(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.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
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'í 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'í 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.
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