The Cat's Table by Michael Ondaatje: Like a sea voyage

The most striking thing about Michael Ondaatje’s The Cat’s Table is the effortless quality of his prose, full of vivid and colourful images seen through the eyes of an eleven-year-old. The story seems to sweep you in without you being aware of it. It is as simple as it is dreamlike, weaving in every character with such ease that they seem to already be vaguely familiar.
A Sri Lanka-born Canadian, Michael Ondaatje’s life seems intimately connected with this latest work of fantasy. Its protagonist is named Michael and journeys aboard a ship from Sri Lanka to England — just as Ondaatje himself had done at the same age. Moreover, with the boy growing up to be a writer and migrating to Canada, the book could be easily mistaken as woven round the story of the author’s life, if not for the end note —clearly stating that though it “uses the colourings and locations of memoir and autobiography”, the story is fictional.
The three-week journey aboard the Oronsay is full of incredible images — the wild run of a child left to himself for the first time. Michael and the two boys he befriends — Cassius and Ramadhin — are assigned to the Cat’s table for their meals, which is “the least privileged place”, far from the Captain’s table. For the three, however, this fact is of no consequence as they explore every tiny bit of the ship, collecting images, nuggets of interesting information, and sentences overheard from fellow passengers.
The narration is criss-crossed in places with episodes from a grown-up Michael’s life, subtly revealing the deep effects that the wild 21-day adventure had, not just on him but on his two companions as well. The world of adults and the things occurring within it are presented in a perfectly non-judgemental manner, such that would only be possessed by an eleven-year-old, who, while watching a movie on the ship’s deck, remarks: “The plot was full of grandness and confusion, of acts of cruelty that we understood and responsible honour that we did not.”
In the process, we are treated to images that are astonishing and entertaining at the same time: a man with an entire garden, artificially-lit and unbelievably magical, hidden inside the dark bowels of the ship; a woman who carries birds about the decks in the pockets of a specially designed coat, and the two boys, Michael and Cassius, tethering themselves to the hull to experience the fury of a sea-storm.
Then there are the people whose tales both amaze and influence the children: Mr Mazappa the man of music, who played with the ship’s orchestra and gave piano lessons or Mr Nevil, a retired ship dismantler, who tells them how “in a breaker’s yard you discover anything can have a new life, be reborn as part of a car or railway carriage, or shovel blade. You take that older life and you link it to a stranger.”
One image after another unfolds with barely a ripple, so that when the sudden twists occur, they are least expected. The book is much like the sea voyage it describes; sways you gently and moves you deeply, just as the people at the cat’s table affect Michael: ‘It would always be strangers like them, at the various Cat’s Tables of my life, who would alter me.”

The book loving sensualist

We’re living in the virtual age. Physical forms are beginning to lose their significance, as the world becomes more and more compact — small enough to fit in the palm of your hand, through the display of your smartphone. The need for physical presence, even in relationships, has become minimised, courtesy social networking sites, helped by video chats and video calls — stuff that you read about in science fiction not so long ago. And speaking of reading, we really don’t know how long the book is going to stay around in its actual physical form. What with e-books taking over with a vengeance, flipping through the pages is fast getting replaced by ‘scrolling over’ the pages. The Oxford Dictionary of English defines an e-book as the electronic version of a printed book, but the fact is that books are now being published directly on the web in an electronic version. So you have books that don’t even have a physical form anymore.That isn’t such a bad thing, though, because now you have a hoard of literary loot right there in your pocket, at your disposal whenever you please, without having to lug it around or it getting ruined in the process. You don’t even need huge shelf space around the house to store your treasure.And yet, somehow, having an electronic book just isn’t the same as having a ‘real’ book. It’s sort of like looking at the picture of your beloved, rather than seeing them in person. Perhaps it’s an old-school way of thinking, but can scrolling through a list of names on a web page make up for the experience of sauntering inside a bookstore? The feel of taking in the colours and shapes, walking from one section to the next — exploring at length, letting your fingers slip around the myriad forms and textures… breathing in the woodsy smell of newly printed words on paper… the experience is deeply sensual.Then there are those little nuggets of memory — ‘inheriting’ a cherished book from a parent or a teacher, discovering an old forgotten work in an attic or a storeroom perhaps, or just having ‘the one’ book that we always came back to, which could be counted upon to provide some emotional or spiritual relief — like an old friend that’s always there. There’s also the collector’s joy or the crazed fan’s delirious satisfaction of having all the parts of a much-loved series occupying pride of place in your room.But more than all that, there’s something about the human psyche that places a lot of emphasis on the sense of touch. Think about it — when we see something arresting, intriguing or just beautiful, we are tempted to reach out and touch. It’s that human longing to be able to ‘hold’ what you like; the longing that appears in its raw, unblemished form in infants. They reach out toward whatever it is that catches their fancy. Adults, moulded by civilised culture, restrain themselves; but who can deny the pull? Perhaps that’s why touch screens became such a phenomenon, and that’s also why e-book readers have come up with versions where you can virtually ‘flip’ the pages as you read.The more sensualist you are, the more you’d miss the smell, the look and the feel of the physical form. And I’m sure there are a lot of those out there. So hang on, ‘the book’ isn’t going anywhere in a hurry.

India: a case of disappearing liberal arts?

India’s growing labour force is already a much talked-about asset, not just within the country but also around the globe. There have been numerous discussions on how the country needs to bring about changes in its education system to properly harness the human capital and reap the demographic dividend. Now, HRD minister Kapil Sibal has stated at the India Economic Summit that India will have 200 million graduates and 500 million skilled staffers by 2020, accounting for 20 per cent of the entire world’s workforce. To ensure employability of these huge numbers, Sibal also said that the government is trying to set up vocational institutes near industry clusters so that industry can give inputs on its requirements. Interestingly, the talk around employment in India mostly focuses on the IT sector and providing skilled labour for it. There has, of course, been some concern over manufacturing too. But IT, with its status of being a key driver of the country’s growth, gets greater importance. While the presence of a skilled workforce is definitely a must for a growing nation, the development of human capital in our country has shown an increasing tendency of being lopsided. There is much emphasis on vocational or technical education, and with good reason. But in the process, the liberal arts are increasingly being pushed into the background. The liberal arts have a tradition of being an integral part of human educational history, since the time of the Roman Empire. At the time Romans used the term liberal arts to refer to the proper education that a “free individual” should receive. It was supposed to be essential for creating a well-rounded individual and was based on the premise that a free man (as opposed to a slave) should have a broader education, encompassing a vast field of subjects. In the developed nations of the western world, there is an essential balance between the study of liberal arts and the imparting of technical education. The youth are equally encouraged to aspire to be researchers, writers, economists or historians, as they are to be engineers or managers. Which is, in turn, reflected in the quality of writers or social scientists that they produce. In India, the lack of names that can claim global recognition in these fields is very apparent. The above-mentioned professions don’t really attract a huge pool of talent, and parental or peer pressure doesn’t help the situation in any way. Professional education, in particular the churning out of engineers and IT professionals, has hogged all the limelight. However, it must be kept in mind that emphasis on the liberal arts is important for the growth of knowledge in a country’s citizens. Rather than mere employability, a country’s education system also needs to deliver broader, in-depth knowledge to its youth, honing their intellectual capabilities. A liberal arts education is designed to help an individual develop rational thinking and intellectual capacity. More than that, it can also be a major growth engine for the economy, for it encourages innovation and forward thinking. Holistic growth in the economy cannot come from just employable labour being provided to one or two sectors. For an economy that is knowledge driven and innovation focused, it is very important that the youth be encouraged to delve deep into the various pools of knowledge and help create a nation that is balanced in its growth.

Anita Desai: The Artist of Disappearance

Acivil servant posted in a small town in Bengal, a teacher who gets a shot at fame by turning translator and a reclusive man living in a burnt down house in Mussoorie — these are the people around whom revolves the narrative in the three novellas that make up Anita Desai’s The Artist of Disappearance.

The first story — Museum of Final Journeys — revolves round a civil servant on his first posting in a “remote outpost”, caught in the monotonous routine of an eventless administrative life.
He is roused from his state of inertia by a man who arrives at his door, leading him to a most curious existence in the middle of nowhere — a museum of astonishing art works and curios from across the globe, languishing in various stages of neglect and decay.The officer is requested to help get government custody and care for the place and its keepers, as well as for the great beast — revealed later in the story — the only living addition to that incredible collection. Not particularly big in itself, the event — and our protagonist’s response to it — turns into something he’d never forget.

In a similar vein, a single event becomes the defining point in the life of Prema, the protagonist of the second novella — Translator Tran­sla­ted. The teacher had, in her younger years, devoted her energies to the stu­dy of her favourite Ori­ya writer Suvarna Devi, only to discover the futility of researching a regional language writer in a country fixated with the language of its erstwhile masters. So, when many years later she is offered a chance to translate Suvarna Devi’s works, she realises she has found the ‘climax’ of her life. In her zeal, however, she blurs the line between writer and translator, bringing her own alterations in the stories, even editing parts of the plot. Once again, it is the singular act that decides the course for the rest of her life.

In both stories, there is an inherent sense of disappointment. It is as if we are expecting something more heroic and dramatically triumphant at the end, like sputtering for air under water and waiting for the moment when you break the surface. That moment doesn’t arrive. Life continues as it usually does in the real world, shorn of any dramatic change.

The third story, from which the book derives its title, has a man who discovers creation and expression within the drudgery of his existence. Ravi, an orphan neglected by his adoptive parents, grows up into a reclusive man whose only friends are the elements of nature, within whom he creates his world.

This world is unintentionally invaded by a girl from a team making a documentary on deforestation in Mussoorie. The girl discovers Ravi’s art in a glade in the forest and hits upon the idea to use it as a symbol of hope at the end of the movie. But, true to the prevailing theme, here too, the world is not allowed to alter.

The book seems to be a wry glance at, rather than a celebratory description of, human nature. It does dwell on art and the creative instinct — particularly on the dedication and triumph of the non-attention-seeking creator. Ultimately, however, it doesn’t leave you with a sense of triumph, only a gnawing feeling of despair at the non-climax in a majority of mortal lives.

Amitav Ghosh's River of Smoke

The trouble with reading a tragic novel based on actual historical episodes is that you cannot put the book down with a wistful smile. Knowing that the tragedies and injustices spoken about have actually been inflicted pinches you deep inside, and keeps on doing so long after you’ve turned the last page.

Amitav Ghosh’s River of Smoke, the absolutely brilliant second book in the Ibis trilogy, continues to explore the world unleashed by opium, grown by Indians — against their will — and traded with, or rather inflicted upon, the Chinese by the British. The story here begins with Mauritius and grows to its full pace in China — Canton, or fanqui-town, as the trading hub was then known.

There are three most remarkable things about the book, which make it a bibliophile’s delight. One: perhaps no other literary work offers characters so diverse — from the Raja-turned-fugitive-turned-munshi Neel; the British botanist cum plant-trader Fitcher; the spirited French-cum-Bengali plant-lover, Paulette; the Gujarati-Parsi opium trader with a conscience, Seth Bahram Modi; the American who fights a lone battle, Charles King; the elusive and powerful Lynchong aka Ah-Fey, the illegitimately born Edward Chinnery aka Robin — an “effeminate” man with artistic talents… the list is as diverse and mind-boggling as the pot-pourri of languages they converse in. For someone who has read the first book, the language isn’t so baffling, perhaps because you have become familiar with the characters and their idiosyncracies. And even the new ones do not seem to be strangers; you just flow along and grasp words that aren’t even remotely familiar.

The second distinguishing feature is the detailed, spell-binding descriptions of scenes of action and each object located within that frame. The immense research that has been poured into the book swamps the reader, but not in a tedious, scholarly way. Rather, you will be treated to vivid word paintings of the flowers of Canton, the ships moored there, the ‘Hongs’ where the foreign traders resided and worked, the Maidan all abuzz with activity, the Pearl River Nursery, the wilderness of the island that was Hong Kong…image after image floats before you and you are transported to the land of trade, smuggling, opium, and contrastingly, flowers, paintings and love. Of course, not to be forgotten is the appearance of Napoleon Bonaparte! Two of the principal characters actually get to meet the general, and the interaction, with Bonaparte’s curiosities and reflections on China, is one of the best episodes in the book.

Finally, the third unique thing is the complete absence of the author. In most books based on issues affecting society, you can sense the author’s invisible presence, through sentences reflecting ideology and little telltale details. Here, however, the author is like the puppeteer whose hands control the action, but the story and the characters are so captivating that you forget there is a hand holding those strings. All reflections are conveyed through the actors, not through the narrative.

The last line of the novel, spoken by Neel, aptly conveys the cruelty of history and the tragic destruction of the liveliest of trade hubs after the opium war: “The picture cost more than I could afford, he said, but I bought it anyway. I realised that if it were not for those paintings no one would believe that such a place had ever existed.”

I, lalla: The poems of Lal Ded

When you think of mystic or Sufi poets, how many women Sufis can you recall? There are few female names in the realm of mystic poetry, and fewer still that are well known. There are, however, certain names that form an integral part of the culture and oral literary tradition — not to mention folklore — of specific regions. Kashmir is one of those regions that take their poetesses seriously, with several female names in the literary tradition, which even children are familiar with. Lal Ded is one of those.

To merely call Lal Ded — or Lalleshwari, the name used by Hindus and Lal Arifa, the one used by Muslims — a poetess, would be an insult to her huge following and oral traditions handed down over generations. One way to introduce Lal Ded (literally meaning Grandmother Lal, or Lal the womb) to the uninitiated is to draw a parallel with Kabir, the poet sage claimed by both Hindus and Muslims as their own. Lal Ded belongs very much to that category — her writings a confluence of Shaivite and Sufi mysticism.

The latest book of translations of Lalla’s poetry, I, Lalla: The poems of Lal Ded, rendered by the poet, cultural theorist and curator Ranjit Hoskote, beautifully presents Lalla’s writings for what they truly are, and Lalla for what she was—or ra­ther, the different fo­rms that she holds. The introduction wo u­ld be extremely fascinating to the pe­rson who wishes to know about the origins and compilation of Lalla’s utterances. Called ‘vakhs’, Lall­a’s poems are the earliest known man­i­­festations of Kash­m­iri literature and co­ntain a mix of Sa­nsk­rit terms and ph­rases from the Hin­du-Bu­ddhist universe, along with smatterings of Arabic and Persian, mirroring the Islamic effect. More precisely, as described by Hoskote, it is the confluence between the Yogic and Sufi traditions.

The utterances, true to form, deal with self-knowledge and a convergence with the divine, as opposed to ritualistic observances:

“Neither you nor I, neither object nor meditation/ just the all-creator, lost in His dreams. / Some don’t get it, but those who do/ are carried away on the wave of Him”

The vakhs reveal a very simple and straightforward approach to spirituality, which can be a delightful — “ The Lord has spread the subtle net of Himself across the world/ See how He gets under your skin, inside your bones / If you can’t see Him while you’re alive, / don’t expect a special vision once you’re dead”

The vakhs abound with references to the soul as the abode of the divine, emphasising the futility of searching in places of worship, or going on pilgrimages. There are several ‘companion vakhs’ too, wh­ich are the continuation of a single stream of thought.

“I, Lalla set out to bloom like a cotton flower/ The cleaner tore me, the carder shredded me on his bow / That gossamer: that was I / the spinning woman lifted from her wheel / At the weaver’s, they hung me out on the loom.First the washerman pounded me on his washing stone/ scrubbed me with clay and soap. / Then the tailor measured me, piece by piece, / with his scissors. Only then could I, Lalla, / find the road to heaven.”

Pick up this one if the mystic and the divine attracts you, if poetry beckons to your soul, or if you are simply curious about the ‘matron’ saints of Indian Sufi tradition!

Paulo Coelho's Aleph: Not quite the masterpiece!

Ever known the feeling when you’re reading a book and it seems like the author is speaking directly to you? Or, when you’ve finished the journey from the front cover to the back, you let out a great sigh and want to start all over again? In short, ever known that feeling of reading a story you’d like to revisit again and again? I’m sure you have.
Most of us have that favourite book that we like to read when we’re down in the dumps, which has pages worn down with being turned over and over, one that somehow perks us up every time. Paulo Coelho is one of those authors whose words have acted as companions in gloomy times for a whole lot of people around the globe. If you’re interested in books, I’m sure you know at least one person who holds some book of Paulo Coelho in the category just mentioned above. So, it’s just natural that when the author comes out with another book, presumably about his own journey — or pilgrimage, as he puts it — many of us would be waiting to lap it up. Here’s another one to add to that ‘comfort reading’ list, right? Not this time, though.
Aleph can definitely not be called one of Coelho’s best. The plot seemed to have infinite possibilities — a journey across Russia aboard the trans Siberian railway definitely spells adventure. Of course, since it’s not just a story — it’s an autobiographical episode — you can’t complain that it isn’t juicy or spicy eno­ugh. But, all said, it does make you feel a bit tired of the same old stuff. The spiritual quest to get in touch with your real self… going into a past life to clear out the dark spots that haunt your present… now where have we read that before?
Granted, there are bits that would catch your interest — like the symbolism of the Chinese bamboo, which grows downwards for the first five years, spreading its root network, and then suddenly, in the sixth year, shoots up to a height of 25 metres. Or the discovery of Coelho’s past life and his role in the hideous tortures inflicted during the Spanish Inquisition.
In true Coelho style, there are also those little life-truths that make you stop and think a bit, wondering at the simplicity of the fact and its ability to hold things in a new light.
“…Conflicts were necessary for humanity to be able to evolve…” the writer tells Hilal, the volatile, unpredictable woman accompanying him on his journey. “The motto of the alchemists was Solve et coagula, which means ‘separate and bring together’.” He goes on to illustrate — “This morning you and my editor quarrelled. Thanks to that confrontation, you were each able to reveal a light that the other was unaware of. You separated and came together again, and we all benefited from that.”
As for the Aleph itself — the magical ‘point in the universe containing all other points’, well, you will either be rather bored or rather fascinated, depending on whether you’ve read earlier works that contain much the same thing stated in a different manner. Then there is the ring of light exercise, quite tempting to any reader, precisely because it is so simple and comes with that delicious tag of being ‘warned about’.
At the very least, you might enjoy the book. But you certainly wouldn’t bother to come back to it.

Rich vs. poor: Ayn Rand and America's clamour for a tax on the rich

If you’ve been following the ups and downs of the world’s fortunes, you’d know that a huge chunk of the globe is reeling under debt and everyone’s baying for the blood of the rich.Generally, we all love characters like Robin Hood who “robbed from the rich to give to the poor”. And with good reason. We believe that people who are literally ‘swimming’ in wealth — a la Disney’s Scrooge Mc Duck — have worked their way to the top through unscrupulous ways, and not the least by underpaying their worker-ants. That’s what had led to the birth of capitalism’s greatest foe. And now, the resentment against the ‘filthy’ rich is what’s leading to the growing clamour in the US for taxing them.Of course, as the rich say — we earned it, so we can darn well keep it! Now, I’m no enemy of Robin Hood, but anyone who’s remotely familiar with Ayn Rand would know that the rich may also be heroes and heroines. And labour unions can also be cast as the bloodsuckers. At least, that’s what you get in Atlas Shrugged, the 50’s novel that immortalised the query “Who is John Galt?”The 1,000-page tome is an industrial mystery of sorts, where an unknown John Galt is out to “stop the motor of the world”. Factories are shu­tting down, min­es are catching fire and industries are going down like nine­pins. Nobody can really figure out what is driving all the destruction. Dag­ny Taggart, the headstrong heroine of the story, determines to challenge the mysterious ‘John Galt’ by naming her new railway line in his name, and of course he comes to “claim it.”Behind all the mystery and the twists of tale is a very strong capitalistic flavour — what happens when instead of the workers, the owners go on “strike”? What happens when the biggest industries in the country shut down and slowly leave everyone unemployed, with the state on the verge of chaos? It is actually, an echo of the theory of objectivism propounded by Rand. The theory isn’t about capitalism per se, of course. It talks about man being a “heroic being”, motivated by self-interest and guided by reason, producing magnificent creations for humanity. Of course, the only way she sees this being manifested is through laissez-faire capitalism, which, if you read carefully, is supposed to bring ultimate happiness and prosperity to all.The protagonists, in such a world, are the men and women who have undying passion for their work, and are guided by pure pleasure of carrying it out. That’s what helps them get power and wealth, and in the process, create more for others too. So far, so good. We really do have examples of people in this world who have, through their passion and dedication — purely for their own benefit — brought about the benefit of humanity in general.But, there’s a minor point that we’re overlooking. Rand’s basic presumption about her characters is their ‘honesty and fairness’; their being willing to give everyone his/her rightful due. That, sadly, doesn’t always happen in the real world. That’s not to say that the world is a bunch of liars and opportunists, but who’s to stop a person from turning into one?

The Google Guys-- Inside the brilliant minds of Larry and Sergey

Birth and death make up the circle of life. Just about a week before the globe mourned the passing away of tech god Steve Jobs, who changed the way millions viewed the world; another tech giant celebrated the completion of 13 years of its life. Last month, everyone’s favourite search engine Google turned a teenager. We all know the story of its birth — how Larry Page and Sergey Brin created the search engine, and how, due to the lack of any takers for their technology, it metamorphosed into a full-fledged company. The rest, as they say, is history. And Google keeps creating newer history every day. Of course, that’s what more people are interested in. And yet more people would, obviously, like to know more about the guys that go on creating that history.The Google Guys: Inside The Brilliant Minds Of Google Founders Larry Page And Sergey Brin by Richard Brandt definitely tempts you with its title, and it does, to some extent show you why the duo took some of the decisions they did and what is it that guides their decision-making process. The book begins with an interesting analogy: comparing Google with the world’s first great library — the library of Alexandria at Greece, created by Ptolemy I, a childhood friend of Alexander, and a general in his army. The analogy is continued in the beginning of every new chapter, referring to little bits in the creation of the giant.The interesting part is the exploration of Larry and Sergey’s origins and how they exert an influence in the way they operate their company — thinking more about the ‘ethics’ of things. In fact, the ethical angle has been emphasised a lot throughout the book, in bits and pieces. It has a lot to do with censorship and the founders’ aversion to it, the choices they had to make to deal with it and the scathing criticism from people who didn’t like that choice one bit. For instance, there’s a very interesting bit about how Nicole Wong, Google’s deputy general counsel, travelled all the way to Thailand to see for himself why Thai people found certain “unquestionably disrespectful” videos of their King to be offensive enough to be termed illegal.What he discovered was that in Thailand, the king was revered as a “cross between George Washington, Jesus Christ and Elvis Presley”. She finally decided that it was actually right to block the offending videos in Thailand. On the other hand, though, Google came under flak for refusing to censor an anti-Semitic site called JewWatch (incidentally, both Larry and Sergey are Jews). Sergey publicly defended the company’s anti-censorship stance.The book is full of such moral-dilemma episodes, aside from the usual tracing of the ups and downs of business. There’s the story about how the company’s ‘Don’t be Evil’ slogan came into being, and how, “it’s the bloggers that set out to prove… that Google is getting evil as it gets bigger”. The re-iteration of the ethical stance does go rather overboard at times. But the stories peppered around it make it worth the while.The bottom line, as the book underlines, is: Ptolemy’s library reigned as the greatest library in the world for 300 years; is that some mystic indication of how long Google is going to stretch its reign?

Barnes and the Booker

W HY is it that the words ‘prize’ and ‘award’ are always accompanied by the word ‘controversy’? This year too, as always, the Man Booker Prize has had its share of criticisms, although more people seem to be in agreement about the choice this time around. Julian Barnes, dubbed the ‘Booker Bridesmaid’ for having been in the race three times before this — close to the finish line but never quite making it — has been fourth time lucky with his novella The Sense of an Ending, a mysterious fiction work about memories, sex and friendship. Of course, many say that it’s a case of the ‘right author at the wrong time’ as Julian Barnes has produced works more deserving of the accolades than this one.There have been apprehensions all round, for quite some time, about the ‘dumbing-down’ of the Booker. Not the least of these was the judges’ criteria of ‘readability’ in selecting the writer of the year, as it were.That is actually a tricky sort of consideration. True, a book’s readability will surely have an effect on its popularity — on how well it reaches out to the people holding it in their hands and how well it connects.But then, there is more to a book than mere readability. If that were the case, crime thrillers and pulp fiction might well win the popularity war. So, of course, when the judges speak of readability, they are looking for that quality in conjunction with the nuances that go into the making of ‘literature’.They say there is a simple test for deciding whether a book falls into the ‘literature’ category: Does it make you think and feel more? Does it raise some questions in your mind? May be answers some that were already there? In essence, does it make you stop and think a little?That, perhaps, is what we are looking for when we wait for that ‘name of the year’ to be announced. And that, surely, has to be what the judges look for, as well. So long as it has all these, and still is ‘imminently readable’. Meaning, it will hook you long enough to capture your mind and take it where it wants. That’s readability in top-rung literature.On several occasions, the choice for the Booker prize-winner has raised more than a few eyebrows. In one such instance, the centre of the controversy was our very own Arvind Adiga, whose White Tiger pipped Sebastian Barry’s The Secret Scriptures, Steve Toltz’s A Fraction of The Whole, Amitav Ghosh’s Sea of Poppies and Salman Rushdie’s The Enchantress of Florence. What was the X-factor that took him to the top? The judges claimed the book ‘shocked and entertained’ at the same time, with its dark and different take on modern India.Well, you might or might not agree with their choice, but I suspect the readability quotient has a lot to do with the end result.Which brings us back to this year’s winner. Julian Barnes was apparently the only ‘heavyweight’ left on the Booker Shortlist, and perhaps it was a conscious decision to remove the ‘readability first’ stigma from the award.Well, we all have our grudges, and we all have our favourites, and the Booker will go on being what it was. A little controversy never hurts anyone, does it?

A traveller's diary: travelling in time

The traveller sees what he sees, the tourist sees what he has come to see, GK Chesterton had famously remarked. When you roam the streets of some foreign land, letting your instincts take you where they will, you drink in and feel a lot more than you would if you rushed around with a fixed itinerary, oblivious to those tiny nuggets of living wonder that beckon in between. There’s a third kind of travelling too, which most people hardly pay any attention to. That’s when you see distant lands through the eyes of someone else, someone who knows the place inside o­ut, someone w­ho can sketch for you the life within it. You are neither the traveller nor t­he tourist, but the reader. And the reader sees what the writer wants him or her to see.The act of r­eading can be just as exhilarating as the act of actually tr­avelling to the pla­ce menti­oned in the book — if you have chosen t­he right guide for yourself. There are certain authors who have the sorcerer’s kn­ack for conjuring up images of the wet, the arid, the blossoming or the wild and to take you deep into realms unknown.Among the most rec­ent books, the one that would really take the cake for detailed visual images and living descriptions of the flora, fauna and life of a place would most certainly be Amitav Ghosh’s River of Smoke. While the first book in the tri-series mostly explored poppy-fields of Bihar and the cabins aboard the Ibis, the second book has amazingly vivid word-images of China’s fanqui-town, the island of Hong Kong and Deeti’s shrine in Mauritius. In particular, the bustling life of fanqui-town, full of traders of all shapes and sizes, resounding with overlapping tongues, can be seen with astonishing clearness. It takes you effortlessly into the very heart of a place that doesn’t exist now and which none of us have ever seen.Another book that takes you inside a land you would never be able to see again is Khaled Hosseini’s The Kite Runner. Through the eyes of the protagonist Aamir, it shows the world a happy, flourishing Afghanistan, its skies full of kites and its land sprouting pomegranate trees — an Afghanistan which the modern generation, fed on images of gun-toting tribals and bombed towns, would gape at disbelievingly. It winds through the streets of Kabul with the lingering smell of kebabs, through the gardens of the rich and the pretty holding parties at night, through green fields and happy meadows that a grown-up Amir, returning to the place, searches for in vain.Finally, any discussion on word-sorcery is incomplete without a mention of the ultimate word-sorceress, Arundhati Roy. Her only work of fiction, The God of Small Things, is unique in its descriptions for they breathe life into inanimate things, painting everything with a wild brushstroke. Be it the baby bat that the ‘dead’ Sophie Mol spots from ‘inside her coffin’ or the river, in Kerala’s Ayemenem, which, though it appeared to be a tame ‘church-going amooma’, was actually a wild thing — every object within a frame has life of its own. The best of all, perhaps, is the ‘moth’ that lays its cold, hairy feet on Estha’s heart, a huge moth that you can somehow see before you.From China to Kabul and Kerala, you move not just in space but also, smoothly, in time. Now, that’s one helluva way to travel!

Mark Tully's "Non-Stop India"

India is a land of dramatic contrasts. We’ve all heard that one before. We, Indians, are completely familiar with our society, a colourful fabric crisscrossed with a patchwork of alternating chaos and sophistication. So maybe you’d just shrug and wave off another book that talks about the myriad issues affecting our country. But not when it comes from India’s “most-loved Englishman”, the indomitable Mark Tully. And that’s perhaps the reason why it sits pretty at the top of the charts for non-fiction bestsellers this week.With a title that sounds a lot like his older No Full Stops In India, Tully’s latest book Non-Stop India charts familiar terrain — for him, that is. For the reader, it is both familiar and surprising at the same time. The book is a collection of 10 essays on subjects ranging from India’s Maoist woes and caste politics to Indian languages and saving the tiger. As Tully writes in his introduction, his book is for a global audience, not just Indians. And that’s where the balancing act is required — as he says, to avoid the “danger of falling between two stools, of writing a book, which Indian readers would find too simplistic, others would find too complicated, too detailed.” The solution that he devised for this — “letting Indians do most of the talking” — has definitely worked for the book.It is written with great clarity and depth, traversing his journeys through the Indian hinterland, and his discussions with Indians of all shapes and colours — from top-notch politicians and educationists to dalits in hamlets around Khurja, a small town in Uttar Pradesh, and the Baheliya poacher community in the Panna forest of Madhya Pradesh.In a lot of places, it just sheds more light on what you already know. In others, it shows you a different dimension of public occurrences. For instance, the second essay, Caste Overturned, shows how the statue-constructing penchant of UP chief minister Mayawati, which is so abhorrent to us, actually serves as a symbol of identity and community pride for the dalits. Of course, they crave actual economic upliftment, but to see their own icons magnificently displayed is a milestone for people historically pushed, quite literally, to the bowels of the village.Then there are the little nuggets of information, which you would scarcely have believed. For instance, you might well remember the countrywide popularity of the two pioneer mythological television programmes, Ramayana and Mahabharata. But what would really surprise you is the fact that people from southern states, such as Tamil Nadu, began to learn Hindi to understand what the characters were saying!The best thing about the essays is their unsentimental and entirely objective way of viewing subjects. In true journalistic spirit, the stories are narrated by the characters themselves, and both sides get to speak out. There is neither the too-bright optimism that is so common nowadays, nor the bleak cynicism of the rich versus poor debate. It charts both the highs and the lows, and, in general, paints a very true picture.What takes the cake is, of course, Tully’s understanding of the Indian ‘jugaar’. While he does acknowledge the role that jugaar has played in pulling India noisily along, improvising all the way, he very aptly warns of the dangers. Just because we have managed to ‘muddle through’ with jugaar, doesn’t mean we don’t need to think up serious, long-term solutions to our problems. After all, we don’t want to remain a patchwork country forever.

Sudan's independence and a borderless world

Yet another small country celebrates its day of breaking free, with proud military marches, flapping flags and blasting national anthem. South Sudan’s independence has come six months after the southerners voted almost unanimously to split with their former civil war enemies in the north. Now, under mixed comments from people over the world, the country will take its place at the bottom of the developing nations list, as it prepares to chart out a growth track using its abundant oil reserves and other natural resources. Yet, as South Sudan rejoices in its newfound independence, it also stands out as a symbol of a growing debate—is the disintegration of bigger states into smaller ones the way to go in a world increasingly talking about global citizenship and the erasing of boundaries? The division of huge tracts of land into smaller states on linguistic, religious or other such grounds is in fact a remnant of the great predatory bird known to the world as colonialism, which cast its shadow on most parts of the earth. When its victims sought to free themselves from its hold, it scratched across their faces by drawing boundaries arbitrarily, leaving a wave of uprooted, mauled lives and long-drawn enmities in its wake. Freedom is not a word that stands alone unto itself. When people seek to be free, it is always to be ‘free from’ someone or somebody, to be ‘free of’ repression or cruelty or discrimination. And yet, ironically, the creation of boundaries effectively limits human freedom in certain very obvious ways, such as the freedom of movement. Humans, who have never stayed in one place, migrating constantly from time to time, are confined to a certain geographical boundary; their freedom to move and settle in other places facing considerable restrictions. The craving for independence, for having a nation of your own also has something to do with every person’s need for a separate identity, a sense of belonging to a particular group, nation or community. The creature that belongs to everyone, in all fairness, belongs to no one. And the need to belong is one of the basic needs of human nature. Perhaps it is true that growth occurs faster and better among people that share a sense of belonging. But in a world where cultures, identities and origins are getting blurred by the day, most people actually belong to several places at the same time; being born in one, growing up in another, settling down in a third and dying someplace else. The best example of a boundary-less world is the world that almost everyone inhabits now—the virtual world. Universal spaces like Facebook and Twitter are witness to the coming together of people having vastly different identities. But even within this universe, one cannot deny the existence of ‘countries’ in the form of communities that people join according to their convictions, origins and alignments. A free world seems to be a utopian concept, much like free trade. The most vehement advocates of free trade are the very ones who wouldn’t bat an eyelid on imposing restrictions the minute their own interests stood jeopardised. Nonetheless, that cannot be reason enough for the human spirit to not dream of a world where people will not be compartmentalised and can adopt any, or as many, identities as they wish to. After all, the Berlin Wall, too, crumbled down one day.

Indian origin Nobel laureates: Jun2011 edit

Several decades ago, India witnessed the beginning of the phenomenon termed as brain drain, as the country’s best brains started moving out to foreign lands in search of greener pastures and wider skies to stretch their wings. The wheel has now come full circle, with the cream of Indian intelligentsia flocking back to the country, as they watch opportunities spring up here with amazing speed. As latest news reports reveal, top-notch firms such as Tata Motors, Larsen & Toubro, the Aditya Birla group, Novartis and Cognizant are looking for Indians working abroad to fill senior positions. The infrastructure sector particularly is banking on this pool, since it is facing a severe shortage of talent. And returning expatriates are only too happy to oblige. This is a far cry from the days when bright young minds, disillusioned with the lack of a supporting and nurturing environment at home, sought refuge on foreign shores for their budding ideas. The fact that Nobel laureates of Indian origin such as Hargobind Khorana, the Indian-American biochemist who got the Nobel in Medicine in 1968, or the very recent winner Venkatraman Ramakrishnan, who shared the 2009 Nobel in Chemistry, carried out their groundbreaking research away from Indian soil, speaks volumes about the way the Indian growth environment was being percieved by aspiring minds. It was common knowledge until recently that most top B-school graduates preferred to move abroad for more lucrative jobs. All this seems to be changing for the better as more and more Indians are moving back to the homeland, and being welcomed into the fold by corporate bigwigs. The trend however, cannot just be attributed to a singular rise in opportunities at the home turf. The global financial crisis contributed quite a bit to the state of affairs, spelling doomsday for developed markets, tilting the scales in favour of countries like India. The crisis also led to a sudden increase in restrictive practices in the US and other markets, which came under pressure to give preference to local people in their hiring routines. Added to all this was the heartening fact that the pay packages doled out by Indian giants became very much at par with their foreign counterparts, setting in motion the reverse brain drain process. Highly skilled and qualified professionals are making a beeline for their native country, and that is indeed cause for jubilation. However, amid all this, it must not be forgotten that a return of professionals is not enough. The country needs to develop an environment that would facilitate the growth of entrepreneurs, scientists, innovators and the like. When China had first opened up its economy, it was the Chinese expatriates who were the first to invest in their homeland. The difference, however, was that these were entrepreneurs. While it is no mean feat that India has possibly the best set of managers and talented professionals that a country could ask for, we still have a long way to go in fostering original thought, initiative and enterprise. Instead of being complacent about bringing back the best talent to fill positions, we need to create a nurturing environment for people who would help create the most coveted postions. So that, in future, Nobel Laureates can proudly claim to be ‘Indian’, not just of ‘Indian origin’.

Indo-Pak cricket edit

Mar 30 2011, 2336
A nation of a cricket-crazed billion was ready to go to war at the opening of the World Cup semi-final between India and Pakistan. Cricket is a gentleman’s game; it is supposed to promote camaraderie, friendship — and, by extension, peace. But if past records are anything to go by, the game has been more war than peace. And, perhaps, an indignant fan may even exclaim un­believingly: “Game?” For a lot of those waving flags and blowing horns in the stadium, it is not just a game. That becomes pretty much evident when a young man from Jharkhand expresses his willingness to sell his kidneys for a ticket to the hallowed stands of Mohali, or when a Pakistani businessman declares that he would have a heart attack if he didn’t get one. Best-selling author Chetan Bhagat, who made a point of commenting on every new dev­elopment in the match on his Twitter profile, succinctly called it ‘the country’s biggest mass bunk ever’, while sliding in a jibe that ‘blue is definitely a better colour than parrot green’. When arch rivals like India and Pakistan play, the ‘sportsman spirit’ goes for a toss — off the field, that is. It is not just the Indians who charge on with battle cries; the Pakistanis pretty much match up to them. Placards that read, “Save the drama for your mama, we are here” say it all. Pakistani writer Muniba has been quoted as calling this match ‘war over cricket’, and adding that what happens in the final is ‘irrelevant’. Obviously, in the minds of the cricket-crazy fans, Mumbai is not the host of the final, Mohali is. In a way, for a part of the Indian subcontinent, Mohali will be the final. For the fans of the team that gets knocked out, the World Cup will be over. So yes, the final will definitely become ‘irrelevant’ for these worshippers of the demi-gods out on the pitch. But other than the patriots, there are people on both sides who root for the neighbour. Social networking sites are rife with people fighting with one another over their favourite team. Patriots, of course, have nationalism as their one cause for support, while the ‘others’ explain their stand by calling themselves true lovers of cricket: they will not let nationalism get in the way of rooting for the ‘better’ team. Bouts of name-calling and ridiculing occur as a natural consequence, and are definitely the online version of fistfights in the age of Facebook and Twitter. No wonder, there are over 3,000 policemen deployed in Chandigarh, which has also been turned into a no-fly zone. But there are always examples to show that the war need not be a literal one; that there can be occasions when cricket actually does become just that—a game for goodwill. Can anyone forget the sight of the tricolour being waved madly by a purely Pakistani audience during the Indo-Pak ‘Friendship Series’ in Pakistan in the year 2004? That was definitely one for sportsmanship. We in India might not be able to tolerate so much of ‘loving thy neighbour’, but we could take a leaf out of our prime minister’s book and raise a toast to goodwill, too. Of course, not too tame a toast, for that wouldn’t do justice to the game. Maybe a little splash to each other’s face would do.

Edit on Ratan Tata's "Dream" : Dreams Unltd

The world thrives on dreams. On people who dream big enough to change it. Visionaries, revolutionaries, inventors and great leaders—all start out with a dream and a conviction to make it come true. Most people usually dream of acquiring wealth, power and prestige. Then there are some who dream of creating things that would make the world sit up and take notice. The world as we see it today is the outcome of a million dreams that blossomed over the ages, battling contemptuous smirks, malicious assaults and vehement opposition. Whatever be the type, dreams of all sorts are fuelled by a desire to change and improve the present, to take life to a better, higher level in the future. At an individual level, a dream might simply mean moving one individual’s life to a higher step. A larger dream, on the other hand, envisages an upward movement in the lives of great multitudes. It might be a dream of freedom from foreign rule, of bringing equality to all, of getting technology to change the lives of the masses or of taking humanity into realms hitherto unknown, but most dreams and revolutions at the onset seem far-fetched and impossible to attain. Of course, once they are realised, they leave their mark on the world forever.What goes into the making of a dream is the ability to look ahead of your time, meticulousness to plan its execution and sheer grit to withstand the buffets of multiple, inevitable setbacks. In the battle between frowning sceptics and doughty dreamers, it’s the ‘yes, we can’ approach that makes all the difference. A dream is much more than just a vision; it is a work in progress. And it’s not just the passion of one individual; rather it entails a multitude of sacrifices, efforts and commitments on the part of many others who might be associated with it, however tiny that association may be. When one person dreams a dream, several others get involved. And when that dream is a larger one, the entire society, sometimes an entire country, or maybe even the world gets involved. That’s what happened when Gandhi launched his non violent resistance, when Larry Page and Sergey Brin created Google, when Yuri Gagarin became the first man to go in space, when Reliance revolutionised telecom in India, and when Tata delivered what was a near impossibility in the world of cars.So, when a man like Ratan Tata tells the world that there is yet another dream of his which remains unfulfilled, it is bound to fuel speculations about the nature of this dream. The man who has not only shown the world again and again how seemingly impossible dreams can be turned into reality, but also inspired the dreams of a million others would be sure to have another head-turner and eye-popper up his sleeve this time. It is exciting to merely imagine what kind of upgradation this dream might bring to the millions of lives that he has touched, not to mention to his own company that he has taken to dizzying heights. When Martin Luther King Jr spoke the famous words “I have a dream” in a speech in 1963, little would he have imagined Barack Obama rising to the topmost position in the United States of America, over forty years later. When Ratan Tata says, “I have a dream”, the entire country would be waiting with bated breath for something that might, perhaps, lead us to change the way we dream.

New Year Edit for FC, Jan 1, 2010: WHAT IF?

Every new era, every revolution in the history of the world begins with a single thought — “What if…?” Developments that we take as commonplace in our everyday lives were far-fetched visions sometime in the past. It’s the implausible ideas of the present that would turn into life-changing revolutions in the future. But what if instead of waiting for some distant, earth-shaking idea, we just push ahead with the small ones that we do have and try to live up to the targets that we set for ourselves? What if, instead of finding excuses for incomplete tasks and unattained targets, we just go ahead and meet them head on? There is a lot of talk about India becoming the next super power. But rather than making tall claims, doesn’t it make sense that we live up to our own deadlines first? For a country that has a history of setting targets and then coming up with explanations for not being able to meet them, delivering the goods on time ought to make a big difference to performance in the long run. Infrastructure development has been one of the core concerns for the government in the recent past. However, there are huge gaps in the targets set and the targets met in various sectors. In power generation, we would be adding only 78 per cent of the 14.5 gigawatt target for the present financial year. This much was admitted even by Union power minister Sushil Kumar Shinde. The government is also likely to miss its infrastructure-spending target for the 11th five-year plan, ending March 2012, by about $100 billion. An important case in point is our preparation for the Commonwealth Games. The snail’s pace at which work was progressing before we realised failure was staring in the face is evidence enough of our inherent tendency to procrastinate. So, what if we shrugged off this tendency and supplemented our claims with actual action? What if we did actually build 7,000 km of road every year? What if we did generate 1,000 mw of additional solar power by 2013? What if the Indian populace received the education, healthcare, drinking water and sanitation promised to it? All this would catapult us to much greater heights of development, not just in terms of GDP, but more holistically, in terms of the quality of life. We could hold up our heads and say that we match up to our expectations. That we are indeed serious about the promises we make. But even more importantly, what if we stopped considering all these to be just the responsibility of the government? What if we looked deeper for what we, as individuals, can do to help the government achieve these targets? What if we overcame our instincts to earn that sly-buck, which ends up in things being done the sub-standard or the illegal way? What if we gave up the urge to throw wrappers out of the windows of our expensive cars on to our roads? What if we kept checks on the amount of water and power that we use in our homes and offices? What if all of us collectively gave up the idea of ‘what difference will I alone make’? Much like the government that sets targets and apologetically falls short of them, every year we make new resolutions and promptly forget them. So maybe we should think about what if we gave ourselves a chance to honour our commitments and be able to say ‘we did it.’

Edit on Women two years ago

Dec 14 2009, 2235
Gender equality seems to be headed the right way in India, at least in terms of employment and even leadership positions in the corporate sector. Two distinct studies point in that dir­ection: the first one by EMA Partners International, which says that 11 per cent of 243 top Indian companies by revenue have women CEOs, compared with only 3 per cent of US companies in the Fo­rtune 500 list; and the second one by industry body Nasscom and human resources consulting firm Mercer, which shows that India has more working women than any other country in the world (30-35 per cent of our 400 million workforce comprises women). That is indeed good news for a country where the word ‘female’ is men­tioned quite frequently with the word ‘foeticide’. Always a land of complexities and contrasts, India is a place where women exist at two extreme ends of the universe. At one level, a woman is considered a force to be worshipped—the mother goddess and life giver. At the other extreme, the woman is rejected and abused, deprived even of the right to be born. The female foeticide figures stare us blatantly in the face, with United Nations estimates showing that almost 2,000 female foetuses are aborted a day in India. The country’s sex ratio, according to the 2001 census, at 933 females per 1,000 males, is among the lowest in the world. Somewhere between these two extremes there is a gradual surge of a class of women who are pushing their way ahead and holding their own in what used to be a ‘man’s world’ -- breaking free of the glass ceiling. This also has a lot to do with the rapidly increasing number of women who are going in for higher studies. The Nasscomm-Mercer study also highlights that while in the 1980s, only 5-8 per cent of students in engineering colleges were women, in 2005, women formed 40.4 per cent of students in institutes of higher education. Slowly, but surely, women have moved into top positions and are demolishing stereotypes, in terms of power, position and wealth. So, while companies consider female employees to be better at managing teams and client relationships and at handling crises, wealth managers are now making a beeline for them with investible surpluses. The change is pervasive at all levels of decision-making. Women are unafraid to take their own decisions, which includes personal, corporate and financial. And that is what drives them to lead projects and eventually companies. An interesting fact that is evident from these figures is that male mindsets in the country have changed, too, with men becoming more open to the idea of having a woman as ‘boss’, which was not exactly the case several years ago. It is even more heartening that all of this is happening in India, which is racing ahead of even the developed countries. That leaves one with greater hope for gender inclusiveness in the country. The outlook would be infinitely more promising if the country could also witness a change in the mindsets that lead to declining numbers of women in the population. The task looks Herculean, but with a look at the achievements of women so far, it is definitely not impossible.

Half the Sky: women in India

The United Nations Development Programme (UNDP) has brought out its latest Human Development Report for 2011. And it doesn’t spell good news for India. Although our overall rank in the Human Development Index (HDI) has remained the same — 134 out of 187 — what has really cast a curtain of gloom over our performance is the Gender Inequality Index, where India stands at the absolute bottom of the ladder in South Asia, faring better than just Afghanistan. With a rank of 129, India scores lower than neighbours Bangladesh, Nepal and Pakistan, with ranks of 112, 113 and 115 respectively, and is far behind Sri Lanka, which ranks 74. China, ranked 35, is too far ahead for us to even begin to compare with it. The index takes into account some important indicators such as female labour participation, maternal mortality and adolescent fertility, share of women in parliamentary seats and secondary and higher education attainment levels. Viewed from one perspective, female empowerment in India has been growing steadily, one of the indicators being female literacy, which, according to the latest census figures, has grown by 11.8 per cent in the last decade, and is 65.4 per cent now. Women today have a lot more independence than what their mothers had, when it comes to decision-making about themselves and their families. However, it seems our present best is just not good enough. At a time when India is increasingly moving into a leadership role in global affairs, it cannot afford to ignore one half of its population, which can play a substantial role in elevating the country’s social and economic position. It can, of course, be argued that the numbers are bound to be affected by the sheer size of the sample in India, not present in any of its neighbouring countries. The point, however, is that a country which dreams of being a global ‘superpower’, which harbours ambitions of moving in to fill the void being created by the sagging western giants, should not even be comparing itself with virtual ‘minnows’ having vastly lesser clout in the global arena. If India truly has to believe that it has ‘arrived’, its social indicators must be in line with the countries that it wants to compete with, not those that already consider it a ‘big brother’, if not a ‘big bully’. We cannot, on the one hand, talk about having the second highest growth rate in GDP while our social indicators languish somewhere at the bottom. To be the best, we must also compete with the best — not just economically but also socially. If India wants to soar high, it cannot afford to leave its women behind — it is they who hold up half the sky.

My FIRST EDIT for Financial Chronicle: ON BEING A BOSS!!

A recent survey conducted by Korn Ferry International has revealed that 85 per cent of Indian executives would rather be giving orders than taking them. In other words, they want to be in their bosses’ position. Giving orders is definitely a more lucrative prospect than being at the receiving end. And being held in awe, or in some cases, in fear is infinitely better than living in the dread of being hauled up, or worse, sacked. In terms of aspirations, Indians are certainly doing better than Americans, where only 67 per cent of executives want to be the boss, happy as they are to be on the lower rungs of the corporate ladder. Obviously, the Indians, undoubtedly an aggressive lot, want to be their own masters. However, the survey also reveals that more than half the Indian executives are satisfied with their current positions, highlighting the fact that it’s not just a craving for a better economic status that drives the urge to be the boss. What’s more, it also underlines the quintessential trait of Indians to be optimistic in the darkest of situations. Which is why the slowdown doesn’t act as a damper on our spirits. In fact, the down-in-the-dumps feeling spread by the slowdown could also have acted as a catalyst to fuel the drive to get to a position where you are the one doing all the threatening, rather than the other way round. In sharp contrast, the satisfaction level of Americans is a mere 37 per cent. It speaks volumes about the Indians’ inherent sense of contentment with what they have. But what’s remarkable is that this contentment doesn’t drive us to stagnation. We are happy with what we have achieved, but a little more won’t hurt. That in itself is a quality to be proud of — to be contented yet competitive. But workers who are drawn by the power of being in charge and able to praise or criticise, retain or remove at will, also need to be given a reality check. Unquestionably it is a good feeling to be in the commanding position, as long as one remembers that concomitant with authority is the entire burden of responsibility. The executive might resent getting flak from the boss for some mistake, but it is actually the top man who will ultimately face all the flak for the combined mistakes of all his subordinates. While he may have his subordinate staff on a string and be able to toy with their future, he also wears the not so enviable crown of thorns of being the chief one responsible for the future of the organisation, its successes and more importantly, its failures. So those who wish to be bosses would be better off remembering that only if they’re willing to face the music now, will they be ready to wear the crown in the future. Nonetheless, the bottom line is that the aspirations of working India run high which obviously translates into a greater zest for working harder and moving faster. That, surely, is good news for the economy and the nation, although it might make the bosses toss and turn. One last point, it is easy to allow success to get into your head, and be a tyrant in positions of power. It might not be easy for everyone to become a boss, but it doesn’t take much to become another Hari Sadu, the rogue boss immortalised by a TV ad of a company.

Amir Khusrau's poetry "In the Bazaar of Love"

As you prepare to chart the waters of a body of translated poetry, be warned: if you are a knower of the tongue in which the poet actually crafted his masterpieces, these waves will seem a tad too still after the heady ebb and flow of the original. But if you haven’t sailed those tides, just go ahead and take the plunge. It’ll be worth your while.In the Bazaar of Love: The selected poetry of Amir Khusrau, translated by Paul Losensky(associate proffessor at Indiana University, Bloomington) and Sunil Sharma (who teaches at Boston University), is a veritable treasure trove of the most beautiful lines composed by the “Parrot of India”, so called because of his fluency and eloquence in Persian, the language of most of his compositions. Indians, however, would be more familiar with his compositions in Hindavi, the tongue of the people of his beloved ‘Hindostan’. Whatever the language, the rhythm and the musical quality of the verse remain unchanged.In fact, the most remarkable aspect of the great Sufi poet is that even if his language were alien to you, you wouldn’t be able to help getting immersed in the jaam (chalice) that his saqi (cupbearer) tempts you with. That beauty, though, is not easily retained in translation. The winding, lilting feel gets rather straightened out, and the complex wordplay that is quintessentially Khusrau loses its coquettish charm.That said, to be able to truly appreciate this book for what it is, you need to wipe your mind clean of the original verse. Translations are meant to allow people a taste of the literary manna that would have been beyond their reach otherwise. And here you will find lines that come significantly close to the original in beauty. For instance, these lines from the piece ‘On Music and Poetry’, which is Khusrau’s explanation of the difference between the poet’s words and the tunes those words are put to: “Poetry is the bride and song her ornament, but/is there any harm if a beautiful bride has none?”In the Persian ghazal, ‘Bi khubi hamchu mahi tabanda bashi’ wherein the last stanza begins thus: “Don’t be cruel. Avoid the shame/ of facing your lovers on Judgement Day” and the splendid lines of ‘Man ashki bidilan-ra khanda mipandashtam ruzi’: “Treat burnt-out Khusrau with contempt/ It’s all fair payback, since he once maligned/ those whom people treat with contempt.”Also present and translated with an obvious effort at maintaining the musical quality (but heart-rendingly lacking the vigour of the original), is the very famous Hindavi piece “Chhap tilak sab chheeni mosay naina milayi ke”.Much better and rhythmically preserved are the two short pieces “Wedding Night” and “Beauty Sleeps on the Bed”. The latter is said to have been uttered by Khusrau on the death of his pir Nizamuddin Auliya: “Beauty sleeps on the bed/ her hair across her face/ Come Khusrau, let’s go home/ night has set over this place.”In fact, Auliya is a prominent figure in the creations of his murid Khusrau. Most of his love-struck verses are actually addressed to the pir, in mystic devotion. The book covers a vast expanse of the works of Khusrau, detailing his life and his inspirations. Lovers of poetry, especially Sufi poetry, would do well to get their hands on this one. True “majnuns” of the art can go dive into the original.

Ernest Hemmingway "A Farewell to Arms" : Drenched in love

The season of rains is upon us. It’s the time of the year when the leaves get greener, the sky gets darker and street kids frolicking by the roadside look happier than ever.In no other country are these glittering arrows more anxiously awaited than in ours. Perhaps, it is the preceding heat, perhaps it is concern for the thirsty grain, or maybe it’s just that we consider rains a blessing. Whatever the reason, rainfall is a harbinger of happy tidings for most of us.Writers’ liaison with the rain has been an old and faithful one. Often as a picturesque, meaning-laden background, and mostly as a symbol — an omen — rains have served as handy literary devices for authors and poets in varying ages.Within the literary hall of fame, Edgar Allen Poe, Nathaniel Hawthorne, and F Scott Fitzgerald are well known for their use of symbolism. But there are few that have used nature as a symbol more heavily than Ernest Hemmingway.The use of rain as a portent is most obvious in his masterpiece, A Farewell to Arms. Regarded as Hemmingway’s best artistic achievement, and certainly his greatest commercial success, A Farewell to Arms is the story of Frederic Henry, an American who enrols in the Italian army during the World War I, and falls in love with a British nurse Catherine Barkley. Hemmingway once referred to it as his version of Romeo and Juliet, which seems quite apt, considering the tragic fate of the protagonists’ love. Rain and mud are the two recurring motifs in the tale, and neither portends well for the people.Contrary to popular notions of rainfall being a bearer of good luck, for Hemmingway’s hero rain is nature’s alarm bell, bringing a sense of impending doom. It is a symbol of darker things to come.Right at the beginning, the soldier Henry tells the readers, “In the fall when the rains came the leaves all fell from the chestnut trees and the branches were bare and the trunks black with rain.” This ‘black rain’ is followed by an outbreak of cholera, killing seven thousand people.Later, it is raining when the Italian army begins its retreat, and the statement of one of the soldiers, “Tomorrow, maybe we drink rainwater,” turns into a sentence of doom, for the following day they meet their end. This symbolism is made very obvious by the heroine herself. “I'm afraid of the rain because sometimes I see myself dead in it,” she says to Henry. “And sometimes I see you dead in it.”That, eventually, turns out to be another tragic prediction. Towards the end of the novel, during Catherine’s operation, Henry looks out the window, to find that it is raining. In the next few minutes, Henry loses both his child and the love of his life, all the while in a backdrop of heavy rain. At the very end of the story, Henry leaves the hospital and heads back to his hotel “in the rain”.Hemmingway’s star-crossed lovers, much like Romeo and Juliet, unite only to be separated. The rain, of course, is the author’s implicit way of showing that nature and fate work in ways much beyond the understanding of man.

Amitav Ghosh's Sea of Poppies

Every book has its own language. And that is besides the medium chosen by the writer to get the words across. The language of the book is the manner in which words flow through the story and the manner in which those words paint out pictures, for it is these that set the tone and tenor of the tale.Works of authors who hail from countries where English is not the mother tongue often carry a smattering of words in the native language; they could be local terms of endearment (Amir jan in The Kite Runner), names of dishes in the native cuisine (Roti in The Good Mm), or just a word or two in the dialogue (“Naaley?” — The God of Small Things). The use of vernacular terms actually brings out the ‘flavour’ of the story, giving the reader a feel of the characters and their daily lives, and of the place where their tale unfolds.
It is not often, though, that one encounters long sentences spoken by the protagonists in their native language. But the characters in Amitav Ghosh’s Sea of Poppies are prone to breaking into their mother tongue every so often, mystifying the reader as well as enchanting him. The book explores the days of British colonialism in India, their forced cultivation of poppy here and the shipping of slaves to the island of Mauritius aboard the ship Ibis. There are people of all kinds and classes populating the book — Deeti, the wife of a poppy grower who is saved by the skin of her teeth from becoming ‘Sati’ on the funeral pyre of her husband, Kalua, the lowly village man who saves her, Raja Neel Rattan, the anglophile king, more familiar with ‘the waves of Windermere and the cobblestones of Canterbury’, Serang Ali the mysterious seaman and a host of others.
The most fascinating thing about the characters is not the variety in their origins; it is the variety in their way of speaking that hits you smack in the face. So while Deeti’s village tongue is obviously different from the rest, even the English spoken by the men differs from one to the other. Ghosh has painstakingly brought out the Hindi influence that affects the language of the British men and women living in India for long periods, and their particular — and often hilarious — pronounciation of Indian names. So Raja Neel Rattan becomes “Roger Niel Rotten” and Babu Nobo Kishan becomes “Babu Nob Kissin”!
Most amusing are the Hindi words that sprinkle the conversation of the ‘Sahibs’ and the ‘Mems’, such as the very Indianised Mrs Lambert: “Where have you been chupaowing yourself?” or “Don’t you samjow, Paulette?” and another officer who exclaims, “Just won’t ho-ga; that kind of thing could get a man chawbuck’d with a horsewhip!”
Of course, such a pot-pourri of dialects does exhaust the reader, who has to make quite an effort in trying to decipher the meanings! For instance, the Lascari tongue, language of the seafarers, becomes baffling to say the least:“What for Malum Zikri make big dam bobbery’n so muchee bukbuk and big-big hookuming? Malum Zikri still learn-pijjin. No sabbi ship-pijjin. No can see Serang Ali too muchi smart-bugger inside?”
Ultimately, that is the way the story unfolds, with diverse souls mingling together and rubbing off a bit of themselves on each other. How’s that for a glimpse of the Tower of Babel?

Being a Muslim

It is a difficult task, being a practising Muslim, to read a book by another Muslim about the ‘Muslim experience’ and to review it. There are things that arouse anger, things that you would like to stand up and deny, times when you feel like clarifying to the huge, unknown masses out there reading that book.At times like these, you have to remind yourself, that there can be no such thing as a global ‘Muslim experience’, or for that matter, Hindu/­Christian/­Sikh/Indian/Bangladeshi experience. Being a part of a community does not ensure shared experiences. Since no two people would see the world through the same eyes, so no two people would experience it alike either. Not in a country, nor a community, not even a family. My experience of living in India would differ vastly from, say, a woman in a shanty on the outskirts of Delhi, or from Nita Ambani in her 27-storey home in Mumbai. That, however, does not make any of us less Indian than the other. It’s just that as individuals, we have different experiences, with different lives, different loves, beliefs and ambitions.Same is the case with a person who would share my religion. The way we perceive religion, the importance we attach to it, and the way we incorporate it into our lives will be different. What is ‘liberal’ for one may be ‘immoral’ for another, and what is ‘pious’ for one, may be ‘orthodox’ for another. But the membership of a community makes us somehow possessive of it, imagining that ours is the only way to be a part of it, ready to argue with someone else’s impression of it. That does not change the fact that as much as your experience is real for you, the other person’s experience is real for her/him. And that, actually, is the essence of being a good human, whether Muslim or Hindu or Indian or American — that you understand the diversity of human experiences and, however difficult it may be, accept and respect them for what they are.

Tahmima Anam's "The Good Muslim"

Thirteen. Her broken wishbone of a country was thirteen years old. Didn’t sound like very long, but in that time the nation had rolled and unrolled tanks from its streets. In its infancy, it had started cannibalising itself, killing the tribals in the south, drowning villages for dams, razing the ancient trees… A fast-acting country: quick to anger, quick to self-destruct.”That is Maya’s Bangladesh for you—Maya, the spirited, feminist, idealistic heroine of Tahmima Anam’s second book, The Good Muslim.Contrary to its title, the central aspect of the book is not religion. Rather, it is the lives of people intertwined with the life and birth of their nation, their courses moulded by the vicissitudes of a country taking shape.That country is seen chiefly through the rebellious, angry eyes of Maya—Maya, the dotctor, the freedom fighter, the column writer, the dismisser of religion, the woman who leaves her home in Dhaka and moves to the countryside up north, to return seven years later. And that is where the story begins.‘The Good Muslim’, the second book in Tahmima Anam’s projected trilogy, probes war-wounds with the precision and light handedness of a medical practitioner. It talks about scars that are embedded deeper than is possible to heal, scars that envelop every other family in Bangladesh. Even as all the while, voices unflinchingly, soothingly sermonise in the background to ‘forgive andforget’.Maya, having lost her father at an early age, and along with her brother, been brought up be her ‘Amoo’ Rehana, cannot understand her brother’s distant, withdrawn behaviour when he comes home from the war of 1971, a hero lauded and embraced by none other than Sheikh Mujib himself—‘the father of the Bangla nation’. She cannot understand why, despite all her attempts, he would not tell him about his experiences at war, why he would not spill out his heart before her. And later, she cannot understand what it is that slowly transforms her guitar-playing, university debating champion brother into ‘mowlana’, who becomes the ‘Huzoor’ holding sermons on the first floor of their house.It is easy, before reading the book through, to think of it as yet another tale of liberal-Muslim-turned-radical. But the difference here lies in the way that Anam explores this world—around the seams and inside out. The difference lies in Maya’s realisation of what it is that her brother sought and found: not revenge but forgiveness—forgiveness from an Almighty, all forgiving God,for his guilt, for the secret crime committed by him, that would haunt him to his grave.The book has some brilliant lines that tug at you somewhere inside. Such as the infinite questions in the mind of the little Zaid, Maya’s nephew who, left alone by his distant father after his mother’s death, learns all sorts of languages from the visiting Jamaats—French, German, Spanish.“I always ask them to teach me three things. Hello and goodbye, peace on earth, and why. They don’t like to teach why. I get it out of them. Why why why…” The charred book that graces the cover seems to stand for both the nation and the people, badly charred at the edges, but with a centre, a soul still remaining, each trying in their own way, to be good. To be a ‘good’ Muslim.

Witchcraft: Paulo Coelho style!

Ask someone to visualise a witch and most people would imagine a woman in a black gown and black hood, riding a broom. An ‘Indianised’ version would have scary, long nails, with bloodthirsty eyes and dishevelled hair thrown in for good measure. A witch has for long been an evil creature, and calling someone by that name would probably make her your enemy for life.However, modern day witches have come a long way from the three sisters in Macbeth, chanting, “Double, double toil and trouble/ Fire burn and cauldron bubble!” Instead, they are spiritual beings, looking to commune with the higher self, solving other people’s problems and leading them to the path of spiritual attainment. Surprised? Welcome to the real world of witchcraft, or Wicca, where being a witch doesn’t mean practicing black magic on unsuspecting people (or turning them into toads, for that matter). The above lines describe the “pagan” heroines of two of Paulo Coelho’s best-selling works — Brida and The Witch of Portobello. It’s always better to stick to fiction when exploring fantastic realms like this one: it allows you the comfort of exploring the topic without betraying any serious interest in it!Both of Coelho’s books are based on real people (real witches, to be precise), and their spiritual journey. It is advisable to read Brida first, as it progresses gradually into educating people about the ‘traditions’ of the sun and the moon, and how they are used to attain spiritual enlightenment. Coelho describes four pat­hs that a woman can take to reach this goal — the virgin’s path — total solitude, the saint’s — total giving, the martyr’s — through sacrifice, and the wit­ch’s — through li­mitless pleasure. Brida, a girl looking to get in touch with her soul and her soulmate, follows the path of the witch.A lot of misconceptions will be dispelled for you as you follow Brida’s quest. For one, witches practice the kind of magic that enables them to “tune into the wisdom of the world”, to discover the gifts hidden within. That’s not so difficult to grasp, given that we all have, at some time or the other, experienced something extraordinary in our lives, only we chose to brush it away. But perhaps the most emphatic thing you’ll come across is that this magic can never be used to make people act against their own will — even for a good cause. And if you do, it will certainly lead you to punishment. This is something the Magus, Brida’s teacher (and soulmate) discovers the hard way.The rituals followed by the witches are described in more elaborate detail in The Witch of Portobello, through the heroine, Athena. But here, too, you will discover that the power is not so much in specific rituals — they could be anything — but in your focus on the purpose. In essence, a witch is a woman who seeks a higher purpose in life, by completely immersing herself into life itself, rather than following the path of renunciation. The books also explain how witches came to be branded as ‘evil’, going back to the time in Europe when they were burnt for being ‘devil worshippers’, owing to their extraordinary gifts.By the time you reach the end of Athena’s or Brida’s journey, you might be convinced that you have a witch or wizard lurking within the depths of your soul. Don’t be amazed — it could just be another incarnation!

Santiago is back

There is unanimity among book lovers that the movie adaptation of a book can almost never be as good as the book itself. Of course, the screen version has to cut out details and squeeze the story into a form more suitable for the visual medium, in the process deviating from the script. But it also has a lot to do with the fact that it takes away from the imaginative freedom that the written word provides. A movie is someone else’s interpretation of that imagination — so that much less freedom to the viewer. This freedom might also be curtailed when a book is adapted into a graphic novel. But once in a while, an adaptation comes along that truly brings a book to life.The graphic novel adaptation of The Alchemist, which has been recently released, is surely among those. The Alchemist is a story that begs, rather commands, visualisation. And this Harper Collins adaptation by Derek Ruiz, with artwork done by Daniel Sampere, is probably as close to perfect as you can get.From the Andalusian grasslands in Spain to the bazaars of Tangiers in Africa, the desert caravan, the oasis and finally the great pyramids of Egypt, the journey of Santiago has been brought to life. Don’t be surprised if you open the book and, flipping through the pages randomly, find Paulo Coelho’s face gazing out from them — he has been used as the model for the face of Melchizedek — the King of Salem — who showed Santiago the way to follow his dream. That is, in a way, quite apt, as Coelho’s words are, and have been, a source of inspiration for many to get up and follow their own ‘personal legend’.The graphic version maintains that ethereal quality of the original, and people who have read the book will surely relish reliving the tale and experiencing the same deeply moving thrill all over again. The art style is classic, which depicts the characters beautifully and matches the story well. An interesting thing about the artwork is that the scenes are drawn from different angles, giving the impression of a camera following the action — a wide view, followed by a close-up or maybe an aerial shot.The words will come to life with the characters standing before you, and each emotion gets heightened many times as you watch it play on their faces. In one particular instance, the visuals create a much greater dramatic effect than the words would. It is an episode quite early in the story, when Santiago is musing to himself, thinking what would happen if he were to turn into a ‘monster’ and kill all his sheep one by one? “They would only become aware when most of the flock had been slaughtered,” he thinks. The graphic version shows a murderous Santiago with blood red eyes, holding a butcher’s knife and chopping down mercilessly while the sheep cry out piteously in the background. The effect it has is quite startling even as the next picture shows Santiago back as the clean and honest boy that he is.Both Daniel Sampere and Derek Ruiz have emphasised in the foreword that finishing this novel became their personal legend, and as it manifested itself, they felt that the universe ‘conspired’ to let them complete it!The book definitely deserves to be in your hands if you’re a fan of the original. Even if you’re not, pick it up just to see how dreams get materialised.

Jefffery Archer's "Only Time Will Tell"

Jeffery Archer’s latest offering Only Time Will Tell is a book any woman would love to take to bed, snuggled in the folds of her comforter. That’s a fact the author knows very well, and loves to flaunt with a trademark quip — “I take 50,000 women to bed everyday and I try very hard to keep them awake!” The book fits perfectly into his mould of storytelling, for this is one author who likes to drive home the point that he is a storyteller, not a writer.Archer’s books usually have an autobiographical element, and here too, he doesn’t fail. The author admits that the protagonist, Harry Clifton, has a lot of Jeffery Archer in him. But, remind him that this is the first part of a four-book series spanning a hundred years, and he replies, “That’s because I’m going to live to be a hundred!”A word of caution: if you’re looking for a book that provides mental stimulation in the form of a statement on society, or urges you to reflect on some established beliefs, you just got off at the wrong stop. This book makes no efforts to pontificate and demands little mental effort from its reader. All that it attempts to do is to transport you to the scene of action and elicit reactions that are purely emotional.So you can sit back and immerse yourself into the chronicles of Cli­fton, the way you’d sink into a silver-screen potboiler.The story follows the life of Harry through the voices of the people in his life — his mother Maisie Clifton, Hugo Barr­ington, who might be his real father, Captain Tarrant or Old Jack Tar who is Harry’s real guide in life, his best friend Giles Barrington (who could also be his half-brother), and the one true love of his life Emma Barrington. The narrator’s voice is the one that does most of the story telling, though it is interspersed with first person accounts of the characters.Set in post-First-World-War Britain, the tale revolves around a boy from a humble background who climbs his way to the top, partly through his church-choir voice and partly through his intellect, but mostly because of a mother who would sacrifice anything to see him get there. On the way, he discovers some family secrets that change the course of his life.For instance, when Harry falls for his best friend Giles’s sister Emma, we know that this is a disaster in the making — Giles is, in all probability, Harry’s half brother. But the manner in which this unfortunate truth is revealed upon the young lovers is enough to give you a good jolt.An interesting thing about Archer’s narrative is that he does not take the usual ‘tsk-tsk-tsk’ stand on the poverty that is part of Harry’s life. The emotions are subtly expressed; the dignity with which he presents Maisie Clifton and her efforts at making enough money to educate her son is touching in its simplicity.And that, incidentally, is one of the two things that stand out in Archer’s writing — wit and lack of adornment. This is a story that will keep you hooked, but it will, in spurts, also make you laugh. Keep the popcorn ready; you might just forget that this is a book.

My one true love: THE SEA

I’ve always been insanely attracted to large expanses of water. Ocean, river, lake, pond — even a swimming pool would do. Swimming is supposed to be a great exercise, and I’ve always found it strangely calming. Nothing beats the feeling of lowering yourself in the pool and letting the water take over. Of course, a pool is no match for the monarch of all water bodies — the ocean. I haven’t travelled to a lot of seashores in my life, and the one time that I saw the ocean ‘live’, I was awestruck. Often, while travelling, I’ve reflected on the fact that the eye lens can take in so much more than the camera lens — that which the eye can absorb in a single glance, the camera takes several clicks to cover. But my eye lenses, too, fell short of capturing the beauty of the ocean. I realised that I had to move my head from side to side, to take in the entire panorama. For a long moment, I was dumbstruck. The ocean is alive.This is not to sound prejudiced, but the beauty of the mountains doesn’t come close to that of the ocean. The mountains are unmoving, stoical in their beauty. But the ocean is alive…and unpredictable. It beckons you, it entices you, and it has the power to hold you forever. It teems with life and throws up surprises every second, something I discovered during my stay.People go treasure-hunting in deep waters; I found mine in shallow ones. Standing amid the waves, every time I dipped my hand in, it came out with a different creature — clams, snails and molluscs with their smooth, shiny shells and even starfish — every second, the ocean was more alive. There was one feeling, though, that kept nagging me — and still does —from the moment I set my eyes on the waves. I felt this strange pull, an urge to walk right into the water, and go on…and on…and not stop. To ‘give’ myself to the ocean. Don’t get me wrong, it’s nothing suicidal! Its just true love, that’s all.

My first "middle", post marriage -- WITCH HUNT

Mar 10 2011, 2034 hrs IST
People have different notions about marriage. Having been through the rituals recently, I’ve received some interesting comments on my new relationship status. By and large, friends, who are single, consider me a suicidal maniac. But those who have actually been through the experience have genuinely congratulated me and no, they don’t consider being married the equivalent of hell on earth. (Wonder why that is?)More amusing were the suggestions that I was now ‘caged’ or ‘domesticated’. Not so amusing was the question, “And your husband allowed it?” on my decision to resume work, given the late timings. (May I be allowed to roll my eyes?) Is a husband a hostel warden from whom permission has to be sought? I’m pretty sure no one ever asked him, “Your wife allowed it?” for his late timings. This made me remember a story I had shared with my best friend six years ago. King Arthur, defeated in battle, was granted freedom on one condition — to get the answer to the question: “What does a woman want?” Apparently, the answer was known to a witch, who named her price: She wanted to marry the best knight, Sir Lancelot. Lancelot agreed for the sake of loyalty, and kept his temper under control when she was truly witch-like with the wedding guests. However, his astonishment knew no bounds, when on his nuptial bed, he found not the witch but the fairest maiden ever. The witch told him she was impressed by his behaviour and gave him an option — she would be a witch either at day or at night. The choice would be his. Lancelot, after a moment of thought, replied,"I leave the decision to you.". Hearing this, the witch smiled and told him,“That, precisely is the answer to your question. A woman wants to be in control of her life. To be able to take her own decisions. Because you gave me that, I’ll be a beautiful maiden the whole time.”
The rider — if he changed, she would go back to being a witch. My friend probably never forgot that story, because he is the man who became my husband six years later. I’m sure he stays very careful that the witch doesn’t get a chance to appear!!