(bdnews24.com, May 27, 2011)
In 2006, Bangladesh found itself in the international media spotlight, for all the right reasons. One of its well-known citizens, Muhammad Yunus, an economist and one-time professor of the subject, was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize for his work, which also shared the honour: the Grameen Bank, an institution that provides small loans to people on or below the poverty line who have no collateral to use for credit from other banks that lend money. Yunus made what could be considered a mistake – he aimed to step into the political arena and had already become rather too well known on a global platform.
And where there is worth, there will be enemies. And, they came crawling out of the woodwork and attacked just when they thought the time was perfect and ended the whole thing. In March this year, the Bangladesh government removed Yunus from his post in the Grameen Bank, saying that after long scrutiny legal violations had been discovered and the Nobel laureate had overshot his age-eligibility limit.
The facts of the case are well known, especially in Bangladesh. But there is one ramification that is of interest to the ordinary Indian now, especially one who watches movies and is a fan of one particular actor: Irrfan Khan. The star has bagged a new and prestigious project to play Yunus in a film called Banker to the Poor, based on the eponymous bestseller. Being directed by Italian filmmaker Marco Amenta, it will show how and why, from a very human perspective, the Grameen Bank was opened and how it managed to boost the economy of a section of the Bangladeshi population that needed all the help it could get. It is reported that the actor will be meeting Yunus to get an insight into his role and the functioning not only of the bank, but of the man who created the institution. With someone of the thespian credibility and involvement of Khan, the film will be realistic and graphic, but whether it will find an audience is another question completely.
Meanwhile, international cinema has taken a number of true stories and made them come alive onscreen. A couple of years ago, Angelina Jolie and the same Irrfan Khan were reliving the tragic tale of Wall Street journalist Daniel Pearl, who was beheaded by al-Quaeda in Pakistan. More recently and closer to home, Monica told the story of Shivani Bhatnagar, another journalist, who was murdered in her home in New Delhi; it starred Divya Dutta, as talented as Khan, but not as well acknowledged for some reason. Somehow so many of these ‘true story films’ are about death and disaster, grief and revenge, but perhaps that is because that is what sells, certainly more than happy tales of roses and sunshine and everyone being happy.
Consider some of the film made on real subjects over the last year or so: Green Zone (2010), about events from the end of the invasion phase of the Gulf War until the transfer of power to the Iraqis; Mad in Italy (2010), based on events about a girl’s ordeal to stay alive at the hands of a young maniac; The Social Network (2010), on the creation of Facebook and the lawsuits that followed; 127 Hours, the story of Aron Ralston, the American mountain climber who amputated his own arm to free himself after being trapped by a boulder for six days; No One Killed Jessica (2010), on the real life murder case of Jessica Lall, a young socialite and model in New Delhi; Khelein Hum Jee Jaan Sey(2010), a Hindi movie version of the Chittagong uprising In 1930 and so many more.
But cinema is not just about box offices and fan clubs, but can be an educative tool as well. How many young people would be willing to read about the story behind one of the most successful networking tools ever: Facebook? I know very few adults who will even recognise the name of Aron Ralston, but so many youngsters will have seen 127 Hours and know it for a Danny Boyle film with music by AR Rahman! Children may not listen to Indian mythology, but after seeing My Friend Ganesha, they will know the entire story behind the baby elephant god and his creation and virtues. In fact, a number of schools and colleges have started understanding the positive qualities of commercial cinema, seeing it as more than just escapist fare or a dream world, and using it to educate, to mentor, to set examples of qualities that young people need to accept and absorb to be responsible, progressive and mature world citizens.
And the story of Mohammad Yunus could be another small step in that direction too.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Monday, May 30, 2011
Art worth owning
(Hindu Magazine, May 29, 2011)
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever. That seems to have been the working principle of Stuart Cary Welch’s life. Welch (1928-2008) was a curator, scholar, gifted teacher, celebrated connoisseur and collector, who spent over 50 years studying the art and aesthetics of India and the Middle East. And his passion for the objets he admired was matched by the careful and meticulous way in which he collected pieces that touched his intellect, his instincts and his heart. Part of his vast and wonderful collection, Arts of the Islamic World, was offered on sale at Sotheby’s, London in April, bringing in an astounding £20.9 million, an auction record for any single such sale of Islamic art.
And, at the end of this month, May 31, 2011, Part II will be offered to a discerning public. With 204 lots, this will include, as Sotheby’s says, “many dramatic and exquisite works of great rarity, including Rajput, Deccani, later Mughal, Company School and Himalayan paintings, drawings and works of art, as well as a wide range of more affordable drawings, sketches and decorative arts from the 13th to the 20th century.” Star of this particular show will be a "Vasudhara Mandala, the earliest recorded Nepalese paubha that contains a date within its dedicatory inscription, and was painted in 1365 by Jasaraja Jirili. It is estimated at £300,000-400,000.” Other highlights include a rare and important, finely painted Monumental Portrait of a Monkey, Mewar, Udaipur, circa 1700, estimated at £70,000-90,000 (estimated prices do not include buyer’s premium).
According to Holly Brackenbury, Director and Head of Sotheby’s Indian Art Department, “Stuart Cary Welch was a scholar, connoisseur and collector. His lectures, exhibitions and publications inspired many people in the West to look at Indian art for the first time. He looked at every piece individually and brought about a new understanding of Indian art, this is particularly apparent in his collecting; every miniature, sketch and object was collected for a reason, he identified not only the historical importance of a piece but also its beauty.” She explains that “This collection of Indian art is one of the most important to have come to the auction market within the last fifty years. There are some exceptional pieces in the sale. Not only do these pieces have the provenance of coming from the Stuart Cary Welch Collection, but many have also been widely published and exhibited in leading institutions across the world. This sale offers collectors and museums globally a wonderful opportunity to acquire some fantastic works of art with impeccable provenance.” Brackenbury says that “Welch took great pleasure in collecting art and his family is keen for other collectors in to have the opportunity to acquire some of these remarkable pieces.”
Welch was a lecturer at Harvard University, and a curator of Islamic and Indian art at Harvard Art Museums for over 40 years. Pieces in his collection are symbolic of his passion, beautiful, rare and valuable works that include the Vasundhara Mandala and Monumental Portrait of a Monkey, as well as an exquisite folio from the Gita Govinda, Radha and Krishna in a Bower, dated perhaps to about 1780. It is in opaque watercolour, with touches of gold, estimated at a value of about £60,000-80,000. The Krishna theme is also seen in Bhairavi Raga: Lord Krishna Enthroned and Adored, a circa 1650 miniature in the early Pahari style, one of the Ragmala series. Its estimated price tag: £15,000-25,000. Celebrating Holi, Awadh, 1760-1764, is another treasure, offered at about £30,000-40,000, a work vibrant and energetic, showing off the colours and spirit of the festival. And Entertainment in a Harem Garden shows off a place that any harried city dweller would love to escape to – dating to about 1765, it has courtyards and gardens in a large palace complex, with a princess and her female attendants in a terrace watching a dancer perform. A getaway priced at a fabulous £40,000-60,000!
Even as Welch’s august reputation makes the collection being auctioned even more prized and covetable, the Internet offers an interesting and fun piece of information on the collector-connoisseur: “The 1978 Merchant Ivory film, Hullabaloo Over Georgie and Bonnie’s Pictures, film follows art stalkers yearning to acquire a maharajah’s hidden collection of miniatures. When, finally, the dusty cloth bundles are unwrapped, the screen dances with colourful images of painted works—all of which belonged to Welch.” A man worth knowing, art worth owning.
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever. That seems to have been the working principle of Stuart Cary Welch’s life. Welch (1928-2008) was a curator, scholar, gifted teacher, celebrated connoisseur and collector, who spent over 50 years studying the art and aesthetics of India and the Middle East. And his passion for the objets he admired was matched by the careful and meticulous way in which he collected pieces that touched his intellect, his instincts and his heart. Part of his vast and wonderful collection, Arts of the Islamic World, was offered on sale at Sotheby’s, London in April, bringing in an astounding £20.9 million, an auction record for any single such sale of Islamic art.
And, at the end of this month, May 31, 2011, Part II will be offered to a discerning public. With 204 lots, this will include, as Sotheby’s says, “many dramatic and exquisite works of great rarity, including Rajput, Deccani, later Mughal, Company School and Himalayan paintings, drawings and works of art, as well as a wide range of more affordable drawings, sketches and decorative arts from the 13th to the 20th century.” Star of this particular show will be a "Vasudhara Mandala, the earliest recorded Nepalese paubha that contains a date within its dedicatory inscription, and was painted in 1365 by Jasaraja Jirili. It is estimated at £300,000-400,000.” Other highlights include a rare and important, finely painted Monumental Portrait of a Monkey, Mewar, Udaipur, circa 1700, estimated at £70,000-90,000 (estimated prices do not include buyer’s premium).
According to Holly Brackenbury, Director and Head of Sotheby’s Indian Art Department, “Stuart Cary Welch was a scholar, connoisseur and collector. His lectures, exhibitions and publications inspired many people in the West to look at Indian art for the first time. He looked at every piece individually and brought about a new understanding of Indian art, this is particularly apparent in his collecting; every miniature, sketch and object was collected for a reason, he identified not only the historical importance of a piece but also its beauty.” She explains that “This collection of Indian art is one of the most important to have come to the auction market within the last fifty years. There are some exceptional pieces in the sale. Not only do these pieces have the provenance of coming from the Stuart Cary Welch Collection, but many have also been widely published and exhibited in leading institutions across the world. This sale offers collectors and museums globally a wonderful opportunity to acquire some fantastic works of art with impeccable provenance.” Brackenbury says that “Welch took great pleasure in collecting art and his family is keen for other collectors in to have the opportunity to acquire some of these remarkable pieces.”
Welch was a lecturer at Harvard University, and a curator of Islamic and Indian art at Harvard Art Museums for over 40 years. Pieces in his collection are symbolic of his passion, beautiful, rare and valuable works that include the Vasundhara Mandala and Monumental Portrait of a Monkey, as well as an exquisite folio from the Gita Govinda, Radha and Krishna in a Bower, dated perhaps to about 1780. It is in opaque watercolour, with touches of gold, estimated at a value of about £60,000-80,000. The Krishna theme is also seen in Bhairavi Raga: Lord Krishna Enthroned and Adored, a circa 1650 miniature in the early Pahari style, one of the Ragmala series. Its estimated price tag: £15,000-25,000. Celebrating Holi, Awadh, 1760-1764, is another treasure, offered at about £30,000-40,000, a work vibrant and energetic, showing off the colours and spirit of the festival. And Entertainment in a Harem Garden shows off a place that any harried city dweller would love to escape to – dating to about 1765, it has courtyards and gardens in a large palace complex, with a princess and her female attendants in a terrace watching a dancer perform. A getaway priced at a fabulous £40,000-60,000!
Even as Welch’s august reputation makes the collection being auctioned even more prized and covetable, the Internet offers an interesting and fun piece of information on the collector-connoisseur: “The 1978 Merchant Ivory film, Hullabaloo Over Georgie and Bonnie’s Pictures, film follows art stalkers yearning to acquire a maharajah’s hidden collection of miniatures. When, finally, the dusty cloth bundles are unwrapped, the screen dances with colourful images of painted works—all of which belonged to Welch.” A man worth knowing, art worth owning.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Book review
(The Times of India Crest Edition, May 14, 2011)
The Cloud Messenger
By Aamer Hussein
Indian literature is replete with the most evocative images of amazingly interesting ways and means of communication. There are parrots that can carry love from lover to beloved; pipal leaves are an oft-used and bio-recyclable form of letter-paper; flowers tell stories that sound like poems whispered into shell-like ears; and the wind sings songs that convey messages between people separated by wars and distance. Kalidasa in his Meghadoota (or ‘cloud messenger’) devised a more ethereal form of ‘mail’ in his 111-stanza lyric poem. It tells the story of a homesick yaksha who is in exile for not doing his job for King Kubera diligently enough. The yaksha misses his wife and tells her via a cloud, a messenger who is coaxed into doing the job through a seductive travelogue describing the delights of the journey from the plains to the city of Alaka, in the Himalayas, where the yaksha’s wife is waiting for her husband. The cloud links the separated lovers, and gives its title to the eponymous new novel from Aamer Hussein.
The Cloud Messenger is about Mehran, the narrator, who moves from a luxe life in Karachi as the youngest son and heir of a khandaan to adulthood as a student of Urdu and Persian in London. There is an almost autobiographical flavour to the character, and the “novel is the story of some of the paths I might have taken”, the author writes, describing his career development from working in a bank to studying languages, psychoanalysis and philosophy to finally becoming a much-lauded writer of culturally Asian-British fiction. The words are simple, neatly strung together, drawing pictures that alternately provoke and depress, speaking of love won, lost and languishing, a world where relationships change as quickly as the cloud formations above London.
When Mehran was a child, he and his sister Sara would listen to stories of a time that seemed to them to be strangely exotic, where they could only imagine the tastes of strawberries and crumpets, the cold of ice and snow and the sight of a lady wearing a yellow-petalled hat and called the ‘Queen of England’. England, the children knew, was “much further than India, very far away”. Mehran learned more from the Enid Blyton books that he read as he grew up and then about other lands from Hans Christian Andersen, the Brothers Grimm, the Old Testament, the Qur’an, the Iliad, One Thousand and One Arabian Nights and so much else that he devoured so eagerly. By 1978, when the narrative swerves into the first person, he has not only read his way around the world, but done a fair bit of travelling as well, seeing and wondering through an existence that in any sense of the word would be extremely interesting, satisfying and educative.
And then he meets people who make more of a difference to his world than his reading or travel ever did. There is Marco Feliciani, “a bit of a lad”, Lady L, aka the Professor, “reputed to be a martinet”, Riccarda, an older married woman who becomes Mehran’s lover and causes Marco some jealousy, and the tragically destructive Marvi, who manages to enchant the young man into an affair that lasts into the painful and prolonged end of her life. In each relationship there is a story, and as these tales weave into each other, Mehran finds, like the ephemeral beauty of the clouds, change is about the only permanence he has. And in that, he finds himself.
The Cloud Messenger
By Aamer Hussein
Indian literature is replete with the most evocative images of amazingly interesting ways and means of communication. There are parrots that can carry love from lover to beloved; pipal leaves are an oft-used and bio-recyclable form of letter-paper; flowers tell stories that sound like poems whispered into shell-like ears; and the wind sings songs that convey messages between people separated by wars and distance. Kalidasa in his Meghadoota (or ‘cloud messenger’) devised a more ethereal form of ‘mail’ in his 111-stanza lyric poem. It tells the story of a homesick yaksha who is in exile for not doing his job for King Kubera diligently enough. The yaksha misses his wife and tells her via a cloud, a messenger who is coaxed into doing the job through a seductive travelogue describing the delights of the journey from the plains to the city of Alaka, in the Himalayas, where the yaksha’s wife is waiting for her husband. The cloud links the separated lovers, and gives its title to the eponymous new novel from Aamer Hussein.
The Cloud Messenger is about Mehran, the narrator, who moves from a luxe life in Karachi as the youngest son and heir of a khandaan to adulthood as a student of Urdu and Persian in London. There is an almost autobiographical flavour to the character, and the “novel is the story of some of the paths I might have taken”, the author writes, describing his career development from working in a bank to studying languages, psychoanalysis and philosophy to finally becoming a much-lauded writer of culturally Asian-British fiction. The words are simple, neatly strung together, drawing pictures that alternately provoke and depress, speaking of love won, lost and languishing, a world where relationships change as quickly as the cloud formations above London.
When Mehran was a child, he and his sister Sara would listen to stories of a time that seemed to them to be strangely exotic, where they could only imagine the tastes of strawberries and crumpets, the cold of ice and snow and the sight of a lady wearing a yellow-petalled hat and called the ‘Queen of England’. England, the children knew, was “much further than India, very far away”. Mehran learned more from the Enid Blyton books that he read as he grew up and then about other lands from Hans Christian Andersen, the Brothers Grimm, the Old Testament, the Qur’an, the Iliad, One Thousand and One Arabian Nights and so much else that he devoured so eagerly. By 1978, when the narrative swerves into the first person, he has not only read his way around the world, but done a fair bit of travelling as well, seeing and wondering through an existence that in any sense of the word would be extremely interesting, satisfying and educative.
And then he meets people who make more of a difference to his world than his reading or travel ever did. There is Marco Feliciani, “a bit of a lad”, Lady L, aka the Professor, “reputed to be a martinet”, Riccarda, an older married woman who becomes Mehran’s lover and causes Marco some jealousy, and the tragically destructive Marvi, who manages to enchant the young man into an affair that lasts into the painful and prolonged end of her life. In each relationship there is a story, and as these tales weave into each other, Mehran finds, like the ephemeral beauty of the clouds, change is about the only permanence he has. And in that, he finds himself.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
All news is good news
(bdnews24.com, May 21, 2011)
It is amazing how clichés can be fiddled with and made to fit the occasion…any occasion. Take my title for this piece, for instance. For the last week, I have been trying to get the brand new website that my team has been working on seen and talked about, using any and every means at my command – ruthlessly, with Machiavellian cunning and without being squeamish about it all.
I know it is a new concept for the environment it has been launched into and, while what we have to say with it is not anything so far unseen, the way we are saying it is, at least in this part of the world. I am admittedly rather chuffed, puffed and pleased about the whole thing, and though there may be glitches and goofs that I have not yet caught up with peppered through the site, I am proud of what we have created – me, my team and all those who have helped us get to this point.
And, if my editor will allow me to say so, we are at www.bollywoodlife.com. It has been a good six months of a tough, arduous and often frustrating journey, but when we saw it live on the Internet, all the arguments, the long hours, the wait, the struggle and the chewed nails have been so worth it.
Now comes the more difficult part, I know. Since we are online, we now need to find an audience that will make the entire process pay off for all of us, in revenue, in page views, hits, accesses, whatever, but most of all in an audience. Now don’t get me wrong. We – or I, since I am the one writing this…am not looking for appreciation without balance. I want to know what is wrong, not just what is right.
I want people to look at what we have done and be realistic, not just praise us for doing a good job more because I write well, or I look good or – yes, it has happened – I am who I am. I don’t even care if people want to be nasty about the site. Following the cardinal rule of any media hound, follower or creator, any news is indeed good news, at the moment.
Having done my little bit of advertising for the product, I will get to the point which, as you will read, is relevant and related. Over the past few weeks, a number of scandals have hit the headlines, some of which have been read on this very website that you happen to be reading me. The most reported, perhaps, has been the 3G spectrum brouhaha, where licenses have been issued not as per worthiness, but according to who can pay the most to the people with the power to grant clearances.
After many weeks of to-ing and fro-ing with the government unable to find proof, identify perpetrators, nab them and bring them to justice, arrests have at last been made. Most recently Kanimozhi, the daughter of one of the most prominent political figures in South India, joined her partner in crime, A Raja, in jail, a place far less luxurious than the homes and comforts that they have been used to.
Joining them is Suresh Kalmadi, a familiar face and name on the subcontinent in the world of sports, indicted for his role in the multimillion dollar misappropriation of funds during the Commonwealth Games held at the end of last year in New Delhi. Sports has been dogged by more scandal than usual, or so it seems, with Shane Warne – as the most recent instance – getting into a fight with the authorities and having to pay an enormous fine to get out of it, the Sri Lankan cricketers refusing to obey the orders of their government to go home, ad infinitum.
But in all this, one aspect stands out: all these people, named or not, are or have just been in the relentlessly targeting spotlight that the media focuses on anything and anyone who creates a noise of any kind. Consider it from this point of view – if Kanimozhi gets off the sentence that will be pronounced, and comes out of jail, free, she will be considered a martyr, a woman who has suffered for her cause, never mind that she made her little fortune on it. Which makes all the publicity she is getting now not a reason to hide her head under her dupatta, but to hold it high and present the best angle for all the photographers to record for posterity.
A Raja has until now faced the media with a beaming smile on his face, assuring all who are interested in hearing it that he is innocent and will be exonerated. Once he gets out of jail, whether proven innocent or guilty, people will remember that smile and that self-assurance, giving him points for it rather than condemning his arrogance. Kalmadi may not recover easily from having an eggy face, but he made his millions, presented a sports spectacular and made his name known all over the Commonwealth. Shane Warne, a fading sports star known more for his sex life than his game these days, finds a fresh new look for the limelight and is obviously enjoying every moment, never mind that few reports are positive, laudatory or kind.
This is the story of so many others – movie stars on the red carpet in Cannes, be it the rather substantial but couture clad Aishwarya Rai Bachchan or the abysmally outfitted Mallika Sherawat or a multitude of international faces who have had fashion disasters; Lindsey Lohan and her addictions; Julien Assange and his troubles and, perhaps most recently, Dominique Strauss-Kahn who was caught in a rather awkward situation and has been put under house arrest, bailed out by his wife. They may all be rather red-faced when they are caught in the camera but then realise that it is indeed true – any news about them is, for them, indeed good news!
It is amazing how clichés can be fiddled with and made to fit the occasion…any occasion. Take my title for this piece, for instance. For the last week, I have been trying to get the brand new website that my team has been working on seen and talked about, using any and every means at my command – ruthlessly, with Machiavellian cunning and without being squeamish about it all.
I know it is a new concept for the environment it has been launched into and, while what we have to say with it is not anything so far unseen, the way we are saying it is, at least in this part of the world. I am admittedly rather chuffed, puffed and pleased about the whole thing, and though there may be glitches and goofs that I have not yet caught up with peppered through the site, I am proud of what we have created – me, my team and all those who have helped us get to this point.
And, if my editor will allow me to say so, we are at www.bollywoodlife.com. It has been a good six months of a tough, arduous and often frustrating journey, but when we saw it live on the Internet, all the arguments, the long hours, the wait, the struggle and the chewed nails have been so worth it.
Now comes the more difficult part, I know. Since we are online, we now need to find an audience that will make the entire process pay off for all of us, in revenue, in page views, hits, accesses, whatever, but most of all in an audience. Now don’t get me wrong. We – or I, since I am the one writing this…am not looking for appreciation without balance. I want to know what is wrong, not just what is right.
I want people to look at what we have done and be realistic, not just praise us for doing a good job more because I write well, or I look good or – yes, it has happened – I am who I am. I don’t even care if people want to be nasty about the site. Following the cardinal rule of any media hound, follower or creator, any news is indeed good news, at the moment.
Having done my little bit of advertising for the product, I will get to the point which, as you will read, is relevant and related. Over the past few weeks, a number of scandals have hit the headlines, some of which have been read on this very website that you happen to be reading me. The most reported, perhaps, has been the 3G spectrum brouhaha, where licenses have been issued not as per worthiness, but according to who can pay the most to the people with the power to grant clearances.
After many weeks of to-ing and fro-ing with the government unable to find proof, identify perpetrators, nab them and bring them to justice, arrests have at last been made. Most recently Kanimozhi, the daughter of one of the most prominent political figures in South India, joined her partner in crime, A Raja, in jail, a place far less luxurious than the homes and comforts that they have been used to.
Joining them is Suresh Kalmadi, a familiar face and name on the subcontinent in the world of sports, indicted for his role in the multimillion dollar misappropriation of funds during the Commonwealth Games held at the end of last year in New Delhi. Sports has been dogged by more scandal than usual, or so it seems, with Shane Warne – as the most recent instance – getting into a fight with the authorities and having to pay an enormous fine to get out of it, the Sri Lankan cricketers refusing to obey the orders of their government to go home, ad infinitum.
But in all this, one aspect stands out: all these people, named or not, are or have just been in the relentlessly targeting spotlight that the media focuses on anything and anyone who creates a noise of any kind. Consider it from this point of view – if Kanimozhi gets off the sentence that will be pronounced, and comes out of jail, free, she will be considered a martyr, a woman who has suffered for her cause, never mind that she made her little fortune on it. Which makes all the publicity she is getting now not a reason to hide her head under her dupatta, but to hold it high and present the best angle for all the photographers to record for posterity.
A Raja has until now faced the media with a beaming smile on his face, assuring all who are interested in hearing it that he is innocent and will be exonerated. Once he gets out of jail, whether proven innocent or guilty, people will remember that smile and that self-assurance, giving him points for it rather than condemning his arrogance. Kalmadi may not recover easily from having an eggy face, but he made his millions, presented a sports spectacular and made his name known all over the Commonwealth. Shane Warne, a fading sports star known more for his sex life than his game these days, finds a fresh new look for the limelight and is obviously enjoying every moment, never mind that few reports are positive, laudatory or kind.
This is the story of so many others – movie stars on the red carpet in Cannes, be it the rather substantial but couture clad Aishwarya Rai Bachchan or the abysmally outfitted Mallika Sherawat or a multitude of international faces who have had fashion disasters; Lindsey Lohan and her addictions; Julien Assange and his troubles and, perhaps most recently, Dominique Strauss-Kahn who was caught in a rather awkward situation and has been put under house arrest, bailed out by his wife. They may all be rather red-faced when they are caught in the camera but then realise that it is indeed true – any news about them is, for them, indeed good news!
Saturday, May 07, 2011
Knowing the bad guys
(bdnews24.com, May 6, 2011)
The news is full of it. And that does not imply what it commonly does in everyday casual lingo, honest! I was actually speaking of the locating and killing of Osama bin Laden, which fascinating topic has been the focus of all and every television news channel, newspaper, magazine (when printing schedules permit) and conversation. As some bubble-headed Bollywood starlet tweeted, this even did its best to upstage the royal wedding, which everyone had been watching for a couple of days earlier.
But even as the debate raged on how it all happened, how long it had taken, how hard they had worked, how secrets are kept and then revealed and how death comes as the unexpected end, there were questions that demanded answers, some that will never be, not to everyone’s complete satisfaction. Main among them: What actually happened that day at the house where Osama was said to be hiding out? And was that really honest-to-God Osama bin Laden who was killed by the US SEALS who managed to attack his hideout with such stealth and sublime secrecy?
That is something I worry about at some dispassionate level, me and a whole lot of people who cannot completely accept that the man who caused so much grief to so many is really dead and sleeping, as some wag pointed out, with the fishes.
I remember that long-ago evening when Osama’s most stunning piece of work was unveiled for so many to watch, stunned, amazed, horrified. I had just come home and turned on the television to watch a travel show that my parents, many miles away in a different city, had been praising. There was an incredible scenario unfolding as I stopped my pottering to stare at: there was a huge, smoking, red-rimmed hole in the side of a building I knew so well – the World Trade Centre in Manhattan, New York.
As I stared, wondering what bad movie I was seeing the preview of, a plane flew towards the second tower, banked slightly and then dove in. Then, astonishingly, horribly, one tower slowly fell down into itself; then the other crumbled. Without my knowing it, there were tears salting my lips, my nails were digging red dents into my palms. There would have been people I had met in that building complex, maybe on the planes that flew into them. And as news of the other two crashes came in, more tears followed, of a strange empathic grief, of a dread that evil reigned, of a sense of overwhelming sorrow for a world that seemed to have gone mad.
Over the next few days, weeks, months, the extent of the horror slowly unfurled. There was a man who pulled the strings that made all this happen, we all learned, a monster who was called Osama bin Laden. He had created and controlled a network that destroyed, killed, pillaged, all in the name of some warped form of a religion that in its pure form did not advocate murder, friends who were of the same faith educated me. And over the years more people died, friends, children, brothers, sisters, parents, those who had done nothing to earn that kind of fate.
It became oddly personal when someone whom I considered a friend was killed by the same hate-clan, his neck sliced open after days of tortuous confinement, the killing caught on video tape that was made available for the world to see and gasp at. Daniel Pearl, journalist and a nice guy, slaughtered like an animal in a sacrifice. We had met, chatted, drunk coffee, met again, spoken on the phone and emailed; I liked him, I liked his then-shy wife Mariane, I liked the person who had introduced us to each other, a woman called Asra Nomani that I was proud, pleased and happy to call “buddy”.
And with one stroke of a knife, that circle of friendship was destroyed. As were a few planeloads of people who had no connection at all to any of this, no reason to even know that a rather twisted mind called Osama bin Laden existed at all. But, in some ways, the biggest tragedy of the whole plot was the fact that the open, accepting, often-naive and generally friendly American warmth became dark-tinged with shades of suspicion, with the cold waves of hate, intolerance, anger and sadness.
Travel to the US, UK and elsewhere was not as much of a pleasure as it had been. Racial profiling changed from being a concept that raised eyebrows to a reality that turned individuals into sniffer dogs ready to snarl instead of smile. And what was once a theoretically-fuelled debate on one faith being as good as another became a real argument about which belief system could be categorised as ‘killer’ more easily that any other.
Now that Osama bin Laden is reportedly dead – God help us all – will that change, albeit gradually? Will the world ever be the same again? Or will that shadow that he hid behind cloud eyes, judgements and life for ever and ever?
The news is full of it. And that does not imply what it commonly does in everyday casual lingo, honest! I was actually speaking of the locating and killing of Osama bin Laden, which fascinating topic has been the focus of all and every television news channel, newspaper, magazine (when printing schedules permit) and conversation. As some bubble-headed Bollywood starlet tweeted, this even did its best to upstage the royal wedding, which everyone had been watching for a couple of days earlier.
But even as the debate raged on how it all happened, how long it had taken, how hard they had worked, how secrets are kept and then revealed and how death comes as the unexpected end, there were questions that demanded answers, some that will never be, not to everyone’s complete satisfaction. Main among them: What actually happened that day at the house where Osama was said to be hiding out? And was that really honest-to-God Osama bin Laden who was killed by the US SEALS who managed to attack his hideout with such stealth and sublime secrecy?
That is something I worry about at some dispassionate level, me and a whole lot of people who cannot completely accept that the man who caused so much grief to so many is really dead and sleeping, as some wag pointed out, with the fishes.
I remember that long-ago evening when Osama’s most stunning piece of work was unveiled for so many to watch, stunned, amazed, horrified. I had just come home and turned on the television to watch a travel show that my parents, many miles away in a different city, had been praising. There was an incredible scenario unfolding as I stopped my pottering to stare at: there was a huge, smoking, red-rimmed hole in the side of a building I knew so well – the World Trade Centre in Manhattan, New York.
As I stared, wondering what bad movie I was seeing the preview of, a plane flew towards the second tower, banked slightly and then dove in. Then, astonishingly, horribly, one tower slowly fell down into itself; then the other crumbled. Without my knowing it, there were tears salting my lips, my nails were digging red dents into my palms. There would have been people I had met in that building complex, maybe on the planes that flew into them. And as news of the other two crashes came in, more tears followed, of a strange empathic grief, of a dread that evil reigned, of a sense of overwhelming sorrow for a world that seemed to have gone mad.
Over the next few days, weeks, months, the extent of the horror slowly unfurled. There was a man who pulled the strings that made all this happen, we all learned, a monster who was called Osama bin Laden. He had created and controlled a network that destroyed, killed, pillaged, all in the name of some warped form of a religion that in its pure form did not advocate murder, friends who were of the same faith educated me. And over the years more people died, friends, children, brothers, sisters, parents, those who had done nothing to earn that kind of fate.
It became oddly personal when someone whom I considered a friend was killed by the same hate-clan, his neck sliced open after days of tortuous confinement, the killing caught on video tape that was made available for the world to see and gasp at. Daniel Pearl, journalist and a nice guy, slaughtered like an animal in a sacrifice. We had met, chatted, drunk coffee, met again, spoken on the phone and emailed; I liked him, I liked his then-shy wife Mariane, I liked the person who had introduced us to each other, a woman called Asra Nomani that I was proud, pleased and happy to call “buddy”.
And with one stroke of a knife, that circle of friendship was destroyed. As were a few planeloads of people who had no connection at all to any of this, no reason to even know that a rather twisted mind called Osama bin Laden existed at all. But, in some ways, the biggest tragedy of the whole plot was the fact that the open, accepting, often-naive and generally friendly American warmth became dark-tinged with shades of suspicion, with the cold waves of hate, intolerance, anger and sadness.
Travel to the US, UK and elsewhere was not as much of a pleasure as it had been. Racial profiling changed from being a concept that raised eyebrows to a reality that turned individuals into sniffer dogs ready to snarl instead of smile. And what was once a theoretically-fuelled debate on one faith being as good as another became a real argument about which belief system could be categorised as ‘killer’ more easily that any other.
Now that Osama bin Laden is reportedly dead – God help us all – will that change, albeit gradually? Will the world ever be the same again? Or will that shadow that he hid behind cloud eyes, judgements and life for ever and ever?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)