aditya kumar's weblog

A month or so back, prompted by this post, I toyed with the idea of writing on a relatively obscure topic. Later I realized, a lot of people found writing an essay on “The Death of the Essay” quite a puzzle to solve.

But I kept toying until the night before the deadline when a friend motivated me — at midnight, to actually start writing on it. I had no leads, a lot of confusion and a tough deadline to beat and then I had to come up with something that made sense.

I ultimately came up with this, what lies below. It was not crap because it did clear the first round. Though it did not make it to the final round, on the points table it landed itself somewhere in the middle of it all.

Last night I woke up at 3 AM. Coming out of the air of haziness was the question — Why would the essay die? That is of course if it’s not dead already, which I don’t think is true in its entirety. Dying? Slowly, yes.

Probably this slow death is something of the writer’s own doing. The essay may be striving hard to breathe but originality is dead and buried. Most believe, people have less patience, lesser time to read and almost no time to ponder. And the writer? Has there been no change in his levels of patience? Can a writer afford the luxury of losing patience? Most will agree that it’s a crime.

There could be a parallel derived between less patience and lack of originality in prose. Does the average essay writer, and I do mean average, continue to derive inspiration from the simplest things in life? Ominous sign there, if the answer is in the negative.

In this age of less attention spans, the writer’s attempt would be to build around the time given by the reader. Instead, it should be aimed at increasing the span period. Or has the essay writer already given up on it? Certainly old school won’t do here. With some minor tweaking the essay writer could do well with the audience. Theoretically, the writer is on a higher ground — for he is talking and the reader is listening (and won’t talk back). Why can’t the reader be trusted not to be stubborn and to give in? Good prose coupled with a rational point of view is not too hard to recognize and appreciate.

But “Good Prose” has changed. It could mean original, compact, crisp and precise. Would the essay writer listen? He has to come out of the bounds and be innovative at the right juncture. If need be, he has to throw out of the window all that is learnt and devise own methods.

And after all, this is no golden age of fiction writing. Novels aren’t as good as they used to be. Besides, the thing about non-fiction writing is that it can make even the sternest of non-readers come to the book. For a person who doesn’t read books and yet is inclined to pick one, chances are, he’d pick up a non-fiction. There lies an excellent opportunity for the essay writer to build upon.

At 3 AM, I didn’t have the answers but the situation warranted some. A day and half later, I probably don’t even have them now. But I am looking. And it is almost ironical that I seek them while writing, of all things, an essay.

Update
A whole lot of discussion going on at DC and I am thankful it hasn’t got into personal feuds just yet. But some sentiments for sure. Worth a dekko, the whole thing here.

Something I wrote for desicritics, cross posted here. Your comments, criticism always welcome.

Questions for Raj Thackeray:

1. Are you specifically against UP-wallahs and Biharis because, as you allege, they spread “filth”?

2. Or do North-Indians in general, spread filth?

3. If any of the above is true, can we assume that you have no problems with South-Indians? Does it mean that you are okay with South Indians coming to Mumbai?

4. When you say that outsiders being a menace to Mumbai, what exactly do you mean? If a Maharashtrian living in Nashik comes to Mumbai to earn a living, would he qualify to be called an “outsider” and in effect, spread “filth”?

5. Or could it be that a Maharashtrian living elsewhere in Maharashtra is a lesser “outsider” than a person who has crossed several states to come to Mumbai? Doesn’t it then look like a matter of convenience?

6. And what about a Maharashtrian who has lived all his life in Patna and decides to come to Mumbai for a living? Is he an outsider too? Would he be a problem?

7. Lastly, what about me, Sir? I have lived almost 10 years in Maharashtra. I love eating pooran poli and I understand Marathi. I am not that good when it comes to speaking Marathi but compared to Punjabi, which happens to be my mother tongue, I find Marathi more comfortable. Oh and yes, I was born in New Delhi to a Punjabi family. Can I come back to Mumbai? Or will you throw me out since I do not have a Maharashtrian Surname?

Sitting in the hospital waiting for the doctor to show up, I see a 2 year old kid walking over across the room to the water cooler. Its with one of those “push-button” taps, which require quite a push to serve water or else give out a few drops if you don’t push hard enough.

While the kid is amused discovering those few drops that came out of nowhere, an old man, one in his late 60s, comes and takes the kid away from the tap, much to the protest of the kid.

A few minutes later, the kid is at the tap again. The old man comes back too. The cries and the protests of the kid notwithstanding, the man does what he thinks he should do.

And a few minutes later, again.

A 60 something man. A 2 year old Kid. And the stubborn resistance of the human mind.

An hour later, a girl who seems 2 years old or so, walks to the water cooler and tries to push the tap again. And while she’s at it, her mother does something that takes the girl by surprise. She holds the girl by the shoulders and amidst wild protests by the kid, walks her back to the seat.

Back in 2001, when Steve Waugh’s men toured India, they were in a similar position as Ponting’s men now. The team was on a roll and had created a record of sorts with their consecutive test wins. It took an epic test match and a monumental innings to put an end to something which had been nothing less of a supreme, majestic run.

Ponting’s men have showed, time and again, an insatiable appetite for winning but what differentiates them from Steve Waugh’s team is that these bunch of players don’t seem to have a taste for dignity and fair play. It is an ominous sign, when a sportsman starts to think of himself greater than the game. Its worse when eleven of them do that, while the captain leads them from the front.

Bad umpiring is one thing and playing with integrity is another. He may not like it, but it does raise a question on Ponting’s integrity. It does not matter if, in the past, he has walked off without looking at the umpire after he knew he was gone or if he admitted of an unclean catch. It usually seems a matter of his convenience. Its evident that the Australian captain has started to think of himself as larger than the Game.

Bad umpiring did sink India but what has come as a rude shock is the attitude of the opponents, who, almost ironically, pride themselves for the spirit they carry for the game. They look like a teenager with a gun.

If Steve Waugh were at the helm of affairs, would things be the same? Perhaps not. Not only do The Australians lack a batsman of his class, they will always be deprived of the golden legacy that Waugh left behind. Michael Clarke, the guy often pitted to be next in line for captaincy is no Mr.Clean, his babyface looks notwithstanding.

I have always maintained that ICC could well be the weakest sports body in the world. There is laid back attitude that has always been a trademark of the council. This is not the first time that umpires, single-handedly, have been instrumental in changing the course of a game of cricket at the highest level. But the test match could well be important for the simple reason that it is indeed the first time when so many wrong decisions have collectively defeated a team that was well placed on 3 out of the 5 days of a test match and at one stage sniffed a real chance of victory. Why then, do we persist with umpires that are responsible for undoing of this magnitude? Why, do we not hear cricket umpires being warned, let alone be penalized. Why, at the end of each season, can’t the ICC show videos of their crimes to these umpires and seek an explanation? Would that be technology put to use or would the cricket traditionalists call it yet another tech-abuse?

Either way, we’ll only know the answers if the supreme body of Cricket may seek them.

While it was on, it was a horror show. Now that its over, The Sydney test was nothing less than a crying shame. It was a mockery, an abuse of the Game.

For now, it certainly sounds better to loose with dignity intact than to win with soiled, dirty hands in the mire. I have no doubt, a certain Anil Kumble will agree.

From the archives, this post originally written almost 3 years back, in February 2005, deserves a comeback. I am posting it as is, again.

“Thats the James Bond Beach”, said my sister.

“Thats the what bond beach?” I asked, my face giving a convincing, confused look not sure about what I just heard.

“James Bond Beach”.

My mind raced back to all the James Bond movies I had seen, the last 4. I could not even recall a single movie scene shot in India. Bond in India? At this place? How come I do not know about it.

“Why is it called that?”, the confused look on my face has transformed into a curious one.

“Oh its not called that. I call it that. Because, you know, it gives a feeling of how a typical beach is, in Bond movies. Blue water, silver sand, no one around, a seemingly private beach. colorful fishing boats beyond the coastline. The James Bond beach.”

She was right. This looked strikingly similar to one of those. It was probably the most beautiful sea shore I had ever seen in my life.

And for the third time in the last few minutes, the look on my face was changed to a convincing one. Yes, the James Bond beach. I was now staring with gleaming eyes on the waves, crashing on the silver sand, as if, in a matter of seconds, a bikini clad Halle Barry would just pop up from nowhere between the waves. The Bond-James Bond, Beach.

I am talking about a place called Karwar, a small town in the northern coast of Karnataka, a 150 km drive from Goa. I have stayed more than half of my life on the coast, and this was, quite easily, the best seashore I had ever seen. The water was bluer than the sky. The sun shone on the white sand, washing it and left it glimmering like silver. The sea was calm, as if pretending to me, that it has always been like this. Like storms, cyclones and the recent tsunami, were strangers to this sailors grave. “It wasn’t me”, as if the sea was telling me. The waves, calm and blue on the surface of the sea. But just before they crashed on the white sand, they suddenly turned green, as if venting some hidden anger only to be released in small quantities at regular intervals so that it goes unnoticed by anyone not paying attention. The anger, it holds inside, I said to myself. Behind me was the Navy establishment giving it the look of a private beach. And no one on the shore. Just the sea and somewhere on the horizon, the deep blue sea and the pale blue sky met. Nothing at all in sight. A sight to remember. It was like a hidden treasure, in the vicinity of the Naval authorities and away from the already little tourist attraction this city receives. It had no name, so we call it The James Bond Beach. The “Bond. James Bond” Beach.

There was a time, in this very house in Goa, I used to listen to my walkman when the power used to go off. The “power-going-off” apparently, happens rather usually here. And when its a dark and gloomy evening like what it is now, there was no question of electricity. So, in those days not so long back, I used to take out the tapes from my travel luggage that I used to carry along from Indore. In a way it was funny because I always thought that my walkman would not be of use while I’d be at home in Goa. We had an audio CD player at home and walkman was for students who used to travel in second class coaches in trains and spend their lives in a single room, studying for nights, while during college days.

So the U2s and the Robbie Williams used to come out and since there was no power, saving the power contained in those batteries added to the objective, even if it meant pushing the end of a Reynold’s 045 Fine Carbure pen into one of the tape’s reels and rotate it endlessly, one way or the other, depending on what you wanted to do — Rewind or Fast Forward.

6 years later, nothing much has changed. I don’t do that tape thing anymore. But I do open up my IBM Thinkpad, connect it to my nokia mobile phone, download my email, write on my blog and download a podcast. The power is still not there and its raining heavily outside. It never rains in Goa in November, let alone a day before Deepawali.

This could be the Monsoon’s swan song but it has reminded me of the many days that I have spent here, rewinding the tape with a Reynold’s pen.

I sometimes think, and these ‘sometimes’ are quite often, I am probably in the wrong profession. Or perhaps, I take my profession only seriously to an extent where it just qualifies to be “serious” enough. Kind of, on the edge of it all. Honestly, I am not okay with the idea that I spend 16 hours everyday, 5 days a week thinking about whats going on at work and checking my office emails all to often. I know people who do that. These people, at the same time, always complain of how the work gets to them and how much they want to get away from it.

Truth is that, on the contrary, they themselves do not attempt to get away from the madness.

I once heard these lines somewhere and I believe in it so much that it motivates me to take my mind off the trivial things that sink me down everyday — When I am 75, lying on a bed (probably because thats all I’d be able to do), I would not think that, okay — I should have chosen .NET over Java. I would not think about a project that I once messed up. I would probably not think about the laurels I was applauded for. But yes, I’d probably think and wish that I had spent more time with my parents and my sister. I’d probably be wishing that I had traveled more than I had, when I could. I believe in this so much that once I start thinking on these lines, I start hating everything that stops me from treading the path that I so much want to. Not that I have been unsuccessful all the time, in fact I am one of the most traveled persons you will ever come to know of.

So the coming two months could be one of travel. Konkan, Goa, Bombay, Delhi and Calcutta are the places I’ll have to choose from. The only time I was in Calcutta was last year and since then I have carried a part of it with me. There is a world to be explored in the streets and corners of Calcutta and I intend to do it as and when I’d be able to.

Besides, this city is testing my endurance. I have been away from home for close to 9 years now and yet, at times I feel like my first day alone, on my own. The few friends I had could not stand the loneliness this city offered them — I mean, here is a city where you can’t even talk to another guy on the street because of the language barrier. So they left. I don’t blame them. The few that remained, got married. I don’t blame them too — they had to get married, however harsh the idea may seem (No, I am not opposed to the idea at all). They, however, had to get married because loneliness got the better of them. But seriously speaking, even a guy like me who needs his solitude more than the average guy does, finds time hard to go by on a sunday evening. I too, at times, contemplate on leaving Bangalore and going back to Pune — a city of my so many ‘firsts’, a city that once got my wrath for being so insensitive by making me walk on roads that reminded me of a better time, a city once I promised to never return for all the time to come. But then again, it would be foolish to think that Pune is the same and that it would offer me all that it once did. If I go to Pune, I would go with a clean slate, a clear conscience and a heart free of prejudice but also, at the same time, free of expectations.

I am surprised that I am thinking about going back to Pune, in the first place. Its strange, and perhaps funny, how time makes even the sternest of minds to bend.

Meanwhile, expect some travelogues.