Landscape of VersesNovember 17, 2009 1:19 pm

I’ m spent
what would it be
to drop everything and walk out
I’ll have to convince myself  first
no books, no laptop,
no paints and brushes
what do I intend to do under the blue skies all day
to walk out you mustn’t be heavy
just the clothes on your back
mind emptied inside out
heart that sings
feet that go nowhere and everywhere
I will have to leave my car behind
forget the moments spent sipping tea
sitting on the rosewood chair looking at the racing clouds
leave the spectacles  my mother gave me before wheeled into ICU
and my father’s  gold plated watch he got when he retired from  work
I shall fold away in a bag the radiance of a smile  
I saw on my little boy’s face
when I went to pick him
on his first day at school
searching in the sea of faces for mine
the smile that travelled from his lips to light his eyes
… that I’ll carry with me

Landscape of VersesNovember 7, 2009 2:09 am

Hope is the thing with feathers 
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm 
That could abash the little bird 
That kept so many warm. 
  
I’ve heard it in the chillest land, 
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

            Emily Dickinson

Landscape of VersesOctober 28, 2009 6:12 pm


The first rain dissolves time
slipping to the dark afternoon that many years ago
the moment lost in the crevices of memory.
I sat in my room
lit by the phosphorous sky of lightening
reading Ezra Pound.
Dark runnel of water
flowed under my window,
the mango tree creaked with dampness
sighing wearily with years of barrenness.
Gloom curled in the corners of my room
my mind was fatigued searching the seed of desolation.  

 

Landscape of Verses 4:00 am

What were the colour of his eyes
The image last captured by them
Did they last descend on the pale flowers
crowding the path to the gate
Or do they hold the glint of smile on his mother’s face
lines crinkling around the mouth
breaking into a laugh
unknowing of the cursed moment
that would plunge her boy into darkness?

 

 

Landscape of VersesOctober 21, 2009 9:22 am

The boy skips
several times to the window
peeps impatiently
holding the rusted bars 
looking for his mother.

Will she wear a sari today
he fears the ridges of frown on Dikshitar’s face
seeing his mother dressed inappropriately for the visit
a strand of jasmines falling over her dark neck
a stole thrown hurriedly over her shoulder.

He has packed his cloth bag
there is nothing much in it
nothing that he wants to carry
from the dingy corner of the room
that he shares with ten others in Patashalai.

He is allowed to wear a shirt today
buttoned all wrong he runs
hearing his mother’s loud voice
her laughter rings through the dark passage
as she greets the Dikshitar.

She is wearing a denim pant, long kurta
and a fuzzy thing for a stole
her hair black, ripples of curls
is bunched with a yellow band
she has painted her fingers red. 

She fusses, she buzzes
as she buttons his shirt, wipes his face,
combs his hair
holding his jaws forcefully
till he screams loudly with pain.

She smiles, bends down and whispers
- for five days no veshti
 only  pants, jeans and shorts
looks conspiratorially at the old Dikshitar
in whose face runs streams of disapproval. 

The boy of eleven, in his mind
screams for tact from his mother
-I have to come back here
my friends are watching
he pleads with his eyes to his unseeing mother.

She takes him to her one room tenement
stowed away on an old building
the heat pours through asbestos roof
the walls a garish blue floats like clear afternoon sky
as he lies on the floor swept clean by his mother.

The small place is stacked with things
a fridge murmurs softly
a TV stands on a rickety stool
heap of clothes on a steel chair
rotten bananas in a plastic bowl.

She has been collecting things
buying on credit, acquiring  by charity
appliances discarded by people she knows
a little wire fitted here, a tinkering there
things for her son to use when he grows up.

For now
he is a boy of eleven
learning vedam in Patashalai
his mother is single
a cook from Kumbakonam.

BookwormOctober 19, 2009 10:18 am

It makes a world of difference to read Lord Jim after 20 years. The novel was a prescribed text in my Masters Program at college, I remember reading most of the novels of Conrad soon after and a tome of literary criticism on Conrad’s works. Most often in a college program we read a work of fiction/play /poem through various lens, so there was a colonial reading of Conrad, reading Lord Jim as a romantic novel, as adventure fiction, psychological novel, as a modernistic novel, we read it for its stylized structure and much more. There was always this anxiety to see the layered meaning of the novel.

Now I have no such anxiety, I read the book for the sheer pleasure of reading. The book evoked the predictable responses it did that many years ago, though in a muted way because of what the passage of time has done to me as an individual. I, in fact, read the same book from my college days, a yellowed paperback where I have liberally marked with pencil in the margins – ‘honour’, ‘morality’, ‘guilt’, ‘imagination’, ‘isolation’, ‘romantic’ – superficially, tags that I used as pointers for preparing essays; but at a deeper level those were the frames where, with a feeling of awe, I froze the tragic hero Jim.

Jim is a slave of his imagination, illusions, romantic longings; he lives a major part of his life in his head. As a young water clerk he imagines saving sinking ships, quelling mutinies, but during his first training to be a sailor he fails to spring into action at the sight of a coaster crashing through a schooner on a wild weather day. This acts as a prelude to what is to come, the omniscient narrator wastes no words and time to imply that Jim is ear marked for a life of tests and tribulations.

The novel can be divided into two – Patna and Patusan. Patna is the ship that takes eight hundred pilgrims to Mecca, Jim joins the crew as a chief mate. The ships runs over  something and sustains a dangerous leak. The native pilgrims are sleeping and the four white crew members, one being Jim, abandon the ship and escape in a boat. Jim who had been waiting for opportunities to show his heroism has missed a lifetime chance. Jim had been paralyzed into inaction by his imagination of the impending tragedy. Before the minute of catastrophe he lives in his head to the last detail the sinking of the ship with the 800 pilgrims in the cold waters. Even in the boat he hears the cries of the pilgrims as they sink.

At one level Jim groans over his missed chance and wasted opportunities – here we see a twenty four year old romantic fed on holiday literature of adventure and heroism, not realizing that reality always falls many notches below the ideal. He sees himself as different from the other crew members, he sees their influence as a dark force that willed him to jump into the well of disgrace. At a very important level he fights the assaults from his conscience on his moral standing. This makes him seek for atonement and retribution, he searches for a mission that is unalloyed by coarseness of purpose.

This search lands him in Patusan a forested island in the Malay Archipelago, a land bloodied and ripped apart by warring factions of people – the Malay Tunku Allang, the treacherous descendant of the Sultan who wants to consolidate his power base and establish his monopoly over trade; the Bugis who are immigrants from Celebes, this race is headed by Doramin and his son Dain Waris, who are friends of Stein ( Jim is sent to Patusan by Stein to manage his trading company), and Sherif Ali an Arab sailor who with his men terrorizes the Bugis and loots the land. Jim, the white Lord descends into this Inferno to restore order and peace in the land.  This could well be read as another trip in his romantic journey.

Was it a quest to be a hero that drove him to the sequestered island?   Marlow the narrator of Jim’s tale says, “ The conquest of love, honour, men’s confidence – the pride of it, the power of it, are fit materials for a heroic tale.” Vey soon Marlow adds, “I affirm he achieved greatness; but the thing would be dwarfed in the telling, or rather in the hearing. Frankly, it is not my words I mistrust, but your minds.” Marlow fixes his glance on the readers accuses us of sacrificing our imagination to feed on a story, to fix on the ‘externals of success’ -  reprimanded we realign our understanding of heroism. Jim routs the Arab, establishes peace by reconciliation, builds bridges. He fights with an urgency of purpose and a conviction to establish stability; in the process he gets a larger than life image where ‘his word was the one truth of every passing day’. His battles are not pantomimes of his notional heroism that he read in books, Jim sees clearly that he is in no romantic situation as the jungle threatens to creep in and overwhelm him. In the end when he visits the bereaved Doramin and is prepared for any punishment that the grieving father will inflict, he goes with a complete knowledge that there are no heroes.   

Problems with Lord Jim
The novel is exclusively Jim’s. He is isolated not just by his moral predicament but he is the isolated white man working his destiny among the natives in a distant land. The people and the land are used as mere props all through the novel, this becomes very problematic.  Jim is best described in the company of other white men like Marlow and Stein, and his relationship with Malays, Bugis lacks dimension.

The lands Jim visits are a blur, the people of the land are a smudge. Most of the places he visits do not have names, not even fictitious ones - it suits Conrad to keep mentioning eastern ports, eastern seas. The place the Inquiry is held may very well be Bombay because there are references to people with caste marks on their foreheads, there is a reference to a Parsee firm, there is a sprinkle of words like punkah,  annas,  gharry-wallahs, and a tokenism through a one line mention of Hindu belief in reincarnation which sounds irreverent. He compares the pilgrims in Patna to animals packed in a pen; he writes, “800 pilgrims were driven on board”, and they gratefully “surrendered to the wisdom of the white man”.

In the section on Patusan, characters like Doramin and Dan Waris who are portrayed sympathetically, or Sherif Ali and Tunku Allang who are painted as devilish, or Jim’s half caste girlfriend Jewel whose only refrain is ‘they always leave us’ lack the intellectual and emotional breadth that Jim, Marlow or Stein are portrayed to possess. The people in Patusan are consistently single dimensional, they are not even caricatures -  caricatures of characters like Cornelius and the Captain of Patna offer a relief, the people in Patusan are not credited with even that.

Folds on Doramin’s bulk arrange and rearrange themselves every time he is mentioned, the only emotional dimension of Doramin is his love for his son and his desire to make him his successor. Dan Waris is mentioned as Jim’s fine friend, as valuable to Jim as Marlow. This rings hollow because the story does not support this. The author only states, but is not able to show the depth of their relationship.

Conrad describes the land, the physicality of the people but cannot understand the depth of their souls to write about the choices they make. Despite all the action that takes place in Patusan, the place appears unpeopled. This is because we do not hear the voices of the people, their stories, their myths, their folk lore, the language they speak, the songs they sing, the nature of their dreams.

Amitav Ghosh’s Sea Of Poppies                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      
In this context, I read Amitav Ghosh’s Sea of Poppies as representing all that Conrad chose to leave out. Sea of Poppies  tells the story that  Lord Jim  left unsaid, story of the diverse people, from rascals to rajahs to impostors to outcastes to Devis who travel by Ibis, a one- time blackbirder, a ship that transported slaves. These characters inhabit the noisy underbelly of the ship; they might be packed like animals but nobody can stop their animated voices, they tell their tales, sing their songs and hold the notion of their home through their shared histories and stories.

Landscape of VersesOctober 5, 2009 9:25 am

Pearly greyness tips down
the bowl of land scooped by the hills;
chillness settles on leaves and flowers
that smudge and blur in twilight haze;
funnel of clouds washes the sky
to drain into the horizon;
the moon a dull disk of gloom
waits for darkness
to dazzle the knots of rocks in silver.

Bookworm, PassionSeptember 29, 2009 5:09 am

 

I was introduced to Indian poets and authors while in school. I read Rabindranath Tagore, Sarojini Naidu, contemporary poets like Nissim Ezekiel, Keki N Daruwala, Dom Moraes before I got to read serious Indian novelists. R K Narayan and Anita Desai were exceptions though, I soaked myself in Narayan’s novels ‘The Guide’, ‘Bachelor of Arts’, ‘The Financial Expert’. I started reading Anita Desai a little later; while other Indian novelists like Raja Rao, Mulk Raj Anand, Manohar Malgoankar and Kamala Markandeya had to wait till I began college.

New Century Bookhouse located in Mount Road, published books written by Russian authors. They undertook translations of Russian writers in Tamil, writings of Marx, Lenin, Stalin were translated in Tamil for propaganda of Marxist ideology. The books were dirt cheap, booklets with collected essays of Marxist thinkers could be bought for a song. One could buy the Tamil translation of ‘Das Kapital’ for twenty rupees, and small booklets cost ten rupees. Since profit did not drive the publication of books in New Century Bookhouse, books written by great authors like Tolstoy, Pushkin, Maxim Gorky, were affordable. 

I bought hardbound volumes of Tolstoy’s ‘War and Peace’, ‘Anna Karenina’ , and Gorky’s ‘Mother’ from New Century Bookhouse and those were the first of my collection of books. I was about fifteen when I read ‘Anna Karenina’. I remember reading the book during a summer break from school. I became engrossed in the plot of the story, the diverse threads of the plot kept me hooked, the characters cohabited with me through the long hours that I read the book every day. 

Anna reminded me of strong women characters from the novels I had read, especially Catherine of ‘Wuthering Heights’ and  Maggie Tulliver of ‘Mill On The Floss’. Like them I found Anna Karenina sensual, restless, agonized by a world that she found inadequate, searching for a dream that vanished like vapour. These three women die in the end - that was not the only fate they share; though they were diverse people living through circumstances very different, they were like sisters because they dared to embrace the forbidden, fatally. 

I had never enjoyed historical fiction, and that was why I could never proceed beyond a few chapters of’ ‘War and Peace’. I could complete reading Maxim Gorky’s ‘Mother’ though I found it dreary and uninspiring. I found ‘Mother’ dated, working in a specific socio-political context that I could not relate to.

I was near eighteen when I started reading Dostoevsky, I was overwhelmed by intense energy that his novels ‘Crime and Punishment’, ‘Brothers Karamazov’ and ‘Idiot’ represented. Though writing in mid 19th century, I found Dostoevsky a modernist in terms of his thinking, themes and style. His novels were a psychological probe into the human soul, his brooding characters were tormented by existential angst and spiritual turmoil – they anticipated Freud, Jung, Kafka, Milan Kundera in my reading oeuvre. 

Bookworm, PassionSeptember 23, 2009 11:43 am


This post is inspired by Beth’s ‘How We Read’. It took me back to the time when reading seemed to be the only thing I did, especially back to my college days. I decided to do my grad program in English Literature so that I could read more and more books. I was so naïve about the courses offered in a University, more so I was fed up and impatient with Science, Math, History, Geography, the tests and exams that came in my way of reading. 

Reading as an activity began when I was nine /ten, late when compared with reading habits of children of this generation. (There are many reasons for that, and it will require a post by itself.) I started with comics, the Amar Chitra Kathas. These were many comics bound together into several volumes that my mother borrowed from the library of the school that she worked as a teacher. When I was nine or ten there was only Higginbothams in Madras and the only book that my father bought with great attention was the Oxford English Dictionary which was thumbed well by everyone in the family. Landmark with its children’s section for books came a generation later. 

After Amar Chitra Kathas, I moved to Enid Blytons (Famous Five, Secret Seven, Malory Tower) , Nancy Drew, Hardy Boys, Perry Masons, Hadley Chase. These books were the only ones circulated in School Library and the Local Lending Library. I was then in Grades 6 and 7, I finished a book in a couple of hours, and I had to wait a week to take another book. Few of my friends, all avid readers, exchanged their books for mine, and I finished about seven books a week and the school library could not keep up with our thirst for more. 

Despite this frenzied reading along with school work, I felt inadequate. It was then, sometime when I was in Grade 8 that my mother introduced me to Jane Austen’s ‘Sense and Sensibility’. I acquired a new meaning to reading. For one, I realized that I could not tumble through this book the way I did with the earlier ones. It seemed like I was reading a different language, the story belonged to a different world. There were large parts that I did not understand; still the world the book represented seduced me in a puzzling manner. When I finished the book, I knew I could not go back to the type of books I had been reading earlier. 

My mother gauged that the transition to serious reading was tumultuous though I didn’t accept it. She recommended that I read Daphne Du Maurier’s ‘Rebecca’, she kept harping on the surprise element in the story that would box me. She regretted having introduced me first to Jane Austen, ‘Rebecca’ she felt might have provided a smooth transition. My mother personally was very fond of the book, she had seen the movie as well. I wanted to read other books of Daphne Du Maurier, but the school library did not have any.

I decided to try the other classics in the library. Through the next two years I lived my life out of the bookshelf that my friends seldom visited. I read Charlotte Bronte’s ‘Jane Eyre’, more of Jane Austen – ‘Pride and Prejudice’, ‘Mansfield Park’, ‘Northanger Abbey’, ‘Persuasion’, Emily Bronte’s ‘Wuthering Heights’, George Eliot’s novels. I had completed the entire major women novelist from the shelf. I kept away from Dickens, Thackeray, Thomas Hardy – they seemed formidable and for another day. 

Landscape of VersesSeptember 22, 2009 11:02 am

He hates me
punches me hard in the
space in my head.
My stomach crumbles in fear as
he comes again and again
to nullify the simple world I’ve built.