down enough to be caught in a long time ago. Just outside the General Post Office, close to where the hordes pour out of VT station, as it is still fondly known, under a tree on a small traffic island sit eight or nine letter writers. They do write the occasional letter, but are more occupied, when they are, with packing small parcels, filling in forms for job applicants, helping sex workers send money home to the village, advising folk on all things postal and perhaps occasionally playing counsellor, psychiatrist and mentor.
Mohan Karekar is one such gentleman, who lives his life in a very understated manner. What gets him excited is books; he dreams of one day writing his own, and scribbles possible plot lines and incidences in the margins of the books he buys from the constantly endangered breed of pavement booksellers. His life at home is mundane, everyday, but in quiet crisis, with his wife not happy but not especially unhappy either, not completely accepting that reality but trying to escape it in her own quiet way. His nephew, who comes to stay and study, is gay, but manages to hide it, or so he believes, from everyone who actually knows but is tactful enough to be silent.
In the telling of the story, there are some issues that a reader, especially a Mumbaikar with a certain love for the city, will balk at. Why does Mohan, also a Mumbaikar, work as a letter-writer, even though he was not able to go to college after his father’s business went bust? And if this is all he does, and does not use the money his daughter in America sends him, how does he maintain his standard of living? According to Joseph, who says that “essentially the family is not moneyed, though his children are doing really well,” it is how the story goes. “There are just a lot of potential contradictions involved in that very wide description of being middle class – it could mean people who go out and spend a lot of money shopping on weekends, or it could mean people who are really working hard to pay their children’s school fees. This is just one of the things it does mean. I began to really like the idea of this person who is not unemotional, it is not that he does not care about his own family and cares about other people’s, but at the same time there is this intrinsic detachment. And also he is not a go getter, the new driving Bombay.”
This is a very polite book, one that skims the surface of a vibrant, multidimensional, bustling metropolis, never getting too deep into uncomfortable reality or even capturing it in words. An easy pleasant read, but not a particularly memorable one.
SARASWATI PARK
by Anjali Joseph
(Harper Collins)
Anjali Joseph has been listed as one of the top 20 writers in Britain below the age of 40. Her book, Saraswati Park, has been collecting astonishingly favourable reviews, as being ‘beautifully rendered’, ‘impressively assured’, ‘unhurried gossamer prose’ that is written with ‘wit and delicacy’ and much more that is laudatory, flattering and so much else that it seems like a serious case of severe hyperbole rather than genuine critique. To some extent, this is indeed deserved, since the writing is polished, crafted, with flowing paragraphs and some interesting turns of phrase. But where it hits a roadblock, for me at least, as reader, reviewer, is the story itself.
Saraswati Park is about a man and his family who live in Saraswati Park, a housing ‘society’, as it is called in Mumbai, a Harbour Line ride away in the suburbs. It is a small bubble of slow calm, as many of these places still can be in the metropolis, where neighbours become family and the troubles of one are shared by all those who exist closely around them. Many of these matters are never acknowledged aloud, but are known and sympathised with, often discussed over the dining table around the high-low din of prime time soaps and mulled over through the afternoon episodes. It is the women who are keepers of all secrets, who have the discretion of a spy with the intuition of a fisherwoman. Even in the thick of the hustle and hurry world that is the city, in the very centre of all the activity, outside one of the busiest commuter stations in the world, there is a tiny oasis where time, like the cliché, seems to have stopped, or slowed down enough to be caught in a long time ago. Just outside the General Post Office, close to where the hordes pour out of VT station, as it is still fondly known, under a tree on a small traffic island sit eight or nine letter writers. They do write the occasional letter, but are more occupied, when they are, with packing small parcels, filling in forms for job applicants, helping sex workers send money home to the village, advising folk on all things postal and perhaps occasionally playing counsellor, psychiatrist and mentor.
Mohan Karekar is one such gentleman, who lives his life in a very understated manner. What gets him excited is books; he dreams of one day writing his own, and scribbles possible plot lines and incidences in the margins of the books he buys from the constantly endangered breed of pavement booksellers. His life at home is mundane, everyday, but in quiet crisis, with his wife not happy but not especially unhappy either, not completely accepting that reality but trying to escape it in her own quiet way. His nephew, who comes to stay and study, is gay, but manages to hide it, or so he believes, from everyone who actually knows but is tactful enough to be silent.
In the telling of the story, there are some issues that a reader, especially a Mumbaikar with a certain love for the city, will balk at. Why does Mohan, also a Mumbaikar, work as a letter-writer, even though he was not able to go to college after his father’s business went bust? And if this is all he does, and does not use the money his daughter in America sends him, how does he maintain his standard of living? According to Joseph, who says that “essentially the family is not moneyed, though his children are doing really well,” it is how the story goes. “There are just a lot of potential contradictions involved in that very wide description of being middle class – it could mean people who go out and spend a lot of money shopping on weekends, or it could mean people who are really working hard to pay their children’s school fees. This is just one of the things it does mean. I began to really like the idea of this person who is not unemotional, it is not that he does not care about his own family and cares about other people’s, but at the same time there is this intrinsic detachment. And also he is not a go getter, the new driving Bombay.”
This is a very polite book, one that skims the surface of a vibrant, multidimensional, bustling metropolis, never getting too deep into uncomfortable reality or even capturing it in words. An easy pleasant read, but not a particularly memorable one.
I, me, myself
(Published in The Times of India Crest edition, last weekend)
When G Stanley Hall stated that the single child situation was “a disease in itself”, he left himself wide open for future pillory. Since then, the myth that an only child is spoiled, selfish, bratty and overindulged has been smashed often enough for it to become a tired joke. The reality is that only children are indeed more privileged, in that they have more resources at their command, more attention since it is not divided, more parental attention and, thus, more potential to develop into truly interesting individuals. There are issues like a lack of competitiveness, a feeling of complacency and some social maladjustment, but those are individual-dependent. What does seem to be unique is a sense of being alone, a lack of a support structure that a child with siblings would almost automatically have, never mind that intra-family stress may come in the way.
As N Meenakshi, a single 40-something writer puts it, “My parents chose to have me and no more, because they wanted to give me the best. But once I grew up and various crises happened, I realised it was not all joy!” She refers to the time when her mother fell ill, when she herself had to deal with the aftermath of major surgery and then, more recently, when her mother passed away. “Now that there is only me and my father, I get unimaginably stressed when either of us falls ill. And as Dad gets older, I worry more, about everything, major, minor and silly. If he even coughs, I start thinking of all sorts of horrendous possibilities and I am paranoid that some day he will not wake up - I don’t think I have slept well in years now!”
Dancer Alarmel Valli married fairly late and is based in Chennai, while her husband lives in Delhi. As an only child, she has understood that “Ultimately, one has to rely on oneself. Of course, it is more easily said than done!” Even though she grew up with a host of cousins to play with, she remembers that “I was a bit of a weakling, so with boys playing boisterous games, I would be an outsider. Books were my companions. Only children have to create their own worlds; they don’t feel alone - the world of imagination is very real.” This looking inwards to find companionship helped her “formulate ideas; there was a constant dialogue going on in my head. This has a tendency to tuck you away from the rest, but then you get used to the idea and you find a lot of beauty and strength from it. You get more introspective, which helped in my dance.”
Art expert Ranjit Hoskote found that “As a child, an only child, I found I could live, effectively, in a rich interior reality without being disturbed. You get your parents' nurturing attention - in my parents' generation, this attention was truly nurturing and balanced, giving the child his/ her own space and time. It was not overwhelming or obsessive, as I find it to be among my own contemporaries who are parents.” But it has its downside, he admits, in “a periodic sense of isolation. And, as you grow older, a sibling to share duties with would be a good idea.” There is a sense of responsibility that sets it, he finds, however capable and active the parent (s) may be. “As they grow older, I (more than they themselves) feel more protective, anticipating things they might need, ways in which I could help them deal with a fast-changing present. My mother jokes that our roles have now been reversed!”
In the laughter, there is one overwhelming byte of reality that only children get more aware of as they get older: parents are also getting older and will not be with them for ever. As Hoskote says, “A sensitive point indeed, and one that only children will be haunted by but never articulate.” As children grow up, find their own lives, but with maturity, age and perhaps parenthood comes a strangely insidious insecurity. “The insecurity probably comes from a gradual distance that the years inevitably bring about, from the Golden Age of childhood and the sense of near-perfect serenity, nurture, emotional expansiveness and creative possibility of the family of three people. Especially as a citadel against a confusing world. So the insecurity is a more general awareness of growing up.”
According to psychiatrist Dr Ashit Sheth, it’s “all about how the parents go about it – most times, parents do not address issues” that bother only children later in life. “I can understand that the pain-bearing capacity of an only child is less,” he says, “since he or she has not learned to face difficulty, how to compete (for time, attention and privileges), and may be afraid about coping with responsibility as they get older.” Parents need to address these issues, he feels, though “in our kind of society set up there will always be relatives, some family, to help” in a crisis situation. “Children know that they will have to take care of aged parents, but parents should bring to their notice that they need to be ready for that kind of responsibility and must rise to their own potential rather than be pampered and spoon-fed.” Marriage, Sheth believes, is inevitable, with children to follow, which provides a support structure in itself. “These are issues more abroad; in India, we have family bonds that protect only children.”
Valli believes that “As you get older, the only child thing starts becoming a bane at times. I had a rich inner life as a child, now my life is extremely creative, as a dancer and with my students.” For her, her mother was the anchor, “a very uncompromising mirror that never distorts a reflection. She has been there for me right from the time I first started going to dance class – I carry the values of dance and in life that she instilled in me.” Her father, whom she calls a “good man, a kind, gentle soul” may have “spoiled me silly if not for my mother. Now that she is older and not in the best of health, she is still very much there to provide moral support. But as one gets older, that same support structure starts being eroded; there is a great sense of insecurity.”
Insecurity is what dentist Dr Pankaj Mehta, father of an only son, occasionally feels. “We could afford only one at that time, but now I think we should have had another child.” He finds that he and his wife are starting to worry about him being alone, “but he does not really bother. In fact, he is planning to have only one child too!” The worry works both ways. Meenakshi finds that, particularly since she is single and has no children, “I worry about Dad, but now I find that I am worrying about myself too. In fact, ever since the news of how Parveen Babi died alone came out, I get terribly stressed about how I could die alone in my home and not be found until much later!” But she, like so many others, knows that at times when she needs them, friends become family and stand by her. “It happened when my mother died – a friend from work came along and became family. Even today, Anita has a special place in our home and hearts for her unstinting support when we needed it!” Hoskote’s parents react to his occasionally paranoid concern “with patience and a very warm amusement,” he smiles. “Being an only child sounds tough, but maybe that's not such a bad thing to have gone through after all! And, over the years, as only children, we find our siblings among our friends. And they can be closer than blood.”
Valli agrees: “I try and tie together 100 things at the same time - this is when one feels the lack of a family structure, brothers and sisters who actively help, offer input, ease the pressure. If you are not with these people in the place that is the wellspring of one’s creative inspiration it gets increasingly insecure; as your parents get old or pass away, you do feel more alone. I think it is a boon and a bane to be an only child. If I had not been an only child, my mother may not have been able to dedicate herself to me as completely as she did. I may not have been able to focus so completely on my dance if I had not had that isolation. You grow used to being by yourself, through living with your own thoughts and you don’t feel as alone as some people would when constantly surrounded by people. I even holiday alone, don’t feel at all bereft. But when my mother fell ill, it was quite frightening, panic stricken, at that point I was eternally grateful to have friends, cousins, husband, etc.”
Most of all, Meenakshi has learned, “It takes a great deal of courage. You find that strength from somewhere, a strength you never knew you had. It hurts like crazy, and I get really tired of being told I am a ‘strong person’, but you survive, you occasionally go on auto-pilot and keep bashing on. After all, there is always a deadline that you need to meet and a story you have to write!” Valli avers that “You need to have faith that you are not alone, you have to have the confidence that you come through that, that you have that inner core of strength that allows you to cope. One has to aspire towards creating that inner core of strength – the purnatvam, of fullness, fulfilment, sense of power.”
When G Stanley Hall stated that the single child situation was “a disease in itself”, he left himself wide open for future pillory. Since then, the myth that an only child is spoiled, selfish, bratty and overindulged has been smashed often enough for it to become a tired joke. The reality is that only children are indeed more privileged, in that they have more resources at their command, more attention since it is not divided, more parental attention and, thus, more potential to develop into truly interesting individuals. There are issues like a lack of competitiveness, a feeling of complacency and some social maladjustment, but those are individual-dependent. What does seem to be unique is a sense of being alone, a lack of a support structure that a child with siblings would almost automatically have, never mind that intra-family stress may come in the way.
As N Meenakshi, a single 40-something writer puts it, “My parents chose to have me and no more, because they wanted to give me the best. But once I grew up and various crises happened, I realised it was not all joy!” She refers to the time when her mother fell ill, when she herself had to deal with the aftermath of major surgery and then, more recently, when her mother passed away. “Now that there is only me and my father, I get unimaginably stressed when either of us falls ill. And as Dad gets older, I worry more, about everything, major, minor and silly. If he even coughs, I start thinking of all sorts of horrendous possibilities and I am paranoid that some day he will not wake up - I don’t think I have slept well in years now!”
Dancer Alarmel Valli married fairly late and is based in Chennai, while her husband lives in Delhi. As an only child, she has understood that “Ultimately, one has to rely on oneself. Of course, it is more easily said than done!” Even though she grew up with a host of cousins to play with, she remembers that “I was a bit of a weakling, so with boys playing boisterous games, I would be an outsider. Books were my companions. Only children have to create their own worlds; they don’t feel alone - the world of imagination is very real.” This looking inwards to find companionship helped her “formulate ideas; there was a constant dialogue going on in my head. This has a tendency to tuck you away from the rest, but then you get used to the idea and you find a lot of beauty and strength from it. You get more introspective, which helped in my dance.”
Art expert Ranjit Hoskote found that “As a child, an only child, I found I could live, effectively, in a rich interior reality without being disturbed. You get your parents' nurturing attention - in my parents' generation, this attention was truly nurturing and balanced, giving the child his/ her own space and time. It was not overwhelming or obsessive, as I find it to be among my own contemporaries who are parents.” But it has its downside, he admits, in “a periodic sense of isolation. And, as you grow older, a sibling to share duties with would be a good idea.” There is a sense of responsibility that sets it, he finds, however capable and active the parent (s) may be. “As they grow older, I (more than they themselves) feel more protective, anticipating things they might need, ways in which I could help them deal with a fast-changing present. My mother jokes that our roles have now been reversed!”
In the laughter, there is one overwhelming byte of reality that only children get more aware of as they get older: parents are also getting older and will not be with them for ever. As Hoskote says, “A sensitive point indeed, and one that only children will be haunted by but never articulate.” As children grow up, find their own lives, but with maturity, age and perhaps parenthood comes a strangely insidious insecurity. “The insecurity probably comes from a gradual distance that the years inevitably bring about, from the Golden Age of childhood and the sense of near-perfect serenity, nurture, emotional expansiveness and creative possibility of the family of three people. Especially as a citadel against a confusing world. So the insecurity is a more general awareness of growing up.”
According to psychiatrist Dr Ashit Sheth, it’s “all about how the parents go about it – most times, parents do not address issues” that bother only children later in life. “I can understand that the pain-bearing capacity of an only child is less,” he says, “since he or she has not learned to face difficulty, how to compete (for time, attention and privileges), and may be afraid about coping with responsibility as they get older.” Parents need to address these issues, he feels, though “in our kind of society set up there will always be relatives, some family, to help” in a crisis situation. “Children know that they will have to take care of aged parents, but parents should bring to their notice that they need to be ready for that kind of responsibility and must rise to their own potential rather than be pampered and spoon-fed.” Marriage, Sheth believes, is inevitable, with children to follow, which provides a support structure in itself. “These are issues more abroad; in India, we have family bonds that protect only children.”
Valli believes that “As you get older, the only child thing starts becoming a bane at times. I had a rich inner life as a child, now my life is extremely creative, as a dancer and with my students.” For her, her mother was the anchor, “a very uncompromising mirror that never distorts a reflection. She has been there for me right from the time I first started going to dance class – I carry the values of dance and in life that she instilled in me.” Her father, whom she calls a “good man, a kind, gentle soul” may have “spoiled me silly if not for my mother. Now that she is older and not in the best of health, she is still very much there to provide moral support. But as one gets older, that same support structure starts being eroded; there is a great sense of insecurity.”
Insecurity is what dentist Dr Pankaj Mehta, father of an only son, occasionally feels. “We could afford only one at that time, but now I think we should have had another child.” He finds that he and his wife are starting to worry about him being alone, “but he does not really bother. In fact, he is planning to have only one child too!” The worry works both ways. Meenakshi finds that, particularly since she is single and has no children, “I worry about Dad, but now I find that I am worrying about myself too. In fact, ever since the news of how Parveen Babi died alone came out, I get terribly stressed about how I could die alone in my home and not be found until much later!” But she, like so many others, knows that at times when she needs them, friends become family and stand by her. “It happened when my mother died – a friend from work came along and became family. Even today, Anita has a special place in our home and hearts for her unstinting support when we needed it!” Hoskote’s parents react to his occasionally paranoid concern “with patience and a very warm amusement,” he smiles. “Being an only child sounds tough, but maybe that's not such a bad thing to have gone through after all! And, over the years, as only children, we find our siblings among our friends. And they can be closer than blood.”
Valli agrees: “I try and tie together 100 things at the same time - this is when one feels the lack of a family structure, brothers and sisters who actively help, offer input, ease the pressure. If you are not with these people in the place that is the wellspring of one’s creative inspiration it gets increasingly insecure; as your parents get old or pass away, you do feel more alone. I think it is a boon and a bane to be an only child. If I had not been an only child, my mother may not have been able to dedicate herself to me as completely as she did. I may not have been able to focus so completely on my dance if I had not had that isolation. You grow used to being by yourself, through living with your own thoughts and you don’t feel as alone as some people would when constantly surrounded by people. I even holiday alone, don’t feel at all bereft. But when my mother fell ill, it was quite frightening, panic stricken, at that point I was eternally grateful to have friends, cousins, husband, etc.”
Most of all, Meenakshi has learned, “It takes a great deal of courage. You find that strength from somewhere, a strength you never knew you had. It hurts like crazy, and I get really tired of being told I am a ‘strong person’, but you survive, you occasionally go on auto-pilot and keep bashing on. After all, there is always a deadline that you need to meet and a story you have to write!” Valli avers that “You need to have faith that you are not alone, you have to have the confidence that you come through that, that you have that inner core of strength that allows you to cope. One has to aspire towards creating that inner core of strength – the purnatvam, of fullness, fulfilment, sense of power.”
Fasting, feasting
(Published in The Bengal Post, Sunday, September 26)
Fasting is an integral part of religion, especially in India, where so many faiths co-exist, occasionally blending to create an entirely new concept with its own sounds, symbols and sensations. While to abstain from food is sometimes advocated for health reasons, it is most often a voluntary abstinence, done with one eye on heaven, but the mind firmly in the stomach. Perhaps ironically, many communities ‘allow’ foods that would generally be considered ‘junk’, from potato crisps to ghee-soaked fried bananas, making a day of fast rather more delicious than any other more healthy time!
The concept of restriction food in any way is not limited to India. In fact, almost every part of the world observes some kind of fasting period, with exceptions for the very old, the very young, the pregnant, the infirm and the unable (those travelling, labourers or people otherwise physically stressed). The Bahá'à faith, for instance, mandates fasting – complete abstinence from food and drink - from sunrise to sunset during the month of Ala (March 2-March 20). While Buddhists do not fast, per se, they do avoid eating after a meal at noon at least about once a week, as per the Buddha’s teachings: “Not eating a meal in the evening you too will be aware of good health... and living in comfort.” Christianity varies by denomination over the practice of not eating, but the most familiar is the Lenten period, when a partial fast is maintained for 40 days between Ash Wednesday and Easter to commemorate the time that Jesus went food-less in the desert. The Jewish faith demands complete austerity, with no food or drink, not even water to brush teeth in major fast days like Yom Kippur and Tisha B'Av.
Islam upholds fasting as the third of the five pillars of the faith. Ramzan is the most notable time for this abstinence, where people eat before dawn or after dusk, avoiding food, water, fighting, lying, sex and more in between. It is believed that by this, a Muslim gains taqwa, or the awareness of God, along with protection from hell, brings about a feeling of brotherly love and teaches the virtues of control, charity and austerity. The Jains fast to attain a state of ahimsa, or totally non-violence, doing so primarily during Paryushan, a period that recently passed, mainly to decrease desire for the physical world and gain spiritual bliss. The Sikhs, in contrast, do not follow the practice, since the holy book, the Sri Guru Granth Sahib, states that “Fasting, daily rituals, and austere self-discipline - those who keep the practice of these, are rewarded with less than a shell.”
Hinduism, like almost any other faith, has complex rules of fasting and, of course, its polar opposite, feasting. Sravan, the holy month that was over a couple of weeks ago, was about a certain degree of abstinence, with no alcohol, meat or certain other foods and habits. Ekadashi, Pradosha and Purnima, for instance, are specific days of every month where people do fast. Different Gods demand different restraints: for Shiva, Mondays mean no food, while for Vishnu, Fridays and Saturdays are hungry. In South India, devotees of Mariamman do not eat between sunrise and sunset on Tuesdays, while in North India Thursday tends to be a day of abstinence. It is particularly at this time of year, when the major Hindu festivals like Ganesh Chaturti, Navratri, Durga Puja and Diwali come around that food finds centrestage. The mornings will be filled with the sounds and sights of prayer, meditation and ritual, while the evenings are a time of celebration – after the prayer lamps are lighted, the feasting begins, especially for Gods like Krishna (Gokulashtami) and Shiva (Mahashivratri). For Ganesha, the elephant-headed God who has just gone home (on or a few days before Anant Chaturdashi) after a ten-day stay at the homes of his devotees, it is all about food –bananas, sugarcane, modaks, all that any self-respective young elephant would relish!
Fasting has to balance need with the dietary restrictions prescribed by the ancient texts. This has given rise to a whole library of cuisine, from the peanut-rich recipes of Maharashtra to the arbi undhiyo of Gujarat and the roti kootu of South India. Favourites will include elements such as sago, potato, sweet potato and banana. Here are a couple of easy and familiar recipes:
Sabudana khichdi (sago pulao)
1 cup sago washed, drained and left to stand for 1 hour (should squash fairly easily when pressed between the fingers)
2 tbs oil
1 medium potato, cubed
1/2 tsp cumin
1-2 green chillies finely chopped
chopped coriander leaves to garnish
salt to taste
roasted peanuts
Fry the potatoes till brown and slightly crisp and keep aside. Crackle cumin, add chillies and sago. Stir constantly over medium heat. Add salt and potatoes. Sprinkle over with peanuts and coriander leaves. Eat hot.
Banana varuval (Kerala banana chips)
(Use red bananas or the raw green ones)
Peel the bananas
Slice directly into hot oil using a mandoline
Sprinkle salted water into the oil during the frying (CAREFULLY!)
Drain the crisp chips.
Add more seasoning if wanted.
Eat warm or store in an airtight container.
Fasting is an integral part of religion, especially in India, where so many faiths co-exist, occasionally blending to create an entirely new concept with its own sounds, symbols and sensations. While to abstain from food is sometimes advocated for health reasons, it is most often a voluntary abstinence, done with one eye on heaven, but the mind firmly in the stomach. Perhaps ironically, many communities ‘allow’ foods that would generally be considered ‘junk’, from potato crisps to ghee-soaked fried bananas, making a day of fast rather more delicious than any other more healthy time!
The concept of restriction food in any way is not limited to India. In fact, almost every part of the world observes some kind of fasting period, with exceptions for the very old, the very young, the pregnant, the infirm and the unable (those travelling, labourers or people otherwise physically stressed). The Bahá'à faith, for instance, mandates fasting – complete abstinence from food and drink - from sunrise to sunset during the month of Ala (March 2-March 20). While Buddhists do not fast, per se, they do avoid eating after a meal at noon at least about once a week, as per the Buddha’s teachings: “Not eating a meal in the evening you too will be aware of good health... and living in comfort.” Christianity varies by denomination over the practice of not eating, but the most familiar is the Lenten period, when a partial fast is maintained for 40 days between Ash Wednesday and Easter to commemorate the time that Jesus went food-less in the desert. The Jewish faith demands complete austerity, with no food or drink, not even water to brush teeth in major fast days like Yom Kippur and Tisha B'Av.
Islam upholds fasting as the third of the five pillars of the faith. Ramzan is the most notable time for this abstinence, where people eat before dawn or after dusk, avoiding food, water, fighting, lying, sex and more in between. It is believed that by this, a Muslim gains taqwa, or the awareness of God, along with protection from hell, brings about a feeling of brotherly love and teaches the virtues of control, charity and austerity. The Jains fast to attain a state of ahimsa, or totally non-violence, doing so primarily during Paryushan, a period that recently passed, mainly to decrease desire for the physical world and gain spiritual bliss. The Sikhs, in contrast, do not follow the practice, since the holy book, the Sri Guru Granth Sahib, states that “Fasting, daily rituals, and austere self-discipline - those who keep the practice of these, are rewarded with less than a shell.”
Hinduism, like almost any other faith, has complex rules of fasting and, of course, its polar opposite, feasting. Sravan, the holy month that was over a couple of weeks ago, was about a certain degree of abstinence, with no alcohol, meat or certain other foods and habits. Ekadashi, Pradosha and Purnima, for instance, are specific days of every month where people do fast. Different Gods demand different restraints: for Shiva, Mondays mean no food, while for Vishnu, Fridays and Saturdays are hungry. In South India, devotees of Mariamman do not eat between sunrise and sunset on Tuesdays, while in North India Thursday tends to be a day of abstinence. It is particularly at this time of year, when the major Hindu festivals like Ganesh Chaturti, Navratri, Durga Puja and Diwali come around that food finds centrestage. The mornings will be filled with the sounds and sights of prayer, meditation and ritual, while the evenings are a time of celebration – after the prayer lamps are lighted, the feasting begins, especially for Gods like Krishna (Gokulashtami) and Shiva (Mahashivratri). For Ganesha, the elephant-headed God who has just gone home (on or a few days before Anant Chaturdashi) after a ten-day stay at the homes of his devotees, it is all about food –bananas, sugarcane, modaks, all that any self-respective young elephant would relish!
Fasting has to balance need with the dietary restrictions prescribed by the ancient texts. This has given rise to a whole library of cuisine, from the peanut-rich recipes of Maharashtra to the arbi undhiyo of Gujarat and the roti kootu of South India. Favourites will include elements such as sago, potato, sweet potato and banana. Here are a couple of easy and familiar recipes:
Sabudana khichdi (sago pulao)
1 cup sago washed, drained and left to stand for 1 hour (should squash fairly easily when pressed between the fingers)
2 tbs oil
1 medium potato, cubed
1/2 tsp cumin
1-2 green chillies finely chopped
chopped coriander leaves to garnish
salt to taste
roasted peanuts
Fry the potatoes till brown and slightly crisp and keep aside. Crackle cumin, add chillies and sago. Stir constantly over medium heat. Add salt and potatoes. Sprinkle over with peanuts and coriander leaves. Eat hot.
Banana varuval (Kerala banana chips)
(Use red bananas or the raw green ones)
Peel the bananas
Slice directly into hot oil using a mandoline
Sprinkle salted water into the oil during the frying (CAREFULLY!)
Drain the crisp chips.
Add more seasoning if wanted.
Eat warm or store in an airtight container.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
A pressing need
(In TOI Sunday, September 20)
Once upon a time if you needed something ironed, you could send it down to the streetcorner istriwala and have it back within minutes, warm and smelling vaguely of charcoal and camphor. This was a comfort during the monsoon, when clothes never really dried properly and the general atmosphere of dank sank like a cloud over the house. Today, the streetcorners are more likely to house a PCO or a fast food delivery kitchen, many of the istriwalas having bloomed into full-scale laundries/dry cleaners or moved to a more heavily populated area with a guaranteed customer base. The service is still available, but many who provide it also provide home-delivery and take rather longer to finish the job. One reason for this – apart from the fact that stylish non-iron clothing is so easily available in chain stores and the number of laundries with storefronts and thus greater respectability and accessibility have increased – is the affordability and availability of irons that can help even the busiest executive do the job at home. And yes, these can even be bought over the Internet, with many discounts and special offers, making it all a win-win situation.
A basic household small appliance, an iron comes with various factors that any buyer will need to check on. Many people visiting the United States bring back an iron with all the bells and whistles that a Na’avi (if they ever wore clothes that needed ironing, that is) may have dreamed up, and then find that the wattage is not right and a transformer is needed. And wattage plays a starring role in the price point too, since the higher the watts, the hotter the iron can get, thus the easier and quicker the ironing will be. And, with each bell or whistle attached, the price goes up. Essentially, an iron is best if it can give you, the ironer, steam, an easy-to-fill water reservoir, a non-stick soleplate (the bottom of the iron, which actually touches the fabric), variable heat/fabric settings and other optional features, like automatic switch-off, a light/sound indicator that flashes or beeps to say the iron is ready for use, et al. Of course, the warranty of the gadget must be checked and, the less friendly the salesperson involved in the transaction, the more difficult it will be to get any kind of post-sales service for it.
Ironing is a necessary chore, but is based on science. The heat generated serves to loosen the chemical bonds between long-chain polymer molecules in fabric, while the weight of the appliance stretches and straightens them, thus making the cloth flat and smooth as it cools. Sometimes the molecules need to be nudged apart by water, which is where a steam iron comes in handy, best for cottons, linens and pure silks. Synthetic materials have a lower melting point, which is why they smell when ironed and may cringe away from the heat by shrivelling up – something everyone who has ironed anything made of polyester or nylon will know. Ironing also can be used to dry clothing and kill some small bug-eggs or germs, but is not a good way to straighten hair, even though the gadget that does that is also called an ‘iron’.
The market has dry irons and the more popular steam/spray irons on offer, with a few travel irons also available. The last will be small, compact and usually not use steam, making it easy to pack and take through airport customs without trouble, unlike the average knuckleduster or set of batteries. Most commonly seen in department stores, be it Hypercity or Big Bazaar or any other, or in electronics outlets like Croma, Kings, Vijay Sales or Kohinoor, to name just a couple, they come in a bewildering range of options, from colour to capacity, brand, service record and so much more. Some of the most commonly seen include – from Black & Decker: steam iron X775 ( 1,918), X1015 auto shut-off steam iron ( 2,961), X1015 auto shut-off steam iron ( 2,961), X1060 1900 W cordless iron ( 3,487); from Panasonic: NI-S200TS steam iron ( 1,649), NI-W410TS steam iron ( 2,859), NI-S500TS steam iron ( 2,089); from Philips: 3300 series steam iron ( 4,195.00), 2500 series steam iron, dripstop ( 2,995.00), Azur steam iron ( 5,295.00), travel iron ( 1,795.00, steam boost), 1700 series steam iron ( 3,095.00); from Morphy Richards: Astra: (750 watts, 545), Senora (1000 watts, 599), Orbit travel iron ( 1795), Comfigrip Precise Control ( 3995), Comfi-grip Pro ( 2995) and other like the Anjali Ecopress ( 585), Magic Sleek dry iron ( 470), Bajaj non-stick iron ( 890), Kenstar dry iron ( 450), Maharaja Whiteline steam iron with ceramic coating ( 889), the funky Birla Lifestyle BEL-9023 cordless iron ( 1,615) and the Mini travel iron ( 449). There are too many to list completely, but read the fine print, choose your colour and get set to press!
How to iron:
• Use an ironing board.
• Check instructions on the garment tag and adjust iron settings.
• Use high heat for cotton and linen, medium for cotton blends and wool and low for nylon, polyester and other synthetics. Good pure silks can be steam ironed, but check on a small inside corner first.
• Make sure the steam iron reservoir is not empty.
• Stretch the garment flat on the ironing board to save some effort.
• Never leave the iron on and flat on your clothes – not unless you want some interesting burn effects!
• A drop of perfume in the reservoir water can make your clothes smell better, but make sure to clean the iron properly.
Once upon a time if you needed something ironed, you could send it down to the streetcorner istriwala and have it back within minutes, warm and smelling vaguely of charcoal and camphor. This was a comfort during the monsoon, when clothes never really dried properly and the general atmosphere of dank sank like a cloud over the house. Today, the streetcorners are more likely to house a PCO or a fast food delivery kitchen, many of the istriwalas having bloomed into full-scale laundries/dry cleaners or moved to a more heavily populated area with a guaranteed customer base. The service is still available, but many who provide it also provide home-delivery and take rather longer to finish the job. One reason for this – apart from the fact that stylish non-iron clothing is so easily available in chain stores and the number of laundries with storefronts and thus greater respectability and accessibility have increased – is the affordability and availability of irons that can help even the busiest executive do the job at home. And yes, these can even be bought over the Internet, with many discounts and special offers, making it all a win-win situation.
A basic household small appliance, an iron comes with various factors that any buyer will need to check on. Many people visiting the United States bring back an iron with all the bells and whistles that a Na’avi (if they ever wore clothes that needed ironing, that is) may have dreamed up, and then find that the wattage is not right and a transformer is needed. And wattage plays a starring role in the price point too, since the higher the watts, the hotter the iron can get, thus the easier and quicker the ironing will be. And, with each bell or whistle attached, the price goes up. Essentially, an iron is best if it can give you, the ironer, steam, an easy-to-fill water reservoir, a non-stick soleplate (the bottom of the iron, which actually touches the fabric), variable heat/fabric settings and other optional features, like automatic switch-off, a light/sound indicator that flashes or beeps to say the iron is ready for use, et al. Of course, the warranty of the gadget must be checked and, the less friendly the salesperson involved in the transaction, the more difficult it will be to get any kind of post-sales service for it.
Ironing is a necessary chore, but is based on science. The heat generated serves to loosen the chemical bonds between long-chain polymer molecules in fabric, while the weight of the appliance stretches and straightens them, thus making the cloth flat and smooth as it cools. Sometimes the molecules need to be nudged apart by water, which is where a steam iron comes in handy, best for cottons, linens and pure silks. Synthetic materials have a lower melting point, which is why they smell when ironed and may cringe away from the heat by shrivelling up – something everyone who has ironed anything made of polyester or nylon will know. Ironing also can be used to dry clothing and kill some small bug-eggs or germs, but is not a good way to straighten hair, even though the gadget that does that is also called an ‘iron’.
The market has dry irons and the more popular steam/spray irons on offer, with a few travel irons also available. The last will be small, compact and usually not use steam, making it easy to pack and take through airport customs without trouble, unlike the average knuckleduster or set of batteries. Most commonly seen in department stores, be it Hypercity or Big Bazaar or any other, or in electronics outlets like Croma, Kings, Vijay Sales or Kohinoor, to name just a couple, they come in a bewildering range of options, from colour to capacity, brand, service record and so much more. Some of the most commonly seen include – from Black & Decker: steam iron X775 ( 1,918), X1015 auto shut-off steam iron ( 2,961), X1015 auto shut-off steam iron ( 2,961), X1060 1900 W cordless iron ( 3,487); from Panasonic: NI-S200TS steam iron ( 1,649), NI-W410TS steam iron ( 2,859), NI-S500TS steam iron ( 2,089); from Philips: 3300 series steam iron ( 4,195.00), 2500 series steam iron, dripstop ( 2,995.00), Azur steam iron ( 5,295.00), travel iron ( 1,795.00, steam boost), 1700 series steam iron ( 3,095.00); from Morphy Richards: Astra: (750 watts, 545), Senora (1000 watts, 599), Orbit travel iron ( 1795), Comfigrip Precise Control ( 3995), Comfi-grip Pro ( 2995) and other like the Anjali Ecopress ( 585), Magic Sleek dry iron ( 470), Bajaj non-stick iron ( 890), Kenstar dry iron ( 450), Maharaja Whiteline steam iron with ceramic coating ( 889), the funky Birla Lifestyle BEL-9023 cordless iron ( 1,615) and the Mini travel iron ( 449). There are too many to list completely, but read the fine print, choose your colour and get set to press!
How to iron:
• Use an ironing board.
• Check instructions on the garment tag and adjust iron settings.
• Use high heat for cotton and linen, medium for cotton blends and wool and low for nylon, polyester and other synthetics. Good pure silks can be steam ironed, but check on a small inside corner first.
• Make sure the steam iron reservoir is not empty.
• Stretch the garment flat on the ironing board to save some effort.
• Never leave the iron on and flat on your clothes – not unless you want some interesting burn effects!
• A drop of perfume in the reservoir water can make your clothes smell better, but make sure to clean the iron properly.
Book review
(TOI Crest, Saturday, September 19)
ROOM by Emma Donoghue
Sometimes all it takes is a little imagination to make something better than it is. Add a few real-life ingredients, stir in a little helping of ‘what-if’, let it simmer into a nightmare and it is lifted beyond the realm of the mundane into an award-winner, or a potential one. Room is a little like that. On the longlist for the Man Booker Prize 2010, it acts as a kind of literary sledgehammer to bring home the nasty realism of events that have been unfolding the world over – the captivity of young women for many years by some man who could be a stranger, could be a father, but is, almost always, a twisted psyche. There was the Josef Fritzl in Austria, who imprisoned his daughter Elizabeth for 24 years, raped and physically abused her, fathering eight children, one miscarried, one murdered by neglect of illness. Then there was Jaycee Lee Dugard of California, missing for 18 years, held in a small tent in a backyard, with two children from her captor. Lydia Gouardo was locked up by her legal (but not biological) father for 28 years and had six children with him. In Mumbai, two girls were rescued last year after ten years of abuse by their businessman father. Many more such horror stories have been unearthed each week, some even beyond the limits of a sane imagination.
Emma Donoghue taps into this nightmarish vein in Room. In some ways, the writing and the story are simplistic and naïve, without the flavour of genuine emotion or any kind of sophistication of narration. But in that itself there is a chilling feeling of things that should never happen. The matter-of-fact honesty of the child’s telling of the tale gives it more impact than it would have if told in the voice of an adult. The five year old Jack sees the world as he knows it, as he was born into it, not comprehending that it was a captive existence that violated all laws and norms of a ‘civilised’ life in a modern world. And he speaks of it in the same way, knowing only that life, but having to accept that it was not, in some way, what life is and should be.
The story begins with an everyday, as Jack knows it, but for one special thing: he is five. It will soon become an eventful day, since this is the day that Jack will escape from the only space he knows, his small world, Room. For him, Room is home, with Wardrobe, Bed, Rug, Thermostat, Rocker, Kit, Table, Shelf and more. They are all old friends, the beings he is growing up with. He has to hide in Wardrobe when Old Nick comes in. And when Old Nick is gone, Jack can come out and be with his mother, snuggled against her warmth, seeing the bad marks on her neck…And then one night he has to be dead. Not real dead, but pretend dead, made cold with water and rolled up in Rug, so that Old Nick will take him out in his truck and he, Jack, can run away and tell Police to rescue Ma, his mother, who has two names but he can’t remember what they are since they were in the paper that Old Nick took away during the Great Escape. It works, with a few mishaps. Jack and his mother are saved from their cell, taken to a medical facility for help. There, more truths emerge. The story comes together when, with a chilling honesty, Jack says that Old Nick hurt him “two times”. A collective breath is held – by the doctor, by Ma, by the reader – and then released with “When I was doing the Great Escape he dropped me in the truck and also on the trees, the second was the hurtest.”
It has been seven years of captivity for Ma. She was taken in a parking lot when she was a student, when Old Nick pretended his dog was ill and needed help. And she was kept in a small room, Room, 11-foot square, with a little television set and minimal facilities. Her teeth have rotted for lack of care, she loses a child, buried under the roots of a tree in the yard outside, and then has Jack, who becomes her world and her sanity. She is a character in agony, her emotions untold yet somehow felt through her son’s voice as he speaks of her being sick, of her face being stripey wet, of her not waking up one day…
Perhaps a grown-up voice for this story would make it sound like a bad screenplay. Maybe the simple frame of reference of a child makes the tale more effective, albeit rather sickly sweet in parts. But the relationship between mother and child, bonded by solitude, captivity, breast-feeding and small aspects like flipping Mattress on Fridays, eating with Meltedy Spoon, brushing Teeth to dazzling white and making sure there are no germs, is touching, genuine, charming. In the reading, in the understanding and in the news-linked basis to the story, an essential truth echoes on: No one should go through the nightmare again. Not another Jack, not another Ma.
ROOM by Emma Donoghue
Sometimes all it takes is a little imagination to make something better than it is. Add a few real-life ingredients, stir in a little helping of ‘what-if’, let it simmer into a nightmare and it is lifted beyond the realm of the mundane into an award-winner, or a potential one. Room is a little like that. On the longlist for the Man Booker Prize 2010, it acts as a kind of literary sledgehammer to bring home the nasty realism of events that have been unfolding the world over – the captivity of young women for many years by some man who could be a stranger, could be a father, but is, almost always, a twisted psyche. There was the Josef Fritzl in Austria, who imprisoned his daughter Elizabeth for 24 years, raped and physically abused her, fathering eight children, one miscarried, one murdered by neglect of illness. Then there was Jaycee Lee Dugard of California, missing for 18 years, held in a small tent in a backyard, with two children from her captor. Lydia Gouardo was locked up by her legal (but not biological) father for 28 years and had six children with him. In Mumbai, two girls were rescued last year after ten years of abuse by their businessman father. Many more such horror stories have been unearthed each week, some even beyond the limits of a sane imagination.
Emma Donoghue taps into this nightmarish vein in Room. In some ways, the writing and the story are simplistic and naïve, without the flavour of genuine emotion or any kind of sophistication of narration. But in that itself there is a chilling feeling of things that should never happen. The matter-of-fact honesty of the child’s telling of the tale gives it more impact than it would have if told in the voice of an adult. The five year old Jack sees the world as he knows it, as he was born into it, not comprehending that it was a captive existence that violated all laws and norms of a ‘civilised’ life in a modern world. And he speaks of it in the same way, knowing only that life, but having to accept that it was not, in some way, what life is and should be.
The story begins with an everyday, as Jack knows it, but for one special thing: he is five. It will soon become an eventful day, since this is the day that Jack will escape from the only space he knows, his small world, Room. For him, Room is home, with Wardrobe, Bed, Rug, Thermostat, Rocker, Kit, Table, Shelf and more. They are all old friends, the beings he is growing up with. He has to hide in Wardrobe when Old Nick comes in. And when Old Nick is gone, Jack can come out and be with his mother, snuggled against her warmth, seeing the bad marks on her neck…And then one night he has to be dead. Not real dead, but pretend dead, made cold with water and rolled up in Rug, so that Old Nick will take him out in his truck and he, Jack, can run away and tell Police to rescue Ma, his mother, who has two names but he can’t remember what they are since they were in the paper that Old Nick took away during the Great Escape. It works, with a few mishaps. Jack and his mother are saved from their cell, taken to a medical facility for help. There, more truths emerge. The story comes together when, with a chilling honesty, Jack says that Old Nick hurt him “two times”. A collective breath is held – by the doctor, by Ma, by the reader – and then released with “When I was doing the Great Escape he dropped me in the truck and also on the trees, the second was the hurtest.”
It has been seven years of captivity for Ma. She was taken in a parking lot when she was a student, when Old Nick pretended his dog was ill and needed help. And she was kept in a small room, Room, 11-foot square, with a little television set and minimal facilities. Her teeth have rotted for lack of care, she loses a child, buried under the roots of a tree in the yard outside, and then has Jack, who becomes her world and her sanity. She is a character in agony, her emotions untold yet somehow felt through her son’s voice as he speaks of her being sick, of her face being stripey wet, of her not waking up one day…
Perhaps a grown-up voice for this story would make it sound like a bad screenplay. Maybe the simple frame of reference of a child makes the tale more effective, albeit rather sickly sweet in parts. But the relationship between mother and child, bonded by solitude, captivity, breast-feeding and small aspects like flipping Mattress on Fridays, eating with Meltedy Spoon, brushing Teeth to dazzling white and making sure there are no germs, is touching, genuine, charming. In the reading, in the understanding and in the news-linked basis to the story, an essential truth echoes on: No one should go through the nightmare again. Not another Jack, not another Ma.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Narendra Kumar Ahmed interview
(In the Bengal Post, today)
The three tall, slim male models stepped slowly on to the platform. Gracefully, gently, they knelt, hands resting on knees, bodies straight, eyes watching what the two kimono-clad young women were doing. It was a version of the elegant tea ceremony so beloved of the Japanese, with its fluid movements and powerful significance. The men wore wrap blouses over pants of different cuts – the first very slim and churidar-like, the second fitted and formal, the third the traditional Japanese hakama, or wide, pleated pajamas. Then, standing up, facing forward, the men shed their wraps to show off a new line of Japanese-inspired jackets: slim and flowing-lapelled, fitted and buttoned and long, lean and bow-tied, the last perhaps most Oriental and yet very Indian in its silhouette. This was the introduction to Narendra Kumar Ahmed’s latest collection, created with a strongly Kurosawa-influenced flavour channeling the samurai ethos from Shadow Warrior to celebrate the designer’s ten years in the fashion industry.
One of the first batch of students graduating (1990) from the National Institute of Fashion Technology (NIFT) in Delhi, Nari, as he is familiarly known, has had a varied and interesting career. He has worked with master designer Tarun Tahiliani, been part of a number of prestigious industry collaborations, launched numerous lines – department stores, the prêt market, corporate wear and high-end designer garments, and has flagship stores in Mumbai, Bangalore, Gurgaon and elsewhere in India and abroad. He has worked with style magazines and Bollywood films, and has plans to extend his creativity into jeans, home décor and accessories. All along, Nari has maintained that fashion is not merely an elitist concept. As he has said, “I don’t see why designer clothes can’t be affordable. Fashion is not just meant for the rich. To me, fashion has to be a democratic process and I want every woman to be able to wear my creations.”
Known for his well-cut jackets and fluid lines in meticulous tailoring, Nari acknowledges that from a commercial perspective, what sells best is usually Indian-wear. “In garment design, you are seeing a shift towards a greater sense of westernisation, as a major shift. This appeals to a newer, younger generation, since “Not everyone wants to wear something so embroidered and elaborate. A lot of designers that traditionally did Indian clothing are now doing western.” But to achieve that is not always easy, he understands, saying that ‘good’ western wear is all about “cutting and fitting. If you can cut a western outfit someone can wear, you can make a statement out of simplicity.”
This shift in sensibility and style is, as Nari says, “dictated by social trends. After all, people are going out every day, they have careers, they want to stand out but still stay simple and elegant. What is best for them is clothing that can go from work to evening. A lot of it is dictated by what women want, work-wise, mirroring their personal evolution.” And he quickly clarifies that ‘going out’ means “having a sensibility that is driven by a work ethos and not just the tea set”. Budgets, too, have changed. “Clothes are less flashy; there is more spent on travelling, seeing the world, except for big occasions like weddings – and even here it is all much pared down. There is a marked differentiation, with the high-end getting higher, as seen in couture shows, and the ready-to-wear getting more mass market and minimalistic.” Nari believes that even couture, which “caters to more Indian taste, and is an euphemism for weddings and elaborate occasions, have evolved, changed, with often a cocktail party becoming bigger than the actual wedding itself. This calls for more western wear, like gowns and cocktail dresses.”
His own fashion ethic, he explains, “has always been influenced by architecture, by new shapes and forms, like those of architect Zaha Hadid – she inspired me long before most people in India discovered her.” This translates to “very tailored, cut, sharp lines, a kind of transition from architecture into sculpture.” Earlier, his work was about “cutting around the body, now it is more moulding, a softer shape.” And today he finds plenty of scope for lateral growth. There is excitement in his voice as he speaks. “Today when people see you as a signature, it can be extended to so many forms and shapes – interiors, stores, shoes, bags, home, etc. It is, after all, an aesthetic that you build which is your signature, especially today, now, which is the best time to do that exploration.”
A small part of the exploration and journey is the magical world of movies. But it is not a realm Nari wants to spend too much time and mindspace on. He says frankly, “We started doing Bollywood movies (like Prince, Fashion, Aladin, Bees Saal Baad and Baabul) because it was a great vehicle for a designer. But what we are doing generally is moving into working on personal wardrobes for actors. There is no time today to sit on a set and deal with a movie shoot.” For him, celebrities are frequent clients, but he gets the “greatest satisfaction if people who are seen and heard ask for a Narendra Kumar outfit to go out in! That is far more rewarding than working in films, where life is hectic and time schedules are stressful.” For him and his team of designers, “It is time for us to look at brands and brand building. We can’t do brands and films together.”
The future is certainly bright, since apart from his various brands and planned extensions, Nari is also working on a “new print based line and a natural textile based brand, looking at various niches instead of just catering to just a huge mass market.” In addition, he is almost ready with a “jeans line that appeals to the intellect rather than just the body – younger people want to wear jeans that are more interesting for the mind, so we have been conceptualising an idea around the concept that the inside is the outside, reflecting who you, the user, are as a person.” This will be launched at Fashion Week this month and be called Killer Nari. “For us, icons have been people like Che Guevara, a bit rebellious, showing all the while that we are proud to be Indian!”
The three tall, slim male models stepped slowly on to the platform. Gracefully, gently, they knelt, hands resting on knees, bodies straight, eyes watching what the two kimono-clad young women were doing. It was a version of the elegant tea ceremony so beloved of the Japanese, with its fluid movements and powerful significance. The men wore wrap blouses over pants of different cuts – the first very slim and churidar-like, the second fitted and formal, the third the traditional Japanese hakama, or wide, pleated pajamas. Then, standing up, facing forward, the men shed their wraps to show off a new line of Japanese-inspired jackets: slim and flowing-lapelled, fitted and buttoned and long, lean and bow-tied, the last perhaps most Oriental and yet very Indian in its silhouette. This was the introduction to Narendra Kumar Ahmed’s latest collection, created with a strongly Kurosawa-influenced flavour channeling the samurai ethos from Shadow Warrior to celebrate the designer’s ten years in the fashion industry.
One of the first batch of students graduating (1990) from the National Institute of Fashion Technology (NIFT) in Delhi, Nari, as he is familiarly known, has had a varied and interesting career. He has worked with master designer Tarun Tahiliani, been part of a number of prestigious industry collaborations, launched numerous lines – department stores, the prêt market, corporate wear and high-end designer garments, and has flagship stores in Mumbai, Bangalore, Gurgaon and elsewhere in India and abroad. He has worked with style magazines and Bollywood films, and has plans to extend his creativity into jeans, home décor and accessories. All along, Nari has maintained that fashion is not merely an elitist concept. As he has said, “I don’t see why designer clothes can’t be affordable. Fashion is not just meant for the rich. To me, fashion has to be a democratic process and I want every woman to be able to wear my creations.”
Known for his well-cut jackets and fluid lines in meticulous tailoring, Nari acknowledges that from a commercial perspective, what sells best is usually Indian-wear. “In garment design, you are seeing a shift towards a greater sense of westernisation, as a major shift. This appeals to a newer, younger generation, since “Not everyone wants to wear something so embroidered and elaborate. A lot of designers that traditionally did Indian clothing are now doing western.” But to achieve that is not always easy, he understands, saying that ‘good’ western wear is all about “cutting and fitting. If you can cut a western outfit someone can wear, you can make a statement out of simplicity.”
This shift in sensibility and style is, as Nari says, “dictated by social trends. After all, people are going out every day, they have careers, they want to stand out but still stay simple and elegant. What is best for them is clothing that can go from work to evening. A lot of it is dictated by what women want, work-wise, mirroring their personal evolution.” And he quickly clarifies that ‘going out’ means “having a sensibility that is driven by a work ethos and not just the tea set”. Budgets, too, have changed. “Clothes are less flashy; there is more spent on travelling, seeing the world, except for big occasions like weddings – and even here it is all much pared down. There is a marked differentiation, with the high-end getting higher, as seen in couture shows, and the ready-to-wear getting more mass market and minimalistic.” Nari believes that even couture, which “caters to more Indian taste, and is an euphemism for weddings and elaborate occasions, have evolved, changed, with often a cocktail party becoming bigger than the actual wedding itself. This calls for more western wear, like gowns and cocktail dresses.”
His own fashion ethic, he explains, “has always been influenced by architecture, by new shapes and forms, like those of architect Zaha Hadid – she inspired me long before most people in India discovered her.” This translates to “very tailored, cut, sharp lines, a kind of transition from architecture into sculpture.” Earlier, his work was about “cutting around the body, now it is more moulding, a softer shape.” And today he finds plenty of scope for lateral growth. There is excitement in his voice as he speaks. “Today when people see you as a signature, it can be extended to so many forms and shapes – interiors, stores, shoes, bags, home, etc. It is, after all, an aesthetic that you build which is your signature, especially today, now, which is the best time to do that exploration.”
A small part of the exploration and journey is the magical world of movies. But it is not a realm Nari wants to spend too much time and mindspace on. He says frankly, “We started doing Bollywood movies (like Prince, Fashion, Aladin, Bees Saal Baad and Baabul) because it was a great vehicle for a designer. But what we are doing generally is moving into working on personal wardrobes for actors. There is no time today to sit on a set and deal with a movie shoot.” For him, celebrities are frequent clients, but he gets the “greatest satisfaction if people who are seen and heard ask for a Narendra Kumar outfit to go out in! That is far more rewarding than working in films, where life is hectic and time schedules are stressful.” For him and his team of designers, “It is time for us to look at brands and brand building. We can’t do brands and films together.”
The future is certainly bright, since apart from his various brands and planned extensions, Nari is also working on a “new print based line and a natural textile based brand, looking at various niches instead of just catering to just a huge mass market.” In addition, he is almost ready with a “jeans line that appeals to the intellect rather than just the body – younger people want to wear jeans that are more interesting for the mind, so we have been conceptualising an idea around the concept that the inside is the outside, reflecting who you, the user, are as a person.” This will be launched at Fashion Week this month and be called Killer Nari. “For us, icons have been people like Che Guevara, a bit rebellious, showing all the while that we are proud to be Indian!”
Tuesday, September 07, 2010
Kallat in Chicago
(Published in the Bengal Post, Sunday, September 5)
Sometimes coincidence is more than merely eerie. It comes to life with nightmarish clarity, evoking more emotion that the human mind could conceive of absorbing. And sometimes, it is all a matter of finding commonality rather than having it thrust into the limelight, analysing it, understanding it and then creating around it. This is what Jitish Kallat has done with his new installation, Public Notice 3, opening on September 11 this year at the Art Institute of Chicago. With this unusual work, he wanders into history and back to the present, linking two moments in time through their deep philosophical significance, giving his audience fresh food for thought. Kallat takes a speech made by Swami Vivekananda at the First Parliament of Religions held on September 11, 1893 and converts it into LED displays along the risers of the 118 steps on the Woman’s Board General Staircase located close by the original site of the session. Curated by Madhuvanti Ghosh, Marilynn Alsdorf Curator of Indian and Islamic Art at the Art Institute of Chicago, the installation is site-specific and bridges the 108-year gap between the presentation of the speech and the traumatic drama of September 11, 2001, when terrorist attacks devastated the United States and changed the socio-political perspective of the country for ever.
The 1893 Parliament, held in conjunction with the World’s Columbian Exposition in Chicago, was perhaps one of the first attempts to start a global dialogue of religious faiths. Vivekananda spoke of a recognition of and respect for all traditions of belief through universal tolerance, a way of thought so urgently needed today. Religion was at the core of the September 11 attacks that destroyed the World Trade Center in New York City, punched holes in the Pentagon in Washington, DC, and dove a plane into a field in Pennsylvania. Kallat explains that “To see these two events and dates as an almost-palimpsest, laying them one over the other, was the core of the project in some ways. It also falls in line with an index within my practice over the last ten years (two major works: Public Notice, which channelled Jawaharlal Nehru’s speech with burned alphabets, and Public Notice 2, which used Mahatma Gandhi’s speech in resin bones) that looks at the possibility of revisiting a historical speech as a grading mechanism to look at the follies of the current world. The speech that becomes the work itself, so to speak.”
Vivekananda’s words called for the death of fanaticism, the end of intolerance. He argued for universality, religious tolerance and a respectful recognition of all traditions of belief. Kallat believes that “This is as valid in today’s world. While it is revisiting those words spoken on that day, 9/11, Public Notice 3 itself looks at the museum as an architectural site, almost a notepad within which the speech could be re-inscribed.” In a way, the grand staircase becomes part of the art; “It is very beautiful, starting from two sides, going to four sides, broad steps, a gorgeous piece of architecture. Every riser has the text.” And the colours used are as thought-provoking as the work itself. “As you are ascending, you can read the words illuminated in five colours (red, orange, yellow, blue and green) that the US Homeland Security Department has marked as threat levels” – a mechanism defined post-9/11 and revised every day. As Kallat says, “That is where the work comes in; it looks at the date, the words, and refracts them through The threat colours, on a site where the World Parliament of Religions happened, where Vivekananda represented Hinduism. About 108 years later, 9/11 happened.”
And there is more to it, Kallat found as he thought through the concept. “If you want to take coincidences, the number 108 is significant in Hinduism too. Post 9/11 there have been lots of viral emails, a lot of paranoia, numerous connections established, so many conspiracy theories. I started playing with these notions of these theories in a sort of reversal of method - I took those dates and travelled back into the past to go back to that first 9/11, to look at that as a possible way to revisit this highly contested moment; to pick that same code, look at it from the perspective of fantasy perspective and travel back into a real moment. You realise that the nation that became the recipient of that attack was also the host of the original parliament.”
With his three related works, all using important speeches by major Indian statesmen, Kallat finds that he sees “a pattern. Done over the last decade, all three reference historical speeches, but do different things to those words.” They have become more than just works of art, spanning across to literature, “perhaps from the tradition of concrete poetry, where the act of giving shape to an alphabet alters the context of the word and hence gives a cast of meaning to the structure of the poem in a way. It is about using a thread from concrete poetry, but applying that thread to a historical moment.” This awareness came after the fact of creating the work, Kallat admits, “I see that pattern now, not when I did it. Doing this one (installation) made me go back and think about my own processes.”
For Public Notice, Kallat set every alphabet that Nehru delivered in his speech at the midnight of Indian Independence aflame. “The words burned down on the surface of a mirror; the distorted mirror would break and fragment your face as you read the words – it represented a unique present that held no filament of the present or the past.” Public Notice 2, which detailed Gandhi’s speech on non-violent civil disobedience, was cast as 4,600 bone-letters that were placed on shelves like relics. Since then, he has used bones in a number of his works, so much so that they have become almost a signature. But this time, bones do not make the picture. “A few hundred have already experienced it with their bones,” Kallat laughs, “but no resin bones! I am relying on human bones to take people up and down the artwork.”
Jitish Kallat: Public Notice 3
September 11, 2010–January 2, 2011
Art Institute of Chicago
Woman’s Board Grand Staircase
Sometimes coincidence is more than merely eerie. It comes to life with nightmarish clarity, evoking more emotion that the human mind could conceive of absorbing. And sometimes, it is all a matter of finding commonality rather than having it thrust into the limelight, analysing it, understanding it and then creating around it. This is what Jitish Kallat has done with his new installation, Public Notice 3, opening on September 11 this year at the Art Institute of Chicago. With this unusual work, he wanders into history and back to the present, linking two moments in time through their deep philosophical significance, giving his audience fresh food for thought. Kallat takes a speech made by Swami Vivekananda at the First Parliament of Religions held on September 11, 1893 and converts it into LED displays along the risers of the 118 steps on the Woman’s Board General Staircase located close by the original site of the session. Curated by Madhuvanti Ghosh, Marilynn Alsdorf Curator of Indian and Islamic Art at the Art Institute of Chicago, the installation is site-specific and bridges the 108-year gap between the presentation of the speech and the traumatic drama of September 11, 2001, when terrorist attacks devastated the United States and changed the socio-political perspective of the country for ever.
The 1893 Parliament, held in conjunction with the World’s Columbian Exposition in Chicago, was perhaps one of the first attempts to start a global dialogue of religious faiths. Vivekananda spoke of a recognition of and respect for all traditions of belief through universal tolerance, a way of thought so urgently needed today. Religion was at the core of the September 11 attacks that destroyed the World Trade Center in New York City, punched holes in the Pentagon in Washington, DC, and dove a plane into a field in Pennsylvania. Kallat explains that “To see these two events and dates as an almost-palimpsest, laying them one over the other, was the core of the project in some ways. It also falls in line with an index within my practice over the last ten years (two major works: Public Notice, which channelled Jawaharlal Nehru’s speech with burned alphabets, and Public Notice 2, which used Mahatma Gandhi’s speech in resin bones) that looks at the possibility of revisiting a historical speech as a grading mechanism to look at the follies of the current world. The speech that becomes the work itself, so to speak.”
Vivekananda’s words called for the death of fanaticism, the end of intolerance. He argued for universality, religious tolerance and a respectful recognition of all traditions of belief. Kallat believes that “This is as valid in today’s world. While it is revisiting those words spoken on that day, 9/11, Public Notice 3 itself looks at the museum as an architectural site, almost a notepad within which the speech could be re-inscribed.” In a way, the grand staircase becomes part of the art; “It is very beautiful, starting from two sides, going to four sides, broad steps, a gorgeous piece of architecture. Every riser has the text.” And the colours used are as thought-provoking as the work itself. “As you are ascending, you can read the words illuminated in five colours (red, orange, yellow, blue and green) that the US Homeland Security Department has marked as threat levels” – a mechanism defined post-9/11 and revised every day. As Kallat says, “That is where the work comes in; it looks at the date, the words, and refracts them through The threat colours, on a site where the World Parliament of Religions happened, where Vivekananda represented Hinduism. About 108 years later, 9/11 happened.”
And there is more to it, Kallat found as he thought through the concept. “If you want to take coincidences, the number 108 is significant in Hinduism too. Post 9/11 there have been lots of viral emails, a lot of paranoia, numerous connections established, so many conspiracy theories. I started playing with these notions of these theories in a sort of reversal of method - I took those dates and travelled back into the past to go back to that first 9/11, to look at that as a possible way to revisit this highly contested moment; to pick that same code, look at it from the perspective of fantasy perspective and travel back into a real moment. You realise that the nation that became the recipient of that attack was also the host of the original parliament.”
With his three related works, all using important speeches by major Indian statesmen, Kallat finds that he sees “a pattern. Done over the last decade, all three reference historical speeches, but do different things to those words.” They have become more than just works of art, spanning across to literature, “perhaps from the tradition of concrete poetry, where the act of giving shape to an alphabet alters the context of the word and hence gives a cast of meaning to the structure of the poem in a way. It is about using a thread from concrete poetry, but applying that thread to a historical moment.” This awareness came after the fact of creating the work, Kallat admits, “I see that pattern now, not when I did it. Doing this one (installation) made me go back and think about my own processes.”
For Public Notice, Kallat set every alphabet that Nehru delivered in his speech at the midnight of Indian Independence aflame. “The words burned down on the surface of a mirror; the distorted mirror would break and fragment your face as you read the words – it represented a unique present that held no filament of the present or the past.” Public Notice 2, which detailed Gandhi’s speech on non-violent civil disobedience, was cast as 4,600 bone-letters that were placed on shelves like relics. Since then, he has used bones in a number of his works, so much so that they have become almost a signature. But this time, bones do not make the picture. “A few hundred have already experienced it with their bones,” Kallat laughs, “but no resin bones! I am relying on human bones to take people up and down the artwork.”
Jitish Kallat: Public Notice 3
September 11, 2010–January 2, 2011
Art Institute of Chicago
Woman’s Board Grand Staircase
Monday, August 30, 2010
Feline favourites
(Published in the Times of India, Sunday, August 29)
A cat has very discerning tastebuds. Some would call cats fussy, picky, pernickety, whimsical, temperamental and much more that cannot be described in words polite enough to be used in a family publication, but the truth is rather different. Cats know what they want and, more so, know exactly how to go about getting it. Where their food is concerned, they are exacting, demanding, even commanding – especially at 2 am when all humans should be awake and alert enough to deal with feline needs – to the point of being tyrannical and, well, a trifle selective.
Any cat owner will understand this. And search high and low across town to satisfy catly requirements, just because the feline personality is strong enough to make a human existence sheer hell if life shows a non-cat bias. To make things a little easier for cat owners in Mumbai, cat food is now available at supermarkets like Hypercity and Big Bazaar, as well as in pet shops such as Ebrahim in Kemps Corner, KPS and Barks-n-Meows in Chembur, Loony Dudes in Juhu, Pet Planet in Bandra, Pure Pets in Prabhadevi, RK Pets World in Vashi, Paws N Furs in Thane and many more.
There are, of course, variations. Dry food comes in small pellets shaped fancifully, from tiny doughnuts to fish-shapes to wee pockets that are touted to contain milk, cheese, salmon or chicken. Some food is medicated, advised for cats with hairball problems, kidney ailments, long hair, short hair, young, old, general health, excess weight…Royal Canin, Fit 32, Hill’s Science Diet, Purina Pro Plan, Natural Balance, New Iams Veterinary Formula and others are recommended by veterinarians for special needs felines. Some cats take well to canned food, also available in pouches, most commonly seen in the city with characteristic Whiskas branding.
Cat food is not cheap. Once found, which is not always easy, as any fond owner of a finicky cat would know, a week’s supply could cost as much as the same amount of people food. For instance, a 300-gram packet of Iams chicken formula sells for about Rs140, the locally made Showcat from Venky’s costs about Rs525 for a 2-kg bag and the same weight of special renal formula biscuits from Royal Canin rates Rs930. A 1.5-kg bag of Whiskas costs approximately Rs350, while the wet food in a pouch sells at Rs35. And there is wastage to be accounted for, always a factor with cats. Some ‘discerning’ felines will eat nothing but one flavour of one brand of dry food and then, suddenly, without warning, just when you have acquired a large bag of the stuff at great cost and with greater effort, will refuse to even sniff at it and demand something else instead or – always distressing for an owner – refuse to eat at all until that demand is met.
Apart from regular food, there are the treats. Chewy sticks, small segments of what can only be described as highly aromatic cat-food jerky, can occasionally be found in stores like Ebrahim’s, priced at about Rs100 for a packet that will last a while if judiciously doled out to a finicky feline. Small pinches of catnip, the catly equivalent of edible marijuana, will keep a cat happy for a while, adding a tiny ratio of valuable nutrients to the daily diet and a large ratio of joy to the cat’s day, but is unbelievably difficult to find, almost impossible in India. A house cat will eat fresh raw fish, or scoff enormous amounts of highly salty canned tuna, but that depends entirely on mood and inclination to oblige the one doing the offering. Raw meat is not advised by vets, though it may be relished by cats. And milk is a matter of taste – some cats will drink it, others will refuse, but none of them really needs it after being weaned.
Owning a cat is indeed a pleasure, bringing hours of fun and – in many ways – education into any life. But where food is concerned, feline favour is an expensive aspect that is not all joy.
A cat has very discerning tastebuds. Some would call cats fussy, picky, pernickety, whimsical, temperamental and much more that cannot be described in words polite enough to be used in a family publication, but the truth is rather different. Cats know what they want and, more so, know exactly how to go about getting it. Where their food is concerned, they are exacting, demanding, even commanding – especially at 2 am when all humans should be awake and alert enough to deal with feline needs – to the point of being tyrannical and, well, a trifle selective.
Any cat owner will understand this. And search high and low across town to satisfy catly requirements, just because the feline personality is strong enough to make a human existence sheer hell if life shows a non-cat bias. To make things a little easier for cat owners in Mumbai, cat food is now available at supermarkets like Hypercity and Big Bazaar, as well as in pet shops such as Ebrahim in Kemps Corner, KPS and Barks-n-Meows in Chembur, Loony Dudes in Juhu, Pet Planet in Bandra, Pure Pets in Prabhadevi, RK Pets World in Vashi, Paws N Furs in Thane and many more.
There are, of course, variations. Dry food comes in small pellets shaped fancifully, from tiny doughnuts to fish-shapes to wee pockets that are touted to contain milk, cheese, salmon or chicken. Some food is medicated, advised for cats with hairball problems, kidney ailments, long hair, short hair, young, old, general health, excess weight…Royal Canin, Fit 32, Hill’s Science Diet, Purina Pro Plan, Natural Balance, New Iams Veterinary Formula and others are recommended by veterinarians for special needs felines. Some cats take well to canned food, also available in pouches, most commonly seen in the city with characteristic Whiskas branding.
Cat food is not cheap. Once found, which is not always easy, as any fond owner of a finicky cat would know, a week’s supply could cost as much as the same amount of people food. For instance, a 300-gram packet of Iams chicken formula sells for about Rs140, the locally made Showcat from Venky’s costs about Rs525 for a 2-kg bag and the same weight of special renal formula biscuits from Royal Canin rates Rs930. A 1.5-kg bag of Whiskas costs approximately Rs350, while the wet food in a pouch sells at Rs35. And there is wastage to be accounted for, always a factor with cats. Some ‘discerning’ felines will eat nothing but one flavour of one brand of dry food and then, suddenly, without warning, just when you have acquired a large bag of the stuff at great cost and with greater effort, will refuse to even sniff at it and demand something else instead or – always distressing for an owner – refuse to eat at all until that demand is met.
Apart from regular food, there are the treats. Chewy sticks, small segments of what can only be described as highly aromatic cat-food jerky, can occasionally be found in stores like Ebrahim’s, priced at about Rs100 for a packet that will last a while if judiciously doled out to a finicky feline. Small pinches of catnip, the catly equivalent of edible marijuana, will keep a cat happy for a while, adding a tiny ratio of valuable nutrients to the daily diet and a large ratio of joy to the cat’s day, but is unbelievably difficult to find, almost impossible in India. A house cat will eat fresh raw fish, or scoff enormous amounts of highly salty canned tuna, but that depends entirely on mood and inclination to oblige the one doing the offering. Raw meat is not advised by vets, though it may be relished by cats. And milk is a matter of taste – some cats will drink it, others will refuse, but none of them really needs it after being weaned.
Owning a cat is indeed a pleasure, bringing hours of fun and – in many ways – education into any life. But where food is concerned, feline favour is an expensive aspect that is not all joy.
A bowl of hot comfort
(Published in The Bengal Post, Sunday)
There comes a time in everyone’s life when comfort is all that the heart – and soul and stomach – desires. This may happen during a time of stress, when work, life or anything in-between swamps the psyche and results in irritability, edginess and a general very large grouch. As is often the case, food works well as a relaxant and mood-soother, calming the nerves and smoothing the spikes and ravines of the mind. While chocolate is indeed most useful in crises like these, it does contain caffeine and will activate as much as it will relax. Chemically speaking, the ideal food for this kind of high-stress situation is rich in carbohydrate, even better with some tryptophan in the form of yoghurt thrown in. From the culinary and gustatory points of view, what hits the spot perfectly is anything starchy, be it bread or pasta, rice or potatoes. Emotionally and maternally speaking, mashed potatoes, risotto, beaked beans, dahi-chawal (yoghurt and rice), french fries…the list goes on. But perhaps the easiest and most frequently cooked up in the average Indian kitchen is khichdi, a cure-all for body and soul, easy to make, easy to eat, easy to digest and easiest of all to make interesting.
The rice and lentil dish, in its simplest form, is fairly ubiquitous, found in variations all over the world. It is traditionally considered ayurvedic comfort food, advised by the most modern doctors for an upset stomach, used often as an infant’s first solid intake, and relished by most when eaten piping hot from a large bowl while watching the rain come down outside, drenching the unwary and denying the sun a chance to cheer things up. It is eaten in its myriad permutations as a light meal in Pakistan and Bangladesh as well as by the native Americans and is believed to have been the basis for the Raj breakfast staple, kedgeree. But it all began a long time ago, when a dish of rice and pulses cooked together to an unctuous softness was described in Sanskrit as khicca, from which the modern-day khichdi or khichri is derived. It became very popular with the Mughal courtiers, especially with Emperor Jehangir, it is said – in fact, the famous Ain-i-Akbari, written by Akbar’s vizier in the 16th century, has seven different versions of the dish that was first written about by Afanasiy Nikitin, a Russian who travelled through India in the 15th century.
Khichdi – though perhaps not called that – is a favourite in different parts of the world. For breakfast, khansamas in the days of the Raj served up rice cooked soft with fish and eggs, while in China congee with pickled vegetables and dried shrimp served the same purpose. The American Indians stewed red (pinto) beans and rice with a little animal protein, while in Cuba rice is blended with black beans and slowly simmered for a long time. In India, the Bengalis like kichuri on rainy days or for special feasts, while in Tamil Nadu there is an entire celebration focussed on the dish, called Pongal, where the sweet and savoury versions share a banana leaf. It is a must-have in a Gujarati thali and the Maharashtrian fishing communities spice it up with a few prawns.
From the very bland and stomach-soothing dal-khichdi of the north to the rich gourmet fare it becomes in the South, to the heavy meal it serves in Bengal to the light yet spicy fare in the West, khichdi is indeed universal. But it is essentially a culinary base palette to which colour and flavour can be added. Emperor Jehangir liked it with lots of ghee, dried fruits and nuts; more modern folk like it less rich and fatty, to be eaten with Gujarati kadi or Tamilian morkozhambu (yoghurt based gravy), fritters or pakoras - from beguni (eggplant) to alur (potato) – papads, chips and pickles, in the company of vegetable preparations like undhiyo (Gujarat) or alu ka bharta (Bihar), or meat/fish like prawn patia (Parsi) or beef fry (Kerala), with a spoon, fork or, delightfully mushily, with fingers scooping each soft, fragrant bite up to the mouth…
Khichdi has no fixed recipe or proportions, though the finicky cook may cavil at that statement. It is a very personal food. It can be cooked in a pressure cooker, though the long slow stewing method produces the best results, on a kitchen hob or outdoors over a campfire. Usually made with rice and lentils, it can also include cracked wheat, barley, amaranth and other grains – though a wild rice experiment did not yield results that were too favourable, be warned! Most often, pulses such as moong, tur (arhar), masoor and sometimes chana dal is added to rice that cooks into fat, full, melting morsels, the whole being almost amorphous and delightfully gooey. Nuts and the occasional raisin add interest, while vegetables make it all more nutritious and wholesome – any sabji leftover in the fridge can work, and fresh-cut beans, carrots, onions, pumpkin, spinach, cauliflower and more can provide a tasty note. A touch of spice is also desirable, from garlic and ginger, to cardamom, cloves, cracked pepper, star anise and even a few strands of saffron for a luxe touch. Of course, a finishing spoonful of ghee stirred in is a must, calories be damned!
There is no better companion to have while watching the raindrops falling on other people’s heads on a wet day.
Recipes:
PONGAL
Rice 1 Cup
Moong Dal ½ to 1/4 Cup
Spices – whole cardamom, cloves, cinnamon – 6-8 pieces each
Cashew for garnish
Ghee 2 Tbsp
Water 6 Cups or more
Salt to taste
Method
Wash rice and dal together and drain.
Heat 1 tbsp ghee.
Gently fry the spices.
Add the rice/dal and fry till the ghee coats the mixture.
Add water and salt. Cover and cook, adding more water if required.
When rice and dal are cooked to the required softness, garnish with cashews fried in 1 tbsp ghee.
Cracked pepper and soft-cooked vegetables are a good addition. Pongal is most delicious eaten with morkozhambu (kadi made with ground coconut and buttermilk/yoghurt with chunks of white pumpkin), South Indian papad (unspiced), mango pickle and/or a spicy vegetable curry.
Kedgeree (an Anglo Indian recipe)
1 1/2 cups Basmati rice
3 cups water
1 tbsp vegetable oil
1 tsp black mustard seed
1 tsp cumin seed
3 cloves garlic minced
1″ knob of ginger grated
1 medium onion minced
1 chili minced
1 tbsp garam masala
2 tsp turmeric
1/2 cup chicken or vegetable stock
2 tbsp cream
50 gms smoked fish
Salt to taste
3 soft boiled eggs peeled and chopped
Coriander leaves and pomegranate seeds for garnish
Wash rice with cold water and put into a heavy bottomed pot with the water to simmer until all the water is absorbed. Turn the heat off.
Heat the oil and crackle the mustard and cumin seeds.
Add the garlic and ginger and fry until soft.
Add onions, chili, garam masala and turmeric and fry gently.
Add the stock and simmer for five minutes.
Turn down the heat and add cream, stirring all the while.
Add fish and salt to taste and stir for a couple of minutes.
Add the cooked rice and two chopped eggs and stir well.
Serve piping hot decorated with chopped coriander leaves, pomegranate seeds and boiled egg pieces. Eat with poppadoms and mango pickle.
Bon appetite!
There comes a time in everyone’s life when comfort is all that the heart – and soul and stomach – desires. This may happen during a time of stress, when work, life or anything in-between swamps the psyche and results in irritability, edginess and a general very large grouch. As is often the case, food works well as a relaxant and mood-soother, calming the nerves and smoothing the spikes and ravines of the mind. While chocolate is indeed most useful in crises like these, it does contain caffeine and will activate as much as it will relax. Chemically speaking, the ideal food for this kind of high-stress situation is rich in carbohydrate, even better with some tryptophan in the form of yoghurt thrown in. From the culinary and gustatory points of view, what hits the spot perfectly is anything starchy, be it bread or pasta, rice or potatoes. Emotionally and maternally speaking, mashed potatoes, risotto, beaked beans, dahi-chawal (yoghurt and rice), french fries…the list goes on. But perhaps the easiest and most frequently cooked up in the average Indian kitchen is khichdi, a cure-all for body and soul, easy to make, easy to eat, easy to digest and easiest of all to make interesting.
The rice and lentil dish, in its simplest form, is fairly ubiquitous, found in variations all over the world. It is traditionally considered ayurvedic comfort food, advised by the most modern doctors for an upset stomach, used often as an infant’s first solid intake, and relished by most when eaten piping hot from a large bowl while watching the rain come down outside, drenching the unwary and denying the sun a chance to cheer things up. It is eaten in its myriad permutations as a light meal in Pakistan and Bangladesh as well as by the native Americans and is believed to have been the basis for the Raj breakfast staple, kedgeree. But it all began a long time ago, when a dish of rice and pulses cooked together to an unctuous softness was described in Sanskrit as khicca, from which the modern-day khichdi or khichri is derived. It became very popular with the Mughal courtiers, especially with Emperor Jehangir, it is said – in fact, the famous Ain-i-Akbari, written by Akbar’s vizier in the 16th century, has seven different versions of the dish that was first written about by Afanasiy Nikitin, a Russian who travelled through India in the 15th century.
Khichdi – though perhaps not called that – is a favourite in different parts of the world. For breakfast, khansamas in the days of the Raj served up rice cooked soft with fish and eggs, while in China congee with pickled vegetables and dried shrimp served the same purpose. The American Indians stewed red (pinto) beans and rice with a little animal protein, while in Cuba rice is blended with black beans and slowly simmered for a long time. In India, the Bengalis like kichuri on rainy days or for special feasts, while in Tamil Nadu there is an entire celebration focussed on the dish, called Pongal, where the sweet and savoury versions share a banana leaf. It is a must-have in a Gujarati thali and the Maharashtrian fishing communities spice it up with a few prawns.
From the very bland and stomach-soothing dal-khichdi of the north to the rich gourmet fare it becomes in the South, to the heavy meal it serves in Bengal to the light yet spicy fare in the West, khichdi is indeed universal. But it is essentially a culinary base palette to which colour and flavour can be added. Emperor Jehangir liked it with lots of ghee, dried fruits and nuts; more modern folk like it less rich and fatty, to be eaten with Gujarati kadi or Tamilian morkozhambu (yoghurt based gravy), fritters or pakoras - from beguni (eggplant) to alur (potato) – papads, chips and pickles, in the company of vegetable preparations like undhiyo (Gujarat) or alu ka bharta (Bihar), or meat/fish like prawn patia (Parsi) or beef fry (Kerala), with a spoon, fork or, delightfully mushily, with fingers scooping each soft, fragrant bite up to the mouth…
Khichdi has no fixed recipe or proportions, though the finicky cook may cavil at that statement. It is a very personal food. It can be cooked in a pressure cooker, though the long slow stewing method produces the best results, on a kitchen hob or outdoors over a campfire. Usually made with rice and lentils, it can also include cracked wheat, barley, amaranth and other grains – though a wild rice experiment did not yield results that were too favourable, be warned! Most often, pulses such as moong, tur (arhar), masoor and sometimes chana dal is added to rice that cooks into fat, full, melting morsels, the whole being almost amorphous and delightfully gooey. Nuts and the occasional raisin add interest, while vegetables make it all more nutritious and wholesome – any sabji leftover in the fridge can work, and fresh-cut beans, carrots, onions, pumpkin, spinach, cauliflower and more can provide a tasty note. A touch of spice is also desirable, from garlic and ginger, to cardamom, cloves, cracked pepper, star anise and even a few strands of saffron for a luxe touch. Of course, a finishing spoonful of ghee stirred in is a must, calories be damned!
There is no better companion to have while watching the raindrops falling on other people’s heads on a wet day.
Recipes:
PONGAL
Rice 1 Cup
Moong Dal ½ to 1/4 Cup
Spices – whole cardamom, cloves, cinnamon – 6-8 pieces each
Cashew for garnish
Ghee 2 Tbsp
Water 6 Cups or more
Salt to taste
Method
Wash rice and dal together and drain.
Heat 1 tbsp ghee.
Gently fry the spices.
Add the rice/dal and fry till the ghee coats the mixture.
Add water and salt. Cover and cook, adding more water if required.
When rice and dal are cooked to the required softness, garnish with cashews fried in 1 tbsp ghee.
Cracked pepper and soft-cooked vegetables are a good addition. Pongal is most delicious eaten with morkozhambu (kadi made with ground coconut and buttermilk/yoghurt with chunks of white pumpkin), South Indian papad (unspiced), mango pickle and/or a spicy vegetable curry.
Kedgeree (an Anglo Indian recipe)
1 1/2 cups Basmati rice
3 cups water
1 tbsp vegetable oil
1 tsp black mustard seed
1 tsp cumin seed
3 cloves garlic minced
1″ knob of ginger grated
1 medium onion minced
1 chili minced
1 tbsp garam masala
2 tsp turmeric
1/2 cup chicken or vegetable stock
2 tbsp cream
50 gms smoked fish
Salt to taste
3 soft boiled eggs peeled and chopped
Coriander leaves and pomegranate seeds for garnish
Wash rice with cold water and put into a heavy bottomed pot with the water to simmer until all the water is absorbed. Turn the heat off.
Heat the oil and crackle the mustard and cumin seeds.
Add the garlic and ginger and fry until soft.
Add onions, chili, garam masala and turmeric and fry gently.
Add the stock and simmer for five minutes.
Turn down the heat and add cream, stirring all the while.
Add fish and salt to taste and stir for a couple of minutes.
Add the cooked rice and two chopped eggs and stir well.
Serve piping hot decorated with chopped coriander leaves, pomegranate seeds and boiled egg pieces. Eat with poppadoms and mango pickle.
Bon appetite!
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Dayanita Singh interview
(Published in the Hindu Sunday Magazine, August 22, 2010)
Life is a series of stories that could be broken down into a sequence of images that run fast enough to seem like a continuous spiral of activity without the punctuations of blank spaces. Each of these images can be captured, memorized, by the mind and often is, only the finest details blurred over by time, age and eyes that may not be quick enough to fix them for eternity. And what the eye can see, the camera can freeze, too, each photograph keeping a log of what happened, where, when and how. A really ‘good’ photographer can also steal a little bit of the feeling, the emotion, the soul of that particular moment in time – in fact, in many cultures, a photograph is dreaded, sometimes even forbidden, since it is believed to take away a tiny slice of the soul, perhaps even the life, of the subject being photographed. But for the viewer, a photographic image tells a story, or a bit of one, leaving the rest for the imagination to conjure up and embellish.
In telling that story, photography, once considered to be merely a way of capturing a moment, be it as a family portrait of a facet of breaking news, gradually became an art form – a creative story-telling, fiction perhaps – or a means of documentation – a biography or a record of a life and its living. “You can call it art, documentation, literature, whatever you like,” says Dayanita Singh, well known photographer whose work illuminates and illustrates a new (eponymous) book from Penguin Studio. “It’s my work. It’s what I do.” Supporting her form of story-telling is writing that comes from the minds of Aveek Sen and Sunil Khilnani and, as a set of emails, Mona Anand.
She was once someone who thought that “Photography was one of the most irritating things to have around childhood.” Singh has said that “I had no interest in becoming a photographer.” It meant, more than anything else, that she had to sit still while her mother, Nony Singh, took pictures…and more pictures, “every departure was delayed by her picture making”. Some of the images her mother captured are included in the volume, in the section called Sent a Letter. “If I could write, I would not be a photographer,” Singh says, as she tells wordlessly of an “inner universe”, as the introduction poetically describes it, through her work.
And even as she tells stories looking through the eye of her camera, Khilnani and Sen have their own tales about what she is trying to convey. In the photographic essay called In I Am As I Am, a vision of Benares through the lives of young girls in the Anandamayi ashram, there is a tangible awareness of the tacit acceptance of the children’s way of life, the austerity, the simplicity, the peace, the gentleness that they learn to know and understand and the way they “…gaze - in wonder, confusion and horror – at all there is on view”, as Khilnani relevantly puts it – he is speaking of tourists reactions to the city, but he could be speaking of the girls themselves, their eyes wide and absorbing as they look out from their sheltered haven. The writing focuses on the city and its photographic potential, the way it has been portrayed by various people in writing and images.
Sen’s treatise on Ladies of Calcutta speaks of the “mad party” that was held at the gallery in Stephen Court when the show opened in January 2008. There were “friends and friends of friends who had opened their homes and lives to this woman with a Hasselblad from another city”. And Singh had a unique thank you gift for her visitors and subjects – each was allowed to take home the photograph she had made of them, leaving behind just four unclaimed. The images tell more stories than their subjects would perhaps have imagined. The unsaid says more than that which is spoken of, conveying mood, relationships and affections in that one snap in time. And there is history in each frame – culture, tradition and age, as reflected in the way the woman pose, the clothes they wear and how they are worn, the furniture, even the pictures on the walls. Each has a special story; its meaning and interpretation left to the viewer.
Singh herself is blunt about herself – “I would say that picture making is about a quarter of my work,” she says, “it is much more about the sifting, editing, weeding out, sequencing, thinking about the form, and what you want to create out of these images.” For her, “Photography has finally become what it is has set out to be – a universal language. It’s not in the photographs, not in itself, but about the text you put into a book, what kind of writing you connect your work with.” The same passion that emanates from her photographs comes through her voice and her words, as she explains how photography is so much more than just seeing the world through a lens and then showing that world what it looks like. “I am very interested in how far one can push photography and the overlap it has with literature. The kind of photography I am interested in needs to look to the other forms now – to cinema, to literature, to music, to create something more.”
This inspiration comes from interacting with her friends - writers, photographers – and from reading: “I read a lot of (Italo) Calvino, who is most important for any photographer to read,” an unconventional choice for a tribe that usually focuses on (Susan) Sontag et al. “It opens up a Pandora’s box. My advice to young photographers is always to read, read and read more.” Singh believes that “It is not about the picture making, but about the form that makes it. It cannot be all that you do in your life, I think. It is about bringing something else into your work, from travel, reading and conversations, reading being absolute number 1 – no way around it!” It is sustenance for her, since “Literature certainly informs and shapes the thought that I put into my work.” Photographs thus become facets of a larger story. When you look through Singh’s Dream Villa set, for instance, “could they evoke a certain story, a certain symphony? Think of these as clues to a story in Michael Ondaatje’s style of editing, with no fixed beginning and no definite end.”
And this is how she wants to work, what she wants her work seen as. “If we can have texts that somewhere go into how one creates – that would be quite a big step. This book has made a big shift in the world of books, in the kind of text it has. The writers are not talking just about the photographer, they are not concerned with just photography; they are interested in the arts, in literature, in music.” With the book, Singh aimed to try and start to “push the limits on what has been written on photography – it would be worth it. These are some of the most important texts to read if you are interested in the medium. In this book I think I have laid the foundations for some kind of a change. It is not just about photographs, it is about the text.” That text was selected by Singh herself, as “an extension of my work. While it is a way of thanking people in my life that have shaped me, all the different experiences that form who we are become the sources that become whatever we are trying to create. If we could have a book that deals with the sources of what we create, that is what makes sense.”
Life is a series of stories that could be broken down into a sequence of images that run fast enough to seem like a continuous spiral of activity without the punctuations of blank spaces. Each of these images can be captured, memorized, by the mind and often is, only the finest details blurred over by time, age and eyes that may not be quick enough to fix them for eternity. And what the eye can see, the camera can freeze, too, each photograph keeping a log of what happened, where, when and how. A really ‘good’ photographer can also steal a little bit of the feeling, the emotion, the soul of that particular moment in time – in fact, in many cultures, a photograph is dreaded, sometimes even forbidden, since it is believed to take away a tiny slice of the soul, perhaps even the life, of the subject being photographed. But for the viewer, a photographic image tells a story, or a bit of one, leaving the rest for the imagination to conjure up and embellish.
In telling that story, photography, once considered to be merely a way of capturing a moment, be it as a family portrait of a facet of breaking news, gradually became an art form – a creative story-telling, fiction perhaps – or a means of documentation – a biography or a record of a life and its living. “You can call it art, documentation, literature, whatever you like,” says Dayanita Singh, well known photographer whose work illuminates and illustrates a new (eponymous) book from Penguin Studio. “It’s my work. It’s what I do.” Supporting her form of story-telling is writing that comes from the minds of Aveek Sen and Sunil Khilnani and, as a set of emails, Mona Anand.
She was once someone who thought that “Photography was one of the most irritating things to have around childhood.” Singh has said that “I had no interest in becoming a photographer.” It meant, more than anything else, that she had to sit still while her mother, Nony Singh, took pictures…and more pictures, “every departure was delayed by her picture making”. Some of the images her mother captured are included in the volume, in the section called Sent a Letter. “If I could write, I would not be a photographer,” Singh says, as she tells wordlessly of an “inner universe”, as the introduction poetically describes it, through her work.
And even as she tells stories looking through the eye of her camera, Khilnani and Sen have their own tales about what she is trying to convey. In the photographic essay called In I Am As I Am, a vision of Benares through the lives of young girls in the Anandamayi ashram, there is a tangible awareness of the tacit acceptance of the children’s way of life, the austerity, the simplicity, the peace, the gentleness that they learn to know and understand and the way they “…gaze - in wonder, confusion and horror – at all there is on view”, as Khilnani relevantly puts it – he is speaking of tourists reactions to the city, but he could be speaking of the girls themselves, their eyes wide and absorbing as they look out from their sheltered haven. The writing focuses on the city and its photographic potential, the way it has been portrayed by various people in writing and images.
Sen’s treatise on Ladies of Calcutta speaks of the “mad party” that was held at the gallery in Stephen Court when the show opened in January 2008. There were “friends and friends of friends who had opened their homes and lives to this woman with a Hasselblad from another city”. And Singh had a unique thank you gift for her visitors and subjects – each was allowed to take home the photograph she had made of them, leaving behind just four unclaimed. The images tell more stories than their subjects would perhaps have imagined. The unsaid says more than that which is spoken of, conveying mood, relationships and affections in that one snap in time. And there is history in each frame – culture, tradition and age, as reflected in the way the woman pose, the clothes they wear and how they are worn, the furniture, even the pictures on the walls. Each has a special story; its meaning and interpretation left to the viewer.
Singh herself is blunt about herself – “I would say that picture making is about a quarter of my work,” she says, “it is much more about the sifting, editing, weeding out, sequencing, thinking about the form, and what you want to create out of these images.” For her, “Photography has finally become what it is has set out to be – a universal language. It’s not in the photographs, not in itself, but about the text you put into a book, what kind of writing you connect your work with.” The same passion that emanates from her photographs comes through her voice and her words, as she explains how photography is so much more than just seeing the world through a lens and then showing that world what it looks like. “I am very interested in how far one can push photography and the overlap it has with literature. The kind of photography I am interested in needs to look to the other forms now – to cinema, to literature, to music, to create something more.”
This inspiration comes from interacting with her friends - writers, photographers – and from reading: “I read a lot of (Italo) Calvino, who is most important for any photographer to read,” an unconventional choice for a tribe that usually focuses on (Susan) Sontag et al. “It opens up a Pandora’s box. My advice to young photographers is always to read, read and read more.” Singh believes that “It is not about the picture making, but about the form that makes it. It cannot be all that you do in your life, I think. It is about bringing something else into your work, from travel, reading and conversations, reading being absolute number 1 – no way around it!” It is sustenance for her, since “Literature certainly informs and shapes the thought that I put into my work.” Photographs thus become facets of a larger story. When you look through Singh’s Dream Villa set, for instance, “could they evoke a certain story, a certain symphony? Think of these as clues to a story in Michael Ondaatje’s style of editing, with no fixed beginning and no definite end.”
And this is how she wants to work, what she wants her work seen as. “If we can have texts that somewhere go into how one creates – that would be quite a big step. This book has made a big shift in the world of books, in the kind of text it has. The writers are not talking just about the photographer, they are not concerned with just photography; they are interested in the arts, in literature, in music.” With the book, Singh aimed to try and start to “push the limits on what has been written on photography – it would be worth it. These are some of the most important texts to read if you are interested in the medium. In this book I think I have laid the foundations for some kind of a change. It is not just about photographs, it is about the text.” That text was selected by Singh herself, as “an extension of my work. While it is a way of thanking people in my life that have shaped me, all the different experiences that form who we are become the sources that become whatever we are trying to create. If we could have a book that deals with the sources of what we create, that is what makes sense.”
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