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goings on [17 Apr 2007|05:56pm] Firstly: Rain!!!!!! :-) Moving on, have seen more sunrises in the past few weeks that I have in the last three years. Also went to a house of horror for the first time – no, I don’t mean the two painful hours spent on a movie aptly named bheja fry. This was an actual house of horror where ghosts and ghouls and all things ugly creep up behind you in bad costumes and worse sound effects. Don’t get me wrong – its not that I wasn’t scared. But people who have watched horror flicks with me will agree that MY being scared isn’t really a fair parameter. All the same I do like Senti’s suggestion that the next time I shout back at the ghosts and start hitting them with my bag. As they say, its all about empowerment. 2 comments|post comment

good review of apocalypto [13 Mar 2007|03:36pm] Is "Apocalypto" Pornography? December 5, 2006 by Traci Ardren A scholar challenges Mel Gibson's use of the ancient Maya culture as a metaphor for his vision of today's world. Traci Ardren, an assistant professor of anthropology at the University of Miami, knows the Maya well. She has studied Classic Maya society for over 20 years while living in the modern Maya villages of Yaxuna, Chunchucmil, and Espita in the Mexican state of Yucatan. Her credentials include contributing to and editing Ancient Maya Women (2002) and The Social Experience of Childhood in Ancient Mesoamerica (2006). Ardren's reaction to the new film "Apocalypto," follows. Scholars are well aware that some aspects of Maya culture were violent, but Ardren finds fault with what she sees as a pervasive colonial attitude in the film. With great trepidation I went to an advance screening of "Apocalypto" last night in Miami. No one really expects historical dramas to be accurate, so I was not so much concerned with whether or not the film would accurately represent what we know of Classic period Maya history as I was concerned about the message Mel Gibson wanted to convey through the film. After Jared Diamond's best-selling book Collapse, it has become fashionable to use the so-called Maya collapse as a metaphor for Western society's environmental and political excesses. Setting aside the fact that the Maya lived for more than a thousand years in a fragile tropical environment before their cities were abandoned, while here in the U.S, we have polluted our urban environments in less than 200, I anticipated a heavy-handed cautionary tale wrapped up in Native American costume. What I saw was much worse than this. The thrill of hearing melodic Yucatec Maya spoken by familiar faces (although the five lead actors are not Yucatec Maya but other talented Native American actors) during the first ten minutes of the movie is swiftly and brutally replaced with stomach churning panic at the graphic Maya-on-Maya violence depicted in a village raid scene of nearly 15 minutes. From then on the entire movie never ceases to utilize every possible excuse to depict more violence. It is unrelenting. Our hero, Jaguar Paw, played by the charismatic Cree actor Rudy Youngblood, has one hellavuh bad couple of days. Captured for sacrifice, forced to march to the putrid city nearby, he endures every tropical jungle attack conceivable and that is after he escapes the relentless brutality of the elites. I am told this part of the movie is completely derivative of the 1966 film "The Naked Prey." Pure action flick, with one ridiculous encounter after another, filmed beautifully in the way that only Hollywood blockbusters can afford, this is the part of the movie that will draw in audiences and demonstrates Gibson's skill as a cinematic storyteller. But I find the visual appeal of the film one of the most disturbing aspects of "Apocalypto." The jungles of Veracruz and Costa Rica have never looked better, the masked priests on the temple jump right off a Classic Maya vase, and the people are gorgeous. The fact that this film was made in Mexico and filmed in the Yucatec Maya language coupled with its visual appeal makes it all the more dangerous. It looks authentic; viewers will be captivated by the crazy, exotic mess of the city and the howler monkeys in the jungle. And who really cares that the Maya were not living in cities when the Spanish arrived? Yes, Gibson includes the arrival of clearly Christian missionaries (these guys are too clean to be conquistadors) in the last five minutes of the story (in the real world the Spanish arrived 300 years after the last Maya city was abandoned). It is one of the few calm moments in an otherwise aggressively paced film. The message? The end is near and the savior has come. Gibson's efforts at authenticity of location and language might, for some viewers, mask his blatantly colonial message that the Maya needed saving because they were rotten at the core. Using the decline of Classic urbanism as his backdrop, Gibson communicates that there was absolutely nothing redeemable about Maya culture, especially elite culture which is depicted as a disgusting feast of blood and excess. Before anyone thinks I have forgotten my Metamucil this morning, I am not a compulsively politically correct type who sees the Maya as the epitome of goodness and light. I know the Maya practiced brutal violence upon one another, and I have studied child sacrifice during the Classic period. But in "Apocalypto," no mention is made of the achievements in science and art, the profound spirituality and connection to agricultural cycles, or the engineering feats of Maya cities. Instead, Gibson replays, in glorious big-budget technicolor, an offensive and racist notion that Maya people were brutal to one another long before the arrival of Europeans and thus they deserve, in fact they needed, rescue. This same idea was used for 500 years to justify the subjugation of Maya people and it has been thoroughly deconstructed and rejected by Maya intellectuals and community leaders throughout the Maya area today. In fact, Maya intellectuals have demonstrated convincingly that such ideas were manipulated by the Guatemalan army to justify the genocidal civil war of the 1970-1990s. To see this same trope about who indigenous people were (and are today?) used as the basis for entertainment (and I use the term loosely) is truly embarrassing. How can we continue to produce such one-sided and clearly exploitative messages about the indigenous people of the New World? I loved Gibson's film "Braveheart," I really did. But there is something very different about portraying a group of people, who are now recovering from 500 years of colonization, as violent and brutal. These are people who are living with the very real effects of persistent racism that at its heart sees them as less than human. To think that a movie about the 1,000 ways a Maya can kill a Maya--when only 10 years ago Maya people were systematically being exterminated in Guatemala just for being Maya--is in any way okay, entertaining, or helpful is the epitome of a Western fantasy of supremacy that I find sad and ultimately pornographic. It is surely no surprise that "Apolcalypto" has very little to do with Maya culture and instead is Gibson's comment on the excesses he perceives in modern Western society. I just wish he had been honest enough to say this. Instead he has created a beautiful and disturbing portrait that satisfies his need for comment but does violence to one of the most impressive of Native American cultures. Traci Ardren is an assistant professor of anthropology at the University of Miami. post comment

[13 Oct 2006|12:40pm] One of my birthday wishers this morning said ‘welcome to the world of grown-ups’! so here i am! Cheers to everyone! post comment

find me [01 Sep 2006|12:07pm] i dont know what happened. it can be fixed so easily and yet not – like a song that is missing just one note that hasn’t yet been discovered. post comment

once upon a time i waited [12 Aug 2006|06:48pm] its raining everywhere - up, down, inside and out... and its not showing any signs of stopping - a giant leak that's not getting fixed. and weirdly enough, its still parched around here... post comment

blind [20 Jul 2006|11:42am] Blocked blogs???? In India???? What the fuck is going on???? A bunch of red-taped (knee) jerks! post comment

zindane ko gussa kyon aata hai? [15 Jul 2006|06:38pm] so everyone has their own explanation for the now most famous headbutt in the world. here's a classic what did materazzi say to make zidane so mad? "bhaiya, hum chlormint kyon khaate hain?" of course, z never got a chance to say "dubaara mat poochhna!" post comment

an old favourite, by frank o'hara [14 Jul 2006|01:36pm] Why I Am Not a Painter I am not a painter, I am a poet. Why? I think I would rather be a painter, but I am not. Well, for instance, Mike Goldberg is starting a painting. I drop in. "Sit down and have a drink" he says. I drink; we drink. I look up. "You have sardines in it." "Yes, it needed something there." "Oh." I go and the days go by and I drop in again. The painting is going on, and I go, and the days go by. I drop in. The painting is finished. "Where's sardines?" All that's left is just letters. "It was too much," Mike says. But me? One day I am thinking of a color: orange. I write a line about orange. Pretty soon it is a whole page of words, not lines. Then another page. There should be so much more, not of orange, of words, of how terrible orange is and life. Days go by. It is even in prose, I am a real poet. My poem is finished and I haven't mentioned orange yet. It's twelve poems, I call it oranges. And one day in a gallery I see Mike's painting, called sardines. post comment

poe [14 Jul 2006|01:21pm] The Raven Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. " 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door-- Only this, and nothing more." Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow--vainly I had tried to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow--sorrow for the lost Lenore-- For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore-- Nameless here for evermore. And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me--filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating " 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door-- Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door-- This it is and nothing more." Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you"--here I opened wide the door-- Darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; but the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!" This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!" Merely this, and nothing more. Then into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon I heard again a tapping somewhat louder than before, "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore-- Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore-- 'Tis the wind, and nothing more!" Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore; Not that least obeisance made he; not an instant stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door-- Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door-- Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore-- Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, though its answer little meaning--little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no sublunary being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door-- Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as "Nevermore." But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour, nothing farther than he uttered--not a feather then he fluttered-- Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before-- On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." Wondering at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast and followed faster--so, when Hope he would adjure, Stem Despair returned, instead of the sweet Hope he dared adjure-- That sad answer, "Nevermore!" But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, bust and door; Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore-- What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking "Nevermore." This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er, She shall press, ah, nevermore! Then, me thought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by angels whose faint foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. "Wretch," I cried "thy God hath lent thee--by these angels he hath sent thee Respite--respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore! Let me quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!-- Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted-- On this home by Horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore Is there--is there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me, I implore!" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore-- Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore-- Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore." Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." "Be that word our sing of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting-- "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken!--quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon that is dreaming, And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating off the floor Shall be lifted--nevermore! post comment

[14 Jul 2006|12:14pm] everyone talked about zindane for a couple of days. and i did a couple of smug i-told-you-sos. i dunno how anyone ever thought he was chilled out or unfazed - the guy looked like a ticking time bomb all the time! so anyway, i had my hunch about him and that turned out to be true. and i have a hunch now about something closer home and something that could hurt if its true... but let's see. maybe now is a good time to seriously look for my europe internship thing, in classic escapist style. so krrrrrrrrrrrish was a frrrrrrrreaking disaster - but a few of us who saw it thought we HAD to share our misfortune and told the others it was a great film and made them see it. and apparently sunita was hopping mad! actually heard one argument that said kids loved the film so its good. but hey, kids love anything - they loved hanuman for chrissake! and actually heard a couple of kids say it was just okkkkay. so it must be the dumb ones who loved it. brian and cedar leave today and we had a birthday party last night for him and convinced them to do the fishermens dance to a song from chemmeen - they were pretty great! and cedar is learning the advanced level of the hula, and has promised to teach us next year. post comment

thatha [24 Jun 2006|06:03pm] When I was very young, like four or something, we used to live with my granddad and grandma. And when he would go to work, he’d ask me what I want him to get when he came back in the evening. My standard answer was (in Tamil) ‘raisins, figs and gems’. He’d make a face at my inane list and say he’ll get me a goat instead. And he’s the only person I know who changed his car every few years. My granddad died a little while ago. I’ll really miss him. He was one of the coolest people I know. post comment

welcome to ladakh [11 Apr 2006|04:42pm] Am back in leh. And its great to be back in leh. It snowed on my first night here and the next morning the town was white. And the two years since I last came here have dissolved into a far away moment – its like I was never away. And yet, it’s so different this time. This is pre-season, prolonged winter leh, as opposed to phey during the spring-summer-fall months. This is also a leh of snow on the ground, almost empty streets, cell phones and broadband and non-solar buildings and convection heaters – all firsts for me. Didn’t have any altitude sickness so have been walking around town a lot with the others and by myself. Went back to tashi’s – she recognized me and said julley and all but I think she fully placed me when I ordered a vegetable omlette and butter nan – that’s what I used to eat each Saturday morning for six months the last time I was here. And she asked how my friend with the hat was – so ninad, I told her you were fine and in Bombay. Listening to air on g string in the nirlac office and drinking coffee. The internet is much faster in leh than before. We’re looking for alcohol coz the booze shops are shut. Struggled with a bottle of wine on the first night coz we didn’t have a corkscrew, but don’t have even that now. Met hasnain and shruti and ran into some secmolpas. I may visit the phey campus sometime. Apparently everyone remembers my red jacket – shruti mentioned it and apparently stanzin gya saw me in the market and told angchuk it was probably me, complete with red jacket! I really need to get a new jacket! Am seeing first hand what amazing work vidya and madhura and sujatha do at NIPWD. Think its just incredible. Started work yesterday – Vidya says this paper products program can grow into an ongoing project so that means I get to come back every now and then :-D I hope I get to go out of leh somewhere too – a trek maybe. So basically, am happy to be back. 2 comments|post comment

weird but true [02 Apr 2006|08:10pm] You find someone, lose them and find them again, and between the laughter and tears you realise they aren’t yours to lose or find. post comment

P.S [01 Apr 2006|06:38pm] knowing you're all just dying to hear more of my opinions, wanted to add something i forgot to say about what i liked in eternal sunshine - i really liked how mary, the charater of kirsten dunst, is into quotes. and how they kind of have this analogy between the way quotes work and the way memories work - like in both we make meanings for things that exist out of the 'original' context and in their new contexts as quotes/memories, they retain/ gain new meanings. kinda cool... post comment

found in translation [30 Mar 2006|06:39pm] Dunno why exactly but I’ve been reading a lot of translated works lately. First read a crappy translation of ruswa’s umrao jan by khushwant singh and m.a husaini. It’s a classic in its own ‘unleavened bread-stilted shairi’ way. Then I read the translation of pratapa mudaliar charitiram – apparently the first tamil novel ever. That again sounded pretty weird. And now am reading the translation of kalki’s ponniyin selvan – a tamil classic, part of a trilogy. Translated by karthik narayanan, it’s the best of the three. But I’ve learnt is that its better not to read stuff that’s been translated from a language you know. Or you spend half your time wondering what the original sentence was. But seriously, I dunno much about translation or the politics of translation but how come there are so many books you read – Spanish, French etc – where you never realise it’s a translation? And then there are these where the only thing you think is ‘maybe it sounded right in the original.’ I don’t think it’s just that archaic originals demanding archaic sounding translations. I also don’t know Spanish or French to know if they are similar enough to English to make the change easier. But I get the feeling that both in umrao jan and pratapa mudaliar, the translators haven’t used the liberties they are allowed. So to get back to my original point, I don’t know why I am reading so many translations – any ideas? 2 comments|post comment

the spotless mind, then, can never see stars [30 Mar 2006|06:39pm] I saw eternal sunshine of the spotless mind again after a year. This time I felt it was a bit long but still brilliant. Visually flawless and a story, like I was telling the others, that is built like a mobius strip. The other brilliant piece I got to see recently was nina paley’s ‘sita sings the blues’. Check it out on www.ninapaley.com – it’s just way too cool! Shrikanth showed it to us in his office, which by the way I am very impressed with. They have minimum things and maximum beer. Its been a crazy working period and am breathing easy again after weeks. But it was worth it – think the booklet and card games and posters for the Ladakh EE program turned out very nicely. And now, waiting to go back to leh. It’ll be very different this time, but I am really looking forward to it. Does anyone know which state in India has the most Buddhist monuments? My grandmother is taking a quiz in the Discover India magazine and asked me and I have no idea – I kinda guessed it could be Bihar but not sure. So anyone out there who can help, please let me know. The last date is the 3rd of april. So hurry, offer open till offer expires. post comment

kabul ki kahani [07 Mar 2006|05:23pm] Finished The Kite Runner – one of my quickest books. Thought it was excellently written (‘crafted’ may be the word I’m trying to avoid) and I loved reading it. What i liked most of all are some very yummy phrases that he coins and the way he so gently talks about ideas like machismo and being a 'real man'. But I thought it was a bit contrived in the way the plot so perfectly ties up all old knots. Coz when the theme is ‘redemption’ – something grand-yet-can’t put-a-finger-on-it – I don’t know if life offers anyone such literal chances to resolve your past guilt in a clear six round match. Exorcising your ghosts, in my experience, rarely involves meeting them head on and punching their lights out. And I also wonder how popular this book would have been if there wasn’t an already packaged arena for Afghan literature – if he had published not after 9/11, but after the taliban takeover, would the book have sold so much or won prizes? And glaringly absent, of course, are details of the American attack on Afghanistan. How do the minds of asylum-seekers work? Does their past suffering make it impossible for them to critique their host nations? Or does critiquing them mean the final disillusionment they cant afford? Or is it just a publisher saying ‘Sorry, cant print this if you don’t leave out that last bit about Uncle Sam’? post comment

curly straws and paper fans [03 Mar 2006|05:09pm] Saw memoirs of a geisha the other night – a Japanese story, authored, I think, by an American, with Chinese actors and an American director. I think its beautifully made – some very poetic camera-work and editing. And abir and I both thought michelle yeoh has a serene kind of beauty, that makes her so striking. I don’t think there’s any point really discussing ‘geishahood’ here, so I wont. The three of us, shrikant, abir and I, after the movie, laughed our heads off at the story we’d heard about chicken who had a heart attack. Apparently, in the zoo, a lion is fed live chicken. But it doesn’t kill them. Instead, it waits around, basically disinterested, (how??? clipping its nails, reading the newspaper? how do lions act disinterested? By not killing their lunch, I guess!) anyway so once the hens are sure they’re not gonna be the main course, they relax. But just as they do, the lion lets out a ROOAAAAR! And the chicken get a heart attack and pop it! Is that a clever lion or what??? But to get back from the tangent, I liked the way the movie tried to express relationships - a lovely mix of essentialism and relativism – something to the effect of ‘love can, perhaps, complete you but relationships are different – each relationship is a complete reality in itself, and yet no relationship can complete you.’ post comment

free verse [26 Feb 2006|05:30pm] the man who made people tap their feet and turn their hearts inside out: i hate that foolish game we played and the need that was expressed and the mercy that you showed me who ever would have guessed i went out on lower broadway and felt that place within that hollow place where martyrs weep and angels play with sin --------------------------------------- you've breathed on me and made my life a richer one to live when i was deep in poverty you taught me how to give. you dried the tears up from my dreams and pulled me from the hole i love you more than ever and it burns me to the soul. ... that tune that is yours and mine to play upon this earth, we'll play it out the best we know, whatever it is worth. what's lost is lost, we can't regain what went down with the flood, but happiness to me is you, and i love you more than blood. - bob dylan went to a sufi concert yesterday. i really liked most of it. the one thing that put me off was this woman called parvati baul - she's, well, a baul. and came on stage complete with long swinging dreadlocks and starchy orage sari. she sang two songs and whirled trying to go into a trance. but the whole thing seems pretty damn pretensious to me. going into a trance on cue is, basically, pretty absurd, isn't it? i mean, it was like this demonstration of 'how bauls go into trances', or 'the expert trance-goer from bengal'!! the only thing missing was a running commentary! i know its supposed to be empowering and all for a woman to be a mystic, but to me she seemed like a wannabe, new-age mystic, who thinks she's ultra-cool and whose practice centres around the stage. judgemental? dont care. the other guy, madan baul, who looked just like nana patekar, didnt have any of these attitude problems, though the basic out of contextness was obvious in his performance too. fact is, i know nothing about this stuff - so i wont say 'why do women take themselves so fucking seriously and feel they constantly need to prove a point'. i'm tempted to say it, but i wont ;-) but the music! wow - amazing! really exuberant. and with all the bitterness everywhere recently over the danish cartoons, it felt good to hear celebration of faith and god and love. the group from rajasthan was just incredible. the oldest singer, whose name was ranaji, has the most free and powerful voice i've heard - haunting! and they were accompanied by this young chap who was basicaly a percussionist but did his own performance on the side - the most graceful and, as sujatha said, 'charming' guy ever. post comment

angry, angrier and angriest [23 Feb 2006|11:55am] So when I saw rang de basanti, I thought, “This isn’t just a metaphor – what kind of fucked up solution are they trying to offer?” But yesterday, I was waiting for a bus for an hour and a half with sujatha. Finally we lost our cool and went up to the PMT guys. They first acted like they didn’t hear what we were saying and I got angry. And the guy then said he couldn’t do anything about it and we could wait till midnight for all he cared. And just then, a bus that was totally overflowing came and the guy asked us to get in. I asked him to try getting into that bus. And Sujatha asked around in the crowd if there was anyone else waiting for the same bus, and if there were, to say something! And they acted like they didn’t hear her too. I guess this is what they call impotent anger. And later I thought, maybe it doesn’t matter what rang de basanti says – when most people cant even be bothered to react to stuff that directly affects them, violent radicalism is a long way off. 1 comment|post comment

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