Whose history does the sad goddess sing about?

In the poem Colonial Girl’s School, Olive Senior writes about how her school, in Jamaica taught her the language of Shakespeare and declensions in Latin but “Told us nothing about ourselves, There was nothing about us at all.” A land ruled by another race is distinctly different from its past. There are erasures and continuity is compromised in this subordinated life. However their products still have deep-rooted connection to what can be called home; like the Lhamo, for instance. The Tibetan opera is a form that has found strength in its identity as a displaced art. Not long ago, it was an unchanging tradition that was passed down over centuries in the strictest discipline. It has, however, now found new strength by drawing attention to itself as a rootless tradition. Lhamo has transformed itself into a window to the historic and cultural past of the Tibetan people. The form itself is quite different from the Peking Opera not only in its style but also due to its highly Classical (Sanskrit) structure. It also gives a much more important position to women due its origins which trace the first performers as women (the word Lhamo which means Goddess, comes from a phrase that they look like dancing Goddesses). The significance of this art form was so high in Tibetan culture, that when his Holiness, Dalai Lama came to India in 1959, one of the first institutions he established was the Tibetan Institute of Performance Arts. It was under his efforts that there has been a recent attempt to revive the Shoton festival, to encourage Lhamo performances. Traditionally, this festival was held for a week at Norbolinga, in Tibet, the summer palace of his Holiness with performances by the four district troupes of Tibet. In India, the troupes come from different settlements across the country, though the main performances are from TIPA itself.

As encouraging as it sounds, we must pay attention to the deteriorating interest in the Lhamo. The length of the plays (they are originally seven hours long) too discourages many from taking an active interest in it. Even though modern versions are brought down to the usual two-hour traffic, the apathy towards Lhamo continues. With stylized dance moves and high-pitched singing, it has taken up a ceremonious role in the society as opposed to its traditional role as an entertainment for the masses. Some say that the reason behind this lack of interest is due to the lack of quality Lhamo. Students these days are more interested in training themselves in dance and music and the Lhamo becomes a routine feature of their annual activities. Since it is easy for a good musician or a good dancer to get cast in chief parts of Lhamo, specially trained actors have become a rarity in this craft.

If one digs deeper considering the attrition as a symptom rather than a cause in itself, we can see that the chief reason is that despite its captivating ritual-nature, the Lhamo falls short due to its limited canon. Outside the dozen or so traditional works inspired from Sanskrit, there have been a few original plays written for performance. Most of them are invariably weak as the new plots are framed in the same structure with similar characters, as well as borrowing heavily from dance sequences from traditional plays. Most importantly, no songs are originally written but used from the traditional repertoire. This presents with very little scope for innovation and driven many students away from the theatrical side of things. Interestingly, a form which has survived and thrived without any formal structure has fallen on hard times despite organized support in the form of TIPA. What could be the reason?

The answer is a little anti-climactic for its obvious nature. It is the structure that has changed the fortunes of the Lhamo. Well, the structure that has been brought upon by the displacement. What was once a tradition that was home-grown in each district with its own regional flavor, was now a composite cultured in a forced environment of the Institute. The voice of the oppressed never finds the same pitch if it is silenced once, for there has been a change. This change in the state of life has sadly never been addressed by TIPA. Instead of forming a powerful that could speak aloud bravely of the tragic tale of their homeland, TIPA has manufactured the perfect Cultural-Historical sample piece which makes no effort to developing into an organic, contemporary form. Rather than focusing on turning the Lhamo into a vehicle for the future which focuses on contemporary problems of this displaced society, it has become a mere spectacle which commands little attention even from its own people. As a people who were forced to find homes in an alien land, the Tibetan public could not make a connection with the folk tales whose meaning have only an ironic value today. Disconnect, however, does not occur in isolation.

Since it is easier to ignore that which is politically uncomfortable, the refugee becomes the biggest blot on the clean chit of diplomacy. How can we get investors from China when those who fled the country are treated with dignity within the boundaries of our nation? We change our stand. The unconditional welcome to the fleeing thousands is cast outside the discourse of politics. We give them shelter, like we give shelter to dogs in the rain. But we really do not care much about the politics of why they are here. We do not want to find out. What drove them? Oh, Lhasa is a very cold place; so they wanted to move somewhere warmer. It is easier to believe that. So continues our hand-wringing, apologetic explanations of the embarrassment that our guests have become. India is a nation without a middle class. The top five percent of the nation controls its majority resources. When the picture of India needs some shining, all the remaining 95% is brushed under the carpet. Minorities, tribal peoples, refugees; they are the same. They are the collective shame of a nation which is fast trying to be developed nation. How do we do that? We will them into a collective non-existence. We change our past. They are there but we pretend they are not; like cockroaches.
Indians have an obsession with history. Like any other country in the world, we have books on history in school, compulsorily read till class ten. But unlike any other country in the world, our history books are dialogues of a total, singular Indian identity with the rest of the world. We are so involved in our pasts that we have developed an ingenious system of filtering, which selects which history is non-offensive to a certain national character we are supposed to accept and be proud of. The event which has had the highest impact on the modern Indian nation is not liberalization as the World-Indian-Citizens would like one to believe, but the Emergency. And still, it is reduced to a paragraph with three lines in it, mentioning the start of it, the end date and what its constitutional position is. Nobody is willing to tackle the emergency in its own terms. Once we are willing to assume a purpose and a position, there is nothing that we are not willing to compromise to achieve it. Education is always the first victim to this sense of purpose. So has it been the case in a place like TIPA.

The students are selected, almost at random, when they are as young as seven or eight years of age. They are isolated and trained in an academy which also gives them a regular school education. However, the question of choice is totally eliminated. This might have produced great actors in the past where children are simply hypothecated to performance groups. It does not, however, work in a world where they have been displaced from what was once their home. They are not just performers but are loaded with the double responsibility of representing their nation-in-exile as well as being artistes. This is where we realize that a specific system of education has hurt them enough for many students to not want to pursue the course they are supposed to follow. It is tragic, particularly when a form which could be a protest in its sheer performance, becomes an archaic, out-dated and inaccessible element in the minds of the people who are supposed to take it forward.

What could be done? For all the good work TIPA has done in the past years, it has also secluded itself from the rest of the town and townsfolk. To re-integrate itself with its people is the only way to allay any hostility towards “the tourist-like attitude of the people from TIPA”. Any sense of resistance must first come from within. For this very reason, the Lhamo needs to not only find new tales to tell but also find new music and expression to give life to those new tales. The double consciousness of being an individual as well as a refugee must not be compromised in following a system of art. In essence, a shift from an eclectic towards the popular will create new avenues for this otherwise captivating art form.

And from this, a form will spring forth, which can reach its audience while demonstrating contemporary concerns. Children would learn from songs, about the past and their futures for statistics can explain only so much. For not just what we learn, but the way we learn it has a role to play in what we retain and what we let go.

An Enemy in My State of Being

Bharat Bandh

Bandh - to close/stop/nullify.

"Is this how you raise a protest? By coercing people?" "Anyone who says that a protest is raised in any other way, is a liar - a big fat one."

Enough has been said. But nothing happens.

My head is hung low and my hand raised high; I am a slave in this soverign, socialist, secular, democratic, republic of India.

Visuals of a man slapping another into submission when he tries getting into a train. We don't slap back. Andheri, one of the most crowded railway stations in the world, is empty. Today is not a Monday. As the French call it, we like "faire le point" - to make an extension. It's Monday; a convenient day to call a bandh. We have three days of a weekend instead of two. What is the price of this convenience? Shame. We don't give a fuck. We are happy being slaves.

Practically, who bears the brunt of this grand gesture? Who pays the price tomorrow for the vegetables and meat rotting in the godowns today? Who has to meet impossible deadlines at work? Who has to lose a job? Who has to lose his life? Not you - that pretend that standing on top a train and posing for cameras is protest. I have to. My father, my mother, my neighbors, my friends. We pay twice the amount of things because of your tyranny.

If this state, which has so vocally called everything to stand-still, really cares for its people that it wants the prices of feul to come down; why does it not bear a loss and take a cut on taxes from its share of the price? Which one of these spineless snails came out to say, we shall work one day extra without a pay, for the govt has cut ten rupees from the overall fuel prices in India. Then too, petrol was still two rupees dearer in Kolkata than any other city. Madras, which has to bear additional transportation costs for fuel still stood at 42, when I shelled out 44 here in the City of Joy. What right does this hypocritical government have to "enforce" an illegal bandh?

You want a bandh. I will tell you how to really get that done. If your problem is with the Lawmakers, Block them in a room; without allowing the margin space to get up and stretch their hands. Twelve hours; refuse use of toilet or access to food and medicines. You want to hurt someone, try starting from the top. You motherfuckers will not dare to. Just like the cry for rebellion will always start and end with gutting of the police constable who has no reason to think he is an "Other"; this so-called excercise on democracy will piss on only those who will open their mouths wide and smile. Mark my words, one of these days, someone is going to do something about this. One random day, one of these people who are so happy to call a bandh as a right to protest will be protested against. Twelve-hours/twenty four, it doesn't matter. They will be shamed when they faint from hunger and collapse in the middle of an unforgiving crowd of self-respecting individuals. Shitting themselves to their real disgusting selves; they will never recover the respect that they pretend they command.

78 BEST buses have been reported to have been damaged in Mumbai. Reported. How many others, we do not know. Throwing stones at a bus is not protest. It is violence against public property. Why should I abstain from throwing a bigger stone back at he who cast the first stone? He has broken the law. Why should I be a better citizen? Why should I stop with stones; what about bullets? Why can I not just set fire to him as he sets fire to the bus that has been bought with the money that my father could have used to buy our household any comfort that we would have enjoyed; but rather paid as taxes.? You break a law and I break your bone. Protest that. I will break your bone again. This is not tyranny. This is a need for justice. If you choose to live under a system, you have to accept its laws. If you want to change them, you have to do that in its own terms. Take to the streets and make a circus; that is because you are not qualified to know any better. Do you not have your best friends in the media to give a full day ego massage to your misdemeanors? The next time you lie down on a railway track, the train will run over you and make you into a faceless pulp that is useless for anything except feeding vultures. At least, those vultures wait until one is dead. You bastards; you eat my liver when I am taking a nap.

My head hung low and hand raised high; I am a slave. Because I do nothing about it.

End of An Era

It's the monsoons again. My third one here. The strange thing with every passing year is that, as we grow up, time seems to rush past us. Remember the year 1998? I don't. Not most of it. Just one thing stands out more than the others; waiting for it to get over. The whole year. Why? Because 1999 was such a cool number. The year 1999 was spent anticipating the change which happened once in thousand years. That's something that 30 generations of people before and after me would not be able to do; to change the first number in the four-digit year. Wating to traverse those tweleve months seemed like the slowest journey one could make. What about the other things done in that year? Memory, like a photo album, captures moments with its tales wrapped underneath. I could recover a special moment from that age if I really tried. But those which stand untarnished and at the top of my mind are those from the recent past. For the want of a better bracketing, let me say, the past two years.
There are two kinds of memory. Not in the physio-psychological manner but in the everyday sense of things. Memories we long for and memories we wish to avoid. Most times, our minds make one of the other; through a process of selection. That is why we should be wary of thinking that everything from the good times was great and everything that sucked was horrible. We select our memories. We choose a few and reject the others; to make our versions of ourselves consistent. That is how much we love ourselves.
Masters' in English is done and how much have I learnt and how much have I given back to the world? Questions I cannot answer. The direction in which I am set to travel becomes clearer. Things change and they remain the same. One can only keep walking. I think I have and I will. But when I look out the window and see the freshly drenched leaves showing multiple shades of green thanks to the muted light from the sun; I realize that it has all truly rolled to a stop. Two July 1sts ago, I stepped into the Department of English, Jadavpur University as a fresher. Two years have passed exactly and now, I am back where it all started; a professional/academic ground-zero. The possibilities are endless. Now, the next step beckons.

Gemini to Lighthouse; in fifteen minutes or less!

I have often wondered, if I could write about Madras the same way I once wrote about Calcutta - with the fascination of discovery and the serendipity that only new things can bring. I realized that I cannot. However, I also figured that I can write about Madras in a different way - a way that only my experience of the city can justify. Not such a long stint of experience, to be honest. I was there for a better part of two decades in the city; however it was in the last four years that I even got to be around and know places and only in the last year, did I get to do my explorations on my own. Do I think that I am underprepared with my knowledge of Madras than that of Calcutta? Hell yeah. However, things that I do know about Madras, I know so well because those things are people and experiences to me. This once, I was writing to a friend about the weather here in Calcutta. Suddenly, I found myself in a narration of a single stretch of the city without the people or its experiences but just the place in itself. I have given the excerpt from the same as follows...

Tell me what's happening in your city? The weather'z been a psychotic bitch here. Presently, (however) its a pleasant, cool, before the rain moment. Should not blame the weather when she is being kind. What about there? Have you ridden with your hair down on the beach road, on a hot sticky day when nothing as much as a leaf seems to move? It's a pretty thing about Madras. You are at Gemini, you feel like killing the guy honking next to you. At Stella, you feel inspired to run over those careless girls with big smiles shared only between themselves that cross greedily over to Gangothri. You move a little ahead and see that some punk-bitch thinks that he is so gangsta that he can cut widely across from left to right and take the lane to Chola. Many times, one wishes to not brake hard but make a bender on the fender of that Benz. The crossing after Gopalapuram (which you reach in normal time if the CM does not decide to come back home for an early lunch), is pure hell. Welcome to Alwarpet. Expensive restaurants and bad looking office building takes you into the most annoying road in the city before ending up in another annoying part of the city; Adyar. Let me not even go there. Seriously. No matter how much I would like to. Not because I am banned from that area. You know that it does not matter even if I am; because if I want to, I will. But let me stop the rambling, which is not unlike the Alwarpet road itself. Of course, I have had a nice dinner at Sangeetha's and many a good lunches at Sandeepa's. But tell me, have you never wanted to kill some of the signals there, if not someone at these signals? Coming back to the slice of life that Radhakrishnan salai is; let me linger on for a moment on one of the better things in that road. If you can go over the fly-over by the Music-Academy (which is, undoubtedly one of my most favorite spots in the city), then you are saved; momentarily. For the next right is, you are right, Mylapore. That whore has never sat on my lap. I still don't understand why one of the most hectic places in the city is called that. Except for the Saravana Bhavan (not so much an ego massage here, as much as a quick evening snack or a lovely late night dinner) on the corner, I would like to give this right turn life and make it human, just so that I may throttle it to a sweet, never ending death. A few other choice restaurants that taunt me with their air-conditioned interiors and many a high-rise buildings that have come up so quickly that makes me wonder if they were just cardboard cutouts. Moments pass by as I still think of the destination I seek; my client! Oh, there, with a massive overly done facade and an impressive looking approach, stands the citi-centre building. I am like, here'z my stop, I have to get in. Almost with resignation. I slow down and the indicator is on. I slowly drift towards that right. Something inside kicks into action. The indicator is off; noone was looking anyway, it is 3 in the afternoon. I give an extra turn to the throttle and roars my lovely bike forward. I slide between other vehicles that move forward like human sacrifices to the pit in an Indiana Jones movie. Something strikes my face apart from the oppressive weather. It is the winds of change. I see that the signal is red at the end of the road and Gandhi looks ahead as if he is walking out of the city. I don't care. I don't cut down on my speed. I see a white building full of cops on my right; and I still don't hesitate continuing to violate the laws. I knew that the winds of change was too dramatic an idea. I was not willing to blink though. The final moment was on me and the signal turned green. Anti-climactically, I still had to reduce my speed to take the right turn. But wait my dear, my story does not end here. I go a little further ahead and take that left just after; I park somewhere in the vicinity of the light-house. I don't have to seek its shadow. Because. I looked up and it rained. It was 3.20. My phone was ringing. It was my client. I am sorry Ron. You have to wait. I am squeezing life out of time.

I seem to have omitted writing that I had my first job on that road, my brother'z wedding, the first chance I had to betray my company, my first (subsequent) proof of corporate loyalty, my first almost-empty tank at five thirty in the morning, my first almost-accident, and so many more things that a gentleman cannot write about and friends should not ask about; have happened on that very road. But I did not write about all these things, not because they were not important but because they are of a different world and a different account. Accidentally, I seem to have stumbled on to an account of a part of the city as if it is an isolated entity, a thing in itself; not unlike my discovery of Calcutta...