Thursday, September 24, 2015

Mapilla Ramayana, Freedom of Speech, etc: Kannada Prabha Column

In the aftermath of Dr M M Kalburgi's murder, threats to Dr M M Basheer and the dozens of unreported attacks on freedom of speech, I wrote about these, and Mapilla Ramayana and other things in Binkana, my Kannada Prabha column this week.

ವಾಕ್ ಸಂಪ್ರದಾಯದ ಸತ್ಯ 
ನಮ್ಮ ನಡುವಿನ ಮಿಥ್ಯೆ 


ಹಿತ್ಲು ಮನೆಯ ಕಥೆಯಿದು. ಕರ್ಕ್ಕಟಕಂ ಮಾಸ ಕೆಲ ದಿನಗಳ ಹಿಂದೆ ಮುಗಿದು ಈಗ ಚಿಂಗಂ ಮಾಸ ನಡೆಯುತ್ತಿದೆ, ಕೇರಳದಲ್ಲಿ. ನಮ್ಮೊರ ಕಡೆ ಕರ್ಕ್ಕಟಕಂ ಅನ್ನು ಕಕ್ಕಡ ಮಾಸ ಎಂದು ಕರೆಯುತ್ತಾರೆ. ಧೋ ಎಂದು ಮಳೆ ಸುರಿಯುವ ಆಟಿ ಮಾಸ. ಕಕ್ಕಡದಲ್ಲಿ ಆಟಿ ಸೊಪ್ಪಿನ ಪಾಯಸ - ನೇರಳೆ ಬಣ್ಣದ್ದು - ಮಾಡುವ ಸಂಪ್ರದಾಯ, ಇದು ನಾಲಿಗೆಯನ್ನು ಸ್ವಚ್ಚ ಮಾಡುತ್ತದೆ ಎಂಬ ನಂಬಿಕೆಯಿದೆ. ಕೇರಳದ ಸಾಂಸ್ಕೃತಿಕ, ಬೌಧಿಕ ವಲಯದಲ್ಲಿ ಕರ್ಕ್ಕಟಕಂ ಮಾಸವನ್ನು ರಾಮಾಯಣ ಮಾಸವೆಂದೂ ಸಹ ಕರೆಯುತ್ತಾರೆ. ಈ ರಾಮಾಯಣ ಮಾಸದಲ್ಲಿ ಮೊನ್ನೆ ಒಂದು ವಿಷಯ ನಡೆಯಿತು.

ಈ ಒಂದು ತಿಂಗಳಿನ ಕಾಲ ಪತ್ರಿಕೆಗಳು, ಮ್ಯಾಗಜಿನ್ ಗಳು ಲೇಖಕರಿಂದ, ವಿದ್ವಾಂಸರಿಂದ ರಾಮಾಯಣದ ಬಗ್ಗೆ ಅಂಕಣಗಳನ್ನು ಬರೆಸುವ ವಾಡಿಕೆ ಇದೆ. ಕೇರಳದ ದಿನಪತ್ರಿಕೆಯೊಂದು ಎಂ ಎಂ ಬಷೀರ್ ಅವರನ್ನು ವಾಲ್ಮೀಕಿ ರಾಮಾಯಣದ ಬಗ್ಗೆ ಆರು ಲೇಖನಗಳನ್ನು ಬರೆಯಲು ಆಹ್ವಾನಿಸಿತು. ಕಳೆದ ವರ್ಷವೂ ಇವರು ಇಂತಹಾ ಲೇಖನಗಳನ್ನು ಬರೆದಿದ್ದರು. ಎಪ್ಪತೈದು ವರ್ಷದ ಬಷೀರ್ ಅವರು ಪ್ರಸಿದ್ಧ ವಿಮರ್ಶಕರು, ಅಧ್ಯಾಪಕರು, ಮತ್ತು ಮಲಯಾಳಂ ನವ್ಯ ಸಾಹಿತಿಗಳ ಸಾಲಿನಲ್ಲಿ ದಿಗ್ಗಜರು. ಕುರಾನ್ ಬಗ್ಗೆಯೂ ಸಹ ವಿಮರ್ಶಿಸಿದ್ದಾರೆ ಎನ್ನುವ ಅಗತ್ಯ ಇಲ್ಲಿದೆ.

ಮೊನೆ ಕಳೆದ ರಾಮಾಯಣ ಮಾಸದಲ್ಲಿ ಅವರ ಐದು ಲೇಖನಗಳು ಹೊರಬಂದವು. ಆರನೇಯದನ್ನು ಬರೆಯುವುದಿಲ್ಲ ಎಂದು ಹೇಳಿ ನಿಲ್ಲಿಸಿದರು. ಕಾರಣ, ಕೇರಳದಲ್ಲಿ ಹೆಚ್ಚಾಗಿ ಯಾರೂ ಹೆಸರು ಕೇಳದ, ಕೇವಲ ೫೦-೬೦ ಮಂದಿ ಸದಸ್ಯರಿರುವ ಸೇನೆಯೊಂದು ಅವರಿಗೆ ಬೆದರಿಕೆ ಕರೆಗಳನ್ನು ಮಾಡಿ ಕಿರುಕುಳ ಕೊಟ್ಟಿತ್ತು. ಒಬ್ಬ ಹಾಜಿ, ಒಬ್ಬ ಮುಸ್ಲಿಂಗೆ ರಾಮಾಯಣದ ಬಗ್ಗೆ, ರಾಮನ ಬಗ್ಗೆ ಬರೆಯುವ ಹಕ್ಕೇನಿದೆ ಎಂಬುದು ಈ ಸೇನೆಯ ವಾದ. ಬಷೀರ್ ಅವರು ತಮ್ಮ ಲೇಖನಗಳಲ್ಲಿ ವಾಲ್ಮೀಕಿಯ ಶಬ್ಧಗಳನ್ನು ಉದ್ಧರಣಾ ಚಿನ್ನೆಗಳ ಒಳಗಿಟ್ಟೇ ಉಲ್ಲೇಖಿಸಿದರು ಎಂಬುದನ್ನು ಸೇನೆಯ ಸಿಪಾಹಿಗಳು ಅಲಕ್ಷಿಸಿದ್ದರು. ಈ ವಯಸ್ಸಿನಲ್ಲಿ ತನ್ನ ಇಡೀ ವಿದ್ವತನ್ನು ಕೇವಲ ತನ್ನ ಜಾತಿಗೆ ಕುಗ್ಗಿಸಿದ್ದನ್ನು ತಡೆಯಲಾಗುವುದಿಲ್ಲ ಎಂದು ಬಷೀರ್ ಅವರು ಹೇಳಿ ಆ ಆರನೇ ಲೇಖನವನ್ನು ಬರೆಯಲಿಲ್ಲ.

ಈ ವರ್ಷದ ಆದಿ ಭಾಗದಲ್ಲಿ ಪೆರುಮಾಳ್ ಮುರುಗನ್ ಎಂಬ ತಮಿಳು ಲೇಖಕರು ತಮ್ಮ ಪೆನ್ನನ್ನು ಕೈಯಿಂದ ಬಿಟ್ಟರು, ಪೆರುಮಾಳ್ ಮುರುಗನ್ ಎಂಬ ಲೇಖಕ ಇನ್ನು ಬದುಕಿ ಉಳಿದಿಲ್ಲ, ಕೇವಲ ಪಿ ಮುರುಗನ್ ಇನ್ನುಮುಂದೆ ಬದುಕಿರುತ್ತಾನೆ ಎಂದು ಹೇಳಿದ್ದರು. ಅದಕ್ಕೂ ಕಾರಣ ಯಾವುದೋ ಇನ್ನೊಂದು ಸೇನೆ. ಅವರು ಬರೆದ ಕಾದಂಬರಿಯೊಂದರಲ್ಲಿ ತಿರುಚೆಂಗೊಡುವಿನಲ್ಲಿ ನಡೆಯುವ ದೇವಸ್ಥಾನ ಜಾತ್ರೆಗೆ ಸಂಬಂದಪಟ್ಟ ಒಂದು ಸಂದಿಗ್ಧವಾದ ಸಂಪ್ರದಾಯದ ಸುತ್ತ ಕಥೆ ಸುತ್ತುವರಿಯುತ್ತದೆ. ಅದು ಶಿವನನ್ನು, ಹೆಂಗಸರನ್ನು, ಧರ್ಮವನ್ನು, ಇನ್ನೇನೆನ್ನನೋ ಟೀಕಿಸುತ್ತದೆ ಎಂದು ಕೆಲ ಗುಂಪುಗಳ ಅಭಿಪ್ರಾಯ. ಅದೆಷ್ಟೋ ಕಿರುಕುಳಕ್ಕೆ ಒಳಗಾದ ಮುರುಗನ್ ಅವರು ಇನ್ನೆಂದೂ, ಇನ್ನೇನನ್ನೂ ಬರೆಯುವುದಿಲ್ಲ ಎಂದು ಹೇಳಿಕೆ ಕೊಟ್ಟರು.

ಅದೆಷ್ಟೋ ಇಂತಹಾ ಘಟನೆಗಳು ರಾಷ್ಟೀಯ ಮಾಧ್ಯಮದ ಗಮನ ಸೆಳೆಯಲಾಗದೆ ಎಲ್ಲೋ ಮರೆಯಾಗಿ ಹೋಗುತ್ತಿವೆ. ವಾಕ್ ಸ್ವಾತಂತ್ರ್ಯದ ಇಂತಹಾ ದಾಳಿಗಳ ಹಿಂದಿರುವ ರಾಜಕೀಯ ಪಟ್ಟಭದ್ರ ಹಿತಾಸಕ್ತಿಗಳ ಚರ್ಚೆ ಇಲ್ಲಿ ಬೇಡ. ಇಲ್ಲಿರುವ ಪ್ರಶ್ನೆ ಸಾಂಸ್ಕೃತಿಕ ಇತಿಹಾಸ ಮತ್ತು ಅದರ ಪಾಲುದಾರರದ್ದು. ರಾಮಾಯಣದಂತಹಾ ಒಂದು ಮಹಾಕಾವ್ಯವನ್ನು ಪರಿಶೀಲಿಸಿದರೆ ಅದು ಒಂದು ಧರ್ಮ, ಜಾತಿಗೆ ಮೀರಿದ್ದು ಎಂದು ಸ್ಪಷ್ಟವಾಗುತ್ತದೆ. ಆ ಕಾವ್ಯದ ಮೌಲ್ಯಗಳು, ಕಥೆ - ಸಾಂಧರ್ಭಿಕ ಪ್ರಸ್ತಾಪಗಳು ದೇಶದ ಸಾಂಸ್ಕೃತಿಕ ವಲಯದ ಹಲವು ರಂದ್ರಗಳಲ್ಲಿ ಪಸರಿಸಿವೆ - ಆಡು ಭಾಷೆಯಲ್ಲಿ, ಜನಪದದಲ್ಲಿ, ಕಲಾ ಸಂಪ್ರದಾಯದಲ್ಲಿ. ಒಂದು ಧರ್ಮದ ಸ್ವತ್ತು ಎಂದೆನಿಸಿಕೊಂಡರೂ ದೇಶದ ಸಾಮೂಹಿಕ ಪ್ರಜ್ಞೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ಎಲ್ಲರಿಗೂ ಇಂತಹಾ ಸಾಂಸ್ಕೃತಿಕ ಸಂಪ್ರಯಾಯದಲ್ಲಿ ಪಾಲು, ಅದರ ಮೇಲೆ ಹಕ್ಕಿದೆ. ಮಹಾಕಾವ್ಯವೊಂದೇ ಅಲ್ಲ, ಇದು ಎಲ್ಲಾ 'ಜಾತಿ'ಗಳಿಗೆ ಸೇರಿರುವ ಸ್ಥಳ ಪುರಾಣ, ಹಾಡು-ನೃತ್ಯ, ಇನ್ನುಳಿದ ವಾಚಿಕ ಸಾಹಿತ್ಯಕ್ಕೂ ಅನ್ವಯಿಸುತ್ತದೆ.

ಮಹಾಕಾವ್ಯದ ವಿಷಯವನ್ನೇ ಮುಂದುವರಿಸುವುದಾದರೆ, ಪ್ರಸಿದ್ಧ ವಿಮರ್ಶಕ ಏ ಕೆ ರಾಮಾನುಜನ್ ಹೇಳುವ ಹಾಗೆ ಮುನ್ನೂರು ರಾಮಾಯಣ ಸಂಪ್ರದಾಯಗಳಿವೆ. ಕೆಲವೊಂದರಲ್ಲಿ ರಾಮ- ಸೀತೆ ಅಣ್ಣ ತಂಗಿಯಾಗಿರುತ್ತಾರೆ. ಈ ಮುನೂರು ರಾಮಾಯಣಗಳು ಸಾಮಾನ್ಯ ದಾಖಲೆಯಲ್ಲಿದ್ದರೆ ಇನ್ನದೆಷ್ಟೋ ದೇಶದೆಲ್ಲೆಡೆ ಹೆಚ್ಚು ಸಾರ್ವಜನಿಕವಾಗದೆ ಉಳಿದಿವೆ. ಆ ಪಟ್ಟಿಗೆ ಮಾಪಿಳ್ಳೆ ರಾಮಾಯಣ ಸೇರುತ್ತದೆ. ಇಪ್ಪತ್ತನೇ ಶತಮಾನದ ಆದಿಯಲ್ಲಿ ಜನಪ್ರಿಯಗೊಂಡ ಈ ಆವೃತ್ತಿಯಲ್ಲಿ ರಾಮ 'ಲಾಮ'ನಾಗುತ್ತಾನೆ. ಉದ್ದ ದಾಡಿಯ ಔಲಿಯೊಬ್ಬ ಹೇಳುವ 'ಲಾಮಾಯಣ'ದಲ್ಲಿ ಲಾಮನೊಬ್ಬ ಸುಲ್ತಾನ. ಮಾಪಿಳ್ಳೆ-ಪಾಟ್ ಎಂಬ ಜನಪದ ಶೈಲಿಯ ಹಾಡಿನ ಮೂಲಕ ಈ ಲಾಮಾಯಣದ ಸಾಲುಗಳನ್ನು ಹಾಡಿದ ಹಸ್ಸನ್ ಕುಟ್ಟಿಯ ಬಗ್ಗೆ ಒಂದಿಷ್ಟು ವಿಮರ್ಶೆ ನಡೆದಿದೆ. ದುರ್ದೈವವಶಾತ್ ಈ ಲಾಮಾಯಣದ ಐದರಲ್ಲಿ ಒಂದು ಭಾಗವಷ್ಟೇ ಉಳಿದುಕೊಂಡಿದೆ.

ಮೊನ್ನೆ ಕೇರಳದ ಸ್ನೇಹಿತನೊಂದಿಗೆ ಈ ಲಾಮಾಯಣದ ಹಾಡನ್ನು ಕೇಳುತ್ತಾ ಇದ್ದೆ. ತಲೆಯಲ್ಲೇ ಉಳಿಯುವಂತಹಾ ರಾಗ, ಮಜವಾದ ಸಾಲುಗಳು, ಮಲಬಾರ್ ಪ್ರಾಂತದಲ್ಲಿ ತೀರಾ ಸ್ಥಳೀಯವಾಗಿ ಬಳಸುವ ಮಲಯಾಳಂ ಶಬ್ದಗಳು. ಸೂರ್ಪಣಕೆ ರಾಮನನ್ನು ಒಲಿಸಲು ಪ್ರಯತ್ನಿಸುತ್ತಿದ್ದಾಗ ರಾಮ ಶರಿಯತ್ ಕಾನೂನನ್ನು ಉಲ್ಲೇಖಿಸುತ್ತಾನೆ. ಇದು ಆ ಧರ್ಮದ ಗ್ರಂಥವೆಂದು ನೋಡಲು ಬರುವುದಿಲ್ಲ. ವಾಕ್ ಸಂಪ್ರದಾಯದ ಒಂದು ಪ್ರಮುಖ ಅಂಶವೇನೆಂದರೆ ಪ್ರತಿಯೊಂದು ಕಥೆಯನ್ನು ತಮ್ಮದಾಗಿಸಿಕೊಳ್ಳುವುದು, ಆ ಆ ಪ್ರಾಂತ್ಯದಲ್ಲಿ ಪ್ರಚಲಿತವಿರುವ ಸಂಸ್ಕೃತಿಗೆ ಕಥೆ-ಕಾವ್ಯ-ಹಾಡನ್ನು ಅಳವಡಿಸುವುದು. ಇಂತಹಾ ಉಲ್ಲೇಖನಗಳಿಗೆಲ್ಲಾ ಧರ್ಮ, ಜಾತಿಯ ಬಣ್ಣ ನೀಡಿದರೆ ಈ ದೇಶದ, ಯಾಕೆ, ಈ ಜಗತ್ತಿನ ಪ್ರತಿಯೊಂದು ವಾಕ್ ಸಂಪ್ರದಾಯದ ನಿಜತ್ವವನ್ನು ಪ್ರಶ್ನಿಸಬೇಕಾಗುತ್ತದೆ.

ಒಂದು ದೇಶದ ಸಂಸ್ಕೃತಿ ಬೆಳೆಯುತ್ತಾ ಬಂದ ಪರಿಸರ. ಅದು ಬೆಳೆಯುತ್ತಲೇ ಇರುವಂತದ್ದು. ಇದನ್ನು ಬೆಳೆಸುವ, ನಿರಂತರವಾಗಿ ಬದಲಿಸುವ ವಾಸ್ತುಶಿಲ್ಪಿಗಳು - ಅದರ ಸಮಾನ ಹಕ್ಕುದಾರರು - ಪ್ರಮುಖವಾಗಿ ದಿನನಿತ್ಯವೂ ಅದರಲ್ಲಿ ಬದುಕುವವರು. ಬರಹಗಾರ, ಲೇಖಕ, ಕಲಾವಿದ ಎಂದೂ ಸಹ ಕರೆಯಲ್ಪಡುವವರು. ದಬ್ಬಾಳಿಕೆಯನ್ನು ಎದುರಿಸಿದಾಗ ಅದರ ವಿರೋಧ ಮಾಡುವುದು ಸಂಸ್ಕೃತಿಯ ಭಾಗವೊಂದನ್ನು ಸೃಷ್ಟಿಸುವವನ ಸಹಜ ಪ್ರತಿಕ್ರಿಯೆ. ಲೇಖಕನಿರಬಹುದು, ಅಲೆಮಾರಿ ಔಲಿಯಾಗಿರಬಹುದು. ರಾಜಕೀಯ, ಇನ್ನಿತರ ಬಣ್ಣಹೊಂದ ಸಂಕುಚಿತ ಮನೋಭಾವದಿಂದ ಎಲ್ಲವನ್ನು ನೋಡುವ ಈ ನಿರ್ಭಂದಿತ ವಾತಾವರಣ ಹರಡುತ್ತಿರಬೇಕಾದರೆ ಈ ನಮ್ಮ ಸಾಮೂಹಿಕ ಸಂಸ್ಕೃತಿಯೆಂಬುದು ಬೆಳೆಯುವುದಿರಲಿ, ನಿಂತ ನೀರಾಗಿಬಿಡುತ್ತದೆ.

ಜಗತ್ತಿನ ಯಾವ ಸಂಸ್ಕೃತಿಯೂ ಜಡವಲ್ಲ.
   

Tuesday, September 15, 2015

Bhaskar Ghose's Parricide: A Review in The New Indian Express

It had been a while since I read a racy, pulp fiction-ish novel. And then this came along for review. It had been a while since I finished any book in one sitting. That is of course not to say that this book was that good. Anyway, here is a review of it in The New Indian Express. Or see a slightly unedited version below.

BHASKAR GHOSE'S PARRICIDE

At that time, in the arts organisation where I worked, everyone was talking about Fifty Shades of Grey. For a laugh, I downloaded a copy and started to read it, but gave up on perhaps the 12th page when Anastasia's blush was compared to the colour of the communist manifesto. By then she had already blushed an average of three times per page. The tedious repetition of a sentiment, or verb, in this case, and its uselessness in doing anything to develop either the character or the storyline of Fifty Shades of Grey unwittingly came to my mind while reading Bhaskar Ghose's Parricide. The book is rife with the sentiment of melancholy, our hero Ravi 'is melancholy' too often. A lot. The comparison is grossly unfair though. Parricide is a far better book than that other apology for an erotic novel. That is not to say that it might not have been even better if some corners had been trimmed, if the melancholy had been reined in a little.

Parricide follows the story of Ravi, good looking in an effeminate way, a heartthrob, and his relationship with this father, a tyrant who made Ravi's childhood miserable. In the early pages of the book the father Satyendra Kumar dies and thereupon begins Ravi's understanding of old secrets, secrets that will help him reconcile and even empathise with the way his father was. There are relationships along the way, flashbacks from the past and the mistakes of the now. Throw into the mix a best friend with great insights into the workings of Ravi's mind, a colleague who hand holds him through his bouts of depression, an uncle who is more a father than the biological father, some parties and social events and doses of pop psychology and what you get is a novel that aspires to be a film. Unintentional as it may be, the screenplay feel never goes away in the details, be it the make of someone's car or while setting the scene, "...a rather unkempt park in front of the houses, partly lit by street lights."

The storyline tackles the difficult condition of depression, albeit lightly, in keeping with the general breezy-ness of the story. Why do we feel the way we feel? The strangeness of certain emotions that spring up and catch you by surprise, when you aren't entirely sure where you are or why you feel this way or not, these commonplace things that are increasingly an inescapable part of a fast, frenzied modern life are worked well into the story. Ravi feels them, feels a void, he doesn't know why. Even in the few odd times that he suspects why he might be sucked into a deep, black void, he refuses to acknowledge that it could be because of his father, the father he hated all his life, the father he rejected wholly. Along the way, he makes his friends worry. It gets worse before it gets better. But he does of course get better, thanks to a girl, a job well done, best friends and resulting realizations in due course of time.

Parricide runs through with a rather predictable storyline. But I suspect it did not have grand literary ambitions to begin with. What pulls you along is a gentle narrative, peppered generously with lives that any city dweller might relate to, and a small towner would aspire for, simple language that isn't taxing or complicated. Fans of a certain other very popular author whose books are turned into glossy movies will find much that is enjoyable in Parricide.

Monday, September 07, 2015

A Long Drive: Travel Story in TNIE

Long drives with the super chilled out parents have been a thing for years. This one, from a most lovely week spent at home in Madikeri was particularly nice. I wrote about it for The New Indian Express here. Or see a slightly unedited version below.

RIDER IN THE STORM

A collection of picture postcards must not be joy to browse through, every day. I could imagine how it can get, tedium with the constant presence of everything that adheres to the accepted ideas of landscape beauty. So it is for me, having lived a lot of my life in the verdant excesses of Kodagu (Coorg, if a travel agent tells you this story), and having family that always did long drives, picnics, treks and other outdoorsy things, come hail or storm. The storm part, quite literally. This past week or so, back home on a little break to soak in what was left of the monsoon, all that I was going to do was read and watch the rains, my dog Vira at my feet wondering if I would let him eat my phone, a tall mug of coffee at the window sill…that sort of picture perfect holiday. What could be that great about another drive? Sure, dad promised it was through forests and stuff, but I have seen enough of those. Being home on a break means to vegetate, I protest.

But the drive still happened. Some vignettes:

Madikeri is well soaked that day in lazy mist, the kind that floats in, curious, if you open the bedroom window and sits next to you, peering into your book and cooling your coffee naughtily. Grey clouds above, a powdery rain, the weather of my childhood. From Madikeri we take the Talacauvery – Bhagamandala route, the latter being the birth place of River Cauvery. Big pilgrimage spot and everything, it is. The route is as I remember it, lush, flanked on either side by coffee estates, fields and villages with two shops and many jeeps. We pass by a Coffee Bar, set up years ago by a women’s cooperative. The coffee they served was without chicory, I like mine with; so I hadn’t liked their brew. Two other shacks have come up next to it now. Everyone sells blingy packaged chips and local biscuits these days. The air gets cooler, these parts get a lot more rain than my town.

***
We don’t enter temple town. Just before, there is a turn right that takes you to a village called Karike, through Talacauvery Wildlife Sanctuary, a sanctuary I never knew existed. This is when I begin to gasp and become wide eyed at every corner and turn. The road is narrow, but fairly well maintained. It is a shorter route for people travelling from North Kerala to say, Mysore, so several KL registered cars pass us by. It is the tail end of the monsoon, so rains are infrequent elsewhere, not here though. Not torrential, but a rain that can’t seem to make up its mind between a drizzle and a shower joins us along the route. On the right are several dozen waterfalls, some tiny and cute, like something you want to coochie-coo at. Others are taller. Still polite though, the menace with which Ma says they drenched our car, this one time, must have ended with the heavy rains of July. We stop often to admire the bigger ones. To the left are deep, very deep valleys. Like an umbrella, are very tall trees, the kind that have to look up higher because the sun cannot get to their roots, the firewall of branches and canopies are just too thick. A bare headed mountain at a distance gets a hint of a sun ray though, and seems to feel happy and smile.

***
Just before the gates of Karike, we stop at a tea stall. The bakery biscuits are fresh, mildly sweet. The tea is too sweet. Karike is just another village. Then the road rises up and up. And we head to Panathur, State of Kerala. The landscape still looks familiar, though a few laterite stones here and there, sudden warmth tells me we are nearing the plains. At Panathur, we buy kappa (tapioca) and pappadams, the Kerala kinds we don’t find at home. I get to use the very little Malayalam I know.

***
Over a big bridge and then along we go, this road in one state, that one in the other. Just a turn later, literally after a turn, like magic, it is the landscape of the plains. Drier, hotter. Alongside emerald fields and beneath a sudden downpour on narrow, ill roads later we reach Sullia, firmly in South Canara. A familiar town that marks, for me, the beginning of the plains, down the ghats from Kodagu. Kannada like the sorts in written books, formal, too polite.

***
A quick, bad lunch and we start climbing up again. While away at university, the bus ride from Sullia to Madikeri used to be a favourite, for the way the landscape changed, for the winding roads, for the first glimpse of the mountains. Beloved Madikeri remains cold and wet when we arrive. Vira is sulking because we left him behind. Later, I reach for my book again.

***
It feels like a wholesome package tour in 140 kms. Cold – rain – dry – plains – heat – wet – rain again. In those things familiar it is that you find the best surprises, I tell myself. Remind me never to take home for granted.

Wednesday, September 02, 2015

Thoughts on Dr M M Kalburgi's Murder: In Kindle Magazine

Dr M M Kalburgi was murdered, for having an opinion and voicing it. That his comments were backed by solid research seems to not matter, for those killers of free speech and independent thought. Here is a comment I wrote for Kindle on the murder. Or see below.

SILENCED BY THE LAMBS

I started to write of how so much like a witch hunt of Pennsylvania this feels like. To be hunted down and murdered, to be burned at the stakes, albeit in more modern ways with a weapon, for something as (ir)relevant as an opinion. But a witch hunt seemed an anachronism to compare this murder to. It seems unfair to try to find recourse in ancient hysteria, in misplaced perceptions. Anything but full focus on what happened, to be unwavering in its full condemnation, total in the shock it generates seems unfair. Even that does not seem enough.

Malleshappa Madivalappa Kalburgi was murdered Sunday morning at about 8.40 am. Aged 77, the writer, critic, intellectual, thinker, rationalist – people now assign many names – was shot at point blank range by two men who claimed they were fans of his books and research papers. The facts are all already a day old now. There are other things of national importance that are taking over already.

I knew him by association, I could say. We share a birth date, 45 years apart in years. A beloved uncle, a writer, critic, intellectual himself and his late wife, an aunt I get my writing, and the shape of my nose from, were close associates of Dr Kalburgi. Uncle tells me this morning that he was like to a dear teacher, taking pride in the career path and research fields uncle took (controversial, anti-Hindu in his own way), encouraging, supporting, “like family.” They went to each other’s houses, knew of each other’s works, that sort of thing.

Vachana sahitya was his area of research, Dr Kalburgi’s, the literature of the likes of 12th century philosopher Basavanna. His comments on the wives and sister of Basavanna, revered by the politically powerful Lingayat community, did not go down well. No criticism of religion ever goes down well in this country, or elsewhere. Such a culture of taking offense we have developed. As a leading authority in the origins of the Lingayat movement and the vast literature it gave birth to, his research findings did what no religion likes to find itself having to face – rational criticism, a level headed look into the human-ness of its founders and by extension into their faults and mistakes. He explored the origins of Hakka-Bukka, the founders of the prestigious Vijayanagara dynasty, placing them in a tribal setting, again, bringing them down from a pedestal of faultless hero-hood to give them more practical human personas.

Five volumes of Margas, collections of his research papers, brought him national recognition by way of a Kendra Sahitya Akademi award. Along with this voice to influence came threats, condemnation and immense pressure to denounce his findings and retract his statements. Which he did, reluctantly, in an infamous episode from 1989. But it was to prove to be just a minor step back. Dr Kalburgi neither stopped his work, nor did he stop talking about the things, nearly always controversial, that he was coming across.

His works on the beginnings of Kannada literature in the 9th century is something my uncle remembers. All his lectures and writings were marked by fearlessness, a telling of something as it is, I am told. What could possibly go wrong when you spoke of a few ancient things in some obscure academic papers? Well.

Prof U R Ananthamurthy, the other outspoken intellectual who was often up in arms with the saffron brigade, wrote a much quoted essay in the 1980s, against the practice of nude worship by women in the town of Yellapura in Karnataka. The annual ritual, many decades old, was banned after one year, infamously, journalists and policemen were stripped and paraded naked by an angry mob. Dr Kalburgi raked up an anecdote in this old essay last year. In the criticism of idol worship, URA had written how, as a young boy rebelling against religion and its idiosyncrasies, he had urinated on some idols to prove that idol worship was a mere superstition, that no stone could curse. Dr Kalburgi’s quote brought criticism from many and URA himself, for raking up an old, old idea that he had written many decades ago. By then URA had begun to play a little safe, though never failing to admit that his views on religion and much else was a work in progress, always maintaining that he had changed his mind several times about several things.

At the heart of the matter is the politics that surround the Lingayat community. A much sought after vote bank, they are regularly appeased by different parties. Any liberal voices are quickly silenced. It pays to maintain a certain status quo for many sections. In this narrative, Dr Kalburgi’s story is a familiar one. He does some research and is not afraid to talk about it, even after he knows a lot of people don’t like it. One morning he gets killed for it, when they realize that he hasn’t learn the lessons they tried teaching him, that he would never learn.

You would think that communities are generally a little more tolerant of those among themselves that raise awkward questions. It did not matter that he was a Lingayat himself. He was still not forgiven. It does not matter that no religion, however widespread or ancient or strong or important, will collapse overnight under the weight of a criticism, however much that criticism might shake the very foundations of said religion. No religion is that weak, no faith is that fragile. No religion, no faith is based wholly on logic, to begin with. That does not matter of course, in the narrative of a section that deems it fit to witch hunt when it suits them so.

While chatting with an old journalist friend from university earlier today and discussing this, he named a name that is doing the rounds, that of a powerful person who is said to have ordered this hit. It is not for us to speculate or turn our heads towards some very obvious suspects. It is not for us to do anything but condemn, condemn, condemn. And to be brave in the quiet speeches we make, in the conversations we have, in the things we read and write and see and make. Religion, and every other institution in this wide world, can stand that. Should stand that.

“I do not agree with what you have to say, but I'll defend to the death your right to say it.” Voltaire.

It is as very simple as that. It is as very difficult as that.

RIP Dr.

Evoking that abused idea of collective conscious in this degenerate dystopia we inhabit, I hang my head in shame today for the way we have become.

Porn, The Dirty Word: In Kindle Magazine

Kindle magazine has some very interesting articles on porn this time, in the wake of the Government's ridiculous ban on porn sites. I wrote about the word porn itself and how it is being normalized by assigning it to food, yoga, etc, at the same time how this is sexualizing everything in an already sexualized society. Read here or see below.

THE DIRTY WORD
Deepa Bhasthi explores the implications of the ubiquity of the word ‘porn’.


Sex sells. It is a truth as old as the waves of time. Advertisers knew that then and now. So did the women standing on the corners of L-shaped streets. Strange though, the politics of words. Words – those to which I as a writer shall say, “let’s play” when I begin a day’s work – how political and feministic, or not, how utterly political they are. Sex is a mere act, devoid of the pleasantness and acceptance of making love. Naked is raw, nude is artistic, poetic. ‘Yajamana’ in Kannada is husband, but literally means the one who owns you. The less aggressive title of ‘ganda’ is rare. In the mouthing of the former is a hidden reiteration of where your place is, at the man’s feet, born to do his bidding. Words are the weapons of the passive violent to cut into your soul and show you the place they assign you to occupy.

Then there is porn. What a dirty word it is. You round your mouth around it, like a sex act and then withdraw, hesitant, unsure towards the tail end of its pronunciation, like it were illegal, illicit, too dirty for the drawing room. In its illicit meaning there lies hidden the special appeal that oils its money spinning machinery.

Porn. Here is one word that straddles its illegitimacy and its universality with much aplomb these days. It’s everywhere. And I don’t mean in the thousands upon thousands of websites that exist, several free, for every kind of fetish in your possession – old on young, old on old, sugar daddy, cougar, milf and just so, so much more. Porn is in every pretty thing you see, seems like.

The other day one of the yoga websites I read, for occasional inspiration to get on my yoga mat had an article about yoga porn. The writer wrote about how photos of scantily clad, white, thin, pretty girls practicing extremely hard asanas against picture postcard perfect locations amounted to porn and that it led to low esteem, furthered damaging body images among the young while quietly hammering onto popular consciousness a certain stereotype of who could practice yoga. Such images are dime a dozen on Instagram and elsewhere. The article, very predictably, created a furore, mostly from thin, white, very bendy yoga practitioners who argued that there was nothing wrong in these images and that they motivated people to start practicing yoga. What was lost in all the noise that was generated, as is wont in case of all internet arguments these days, was that the writer of the original article had also said that yoga, the true essence of yoga was all about letting go of the ego, being mindful of the body and seeing within. The yoga selfies and gorgeous yoga shoots were narcissistic and pandered to the ego, to the materialistic and sexualized the practice. The heated debates continue.

Meanwhile. My interest was in the use of the word porn in the context. Yoga is only the latest to fetch itself this suffix. Food has long suffered the dubious honour, perhaps from the time Instagram settled into popular culture. In the summer months of 2014 when I and some friends were conceiving The Forager, the quarterly online journal of food politics that I edit, food porn was the first thing we unceremoniously dismissed. We were clear we wanted to steer away from the porn culture, from the pretty pictures that sexualized everything we put into our mouths. This of course did not mean that we failed to recognize the potency of a dish to be sensual. Most of us cook, and the aphrodisiacal qualities of a well put together meal for a partner was something we knew very well about. But the blatant sexualizing of every morsel was something we decided to head in the opposite direction of.

Then just this morning, a beautiful photo I saw somewhere, a long shot of a beach with people silhouetted against a fading blue sky was hash-tagged as earthporn. Seriously! Then my personal favourite - bookporn. The last time I checked, there was still an active Tumblr account under that name, featuring some truly amazing photographs of libraries from around the world.

Everything is a hashtag. Everything is porn these days. Some days I am like the old grandma grumbling for the days of our youth when things were simpler and porn was porn, forbidden, bad, and for all those delicious reasons, just as attractive. On other days I let my mind play with the notion that perhaps this is the people power taking back the word porn, reclaiming it, ‘normalizing’ it, making it just another word. Just another word like sex, not wholly approved of, but grudgingly tolerated for being so commonplace. But then I think that this reclaiming – a concept I find a tad pretentious and wholly dubious for its ineffectiveness – is restricted to the hash-taggers, to the very small minority of the country people who have access to words like hash tags and porn that is not the porn they know of. Is there a point to this reclaiming, the cynic in me wonders.

Then of course despair sets in at how this careless, flippant use of the word sexualizes all that is already just about the physical, the body. The society is highly sexualized, the one we live in today. That is common knowledge. With no sign of a turnaround, although how that could even be possible, I don’t know, it is only getting more and more sexualized. In the way we dress, speak, communicate, entertain, every damn little thing. Even in the way we make love, touched by books, internet, films, everything that tells us to behave a certain way.

What if the word porn, in its innocuous avatar, began to be used in more contexts? What if a child was its prefix? Or a moral perhaps? If everything pretty and pleasant became porn, then need we reapply, reexamine the idea of beauty itself?

Some questions are not easily answered. Actually, when you boil it down to proper scrutiny, a lot of questions cannot be easily answered. Porn has moved on from its rather linear meanings on to much more complicated narratives. The word is no longer a word. And therein lies the dilemma.

Speaking of words, there is something called word porn as well. Pretty words, quotable quotes, inspiring lines, sloppy phrases, that kind of thing. When a word itself becomes porn what of the word porn then? I wonder.

On Bollywood: In The Moscow Times

In the 1950s, and for a few decades thereafter, Bollywood was extremely popular in the erstwhile USSR states. Thanks to India's soft diplomacy, Raj Kapoor, Nargis, Mithun Chakraborty, Rekha and stars later on were just as popular as they were in India.

I wrote an essay about the Bollywood and USSR connection for The Calvert Journal here.

This was re-published by The Moscow Times here. Do read the article. There are some lovely, old videos too in the article.