In my opinion...

Oct 19, 2014 :

On the Blindside

There’s a war out there, a war of words, where everyone feels they have to voicean opinion about an opinion. Innocuous statements being misconstrued is commonplace now. Seems like if there’s one right that we all love to exercise,it is the right to take offence, writes SHREEKUMAR VARMA.

There was a time people resettling or moving to Kerala did it on the sly. You’d arrive at night and quietly get your own people to unload your furniture and arrange it in the house. For there was always a zealous group of loaders waiting to get their hands on your things, whether you wanted their help or not. And they’d have to be paid, whether they actually loaded or not. They belonged to associations, and acted as if it was their right to load other people’s things for them. And if they weren’t allowed this right, they had the right to take offence and retaliate.

Sadly, despite your quietest moves, they still found you out!

Some of their ilk still lurk around.

Today, it’s the same when you want to voice an opinion. Not just in Kerala, but in the whole country. Not just in this country, but throughout the world. Perhaps the social media is to blame. Like in most cases. Everyone feels they have to voice an opinion about your opinion. It’s no more a question of counting the number of likes you secured for a Facebook post. You have to contend with hate, sarcasm and blistering personal prejudice along with the approval. You have to face that unbearable tightness of being when a casual passerby peers into your personal jottings and feels he’ll burst if he doesn’t unburden himself of a pompous, witty or wounded comment. You find yourself suddenly raised from an ordinary social media junkie to the purveyor of “that” opinion, the guy who posted “that”. 

The Isms are strong and always ready to go.

The Airtel ad which had the husband’s boss cooking his meal and waiting for him to return home let loose a storm of protest. The cloak of patriarchy is back, they chorused in horrified contentment. It reminded me of a British Council seminar years ago. I’d just read out my take on Raja Rao’s Kanthapura. Most of the other delegates were women. In fact, let me see, I was the only male. One of the things I mentioned in my paper was about the “stridency” of today’s feminists. “Strident? Strident! Strident!??!!” I went pale as an army of offended women fell upon me with claws-out cacophony. My wife watched helplessly in the audience. The uproar lasted until another woman, stronger and louder, drowned out their voices, saying, “So what? 

That’s his opinion, why should he take it back?”

This necessity to take offence is upon us like an angry red rash, an epidemic that will spread if not contained.

What’s new is the availability of a forum when we want to express ourselves. A forum that will allow us to share our ideas and whims, to get responses, to see where we stand and to, admittedly, give us our moment of fame. There are hundreds of thoughts and responses running around in our heads all the time. In the old days, we simply let them be. Or spilled them out on the pages of a diary. Or confided in those who were close to us. Today when we find ready options like Facebook, Twitter and message boards before us, we express them without thought, just as our forefathers would spit out their paan juice into readily available spittoons or on walls. And just as the red stain stayed on those walls, once we’ve expressed ourselves it’s there, often inerasably, for the world to see. Whether we like it or not.

Which leads to the next step: the offended response. 

Waiting to be heard

There’s a pithy description in Malayalam. It pinpoints the circumstance of an offended person as “a coconut falling on the head of a dog waiting to howl”. It’s like a coterie of otherwise unemployed persons watching for an unfortunate comment from an unsuspecting offender. Take the instance of singer Jesudas speaking out against women in jeans. At the most, it reflects the type of person he is. Or the state of mind he was in when he made the comment. Or it was a contextual comment to be read with other things. Whatever it was, it was his opinion, like everyone else has their opinion. There’s no reason to condemn the singer’s entire career or appear to be kind by saying, “He’s a great singer, but talks shit.” Which is the sort of thing you now hear. As if people with poised fingers are dying to click hate.

If everyone has an opinion but cannot voice it, what is freedom and democracy for?

 Like the wise man says: Your freedom ends where my nose begins. So, if someone says something that doesn’t actually hurt you, then what’s all the hullabaloo about?

 The reply (for instance): He’s a celebrated singer. People with such clout should make responsible statements. So, if you are influential (even unknowingly), then you’re supposed to mask your feelings and march with the majority or the delicately correct political opinion?

Because someone will be offended? 

Because there are groups of finely gradated philosophical, political or ethnic distinctions, and they’ll all be waiting to see whose opinion can be pounced upon?

So, if you have a brand to sell, you tell your agency to fashion the blandest advertisement that no one could possibly take offence to?

If you are offended by so-and-so’s opinion, you do have a saner remedy. Put out your own opinion. Not grapple the poor so-and-so to the ground and trample all over him. If you are offended, hang out your own version for the “offender” to see, but don’t weaken him and yourself by turning personal and aiming for the gut. It’s when reason fails you that you flail out.

Look around you. Lurking beyond the shadows is a bitter voice. It will slither out the moment you make your opinion public. Twitter, Facebook, opinion polls, TV get-togethers. It’s all there, red carpeted for you to voice your opinion. But it’s like a spider’s trap. Do it, and the barrage will be upon you. Like that dog with the waiting howl. And since there are different groups on the prowl, you can never be completely right or wrong. Technology has made it possible for our nasty side to be nudged into view. Technology that encourages you to let it all hang out and then pounces on you for doing so!

Which is why most people stick to harmless comments and posts: Today I got up feeling good with the world. Today my bowel movements were pretty average. Today is hot and therefore it must rain. Today I love chocolate. Or they post pictures of half-eaten meals. Or repost stock statements of goodwill with standard cheerful pictures or mildly shocking declarations that will evaporate as soon as they’re seen. Things that can’t go wrong, you see. Because opinions are dangerous.

Finally, individuality will count for nothing. There’ll just be the politically correct, middle-path, smiley statement. And you’ll have to hold on to that, come what may, believe it or not.

When Sankaracharya found Hinduism being subdued beneath other popular religions like Jainism and Buddhism, he didn’t hire a gladiator to chop off the heads of rivals. He travelled through the land, using argument, debate and philosophical acumen till Hinduism regained its lost glory. And that was the measure of his success. That he could do so without sword or fire. He believed everyone was entitled to his own opinion, and he’d have his say too if they gave him a chance. When you get the better of people through debate, where’s the question of offending anyone?

(It was rather different in the case of the Kauravas who were laughed at by Draupadi, took offence and sowed the seeds of the Mahabharata war. Because offence can also burgeon in silence, then rise up and destroy.)Let’s now turn the coin to look at the other side.

On Facebook, there’s a slightly different take on taking offence. Some people feel the closer they are to you, the more critical, candid and crude they can be. And if you react with a grimace, they say Ha-Ha-Ha, and fiddle with your feelings even further. So, here we’re on the other side, as offence-takers. In my case, I grin and bear it till I feel I don’t need to any more. Then I un-friend the person. I think that’s the best of three choices: the other two being to tolerate him forever or take an eye for an eye, repaying crude with crass. When you un-friend such people, it’s only the cyber equivalent of switching channels, where you gracefully glide away from a brash channel by pressing the Next button. (Okay, maybe slightly more drastic than that.) I’ve had experiences where the unfriended friend was escorted back and we bonded better than before!

It’s a small world

It’s a delicate path to tread, and it’s probably happening because the world has become smaller and distances get destroyed through daily interaction between you, your family and friends. Strangers are welcomed into your close-knit group till they too feel they have a right over your life. A merry little interactive group. Until things start getting out of hand.

So we find there are two sides to taking offence. Our side and their side.

I remember some decades ago when this paper published a Sunday short story and all hell broke loose. Vandals poured in and did every damage they could. The funny thing about it was that the story was an English translation of a story that had already been carried in a magazine in another state without much ado. No one had bothered about its nuances (if there were any), and it was quietly read and appreciated. The same story, when translated, caused reverberations.

What is it about these people? Is it the politics or some inherent stridency?

Today, Feminism, Secularism, Ecology, Animal Welfare, Human Rights are all subjects of explosive delicacy. Holding inherent merit in themselves, they are mutated into esoteric concepts that will burn you wherever you touch them. They become hurlable weapons in the hands of battle-scarred activists. Whatever you do or say flouts some provision in their tattered rule book. They are like bullies perched on the fence, preventing you from climbing over, taunting you for every difference between you and them.

There are three types of offence-takers: the individual, the group and the compulsive victim. In the first, the individual may be sensitive, touchy or genuinely hurt. There’s a lot to be said for getting off your high horse and investigating the damage you may have caused, to check if it’s a real grievance. In the second case, the issue may be valid but the priority is an ulterior dividend, generally political. An offended protest is orchestrated and ruthlessly pursued. This can turn deadly with the vagaries of mob psychology and the possibility of violence hanging in the air, persuasion ending in shove and push. In the third case, the “victim” is like a dog on the street barking randomly at the odd passer-by. It’s the pleasure of barking that rules here.

Three years ago, when I was in north Kerala, my cousin who was then HOD in a women’s college said the staff and the local police were concerned about students being lured away by radical elements, forsaking home and college. That was the first time I heard the term “Love Jihad”. It was then a law and order problem in the academic world, a problem that needed to be delicately handled. Today, the term has resurfaced. A general sense of hurt and offence has been created with politics edging out the socio-legal and human aspect. Politics has that Midas-like ability to turn sensitive issues into mould.

Everyone takes offence. It’s the way it’s expressed that matters.

The Internet makes for impulsive expression and instant regret. Politics has armies waiting like wary watchdogs ready to pounce on the opposite view. People in positions of power (whether politicians, policemen, teachers, judges or actors) often remain in states of self-deluded divinity, defensive and aggressive to protect their power. You and I are pedestrians who get caught in the crossfire.

So I’ll now quietly leave you with these thoughts. Who knows who’s waiting out there to take offence.

India's saving grace

Aug 31, 2014 :

We Indians save. And it’s not just for our immediate pleasure. We feel gravely responsible for ourchildren and their lives. We tend to store for the next couple of generations if we can. In fact,saving money — or indeed, saving anything at all — has been written into our DNAs, writes SHREEKUMAR VARMA.

We have a designated spending timetable, we Indians. Right from birth until the time we stop remembering the dead, we spend. Our rituals are sacrosanct. Everything has been written down.

And we can’t cock a snook at The Written without being termed rebellious and so edged out of the society that we belong to and are comfortable with. Along with the highway, we also have bylanes and cut-paths and overnight detours. Which means to say, we have The Written, and then we have guidelines in every community, sub-sect and stratum. Not to mention individual eccentricities.

So, when the guidelines become rules and the rules become unavoidable, we find ourselves straitjacketed by habit and ritual. Which is a madness that turns deadly if not attended to sensitively.

Rituals cost money.

Especially when we have to keep up with the Boses. Before a birth, we celebrate its coming. Then we celebrate the birth itself. We bring up our child better than our poor neighbours brought up theirs. We send them to a better school, a better college and try to bribe them into better jobs. We marry off the child with money-drenched celebrations even if we don’t have the money for it. If it’s a girl child, we huff and we puff and conjure up a suitable dowry. Death has its own grim ceremonies. If it’s a conscientious or cautious offspring we’re talking about, then the parent’s death surfaces in his diary every year afterwards, ceremonies, ceremonies, ceremonies.

And there are the social and religious festivals and celebrations.

All this costs money.


Another important commandment in The Written is: Thou shalt be Home.

From a society that sprang up from a typical joint family ambience when everyone lived together — and like my father used to say, “there were some children and there were some parents, they just ran into a home whenever they were hungry, hurt or happy, and were tended with equal affection or indifference” — it was traumatic to go nuclear. In the early shake-up years following Independence, Indians trawled the country looking for jobs.

When the dust settled, we were going the other way.

From joint family to living for oneself is a rough journey (of Me, by Me, for Me). So then we need a house. Even though we have our ancestral home in ten acres of land in the back of nowhere and we have servants, supervisors and labourers to keep it going, we do need that flat in the city. Even though we are dirt-poor in the village and relocated to the city only to improve our life, we must get that flat and that needs money, so we have to forego other things to afford the flat and, finally, here we are, living as wretchedly as before (except for that nice little flat of our own) and slaving our noses off to afford the flat. Since we don’t have money to buy/ rent it, we borrow.

We don’t have no money, so we’ll blow it all away.

That ought to have been our anthem!

Besides respecting the old, we also amass the new. So whatever comes out in the market, be it electronics, household wonders, private transport, holiday offers, eating outings — well, we have to have them too. The best TV, the best mobile phone, the best laptop, the best dinner in town. As long as there’s money with us — present or future money, that is — we buy NOW.

It’s all about ritual. Either esoteric, traditional things we’re afraid to dispense with. Or merry, material things we feel will give clear, beautiful meaning to our otherwise, well, esoteric lives.

Frankly, there are too many of us.

And we are always scrambling to be the first to pick up things. Watch that traffic. Find an inch of space and you’ve nudged your vehicle in; or squeezed yourself through it. You are like that airline passenger instructed to look after himself before tending to others. You have to stand up and be counted in the crowd. The crowd will drag on, stolid, stubborn and self-centred. If you’re not in the first queue, your chance will disappear.

We need money. All the time. Not just to live and breathe, or to enjoy and holiday. We need money to follow The Written. To look after our people and our perceived needs. To hold up a wad of notes and say, ‘See? This is me!’

Put these two together — the concern for survival and the perceived shortage of money — and you have the first simple reason why Indians save. And it’s not just for our immediate pleasure. We feel gravely responsible for our children and their lives. We tend to store for the next couple of generations if we can.

So then we made a virtue of saving. We inculcated it as a principle our children could follow.

There was a popular article, replete with charts, tables and anxious projections, on the Internet a couple of years ago. It said America spent, while the rest of the world saved to keep America spending. The charts showed the alarming fall the US would take if every country were to withdraw its funds and sought some degree of economic independence. Imagine a new scenario where the dollar is no longer dada.

It’s probably a reflection on the respective psyches. Cautious Asia, Aggressive America. One built up actuals and then worked on them. The other spent notional amounts and then worked to earn them. Was it surprising then that an entire economy grew up based on the Future: trading, buying, spending, saving, all in the future! You looked at “trends” and predicted what would happen, and then spent your money to reap a harvest from that future. I remember spending almost an entire night with my friend, his consultant and a computer, trying to grasp the elements of futures trading. That was nearly 15 years ago. Now, the groping has yielded assurances (and in some cases, bad spills).

And yet. This is India!

Borrowed glory
I also remember when the credit card was introduced in our country. It was so difficult to dig into a treasure that wasn’t ours. Happy advertisements showing families splurging spectacularly on borrowed funds spread the fallacy that a piece of plastic meant disposable income. The magic card was a boon to those who had no relatives abroad or expandable incomes. The magic card was magic until the spending grew alarmingly and unconsciously and you were, for the first time, introduced to a species called the collection agent. Slightly boated, frightfully couldn’t-care-less, they were rumoured to treat defaulters the way a cat treated a rat. And that was that.

Indians were a different breed. We were both protected and bled by the Government. We were conservative, and believed in doing the done thing. We slaved and we saved. Our calendar is full of rainy days, both expected and unexpected. We have to be able to rise up to the occasion. Whatever the occasion.

Saving is not just an item on our personal economy list.

It’s an item on our Soul & Spiritual list as well. Those who take the most basic bites at our spiritual legacy (or believe the western interpretation of Karma is the right one) look at life and action as a savings bank where you deposit good deeds and withdraw a bonanza later. Or sow your bad seeds and reap a horrible harvest. Also, frugality is always seen as virtue. So when you earn well, you save for the future, yours and the next generation’s.The tradition is safe and trusted: You earn well by working hard. You live frugally, without pride or pomp. You keep something by so that you can give to charity or be hospitable to guests, both known and unknown. And you save what you don’t immediately need. Your children will not only inherit the money you saved, but also the good habits you demonstrated so diligently.

Tradition. That’s what the good guys are supposed to follow.

But today’s turned topsy-turvy.

You are bombarded with greed images, of wickedly magnificent ways to live with things you don’t need. There is a counterpoint, indeed stark contrast, to that old frugality pitch at every second step. And it’s called Advertising. That’s the old sexy siren, the devil in silken garb, the temptation for the road less taken.Advertising is the new temptress!

Counting chickens before they’re hatched
There’s the story of an old Brahmin couple who expected riches from the king. To cut a long story short, the wife disregarded her husband’s caution to wait for his return before pinning her hopes on a new future. She first made a bonfire of all her clothes, including the ones she was wearing. And then, consumed by joyous expectation, she burnt her husband’s clothes as well. Well, to cut it even shorter, things didn’t go all that well at the palace, and the old Brahmin returned home with nothing at all.

His wife wouldn’t open the door. “Come on!” pleaded the husband. “I’m tired and hungry.” And she replied: “I can’t! Just throw out one of the silk sarees from the palace and I’ll open the door and walk out in style.” But there was nothing to throw. The poor old man had just one set of clothing left, and his wife had not even that!

It’s a simple story to demonstrate the true face of greed. Otherwise, if you’re a good man on a good day, you don’t expect anything from others, and rely on yourself and your honesty. That will not only carry you through to the next level of spiritual living, it will secure your children’s future, raise you high in the eyes of your guests and extend your fame for the benefit of an even better future.

Saving money — or indeed, saving anything at all — has been written into our DNAs. When the old head of the house dies and the children come home from abroad to clean up and, perhaps, sell the house, they are confronted by a mountain of undisposed things.

 From old photographs to a rusty screw from the first radiogram, they are all there. We don’t like to throw away things. The old Brahmin lady from that story was perhaps an exception, or a victim of psychotic expectation. Having “money in hand” is worth everything else.

But it also, of course, depends on the sort of person you are.

Life’s little surprises

Take the beggar (or beggars, because you keep reading this all the time) in your morning newspaper who was found as a corpse on the street and turned out to have bank deposits worth millions of rupees. The wretched  lifestyle may not have suited his riches, but it certainly did support it. Even a beggar’s life is an earning one like everyone else’s. And even he must save for a rainy day. We don’t know if he went out on secret holidays to the Bahamas or had a hidey-hole to hoard his hedonistic habits away from the sympathetic eyes of his poor patrons, but money in hand must have fuelled his dreams of the future.And then take Ayyappan.

Ayyappan A is a much-feted poet of Kerala. Most of the feting took place, however, after he was found unconscious on the road near the Trivandrum Central Railway Station and died soon after in hospital. At 61, he was addicted to drink, drugs and poetry. In two days’ time, he was to have been in Chennai to receive the prestigious Asan Award. I was the chief guest at a memorial event soon after, and prepared for it by reading him, about him, and watching several YouTube clips featuring him.
 It was clear this wasn’t a man who’d save anything. Not even his poetry, perhaps. His body wasted away, pain his constant companion, and he wouldn’t say salaam to fame even if it begged him to.

Ayyappan could have been a child of celebrity, cuddled in the lap of mass adulation. Ayyappan could have amassed money. He could have become influential. All that happens in Kerala. Artists have a way of getting into committees and deciding the fate of other artists. The videos I watched showed he was of different design. He scoffed, but he was compassionate. He needed appreciation, but he wouldn’t clown, smile or bend for it. He’d rather sleep on the street or in some slum-dweller’s hut than rise to someone else’s idea of a Poet.

So, when he died, all he had in his pocket, and thus his world, was a scrap of paper with a scrap of poetry, and Rs 375 in cash!

Flying the flag of patriotism

Shreekumar Varma, Feb 16, 2014:

Patriotism is a multi-hued emotion that never fails to evoke in us that red-hot feeling while talking about our country. But, what defines patriotism today? What are its boundaries? Is it burnt into our DNA, or does it have to be learnt? Shreekumar Varma attempts to find answers.
In my early schooldays, my father took me to see a rousing black and white film called Dr Kotnis Ki Amar Kahani. He was that sort of man. He had grown up heady with nationalism and patriotic fervour. He’d almost named me Subhash Chandra Bose, and then Shyama Prasad Mukherjee. Stunned, my mother quickly gave me my present name. He learnt and taught Hindi, flaunting ‘our national language’ like a proud flag-bearer.

 Speaking it like another dialect of Malayalam, he forcefully pronounced all the silent dots of the Hindi script till he achieved a merry marriage of languages. As a schoolboy, during my grandmother’s reign in Travancore, he took down her official portrait from the wall and replaced it with one of Bose (little knowing he’d end up as her son-in-law). It was an influence hard to ignore. His strong, almost overbearing, advocacy of national pride lasted well beyond my student days.

On the one side was a tradition encompassed by the glory of ‘golden’ Travancore, the beauty and literature of Kerala, the goose-bumps brought on by the Travancore national anthem, Vanchi bhoomi pathe!; on the other, the pride of being Indian. Manoj ‘Bharat’ Kumar was a harbinger. Bharathi, Pradeep, (Shyamlal Gupt) Parshad and Iqbal unfurled our spirit like a flag and made it soar like a bird. Poetry, in Malayalam, Hindi and Tamil, was a timely reminder, a repository of the meaning of the ideal life. Music roused. Cinema triggered. Life was one big salute to the motherland.

So what defined patriotism? Was it the marching boots that kept our country secure? Was it the man on the street who faced all odds to fight injustice? Was it a blanket irritation with anything ‘foreign’? Was it homage to dead leaders? Or, was it simply that red-hot feeling while talking about your country, like the proprietary blush of a true lover?

Anyway, Dr Kotnis went to China and helped to heal victims of the Japanese invasion — a true doctor, a true humanist. The film was based on the real-life story of five medical men sent to China in the late 30s. Four returned to India, the fifth stayed on, married a Chinese nurse, had a son, contracted the plague, and then died of epilepsy. V Shantaram not only made the film, he also acted in it along with his wife Jayshree (made-up to look Chinese). I saw this film again recently, a curtailed version that still touched me. New questions sprouted, and most of them had to do with patriotism. Dr Kotnis (the real one) obeyed Subhash Chandra Bose’s appeal and travelled to China to treat wounded soldiers and civilians. He stayed on, his humanism expanding beyond the call of duty. Love and marriage rooted him further. He was only 32 when he died in China, routed by disease and exhaustion.

Was Dr Kotnis a patriot? He obeyed an Indian nationalist’s call, right. He was doing everything for the glory of his motherland, at least in the film. (The real Dr Kotnis also joined the Chinese Communist Party.) But, patriotism and all, he laid down his life for the Chinese!

The reach

Is patriotism a stand-alone emotion? Or is it just an ingredient of a greater love? Was a doctor’s care (in this case) translated into the love of humanity? Or vice-versa? Does patriotism confine your passion to a geographical space? In which case, if you are an Indian working in New Zealand, who do you cheer for? Or if you are an American-born Indian, which place touches you more? Is patriotism burnt into your DNA, or does it have to be learnt?

And then: How confined is patriotism? Within how many concentric circles does the patriot stand? My home, my village, my district, my state, my quarter of India (south/north/east/west), my India, my Asia, my world, my universe — my language, my tradition, my culture, my people, my ancestral people, my archetypal people.

Which is why Dr Kotnis illustrates my questions. Patriotism on foreign soil! The heart can melt any which way?

There’s been a season of patriotism.

January always is. After Republic Day, we had Beating The Retreat. Can you think of any two events more impressive than these to give you that red-hot feeling we spoke about? The creative precision, the dignified pageantry, the focused magic of co-ordination! It isn’t rare to find all that audio-visual grandeur doing something to a special chamber of the heart that triggers patriotism.

Actually, the season of patriotism has been with us for some time now. Maybe not named as such, maybe not palpably as in earlier times. But it did begin a couple of years ago. A cry for emancipation, a fist up for justice. The wave of humanity that flooded the roads, shouting slogans of dissatisfaction and hope, clutching issues with dogged determination, ready to be punished...

Yes, the uprising began a couple of years ago. Of course, this isn’t the stuff of our freedom struggle. That was different.

That took centuries to build up. The slow dawn of realisation that things could be different, waking to a leader’s call and then marching towards a closure, ready to do or die. The enemy was alien, the leaders were full-hearted, the road to freedom was paved with martyrs. Today, we are 66 years older. And wiser. All-knowing. The process is probably the same. The spirit appears to be similar. The Lok Pal Bill, the Nirbhaya rising, the passion of the Delhi elections. Ordinary people fighting for change. Ordinary people expressing anger against a decadent system. Ordinary people repressed and fighting to break out.

But there’s a difference, the times are different. This is the age of communication and nakedness. Secrets are rare. Information reaches you in seconds, wherever you are. The wariest hero and his baggage of surprises can be dragged into your living room. Truth is truth and lies are lies, though at times you can never tell ’tween the twain. Leaders and history-makers are exposed, over-exposed. When I tell the story of a great leader, when I wish to inspire you with it, to instill that same patriotism in you, I need to make that leader larger than life. Like a god. Today, even iconic leaders from history books are dragged down from their pedestals and exposed for the human beings they were.

 Today, there are so many sides to an argument, so many faces to the democratic common man, so many schools of a single thought (and many of them with tools of militant persuasion), that there isn’t one single truth. Patriotism is a splintered picture and people see what they want to see.

Gone are those goose-bump days.

Back to reality

If something touches you, there’s always someone around to reach out and pinch you awake! Children, schooled in the art of singing patriotic songs, soon develop a veneer of cynicism. They start young. Macho films spread the virus of scepticism. Along with social media and video games, they scorn the believer and instill the mantra that might is right. Look at the internet. Anyone can say anything! Nothing is sacred. But a moment of somber self-expression, and you could fetch yourself a hail of vicious comments. Self-expression can be self-defeating. Unless you’re armed with a pliable mob to force people to take you seriously. Naturally, that mob will be in someone else’s service tomorrow.In such a soil, how do you plant purity?

How can honest intent survive?

Whether it is journalism or the law, academics or literature, Truth comes with a price tag. ‘Truth will triumph’ is a hopeful slogan. Truth will triumph only if you pay for it. And that’s how cynicism is born. Truth, of course, is relative. It is relative to what you believe in.

 Besides a few unshakeable pillars of moral and social conduct, perspective rules the truth. But if Truth is what you believe in, and you stand by what you believe in, you can safely build your world. If your spirit is strong and you can brook pain and insult, if your will is as strong as your truth, then it’s time you joined the army of believers, the young army of today’s patriots.

For, as I said, they’re already on the roads. People have shaken off their lethargy and looked around, they have marched and tasted success. The new leaders may change, they may descend into comic eccentricity, they may renege on their potential, but they have done their bit, they’ve played their role, and now it’s time for the baton to reach the right hands.

And that’s why this is the time.

The march has begun. Before the marchers start floundering like a rudderless vessel, we need that greatest rousing call, the song of patriotism. We need a conch-shell awakening to remind us of our recharged destiny. We need men like my father to march, icons like Dr Kotnis to inspire, and artists like V Shantaram to tell their story. It’s time to stop those close-ups of leaders, warts and all, and get a cinemascope sweep of their vision.

Only leadership can achieve that. Not someone who greases himself into a party position, buys votes and then lords it over his voters.  We need leadership that brings on the goose-bumps. Leadership that kindles heroism. Leadership that creates followers without paying for them. Leadership that’s as enthusiastic as it is mature. A young leadership with old eyes. We need the wisdom of humour, the patience of experience.

 We need hands that can fashion today with the touch of tomorrow. A leadership rich with knowledge. That takes days to think, but is capable of acting on the spur of the moment. That can repose regally on a pedestal, at the same time mingle with the crowds, touching them, yet looking after them. Leadership has to be earned.

Our country has had a long and hoary history, it has earned its patriots. Now let our patriots earn their country.

Ghosts of wrath

Shreekumar Varma, Aug 4, 2013, DHNS:

Lead review

A tale where the haunting past coexists with the violent present, Aruni Kashyap’s debut novel, set in Assam, sees the author at the height of his powers with a sensitive yet strong narrative, writes Shreekumar Varma

The background is the violent insurgency that has seeped into the ordinary life of Assam. The four corners of the reddening rectangle are the ULFA, the SULFA (surrendered elements who swagger around, fattened and emboldened by Govt largesse), the army and the scared, scarred common man. The first is more or less accepted by the last, they’re radicals with a common cause. The second is well-fed, landed and armed, their violence mostly vindictive. The most feared is the army, who can stomp into any house, kill, rape and leave permanent psychological scars.

Aruni Kashyap does well to see that all this stays in the background, an eerie backdrop of terrible possibility. It reaches us in the form of residue, memory, consequence, and more than anything, fear. For the foreground is chaotic enough. As protagonist Pablo’s cousin and best friend Mridul puts it: “If you go out, it is the army’s fear. If you stay in, it is Oholya-jethai’s terror.” There’s enough and more happening in this house with “seventeen windows but no ventilators.”

The only time the blood-tide approaches Pablo is when a surrendered militant Hiren’s family is gunned down by masked men. Hiren is doing well in his silk business; it proves no one can take anything for granted. They run across the village, but Mridul doesn’t allow Pablo to go in. “It’s too bloody. There’s blood on the walls, on the chairs, on the courtyard, on the bed….” There’s no one to cry for them. “Did they think if they cried someone would come and gun them down too?” The paralysed grandfather is the sole survivor. “Why did the killers leave him to witness all this? What sins the old man must have committed in the last birth!” It’s the survivor who gets the raw deal. Which is precisely the thought that finally turns celebration into tragedy.

Oholya is the curmudgeon with a back-story. Back-stories, like the unnerving background, always rattle the present. It’s Pablo’s second time in his father’s village Mayong in rural Assam. The first was for a funeral, this time it’s a wedding. The trouble is their shadows intermingle, joy looks back in fear and finds death. The ghosts from Pablo’s earlier visit are always hovering, ghosts of wrath and deprivation. Oholya with her sharp tongue conducts the show until her own past catches up. Everyone has a seed of vulnerability. 

It’s those who keep the most distance from the village (like Pablo’s family) that can survive. Every generation has a rebel that tries to flee the stifling cocoon of tradition. In the milieu of ritual and acceptance, there’s always this secret lump in the throat, too sweet to spit, too dangerous to swallow. Even young Pablo has his secret pleasure, fulfilment that will lead to its own gut-wrenching tragedy.

The “thousand” stories are perhaps less important than the way they’re told, the way they stain everything and everyone. Response to good fiction takes many forms.
Amazing talent from one so young! Or, if it’s a ripe old writer we’re discussing: Here he is at the height of his powers!

I’d argue that “one so young” is generally at the height of his powers. The fresh observation, the impassioned reading, unselfconscious inspiration and unfettered imagination all bring about heightened awareness and expression. This may be honed in later years depending on talent and experience, but youth is a time of passionate freedom of expression.

Aruni Kashyap is below thirty. One could say (not being able to see the future) that he’s at the height of his powers.

The quick associations, sensual physical descriptions and the pervading earth-scent enrich his writing. His editor has done well not to use a fine-tooth comb. Aruni’s images and episodes often get into a loop, recurring and reminding, his words are like the dust or leaves he keeps describing, rising breathlessly to redraw the same scene afresh. His metaphors and phrasings, especially the evocative allusions to nature, are loose and unwieldy at times, perhaps transplanted in the raw from Assamese usage. It’s sorely tempting for the average editor to swoop down. Thankfully, it doesn’t happen here. We are left with a curious blend of technical savvy and creative brilliance bordering on wildness with an almost childlike wonder at the possibilities of language and construction, a viewable experiment in progress.

His inspirations haunt story and telling, the most prominent ghost rising from The God of Small Things, whether it’s the lovemaking reiterated in the end, the tragedy of love, the forbidden relationship or the wordplay and the dangling strands of reminders, mirror-images, premonitions and clever mischief.

His linkages, like veins, run beneath the story’s skin between home and outside, past and present. Rumour destroys happiness in weddings, he says. But given the situation in the state, “rumours became verdicts, alternate realities, faceless voices turned real.” It’s just such a rumour that begins the book and ends the happiness.

swimming lazily through my website, i came upon this article from a February 25, 2006, issue of the indian express when my column WORDPLAY was alive and kicking.

Warriors of wit


In these days of enforced transparency when our ruling class can be closely monitored but rarely pinned down, it is difficult to imagine a scenario where powerful kings and emperors used to appoint critics who were licensed to laugh at them. Famous examples are Birbal and Tenali Raman.

Critics, whether independent or rebellious, hold up a mirror to their society. Their most effective cleansing mechanism is laughter.

In Kerala, the chakyar koothu was a dance form that told mythological stories embellished with music and dance, but it also made fun of aberrations and pomposity in the existing social system. The chakyars belonged to a higher caste generally associated with service to the temples. The performer was dressed and made-up in a unique manner. His only accompaniment was a drum known as the mizhavu. He told mythological stories and, during the explanatory narrative, added caustic comments on society and various individuals. The audience was never too sure when the chakyar’s attention would turn to them. The chakyar was licensed to mock. If anyone protested, he would remove his headgear and the performance was over. Even rulers and VIPs were not spared, and had to listen, silent and red-faced.

The audience was almost always on tenterhooks. Even their physical characteristics and modes of dress were made fun of, often bitingly. The chakyar would look around, and woe unto the members of the audience who had peculiar physical characteristics or mannerisms! He even picked on their known peccadilloes.

There is one such instance when a chakyar was singing of Hanuman’s flying visit to Ravana’s court in Lanka. Hanuman leapt over the ocean, completed his mission of meeting Sita, was tied up and brought before Ravana where he gave as good as he got and then, for good measure, set fire to the island as well! At this point, an old gentleman seated in the audience felt a sudden need to visit the toilet. The ideal time to slink away was while the verse was being sung. Which he did. God knows what compulsions delayed him, but as he returned the verse got over and the chakyar started on his commentary. He looked directly at the unfortunate old man and said: “Ah, what a smart creature we have here! He goes away on one mission, accomplishes two, and now he returns without even having touched water!”

Even royalty wasn’t spared. There is a story about how the Maharaja of Travancore, Ayilyam Tirunal, once became the butt of a chakyar’s wit. Despite the artistic immunity enjoyed by the performers, he was ordered to be arrested. The chakyar fled, fearing for his life. To trim a long tale, he was traced and brought in disgrace to the king’s court. From his position of superiority, the king looked down at the wretched man and thundered, “So how do you feel now?” The chakyar, looking appropriately chastened, replied: “Your majesty, I feel like a mouse in front of a cat!” There was stunned silence in the court. Everyone knew that the Maharaja had cat’s eyes! The answer had been so swift, accurate and unexpected that the Maharaja let out a guffaw and pardoned him right there.

More than 200 years ago, a chakyar koothu was in progress. Everything was going well when the man who played the mizhavu dozed off, producing a rather quirky, trailing-off percussion sound. The chakyar turned to him and made severe, mocking fun of him. The drummer felt terribly humiliated, but he held his peace. However, he closeted himself in his room and didn’t surface for an entire night and day.

The next day, when the chakyar commenced his act, he was disconcerted to find a second performance happening nearby. The performer was dressed differently and the language was the native Malayalam rather than the traditional Sanskrit. One by one, the chakyar’s audience stood up and started defecting towards the newcomer. Only then did he realise that he was being challenged by his former drummer.

And thus began the saga of one of Kerala’s proudest sons, Kunjan Nambiar, the poet with an acid tongue and giant wit. His contribution to the arts was the thullal performance, using an old poetic form in a new manner. His satire was unmatchable and his contribution includes over forty thullal compositions. Of these, Kalyana Saugandhikam is probably the most popular. Here, the proud Bhima sets out to fetch a rare flower for his wife Draupadi. On the way, he finds a large aged monkey blocking his path. Not realising that this is none other than his own half-brother, the mighty Hanuman, Bhima orders him to move. The resultant banter and Bhima’s final chastisement are depicted with typical artistry, humorous and poignant at the same time.

Nambiar, with a sharp tongue lodged firmly in his cheek, feared no one. When a local ruler built a giant temple lamp-post and invited poets to praise it for a prize, Nambiar, amused by the king’s pride, responded characteristically: Deepasthambham mahascharyam, namukkum kittanam panam!” (“What a wonder of a lamp, and I too want the money!”) Of course, he got it.

Today, cartoonists and columnists have appropriated the role of the court wit. They do reach the people, who laugh quietly, but it would take much more artistry to touch the conscience of our new ruling class.

Shreekumar Varma

The New Indian Express, Sunday February 25, 2006   

in swing....

during my nepal trip, before and afterwards, i'd scarcely heard anything about what was happening with my play Cast Party. 
a couple of days ago, near midnight, i found this flier in my inbox.

on top of it all...

And so it came to pass that we left the plains and came to the mountains during their coldest month.
We return in a couple of days. So far, it has been a mesmerizing time, and the sights and sounds and the laughter and affection of the Nepalese have us in thrall.


Here are a few pictures. There are many more. But this gives an idea of what it was like to everest.....


click on one & you can see them all in a row, bigger, one by one.

on the mountain flight from kathmandu...

these are more eerie and mysterious than the snow-capped giants.

clouds? mountains? mountain-clouds? cloud-mountains?

the sweet attendant on the flight.

birds apart.... roof of our pokhara hotel.

pokhara hotel room

a bridge built by the chinese. below that is an underground river that can generate hydro power during strong monsoons. (the couple are indian)

devi's falls. geeta thought it was THE devi, but it's named after a swiss lady who was martyred by the waters.

this little monk said he's nine. monks start very early in life, much, much younger than him.

as we left the tibetan monastery in pokhara, this gentleman smiled at me. our guide said tibetans get the sympathy and money of the world. but we found them pure.

when the sun started calling it a day at the phewa lake in pokhara.

the barahi temple in the middle of the phewa lake. the female form of vishnu when he took his varaha avatar. they sacrifice birds, since it's a chore bringing animals there by boat. geeta recoiled from the scent of blood.

around the bend on this lake is the palace where the nepalese king used to stay during his visits here. phewa lake was created by melting glaciers.

this is the beautiful girl whose boat rammed into ours and then moved away as if it was nothing at all.

the sun dropped something into the lake as it hurried away.

one of the lite-flights seen from pokhara airport as we waited for our kathmandu return flight.

still at the airport. when flights are delayed as they usually are, they're really delayed. there are compensations.

AAAAAaaaahhhh....

God lives somewhere in these mountains.
and when we went close, we realized something in us
was connecting with something out there.....

Launching THE BUZZ

A couple of months ago, I made a one-day trip to Coimbatore at the behest of Archana Dange, a dynamic and sensitive person who is doing great things in the field of children's education. If you agree that education covers more than sitting in class and staring at the teacher, then you'll probably also agree that there are worlds to be discovered, and each new discovery is an essential part of a child's necessary education.

 Archana brings together organisations to do what she does. The Helen O'Grady International Drama Academy and Eurokids are two outfits she's involved with. The Academy, in association with Long Long Ago, an online lending library for kids, has started a book and theatre club for children named Buzz. and that is what I was in Coimbatore to inaugurate. It was a fun evening, and this report from The Hindu will give you an idea of how it went.

In the morning, I held a literary workshop in a thatched terrace above Archana's office. The participants were from the Helen O'Grady Academy and Archana's friends, and probably a couple of others. Archana also participated, as did Shobhana Jayaraman, a wonderful girl with an amazing capability to connect with children. I enjoyed every moment of the workshop, and I think they did too. We had theatre too, instant skits that were imaginatively and enthusiastically performed.

I still don't know what Archana and Shobhana thought of the whole thing, though!

The work

The work that has happened.

First, the play. It went on day and night,
not continuously, but it struggled through
uneasy dark hours, and often I went to sleep past
three a. m. When the subject is about a social aberration
and the genre is murder mystery, night-time writing can be
eerie as well as immensely effective. And thus was born
CAST PARTY. It's with the Madras Players now, and they'll
arrange its upbringing.

Next, The Axe of Parashurama. 
[That had to be in red! You'll understand once you read it.]
First, I'll have to finish writing it and they've to publish it
and I'll be fortunate enough to hold
it in my hands and then I'll sign a copy for you.
 :-D

Surfacing....

So what are these two pictures all about?
Amish Tripathi & Ashwin Sanghi.
They are two of the hottest bestsellers today.
Simple narratives, new perspectives and reinvented marketing initiatives.
That's what has made them tick.
I moderated a discussion on myths with them at Landmark a couple
of months ago.
Please take a long and careful look at both photographs.
In the first, I am seriously participating in the proceedings.
In the second, I've made a breakthrough. That's me pointing out (to myself, mostly)
that I've been launching, discussing and
promoting other people's books for far too long!
After this moment of enlightenment, I rallied around and the result was
a completed play, nonsense pieces for an anthology, and renewed input and energy
for my novel, which is now finally beginning to make sense.

So there. The epiphany triggered an epic high like epic feni and the result
is some long-awaited industry.

Just remembered this that happened many months ago...

Author Shreekumar Varma, buys new books to donate for Aviva Great Wall of Education presented by The Hindu in Chennai on Monday. Photo: S.S. Kumar

PLEASE CLICK ON THE TITLE FOR THE LINK

AHAAA....

We will not look at the chronological order.
The first pic happened when my MA classmate Namasivayam's son got married and we had a grand reunion of dear friends, including Bobby from Bombay and Chengu from Thrissur. It was one of those scintillating moments that happen once in a very long while.

The second pic was taken when my college professor George K. Mathew's debut novel was released. It was once again a roomful of nostalgia, and everyone spoke about GKM who more than a month earlier had held the first copy of his book in his hand and died the next day--- as though he'd been waiting only for that. 20 years ago, he'd called me one day and said I'm retiring from college and I would like you to take my place for a year until a professor who's on a sabbatical returns. And that was how I taught Literature at MCC. This time the publisher of Helios Books, Gitanjali, called me and said I wanted GKM to read from his book. Now that he's no more, will you take his place? And I did. For the second time. CPI (M) Gen Sec Prakash Karat, one of GKM's old students, released the book, and I co-ordinated and read from the novel. It was a great evening.

The third pic was---you won't believe this!-- again full of nostalgia and classmates. This time it was a slice of school life. Thirty years after we left school we'd had a reunion where we released a CD. The songs were written in Tamil, English, Malayalam and Hindi by me. Music was by a classmate and songs were sung by all of us. I sang the Malayalam song. Now, this one was forty years after passing out, and we again released a CD, with even more songs--- other songs in Kannada and Telugu were written by others and also translated from my lyrics in English. It was great fun. The photo shows an aside during the meet in the school auditorium.

At  a meeting at the University of Madras' Malayalam and Hindi Depts, I released a book of poet A. Ayyappan's poems translated into Hindi from the Malayalam by Santosh Alex, who's a gifted and prolific translator. That's pic no 4. Somehow, I have been involved for the past three or four months in both literary as well academic events. So I've been able to meet several interesting people.

Like Sangeetha Shinde Tee, for instance. Who's with me in the fifth pic. I released her book of short stories, A Moral Murder & Other Stories. The stories are set in the Nilgiris, Coonoor to be exact, and cover many subjects including love, mystery and ordinary life. Sitting with her in the pic and reading from her book is Jamie who I met for the first time at a dinner when he walked all the way from Mandaveli to Boat Club Road after arriving in Chennai on a train from Bangalore. It was his second day in India! Sangeetha and her husband David are a dear couple.

And, finally, the sixth pic. Chronologically too, that's the latest one. It was at the showing of a short film in Malayalam where I was part of a panel discussion. The leader of the panel was famous Malayalam, Tamil and Hindi director K. S. Sethumadhavan. He made memorable films like Odayil Ninnu, Julie, Marupakkam and Jeevikkan Marannupoya Sthree. The moment I came up he said: Do you remember the last time we met in the Chandamama office? Did anyone make a film out of your story? I thought he'd forgotten! It had been more than 20 years ago. I'd just published a story for The Heritage, published by the Chandamama group and edited by noted writer Manoj Das. Mr Sethumadhavan had wanted to film the story then. My friend Viswanatha Reddi was the publisher. Time passed, and we'd gone our separate ways, as it often happens. Well, this pic too unleashed a mini typhoon of nostalgia.

Which probably is the basic characteristic of this post. Wouldn't you say?

You might have wondered at the significance of the title. It's just a way of telling you that I haven't abandoned my blog, and I'm back again. Ahaaa!