Amrita Sher-Gil's Village-Scene-1938

Khadija Mastur’s The Women’s Courtyard 

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The Women’s Courtyard, by Khadija Mastur, translated into English from Urdu, by Daisy Rockwell, begins with the protagonist, Aliya, having a sleepless night at her Uncle’s place, recalling and pondering on how her life will be from now onwards. In the next few chapters, she recalls how she as a child, had shifted to a newer place that was bereft of any life, community or togetherness and how her previous home was filled with love, friends, and endless entertaining stories that her Khansaman Bua used to regale her with.

The book then jumps into the present and narrative speaks of the events that lead up to that point where Aliya is now restless and pondering over an uncertain future in her Uncle’s house.


Titled, Aangan, in the original Urdu, the novel is set in pre-Independence India (somewhere in North India) and narrates how the Independence movement affects the men and women of the house. It is the women who are the main characters and the house or the courtyard (angan in Hindi/Urdu) is their stage.

The story is told from the perspective of Aliya, focusing also on other female members of the house such as Aliya’s mother, her elder sister, Tehmina, her friend Chammi and Kusum. The Independence movement takes place in the background for the women yet the male members’ intense involvement and particularly the rivalry of Jameel (Aliya’s cousin) and her Uncle rip the household. Jameel supports the Muslim League whereas his own father is a staunch Congress supporter. Their bitter rivalry tears them apart so much so that they do not speak to each other. Aliya’s own father’s involvement in the movement is what forces her and her mother to shift into her Uncle’s house which is where the novel begins.  (caution: one cannot simply base their assumptions about the Independence movement through a reading of this novel and dismiss the contribution of women to the movement).

The Women’s Courtyard does proffer a varying perspective on how deeply it affected women of the time and how it makes them adjust and compromise on every level as well. The novel is not a critique of the movement but rather of the patriarchy that is embedded in society and even in the movement. While it is important to fight for one’s country which the men in the Aliya’s family do, they themselves are caught between their roles of being breadwinners and freedom fighters which shows the pressures that they themselves faced from their family and society. On the other hand, the stage of the house in the novel and the Aangan makes the reader view a traditionally female occupied space and how their world is confined to that. While the men are out there fighting for freedom and having discussions about that in the drawing rooms, the women are never privy to that world. The female gaze does not trespass that territory even though it affects them in various other ways such as emotional and financial. Aliya is the only one who is shown reading and learning about the movement from her Uncle and his encouragement to read his books. The novel portrays several gender expectations imposed at that time which are applicable even today where women are not allowed to be part of certain decision making processes in several areas and cultures of the subcontinent.

 

Through her college, her reading and her exposure to her immediate world, Aliya, is the diplomatic yet empathetic voice in the story who is able to recognize the unfairness in the way in which society treats people, especially women. Her understanding and ability to interpret and reason make her absolutely logical with a touch of empathy for everyone around her. For example, her notions around love and marriage is shaped by how her friend, Kusum, was treated unfairly by gossip mongers for eloping and how Tehmina lost her senses because of falling in love. She is cautious herself about falling in love and stays away from something that she considers quite irrational. It is not merely the idea of love she detests but the manner in which it is ingrained into women. Thus she severely critiques this wrong notion of how women are expected to behave when in love which is quite relevant even today.

The Women’s Courtyard, is a thoroughly engaging read that unsparingly critiques all facets of patriarchy from Aliya’s mother’s entrenched beliefs regarding women and need for punishment for transgressive women or her aunt’s own pride in her Master’s degree and her condescending attitude toward one and all. It is a beautifully translated novel that captures the tense atmosphere both at Aliya’s home and outside. The one aspect that would have added to the novel’s charm would have been to include certain phrases and lines in the original Urdu, even if romanized.

Waiting for Godot

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A lifetime is spent to find the actual meaning of happiness. People procrastinate their means of joy, just to have a better means someday. In search of that ‘someday’ they lose their glorious present. This vicious circle keeps moving till one day the end arrives and realisation and remorse does no good. It is imperative to live a fulfilled life day by day as it comes to us. We cannot postpone smiling and dancing to a tomorrow that never arrives. This realistic circumstance of life reminds me of a classic book ‘Waiting for Godot’ by Samuel Beckett. The protagonist is a foolish person who spends his life doing nothing because he has to wait for ‘Godot’ who apparently will get happiness for him. Seasons pass and he grows old, but his insanity and fixation of Godot does not let him live his life. Godot, obviously doesn’t exist. The protagonist of the story departs from this world in vain, without living a single day.

 

We tangle ourselves in wires and threads of emotions and judgements. So much so, that it is impossible to get out after a while. We want to live a life on our terms; the terms may be good or bad but our ego presumes they are the best for our soul. These terms are based on experiences, which are a consequence of these threads of judgements and emotions. No one but us can take us out of this paranoia. This state of anxiety and haste builds a labyrinth around us which eventually becomes a way of our life. Each of us has a personal labyrinth designed and customised personally by our thoughts and decisions taken over a period of a time. The morass therefore, gets complicated with increase of our age. We spend the rest of our lives living in the self constructed confinement going round and round in circles trying to resolve our delusions. The more we judge actions of our own and of those around us, the higher the walls of the labyrinth become. The process goes on till we die one day dissatisfied and lonely.

 

Only if like an efficient gardener, we keep trimming the hedges of our labyrinth and plant more trees of happiness instead,,we can get a lot of sunlight in our lives. Instead of an unattended ruckus we can live in a well groomed haven. The choice is ours and the way we choose to live defines the boundaries we build around ourselves. The ethereal question that rises is how at all we can trim these overbearing walls to have a hold of our lives?

 

Sadhguru says, “…it’s important to grow trees in people’s minds. It is important to acknowledge that we inhale what these trees exhale.” Once we are able to connect with these trees, we will realise that we absorb whatever life gives us and similarly the world absorbs what we exude. Gradually, we will be more aware of what we spread in this world because as a part of life cycle we will receive what we give. Therefore,the hedges of the labyrinth will be short lived and will disappear with time, giving way to a beautiful garden of openness, joy and non judgement. There shall be no labyrinth at all and it will become a way of life. There will be pleasantness and positivity around us which shall spread contagiously.

Let us all learn to live a life sans labyrinth for god has given us a life sans confinement and boundaries. Let our prejudices, envy and wrath not multiply and grow its roots to form a puzzle. Let the human inner beauty and sanity take over this antagonism hence giving us a garden of freedom that has flowers of love and spreads jubilance.

 

About the Author: Shalika Jain is an author, blogger, and a freelance content writer.

Doris Lessing’s Fifth Child

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Doris Lessing’s Fifth Child has been under the knife enough to not need any more dissections but speculations sometimes seem to make sense or worse no sense of the book. Fifth Child is the story of a young couple, Harriet and David who found another, just like them. They knew they meant it, and that they had to have a big family. A big family with a mansion outside town, full of guests who stayed even after the holidays and children through its halls filling everyone’s hearts with joy. The fifth child changed everything for the couple, their family cracked, the house was empty and deserted.

“It’s either him or us,” David said. Harriet had her life going the way she’d hoped even when they found it difficult to make ends meet. Harriet got pregnant too quickly and after the fourth, the doctor had advised her to rest before she planned on having another child. And then she was pregnant again with their fifth child, Ben. Harriet grew suspicious about the foetus and was sure something was wrong with it, “She imagined pathetic botched creatures, horribly real to her, the products of a Great Dane or a borzoi with a little spaniel; a lion and a dog; a great cart house and a little donkey; a tiger and a goat”.

“I don’t want to kill the nasty little brute,” Harriet said to Dr Brett after telling how Ben was suffering from a milk infection and needed something for the diarrhoea. It surprised Dr Brett that Harriet was not breastfeeding her child. She showed him her bruised nipples, and he went silent only to say, “Naughty baby” that made Harriot laugh in astonishment. Lessing offers us an alternative perspective of what if Harriot is imagining her struggles? What if Ben isn’t a troll or a goblin but just an ugly baby? Dr Brett tells her it’s not abnormal to dislike the child, and he says that he sees it too often. In the binary of a good and bad mother, Lessing lets the reader decide if Harriet is a good or bad mother. Her four children were perfect, and the house was bustling with joy and happiness till Ben was born and she gave it all up to be Ben’s mother.

David and Harriet had given Ben up to an institute where he would have been cared for and they wouldn’t have to worry. Harriet found Ben in a straitjacket locked in a room, wearing soiled clothes and any longer there, he would have died. Harriet had the choice of saving Ben or letting him die and giving her family back the normalcy they’d lost. Harriet brought Ben back and dealt with his antics and ways, trained him to get by in the real world and successfully arrive into adulthood. Harriet’s struggle with Ben took most of her time and she slowly disappeared from the lives of all her other children. All the children ended up leaving home to stay with other relatives to get some distance from Ben. David had moved out of their room the night she brought him back. Something broke in their relationship that day.

We could classify fifth Child as horror fiction, a gothic novella and a newer classification, more popular among films “Gynaecological Gothic”. An experiential account of gestation, the horror of carrying an alien or goblin or monster as a child. A dark and grim experience of violence experienced by the mother, a victim and the world’s denial to see Ben for what he truly is in Harriet’s eyes, an ugly troll that she couldn’t have birthed. The popular short story The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman can arguably be a Gynaecological gothic.

Lessing is the oldest recipient of the Nobel Prize for literature and Margaret Atwood in her tribute writes “If there were a Mount Rushmore of 20th-century authors, Doris Lessing would most certainly be carved upon it.” Lessing left two children behind in the care of their father, her husband in Zimbabwe and moved to London to chase her literary prospects. Harriet’s experience with Ben and bringing him back from the institute seems to lie deeper in Lessing abandoning her children but these speculations have no footing. “It was an upsetting thing to write, it goes very deep into me somewhere,” said Lessing when talking about writing the Fifth Child.

 

About the Author: Vinay Kumar is a a freelance photographer & writer who drinks too much coffee.

Performing Uncertainty: Khursheed Ahmad’s Work at the Dharti Arts Residency Open Studio

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A month from the abrogation of Article 370 by the Indian state, and the beginning of an unprecedented clampdown on communications from the valley, it would not be very remiss to say that Khursheed Ahmad’s installation and subsequent performance at the Dharti Arts Residency Open Studio was timely, even if somberly so. The last month has seen an uproar across certain sections of civil society around the abrogation of Article 370, the associated influx of security troops, the ban on communications, and widespread uncertainty, silence, and curfews. Reports of children being detained, some as young as eleven years old, have begun to filter through to Delhi, vehemently denied by most Indian media outlets as well as the state. All of this outrage, however, seems to be informed by a collective amnesia.  Protests, outbreaks of violence, or reports of detainment and torture from Jammu and Kashmir are nothing new, however: the valley has been the setting for a bitter battle over many nationalisms and political positions for years now, even prior to the independence of the Indian state in 1947. It is this banal everydayness of violence that comes to the fore in Khursheed Ahmad’s installation as part of the Dharti Arts Residency. Questions of what it means to occupy this space, and derive meaning, belonging and desire from it haunt the viewer long after they leave the exhibition space.

Hosted by the Serendipity Arts Foundation, the Dharti Arts Residency is an intensive studio based residency for emerging artists. Over a period of three months, the four selected artists participate in various activities like peer conversations, critique sessions, gallery and studio visits, and artist talks. Alongside these activities, they are also expected to conceptualize and produce a new work, and the residency in 2019 drew to a close with a two-week open studio with installations by each of the artists. This year, the residency featured four artists from diverse backgrounds- Dharmendra Prasad, Farah Mulla, Shazia Salam, and Khursheed Ahmad.

Walking into C-340 at the Serendipity Arts Foundation during the open studio, I was first met by a number of people milling about upstairs. The installations were on a different floor, accessible by stairs. Quite helpfully, the organizers had set up a stand with brochures for the attendees: containing details of the artists, their current work, the Foundation, the residency, and even a floor plan pointing out where each artist’s installation was placed across the two rooms, halls, and an outside space.

Ahmad’s work spanned the whole of Hall 1, a multi-media installation that included photographs, a performance video, found objects, and near-sculptural blocks of shapes evocative of dargahs and mosques. A slight elevation afforded a view into the four-sided structure painted black by the artist. The structure was marked by openings all along its sides, and offered viewers a look inside, evoking the manner in which circumambulation around a dargah affords a glimpse of the inside. Each opening was covered by white paper, ripped to allow a limited view of the space inside, which contained a screen playing a video performance by the artist. The photographs around the installation, of various spaces across Kashmir, were marked by a spillage of yellow light filtering into the mundanity of the photographs, transforming them into objects that required greater contemplation and attention. The whole installation, however, came to life not on the first day of the open studio, but on the 20th of August, when Khursheed Ahmed performed a small, open-ended piece around his installation.

Ahmad hails from a family which practises the Kashmiri folk theatre form, Bhand Pather, which has a long history in the valley. With his interests across various practices, Ahmed brought into his performance elements of Bhand Pather. With no given script, the form usually depends on the performer’s improvisations. A protean form, Bhand Pather takes on various meanings in different public spaces at different times. In his short piece, this improvisational element of Pather shone through prominently, as Ahmed drew everyone into the room into his performance, into an act of creation itself. The art form in Kashmir has gained prominence, according to most commentators and practitioners, as a tool to spread information, awareness, and amusement, and this purported idea drove the tone of the whole performance.

Commenting on media representation of Kashmir and its conflict, Ahmad’s work has various elements that quietly, but significantly, shed light on the problems of media representation faced by any in or from the Valley. To me, the limited glimpse offered into the space, the fragmentary nature of the video performance that one could view from outside the box indicated poetically the nature of how information that travels to mainland India from the war-torn valley is nearly always in fragments, and often as unconfirmed rumours that one chooses not to believe. Ahmed’s use of performance, text, found object, sound, drawing, and photography, and his intentional overlapping of these media enhanced this point further- as the brochure declares, it not only challenges the interaction between the body and space, but also probingly questions the position of the viewer as a passive consumer of the event.

Beginning with a short reading of a poem, concentrating on the colour and metaphor of ‘yellow’, Ahmad started speaking. His quiet, stammering voice pervaded the room, and stammering seemed to be the common thread running through the performance. Like the occasional glimpses of the video, his hesitant voice drew him and his work together, verbalizing literally the irregularities and ruptures in the history of his place of belonging. As he spoke, he passed on the microphone, and his voice was taken up by others, with each person in the room picking up a refrain from the last, and modifying it in tone and content. The people in the room responded to it in different ways, gravely, or lightly, and some entered fully into the play of the performance itself, threading in words and references Ahmad himself did not touch upon: words like ‘Kashmir’, ‘blood’, and ‘Article 370’.

As he spoke, and others did, some shared in the performance by donning a ‘costume’- angarakhas of three colours, red, green, and black- that he handed out. The binary between viewers and performers fell away as they traced the contours of the room together, and through their movement, seemed to highlight the various elements of the installations. The photographs, for instance, in light of Ahmad’s poem, gain significance, with yellow light pervading them, belying their mundanity and their grim quality in some. A double-edged sword, like the shehnai Ahmad tried to play, and which, coincidentally, refused to sound a single note throughout, they left the audience questioning, inviting them to look closer, and perhaps even conveying that the frustration of being unable to fully grasp the content of the photograph is the space of a more productive examination. Not a violent protest, or even a very loud one, the performance thus became a process of understanding- a facilitation of conversation, and discussion around topics one chooses, in the Indian nation-state, not to look at.

Communication, or its lack, became another trope woven throughout the performance, thus. In one section, Khursheed Ahmad handed out letters, evoking the by now popular representation of Kashmir as a ‘country without a post office’. It is interesting to note that post the abrogation of Article 370, and the international coverage of the communications clampdown that has come with it, this is a trope repeatedly springing forth in conversations, performances, screenings, and debates around Kashmir. Somewhat hopeful in this context, however, is the idea of ‘witnessing’ Ahmad brings up. What does it mean to witness an event on media? What does it mean to ‘see’ or hear what is happening in Kashmir? As one of the attendees at the performance mentioned, the word shaahid (witness) in Urdu is closely related to shaheed (martyr), an intertwining of concepts that only hints at the myriad ways one can begin to understand what it means to witness, bodily, and often, fatally.

As individuals outside Kashmir, what elements do we associate Kashmir with? Images like a dove, barbed wire, water, the Jhelum, the distinctive smell of rose petals, agarbattis, shehnais, conflict, pellets, come to mind, and all of these were used by Ahmed throughout his performance. As almost disconnected elements, they came together to pose a crucial question about Kashmir, representation, and the Kashmiri voice struggling to find forms of self-representation. As is obvious to anyone looking into the present situation in the valley, Kashmiris occupy a number of different political positions. Perhaps Ahmad’s performance reaches its efficacy precisely in this: it leaves the performance open for interpretation, by anyone. For the viewer in Delhi, it poses the question not only of where the artist stands, but ultimately, where do you stand? Finally, then, it leaves the viewer with a set of uncertainties, and ruptures any smooth narratives that one could attach to a space of conflict, setting in motion an exploration the viewer can undertake with the artist himself.

Image Courtesy – Serendipity Arts Foundation and The Lumiere Project

About the Author: Madhubanti De has just completed her Masters from the School of Arts and Aesthetics, JNU. When she is not swamped with work, you can find her snuggled up with a cup of coffee and her newest favourite book for hours.

What Indian CEOs/Founders are Reading – Arun Jagannathan

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Arun Jagannathan is the founder of CrackVerbal (GMAT / GRE coaching for MBA / MS) and English for India (Corporate English training programs). At CrackVerbal, he is responsible for academics (content & delivery), marketing, and new product development. “English for India” is his second entrepreneurial venture, in which he helps businesses meet their business outcome through clear and effective communication. When he is not at work, Arun likes to read about his twin passion: digital marketing and productivity. He also mentors some startups on pro bono basis. As part of our new initiative to map the reading habits of Indian business leaders, The Seer spoke with him about his reading rites and more.

 

What’s the book you’re reading at present. Tell us what the book is all about without giving out any spoilers.

The book I am reading right now is sort of nerdy. It’s Dreyer’s English: An Utterly Correct Guide to Clarity and Style. You might wonder: why would an English teacher be reading this book. You know that English is the primary form of communication in today’s world. And I believe that it is vital that you have an in-depth understanding of the language–more so when you are a teacher.

 

Physical books, Kindle or just your mobile device – where do you spend most of your reading time?

I want to add Audible to the list. You know, I noticed something funny about my reading! I actually use multiple platforms/sources. On Audible, I probably hear a book when I am working out, and then when I’m in the car, I look something up to read and mark it on my Kindle. Then there are the tangible, physical books. You might ask why books. Sometimes, after a long day, you just want to get away from all your digital devices. Flipping through a book is a different kind of pleasure.

 

How many books do you read in a year on an average?

Now I really wish I could say a 100 books because I come across like I have this hack on how to read multiple books (laughs). But I get to read about 12 to 15 books. I am very conscious of the kind of books I read. So I use the Blinkist App, where I can read the premise of a book, and only if it appeals to me do I go out and get it. I also buy books if they come highly recommended by my friends. A friend who works at Amazon recommended this book I am reading right now. He said, at Amazon, English language skills are so important that if you can’t express yourself with clarity, after a point, you are probably not going to be promoted.

 

Who are your favourite authors?

Malcolm Gladwell and Dan Ariely come to mind. If I were to pick one, I’d go with Dan. He is probably my favourite.

 

A book you wish you had written.

I definitely wish that I had written some of Gladwell’s books! For example, Blink and Outliers. I love reading them. What interested me most about these books was how the author compiles all this data, analyses them and gives meaningful insights about the world around us.

 

How does reading help you?

I don’t read cover to cover anymore. I pick up a book, and I usually read it in bits and pieces. Whenever I find a compelling part, I reflect on it to see if there is anything that could be done with it – if I can implement it in my business or day-to-day life.

 

From all the literary characters you have read, whom do you relate to most and why?

Okay, I have got some bad news for you (laughs). I don’t read fiction. I usually read non-fiction! I tend to read books on language, business, etc.

 

Are you waiting for any book to be made into a movie? Any favourite film adaptation from the past?

You know, when you think about the kind of books that I read, you probably don’t want to see a movie based on it (laughs). But I also read biographies. Then again, not like ‘Super 30’ or anything jingoistic. I prefer movies that portray the truth about a person. A good example of this is ‘Steve Jobs.’ It showed Steve Jobs in all his complexity, you know–as a visionary, but also revealing his slightly eccentric side.

 

What’s your favourite time of the day for reading?

To be honest, any time of the day. But, I would probably pick sometime in the evening or at night because I’m just more relaxed at that point.

 

Suggest a book that every business leader should read.

This is a book that came out a very long time ago. It’s a short book, and you can just read it in one go. The book is called Who Moved My Cheese. The book is very simple, but it’s a metaphor for something a lot larger. It says you have to keep moving and what you did yesterday may not be good enough for today.

 

Do you write? Where can we read your writings?

You can read a couple of articles that I wrote on LinkedIn –
Executive MBA New Year Resolution
3 Life Lesssons before you seek an MBA

Book Review – A Strangeness in my Mind by Orhan Pamuk

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Reminiscent of other novels by Orhan Pamuk and their lovely rendering of Istanbul, A Strangeness in my Mind, also pays homage to the city.

Seen mainly through the eyes of the character, Mevlut, who comes to Istanbul in 1969 at the age of 12, to live with his father, who sells yoghurt during the day and boza (a fermented drink) at night. He and his father are among the hundreds of villagers who migrated from remote villages to Istanbul in search of a better income and life.

Mevlut thoroughly enjoys it as a child there, looking wondrously into the city’s intricate streets and its inhabitants while accompanying his father on his rounds; picking up the nitty gritties of the job: the way to behave, the way to entice a customer to buy, the manner in which to extol your yoghurt or boza. Being in school presents a completely different set of challenges especially due to the class divide and him having to work after his school. Nonetheless, his time with his cousins and their mother, is something he looks forward to, particularly with Suleyman, who is always ready to give Mevlut the benefit of the doubt.

The novel weaves its way through the various main events that occur in Mevlut’s life such as him dropping out of school, or his marriage to Rayiha with its own twist, or his being robbed during one of his rounds selling boza among many others or his time selling ice cream or being a waiter.

A Strangeness in my Mind is a peculiar bildungsroman or a coming of age novel that traces Mevlut’s growth. Yet Pamuk plays with the narrative’s style deftly such that it is not a mere chronicler of life from birth to death.

Firstly, the narrative is not a straightforward first person narrative that Mevlut narrates rather different point of views of various colourful characters are interspersed together, giving the reader multiple perspectives.

Curiously, the novel does begin by typically noting Mevlut’s birth but then it jumps right into the middle by narrating the story of Mevlut’s tense elopement. It immediately puts the reader into the thick of things. And then once that is done, Pamuk slows it down and brings you to the present, describing Mevlut’s daily round of selling boza and how he is now a historic curiosity from the past. Then, the narrative whizzes back to his childhood and where his journey to Istanbul all started!

A Strangeness in my Mind is as much about Mevlut as it is about Istanbul. Through Mevlut, we view the city, how it was to his childlike eyes, and how he views it later, when it has mushroomed further into the hills, as more and more people swarm the city. Through his rounds while selling his yoghurt and boza and later only boza, we see the different sections of the city, its past and how people from different nationalities and sects live there or used to live there, now taken over by others. Particularly, the reader sees the magic and menace of Istanbul at night when the ‘strangeness’ in Mevlut’s mind is heightened, allowing him to indulge in his musings and letting his thoughts ramble unbridled. Perhaps this is the reason why he does not give up this fast fading and hence, quaint profession, refusing to (yet at times being attracted to) partake in the wealth and business that his cousins, Suleyman and Korkut, were able to accumulate; but that which always eluded him. Yet, Mevlut is content, happy to live among his own thoughts, with his beautiful Rahiya, his daughters and his beloved city.

The tone of the novel is tinged with unmistakable nostalgia for the days gone by, for the brisk business yoghurt and boza sellers could sustain in the city before the dairy and raki companies gained foothold, and for the city’s beauty itself.

Yet the story is not melancholic or wistful in its nostalgia. The narrative never condemns the city’s growth but merely states it as things that are inevitable since most cities have chosen a very capitalistic, vertical and the suspicious “development” route for their growth.

A Strangeness in my Mind thus captures the ephemerality of the idea of Istanbul and of human stability. The ending itself is a beautiful gift that Mevlut bestows onto the city that has nurtured him.

That being said, I couldn’t help but wonder if the story was told through a female perspective, how drastically different would it be? For one, the reader would not be able to see Istanbul’s public side and definitely not its streets at night since Istanbul’s norms would not allow girls to be in the boza selling profession or go out at “odd” hours. Though Mevlut’s eyes provide a subaltern glimpse into the city, which is vastly different to the more elite narrative of one of Pamuk’s other novels, The Museum of Innocence, the story still speaks from a privileged male perspective. We do see a different side of the city but that is very much based on gender and profession; unique as that may be, it makes for an interesting and creative topic of discussion among fellow readers.

Joe Sacco's Palestine Cover Image

Palestine by Joe Sacco

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For years cartoonist Joe Sacco had been watching and reading the news of the Palestinian uprising. Are all Palestinians terrorists or victims? He would ask himself as he saw the news flashing across his TV screen. What about the average guy with routine concerns like food on the table for his family and getting to work on time. Where was that guy? Dissatisfied with the media’s portrayal of the Israeli-Palestinian situation, Joe decided that he needed to see it for himself, from ground zero.

 

In the winter of 1991-1992, he made his way to the region and parked himself in Jerusalem. For two months, he crisscrossed across the borders between West Bank, Israel, and the Gaza Strip. He met labourers, refugees, ex-prisoners, soldiers, volunteers…all the different people who were a part of the fabric of this troubled region. He met children who had not seen any other way of life and geriatrics who had lived in peaceful times much before the 1948 Palestine War. His companion on this travel was his trusty notebook for his doodles, cartoons, and observations.

 

This notebook would later take the shape of Joe Sacco’s graphic memoir – Palestine.

 

The novel, both written and illustrated by Sacco, is divided into nine issues, each one divided into multiple chapters. The story is built through anecdotes that he gathers as he travels across the region. In towns like Nablus, Ramallah and Hebron in the West Bank, he visits market places, hospitals, schools and local homes. He meets Palestinians who have spent multiple terms in Ansar III, the largest detention centre in the world. He travels to the extreme west to the Gaza Strip where he spends a week in the Jabalia refugee camp and witnesses first-hand the living conditions.

 

While his witty remarks often elicit laughter, the underlying tone of empathy for the helpless situation is starkly evident. For instance, his visit to Nablus, where a milkman he encounters in the market insists on playing tour guide. He drags Joe to the local hospital and tows him from bed-to-bed, introducing him to the casualties and listing the details of their injuries. The patients are not all rebels. Many, including children, are wounded by army bullets that zipped into their homes or school compounds. The situation is grim, but the writer’s presentation of the hospital as a tourist spot and himself as a tourist makes one laugh out loud.

 

The author’s intent is not to trivialize the Palestinian situation. Sacco’s use of humour manages to evoke discomfort in the reader, engrossed in the story from the warmth and safety of her home.

A chapter on Sacco’s interaction with the detainees from Ansar III highlights the fact that incarceration was an accepted fate by Palestinian men at the time. The story of the prisoners brings out nuances of life inside a detention camp, many of which are astonishing. For instance, the formation of committees among the prisoners to oversee seemingly mundane tasks like the equitable distribution of tea. And, the organization of lectures by the prisoners on topics like Einstein, philosophy and split-up of the Soviet Union. As also, their strategies based on the careful study of the soldiers’ routines, such as planning contentious activities just before the weekend, when the officers are looking forward to heading home.

 

At the end of the two months, Sacco visits Tel Aviv, the capital of Israel, on the insistence of two tourists he meets in Jerusalem. They want him to see ‘their side of things’. During those few hours in Tel Aviv, the writer sees a different side of the region, meets people who remind him of people he meets in America and Europe. He concedes that yes there is an Israeli side of the story which he has neglected in this novel, but that calls for another trip. This trip was an exercise to uncover the Palestinian perspective, largely disregarded by popular media.

 

Sacco alternates between playing narrator and protagonist. As the narrator, he shares with the reader his reflections on the people, their situation and the policies that govern this region. He also includes nuggets from history to help understand how events have evolved to reach the current status quo. With regards to the other characters, he is matter-of-fact, presenting them without over-dramatization and allowing the reader to draw conclusions.

 

The illustrations are monochromatic, and Sacco strikes a balance between vacuity and busyness in every box. Some bits are filled with fine lines, squiggles and other patterns, which enhance the starkness to the blank bits in the box. His drawings acquaint the reader with a close-up view of a land that has primarily been seen only through the long-focus lenses of reporters.

 

‘Palestine’ drives home the power of stories – they engage and thus, affect. And they stay with the reader, much after the news has been relegated to the archives.

Image – Joe Sacco’s Palestine

An image of an audio cassette

Spools of Time

Aadya BaoniLeave a comment

“Hoshwaalon ko khabar kya, bekhudi kya cheez hai.
  Ishq kijiye, phir samajhiye, zindagi kya cheez hai.”

 

Jagjit Singh’s poignant baritone blares through the record player; his voice unwavering like the finely tuned strings of a sitar.

The tape recorder splutters and stops abruptly, as the spool manages to entangle itself in an infinite warp. Like that of one’s hair, which needs to be tugged on delicately to successfully untangle the mess without tearing it off your scalp.

 

“IT’S TANGLED!” I declared.

While simultaneously reaching out for a pen that seated itself on a niche carved out of oakwood. The rear end of the pen fit generously into the groove of the cassette after multiple attempts.

 

I meticulously started rotating the pen inside the grooves. A little to the right. While easing it on the left. The black magnetic spool unwinds itself effortlessly to go back to its former state of perfectly wrapped spool ready for insertion into the record player.

 

The index finger applies pressure on the play button and the music reels in with a click.

A gentle consistent hum accompanies it in the background.

 

Record Players were an integral part of Indian households. The gentle hum of music playing from the living rooms were a welcoming sound for bypassers. They would come inside whistling and clicking their fingers to the tune of the beat.

 

Cassettes could be personalized and recorded over. The sturdiness was unmatched. And the joy lied in the drudgery of flipping the cassette from Side A to Side B. 

 

There were no advertisements that interspersed the music, which modern forms of online platforms tend to do; in a conscious effort to make one indulge in consumables. It would be pushed down one’s throat like a spoon of bitter gourd being force fed to a child. In the assumption that it would perhaps make life a more pleasurable experience.

 

The plastic cover which encapsulated the spool would not shy away from scratches and dents. It would brave the torrential mood swings and bickering of the husband and wife, while the youngest offspring decided to teeth on it vigorously. 

 

And yet, the spool would roll seamlessly indifferent to the atrocities imposed on its exterior.

These seemingly ordinary pieces of plastic had worlds of music inside them. Music that had the ability to uplift one’s mood or be one’s companion on a lonely night. Choosing the right music to capture the essence of the living room was a herculean task. It involved sifting through covers of music with different layout. 

 

It was like a library that tempted you with book covers in various hues; adorned with illustrations. The back jacket of the book would provide one with a luring glimpse of the contents. 

 

The music emanating from the cassette would determine which song would be stuck in my head. It would refuse to go out of one’s mind, like a piece of gravel stuck in one’s shoes…reminding one of its constant presence while walking down a crowded street, and offering a sense of familiarity.

 

 

Image by Ståle Freyer from Pixabay

 

 

 

 

 

Krishn and Arjun at Kurukshetra Battlefield

The Heroes are Dead 

TheSeer TeamLeave a comment

Mythology and historical tales are an interesting part of the everyday life of inquisitive people. It always calls for inspiration and the power to bring about a change. The change is felt deep within but no effort is taken towards achieving it. Let alone the excuses one follows while being driven to the decision of not going all the way. Be it the inspiring Krishna or Rama, Arjun or Hanuman, or even the mighty heroes from Greece, all are momentary whose stories turn powerless once the reader comes to a point of action. Many of them have questions like, ‘Can I make a difference? How will I be able to conquer a problem that is huge and largely deemed impossible?’

‘Myth – a traditional story, especially one concerning the early history of a people or explaining a natural or social phenomenon, and typically involving supernatural beings or events.’

All the heroes from the past are worshipped for their might, but are we willing to apply the learning from these mighty stories? The mythological tales give a perspective towards things that the audience should interpret and apply to contemporary times for their benefit.

 

The fear of judgement from society nags the masses. The stories narrated to us with a rising hope, often create a fascinating picture in the listener’s mind. The narrations of bravery and decisions made in times of trouble look wayward to the contemporary. Would you rather choose to slay your brothers in today’s world in choosing the right over wrong? In the event of a real-life circumstance, you need to quit pondering over the probabilities and take action by applying the lessons learnt out of these inspiring tales from times gone by.

 

The Kali Yuga is here, but how will you go further? We live in a world where everyone seems to be making excuses and there is no development towards cumulative betterment. Those who try to keep up the fighting spirit are being bogged down and diminished by the so-called virtuous ones in society. All those who had been applauded for their courage and mysterious outcomes are now dead. We need to look at it with some implication and application to the current scenario. The world is looking for new heroes, those who could switch the perception of the old into the new.

“कर्म करो, फल की चिंता मत करो” – श्रीमद भगवद गीता

This quote from the Bhagavad Gita translates to – ‘Set your heart upon your work but never its reward.’ By applying these lessons in everyday life, individuals who seek change can develop worthy future.

Straczynski has righty stated that the masses are going wayward and losing attention towards the contemporary – “the point of mythology or myth is to point to the horizon and to point back to ourselves: This is who we are; this is where we came from; and this is where we’re going. And a lot of Western society over the last hundred years – the last 50 years really – has lost that. We have become rather aimless and wandering.”

The modern-day heroes do exist, but they are few in number with a vast mission. Ones who will take righteous actions in everyday life need to be encouraged. Benevolence in this world full of atrocities is highly valuable. The society needs a warrior to fight the ethical devaluation and immoral activity with courageous wisdom, not swords and arrows. The outcomes of issues that have been plaguing the ethics and questioning sovereignty need acceptance. A passionate individual will drive many and create not one, but an army of societal heroes.


The quest for quick success is a myth and the war is larger than what meets the eye.

 

About the Author: Meetvan Thaker is a wordsmith with versatile interests inclined towards art with a social perspective. 

Rajagopal

More Lessons from Dosa King Rajagopal’s Death

Abhishek JhaLeave a comment

How dear is your reputation to you? If you are an individual who is reputed and well respected in the world, and if it comes to a situation where you get to keep either your life or your reputation, what would you choose? It is not a trivial question, you’ve heard stories of men and women who died for their honour! I would like you to take some time and ponder. You may reach a point in your reflections where you will want to remember your actions that took you there. Take one-step further and now think of this – you are not going to die, that is not your option now but you lose your reputation and you would need to live without the dignity you had earned with mountains of efforts. Would you feel relieved to have your life spared? A fine line separates the two situations. In one, your life choice is in your hands where as in another, someone makes that choice for you. You must have heard a lot many people say that an honorable death is better than an ignoble life, but are you sure you would not choose that life over a death that promises to cover your sins?

Shift some gears. How would you see the situation if the imminent death is as ignoble as your life would be? You are not sure about things that happen after death. However, in life, you know you can control a few things even if people do not like you. Does it become easier to live then? You believe in God, so, you make him a promise – “let me live, I won’t kill anyone again.” You also know that God does not operate in your currency. You do not get a reply. Nevertheless, he is ‘your’ God, you know him well enough to believe that he will forgive you because you have atoned. God has done his work. Now, you need to come out and manage a few things in a world that is up for sale. You have powerful friends; you have wealth that injects fuel into these powerful friends. You may not know the other world but you know your way out of the incarcerations of the world-of-the-living. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. You and your powerful friends make your ignoble life a comfortable one. Slowly, you make yourself forget the reasons for your fall and buying time becomes a contest for you. You have won all the games of the world before this one. You are confident you will win this one too. So, you keep buying time until one day, you have spent all your money. You realize you were buying time from your own store. Your storekeeper throws you onto a hospital bed and whispers in your ears – “of course, you will not kill anyone again”. Your heart stops beating.

Dosa King Rajagopal evaded jail-term for 15 years before being sentenced to life-term. He surrendered with an oxygen mask on his face, developed heart problems, and went to a hospital before he died. In the face of his life and actions, how should we define ‘justice’? Is it nature doing what the oft-fallible and corruptible humans could not do? Does that mean a life sentence was not enough for his actions and he needed to die? Or should we come from the opposite side to say that it became all too easy for him in the end? A life term might have perhaps put him in a situation closer to that of the Prince Santhakumar’s family.

It may take some time for our society to understand this phenomenon. We are so bored of seeing criminals dying their natural death before the courts are able make up their minds that it comes as no surprise any longer. To me, death is not justice. Death may wear the mask of poetic justice but poetic justice does not care for time and proportion. In effect, poetic justice is not justice at all. It is the consolation prize of the losing side.

Rajagopal did not serve his sentence. He was never going to be living behind the bars but he has died with all his dignity crushed and ground to dust. The winds of the coastline that carried his fame to far-off lands have now drowned themselves in the sea. The chaos of renown has turned into a lull of condemnation. Saravana Bhavan’s story will always carry the blandness of vanity and the vapidity of overcooked lust. Its success tale will always carry the rancid odour of the ghost and that might remain our only consolation.

Junior doctors at NRS Medical College and Hospital demonstrate against West Bengal Chief Minister Mamata Banerjee in Kolkata.(ANI)

O Doctor! My Doctor! Our Fearful Trip is Done?

Shilpita BiswasLeave a comment

When I was a child, my mother always used to say that doctors are the living embodiment of God. I never understood what she meant by that but nevertheless, I believed her. I have grown up watching people obey and respect doctors, place them on the highest pedestals of our society and worship them – and then, I have seen people curse them, beat them and if need be, kill them! Gradually, I started asking myself, is this how we worship Gods? Is this what we do—repay humanity with vengeance? Are doctors truly gods in the first place?

I write this article a few weeks after a heinous incident shook the core of our nation. On 10th June, 2019, two on-duty intern doctors, Dr. Paribaha Mukhopadhyay and Dr. Yash Tekwani of Nil Ratan Sircar Medical College & Hospital (NRSMCH), Kolkata, West Bengal were attacked by a mob of 200 goons, all claiming to be relatives and well-wishers of a 75-year old patient who had passed away in the evening after a major heart attack. While Paribaha suffered a deep dent on the frontal bone of the skull and was admitted in an ICU at The Institute of Neurosciences, Kolkata, Yash also had a serious head injury. What ensued thereafter, were a political melodrama, harassments caused to thousands of patients, more attacks on doctors all over the state, mass resignation of doctors and medical professors all over the country and most importantly, a nationwide protest of a magnitude not witnessed in India for a long time.

The NRS incident was neither the first nor the last attack on doctors. On one hand, when the nationwide protest was going on demanding the safety of the medical fraternity and proper infrastructure in government hospitals, on 14th June, 2019, a doctor in Gaya district in Bihar was tied to a tree, while goons gang-raped his wife and robbed him. On that same day, the owners of a dog in Kerala assaulted a veterinary doctor. The list goes on!

As I kept pondering over the grave situation, the question that kept on haunting me was why would people feel the need to take up arms against doctors in the first place! Of course, the answer to this question brought me to the dark side of the medical fraternity. Often, people complain about doctors refusing to treat poor patients in government hospitals and instead, forcing them to make appointments in their private chambers. People who cannot afford to make such appointments are forced to undergo treatments in government hospitals under extremely poor conditions, which often leads to medical negligence and imminent death of the patient. In addition to this, India remains an easy market for illegal organ trade where avaricious doctors trick and coerce financially unstable and illiterate people in donating their kidneys, liver etc. and sell them for lakhs of money.

I also dug out certain facts on the other side from some of my friends who are ex-students of NRSMCH and had participated in this movement. In our country, the situation is such that around four doctors are operating the emergency of a government hospital with the help of nurses and other staff. Adding to this, the OPD ticket cost is as low as 2 rupees per patient, which is even less than the one-way bus fare of the patient. Even with minimum infrastructure and unchecked patient load, doctors manage to perform their duties in these adverse conditions, sacrificing their own family lives. Under such circumstances, when a patient is brought to the emergency in a delicate condition, even after all necessary measures required to resuscitate him are taken, he might succumb to the natural consequences. However, when truckloads of goons attack a doctor or assault him, the only defense he has is his knowledge – not a gun, not a stick, not an iron rod, not a brick – only knowledge! It seems though, that lately, knowledge is falling short and the saviors of the world are quickly becoming the victims while the government and the police authorities stand aside without uttering a word, witnessing these events as silent spectators.

As I pause to conclude this outpour, I realize with a heavy heart that I am writing this on 1st July, 2019—the day celebrated as National Doctor’s Day all over India in memory of Dr. Bidhan Chandra Roy on his birthday. He was a man who believed in People – irrespective of religion, caste, creed, or political views. He believed in humanity! I wonder if this is the India he dreamt of freeing from the British stronghold – a world where innocent doctors pay for the sins of money-mongering doctors who use their knowledge for some sinister business. Or a world where a mob is ready to assault doctors whenever it is discontented! It is true that if a patient feels that his doctor is at fault, he has the right to question him but as patients and caretakers, it also becomes our responsibility to opt for the right recourse.

The act of hooliganism witnessed by Bengal on the night of 10th June, 2019 must be condemned with the severest of measures taken against the perpetrators. The whole nation stood by Bengal in this time of distress because it was the right thing to do. However, it is high time that we start addressing the real issues haunting the lives of millions of people in our country and uproot them root and stem, that we start asking questions more often without waiting for a Paribaha or a Yash to get attacked while serving the people of this country!

लिंच होने से बचने का रामबाण

Abhishek JhaLeave a comment

कल जब घर से निकलना तो कुछ मत बोलना, सच तो बिल्कुल नहीं। ये पुराना वाला इंडिया ही है, इसे सच से एलर्जी है। इसके लिए सच वो कीड़ा है जो एक दिन अजगर बन कर तुमको ही निगल लेगा। ये नया इंडिया भी है, यहाँ सच का डेमोनेटाइज़ेशन हो चुका है। सच लीगल टेंडर नहीं रहा। यहाँ झूठ के अलग अलग ठेकेदार हैं, सबका अपना अपना यू.पी.आई. है। किसी के साथ भी खाता खोलो और झूठ के लेन-देन में शुरू हो जाओ। महफूज़ रहो।

कल जब घर से निकलना तो चुप रहना। कल जब बाज़ार में कोई जेब काट ले, दो गालियाँ परोस दे, धक्का दे दे, या सामने से आकर घूँसा ही बरसा दे, चुप रहना। ये वही पुराना इंडिया है, ये घर में घुसकर मुसलमानों को मारता है, ये बाहर निकलकर हिंदुओं को जलाता है। यहाँ आज भी वो सब मुमकिन है जो पहले मुमकिन था। ये नया इंडिया भी है, ये अब मारते वक़्त रिकॉर्डिंग भी करता है और 4जी स्पीड पर लाइव स्ट्रीमिंग भी क्योंकि ये इंडिया एक भीड़ है, कभी हिंदुओं की भीड़ तो कभी मुसलमानों की भीड़। इस भीड़ का कोई चेहरा नहीं, सिर्फ मज़हब और जात होता है। इस भीड़ को सबूत होते हुए भी गिरफ्तार नहीं किया जा सकता। भेड़ियों की भीड़ में तुम जज़्बाती मेमने – चुप रहना। आज ज़्यादा मिमियाओगे तो फिर कभी नहीं मिमिया पाओगे। शाम को घर वापस आ जाना, बिना कोई नयी दुश्मनी मोल लिये। समाज को ठीक करने की ज़िम्मेदारी जिसे दी थी वो बैट लेकर समाज को पीट रहा है। तुम कौन से समाज-सुधारक बनने निकले हो? चुप रहना सीखो, आदत डालो, आईने के सामने ख़ामोशी की प्रैक्टिस करो।

ये सब इसलिए बता रहा हूँ कि कल जब घर से निकलो तो लिंच न हो जाओ। हो सके तो भीड़ का साथ दे देना, उसमें सेफ्टी है। लिंच करने वालों में शामिल हो जाना, लिंच होने वाले तो कमज़ोर होते हैं। असली इंडियन लिंच करता है, होता नहीं। इससे पहले कि कल किसी लिंच मॉब के हाथों तुम्हारा फ्री एकाउंट खत्म कर दिया जाए, आज किसी लिंच मॉब के पेड सब्सक्राइबर बन जाओ। ये नया इंडिया है, पुराने इंडिया वाले अपने बाप वाली गलती को मत दोहराना। वो मेम्बरशिप टालता रहा, इसलिए लिंच हो गया।

और तुम – जो आज अपने घर वापस नहीं जा पाओगे, कहीं किसी चौराहे पर लिंच कर दिए जाओगे, मुझे माफ कर देना। मुझे ये हिदायतें आज सूझीं, वरना शायद तुम्हारी मदद कर सकता। पर ये सिर्फ हिदायतें हैं, इनसे किसी की जान बच जाये, ये ज़रूरी नहीं। वैधानिक चेतावनियाँ जारी करने का अधिकार सिर्फ सरकार को है, उसी सरकार को जो वैधानिक शराब का ठेका चलाती है। मेरी बातों को कौन मानेगा? मैंने तो कभी एक पान भी नहीं बेचा। सो तुम चिंता मत करो, ये नया इंडिया है। तुम कोई आखिरी लिंच होने वाले इंसान नहीं हो। लिंचिंग वायरल हो चुका है। वो भी ऑर्गनिकली। बस ऊपर जाकर न्यू इंडिया वाले चैनल को सब्सक्राइब कर लेना। सारे लिंच अप्डेट्स मिलते रहेंगे।

अल्लाहू अकबर। जय श्री राम।