1.
There was a time when Englishmen came hard looting our destiny, our pride. No doubt I am talking about the time when Clive conquered Bengal in the battle of Plassey. English colonial glory in Bengal galloped from then on. One is but forced to recall W B Yeats’ Leda and the Swan. Zeus disguised as the swan consummated the mortal Leda, thus giving birth to Hellenic culture. Or this is what Yeats wanted to tell us through his poetry. English colonization as I see it was such an act. A violation of mortal well-being as the gods often did in the older times.
Colonization was a burden. The heaviest of burdens are destined to transform human destiny. Defeat, the tragedy of betrayal gave rise to a new consciousness. And lo! emerged out of the wasteland Henri Derozio, Michael Madhusudan Dutta and Raja Rammohan Roy. They were wondrous visionaries. And here they were before my eyes
acting as if turned into Renaissance gallant glowing with potency. .
Visionaries are always defamed, destined to face retribution and no doubt, burdened at times by the weight of their greatness. They are simply far ahead of their time. And cursed in a manner relevant even to this day.
No effigies are burnt. Only a handful of misery....
2.
Henri Derozio walked out of the Hindu college with a heightened sense of pride. He had done it. Persuasion is not always the easiest of jobs. Yet the day was one of success. The principle has finally allowed his methods of teaching the students. He can now be as free as a bird. Quite an exception with the norms of Hindu college.
‘How could the young lad defeat me with arguments’, thought the Presbyterian gentleman.
Derozio was unstoppable today.
‘Why can’t I teach my students humanism, the essential call for freedom of man’, he said boldly.
‘Our students must be taught the way it is fit for India. They must adhere to the college policy. And serving the British Empire will be the motive of their teaching’.
‘I cannot but only proclaim the glory of man. I must teach them Rousseau though they
are not bound to know him. They must know what “Liberty, Equality, Fraternity” mean
to the world’
‘You are taking your arguments too far young man. You are not the person to teach
them life’
‘I think I am’
The principle would not argue further with this talented teaching stuff of his. Losing him will be disastrous for the college.
Derozio went back to the classroom with his lips still murmuring "Liberty, Equality, Fraternity”.
3.
Madhusudan loved to party. He was the metro sexual of a society plagued with Victorian morality living an auspicious life in their jaminder house. He entertained friends as gaily as he could. The best of French wines felt an astounding presence in his room. They indeed flowed as did profligacy.
He loved to recite poetry to his friends and was wedded to the poetry of Keats, Shelley, Byron, Pope and the likes and dreamt of attaining greatness following their footsteps.
‘Drink to me with thine eyes’, he would tell his friends hesitant to be alcoholic as he was.
Drunkenness led to recitations-
Could I embody and unbosom now
That which is most within me,- could I wreak
My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw
Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong or weak,
Only his friends knew how much he liked Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. He dozed off as alcohol gradually overwhelmed him to the utmost.
4.
The year of our Lord 1828.
The Brahma Samaj is formed.
Raja Roy sits with a hookah pipe with his friends. A cool autumn breeze blows overhead.
Over the last few years he had done what few Indians would dare to do. He has crossed
the Kalapani, came up with reform bills for the widows and what not. But now intentions were more daring, enraging even to an extent. He changed an age old tradition, a tradition dear to the public.
Derozio also longed for such a change; a destruction of the old tradition like the annihilation of ancien regime.
Then I asked myself a rather difficult question. What about 1867? The rebellion against the colonial forces.
What would have happened if the course of history were altered?
Hamlet would readily answer such questions, “Maybe it was good; maybe it wasn’t.”
Then he would have come with an ominous inquiry, “How you assure yourself of the
men being reformists rather than propagandists. History is not always true.” and added,
“Speak to him Horatio. Thou art a scholar”.
5.
Suddenly there is a knock on the door. Then the door bell rings.
I hurry myself to open the door.
I see Derozio and Madhusudan standing at the door.
‘Come in’, I lead them rapturously to my monkish retreat.
I discover them to be souls rather than the being what they were. Becoming I suddenly
recall.
It is important to know the difference between being and becoming. Philosophers have
long been rambled with these ideas.
Now, there is an ominously tentative pause. Would they speak first or it is I who has to
speak.
The wait ends as they spoke with their voices sounding like muffled drums.
‘Where on earth are we?’
'Have we left the deathless world we were living? Indeed this is no resurrection. We see no chaos around us. It’s only a small room’
‘You are now in Bangladesh’, my voice sounded like that tarot lady in the lower streets.
‘Lot’s have happened since you were gone, perished by death. The British are long gone. India is divided. More importantly Bengal is divided. And that is in the line of religion. We the predominantly Muslims are burdened with Bangladesh and the predominantly Hindus are embroiled in a new India charged with ethnic turmoil’, I said.
Of course I knew history better than some of my friends did. I knew what had happened
in 1947, in the nights before and after August 14, 1947 and I knew what Mahatma had
fought for. But I put off those sad things and in a word I described them our present
existence.
Burden is the word that time and again haunted me. Of course we here in Bangladesh are burdened, burdened with the weight of history, burdened with price hikes, load shedding, zealots, corruption and then those ugly looking tentacles called poverty, disease and famine.
The souls of Derozio and Madusudan tried to grapple with my squeamishness. They
might have thought visiting here is a big mistake.
‘We would like to know more’.
Suddenly I became Swift’s Gulliver, detailing the affairs of the world. I told them all, all that were there to be told. Gulliver in the end to me was unlucky. How could a man stand his subservience to Houyhnhnms? They weren’t even passionate, was barred by Nature to enjoy the whipping sex we did. Gulliver was frustrated but certainly not a pessimist till the end he thought it was better to live under the wings of horse-like creatures. He forgot how the human civilization gradually came to rise. Pockets of civilization Monsieur Gulliver, pockets of civilization and that ended in the whole institutionalized world which never befriended a skeptic like you.
Leaving aside the ghost of Gulliver I answered their inquiries head on. I told them about the changes man has experienced since they lived all those years ago. We defeated the horrors of apartheid, saw through the nihilism of two world wars and a despairing cry of human equality started in the form of Marx ended rather sadly with the fall of the Berlin wall. Man landed on moon in 1969 and then they are dreaming of exploring the universe.
Cholera has fled but a new disease AIDS haunts us day and night.
More importantly the world no longer remembers the problems Plato and Aristotle had
grappled with.
6.
They convinced me to leave this world. And away I flew to the tarot Lady, selling my
soul for a brief moment and discovered myself amidst the old parts of 19th century
Calcutta.
And here I was standing in front of a palatial building at dusk.
Jhun, jhun,jhun...
They must be the dancers I thought. And I was summoned in by a lady with a lamp
wearing I must say a ravishingly transparent saree. I could feel the trembling within my heart.
But then arrived Derozio looking raved. He led me out of the trance of sensual music and of course dancing.
I arrive in his Lyceum.
But suddenly came thrusting an eagle, taking me in it’s claws dropping me on the roof
of Madhusudan’s house. I lurk downstairs and find myself amidst Madhusudan with
his friends.
7.
I wake up suddenly amidst an appalling hullabaloo.
Two burly women are making their voices heard in the neighboring slums.
The bed sheet is soaking wet, books and DVD’s strewn all over the carpet.
Not so far from my bed lay my English 306 text Banglar Jagoron and the monitor of my
computer shows Aamir Khan’s Lagaan awaiting to get started.
Oh shit! I had drunk simply too much.
___________ _________________ _____________
Friday, June 22, 2007
CAMARADERIE
For three days & four nights they slept under the open sky with constant fear of getting beaten by reckless drunken men. A new dawn had emerged in the country but their lives hardly changed. Less did the policemen. Always a terror to be reckoned with they now acted like mad dogs often unleashing frenzied terror amidst these thin dirty-skinned children, living in the streets. Marjina, Helal, Faruk and Billal lived a parasitic life; sheltered by the age old railway station. The country had seen changes, upheavals, a war called “Liberation”, assassinations and then came an angel called democracy. They were children of democracy aged from seven to twelve. The eldest among them, Marjina, eleven years old as she claimed had already gained a reputation of sleeping with scores of men. She hardly remembered the time when she began her journey towards experience. Initially the men were too painful for her to endure with the kind of perversions they let loose upon her. But now she is used to it.
One day a man with sunglasses ‘on’ came to discuss business with the policemen on duty at the station. They were notoriously called mamus. Marjina along with her gang saw that goodies were being exchanged. On his way back the man detained kutta Selim. He was making a fortune these days selling puris to the reckless nouveau riche swines. To the little abandoned kids they were known as Voddorloker pola. Marjina had an affection for Selim. He often saved her from drunken rapists, more dangerous than the cops. The cops would do it for free but never do it in the unusual way as the rapists did. The man with sunglass threw his glance at Marjina. She was timidly advancing to discern the fate of kutta Selim. The man look molded but more importantly he discovered an aura of mystery in Marjina at first sight. Later he insisted her name to be Marjina who till then was Fuli, the flower girl. He told her Marjina was this houri form the Arabian Nights sending men to the world of unspoken, unimagined pleasure. He assured her to take to the place when cinemas were made. “I will be famous then”, she told with an enthusiastic smile.
Farid, seven was the tiniest of the group. The sense of foreboding he felt was overwhelming when no one was around. He had a troublesome infancy. He proudly explained to his friends that his father was a killer but succumbed to the cops at last. Farid’s dream was to slain each and every policemen he saw in the streets, his mother left him for another man and he saw his two-years old sister die unattended. He hardly knew emotions back then. The only thing he did was cry as he realized the wailing and sudden smiling of this infant has ceased. His mother once told him about death, a long time ago. He asked about his father. She said, he was never to return as he was dead.
Death is a different land altogether. One loses contact with the mundane visiting there. Who knows it might be a world devoid of cruelty and hate. At least, this is what Farid had thought. The most famous among these kids was wily Dipjol. He resembled a famous filmy villain of Dhallywood, the much vaunted local film industry. The group would go on exodus each morning only to return at the railway station to seek shelter at night. The city is full of color during the day. Gleefully they watched rickshaw pullers brawling, small vendors serving endless cups of tea, day laborers exchanging biris, savoring the venomous aroma with cherish. Neatly dressed men & women hurried to the offices, rushing through the pavements sweating profusely; the comrades hardly knew what kept them so relentless. Little did these sights & scenes put them into meditation. They sallied, danced, sang and walked around the city oblivious of their hungry tummies. The dustbins scattered throughout the city provided nasty yet manna-like delicacies to them. Surely they found leftovers from marriage ceremonies of last night.
However there was one thing that made them sad. And that was the pretty faced boys and girls coming out of the schools. Parents were seen waiting to fly them back home. And away they flew to their parents after school. Marjina, Helal, Dipjol and little Farid stood there for minutes if not hours to see the happy rendezvous but with blank eyes watching alien affections pouring forth. Gradually their eyes grew weary watching them. Tediously they melted away as the crowd of pupil and parents also disappeared. The air in front of the school still held a smell of dissatisfaction, signs of their heavy breaths and jealous sighs.
One sunny and bright Friday morning Farid was hanging around with Sulieman in the New Market area when suddenly a busy hawker utters, “Catch, catch the bloody thief”. Sulaiman disappears within minutes. Farid gets severely beaten, falls unconscious, dies in the evening. His mother goes to file a case in the Shahabag police station. Reluctantly the police take the case but soon journalists assemble an interesting story. The boy was murdered because of a feud among fellow pickpockets. The dailies run news on Bashar, a local goon running the entire pick pocketing and other criminal activities in the area. A few days later Suleiman is again seen huddling himself in the crowd. This time, Dipjol and Helal were accompanying him. They have come to revenge Farid’s murder. And they vow to spare none.
But they were haunted by their heavy hearts. Tragedy had not yet left these poor kids. The sun-glassed pauper forcefully took Marjina out of their sights this morning. The lost Farid last Friday and this Friday begins with similar fashion. They heard she was going to be a heroine but yet not so sure. The misfortunes continued. The crowd got hold of Sulieman. But soon amidst confusion he breaks free and disappears within seconds. Suileman as we earlier saw had acquired tremendous dexterity in the stealing business. He was the reason for Farid’s death. Now Helal and Dipjol had been caught in the web. Sergeants were seen devouring such frightening energy and ecstasy shown by the angry mob. The poor boys were then tied to a pole of the shop where Sulieman committed his crime. A beauty with slender waistline curses them after she is detailed of their misdeed. After procuring accessories she vanishes riding an army vehicle. These new gods just descended then upon that unfortunate land holding Helal and his friends to its core. They vowed to drive corruption out of the land as if witch doctors driving away ghosts. The fair lady was declaring albeit unconsciously their dream. “Ours will be a land of the rich. No poor will be tolerated. They will be declared corrupted, immoral, and irreligious and driven away to death.” These were the wishes of the good, religious and righteous. They tolerate no shortcomings, no ugliness.
That evening Sulieman pick Helal and Dipjol from their captor. Now it was Sulieman’s turn to teach his less elusive companions a lesson. He took them to what was promised to be a ‘special place’ after all that merciless beating. They come in front of a large building. Entering inside Sulieman guided them through a strange place as dark and deadening as hell. They saw dark skinned, shabby girls in lipsticks and unkempt clothes wandering here and there. Wobbling through darkened stairs Sulieman knocks open a door they are hurled into a room.
In utter amazement the boys discover a girl sobbing with no clothes on. Her hair was dangling but her face truly resembled one Helal and Dipjol knew so knew. Yes, it wasn’t a mistake. Marjina was lying raucously on the bed. Only then Helal struck Suleiman a death punch. Recovering from double amazement (the blood stained girl and the punch) he brings out a chaku, sharpened enough to kill within seconds. As if in a duel the two boys dangled themselves to the floor. Within seconds blood sputters out of Helal as he lay unconscious but not before Dipjol hurried out of the room with an almost naked Marjina. Deceiving others somehow they reach the streets outside of that morbid building.
Night had then fallen on Dhaka city when Dipjol and Marjina reach the railway station where they lived. During these few minutes Dipjol only remember begging a slightly older rickshaw puller to take them to the place they belonged. Soon Marjina and Dipjol realized what they had gone through all these days. Marjina was crying profusely and complained she had pain in her lower abdomen. Dipjol could only console. The slightest incident of stealing a cucumber has resulted into something unimaginable. So the path to disorder and chaos is very simple. The little universe these kids had built around them has now started to crumble. It was always a castle in the air. Innocence they gladly held on to despite the darkness around them. The rain did set in after midnight. Days in the city have been sultry for the last few days. Now every thing was being washed away, maybe the sins of imprudence as well. Hiding behind ragged clothes, polyethylene and a spare mattress from the old beggar Marjina and Dipjol held each other tight. Splashes of rain did tickle their senses but God only knows how hungrily they slept that night.
Pockets of kindness did reunite them that night. A touch of luck let them flee unharmed, the aged rickshaw puller agrees to give two helpless kids a ride but more importantly the sun glassed man leaves the decision to send Marjina to a renowned brothel pending and landing her to the same hotel room where Sulieman took Helal and Dipjol. All now seemed to have been uncannily related.
The maid servant hailing from a slum nearing the railways had been telling the story since she was drafted in last week. Everyday she would stay for an hour or two for the menial jobs she had been assigned to and all the time she bumped into various stories. Muna’s mother was an avid listener but she was most interested about that story where some street urchins suffered cruelly. And the servant added more color to the story every time she would tell it. Every time she finished her story the lady of the house came up with the same didactic. "Bua", she said addressing their servant, “This is how God intends life to be for us, his creation.” And then drawing attention to her movie obsessed daughter she delivered a sermon, “Only praying to God is the answer Muna. After all, you don’t have a tough life to lead. Go to your room after switching Star Plus for me. I have missed the serials last night”. This went on everyday after the story was told and it disrupted Muna’s obsession with those Hindi movies. Muna left cursing those ill-fated kids that made bua realate their sad tale
She wondered why on earth such kids are to be bothered when she has to deal with more rude complexities of life. Well, she thought of love and assured herself dealing with friends and Rajib is more important than anything else. Yes, the street urchins suffered. So does millions of their comrades each day. This was life. Life goes on and it is not the time to be sentimental. She got hold her mobile as soon as she entered her room. The fated street kids simply disappeared from her life.
One day a man with sunglasses ‘on’ came to discuss business with the policemen on duty at the station. They were notoriously called mamus. Marjina along with her gang saw that goodies were being exchanged. On his way back the man detained kutta Selim. He was making a fortune these days selling puris to the reckless nouveau riche swines. To the little abandoned kids they were known as Voddorloker pola. Marjina had an affection for Selim. He often saved her from drunken rapists, more dangerous than the cops. The cops would do it for free but never do it in the unusual way as the rapists did. The man with sunglass threw his glance at Marjina. She was timidly advancing to discern the fate of kutta Selim. The man look molded but more importantly he discovered an aura of mystery in Marjina at first sight. Later he insisted her name to be Marjina who till then was Fuli, the flower girl. He told her Marjina was this houri form the Arabian Nights sending men to the world of unspoken, unimagined pleasure. He assured her to take to the place when cinemas were made. “I will be famous then”, she told with an enthusiastic smile.
Farid, seven was the tiniest of the group. The sense of foreboding he felt was overwhelming when no one was around. He had a troublesome infancy. He proudly explained to his friends that his father was a killer but succumbed to the cops at last. Farid’s dream was to slain each and every policemen he saw in the streets, his mother left him for another man and he saw his two-years old sister die unattended. He hardly knew emotions back then. The only thing he did was cry as he realized the wailing and sudden smiling of this infant has ceased. His mother once told him about death, a long time ago. He asked about his father. She said, he was never to return as he was dead.
Death is a different land altogether. One loses contact with the mundane visiting there. Who knows it might be a world devoid of cruelty and hate. At least, this is what Farid had thought. The most famous among these kids was wily Dipjol. He resembled a famous filmy villain of Dhallywood, the much vaunted local film industry. The group would go on exodus each morning only to return at the railway station to seek shelter at night. The city is full of color during the day. Gleefully they watched rickshaw pullers brawling, small vendors serving endless cups of tea, day laborers exchanging biris, savoring the venomous aroma with cherish. Neatly dressed men & women hurried to the offices, rushing through the pavements sweating profusely; the comrades hardly knew what kept them so relentless. Little did these sights & scenes put them into meditation. They sallied, danced, sang and walked around the city oblivious of their hungry tummies. The dustbins scattered throughout the city provided nasty yet manna-like delicacies to them. Surely they found leftovers from marriage ceremonies of last night.
However there was one thing that made them sad. And that was the pretty faced boys and girls coming out of the schools. Parents were seen waiting to fly them back home. And away they flew to their parents after school. Marjina, Helal, Dipjol and little Farid stood there for minutes if not hours to see the happy rendezvous but with blank eyes watching alien affections pouring forth. Gradually their eyes grew weary watching them. Tediously they melted away as the crowd of pupil and parents also disappeared. The air in front of the school still held a smell of dissatisfaction, signs of their heavy breaths and jealous sighs.
One sunny and bright Friday morning Farid was hanging around with Sulieman in the New Market area when suddenly a busy hawker utters, “Catch, catch the bloody thief”. Sulaiman disappears within minutes. Farid gets severely beaten, falls unconscious, dies in the evening. His mother goes to file a case in the Shahabag police station. Reluctantly the police take the case but soon journalists assemble an interesting story. The boy was murdered because of a feud among fellow pickpockets. The dailies run news on Bashar, a local goon running the entire pick pocketing and other criminal activities in the area. A few days later Suleiman is again seen huddling himself in the crowd. This time, Dipjol and Helal were accompanying him. They have come to revenge Farid’s murder. And they vow to spare none.
But they were haunted by their heavy hearts. Tragedy had not yet left these poor kids. The sun-glassed pauper forcefully took Marjina out of their sights this morning. The lost Farid last Friday and this Friday begins with similar fashion. They heard she was going to be a heroine but yet not so sure. The misfortunes continued. The crowd got hold of Sulieman. But soon amidst confusion he breaks free and disappears within seconds. Suileman as we earlier saw had acquired tremendous dexterity in the stealing business. He was the reason for Farid’s death. Now Helal and Dipjol had been caught in the web. Sergeants were seen devouring such frightening energy and ecstasy shown by the angry mob. The poor boys were then tied to a pole of the shop where Sulieman committed his crime. A beauty with slender waistline curses them after she is detailed of their misdeed. After procuring accessories she vanishes riding an army vehicle. These new gods just descended then upon that unfortunate land holding Helal and his friends to its core. They vowed to drive corruption out of the land as if witch doctors driving away ghosts. The fair lady was declaring albeit unconsciously their dream. “Ours will be a land of the rich. No poor will be tolerated. They will be declared corrupted, immoral, and irreligious and driven away to death.” These were the wishes of the good, religious and righteous. They tolerate no shortcomings, no ugliness.
That evening Sulieman pick Helal and Dipjol from their captor. Now it was Sulieman’s turn to teach his less elusive companions a lesson. He took them to what was promised to be a ‘special place’ after all that merciless beating. They come in front of a large building. Entering inside Sulieman guided them through a strange place as dark and deadening as hell. They saw dark skinned, shabby girls in lipsticks and unkempt clothes wandering here and there. Wobbling through darkened stairs Sulieman knocks open a door they are hurled into a room.
In utter amazement the boys discover a girl sobbing with no clothes on. Her hair was dangling but her face truly resembled one Helal and Dipjol knew so knew. Yes, it wasn’t a mistake. Marjina was lying raucously on the bed. Only then Helal struck Suleiman a death punch. Recovering from double amazement (the blood stained girl and the punch) he brings out a chaku, sharpened enough to kill within seconds. As if in a duel the two boys dangled themselves to the floor. Within seconds blood sputters out of Helal as he lay unconscious but not before Dipjol hurried out of the room with an almost naked Marjina. Deceiving others somehow they reach the streets outside of that morbid building.
Night had then fallen on Dhaka city when Dipjol and Marjina reach the railway station where they lived. During these few minutes Dipjol only remember begging a slightly older rickshaw puller to take them to the place they belonged. Soon Marjina and Dipjol realized what they had gone through all these days. Marjina was crying profusely and complained she had pain in her lower abdomen. Dipjol could only console. The slightest incident of stealing a cucumber has resulted into something unimaginable. So the path to disorder and chaos is very simple. The little universe these kids had built around them has now started to crumble. It was always a castle in the air. Innocence they gladly held on to despite the darkness around them. The rain did set in after midnight. Days in the city have been sultry for the last few days. Now every thing was being washed away, maybe the sins of imprudence as well. Hiding behind ragged clothes, polyethylene and a spare mattress from the old beggar Marjina and Dipjol held each other tight. Splashes of rain did tickle their senses but God only knows how hungrily they slept that night.
Pockets of kindness did reunite them that night. A touch of luck let them flee unharmed, the aged rickshaw puller agrees to give two helpless kids a ride but more importantly the sun glassed man leaves the decision to send Marjina to a renowned brothel pending and landing her to the same hotel room where Sulieman took Helal and Dipjol. All now seemed to have been uncannily related.
The maid servant hailing from a slum nearing the railways had been telling the story since she was drafted in last week. Everyday she would stay for an hour or two for the menial jobs she had been assigned to and all the time she bumped into various stories. Muna’s mother was an avid listener but she was most interested about that story where some street urchins suffered cruelly. And the servant added more color to the story every time she would tell it. Every time she finished her story the lady of the house came up with the same didactic. "Bua", she said addressing their servant, “This is how God intends life to be for us, his creation.” And then drawing attention to her movie obsessed daughter she delivered a sermon, “Only praying to God is the answer Muna. After all, you don’t have a tough life to lead. Go to your room after switching Star Plus for me. I have missed the serials last night”. This went on everyday after the story was told and it disrupted Muna’s obsession with those Hindi movies. Muna left cursing those ill-fated kids that made bua realate their sad tale
She wondered why on earth such kids are to be bothered when she has to deal with more rude complexities of life. Well, she thought of love and assured herself dealing with friends and Rajib is more important than anything else. Yes, the street urchins suffered. So does millions of their comrades each day. This was life. Life goes on and it is not the time to be sentimental. She got hold her mobile as soon as she entered her room. The fated street kids simply disappeared from her life.
Death in disguise
What is a man’s responsibility towards history?
Figures, benevolent as they are, pop up every now and then from the pages of history. One cannot but hope names extend beyond numerical imagination. Each and every man is a history with their own quests and livings. Nietzsche’s idea of Superman faces stern opposition if one digs down the soil of humanity. Lenin is immortal but so is the ordinary soldier fought for the Red Army. Ordinary voices remain trapped under the ruins of history but they all have individual sense of destiny, responsibility.
This leads us to reflect upon the basic human predicament. Just relocate the macrocosm of universality to the microcosm of a single poor family living in horror. The time is one of anticipation, freedom bell tolling in the air but somehow insanity leads an absurd dancing--a dance towards death.
Migration for that family was and still is a reality. What really leads to migration? The answer is somewhat simple. Desperate parents trying to provide their children with proper schooling hardly available back home, the defeated in their own land trying out for a better life, or a youthful voyager voyages to a land of plenty reassuring parents back home with a false sense of well-being.
Can love lead us to migrate? Let us ascertain the possibilities. Unrequited love can lead to the greatest of journeys as in the Divine Comedia. Dante followed Virgil to one of the grandest of journeys through hell, purgatory and heaven after being jilted by Beatrice, his crush. Finally he ended up meeting her in heaven but still unable to touch her. Beatrice was waiting there with the boldest of purity imaginable. His passions remained locked within his heart as it was in reality. But this non fulfillment made possible one of the most brilliant journeys. It seemed as if a migration to the nether world was good enough to forget the pains on earth. Dante’s migration must have been traumatic; so are the modern migrations. It’s a wild goose chase that will be pursued.
Rana’s father hardly thought of migration. He knew things around him were quickly changing. The country was no longer safe for them to live. Politics had taken it’s toll on the public sphere. They thought the heroes were leading them to Paradise but in fact, they were heading towards Hell. A new world order was soon to be established with few hopes and aspirations for the poor whose misery seemed now to be extended to infinity.
Then there emerged a new evil.
Rana’s father heard about a man walking through Noakhali to stop such an evil turning into reality. The man he heard was lovingly called Mahatma. Events unfolding hardly effected Ramnath Som. He was entirely a family man with a humble job at the municipality. Politics hardly ever touched his life before. But now it had to be reckoned alongside bread and butter. The neighborhood had also changed. Families living together for many years hardly have seen any communal malice. This poor neighborhood celebrated Eid with as much commitment as it did Durga Puja. But now ‘love thy neighbor’ was the least expected ethics a priest in the nearby temple delivered.
Finally a single night was left to sever the embryonic cord that strangely joined hindus and muslims under the same flag for hundreds of years. Today the night beheld something ominous. Wailing cries were constantly heard from not too distant places. As a part of the historic moment Ramnath’s municipal office was declared a holiday. He sat beside his ailing son since evening. Rana often confronted these bouts of fever. The mellowness of his face disappeared; it bore the signs of pain as the fever wrecked havoc in his joints. Rana was rheumatic as a modern day doctor would have said. Night fell. Ramnath sweated watching him suffer and also dreaded the possibility of death if he stepped outside of the house for Dr Malik. His wife Kamala Devi gently washed his son’s head. It seemed the only cure in absence of a more precise treatment. The eight-year old boy suddenly fell unconscious.
Hordes of men had marched through the streets some hours ago. “They won’t force into any house”, he reassured himself. The men were shouting and swearing to avenge the deaths of their brothers and sisters in Calcutta. It was as if a solution springing out of an oracle. Hindu blood from the east while muslim blood from the west. Nobody seemed to have the power to stop such bloodshed.
The bazaar last night also gave ominous signals of impending deaths and looting and vandalism. Ramnath heard no body will be spared. If you want independence blood must be sacrificed. Over the years this very event was a distant possibility. White-skinned men from a distant European land were ruling the country. At least, from the time when Ramnath’s great grandfather was born. His grandmother would often tell stories how the white men revered as shahibs . He heard stories of torture but also of unique boldness. Then there were jaminders to cripple the poor. They enjoyed all the privileges possible along with their English masters. They would levy poor farmers on high rate and share the ill-gotten money with those awfully white men whose face turned red during scorching summer days. Ramnath thought they were deities only next to the stone-gods in the temples. But now, he heard, they were being driven out to the sea. But the English-speaking suave natives hardly left. They declared themselves new gods and demanding bloodshed in lieu of being new rulers and benevolent rulers at that.
Ramnath asked his wife to sit beside son as he decided to look around. The melodious sound of evening prayer was heard from the nearby mosque. He was bending over the vegetables he had planted at the kitchen corner when his wife hollered from inside that Rana is vomiting
“I want water mother”, Rana uttered deliriously in a crippling voice after throwing up a few yellowish mound.
“Dear, I will just be bringing you water”, Ramnath heard his wife’s saddened voice.
He knew time has come to look for a doctor. He had to cross several alleyways before reaching Dr. Malik, just settled here two years ago. This kind hearted, urdu speaking gentleman was born in Gujarat. He left Calcutta to settle here where his elder daughter lived with her in-laws. Dr. Malik’s troubadour-like qualities earned him many friends in this near alien city no sooner than he had settled. He learned his curative trade in London, visited the great European cities before settling down in Bombay after his marriage with a Parsee. Time flowed, two of his sons died and he lost his wife when he was living in Calcutta. Now the city overlooking Buriganga was his fate.
The notion of family has always been difficult to define. On finest of threads they seemed to be hanging on. Sanity that protects a family can vanish any time, any moment. A sudden death or betrayal or irrationality can lead to a fall. Again at times families are made to sail on an outer reality; situations that are loftier than the simpler existence called life or shall we call them irreconcilable. Like the simplest of human migrations for thousands of years. Aryans were thought to have come to the subcontinent crossing Hindukush mountains, native Americans embarked on a difficult journey from Asia to Northern America overcoming ragged oceans and ice. One cannot see rationality being the driving force destroying family ties or ensuing natural disasters. It is as if ‘original sin’ is linked with such catastrophe. Since the birth of family is due to that ancient scriptural sin one is due to pay the price for the blunders of Adam and Eve.
Rana was now under a trancelike state. The abnormalities brewing outside his humble abode hardly interrupted his simple delirious utterances. Illness regularly took him to a different realm. Only he knew how it felt to walk in Paradise. Days were of boundless joy. Gone were the Sanskrit classes of Haridas pundit and tedious mathematics of Jaiswar master. Pleasure flowed like honey dews. Moreover, Rana seemed to lead the study band on. How fascinating those days in the village were. It was a true Paradise with the small river to bathe on, fields to wander, cattle to graze.
The village was always picture perfect. But things changed when his father was forced to bring his family to the city. The sprawling quarter they lived hardly had a better school. Rana was beaten by goon-like pupils when he was admitted to one of the schools. Boys of his age smoked, swore at the mild students, unthinkable to the tenderness of his.
As Ramnath stepped into the streets he felt an eerie lull. The houses just on the other side were already burning. He shivered at the darker smokes curling deviously up towards the sky. Every now and then wailing were heard. Dusk had just paved way for the darkness of night. The local vendors’ shop was looted but not yet gutted down. A lump of despair surged about his throat. He kept on walking.
“Halt”, he heard cruel voices from behind.
Peeping behind he saw a group of men, blood-stained looking at him with malicious eyes. Ramnath’s forty-one years old body trembled with the fear of
awaiting consequences. He had never anything like this before in his life. Suddenly memories flashes before his eyes. Once, he was attacked by water- buffaloes, only to be saved by his father at the last minute. These were men possessed with the same instincts animals would display when let loose.
“Dhuti utaro”, they shouted. This was an attempt they devised to degenerate victims psychologically. Every time a poor man awaited to be slaughtered by the fueling rage of their communal sword he would strip himself naked. They would ask him to perform much outrageous acts. The victim thought it would end his misery but he was killed nonetheless. Each and every man they killed were souls lamenting a body with deformed penis.
Similar events occurred in the other side of the border. Muslims were being dragged to the streets, stripped naked lay dead with chopped penises, women made breast less after being raped, children with severed body parts. A mayhem that now gripped Ramnath. The hordes knew his identity, yet They wanted to make him ashamed of his identity, or at least curse his identity in desperation. Within seconds Ramnath took his decisions. They yelled at him again.
“You can take my life but not my dignity”, he said in a firm voice. That was the signal, a signal to revenge who knows what.
A torrent swept through the almost ghostly city that night. The condensed blood in the streets gradually had washed away in the gutters. Next morning Dr. Malik discovered an almost naked body a few yards away from his house. The face was distorted as was the rest of the body. Signs of grudge were everywhere. Suddenly a blood-soaked dhuti caught the aged physician’s eye. The pure whiteness missing from the dhuti made him shiver. Before his eyes glimmered the psychic horrors the man underwent during the moments of madness; a madness that resulted into his death.
Dr. Malik felt relieved. After all, he is no longer a minority.
Figures, benevolent as they are, pop up every now and then from the pages of history. One cannot but hope names extend beyond numerical imagination. Each and every man is a history with their own quests and livings. Nietzsche’s idea of Superman faces stern opposition if one digs down the soil of humanity. Lenin is immortal but so is the ordinary soldier fought for the Red Army. Ordinary voices remain trapped under the ruins of history but they all have individual sense of destiny, responsibility.
This leads us to reflect upon the basic human predicament. Just relocate the macrocosm of universality to the microcosm of a single poor family living in horror. The time is one of anticipation, freedom bell tolling in the air but somehow insanity leads an absurd dancing--a dance towards death.
Migration for that family was and still is a reality. What really leads to migration? The answer is somewhat simple. Desperate parents trying to provide their children with proper schooling hardly available back home, the defeated in their own land trying out for a better life, or a youthful voyager voyages to a land of plenty reassuring parents back home with a false sense of well-being.
Can love lead us to migrate? Let us ascertain the possibilities. Unrequited love can lead to the greatest of journeys as in the Divine Comedia. Dante followed Virgil to one of the grandest of journeys through hell, purgatory and heaven after being jilted by Beatrice, his crush. Finally he ended up meeting her in heaven but still unable to touch her. Beatrice was waiting there with the boldest of purity imaginable. His passions remained locked within his heart as it was in reality. But this non fulfillment made possible one of the most brilliant journeys. It seemed as if a migration to the nether world was good enough to forget the pains on earth. Dante’s migration must have been traumatic; so are the modern migrations. It’s a wild goose chase that will be pursued.
Rana’s father hardly thought of migration. He knew things around him were quickly changing. The country was no longer safe for them to live. Politics had taken it’s toll on the public sphere. They thought the heroes were leading them to Paradise but in fact, they were heading towards Hell. A new world order was soon to be established with few hopes and aspirations for the poor whose misery seemed now to be extended to infinity.
Then there emerged a new evil.
Rana’s father heard about a man walking through Noakhali to stop such an evil turning into reality. The man he heard was lovingly called Mahatma. Events unfolding hardly effected Ramnath Som. He was entirely a family man with a humble job at the municipality. Politics hardly ever touched his life before. But now it had to be reckoned alongside bread and butter. The neighborhood had also changed. Families living together for many years hardly have seen any communal malice. This poor neighborhood celebrated Eid with as much commitment as it did Durga Puja. But now ‘love thy neighbor’ was the least expected ethics a priest in the nearby temple delivered.
Finally a single night was left to sever the embryonic cord that strangely joined hindus and muslims under the same flag for hundreds of years. Today the night beheld something ominous. Wailing cries were constantly heard from not too distant places. As a part of the historic moment Ramnath’s municipal office was declared a holiday. He sat beside his ailing son since evening. Rana often confronted these bouts of fever. The mellowness of his face disappeared; it bore the signs of pain as the fever wrecked havoc in his joints. Rana was rheumatic as a modern day doctor would have said. Night fell. Ramnath sweated watching him suffer and also dreaded the possibility of death if he stepped outside of the house for Dr Malik. His wife Kamala Devi gently washed his son’s head. It seemed the only cure in absence of a more precise treatment. The eight-year old boy suddenly fell unconscious.
Hordes of men had marched through the streets some hours ago. “They won’t force into any house”, he reassured himself. The men were shouting and swearing to avenge the deaths of their brothers and sisters in Calcutta. It was as if a solution springing out of an oracle. Hindu blood from the east while muslim blood from the west. Nobody seemed to have the power to stop such bloodshed.
The bazaar last night also gave ominous signals of impending deaths and looting and vandalism. Ramnath heard no body will be spared. If you want independence blood must be sacrificed. Over the years this very event was a distant possibility. White-skinned men from a distant European land were ruling the country. At least, from the time when Ramnath’s great grandfather was born. His grandmother would often tell stories how the white men revered as shahibs . He heard stories of torture but also of unique boldness. Then there were jaminders to cripple the poor. They enjoyed all the privileges possible along with their English masters. They would levy poor farmers on high rate and share the ill-gotten money with those awfully white men whose face turned red during scorching summer days. Ramnath thought they were deities only next to the stone-gods in the temples. But now, he heard, they were being driven out to the sea. But the English-speaking suave natives hardly left. They declared themselves new gods and demanding bloodshed in lieu of being new rulers and benevolent rulers at that.
Ramnath asked his wife to sit beside son as he decided to look around. The melodious sound of evening prayer was heard from the nearby mosque. He was bending over the vegetables he had planted at the kitchen corner when his wife hollered from inside that Rana is vomiting
“I want water mother”, Rana uttered deliriously in a crippling voice after throwing up a few yellowish mound.
“Dear, I will just be bringing you water”, Ramnath heard his wife’s saddened voice.
He knew time has come to look for a doctor. He had to cross several alleyways before reaching Dr. Malik, just settled here two years ago. This kind hearted, urdu speaking gentleman was born in Gujarat. He left Calcutta to settle here where his elder daughter lived with her in-laws. Dr. Malik’s troubadour-like qualities earned him many friends in this near alien city no sooner than he had settled. He learned his curative trade in London, visited the great European cities before settling down in Bombay after his marriage with a Parsee. Time flowed, two of his sons died and he lost his wife when he was living in Calcutta. Now the city overlooking Buriganga was his fate.
The notion of family has always been difficult to define. On finest of threads they seemed to be hanging on. Sanity that protects a family can vanish any time, any moment. A sudden death or betrayal or irrationality can lead to a fall. Again at times families are made to sail on an outer reality; situations that are loftier than the simpler existence called life or shall we call them irreconcilable. Like the simplest of human migrations for thousands of years. Aryans were thought to have come to the subcontinent crossing Hindukush mountains, native Americans embarked on a difficult journey from Asia to Northern America overcoming ragged oceans and ice. One cannot see rationality being the driving force destroying family ties or ensuing natural disasters. It is as if ‘original sin’ is linked with such catastrophe. Since the birth of family is due to that ancient scriptural sin one is due to pay the price for the blunders of Adam and Eve.
Rana was now under a trancelike state. The abnormalities brewing outside his humble abode hardly interrupted his simple delirious utterances. Illness regularly took him to a different realm. Only he knew how it felt to walk in Paradise. Days were of boundless joy. Gone were the Sanskrit classes of Haridas pundit and tedious mathematics of Jaiswar master. Pleasure flowed like honey dews. Moreover, Rana seemed to lead the study band on. How fascinating those days in the village were. It was a true Paradise with the small river to bathe on, fields to wander, cattle to graze.
The village was always picture perfect. But things changed when his father was forced to bring his family to the city. The sprawling quarter they lived hardly had a better school. Rana was beaten by goon-like pupils when he was admitted to one of the schools. Boys of his age smoked, swore at the mild students, unthinkable to the tenderness of his.
As Ramnath stepped into the streets he felt an eerie lull. The houses just on the other side were already burning. He shivered at the darker smokes curling deviously up towards the sky. Every now and then wailing were heard. Dusk had just paved way for the darkness of night. The local vendors’ shop was looted but not yet gutted down. A lump of despair surged about his throat. He kept on walking.
“Halt”, he heard cruel voices from behind.
Peeping behind he saw a group of men, blood-stained looking at him with malicious eyes. Ramnath’s forty-one years old body trembled with the fear of
awaiting consequences. He had never anything like this before in his life. Suddenly memories flashes before his eyes. Once, he was attacked by water- buffaloes, only to be saved by his father at the last minute. These were men possessed with the same instincts animals would display when let loose.
“Dhuti utaro”, they shouted. This was an attempt they devised to degenerate victims psychologically. Every time a poor man awaited to be slaughtered by the fueling rage of their communal sword he would strip himself naked. They would ask him to perform much outrageous acts. The victim thought it would end his misery but he was killed nonetheless. Each and every man they killed were souls lamenting a body with deformed penis.
Similar events occurred in the other side of the border. Muslims were being dragged to the streets, stripped naked lay dead with chopped penises, women made breast less after being raped, children with severed body parts. A mayhem that now gripped Ramnath. The hordes knew his identity, yet They wanted to make him ashamed of his identity, or at least curse his identity in desperation. Within seconds Ramnath took his decisions. They yelled at him again.
“You can take my life but not my dignity”, he said in a firm voice. That was the signal, a signal to revenge who knows what.
A torrent swept through the almost ghostly city that night. The condensed blood in the streets gradually had washed away in the gutters. Next morning Dr. Malik discovered an almost naked body a few yards away from his house. The face was distorted as was the rest of the body. Signs of grudge were everywhere. Suddenly a blood-soaked dhuti caught the aged physician’s eye. The pure whiteness missing from the dhuti made him shiver. Before his eyes glimmered the psychic horrors the man underwent during the moments of madness; a madness that resulted into his death.
Dr. Malik felt relieved. After all, he is no longer a minority.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
The World Cup is a stage and the minnows must play their part
Metaphorically, minnow is referred to a sporting team who might be considered extreme underdogs. They are expected to be Goliath while taking on their more elusive opponents. True that Scotland and Bermuda and Netherlands have shown every signs of being a minnow in WC 2007 but Ireland proved why the minnows in cricket should always be respected. They proved their mettle with a last-ball tie against their handy rival Zimbabwe in their first ever WC game. But more surprise was in store for the cricketing world on 17th January, a day that would change the long lasting stereotypes regarding lesser cricketing nations. India who hardly gave Bangladesh an opportunity to play tests on the Indian soil, fearing revenues will be cut down lost to them comprehensively. But the shock defeat of Ireland at the hands of Pakistan was just too much for Pakistan coach Bob Woolmer who succumbed to a tragic death this Sunday. Pakistan throughout the history of international cricket has been a team shrouded with mystery and Zimbabwe over the years has declined in strength. But what the Irishmen did was simply marvelous. There were very little signs of nervousness though it was their first attempt to prove themselves on the big stage. And they did so with flying colours.
But their achievement did yield greater sacrifices. Just before the WC they lost Ed Joyce to England who served heroics in the last ICC trophy. Now Eoin Morgan is on the line to shift allegiance. But then again the team looked superb and ready for any battle. Similar sacrifices were made by other associate member countries for many years due to the nonchalance of ICC. Andre van Troost of Holland once regarded as the fastest white bowler after Allan Donald hardly ever played any international cricket and went for a premature retirement. Denmark’s Ole Mortensen lightened the county scene but was never seen in the World Cups. Italy has faced strong antagonism regarding ICC rules on non-resident players’ quota. Since UAE tampered with ICC apathy regarding foreign players, new rules were applied. The rules greatly hampered emerging nations like Italy who have a large number of players from Australia and South Africa with Italian ancestry. ICC has not yet reviewed this rules that should be altered regarding resident policies of different nations.
Zimbabwe in this regard was lucky as they have qualified in every WC by dint of their success in the ICC trophy. They caused a huge upset beating the mighty Australians. They had to remain the ‘minnows’ till 1992 when finally they were granted full membership. Since then the ICC cricket World Cup has seen upsets in the previous events. Famous among them are Kenya’s drubbing of the Windies in the 1996 WC while Bangladesh castled Pakistan in the 1999 WC edition. And the Irish win over Pakistan on St. Patrick’s day is just a testimony of the continuing tradition.
The decision to play more associate member countries at the biggest tournament of one day international cricket hasn’t been a smooth sailing. Objections came from all possible corners. Pundits argued they will diminish the luster of the game to a greater extent. Of course, they forget the adverse role played by the MCC in the integration of countries such as USA and Canada in the initial stages of international cricket. Their first class status was also stripped. Again the door was closed for associate member countries for many years till Dr. Ali Bacher came with the idea of globalizing the game. Jagmohan Dalmia took the initiative to a greater height. Now-a-days cricket is played over almost 110 countries which was unimaginable even in the early nineties.
ICC finally has understood cricket does not mean the former British colonies fighting out amongst themselves. It’s a humble game and for the survival of the game it has to expand. Money is now being poured dividing the cricket playing world into five divisions, i.e. Asia, Africa, Americas, East Asia-Pacific and Europe. More countries are being helped with natural wickets, coaching facilities, youth programs and what not. ICC has devised a beautiful qualifying system for the 2011 WC. Each and every member countries, however insignificant, can compete in tournaments regulated by the ICC.
From Argentina to Zambia cricket is being played with more impetus than ever before. Thus there is an increase in the number of associates competing in the 2007 World Cup. Their performance might be disappointing at times but one must not forget playing at the highest level of the game is all together a different ball game. Bangladesh struggled in their early transitional years at the highest level. Now they have beaten the mighty Australians and have caused constant panic in different opposition camps in the last few games. How beautifully the team has matured who would have been written off just a few years ago if asked whether they be a threat to India and Sri Lanka. Kenya also complained about the lack of game which resulted into serious problems within their team. They played brilliant as well as credible cricket when they reached the semi-final of 2003 World Cup. Collins Obuya, Thomas Odoyo and many other emerged as new stars at the cricketing stage.
Similar talents lay in the Ryan ten Doeschates, Alexei Kervezees and Ashish Bagais of this years’ World Cup. They will bloom given the right situation. Who knows more upsets are not on the cards in this years’ WC? Even Bangladesh advancing to the super eights will be dubbed as ‘upset’ by the mighty nations, extremely antagonistic towards the integration of lesser nations on the big stage. The message to the people avenging on the minnows is clear. Just give them more and more chance and shut your mouth. History is destined to repeat itself.
But their achievement did yield greater sacrifices. Just before the WC they lost Ed Joyce to England who served heroics in the last ICC trophy. Now Eoin Morgan is on the line to shift allegiance. But then again the team looked superb and ready for any battle. Similar sacrifices were made by other associate member countries for many years due to the nonchalance of ICC. Andre van Troost of Holland once regarded as the fastest white bowler after Allan Donald hardly ever played any international cricket and went for a premature retirement. Denmark’s Ole Mortensen lightened the county scene but was never seen in the World Cups. Italy has faced strong antagonism regarding ICC rules on non-resident players’ quota. Since UAE tampered with ICC apathy regarding foreign players, new rules were applied. The rules greatly hampered emerging nations like Italy who have a large number of players from Australia and South Africa with Italian ancestry. ICC has not yet reviewed this rules that should be altered regarding resident policies of different nations.
Zimbabwe in this regard was lucky as they have qualified in every WC by dint of their success in the ICC trophy. They caused a huge upset beating the mighty Australians. They had to remain the ‘minnows’ till 1992 when finally they were granted full membership. Since then the ICC cricket World Cup has seen upsets in the previous events. Famous among them are Kenya’s drubbing of the Windies in the 1996 WC while Bangladesh castled Pakistan in the 1999 WC edition. And the Irish win over Pakistan on St. Patrick’s day is just a testimony of the continuing tradition.
The decision to play more associate member countries at the biggest tournament of one day international cricket hasn’t been a smooth sailing. Objections came from all possible corners. Pundits argued they will diminish the luster of the game to a greater extent. Of course, they forget the adverse role played by the MCC in the integration of countries such as USA and Canada in the initial stages of international cricket. Their first class status was also stripped. Again the door was closed for associate member countries for many years till Dr. Ali Bacher came with the idea of globalizing the game. Jagmohan Dalmia took the initiative to a greater height. Now-a-days cricket is played over almost 110 countries which was unimaginable even in the early nineties.
ICC finally has understood cricket does not mean the former British colonies fighting out amongst themselves. It’s a humble game and for the survival of the game it has to expand. Money is now being poured dividing the cricket playing world into five divisions, i.e. Asia, Africa, Americas, East Asia-Pacific and Europe. More countries are being helped with natural wickets, coaching facilities, youth programs and what not. ICC has devised a beautiful qualifying system for the 2011 WC. Each and every member countries, however insignificant, can compete in tournaments regulated by the ICC.
From Argentina to Zambia cricket is being played with more impetus than ever before. Thus there is an increase in the number of associates competing in the 2007 World Cup. Their performance might be disappointing at times but one must not forget playing at the highest level of the game is all together a different ball game. Bangladesh struggled in their early transitional years at the highest level. Now they have beaten the mighty Australians and have caused constant panic in different opposition camps in the last few games. How beautifully the team has matured who would have been written off just a few years ago if asked whether they be a threat to India and Sri Lanka. Kenya also complained about the lack of game which resulted into serious problems within their team. They played brilliant as well as credible cricket when they reached the semi-final of 2003 World Cup. Collins Obuya, Thomas Odoyo and many other emerged as new stars at the cricketing stage.
Similar talents lay in the Ryan ten Doeschates, Alexei Kervezees and Ashish Bagais of this years’ World Cup. They will bloom given the right situation. Who knows more upsets are not on the cards in this years’ WC? Even Bangladesh advancing to the super eights will be dubbed as ‘upset’ by the mighty nations, extremely antagonistic towards the integration of lesser nations on the big stage. The message to the people avenging on the minnows is clear. Just give them more and more chance and shut your mouth. History is destined to repeat itself.
How long will Lebanon will play Russian roulette
The assassination of Pierre Gemayel comes as an ominous warning sign for the only democratic state in the Arab world. This high profile killing adds to the list of assassination victims including former Prime Minister Rafik Hariri and MP Gebran Tueni and a couple of prominent anti-Syrian journalists. The brutal murder of Pierre Gemayel comes at a time when Lebanon has plunged into deeper political crises.
Pierre Gemayel was an outspoken critic of Syrian influence over Lebanon, was a member of the Christian Phalange Party and industry minister. The son of former President Amin Gemayel, Pierre was born in 1972. A lawyer and the youngest MP in the Lebanese Parliament, Gemayel was first elected to the legislature in 2000 and was re-elected in 2005. Many speculating his killing is a remainder of overwhelming Syrian influence over the politics of Lebanon. While the international community condemns the killing the reasons behind such acts have deeper political motives.
Parliamentary majority leader Saad Hariri said Tuesday that Prime Minister Fouad Siniora's proposal to form a national unity government is the only solution to end the increasing political chaos gripping the country. The Sunnis supporting Hariri’s son Saad Hariri is strongly linked with the other parties in the government but Shiites are gathering under the Hezbollah camp to foil their opponents. The pro-Syrian Hezbollah is likely to reject the offer. Furthermore the resignation of six ministers from Hezbollah and its allies have not done any good for the dying democratic process in Lebanon. The killing has now thwarted any possibilities of re-establishment of “unity government”
Adding to the confusion Damascus has denied its involvement. George Jabbour, a Syrian parliamentarian told news agencies Syria has no intention to destabilize the region. A viable government in Lebanon and a peaceful Iraq is what this isolated country wants. Most Lebanese, no doubt will reject such claims as strong evidence shows Syrian involvement in the previous killing though they have kept on denying.
Hezbollah today holds the key to solve the deepening political crisis. Their overwhelming support among the general people mostly Shiites have given them an unwritten advantage. The abduction of corporal Shalom resulting into a war was fought valiantly by them against a towering Israeli army which no doubt has increased their popularity. The eventful war in July this year ended with the Hezbollah claiming a “holy victory” and Israel’s moral standpoint regarding the war badly damaged. A strong government was likely to be formed as the Syrian forces were withdrawn from South Lebanon after thirty years of occupation and a settlement with Israel. But the resignation of Shiite ministers representing the “unity government” after weeks of negotiations added insult to a seemingly impossible task of maintaining peace in Lebanon. Sayyed Hassan Nasrallah declaration of the ousting of Western-backed government of Fouad Siniora to be replaced by a “clean” cabinet has brought an inevitable standoff to unity efforts.
Over the years, Israel, Syria, Iran and the United States have become key components in shaping politics in Lebanon. Israel eyes on total demolition of Hezbollah which would ensure their monstrous presence in the Middle East ever so strongly. Iran on the other hand is a key ally to Hezbollah who won heart of Lebanese people through goodwill and disparaging Zionist motives. Neither Israel nor the United States want a stable Middle East that will jeopardize their interests. The July War was not condemned by the US and their naked support for Zionism was exposed further. US president George Bush openly justified Israel’s military campaign to demolish a Shiite group that enjoys warmer ties with Iran. But the Bush administration has recently experienced a drubbing in the mid-term elections and immediately offered peace talks with Syria and Iran who up until now were the “axis of evil” in the eyes of Bush administration. This change of policy towards the neighbors with whom Lebanon had strong cultural and historical ties may have dampened Israel’s motives against the Hezbollah. A volatile Lebanon will only enhance Israel’s chances of overcoming their deadliest enemy since Yassir Arafat and Saddam Hussein and push further the chances of locking horns with Iran.
The world wide condemnation of Syria will only benefit Israel. Interestingly, Lebanon is the possible loophole that will champion their Zionist cause against Iran and Syria and turn Palestine into a worsened colonial ghetto according to their “road-map”. This unwanted murder of a anti-Syrian politician could take the country back to it’s blood-stained past rife with civil wars. Onus is now on Lebanon and the statesmanship of the men in charge. Will the politicians be able to patch up their own differences and try to build on a prosperous future? Or the disbelief and manacles of distrust gathered in the different camps will prevail? Or the killings of opposition politicians will go on unabated wallop Lebanon in the end? The answer lies within the country, not in the hands West or the United States and definitely not in Syria. The Russian roulette which has started must be brought to a halt or else sworn enemies of the Arab people will triumph in devouring yet another victim.
Pierre Gemayel was an outspoken critic of Syrian influence over Lebanon, was a member of the Christian Phalange Party and industry minister. The son of former President Amin Gemayel, Pierre was born in 1972. A lawyer and the youngest MP in the Lebanese Parliament, Gemayel was first elected to the legislature in 2000 and was re-elected in 2005. Many speculating his killing is a remainder of overwhelming Syrian influence over the politics of Lebanon. While the international community condemns the killing the reasons behind such acts have deeper political motives.
Parliamentary majority leader Saad Hariri said Tuesday that Prime Minister Fouad Siniora's proposal to form a national unity government is the only solution to end the increasing political chaos gripping the country. The Sunnis supporting Hariri’s son Saad Hariri is strongly linked with the other parties in the government but Shiites are gathering under the Hezbollah camp to foil their opponents. The pro-Syrian Hezbollah is likely to reject the offer. Furthermore the resignation of six ministers from Hezbollah and its allies have not done any good for the dying democratic process in Lebanon. The killing has now thwarted any possibilities of re-establishment of “unity government”
Adding to the confusion Damascus has denied its involvement. George Jabbour, a Syrian parliamentarian told news agencies Syria has no intention to destabilize the region. A viable government in Lebanon and a peaceful Iraq is what this isolated country wants. Most Lebanese, no doubt will reject such claims as strong evidence shows Syrian involvement in the previous killing though they have kept on denying.
Hezbollah today holds the key to solve the deepening political crisis. Their overwhelming support among the general people mostly Shiites have given them an unwritten advantage. The abduction of corporal Shalom resulting into a war was fought valiantly by them against a towering Israeli army which no doubt has increased their popularity. The eventful war in July this year ended with the Hezbollah claiming a “holy victory” and Israel’s moral standpoint regarding the war badly damaged. A strong government was likely to be formed as the Syrian forces were withdrawn from South Lebanon after thirty years of occupation and a settlement with Israel. But the resignation of Shiite ministers representing the “unity government” after weeks of negotiations added insult to a seemingly impossible task of maintaining peace in Lebanon. Sayyed Hassan Nasrallah declaration of the ousting of Western-backed government of Fouad Siniora to be replaced by a “clean” cabinet has brought an inevitable standoff to unity efforts.
Over the years, Israel, Syria, Iran and the United States have become key components in shaping politics in Lebanon. Israel eyes on total demolition of Hezbollah which would ensure their monstrous presence in the Middle East ever so strongly. Iran on the other hand is a key ally to Hezbollah who won heart of Lebanese people through goodwill and disparaging Zionist motives. Neither Israel nor the United States want a stable Middle East that will jeopardize their interests. The July War was not condemned by the US and their naked support for Zionism was exposed further. US president George Bush openly justified Israel’s military campaign to demolish a Shiite group that enjoys warmer ties with Iran. But the Bush administration has recently experienced a drubbing in the mid-term elections and immediately offered peace talks with Syria and Iran who up until now were the “axis of evil” in the eyes of Bush administration. This change of policy towards the neighbors with whom Lebanon had strong cultural and historical ties may have dampened Israel’s motives against the Hezbollah. A volatile Lebanon will only enhance Israel’s chances of overcoming their deadliest enemy since Yassir Arafat and Saddam Hussein and push further the chances of locking horns with Iran.
The world wide condemnation of Syria will only benefit Israel. Interestingly, Lebanon is the possible loophole that will champion their Zionist cause against Iran and Syria and turn Palestine into a worsened colonial ghetto according to their “road-map”. This unwanted murder of a anti-Syrian politician could take the country back to it’s blood-stained past rife with civil wars. Onus is now on Lebanon and the statesmanship of the men in charge. Will the politicians be able to patch up their own differences and try to build on a prosperous future? Or the disbelief and manacles of distrust gathered in the different camps will prevail? Or the killings of opposition politicians will go on unabated wallop Lebanon in the end? The answer lies within the country, not in the hands West or the United States and definitely not in Syria. The Russian roulette which has started must be brought to a halt or else sworn enemies of the Arab people will triumph in devouring yet another victim.
Sylvia*
Beautiful are your verses
but
Lines as dreaded as Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen*
definitely are suicidal
Pangs you created
Are intense, heart-felt
Senile, sinuous, Swirling.
Your alter-ego did speak in Daddy
Laid bare the shattered, naked soul
Describing a life always hanging on a thread
which must be nightmarish
haunting, ghastly, menacing
stained confessions.
Ted Hughes loved watching you
Wonderful you looked with him
Unhappy lovers must have
glared at you two with jealousy
Animal symbolism
left Ted Hughes spellbound
Tying a second knot with it
he betrayed you or was it your
failing imagination ?
Beautiful things did end
Perhaps began your contemplation of death
You urged pills to take over
An estimation of tranquility
That is what you were up to
Poetry only made vivid the truth
you strangled,
Left the “self” forever
Flickering beyond the evening star
What remained is Ariel
encountered death your loving Ted,
obsessed still probably
with the thought-fox, crow
jaguars & pikes.
Well, how you two fell in love,
the weary world can’t remember.
• A tribute to Sylvia Plath & Ted Hughes, famous poet couples.
• Daddy is a confessional poem where Sylvia Plath speaks of Nazi concentration camps in Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen
but
Lines as dreaded as Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen*
definitely are suicidal
Pangs you created
Are intense, heart-felt
Senile, sinuous, Swirling.
Your alter-ego did speak in Daddy
Laid bare the shattered, naked soul
Describing a life always hanging on a thread
which must be nightmarish
haunting, ghastly, menacing
stained confessions.
Ted Hughes loved watching you
Wonderful you looked with him
Unhappy lovers must have
glared at you two with jealousy
Animal symbolism
left Ted Hughes spellbound
Tying a second knot with it
he betrayed you or was it your
failing imagination ?
Beautiful things did end
Perhaps began your contemplation of death
You urged pills to take over
An estimation of tranquility
That is what you were up to
Poetry only made vivid the truth
you strangled,
Left the “self” forever
Flickering beyond the evening star
What remained is Ariel
encountered death your loving Ted,
obsessed still probably
with the thought-fox, crow
jaguars & pikes.
Well, how you two fell in love,
the weary world can’t remember.
• A tribute to Sylvia Plath & Ted Hughes, famous poet couples.
• Daddy is a confessional poem where Sylvia Plath speaks of Nazi concentration camps in Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen
Confessions and betrayal
Certainty shudders
Limitations are pain
Daily chores disgusts
Fantasies haunt.
Open declaration of revolt
Put me under vault
Actions are aired
Turning a virtuoso maimed and jaded.
Now…
Confinement rule a realm
of inexhaustible creativity
Society nimble the subtle heart
while perennial sorrows creep in
Mermaids alluding Prufrock
visit to save the soul plagued form birth.
They don’t sing but wait to be seen.
Limitations are pain
Daily chores disgusts
Fantasies haunt.
Open declaration of revolt
Put me under vault
Actions are aired
Turning a virtuoso maimed and jaded.
Now…
Confinement rule a realm
of inexhaustible creativity
Society nimble the subtle heart
while perennial sorrows creep in
Mermaids alluding Prufrock
visit to save the soul plagued form birth.
They don’t sing but wait to be seen.
Decolonization reconsidered
Historically inflicted boundaries rendered hegemony
Moments of lingering, indecisions threw them
under the Enlightenment cult
Savage, sensual, feminine, penetrable were they deemed
Stripped off true identity and history
Inca, Aztec, Hottentot and Robinson Crusoe’s Xury*
But still wars raged, mutiny brewed
Yet masters proved imperishable, in exploitation lewd.
A new era of sycophants ushered
Hybridity stifled, Fridays created*.
Would it have been worthwhile, would it have been worth it?
If the tide was turned, by chance, reversed?
Confused, erratic leaders looked
Triumphant, braggart of high kultur
Even they were shocked, as the Übermensch
and the Allies slew each other
With the dagger of imprudence
The hybrids under control were let loose
New nations were born with new hopes,
In a world of chaos and conflicting isms
Where emancipation flirted with schism.
Notes:
a. Xury, Friday-Native men in Strange and surprising adventures of Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe
b. Kultur(Ger) – Culture
c. Übermensch (Ger)- Superman(coined by Nietzsche), Nazis called themselves Übermensch toargue racial superiority.
Moments of lingering, indecisions threw them
under the Enlightenment cult
Savage, sensual, feminine, penetrable were they deemed
Stripped off true identity and history
Inca, Aztec, Hottentot and Robinson Crusoe’s Xury*
But still wars raged, mutiny brewed
Yet masters proved imperishable, in exploitation lewd.
A new era of sycophants ushered
Hybridity stifled, Fridays created*.
Would it have been worthwhile, would it have been worth it?
If the tide was turned, by chance, reversed?
Confused, erratic leaders looked
Triumphant, braggart of high kultur
Even they were shocked, as the Übermensch
and the Allies slew each other
With the dagger of imprudence
The hybrids under control were let loose
New nations were born with new hopes,
In a world of chaos and conflicting isms
Where emancipation flirted with schism.
Notes:
a. Xury, Friday-Native men in Strange and surprising adventures of Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe
b. Kultur(Ger) – Culture
c. Übermensch (Ger)- Superman(coined by Nietzsche), Nazis called themselves Übermensch toargue racial superiority.
Operatic Tenor
Heraclitus said one cannot step into the same river twice
Such argument is convincing to wise lovers
involved in tiring intimacy
Lying in a last grasp heartache.
Vespers hardly are tangible now
dying each moment
flickering flames
leading to bliss before
Lust confused with desire
are only sobs and sighs
Unkempt bastions of trust
sucks the inner life out
Souls seethe open
bulging with discontents
laments amorous ditties gone dead
Yet such clandestine moments
invoke bygone magic of temptation
unimagined just a day before.
Such argument is convincing to wise lovers
involved in tiring intimacy
Lying in a last grasp heartache.
Vespers hardly are tangible now
dying each moment
flickering flames
leading to bliss before
Lust confused with desire
are only sobs and sighs
Unkempt bastions of trust
sucks the inner life out
Souls seethe open
bulging with discontents
laments amorous ditties gone dead
Yet such clandestine moments
invoke bygone magic of temptation
unimagined just a day before.
Constructing a death blow
Overwhelmingly imprudent
Is this the feeling we get
when people get killed or pestered
while on a pilgrimage
shattering families, tarnishing holy image.
But their lives were not lost
A telling success recalled at every opportunity they got
Holy land visited with money
bribery begot
Back home the son senses scope
To plunge in sins
Festivity turns the swine on
The victim
a menacing beauty in her twenties
otherwise self-obsessed
yields herself passionately
as raging hormones overrun to fuel
yet another abortion.
Is this the feeling we get
when people get killed or pestered
while on a pilgrimage
shattering families, tarnishing holy image.
But their lives were not lost
A telling success recalled at every opportunity they got
Holy land visited with money
bribery begot
Back home the son senses scope
To plunge in sins
Festivity turns the swine on
The victim
a menacing beauty in her twenties
otherwise self-obsessed
yields herself passionately
as raging hormones overrun to fuel
yet another abortion.
An Oedipal observation of holy matrimony
Holy matrimony begets existence
It is that ancient law
Though rigidly institutionalized
Still devoutly practiced
With a sense of horror
As behind the back lurks
Sophoclean tragedy
Codifying incestuous sin.
Subconscious shelters that dreaded possibility
While the eyes droop, ears begin to twitch
And the nose sniffs at the floating eau de cologne
While the priest utters “Lo! And Behold!”
Adds, “I pronounce them man and wife”.
Round of applause gives way of robust kisses
Of the drooling couples
While the infantile mind
Bafflingly declares “O yes, marriage is a bliss”.
* Anthologized in Maps & Metaphors writing by young writers from Bangladesh & UK
It is that ancient law
Though rigidly institutionalized
Still devoutly practiced
With a sense of horror
As behind the back lurks
Sophoclean tragedy
Codifying incestuous sin.
Subconscious shelters that dreaded possibility
While the eyes droop, ears begin to twitch
And the nose sniffs at the floating eau de cologne
While the priest utters “Lo! And Behold!”
Adds, “I pronounce them man and wife”.
Round of applause gives way of robust kisses
Of the drooling couples
While the infantile mind
Bafflingly declares “O yes, marriage is a bliss”.
* Anthologized in Maps & Metaphors writing by young writers from Bangladesh & UK
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Hypocrite lecteur,—mon semblable,—mon frère!
In a series of poems I have tried to address the problems facing the world. The poems contain allusions from The Waste Land, Herman Hesse's novel Siddharta, Jim Morrison's An American Prayer and reflects upon the possibility of salvation ingrained in the Eastern philosophies and myths. Optimistic readers will find the poems full of life and possibility. But melancholy is never far from joy. After all, it is Charles Baudelaire who had said-- la melancholie toujours du sentiment du beau . Keats uttered more profoundly--In the very temple of delight/Veiled Melancholy has her sovran shrine. Do the poems manifest similar attitudes? Well, one has to read them before drawing any conclusions.
1.The Sadhus
Sadhus treading this land
believed
nirvāṇa is attainable
Rapid technological advances
shoved aside such loftier ideas
to antiquity
Has lead holy men
to fake as well.
Sadly Sadhus no more
live pious lives
They run naked, squatting
under media scrutiny
by the Ganges
They now preach lust
Like cell phone messages
Urging worship consumerism.
holding sway to a lost faith
evening tide gradually recede,
as Sadhus romp by the Ganges side.
2. Siddharta*
Herman Hesse in Siddharta preached
man must seek desire,
As well be abstemious
Out went his hero in the pleasure garden
of Kamala, queen of
Ravishment
Enchantment
Love
Poured forth holy lust
Dried soon
Like neglected rivers
But to be a
Buddha
Requires Soul
Enlightenment
Courage
Eye to see
suffering.
Down at your knees
you lost, vain men of war
Go to Buddha
Seek truth
Life
and learn to negate
anomalies of life.
* Siddharta is a novel by Herman Hesse
3. The wheel or chakra
Spinning the wheel
merely stops
anarchy let loose
Mahatma spun long ago,
a cloth called ahisma,
torn is the cloth now
completely ripped apart.
Communalism, hatred,
Discord, divides
bureaucracy
engulf cities, towns, villages
But a deep, enchantingly pristine forest
fosters ahisma
in the form of
Hope
for peace.
4. Love
Defining is difficult
Often mutual or even reciprocal
Unguent
Classified heterosexual, homosexual, bisexual, transsexual
Performing deep throat, oral, anal
Synonyms desire, passion, adoration
Even copulation.
Antique, varied, voluptuous
Media infected, illusion perched
Curious non-violent act
begetter of happiness
only to those with typical ways to love.
5. Hate
The Other side of love
Blindfolded, weakened nerves.
6. Wrath or the end of Ahisma
Burning, burning, burning
houses in flames
turning to dust
slowly, protractedly,
Awkward silence to violence
heard all around.
Objectification, subjugation
‘mind forg’d’ unsettling distance
Usher soul’s death.
Is this the end? Could this be it?
Answers gather like sediments
Wither like dried leaves.
7. Peace
Peace will never be attained
That is how it seems
Why then run around in circles
To catch
Peace
As if trying to get hold of a
Falling star
morbid manifestations of violence
crippled slightest chance of peace.
if the holiest sage reincarnated
he would say,
“nurture Aatman
and suffering will no longer be
but till then
stay put
and
utter
Shantih Shantih Shantih”.
* The title is taken from the poem Au Lecteur in Baudelaire’s Le Fleur du Mal
1.The Sadhus
Sadhus treading this land
believed
nirvāṇa is attainable
Rapid technological advances
shoved aside such loftier ideas
to antiquity
Has lead holy men
to fake as well.
Sadly Sadhus no more
live pious lives
They run naked, squatting
under media scrutiny
by the Ganges
They now preach lust
Like cell phone messages
Urging worship consumerism.
holding sway to a lost faith
evening tide gradually recede,
as Sadhus romp by the Ganges side.
2. Siddharta*
Herman Hesse in Siddharta preached
man must seek desire,
As well be abstemious
Out went his hero in the pleasure garden
of Kamala, queen of
Ravishment
Enchantment
Love
Poured forth holy lust
Dried soon
Like neglected rivers
But to be a
Buddha
Requires Soul
Enlightenment
Courage
Eye to see
suffering.
Down at your knees
you lost, vain men of war
Go to Buddha
Seek truth
Life
and learn to negate
anomalies of life.
* Siddharta is a novel by Herman Hesse
3. The wheel or chakra
Spinning the wheel
merely stops
anarchy let loose
Mahatma spun long ago,
a cloth called ahisma,
torn is the cloth now
completely ripped apart.
Communalism, hatred,
Discord, divides
bureaucracy
engulf cities, towns, villages
But a deep, enchantingly pristine forest
fosters ahisma
in the form of
Hope
for peace.
4. Love
Defining is difficult
Often mutual or even reciprocal
Unguent
Classified heterosexual, homosexual, bisexual, transsexual
Performing deep throat, oral, anal
Synonyms desire, passion, adoration
Even copulation.
Antique, varied, voluptuous
Media infected, illusion perched
Curious non-violent act
begetter of happiness
only to those with typical ways to love.
5. Hate
The Other side of love
Blindfolded, weakened nerves.
6. Wrath or the end of Ahisma
Burning, burning, burning
houses in flames
turning to dust
slowly, protractedly,
Awkward silence to violence
heard all around.
Objectification, subjugation
‘mind forg’d’ unsettling distance
Usher soul’s death.
Is this the end? Could this be it?
Answers gather like sediments
Wither like dried leaves.
7. Peace
Peace will never be attained
That is how it seems
Why then run around in circles
To catch
Peace
As if trying to get hold of a
Falling star
morbid manifestations of violence
crippled slightest chance of peace.
if the holiest sage reincarnated
he would say,
“nurture Aatman
and suffering will no longer be
but till then
stay put
and
utter
Shantih Shantih Shantih”.
* The title is taken from the poem Au Lecteur in Baudelaire’s Le Fleur du Mal
Monday, June 11, 2007
Bob Marley, G8 and poverty alleviation
Bob Geldof, the anti-poverty campaigner and rock star, called the leaders of recently concluded G8 summit as "creeps" and denounced their work as a "total farce". The involvement of musicians for the African cause has a long history. Earlier it was Bob Marley with his inspiring “Africa Unite” and “One Love”. Bob Marley, proclaimed his African heritage with denouncement of traditional Christianity. He became a Rastafarian. Rastafarians are Jamaicans who claim to have descended from the holy African bloodline and consider Haile Sellassie, emperor of Ethipia as their only legitimate king. He is also seen as part of the Holy Trinity as the messiah promised in the Bible to return. Bob Marley, a prominent member of this group thought his holy land Africa to be a victim of white colonialism and wrote many inspiring songs against capitalism, imperialism & colonialism.
In “war” he describes how his “brothers & sisters” are tortured in Angola, Mozambique and South Africa. We all know how crippled South Africa was during the apartheid regime. Marley decided to protest against all these inhumanities. Now we see whole different kind of capitalism and neo-colonialism around the war. After the Cold War ended polarization stopped. America reign in a unipolar world where their wishes will be final. Significant movements they have introduced these days is “the war of terror”. And we all know this means looting and murdering by US army sans borders. Geldof & Bono had significant reasons to be anguished. In 2005 he hailed the G8’s decision to write off $55bn in developing world debt as a “victory for millions of campaigners across the world”. But now they are frustrated to see how promises are being broken. Africa is deprived of medicines to fight AIDS, food to feed millions of starved children and accessories and facilities to fight corruption. Decade earlier the half of Africa was plunged into bloody civil wars. Mozambique, Angola, Sierra Leone, Liberia, and Guinea everywhere the picture looked bleak. It’s not that warlords have suddenly stopped their feudal lusts and war mongering attitude, situations have improved if not to a greater extent.
Th UN representing the “civilized” community of the world is now sending peacekeepers around Africa to help local people cope with the damages of war. But the truth is hardly anything has changed when it comes to changing the mentality of corrupt government officials & warlords. Children have been used to fight most of the civil wars. Now the West led by US is creating the myth of “poverty alleviation” and hoping in vain to change the face of the continent. Franz Fanon is his Black Skins White Masks have shown how Africans are constructed by West as the inferior “OTHER”. But what is more significant is the epistemic violence of the Other is both inside and outside, it operates through the internalization of the self-as-other. Africa exists only in the image reflected by the Other. The poverty is an unconscious burden of the black and the white Other argues such burdens cannot be lifted until they(whites) show mercy. This deliberate subjugation process had been going on since the days of colonization. Fanon demonstrates how this binary opposition (blacks as opposed to whites) has created a deep racial wound among the blacks in Africa itself. Blacks are now divided as well. One, the refined, educated “black” African acceptable to the West (doesn’t matter whether they are tyrannical or not) and the other impoverished, barbaric “black” African fated to be destroyed by subjugation, hegemony inflicted war.
Aimé Césaire in his Discourse on Colonialism argues how Africans were subjugated but endless theses & anti-theses leads to decolonization as the synthesized product. In the finest Hegelian fashion, Césaire demonstrates how colonialism works to "decivilize" the colonizer: torture, violence, race hatred, and immorality constitute a dead weight on the so-called civilized, pulling the master class deeper and deeper into the abyss of barbarism. The instruments of colonial power rely on barbaric, brutal violence and intimidation, and the end result is the degradation of Europe itself. Hence Césaire can only scream: "Europe is indefensible." Europe is also dependent. Anticipating Fanon's famous proposition that "Europe is literally the creation of the Third World," Césaire reveals, over and over again, that the colonizers' sense of superiority, their sense of mission as the world's civilizers, depends on turning the Other into a barbarian. The Africans, the Indians, the Asians cannot possess civilization or a culture equal to that of the imperialists, or the latter have no purpose, no justification for the exploitation and domination of the rest of the world. The colonial encounter, in other words, requires a reinvention of the colonized, the deliberate destruction of her past—what Césaire calls "thingification." And the West under the veil of civilizing the “other” has just done that.
Bob Marley was right. Africans must unite. There is no other way Africans can find a voice of their own. But who will unite them? Kwame Nkrumah made a failed attempt to unite the Africans. So did many others. Some were simply exhumed by European wrath, e.g, Patrice Lumumba of Congo. However Africa have seen successful anti-colonial drives as by the Mau Mau in Kenya and the Algerian struggle for independence. The romance of a united Africa is as effervescent as the Grail legend. It has sustained millions of dreamers & surrealists such as Aimé Césaire himself. Really it doesn’t matter if Europeans fail to reach a deal regarding $550 million of aid. What matters is driving out corruption & tyrants & oligarchs & make life easier of common people. They are bright enough to chose their destiny.
Bob Geldof & Bono should keep their mouth shut, and stop shedding crocodile tears. Buying the myth of “poverty alleviation” they are constructing Africans as the “neo Other” who should beg for mercy to the West. As if Africans must plead to send peacekeepers, to stop hungry children from dying, to reject politicians not suited to the European construct (Robert Mugabe) and to stop famine & eradicate the evil of AIDS. Africa in Bob Marley’s words is a ‘Babylon’ waiting to be resurrected by the Black Christ to lead the people to ‘Zion’, the promised land of plenty.
In “war” he describes how his “brothers & sisters” are tortured in Angola, Mozambique and South Africa. We all know how crippled South Africa was during the apartheid regime. Marley decided to protest against all these inhumanities. Now we see whole different kind of capitalism and neo-colonialism around the war. After the Cold War ended polarization stopped. America reign in a unipolar world where their wishes will be final. Significant movements they have introduced these days is “the war of terror”. And we all know this means looting and murdering by US army sans borders. Geldof & Bono had significant reasons to be anguished. In 2005 he hailed the G8’s decision to write off $55bn in developing world debt as a “victory for millions of campaigners across the world”. But now they are frustrated to see how promises are being broken. Africa is deprived of medicines to fight AIDS, food to feed millions of starved children and accessories and facilities to fight corruption. Decade earlier the half of Africa was plunged into bloody civil wars. Mozambique, Angola, Sierra Leone, Liberia, and Guinea everywhere the picture looked bleak. It’s not that warlords have suddenly stopped their feudal lusts and war mongering attitude, situations have improved if not to a greater extent.
Th UN representing the “civilized” community of the world is now sending peacekeepers around Africa to help local people cope with the damages of war. But the truth is hardly anything has changed when it comes to changing the mentality of corrupt government officials & warlords. Children have been used to fight most of the civil wars. Now the West led by US is creating the myth of “poverty alleviation” and hoping in vain to change the face of the continent. Franz Fanon is his Black Skins White Masks have shown how Africans are constructed by West as the inferior “OTHER”. But what is more significant is the epistemic violence of the Other is both inside and outside, it operates through the internalization of the self-as-other. Africa exists only in the image reflected by the Other. The poverty is an unconscious burden of the black and the white Other argues such burdens cannot be lifted until they(whites) show mercy. This deliberate subjugation process had been going on since the days of colonization. Fanon demonstrates how this binary opposition (blacks as opposed to whites) has created a deep racial wound among the blacks in Africa itself. Blacks are now divided as well. One, the refined, educated “black” African acceptable to the West (doesn’t matter whether they are tyrannical or not) and the other impoverished, barbaric “black” African fated to be destroyed by subjugation, hegemony inflicted war.
Aimé Césaire in his Discourse on Colonialism argues how Africans were subjugated but endless theses & anti-theses leads to decolonization as the synthesized product. In the finest Hegelian fashion, Césaire demonstrates how colonialism works to "decivilize" the colonizer: torture, violence, race hatred, and immorality constitute a dead weight on the so-called civilized, pulling the master class deeper and deeper into the abyss of barbarism. The instruments of colonial power rely on barbaric, brutal violence and intimidation, and the end result is the degradation of Europe itself. Hence Césaire can only scream: "Europe is indefensible." Europe is also dependent. Anticipating Fanon's famous proposition that "Europe is literally the creation of the Third World," Césaire reveals, over and over again, that the colonizers' sense of superiority, their sense of mission as the world's civilizers, depends on turning the Other into a barbarian. The Africans, the Indians, the Asians cannot possess civilization or a culture equal to that of the imperialists, or the latter have no purpose, no justification for the exploitation and domination of the rest of the world. The colonial encounter, in other words, requires a reinvention of the colonized, the deliberate destruction of her past—what Césaire calls "thingification." And the West under the veil of civilizing the “other” has just done that.
Bob Marley was right. Africans must unite. There is no other way Africans can find a voice of their own. But who will unite them? Kwame Nkrumah made a failed attempt to unite the Africans. So did many others. Some were simply exhumed by European wrath, e.g, Patrice Lumumba of Congo. However Africa have seen successful anti-colonial drives as by the Mau Mau in Kenya and the Algerian struggle for independence. The romance of a united Africa is as effervescent as the Grail legend. It has sustained millions of dreamers & surrealists such as Aimé Césaire himself. Really it doesn’t matter if Europeans fail to reach a deal regarding $550 million of aid. What matters is driving out corruption & tyrants & oligarchs & make life easier of common people. They are bright enough to chose their destiny.
Bob Geldof & Bono should keep their mouth shut, and stop shedding crocodile tears. Buying the myth of “poverty alleviation” they are constructing Africans as the “neo Other” who should beg for mercy to the West. As if Africans must plead to send peacekeepers, to stop hungry children from dying, to reject politicians not suited to the European construct (Robert Mugabe) and to stop famine & eradicate the evil of AIDS. Africa in Bob Marley’s words is a ‘Babylon’ waiting to be resurrected by the Black Christ to lead the people to ‘Zion’, the promised land of plenty.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
The Ecstasy*
Undermining rhetoric values
Often dreadful is considered
When desire confronts
Lost words and heavy sighs
Palatable trembling lips
Envisions ecstasy
Sensation lurks within the muttering words
There is a garden in her face*
Tender eyes
sooth the flaunting heart
Intimacy bemoan perennial doubt
Yet pain grips the loin
as dangling bodies treading the cyber world
provokes unimpressive erection
The mind meanwhile gleefully imagine
a threesome in absentia.
1* Donne, the extasie
2* from Elizabethan poet Thomas Campion
Often dreadful is considered
When desire confronts
Lost words and heavy sighs
Palatable trembling lips
Envisions ecstasy
Sensation lurks within the muttering words
There is a garden in her face*
Tender eyes
sooth the flaunting heart
Intimacy bemoan perennial doubt
Yet pain grips the loin
as dangling bodies treading the cyber world
provokes unimpressive erection
The mind meanwhile gleefully imagine
a threesome in absentia.
1* Donne, the extasie
2* from Elizabethan poet Thomas Campion
Cricket Italian-style with a spice of Aussie talent
It seems unlikely, but cricket has become a link between Italy and Australia. There is a coaching scheme that takes Italians to Tasmania regularly and increasing numbers of Italian-Australians seek to play cricket for clubs in Italy. Moreover, in 2002 Malcolm Speed, the Australian Chief Executive of the International Cricket Council, supported Italy's successful attempt to modify ICC rules after the Italian team had withdrawn from the ICC Trophy in Toronto over this issue.
The modification reflected a globalisation of an Anglo-Saxon sport because it accepted the Italian criterion of nationality for eligibility for a national team. Italian cricket has become a presence on the world scene. The diplomatic clout of the Presidency of its Cricket Federation is undeniable: its President (Bruno Bottai) is a former Secretary-General of the Italian Ministry for Foreign Affairs and its Vice-President, Umberto Vattani, is Ambassador to the European Community. Its weakness is the lack of a cricket tradition. Despite youth programs, it is extremely difficult to graft cricket on to a sporting culture whose traditional interests are mainly soccer, cycling and car racing.
But cricket in Italy has already come a long way from what some nostalgically refer to as its good old days such as 1984 when, for the first time, an Italian touring team challenged the might of England. The English press had a field day. It described English players ducking behind club bars as Italian opponents entered with cases, which might have carried sawn-off shotguns rather than cricket gear. It said the players' names, such as Gambino, Conti, Bonapace and De Amicis, sounded like the cast of The Godfather. It advised English players not to mention "The Don" lest it be taken as a reference to a mobster rather than to Bradman di Bowral. "Do the Italians toss up or just shoot it out?" asked the Daily Mail, drawing on its endless supply of stereotypes.
When a ball from the Italian team's opening bowler, Max da Costa, struck an upright English batsman on the shoulder, according to the Daily Mail a fieldsman on the square leg boundary shouted "Oweezadatta?" and his skipper offered the umpire the comprehensive explanation "He's Roman."
It was suggested the Italians might trundle up meatballs prised from their spaghetti. Instead, after each match the Italian skipper, Simone Gambino, who was something of a martinet, lined up the opposing team and presented salami, pasta and chocolates to its surprised members. A sponsor relative of Simone had provided a team van, which carried coffee and pasta advertisements but also salami, rigatoni and 6,400 Ferrer Rocher chocolates. After several tours and some victories, Italians are less liable to the Daily Mail's good, clean racist fun. ("Latin passions give the game new flavour" was the headline in "The Times" after the first Italian win which it described unblushingly as "Italy's finest hour".) As one of the aims of the tours is to increase interest in cricket in Italy, half-way through the 1984 tour a team member rang from London to the State broadcasting television sports program with the news that, "on its English tour, the Italian team is undefeated" which was broadcast to an audience of 10 million. But the caller had omitted that the Italians were playing not against a national team but club sides – and there had been four draws in four matches. It did not matter greatly because Italians often confuse cricket with croquet. My Roman team, Capannelle, participated in the European Clubs Cricket Festival in Durham in 1989. Financed by the European Community, it brought together teams from Germany, Spain, France, Italy and Denmark as well as the locals. The Germans were mainly Pakistanis but their captain was from Sydney, the French had an English ex-Oxford player as captain, the Danes were all Danes, fearsomely keen and competent. For the record I averaged 75: 46 not out, 19 not out and 9 run out, at which point I decided not to dilly-dally and retired from cricket to begin a tennis career.
The first mention of cricket in Italy was of a match played by Admiral Nelson's sailors in Naples in 1793. About the end of the 19th century, several cricket-and-soccer clubs were founded in north Italy: Genoa, what is now Juventus and Inter, but they quickly forgot cricket and got on with soccer. After World War II, cricket revived. An Englishman Frank Pogson married into the Doria Pamphili family, one of the best-known in Rome, and a cement pitch was laid in the grounds of their magnificent villa, which is larger than the Vatican. The Australian and British embassies fielded teams, as did the Venerable English College where priests are trained; the Beda College for those with late priestly vocations: the United Nations' Food and Agriculture Organisation whose headquarters is in Rome; and the Allied War Graves Commission. Participation by the Commission was important because it tended the Villa Pamphili ground which is surrounded by handsome umbrella pines and looks across to St. Peter's dome with which it is level.
For several years the Australian team won the competition, largely because the puffy embassy players were aided by trainee priests keen to work off their excess energy, whereas the main opposition, the English Embassy, divided its forces between two teams. Among the Australians were Frank Carroll, who was to become archbishop of Canberra, Billy Snedden who was a Minister but not yet Opposition Leader, and Morris West. The day West played, fellow novelist John Cleary attended, so two Rolls-Royces were parked beside the ground. At that time, a side went each year to Corfu where a triangular cricket ground by the fort recalls its English heritage. Indeed the atmosphere remained Venetian-English even though the Colonels' regime was whipping Greece into shape. English cricket authorities had tried to keep the game alive by sending practice nets but word was that they had been used to haul in fish. Like a lost tribe performing imperfectly remembered rites, the Corfuscians had transposed some terms, appealing "Not out" and answering "How's that?" Passion substituted adequately, however, for practice among the Greeks in what were unofficial Eastern Mediterranean Tests.
Early in the 1970s the flannelled fools of Rome lost their superbly set ground because Villa Doria Pamphili became a public park. For some time cricket continued at the summer residence of the English College by Lake Albano. But it was too tiresome to drive to the hills behind Rome and the competition died out.
Enter Simone Gambino, a political science graduate and son of a well-known journalist. While studying in England as a teenager, Simone fell in love with cricket and had some coaching. He returned to Rome with the single-mindedness of Ayatollah Khomeni but with Wisden's as his Koran: if you want to know when and where Stan McCabe scored 187 in a Test against England, Simone has the answer. (He imbibed the English every-man-shall-do-his-duty ethic. Once he carried his stonewalling bat for a score barely into two figures in a six-a-side game. "Bravissimo" called one of his team-mates as Simone left the field. "Not great said Simone gravely, "but responsible.")
In reviving cricket, he found survivors from the Villa Doria Pamphili days and also attracted young Italians even though involving them in cricket seemed as futile as founding a ski club in Bahrain. The Italian Cricket Association was founded in 1980 with only 15 members but 12 years later had 1,000. Now it has a competition with teams from the pre-Alps to Sicily. But it is still a missionary enterprise. One of its proudest boast is that, in the 1988 European championship, it beat England thanks largely to an innings of 106 by Joe Scuderi, the South Australian Sheffield Shield player whose parents emigrated from Sicily.
To prevent non-Italians dominating, in 1987 it was decided that each team could field a maximum of four non-Italians. From 1983, only three foreigners were allowed because a rich club, Cesena, had imported match-winning first grade Sri Lankans. Only two foreigners are eligible for the national team but usually another half dozen team members were born in Commonwealth countries but have acquired Italian citizenship. It has had several naturalised Sri Lankans as captains. In 1992, the New Zealand captain Martin Crowe, on a five-month holiday in Italy with his Florentine wife, was paid $5,000 to coach the national team.
The games in the national competition, usually of 80 overs, are played on matting wickets. Finding suitable grounds has been a problem. My team attached itself to the Rome racecourse, the Capannelle. Initially games were played in a paddock as desolate and unserviced as anything back o' Bourke. Play was interrupted each time horses passed on the way to the starting post which led me to shout, during one innings, "Four balls and five horses." For Italian newspapers, cricket has an aristocratic English cachet as a sport which inculcates those foreign concepts, "fair play and self-control." It ties in with the snobbish idea of England as the land of Edwardian gentlemen, which persists despite Mick Jagger, and the exploits of soccer hooligans. Boisterous Botham did nothing to dent the Italians' pre-Jardine image of cricket.
For Italians a batsman is a battitore, a bowler a lanciatore while the task of the man crouched behind the stumps is to wicketkeepare. The Italian for "wicket" means "little wooden castle" and short leg is "laterale corto"– short side. Italians would probably subscribe to G.B. Shaw's "you don't have to be mad to play cricket but it helps." This hit home during John Paul II's first visit to Australia. Some Italians journalists accompanying the pope saw cricket for the first time on television in their Perth hotel rooms. I explained the game as best I could. The next day I went to the WACA ground to see Alan Border and Greg Matthews avoid a follow on. When I told the Italian journalists that while they trailed behind the Pope I had spent several hours at the Test match against England, they asked who had won. I said it was too early to tell and avoided saying that the players had taken afternoon tea. In the Seychelles, I told them it looked likely to be a tight finish; in Rome, I said with some satisfaction that Australia had achieved a draw. The Italians were bemused by a sporting contest lasting days without either side winning.
If Italians have seen cricket at all, usually it is only in films such as Chariots of Fire. While in the outfield of the Doria Pamphili ground, I overheard a strolling couple who chanced on our cricket match. After watching in silence the man said "they must be making a film."
*Desmond O'Grady is IDU's Italian editor and Rome correspondent of The Sydney Morning Herald and The Age.
For several years he was a member of Italy's national cricket squad.
The modification reflected a globalisation of an Anglo-Saxon sport because it accepted the Italian criterion of nationality for eligibility for a national team. Italian cricket has become a presence on the world scene. The diplomatic clout of the Presidency of its Cricket Federation is undeniable: its President (Bruno Bottai) is a former Secretary-General of the Italian Ministry for Foreign Affairs and its Vice-President, Umberto Vattani, is Ambassador to the European Community. Its weakness is the lack of a cricket tradition. Despite youth programs, it is extremely difficult to graft cricket on to a sporting culture whose traditional interests are mainly soccer, cycling and car racing.
But cricket in Italy has already come a long way from what some nostalgically refer to as its good old days such as 1984 when, for the first time, an Italian touring team challenged the might of England. The English press had a field day. It described English players ducking behind club bars as Italian opponents entered with cases, which might have carried sawn-off shotguns rather than cricket gear. It said the players' names, such as Gambino, Conti, Bonapace and De Amicis, sounded like the cast of The Godfather. It advised English players not to mention "The Don" lest it be taken as a reference to a mobster rather than to Bradman di Bowral. "Do the Italians toss up or just shoot it out?" asked the Daily Mail, drawing on its endless supply of stereotypes.
When a ball from the Italian team's opening bowler, Max da Costa, struck an upright English batsman on the shoulder, according to the Daily Mail a fieldsman on the square leg boundary shouted "Oweezadatta?" and his skipper offered the umpire the comprehensive explanation "He's Roman."
It was suggested the Italians might trundle up meatballs prised from their spaghetti. Instead, after each match the Italian skipper, Simone Gambino, who was something of a martinet, lined up the opposing team and presented salami, pasta and chocolates to its surprised members. A sponsor relative of Simone had provided a team van, which carried coffee and pasta advertisements but also salami, rigatoni and 6,400 Ferrer Rocher chocolates. After several tours and some victories, Italians are less liable to the Daily Mail's good, clean racist fun. ("Latin passions give the game new flavour" was the headline in "The Times" after the first Italian win which it described unblushingly as "Italy's finest hour".) As one of the aims of the tours is to increase interest in cricket in Italy, half-way through the 1984 tour a team member rang from London to the State broadcasting television sports program with the news that, "on its English tour, the Italian team is undefeated" which was broadcast to an audience of 10 million. But the caller had omitted that the Italians were playing not against a national team but club sides – and there had been four draws in four matches. It did not matter greatly because Italians often confuse cricket with croquet. My Roman team, Capannelle, participated in the European Clubs Cricket Festival in Durham in 1989. Financed by the European Community, it brought together teams from Germany, Spain, France, Italy and Denmark as well as the locals. The Germans were mainly Pakistanis but their captain was from Sydney, the French had an English ex-Oxford player as captain, the Danes were all Danes, fearsomely keen and competent. For the record I averaged 75: 46 not out, 19 not out and 9 run out, at which point I decided not to dilly-dally and retired from cricket to begin a tennis career.
The first mention of cricket in Italy was of a match played by Admiral Nelson's sailors in Naples in 1793. About the end of the 19th century, several cricket-and-soccer clubs were founded in north Italy: Genoa, what is now Juventus and Inter, but they quickly forgot cricket and got on with soccer. After World War II, cricket revived. An Englishman Frank Pogson married into the Doria Pamphili family, one of the best-known in Rome, and a cement pitch was laid in the grounds of their magnificent villa, which is larger than the Vatican. The Australian and British embassies fielded teams, as did the Venerable English College where priests are trained; the Beda College for those with late priestly vocations: the United Nations' Food and Agriculture Organisation whose headquarters is in Rome; and the Allied War Graves Commission. Participation by the Commission was important because it tended the Villa Pamphili ground which is surrounded by handsome umbrella pines and looks across to St. Peter's dome with which it is level.
For several years the Australian team won the competition, largely because the puffy embassy players were aided by trainee priests keen to work off their excess energy, whereas the main opposition, the English Embassy, divided its forces between two teams. Among the Australians were Frank Carroll, who was to become archbishop of Canberra, Billy Snedden who was a Minister but not yet Opposition Leader, and Morris West. The day West played, fellow novelist John Cleary attended, so two Rolls-Royces were parked beside the ground. At that time, a side went each year to Corfu where a triangular cricket ground by the fort recalls its English heritage. Indeed the atmosphere remained Venetian-English even though the Colonels' regime was whipping Greece into shape. English cricket authorities had tried to keep the game alive by sending practice nets but word was that they had been used to haul in fish. Like a lost tribe performing imperfectly remembered rites, the Corfuscians had transposed some terms, appealing "Not out" and answering "How's that?" Passion substituted adequately, however, for practice among the Greeks in what were unofficial Eastern Mediterranean Tests.
Early in the 1970s the flannelled fools of Rome lost their superbly set ground because Villa Doria Pamphili became a public park. For some time cricket continued at the summer residence of the English College by Lake Albano. But it was too tiresome to drive to the hills behind Rome and the competition died out.
Enter Simone Gambino, a political science graduate and son of a well-known journalist. While studying in England as a teenager, Simone fell in love with cricket and had some coaching. He returned to Rome with the single-mindedness of Ayatollah Khomeni but with Wisden's as his Koran: if you want to know when and where Stan McCabe scored 187 in a Test against England, Simone has the answer. (He imbibed the English every-man-shall-do-his-duty ethic. Once he carried his stonewalling bat for a score barely into two figures in a six-a-side game. "Bravissimo" called one of his team-mates as Simone left the field. "Not great said Simone gravely, "but responsible.")
In reviving cricket, he found survivors from the Villa Doria Pamphili days and also attracted young Italians even though involving them in cricket seemed as futile as founding a ski club in Bahrain. The Italian Cricket Association was founded in 1980 with only 15 members but 12 years later had 1,000. Now it has a competition with teams from the pre-Alps to Sicily. But it is still a missionary enterprise. One of its proudest boast is that, in the 1988 European championship, it beat England thanks largely to an innings of 106 by Joe Scuderi, the South Australian Sheffield Shield player whose parents emigrated from Sicily.
To prevent non-Italians dominating, in 1987 it was decided that each team could field a maximum of four non-Italians. From 1983, only three foreigners were allowed because a rich club, Cesena, had imported match-winning first grade Sri Lankans. Only two foreigners are eligible for the national team but usually another half dozen team members were born in Commonwealth countries but have acquired Italian citizenship. It has had several naturalised Sri Lankans as captains. In 1992, the New Zealand captain Martin Crowe, on a five-month holiday in Italy with his Florentine wife, was paid $5,000 to coach the national team.
The games in the national competition, usually of 80 overs, are played on matting wickets. Finding suitable grounds has been a problem. My team attached itself to the Rome racecourse, the Capannelle. Initially games were played in a paddock as desolate and unserviced as anything back o' Bourke. Play was interrupted each time horses passed on the way to the starting post which led me to shout, during one innings, "Four balls and five horses." For Italian newspapers, cricket has an aristocratic English cachet as a sport which inculcates those foreign concepts, "fair play and self-control." It ties in with the snobbish idea of England as the land of Edwardian gentlemen, which persists despite Mick Jagger, and the exploits of soccer hooligans. Boisterous Botham did nothing to dent the Italians' pre-Jardine image of cricket.
For Italians a batsman is a battitore, a bowler a lanciatore while the task of the man crouched behind the stumps is to wicketkeepare. The Italian for "wicket" means "little wooden castle" and short leg is "laterale corto"– short side. Italians would probably subscribe to G.B. Shaw's "you don't have to be mad to play cricket but it helps." This hit home during John Paul II's first visit to Australia. Some Italians journalists accompanying the pope saw cricket for the first time on television in their Perth hotel rooms. I explained the game as best I could. The next day I went to the WACA ground to see Alan Border and Greg Matthews avoid a follow on. When I told the Italian journalists that while they trailed behind the Pope I had spent several hours at the Test match against England, they asked who had won. I said it was too early to tell and avoided saying that the players had taken afternoon tea. In the Seychelles, I told them it looked likely to be a tight finish; in Rome, I said with some satisfaction that Australia had achieved a draw. The Italians were bemused by a sporting contest lasting days without either side winning.
If Italians have seen cricket at all, usually it is only in films such as Chariots of Fire. While in the outfield of the Doria Pamphili ground, I overheard a strolling couple who chanced on our cricket match. After watching in silence the man said "they must be making a film."
*Desmond O'Grady is IDU's Italian editor and Rome correspondent of The Sydney Morning Herald and The Age.
For several years he was a member of Italy's national cricket squad.
Saturday, June 9, 2007
Of women & wine
Eau de vie, French kisses, exotic embrace
Brunettes or blondes with sleek waistline
Not good enough.
Women for our sake
goes well
with coffee and cake
Never try Vodka
even Jamaican rum
Things could be confusing
Outcome disastrous.
Brunettes or blondes with sleek waistline
Not good enough.
Women for our sake
goes well
with coffee and cake
Never try Vodka
even Jamaican rum
Things could be confusing
Outcome disastrous.
American nightmare
Colonial crops
are aplenty in sports
thus I felt
as they invited me
to 'cricket'.
Venturing an American
to the bloody English game,
Sulkily I stood
In the 'silly point'
Rather made to stand
by the captain
The game began with expectations and allure
the Kookaburra betrayed me suddenly
as if possessed by the infernal serpent
Alowing an overflow of swooned words-
"O Captain! My Captain!
What have you done"
The latter hours
were visions of blood and gore
Oil fields, suicide-bombers
GI’s in the Orient galore
Pivotal American nightmare
re-visited
burying
cricketing allure.
are aplenty in sports
thus I felt
as they invited me
to 'cricket'.
Venturing an American
to the bloody English game,
Sulkily I stood
In the 'silly point'
Rather made to stand
by the captain
The game began with expectations and allure
the Kookaburra betrayed me suddenly
as if possessed by the infernal serpent
Alowing an overflow of swooned words-
"O Captain! My Captain!
What have you done"
The latter hours
were visions of blood and gore
Oil fields, suicide-bombers
GI’s in the Orient galore
Pivotal American nightmare
re-visited
burying
cricketing allure.
Brine Pickles: Where young creative writers meet
Brine Pickles is a unique young creative writers’ group plunged into the turbulent waters of creativity only with the conviction of firmly establishing English as a popular mode of creative writing in Bangladesh. The group started back in January 2004 when the British Council offered space to the young writers can regularly meet and have discussion sessions. The group Brine Pickles was formed at this time as a part of the project entitles Maps and Metaphors under British Council’s Connecting Futures project to set a forum of young creative writers both from Bangladesh and the UK in the age group of 15 to 25.
The member writers associated with Brine Pickles, through their original works, are bent upon to inspire ideas on “Identity”. Their works include poetry, short stories and play but their mastered specialty is Performance Literature. The group intends to raise awareness of culture, gender, class, existence and ethnicity in the minds of the audience not only through literature but through performance and literature.
Since the formation of the group, it has hold regular discussion sessions at the British Council premises. Brine Pickles currently has 19 active members locally, and is linked with various student forums based in different universities across the country. The group has performed in different Universities across Dhaka city and also has succeeded in organizing 3 performance literature sessions in the British Council Auditorium in Dhaka. Members of the group also conducted a workshop at the first ever Summers School in Bangladesh organized byCCDPS , a partner of the British Council under the Connecting Futures Project. The group was also involved in organizing a translation workshop with the UK based prominentntranslatorGopa Baker.
But the biggest break came in December 2005 when the group successfully involved them with two creative writers workshop conducted byDinesh Allirajah - a short story writer, Jazz poet, performer, workshop leader, and member of Black Arts Alliance- the first of which spanned over the time December 11-15, 2005 in Dhaka. Apart from 12 participants from this group, another four were from UK. The second workshop was held in UK from 20-24 February 2006,
where 4 participants from this group attended. As a part of this exchange programme an anthology Maps & Metaphors with fiction, non-fiction and poetry was published in August, 2006 which was quite anm achievement for the young writers.
The group has moved along since then though in a less smooth path. The conclusion of the Connecting Futures Project became a setback for the group with internal strife led to the resignation of former coordinator MuhammadSaiful Islam. But the group has emerged with even stronger motives to work as a creative writers’ group under Sabrina Binte Masud as the new coordinator. Another performance literature show ended successfully in IUB and BRAC university in on the line of Brine Pickles’ list of performance. The group will soon be opening their new website but the promise hasremained the same as it was when they started; that is to establishthemselves as writers writing in English and also carrying forward the concept of Performance Literature in Bangladesh.
The member writers associated with Brine Pickles, through their original works, are bent upon to inspire ideas on “Identity”. Their works include poetry, short stories and play but their mastered specialty is Performance Literature. The group intends to raise awareness of culture, gender, class, existence and ethnicity in the minds of the audience not only through literature but through performance and literature.
Since the formation of the group, it has hold regular discussion sessions at the British Council premises. Brine Pickles currently has 19 active members locally, and is linked with various student forums based in different universities across the country. The group has performed in different Universities across Dhaka city and also has succeeded in organizing 3 performance literature sessions in the British Council Auditorium in Dhaka. Members of the group also conducted a workshop at the first ever Summers School in Bangladesh organized byCCDPS , a partner of the British Council under the Connecting Futures Project. The group was also involved in organizing a translation workshop with the UK based prominentntranslatorGopa Baker.
But the biggest break came in December 2005 when the group successfully involved them with two creative writers workshop conducted byDinesh Allirajah - a short story writer, Jazz poet, performer, workshop leader, and member of Black Arts Alliance- the first of which spanned over the time December 11-15, 2005 in Dhaka. Apart from 12 participants from this group, another four were from UK. The second workshop was held in UK from 20-24 February 2006,
where 4 participants from this group attended. As a part of this exchange programme an anthology Maps & Metaphors with fiction, non-fiction and poetry was published in August, 2006 which was quite anm achievement for the young writers.
The group has moved along since then though in a less smooth path. The conclusion of the Connecting Futures Project became a setback for the group with internal strife led to the resignation of former coordinator MuhammadSaiful Islam. But the group has emerged with even stronger motives to work as a creative writers’ group under Sabrina Binte Masud as the new coordinator. Another performance literature show ended successfully in IUB and BRAC university in on the line of Brine Pickles’ list of performance. The group will soon be opening their new website but the promise hasremained the same as it was when they started; that is to establishthemselves as writers writing in English and also carrying forward the concept of Performance Literature in Bangladesh.
Gangaajal: Of Parallels and Parables
Delving into Gangaajal by director Prakash Jha is always going to be a bitter experience if anybody is as anti-authoritarian as me. How many times have I heard that life for a policeman is one of dishonesty and fradulence. But Gangaajal is a movie based on real life experiences.
It stars Ajay Devgan as SP Amit Kumar who is given charge of Tejpur police station in Bihar. The area is full of corruption, nepotism, bribery, inefficiency and favoritism. Gradually Amit realises the local politician Sadhu Yadav is the beneficiary of all this. In the course of the film, two of Sadhu Yadav's men are blinded with acid by Tejpur police station officers and this method of pouring "gangaajal" becomes a means of vengeance against crime. Sadhu Yadav's son Sunder Yadav is also a monostrous present in the plot, reminding us once again the long hand of criminals in the political system of the sub-continent. The film ends with a poetic justice as the criminals are not left unpunished but what is significant is the ordeal of certain individuals and families in the course of the movie.
One of the victims is Baccha Yadav, a policeman with guts. He falls victim to Sadhu Yadav's vendetta. The other policemen are also harassed time and again. Even Amit Kumar receives punishment for not concurring with the evil intentions of the state minister. Jha makes one cops utter, "Supporting crime is a crime for the police as is uprooting it". The cops of Tejpur police station are simply the victims of Power and politics. Their authority is a sell out. Except for Amit Kumar no body dares to speak against the criminal acts of local politicians. Consequently the cops suffer. There are bad cops who fully sides with Sadhu Yadav, even the commissioner himself.
I was appalled with the clarity of Prakash Jha trying his best to portray the real condition in a police station(with the cops continually swearing "Madurchod" at the goons). Theirs is a stressful work and this is true for the hundreds of police station spread throughout India, Bangladesh and porbably Pakistan and beyond. Well, I am not saying the cops are absolute angels but the way they are seen in our society(jack of all crimes) is completely absurd.
They are only humans and they have to follow orders given from above. And there are policemen like Baccha Yadav and Amit Kumar who stand tall against all odds to fight social injustice. People in the small towns and villages are always suffering in the hands of these criminal local politicians. If policemen stand by them they also become a force to reckon with as the film suggests.
Currently Bangladesh is experiencing an anti-corruption drive by the caretaker government. Dazed and bewildered, we see big guns confessing crimes of humongous proportion. If this is the state of our once revered ministers and mps then one can imagine the sorry state of the police force. The truth is that the police force is directly controlled by the state and often used to commit state sponsored terrorims. So how can we expect policemen like Amit Kumar, Baccha Yadav and their fellow cops Khan, Tiwari and the likes who stood firm against political terrorism.
As the film is based on an actual incident we find solace in believing that honest cops exist even in our society and has the courage like Amit Kumar to disobey orders from DIG Verma. The time is here and now. Don't let ourselves wallow in false comforts and don't let your mind seek comfort in believing we are living in a just and honest society and the corruption exists around us is only committed by the police and henious men like them. Wake up people. Who knows? The most fraudulent might be your near and dear ones who adorn the highest offices of the state and giving obscene orders from the disgraceful thrones they sit in.
It stars Ajay Devgan as SP Amit Kumar who is given charge of Tejpur police station in Bihar. The area is full of corruption, nepotism, bribery, inefficiency and favoritism. Gradually Amit realises the local politician Sadhu Yadav is the beneficiary of all this. In the course of the film, two of Sadhu Yadav's men are blinded with acid by Tejpur police station officers and this method of pouring "gangaajal" becomes a means of vengeance against crime. Sadhu Yadav's son Sunder Yadav is also a monostrous present in the plot, reminding us once again the long hand of criminals in the political system of the sub-continent. The film ends with a poetic justice as the criminals are not left unpunished but what is significant is the ordeal of certain individuals and families in the course of the movie.
One of the victims is Baccha Yadav, a policeman with guts. He falls victim to Sadhu Yadav's vendetta. The other policemen are also harassed time and again. Even Amit Kumar receives punishment for not concurring with the evil intentions of the state minister. Jha makes one cops utter, "Supporting crime is a crime for the police as is uprooting it". The cops of Tejpur police station are simply the victims of Power and politics. Their authority is a sell out. Except for Amit Kumar no body dares to speak against the criminal acts of local politicians. Consequently the cops suffer. There are bad cops who fully sides with Sadhu Yadav, even the commissioner himself.
I was appalled with the clarity of Prakash Jha trying his best to portray the real condition in a police station(with the cops continually swearing "Madurchod" at the goons). Theirs is a stressful work and this is true for the hundreds of police station spread throughout India, Bangladesh and porbably Pakistan and beyond. Well, I am not saying the cops are absolute angels but the way they are seen in our society(jack of all crimes) is completely absurd.
They are only humans and they have to follow orders given from above. And there are policemen like Baccha Yadav and Amit Kumar who stand tall against all odds to fight social injustice. People in the small towns and villages are always suffering in the hands of these criminal local politicians. If policemen stand by them they also become a force to reckon with as the film suggests.
Currently Bangladesh is experiencing an anti-corruption drive by the caretaker government. Dazed and bewildered, we see big guns confessing crimes of humongous proportion. If this is the state of our once revered ministers and mps then one can imagine the sorry state of the police force. The truth is that the police force is directly controlled by the state and often used to commit state sponsored terrorims. So how can we expect policemen like Amit Kumar, Baccha Yadav and their fellow cops Khan, Tiwari and the likes who stood firm against political terrorism.
As the film is based on an actual incident we find solace in believing that honest cops exist even in our society and has the courage like Amit Kumar to disobey orders from DIG Verma. The time is here and now. Don't let ourselves wallow in false comforts and don't let your mind seek comfort in believing we are living in a just and honest society and the corruption exists around us is only committed by the police and henious men like them. Wake up people. Who knows? The most fraudulent might be your near and dear ones who adorn the highest offices of the state and giving obscene orders from the disgraceful thrones they sit in.
Friday, June 8, 2007
An Area of Darkness
Nurturing a narcissistic mind
invites consistent illusions
forgotten is the weary world
the Muse forsaken
The mind wallops Lisa Ray
manifesting a beauty obsessed temporal world
Long ago did Thoreau prophesized
through immortal words in Walden
ways for building of a soul
to live a life
beyond sorrow and ignominy
Baudelaire cursed ennui
deeming it destructive
utterly ravaging man
chanting for Lady Macbeth
whose soul so potent in crime
provided perfect cure
for a heart
profound as an abyss
worthy of invoking ladies of the night
While Satan spirits his soul with Faustian wishes
fuelling the dark le fleur du mal
Such poetic journeys need a shattered, naked soul
to triumph over the diabolic
journeys uniting all erring humans
Quivering poets they are
Saged prophets for thousands of years
*Title refers to V S Naipaul's non-fiction An Area of Darkness
invites consistent illusions
forgotten is the weary world
the Muse forsaken
The mind wallops Lisa Ray
manifesting a beauty obsessed temporal world
Long ago did Thoreau prophesized
through immortal words in Walden
ways for building of a soul
to live a life
beyond sorrow and ignominy
Baudelaire cursed ennui
deeming it destructive
utterly ravaging man
chanting for Lady Macbeth
whose soul so potent in crime
provided perfect cure
for a heart
profound as an abyss
worthy of invoking ladies of the night
While Satan spirits his soul with Faustian wishes
fuelling the dark le fleur du mal
Such poetic journeys need a shattered, naked soul
to triumph over the diabolic
journeys uniting all erring humans
Quivering poets they are
Saged prophets for thousands of years
*Title refers to V S Naipaul's non-fiction An Area of Darkness
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