May Your….

To the children…

May your harvest be plenty

May the storms be at bay

May your children run merry

May there be food on your plate

May your winters bring warmth

May your summers bring shade

May you travel afar..

With your roots firmly laid

May you sing a sweet song

With a voice that never falters

May you look on with amazement

With eyes clear as water

May you see a fresh dawn

With new wisdom renewed

May you clasp each days worth

As if it were a boon

-n-

Style is in the essence of my people…..

And so i write again. It was decided not long ago by the brain and i that perhaps i would let the blog wither away and die, no real problem with that… it’s had its run, I thought to myself, plus anyway i have far more important things to write these days, i rationalised. But maybe its the 10 issues of Ennis’s “The Boys” that i just got through, paralleled with the 6 African dub cd’s on my right, the South African Lonely Planet clumsily placed under those cd’s and the sepia toned cover of Lebogang Mashile’s “In Ribbon of Rhythm” on my left, whose powers combined have brought on an onslaught of South African nostalgia that’s given stimulus to this post (stimulus now there’s a relevant word these days- and look at how I speak of nostalgia like I was in Africa 10 years ago, when I was there 8 days ago….behold the melodrama!). Filhaal (oh how Salman Rushdie of you -n- throwing in hindi colloquialisms to exoticize the utter crud you write on this blog- try that rubbish with your script and watch how easily it gets picked up….idiot) i’ve decided to write a little something on my South African sojourn, I usually only publish these things when I can blog whilst traveling because I believe its purer that way. I didn’t have this feature available to me this time round so I’m blogging now long after returning home. I had however written a spasm of thought here and there in my trusty notebook whilst leaving Soweto and donkey dodging in Botswana, the chances of me posting separate blogs on these places depends on the potency of my scribbles at the time. We’ll see what happens and those blogs will be in the mould of my older ones, far more formal and analytical than the current diarrhoea I pen,  but for now lets begin….

Eight to ten months ago the thought of going anywhere but India was an impossibility not only financially, but mentally I wasn’t willing to accept another travel destination. As you all know India was a relative disaster for me (if you don’t know this, masturbate my ego by reading the rest of this blog…like every damn post), and making amends for the atrocity was on the top of my agenda, after all I did sacrifice quite a bit for it, a great permanent job and a small fortune amongst other things. But when I got back I vowed to go, a good friend was getting married over there so I decided that was a good excuse as any to make the 20 hour flight across. Managed to pistol whip a few friends into going with me and things just fell into place. Even at that point I wasn’t really expecting much, South Africa was by no means an “essential” travel destination in my mind, Nepal, Morocco, Myanmar, Tibet tickle my fancy far more, but I was in no position to haggle, I had traveled alone for a bit, found it incredibly lonely (I’m rather gregarious by nature) and thought even if I couldn’t derive an epiphany from Mother Africa I’d sure as hell enjoy the camaraderie of a bunch of mates in a  foreign country. But as the cliché will have you believe, South Africa did poke at my third eye, not only do I feel somewhat redeemed, I have accrued a molecule of wisdom not only of self but of life.  I also have a new mistress her name is Capetown and I believe Mumbai maybe slightly jealous, but hey how about we Devdas this one and keep you both? (It really is a classic indicator of the barrenness of my love life when I have to take cities as potential partners). In short, I have grown, I may have reared my head from the perpetual immaturity that many say plagues my existence, but I have come to accept that as part of me. It’s not going away anytime soon, but hey that’s one for my shrink yeah?

Africa is so different, yet so similar to what I am accustomed to. I openly enjoy the uniqueness of the third world, I was born in (and have an unhealthy love for) the subcontinent and enjoy the more grassroots approach to travel as such. Give me a bustling market of locals and I will thrive, give me a cocktail bar of hipster jeans and I will want to hit someone. But I digress, I genuinely believed the subcontinent had toughened me for travel anywhere and to some degree it had whilst in Africa. I’m vigilant, I’m a master haggler, I can put up with a lot in terms of lack of space and even sparse accommodation, hell my knees can still handle squatters. But there were things I wasn’t ready for as well, simple things like, not being able to take my mobile phone out on regular intervals to check the time, openly being followed every now and then, having to “urban commando” my way through certain areas to avoid a mugging, carrying my backpack in the front, having a light dependent curfew, ATM’s that wouldn’t work etc etc. All a matter of heightened vigilance that im not used to, but the stories I had heard about South Africa’s all permeating atmosphere of crime were in the most part far fetched. Yes one has to be careful, more so than you would in India, definitely more than you’d ever have to be in Sydney, but I don’t know how justified stories of needing “flame throwers” on ones car are and wether its true that you should never stop at traffic lights, perhaps my experiences were more sheltered than others, I guess that could be true. That said, yes your bags can be broken into when at the airport (it happened to two friends, more than once I might add) and like I said earlier, you can be followed occasionally, but in broad daylight anyone silly enough to follow you isn’t going to get far exactly. But drawing an onus on the negatives does no justice to the country, a typical case of a few bad apples I’d say. The positives grossly outweigh the negatives. To begin with I’m a sucker for culture and the arts an interest that admittedly finds me few contemporaries (read: I have geeky inclinations….. and few friends I like), but that aside I found in Capetown a comrade of sorts. Long Street’s bohemian beatnik vibe is one I revelled in, indie music stores, hippie op shops, second hand book stores, shops with art galleries outback, vegan cafes and roadside satsangs were a fresh breeze on the crop circled harvest of my headspace (ozmocote would have been a more appropriate metaphor I know). The nightlife in many ways moves away from the more social aspect that many Australian nightclubs personify and becomes purely about the music, and my God the music that comes out of Capetown! Drum and Bass, triphop, afro dub, Cape Jazz, opera infused afro beat, the list is endless, it’s all close by and most importantly it all has an audience that supports it. There is a respect for music in Capetown that I adore, and the music is unique in that it doesn’t lose its character to the American cliché. It is African through and through. Much like Paris is the current alternative hotbed for cutting edge developments in the pop culture scene (the usual mainstays being London, Tokyo and New York), a situation I theorize has arisen from the melting pot of different cultures in Paris these days. I genuinely believe the same for Capetown, in time it will become a juggernaut that will contribute greatly to the pop cultural diaspora of the world. The multicultural aspect contributes in this scenario too, but too a lesser extent than say the uniqueness of the work produced and the audience support domestic art and culture receives.

Controversially enough I’d say the people of Africa are far warmer than my own people of the subcontinent, the hard drinking drum and bass loving Namibians in Capetown, the youth workers of Soweto, the rich black elite of Durban, the constant stream of Rastafarian preachers (oneness!), shop staff that within an instant became good friends, there really wasn’t a moment where cracking a smile wouldn’t lead to a insightful conversation, and South Africans usually have a lot to say. Also South Africans find my warped sense of humour far more appealing than Indians, or Australians for that matter too. Infact it was often remarked by a friend of mine that “everyone back home hates us, what’s the deal exactly with South Africans?” He was onto something, we had audiences captivated by our stories, laughs were a plenty, we were hitting all the right notes almost always, we were invited to art exhibitions and moving and shaking with the cultural literati of Capetown. “This never happens back home” my comrade would whisper between sips of his Windhoek. “I know…..we are so cool” I would respond after even larger swigs of mine, knowing full well a cubicle, the rat race and tumble weed silent responses to my tales awaited me back in Sydney. But there is definite tangible warmth to the people here, something that may have been amplified by booze and the veil of holiday gaiety, but I doubt it. It’s a feature of South Africa that stays with you and you notice it’s absence when you return to your respective nests, it’s a feeling that will definitely take me back there again and again. I am only now uncovering the works of South African poet Lebogang Mashile, but i understand what she says when she states in the first stanza of “Style”;

“It is the very liquid soul that oozes from these pores

To Light the sidewalks with our magic beyond the distant shores

It is the joy from which the laughter of the dying is drawn

Style is in the essence of my people”

And truly it is….so when I go to snort another row of finely cut nostalgia, the first thing that will intoxicate my temporal lobe will not so much be the arts and culture, or the magnificent scenery that is endemic to the region. It will be the friends made, the jokes shared and the camaraderie I enjoyed from South Africans everywhere and from  all walks of life….their “Style” if you will. It seems as though Mother Africa has taken a piece of this cynic’s heart and now takes her place side by side with Mera Bharat Mahaan (My Great India) as a home away from home…….….what I would give for Malva pudding right about now.

-n-

**Apologies for again the lack of coherence and the doped up randomness of this post, it’s a feature of my writing im too lazy to edit. Rest assured future posts (possibly two on Africa) will be far more refined and less opaque….. or so I will attempt anyway.

Cue Bob Dylan…

A rather lame title for this post, but for some unknown reason “The times they are a changing” is playing on the gramophone of my mind and it may have very little to nothing to do with what i am trying to say in the next paragraph or so…..

It has been a long ime since i updated this blog, i had set it up for such different intentions than what it turned out, but im happy with how “ole little fisty” has performed, over 1100 hits over the few months i was in India which surpasses any expectation i had by at least 1000 (mind you i only advertise this blog through facebook-so i think i’ve done good). I had promised myself to only publish those posts that i had written whilst in India but i broke those rules with my last post. I just felt i had not given this phase of the blog the farewell it deserved, and my last post was a story i felt deserved some telling.

So as you may all know i am back home, and have been here for weeks now. We all know the story of my Indian travels so i won’t go over them, if you don’t know then you obviously haven’t read this blog enough. But i am heading off to South Africa soon to salvage what was a tad disappointing a journey to the subcontinent. If time permits  i will update this blog with some more posts regarding my travels to “rainbow country”. But if not i’d like to thankyou for reading “With a Fist in the Sky”, i genuinley can’t get over some of the mail i get, and really it is flattering to know that so many of you actually bother. I appreciate it and genuinley hope in the future you do come back for more.

Best

-n-

Gurunaam

To call it a sabbatical would be incorrect. A muted retirement would probably be more appropriate a phrase, a flaccid exit even more apt. But after returning from India i have ceased to write anything on my blog. I guess writing about India from the comforts of my Sydney home doesn’t mimic the feel i was attempting to replicate, but there was one post left in me which i had been avoiding, rationalising my laziness to write under the very human trait of vanity. I firmly believe writing from a place inspired by ego can only lead to trouble and can very easily infect the quality of what one is attempting to communicate. I say this because believe it or not this blog is rather popular and the little ticks of my blog odometer can very easily be interpreted as small massages to my rather large ego. So i will try and avoid the pitfalls, briskly side stepping any opportunities to exercise my more narcissistic tendencies (of which i am constantly reminded i have many) and will write what will probably be my last post on the subcontinent. But for that i will have to travel back in time and bait my memory to get off the couch and jump on the treadmill, something only Brotha Gin Seng can do, so excuse me as i rendezvous with my kettle, the paragraph under this will be written approximately 20 minutes from now.

Wait…..give me another 20.

My journalistic ability extends about as far as 2 hours of news and current affairs per week. Not an awful lot admittedly, but when i went to meet young Gurunaam i was primed with an objective, a single minded focus and the unhindered will of Thor to find answers to something i thought was particularly interesting. A rather simple question that i thought i would be able to extract with relative ease….. candy from a baby. But as our conversation progressed i could see my ego changing shade to an unhealthy purple, and my bruising became more and more apparent to myself- I have the journalistic prowess of a cactus, and i assure you it will show.

So let’s set the scene shall we? It’s the morning of my last day in Amritsar. Already profoundly smitten by all that i have witnessed at Harmandir Sahib, i have managed to score a bit of a meeting with Gurunaam, a Sikh from New Mexico in the USA. It was a meeting arranged haphazardly the night before, after dinner at the local dhaba, intoxicated by lassi, ghee and a parantha or three i asked young Gurunaam if it was ok to have a chat the next morning, just a nice way to end my time here in Amritsar i rationalised. My real reason for the chat was more covert, i wanted to know what would make an average American Joe a non-birth Sikh convert to Sikhism and follow a religion that some would say seems so extremist in appearance. How does one decide that from this day forth they will never cut their hair again, that they would always wear a turban whenever in public and that they would henceforth profess their allegiance to a religion stemming from a culture so separate from their own? These questions riddled my mind as i tried to place myself in the same situation. Is my dedication to an ideal so intense that i would change my life so drastically? Even with my cultural upbringing, that of a Hindu Pakistani who’s grown up exclusively in the west, a jump to Sikhism would not be considered a vast chasm to cross due to the cultural similarities we share, this coupled with my own rather unique genealogy would some say make me an ideal candidate for the jump. But even then it seems like something i could not do, so i must profess admiration for one who does, and does so with a very genuine commitment to his cause.

Gurunaam was there early, the local dhaba we had chosen to meet at had not opened as yet, so very briskly he directed us towards another dhaba further away that he had assured us made the best Kulcha’s in all Amritsar. As we sat ourselves down and ordered, i readied my mental quill to probe the young Sikh as to how and when his decision was made. It was obvious Gurunaam had been asked this question several times before and he answered very politely, stating that after years of being a disciple of Yogi Bhajan (a prominent spiritual scholar in the United States) he found himself employing many of the practices of a Sikh spiritual aspirant, the only natural step was to make it more official with the adoption of the more prominent Sikh ordinances. The depth of my journalistic skill started and stopped at that very instance, Gurunaam began to speak to us about all things spiritual and the conversation became far more intriguing than any hidden agenda i may have had up my kurta sleeve. It was an enlightening hour or so, and what impressed me most was how dedicated this young man was, who in his early thirties (and after more than 10 years of being Sikh) had decided to make his first pilgrimage to Amritsar where he would spend a year learning from the local scholars not only the intricacies of his religion but also learning how to speak Punjabi, the language of Sikhism and the region. Gurunaam spoke of the community of Sikhs that lived in New Mexico where most of the Sikhs there were of non Indian ancestry, he spoke of his father’s reaction to his wanting to move into the ashram (funnily enough his father warned him to “not become like one of those Sikhs down there”), his work in a company that produces spiritual texts, and his budding career as a writer and performer of spiritual music.

As our conversation clopped along my curiosity was piqued by the more aesthetic components of Sikhism and how readily Gurunaam was able to adopt them from his previous life as a non-Sikh. This brought on an even more interesting conversation as to the science of the infamous “five K’s” or “panj kakaar” as they are known. Namely Kesh (uncut hair and beard), Kanga (wooden comb for hygiene), Kara (iron bracelet), Kachera (specially designed under garments) and Kirpan (a strapped sword). Apart from the symbolic meanings of all 5 which can be found anywhere, Gurunaam spoke of the science of these practices, stating that the purpose behind Kesh and Kara amongst others was to galvanise the aspirant along the path they had chosen. It was an interesting topic of discussion that brought up such conclusions as the power of iron to electro magnetise ones aura, and the ability of hair to almost act as psychic antennae (following the principle of hairs standing on end when one is frightened). Again something that one doesn’t usually hear! Gurunaam also spoke of the more human things he has had to encounter, dealing with the advances of Sikh girls that find the novelty of a ginger bearded Sikh too hard to resist, dealing with beggars that target him due to his Caucasian features and how he struggles everyday to dip in the icy cold waters surrounding the temple (he’s currently committed to more than 20 dips every morning). But the clincher for me really was the manner in which he was able to see beyond even the paradigms of the religion he had chosen, stating the conflicts people highlight in his practising of yoga alongside his traditional Sikh practices as unfair. The reason for this being that yoga can be seen as the behaviour of more extremist elements of Hindu asceticism something frowned upon by the Sikh movement as it encourages the “middle path” or a more moderate means of spirituality. Even more open minded than this was Gurunaams desire to visit ashrams of other Gurus and to absorb as much as he could in his time in India. This dedication to learning and practising was one i had seldom seen, and for someone like myself who has been lucky enough to be raised in a rather spiritual environment it was refreshing to see someone practising all the theory i had rote learnt as a child, and making with it a living monument to wisdom. Gurunaam was and is a testament to the wide eyed curiosity and purity that should go hand in hand with spiritual practise, at no stage did his enthusiasm for the topic of spirituality wane. This was his life and he had committed to it with the purity required.

And it is here where i fused with an atom of revelation, my questions, my agenda with Gurunaam was pointless, as he didn’t see himself the way i had seen him. By politely not answering my rather ignorant questions i was able to see Gurunaam for more than he really was, not just a ginger bearded Sikh from America who had converted, but as a man walking the path very few do, the path inwards that will lead to a knowledge of self that not many have the privilege of knowing or understanding, and that is bigger and more worthwhile discussing than race, caste, creed or cultural transition. I know now i was in the presence of a wise man indeed, and it is with that gratitude that  i must thank Gurunaam whose friendship opened up windows of understanding in my rather small mind, and allowed me to leave Amritsar with an understanding of the importance of a higher ideal. Good luck on your journey my friend, and if the Guru wills it hopefully we may meet again one day.

-n-

Mumbai is……

 

Mumbai is…… a graveyard. A city that feeds, creates and destroys, cancerous in its intent, hollowing out its victim till what remains is nothing more than an empty shell. Feeding on the hopes of millions, creating hope with the lure of fortune and fame, and destroying hope with the ease of a breath. All because she can. The only city that makes Gods of some and walking corpses of others.

Mumbai is……a favourite prostitute. Seducing you with the faintest drop of her pallu. Showing you enough to rekindle the nostalgia of an ex-lover or your first time even. Gushing your brain with the pheromones of status and wealth so you lose focus and invest everything you have in her. She obliges and makes you feel like you are the only man in her life. Later you wake up and from the corner of your eye, you see the afternoon sun catch her nose ring as she playfully chides her next victim, a practised routine you know all too well. You reach for your wallet and realise the damage done….you don’t have enough money to get back home and your suitcase has been stolen. The train whistle blows and the realisation sets in….. you are stuck here with her for a while yet.

Mumbai is……the Goddess. Violent, swift and terrible, unforgiving of the insolent, compassionate to those she deems worthy. She wears the remnants of her victims around her neck and her fangs gnash away at the desires of all who hope. Yet still in droves they come to pay their respects, hoping the mother, THEIR mother will turn. That the compassion that is akin to a mother will be showered on them as it has occasionally on others. But the Goddess is  merely a harbinger for the ocean of Samsara that all are obliged to float on. The tides of the ocean however turn in one direction only and Sukh doesn’t ordinarily follow Dukh in these parts. Yet she will still welcome you with open arms and her tongue will stick out as a cautionary reminder of her nature, so heed her warning …… “Welcome to Mumbai, leave your egos, morals, hopes at the door, and take whatever prasad is given”.

-n-

Top 3 Rickshaw Names…

I think rickshaws are unique, i imagine if Mumbai were a human body, rickshaws would be red blood cells darting through the entire thing with no rhyme or reason. Some would compare them to a cancer, i guess that analogy makes more sense once you see how they drive. Anyway most rickshaws have been named by their respective drivers and the name is usually displayed on the back in really tacky lettering. Most of them are religious in significance, but some are absolute pearlers and really give us an insight into the mind of the chacha driving. My favourites thus far..

1) “Meri Jung”- roughly translated it means “My Battle”, the clincher on this guy was that it also had a cartoon Anil Kapoor (famous Indian actor from the 80’s and 90’s) embossed between each word, a shoutout to the 1985 film of the same name. A man who names his rickshaw after a film who’s central theme is murderous revenge is genuinley not a person you f&&k with on the streets.

2) Rabb Ka Darr- roughly translated from the original Urdu it means “Fear of God”. In this scenario Chacha could either be a pious man who leads a life of simplicity and prayer and drives his rickshaw as if it were a chariot to 786. Or the name of the rickshaw is a goal Chacha aims to achieve by driving like a madman in the hope of instilling “Rabb ka Darr” in fellow commuters. The sadist in me prefers the latter.

3) Sweety-Awwwwwww. Translation not required.

A special mention though must be made of another rickshaw with what i believe to be the coolest name. A more appropriate title there is not for this piece of engineering brilliance, Ladies and Gentleman a Fist in the Sky presents to you for the first time on the internet …….the Piaggio Ape

Now you can move your goods in the only way that makes sense….Ape-style….. The Piaggio Ape, the worlds first all luxury three-wheeler!  (cage for livestock not included)

-n-

3000 incoherent words on Slumdog Millionaire

Good Morning Mumbai

And then Anil Kapoor danced… and i don’t mean a mere jig or a shake of a leg. He did THAT dance, a dance that epitomised the swagger of the late 80’s early nineties superstar, a dance that even today i equate with total coolness. A dance i know only too well, only because for as long as i can remember my first bollywood experience contained within it this very ballet of style, hand before hand, knees bent, subdued running on the spot. Tezaab, Ram Lakhan, hell Parinda even all contained that signature swagger, and i admit to having once practised it for hours ……Anil Kapoor to me is still so very very cool (and this has nothing to do with the fact that i have a vested interest in marrying his daughter one day…no sir!). But all this is a single hundred and thousand on the ice cream sundae of cinematic brilliance that was and is Slumdog Millionaire (idiotic metaphor i know but i had what was called a “Bombay Sundae” the other day and it’s left an impression).

Let me begin by saying that this is by no means a review of the film, that’s been done to death and i don’t wear the credentials to academically dissect cinema, plus only real geeks review films online. Rather I’ll talk about what Slumdog shows and how i can relate to it in some way, why it exemplifies the Mumbai experience so very well, and why the hysteria it is creating (both good and bad) back home is so very important both within India and to India’s non resident communities worldwide.

I’ve been staying in Mumbai the last two months and have earnt the right to call myself a Mumbaikar, my cousin bestowed upon me the status, and i must admit it’s a bit of an honour, those hours having my personal space ripped to shreds on the local train are now battle scars i wear with pride, and i know i have experienced Mumbai in her full….. “her beauty and her terror” (to borrow a line from Dorothea Mackellar ‘s ode to my homeland) if you will. One of the greatest observations i can make about Mumbai is in regards to its uniqueness, a beast of its own, a mutation that continues to spread despite its decay and even now regardless of the fact that she is over populated ,ancient, and crumbling upon herself continues to seduce thousands each day, and give birth to even more, all this despite her being well past menopause. She is India at her most charming, and she is India at her cruellest, Slumdog shows all this with a balance that respects the city for what it represents to many and what it often delivers to its hopeful. The paradox is somewhat explained through the lives of the characters and one finds themselves not judging anyone in the film for their actions. It becomes evidently clear that life in Mumbai is by no means easy, and the 13 year old boy who seeks refuge in gang comradery, the street child that steals from foreigners, the prostitute who dances for her money have all made decisions to secure their own survival, and one can’t help but think how similar environs would’ve influenced oneself. No judgement is cast, nor should it, this is human existence at its most harsh, and few films show it without oversaturating the viewer with the demonization of someone or the other, particularly if the subject is a third world nation and the filmmakers foreign (shoutout to the Oscar winning Born into Brothels). Slumdog is not depicted through the sepia hued lense of the imperialist western world as many are claiming, it shows Mumbai as she is yet doesn’t look down on it, it is grassroots in its approach and therein lies its charm.

The film highlights several features of Mumbai through the questions that are asked of our young protagonist (played by Dev bhai Patel, the show however is stolen by the two younger avatars of Jamal’s character namely Tanay Chedda, and the brilliant Ayush Khedekar) whilst he plays contestant on India’s version of “Who wants to be a Millionaire?”. As each vignette unfolded i found myself ticking each experience Jamal went through with things i had seen and heard within my own experiences in Mumbai. I can see how the previous sentence can be misinterpreted, so i will explain, what i mean to say is what Jamal goes through you see on the streets of Mumbai every day, whether it be street children, racial disharmony, slum living etc. Slumdog portrays all these aspects and more compressing the entire Mumbai experience into celluloid, it almost makes the film “home brew” and it is essentially that which i was saluting. Probably one of the most poignant and graphic parables within the film is of the depiction of the 1992 Ayodhya riots and how it effects the protagonists, the very graphic death of Jamal’s mother probably one of the most haunting scenes in the entire film. Boyle really portrays this well, highlighting the hideousness of the situation in the way it needs to be shown, as an ugly reality of Indian society. One of the most frightening factors about India these days are the more common occurrences of communal violence, an illness cemented by the legacy of the right wing Hindu nationalist party the BJP, made even stronger by the dangerous sentiment of Mumbais own Shiv Sena (throw in the mob running the show in Gujarat and you have a hotbed of racism and religious fundamentalism that makes the bible belt of the USA seem tame). Many may say that was 1992 and things have improved since then but religious prejudice is alive and well within Mumbai. I’ve seen it i’ve heard it and really at times it scares me that the ignorance pouring forth infront of me is the byproduct of people who claim to be educated. A cousin of mine was telling me stories of how it is nigh impossible for a Muslim to rent an apartment in Mumbai these days, i heard firsthand of how someone was offended to see young Muslims celebrating “Makar Sankranthi” (a hindu festival) by joining in the communal flying of kites. But these days prejudice too has evolved as things always do in Mumbai to include the Christians, tales of offense due to the fact local Christians were festooning their houses during Christmas but were not doing the same during something as quintessential as Diwali (another hindu festival), the logic within such arguments is lost on me as well and its dangerous to laugh at them with amusement, this is not the attitude of a minority, this is a prevalent form of thought now amplified by the 26/11 attacks, somebody almost always needs to be painted the villain, and when its not the neighbours across the border its the nearest “representative” that is picked on with immediate effect

The Saffron Police

Seldom does a film so accurately portray a city and its people that one can see even the smallest nuances in behaviour mimicked on screen so precisely that it can’t help but bring a smile to the face of those with a strong enough eye. There’s a scene in the film where Jamal and his brother walk the alleyways of Mumbai’s red light district, what stuck out to me was the swagger with which the boys walked……. unabashed fearlessness. This is a characteristic you see so often over here, streetkids as young as five and six ruling the traffic signals and alleyways with a cocksure attitude that translates easily into a body language that is so commanding and cunning at the same time. When you step out onto the streets you are stepping into their world, and they will surely ask for rent. The problem is so far reaching and so enveloping that in order to survive in Mumbai you must grow a resistance to the children, and the methods employed are cruel. It was particularly difficult for me to start developing my repertoire i have a genuine soft spot for children and in every child i genuinely do the mental math and compare the state of this child with the luxury my five year old nephew basks in on a daily basis. It will probably turn many of you off to know the things i have said and done, i genuinely don’t write this for comedic effect or anything of the sort, im just attempting to show the grip Mumbai has on its people that one must more often than not compromise ones own sentiments in order to simply live, i am ashamed of myself but at the same time will confess to this being a necessity. But i will be honest, when a child taps me on the shoulder and makes the universal signal for hunger i at first ignore him/her, not making eye contact is quintessential in this game, but more often than not a threat is required, the second tap will come soon after and is usually more vigorous, the hand sign is shown again and i will say in my sternest voice a line borrowed from my cousin “Thappar khaoge? free mein millega” (roughly translated….. will you eat a slap? it comes for free), cruel i know, but necessary. More often than not there wont be any further insistence but if there is (and it happens every now and then) i rollup my sleeves and start to mumble to myself creating the impression of a violent onslaught, by then the child is long gone, moving on to another to receive roughly the same treatment again. The swagger is obvious, it takes strength i think to absorb that kind of abuse day in and day out, to be looked down upon as they are, and i think for me to survive like i have done i’ve had to blockout the backstories that are brewing in every tap i receive on my passenger side window as we drive through the streets. Boyle sums the predicament up brilliantly towards the start of the film, the montage of beggar children tapping on windows something all of us in the cinema hall could relate to. But i admit i will think twice before i lash out at another street child, i will see and know that this child has seen in his few years more than i ever will and that those eyes hold a wisdom that can only come from thriving in the harshest of realities, i have a respect for them and the swagger with which they conduct their lives is one i genuinely envy, but it is a respect that can never be shown.

For all the international applause Slumdog is receiving it is absorbing just as much criticism. From accusations of “tourism porn” and “exploitation” to the muddled condemnation extolled by the venerable King of Indian cinema His Holiness the baritone Mr Amitabh Bachan. This was bound to happen, parallel cinema and mainstream cinema have always fought a covert war in India, and within India it is the mega bucks of the masala film that rules the roost. Thankfully parallel cinema does have a niche as well and thrives in certain sectors of the country particularly Mumbai. Really the pioneers of alternative Indian cinema such as Rahul Bose and Nandita Das deserve applause for their efforts, the gusto and flavour they bring to Indian cinema in general is one that has dominated my education in the art. But back to Slumdog, and how it falls in loggerheads with the world of mainstream Indian cinema (Bollywood). The paradox of Indian cinema is one that befuddles the world, it is mutually mocked and lauded despite what people may believe and yes it is an organism of its own made to cater to the escapist need that many Indians feel they must dive into, it’s a need i can understand but at the same time i feel Bollywood is more often than not an arm of Indian hypocrisy. Anybody can tell you that and it is that hypocrisy that is alluded to in Slumdog (much to the chagrin of the holy white goatee). Bollywood is India at its most exotic, colour, dance, song, costumes and what not, it is the perfect export if you will, organically created it is something unique. A refined, finessed creation that shows India in the light that it sees itself in, it’s an art that has gained more momentum by the crucial NRI (non-resident Indian) dollar, that seems to be funding alot of what we see on screen these days. NRI’s are a funny bunch, living in the west they reminisce on the motherland and are more often than not caught in a time warp of what they believe their nation to be, choking on a romanticism painted pink by nostalgia more than true reality. It is very much these people that embrace the fantastical aspects of Bollywood and wear it with a badge of honour to show off to their western counterparts ….“look at what we are” they say as holi colours fly in the air and pretty young Indian girls twirl. It’s for this reason that Slumdog poses a threat to the fantasy, a film depicting the reality of India lauded by the Western press and film critics alike. The NRI is now in a dilemma, they are convulsing, the more exotic elements of their culture have fallen through, reality rears its ugly head and sucker punches them, they cannot masturbate their egos to the bollywood imagery this time round. How do they accept Slumdog? What is there to brag about? How do they remain proud? These are people who often scream about how the media only depicts the harsh realities of Indian culture not the positive….but what is there to celebrate? a new ultra rich middle class? why forget the reality, it is part and parcel of the “progress” that is being so readily marketed, so all hail “India Rising” it is the only India that indeed exists, there is nothing more to the country, let’s be happy in celebrating that and only that.

His Holiness the Baritone on his blog spoke rather bitterly about the lack of recognition Bollywood receives, lets quote the angry geriatric for fun;

“The commercial escapist world of Indian cinema had vociferously battled for years, on the attention paid and the adulation given to the legendary Satyajit Ray at all the prestigious film festivals of the west, and not a word of appreciation for the entertaining mass oriented box-office blockbusters that were being churned out from Mumbai. The argument: Ray portrayed reality; the other, escapism, fantasy and incredulous posturing. Unimpressive for Cannes and Berlin and Venice.”

I like to imagine the Baritone waving a grand old stick whilst seated in a wheelchair, his drip shaking with the same intensity of his arm as he types away ferociously on his laptop. Isn’t it sweet of him to lead this jihad in the power circles of world cinema? With all due respect Osama Bin Bachan Bollywood doesn’t receive the respect you so readily seek because there is a complete lack of originality stemming from it, and that is what is truly celebrated in any art. Bollywood is to an extent a synthetic fabric lotus floating on a stream of excrement, people look at the Lotus and are seduced by its artificiality all the while ignoring what lies beneath it. Boyle on the other hand takes the excrement and sculpts it into a thing of beauty and ingenuity, organic cinema, the power of a good story, honesty rewarded, taking the filth and essentially saying “this is what we are, but even within that there is magic”, and only a real Mumbaikar, a real Indian will appreciate that, because it is a a respect for the reality of the situation, accepting a situation fully for what it is warts and all, not running behind the artificiality and celebrating something whose existence can be contested. Really how long will we run around trees? How long will we quietly accept the cheap promiscuity of the item number? How long will we allow 40 year old men to play the role of a college student? I guess i speak this way because i think Indian cinema is an amazing thing, i love it and one day hope to be part of it, but as long as Bollywood continues to sidestep originality and forget evolving all together we will miss out on stories even greater than Slumdog. Hopefully Slumdog will begin a trend of change, cinemas is a very Indian art, i think it speaks to us more than any other art form, and hopefully when it accepts itself maybe India (and its smaller NRI minions) will start accepting itself too.

There is so much more that i can say about Mumbai at the moment, but i will refrain, i have regurgitated an awful lot in the above 3000 words or so, verbal diarrhoea, a chaotic mish mash of ideas that i have just typed away. But the above post does sum up alot of my thoughts on this great city, a city that i do definitely call home along with my place of birth and my real home (all of whom i love). It is a strange place that can seldom be described in words, it can only really be experienced, and if you cant catch a flight in, then the best way to experience it is in a cinema hall near you….. Slumdog Millionaire go watch it!

-n-

Amritsar….

Sunrise on the Golden Temple (Harmandir Sahib)

I know i whinge an awful lot on this blog, and im sure of the 60 or so people that read this thing ( i have the stats) most of you have rolled your eyes already and are about to switch over to something more interesting, but before you do that let me assure you this entry will not be in that mould at all. It is after all many many years since i’ve been able to cross something off of my “things to do before i die” list, and thankfully i have done exactly that with my recent trip to Amritsar.

For those of you that aren’t aware i have decided to return to Sydney early. There is far too much risk associated with me travelling solo due to my passport details, so im waiting out my last week or so in Mumbai shopping and indulging every gastronomic fantasy i have (next week is rasgulla night, which will be followed by paneer tikka masala night, which will be followed by paneer tikka biryani night). I remember in my last post ending with a sentence that stated i should make the most out of this “nothingness” that i was experiencing, and i guess i did just that when i booked my cousin and myself in to fly to Amritsar for a day or two.

Probably one of the most important things for me to see during this trip was the Golden Temple (or to be precise Harmandir Sahib). I know there is an awful lot to see in India and im sure i will eventually get to see it but this place has always held a special place in my heart and being able to see it, being able even on some level to “feel” it is a memory i will cherish till i breathe my last. I have honestly vowed to visit Amritsar every single time i am in India from this day forth, without a doubt there is a magic there that i am definitely not capable of surmising in words, but that won’t stop me from trying.

We began our journey to Amritsar as guests of Dr Malliya, a quick stop over in Delhi (which was also quite special for me, an entry i will save for later) and we were catching a small, cramped, rickety flight into Amritsar airport. The landing was a borderline calamity and our disgruntled pilot swerved the plane around as if it were his “Baap’s” (a reference that will probably make more sense in Hindi, but Baap refers to father, and Pilot Jose was driving the plane like a spoilt teenager would his fathers Benz). Before i knew it we were in a taxi and on our way to Amritsar City to find a hotel and take our first glimpse of the Temple, i must admit the excitement to see something that only days ago felt like an impossibility was boiling over and after dropping my luggage off and taking a quick shower i was knocking on my cousins door and asking him to accompany me, it was his third trip so my excitement was lost on him but luckily he obliged and we were on our way.

We reached the main entrance to the temple and upon seeing the entrance i was rather disappointed. I had immeasurably high expectations of what i was going to see, and a feeling of dread over came me as i believed at that point anyway that the temple wouldn’t be as beautiful as i had imagined. For some reason i was expecting grandeur from the get go and thought i was in for plummeting disappointment yet again, but as i scarfed my hair washed my feet and raised my head to look through the entrance, i was amazed at just how beautiful the Golden Temple was. We had reached during the afternoon so the domes of the mandir (temple) were catching and reflecting the sunlight, creating an unalloyed gold sheen that was beautifully reflected in the sky blue pond of water (or “Amrit Sarovar” from which the city gets its name) surrounding it. It was perfection, and i don’t mince my words for a second. I would be a fool to say i was not overcome with emotion, a mish mash of awe, reverence, gratitude, and pure joy had entered me, “The Word Sublime” was manifest infront of my very eyes and i ran down the stairs of the entrance and prostrated in complete reverence, my forehead placed on the cold marble for longer than most as i spoke a few silent words to myself. I was in Amritsar, i was seeing the Golden Temple, i was blessed, i knew it, and it was then that i knew this trip no longer was the disaster i had spoken of previously. A definite balance had been brought into the cosmic calamity that was my Indian odyssey, and all the bitterness and resentment of the last few weeks simply melted away, i was at peace with India, and was convinced she no longer hated me.

Lining up to enter the Temple

We began our journey around the Sarovar circling the actual mandir (temple), my cousin a Sikh himself explaining to me the significance of all that we encountered, it was a learning experience even though i had grown up with many Sikhs as a child, and a Gurudwara (Sikh temple) is by no means an alien place to me, I have always for some strange reason felt more at home there than i have a temple. My respect for Sikhism and Sufism for that matter too has been with me since i was eleven and luckily enough for me it was something encouraged by my rather spiritual and open minded parents. I don’t say this in an attempt to paint myself as a spiritual person, Lord knows i am borderline agnostic at times, and that my bitterness with certain established movements that have played a large part in my upbringing have in recent times left me questioning even that. But i can’t deny a belief in the universality of all religions, in a belief of inherent human divinity and in the equality of all in front of a higher power whatever he or she maybe. So when we made the final turn of the Sarovar and entered the line that would lead me to the inner sanctum of the Golden Temple where the Guru Granth (original Sikh holy book) is kept, i felt for the first time in my life a communal oneness with those around me, a single communal focus of reverence, and a congregation so egalitarian that i knew for the first time what true equality is. Amritsar at that point became the culmination of 22 years of spiritual theory that had previously failed to experience true egalitarianism anywhere. For all the theory that had been taught to me i have been unable to digest aristocracy as a side effect of institutionalised spiritual thought. This has never been the fault of those embodying the oneness, to blame are those who in their stupor have mangled instruction to suit their own needs and sadly many of us have quietly accepted it. Perhaps i am too Marxist in my views that i cannot accept hierarchy within the allegedly spiritual, but within Amritsar i felt we were all “red” spiritually at least to some degree, and the disappointment i had felt with a recent pilgrimage to a separate place of worship, mixed with what i believed to be the failure of my trip to India, then spontaneously deciding to go to Amritsar, seeing the Granth, bowing my head in reverence, drinking of the Amrit (the water of the sarovar) and exiting the abode was a mandala of action that when viewed from atop had come full circle and created an experience that has now renewed me and for that i will always love Amritsar. It has filled me with a hope, that had gone brittle, and renewed an idealism that had soured long long ago.

I must confess this post hadn’t gone the way i intended, the plan was to surmise the actual trip and go into its intricate details, breaking down my daily visits to Harmandir Sahib bit by bit, describing the happenings from the western eye, David Attenborough wild life documentary-esque, but i failed. Whilst typing, the images i had described earlier came rushing back, and i couldn’t help but translate what i felt. The finer details of the temple, its historical and political significance are important details that deserve mention, but they can be found elsewhere by someone who is an authority on the issue, i can only write about what i felt, that is the only authority i have and with that i am comfortable, my apologies to those that may have wanted something more informative in design, the post did start out that way and i may have laid the bait for it, but i came to the conclusion midway through the piece that i would be more myself if i wrote what i felt, and what i felt at Amritsar for the entire day and a half i was there was something special, to me anyway. Wether i will take this learning with me from this day forth will be a test of character, one that i can’t say with confidence i will succeed at, but for now i will do what i did at 5am on Thursday morning as i sat just outside the inner sanctum of the temple, listening to the kirtans (devotional hymns) that were being sung as the Granth was revered immediately opposite me, cracklings of the rising sun spiriting the sky… basking simply basking in the magic of one of the few places in the world that holds out on its promise of divine egalitarianism, then closing my eyes and feeling it, my idealism renewed.

-n-

Random Thought #2

On Parthi….

The bus from Parthi to Bangalore weaves through kilometer upon kilometer of dry barren land. The sun sets on the horizon and a turbaned farmer stares at it, squatting in his dhothi, one hand on his left temple in contemplation. He is in the middle of a drought and the look he gives the sun is a confused cross between hatred, surrender, respect and philosophical aloofness…i watch him and then watch the sun, I can’t help but relate and mimic his stare, after all i feel the same way about Parthi, its at this juncture RA Scion and the Common Market poignantly make their entrance with Tobacco Road;

” I just had to go, had it with the status quo
They’re askin’ me if I’ll be back when I’m old
In fact, no – these are my last tracks along Tobacco Road

But I’ll forever call it home
And I feel it whenever I call home”

…..And like a little wave it crashes over me, this maybe my last trip here  but it is not “home” like the poet describes, nor does it insight any feeling similair to “home”, if anything, it manifests an obligation that i feel has now melted away. It wasn’t like this in the past, in the past i had convinced myself this was the centre of the universe and coming here was the cliched “recharging of batteries”. I was to put it bluntly happy to play the part, but now its different. Maybe i’m older, maybe i’m bitter, maybe i just don’t fit in, maybe i finally understand that my place is distantly in the middle…… but Parthi and its people have lost me. It isn’t something tragic and it isn’t a deeply wounded loss, it is just what it is.

The true basis of Parthi i doubt will ever leave me though, it has gifted me what i have today and for that i am grateful. But i cannot be like they are… it isn’t me and i don’t think i can put the mask back on and play the part, if anything i’m happy to dig a hole, bury it and walk right away……

The bus chugs away even further from the villages and i realize that i haven’t left “home” behind……. if anything i’m heading strongly towards it…

-n-

Random Thought #1

The Foreign Exchange plays “Be Alright” on my ipod as we drive through Mumbai, Median cavorts feel good lyrics with ease;

“The pain that you know, the evil you see

I got a feeling that were gonna be all right,

everything’s gonna be all right”

On my left a brother and sister take a bath under the cool shade of a traffic light, their home a traffic island amidst the carnage of a hundred thousand cars, trucks and rickshaws….i repeat to myself the chorus with one eye on the brother and sister…

“The pain that you know, the evil you see

I got a feeling that were gonna be all right”

…..and i genuinely wonder where the f&^k Median gets his confidence from….

-n-