How will you burn my heart?
Like a tree turned brown?
Like sad lines written on sand?
Like broken mirrors?
Like a geisha in the morning?
Like lost time?
Like a million lies?
Like fading light?
Like from you to me?
Sunday, November 04, 2007
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Hello, My dear
I don’t give a fuck.
I am alive and I don’t care about you standing at my doorstep with a flower in your hand.
I don’t care for words carefully shielded from the sun, kissed by the moon.
I don’t care for the many mouths waiting to pour love into my soul.
I, and I alone will live.
I will live forever.
I will live when the rivers carry the waste of human soul.
I will live on when the sun is a meek shadow.
I will laugh at your world when there is nothing.
I will grow when all the trees have fallen and a lone horse runs frightened in search of beauty.
I will speak when the ashes of birds have been scattered as far as the eyes can see.
I have nothing today and I will give nothing tomorrow, when, you buried beneath the sad earth will call to me.
I don’t give a fuck.
I am alive and I don’t care about you standing at my doorstep with a flower in your hand.
I don’t care for words carefully shielded from the sun, kissed by the moon.
I don’t care for the many mouths waiting to pour love into my soul.
I, and I alone will live.
I will live forever.
I will live when the rivers carry the waste of human soul.
I will live on when the sun is a meek shadow.
I will laugh at your world when there is nothing.
I will grow when all the trees have fallen and a lone horse runs frightened in search of beauty.
I will speak when the ashes of birds have been scattered as far as the eyes can see.
I have nothing today and I will give nothing tomorrow, when, you buried beneath the sad earth will call to me.
I don’t give a fuck.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Of politics, self discovery and a man named Pankaj Mishra
I was 22 I think. I had just graduated from B-school, that too solely on my father’s insistence, and had absolutely no plans for my future. All I knew was that I did not want to work. Why? I honestly don’t know. I just wanted to go through the days without really doing anything. At the time, and quite often since then, I was criticized for my obsession with the idea of melancholy, self imposed social exiles, induced mood swings which according to many were without any merit and which was reflected in quite a few of my amateurish writings during then. To be honest, there is some truth in this. I have had an extremely normal and uneventful childhood, and my notions of sadness and pain where mostly based on a handful of books I had managed to glance through and the morbid, psychedelic lyrics of The doors, Pink Floyd and other popular bands of the 60’s and 70’s. Having drifted into a life of idleness, I hung around a few local libraries, old book stores and some questionable places in between. Somewhere and somehow, I managed to lay my hands on a book called ‘Romantics’, written by a certain Pankaj Mishra. In all earnestness, I knew the complete meaning of the word romantic only vaguely but it was romantic enough for me to pick it up, moreover, the back cover promised a good doze of dark prose.
For as long as I can remember, I have been fascinated by explorers, adventurers who went in search of foreign lands, met strange people in exotic costumes practicing bizarre rituals. The arrival of cable and the National Geographic channel fuelled these imaginations to dizzying heights. However, lacking the spirit of an intrepid explorer I settled for reading and learning about such people, all the while nurturing an ambition to follow their footsteps someday. Easily moved and swayed by things and people who could paint rich images, I was at the age of 22 in quest for enlightenment and by that I mean, melancholy, self imposed social exiles, induced mood swings etc. I quite honestly do not remember how I arrived at this equation for enlightenment. Nonetheless, it was a perfect time for me to be sucked into the world of ‘Romantics’. The book in many ways is an autobiographical account of time spent by Pankaj Mishra in Benares during the late 80’s. Samar, the protagonist of the novel much like the author is a young Brahmin man confused about life and seeks solitude and maybe answers in the holy city where he meets people who affect his life including a good amount of westerners. I haven’t reread the novel since, so I cannot discuss intelligently the plot, narrative, or characterizations, but it was a deeply satisfying experience. The writing laced with delicious confusions of a 20 year old Indian coming of age and being introduced to the west for the first time, found a deep connect with my own situation at the time. It had all the ingredients for me to conclude that Pankaj Mishra was my kind of writer and I tucked away the name in a far corner of my mind for future reference.
A few years later as a more humble and mellowed human being, I heard a friend mention of a book called “End to Suffering” a biography of sorts of the Buddha, written by Pankaj Mishra. Immediately, bells started ringing in that far corner of my mind and I borrowed the book from her. This time, as a more informed reader, with an open mind, reading a non-fiction book by the same author, it was quite a different experience. The book traversed between Buddha’s life, contemporary politics, and some accounts of the author’s time at the University of Allahabad. This time I learnt more of the man Pankaj Mishra. His life, his ideas, his failures, his frustrations and yes his eventual success too. I entered the world of Pankaj Mishra more effortlessly than I could or even have till date, the world of Buddha, the subject of the book. The reasons for that are fairly straightforward. Pankaj Mishra like me was born into an upper caste Brahmin family and had what seemed like a fairly similar upbringing. He grew up in the same vacuum of knowledge which I did in passing through an Indian education which further suffered with the onset of economic reforms and the urgency to become modern. Although more than a decade separates us, I saw a striking glimpse of Pankaj Mishra’s past in my present and it struck a deep personal chord. He seemed to have lived through almost exact phases of identity crisis, religious and spiritual floundering, and the thirst to travel, to meet and learn about different cultures and see them in the light of our own, as I am going through even today.
It so happened that as part of payment for a recent English play I had been part of, I got a Landmark bookstore gift voucher. Later in the bookstore when I came across “Temptations of the West” by Pankaj Mishra I leaped at it as if it were the last bag of food rations at a refugee camp. The book is an anthology of sorts of the author’s travels through India, Kashmir, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Nepal and Tibet. The book chronicles the social and political climate of the countries, sometimes even their history and the possibility of future. For the first time in parts of book about his travels in India, I disliked the way he wrote. It had the air of a typical westerner writing on the immaturity of Indian society, distinct from the fact that he comes from the same place. It was I felt, commentary of an outsider looking in. I wondered if the years spent abroad, writing regularly for foreign dailies had overrun his deep rooted connection with India. However by now my reading of his books had become biased. I saw or convinced myself to see my own reflections in his writings and how I would have written on a particular issue in a similar manner, so these subtle anomalies didn’t matter. But before long and thankfully so, I realized the critical error of such endeavors. There was something missing – my point of view on things. I had convinced myself that all of Pankaj Mishra’s opinions were my own and worse all his experiences were mine too. At the time of this revelation recently came my twenty sixth birthday and a close friend very grudgingly, aware of my obsession with his writings, gifted me his first and seriously enjoyable book “Butter Chicken in Ludhiana”. The experience was a thoroughly fulfilling one, more so because I appreciated the work for what it was, a beautifully rendered travelogue of journeys through small town India of the mid 90’s, without treating it as secret letter to me by a mentor. For the first time, I read a Pankaj Mishra book just the way he intended it without trying to read between the lines. A fascinating portrayal of small town India on the threshold of growth and freedom, the book gave a wonderful insight about the turbulent but exciting decade of economic and social change, the time when I was still in school and too young to comprehend many things.
Finally, yesterday as I was browsing through the net, I came across a recent Pankaj Mishra interview done by Sarah Fay for the magazine Believer that put a few more things in perspective for me. In it he speaks of lack of proper literary criticism today. I recall myself being extremely repelled by the thought of reading some arbitrary person’s discourse on some arbitrary person’s work. The problem Pankaj Mishra believes is because “It (literary criticism) doesn’t educate people in the art of reading in the way it used to…I don’t know how many critics today are trying to make the act of reading a more enriching experience as distinct from establishing their own superior intelligence vis-à-vis authors”. And come to think of it, that was exactly the source of my distaste towards it. I never came across a criticism which opened up doors to see any work with a new perspective and soon gave up the practice.
Another thing that he mentions is something that struck me while reading his recent book “Temptations of the West”. In one of its parts he eloquently speaks of the cultural and religious complexity of a place that is extremely one-dimensional to the outsider – Afghanistan. Reading through the article I however wondered what was the use of me reading it, when it remains extremely inaccessible to the people within the country for whom it is extremely vital to be educated about their country’s inherent problems and also its history. About this in the interview he says “People who write about issues like poverty or terrorism are a part of the elite, and the distance between the elite and non-elite is growing very fast… Yet their (non-elite) lives are being shaped by these elites, by people like us… we have a responsibility to articulate their sense of suffering”. Though I must admit, I haven’t yet found an answer to this problem. How can elites like us make a difference, least of all through writing?
At the end of the day, Pankaj Mishra some would say and maybe correctly is not the most brilliant writer of all time; even the most brilliant Indian writer of all time but the depth of his understanding, fertility of his imagination and power of his expression is undeniable. And to me, his writings have a more personal significance. I owe my attempt at figuring out a unique expression for myself to him. He has made me realize that it is ok to ask questions and not immediately find all the answers and that life in many ways is about asking these questions, questions that begin outside but find their unique answers within a person.
Thanks Pankaj.
For as long as I can remember, I have been fascinated by explorers, adventurers who went in search of foreign lands, met strange people in exotic costumes practicing bizarre rituals. The arrival of cable and the National Geographic channel fuelled these imaginations to dizzying heights. However, lacking the spirit of an intrepid explorer I settled for reading and learning about such people, all the while nurturing an ambition to follow their footsteps someday. Easily moved and swayed by things and people who could paint rich images, I was at the age of 22 in quest for enlightenment and by that I mean, melancholy, self imposed social exiles, induced mood swings etc. I quite honestly do not remember how I arrived at this equation for enlightenment. Nonetheless, it was a perfect time for me to be sucked into the world of ‘Romantics’. The book in many ways is an autobiographical account of time spent by Pankaj Mishra in Benares during the late 80’s. Samar, the protagonist of the novel much like the author is a young Brahmin man confused about life and seeks solitude and maybe answers in the holy city where he meets people who affect his life including a good amount of westerners. I haven’t reread the novel since, so I cannot discuss intelligently the plot, narrative, or characterizations, but it was a deeply satisfying experience. The writing laced with delicious confusions of a 20 year old Indian coming of age and being introduced to the west for the first time, found a deep connect with my own situation at the time. It had all the ingredients for me to conclude that Pankaj Mishra was my kind of writer and I tucked away the name in a far corner of my mind for future reference.
A few years later as a more humble and mellowed human being, I heard a friend mention of a book called “End to Suffering” a biography of sorts of the Buddha, written by Pankaj Mishra. Immediately, bells started ringing in that far corner of my mind and I borrowed the book from her. This time, as a more informed reader, with an open mind, reading a non-fiction book by the same author, it was quite a different experience. The book traversed between Buddha’s life, contemporary politics, and some accounts of the author’s time at the University of Allahabad. This time I learnt more of the man Pankaj Mishra. His life, his ideas, his failures, his frustrations and yes his eventual success too. I entered the world of Pankaj Mishra more effortlessly than I could or even have till date, the world of Buddha, the subject of the book. The reasons for that are fairly straightforward. Pankaj Mishra like me was born into an upper caste Brahmin family and had what seemed like a fairly similar upbringing. He grew up in the same vacuum of knowledge which I did in passing through an Indian education which further suffered with the onset of economic reforms and the urgency to become modern. Although more than a decade separates us, I saw a striking glimpse of Pankaj Mishra’s past in my present and it struck a deep personal chord. He seemed to have lived through almost exact phases of identity crisis, religious and spiritual floundering, and the thirst to travel, to meet and learn about different cultures and see them in the light of our own, as I am going through even today.
It so happened that as part of payment for a recent English play I had been part of, I got a Landmark bookstore gift voucher. Later in the bookstore when I came across “Temptations of the West” by Pankaj Mishra I leaped at it as if it were the last bag of food rations at a refugee camp. The book is an anthology of sorts of the author’s travels through India, Kashmir, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Nepal and Tibet. The book chronicles the social and political climate of the countries, sometimes even their history and the possibility of future. For the first time in parts of book about his travels in India, I disliked the way he wrote. It had the air of a typical westerner writing on the immaturity of Indian society, distinct from the fact that he comes from the same place. It was I felt, commentary of an outsider looking in. I wondered if the years spent abroad, writing regularly for foreign dailies had overrun his deep rooted connection with India. However by now my reading of his books had become biased. I saw or convinced myself to see my own reflections in his writings and how I would have written on a particular issue in a similar manner, so these subtle anomalies didn’t matter. But before long and thankfully so, I realized the critical error of such endeavors. There was something missing – my point of view on things. I had convinced myself that all of Pankaj Mishra’s opinions were my own and worse all his experiences were mine too. At the time of this revelation recently came my twenty sixth birthday and a close friend very grudgingly, aware of my obsession with his writings, gifted me his first and seriously enjoyable book “Butter Chicken in Ludhiana”. The experience was a thoroughly fulfilling one, more so because I appreciated the work for what it was, a beautifully rendered travelogue of journeys through small town India of the mid 90’s, without treating it as secret letter to me by a mentor. For the first time, I read a Pankaj Mishra book just the way he intended it without trying to read between the lines. A fascinating portrayal of small town India on the threshold of growth and freedom, the book gave a wonderful insight about the turbulent but exciting decade of economic and social change, the time when I was still in school and too young to comprehend many things.
Finally, yesterday as I was browsing through the net, I came across a recent Pankaj Mishra interview done by Sarah Fay for the magazine Believer that put a few more things in perspective for me. In it he speaks of lack of proper literary criticism today. I recall myself being extremely repelled by the thought of reading some arbitrary person’s discourse on some arbitrary person’s work. The problem Pankaj Mishra believes is because “It (literary criticism) doesn’t educate people in the art of reading in the way it used to…I don’t know how many critics today are trying to make the act of reading a more enriching experience as distinct from establishing their own superior intelligence vis-à-vis authors”. And come to think of it, that was exactly the source of my distaste towards it. I never came across a criticism which opened up doors to see any work with a new perspective and soon gave up the practice.
Another thing that he mentions is something that struck me while reading his recent book “Temptations of the West”. In one of its parts he eloquently speaks of the cultural and religious complexity of a place that is extremely one-dimensional to the outsider – Afghanistan. Reading through the article I however wondered what was the use of me reading it, when it remains extremely inaccessible to the people within the country for whom it is extremely vital to be educated about their country’s inherent problems and also its history. About this in the interview he says “People who write about issues like poverty or terrorism are a part of the elite, and the distance between the elite and non-elite is growing very fast… Yet their (non-elite) lives are being shaped by these elites, by people like us… we have a responsibility to articulate their sense of suffering”. Though I must admit, I haven’t yet found an answer to this problem. How can elites like us make a difference, least of all through writing?
At the end of the day, Pankaj Mishra some would say and maybe correctly is not the most brilliant writer of all time; even the most brilliant Indian writer of all time but the depth of his understanding, fertility of his imagination and power of his expression is undeniable. And to me, his writings have a more personal significance. I owe my attempt at figuring out a unique expression for myself to him. He has made me realize that it is ok to ask questions and not immediately find all the answers and that life in many ways is about asking these questions, questions that begin outside but find their unique answers within a person.
Thanks Pankaj.
Friday, February 23, 2007
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