All hail Sir Vidia!

hi all
i remember Naipaul having some unflattering things to say about the IQ of the average Indian woman. I decided to take a shy at one aspect of her behaviour a couple of weeks ago, when Brandon Routh was announced as being Christopher Reeveś successor. Unfortunately, I had the Hindu at the back of my mind and so restricted my verbosity to 800 words. A pity really, I had some nice, caustic remarks to make.

Will the real Superwoman please stand up?

After long deliberations, the mantle of Superman (at least the cinematic version) has found its successor. In which case, speaking in a figurative sense, will the real Superwoman please stand up?

It is a strange, though to socio-anthropologists interesting, fact that whereas Indian culture has managed to throw up a certain number of ‘cultural heroines’, in other words feminine archetypes, the same are conspicuous by their absence in the history of European civilization.

Where do women figure in Caucasian, Greek and Semitic mythology? As Harpies, Valkyries and river nymphs? As witches, priestesses and fortune-tellers? The woman is ever the unknown; the woman is ever the mystery. In consequence, the woman is ever the snare; the woman is ever the temptation.

The mistrust of the feminine character is innate to Semitic religion. It originates with the fanciful tale of Genesis and Eve’s foibles and continues to this day to haunt the fabric of our society. In all of Semitic religion, women are simultaneously vilified as being harbingers of ill-fortune and marginalized as being inept with regard to worldly concerns.

So, with the rise of mass education, where do women seek their archetypes? Of course, in ‘pseudo-men’. Hence Boedicea and Joan of Arc, thus the Amazons and those cartoon superwoman in bikini suits, thereby Halle Berry in a ridiculous leather dress no sane person would be found dead in a ditch in!

The point is that, it is imperative, in the Western ethos, for the feminine principle to be ruthlessly suppressed if an individual is to garner any modicum of respect in society. This particular prejudice is so very deeply and homogeneously ingrained in the Western psyche that any attempts to view it as such are will in all eventuality be viewed as bigoted ravings of chauvinistic puritans.

The mythical Amazons were a tribe of fierce women archers who, to facilitate the pulling of the bow, would cut off their right breasts. This myth, as we shall soon see, is deeply symbolic, and in a way, representative of the argument aforementioned. The price a woman pays for competing in contemporary society is the loss of a very large part of her femininity. “Sacrilege!” scream the ranks of feminists.

And yet, for all the bra-burning of the 1920’s and for all the emancipated life-styles of the 21st century, where is the Superwoman? The successful corporate executive, juggling responsibilities confidently both at home and at work? Is she not yet another Amazon, as a person a self-made hermaphrodite; as an archetype simply a substitute male?

Why? Why is it that in contemporary society, a woman is required to prove herself as being ‘equal to a man’ to attain any semblance of self-worth and societal recognition?

Western society has developed, by virtue of its evolution through incessant warfare, on lines wherein the masculine principle has acquired overwhelming dominance. If a woman chooses to establish her individuality in this phallus-driven society, she must, to use a vulgar but effective analogy, procure a dildo for herself. Such are the rules of the Western game.

The East, it is immediately evident, has attained a more equable equilibrium as regards gender-discrimination in society. This, of course, is a direct consequence of the fact that these civilizations have seen a shorter history of militaristic brutality. It is a fact that the East has managed to reconcile the difference between the sexes and created a much more wholesome paradigm of existence, with regard to gender, than the West. In the bargain, it is devoid of the purely masculine instinct of aggression and in consequence has been imposed upon on the geo-political scene since time immemorial.

China owing to its racially segregated existence for long centuries has probably the most balanced of gender philosophies, as expressed on a very fundamental level by the concept of yin and yang. India, owing to the incessant onslaughts of invaders from the North-West in the past millennium, has begun to acquire some Semitic traits.

But even so, we still retain some civilizational memories of a more sophisticated mode of societal existence. The deities of Knowledge and Wealth, for instance, both passionately sought after and both notoriously fickle, are represented as women. Touché! In Durga, the embodiment of the rage of destruction, the Indian archetype matches the post-Freudian view of the libidinous nature of passion. Of course, even here, the qualities ascribed to the feminine principle are not very flattering to Westernized ears.

But bringing the discussion to more mundane realms, in the light of the aforegoing, it is rather piquant to find Indian women (even more than Indian men) desperately eager to adopt Western modes of lifestyle and expression. If in spite of all, Indian women find the idea of sacrificing their feminity for their individuality appealing; the popular opinion of the meagerness of the feminine intellect will stand profoundly vindicated.

Blood is thicker than water

hi all
readers of my blog are here accorded the privilege of reading my article for the magazine 'Bharati' before its out in print. Due to some obscure relation between the two clans, my relatives on my father's side of the family are fiendishly enamored with 'Madhushala'. Well , its good enough to go a little ga ga over. Here , I continue the family tradition, but with a slightly more balanced perspective. Readers may suggest titles for the work, the author cannot think of any at the drop of a hat. Here goes,



The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam occupies a unique place in the literary firmament.The magnificence of Baghdad, the splendor of the Islamic Arab empire,are reflected in Omar's insouciant exhortations to the world. This compilation of quatrains of the famous 11th century astronomer-poet first burst forth into the intellectual sphere through Edward Fitzgerald's brilliant English translation back in 1865.Fitzgerald's literary reputation rests almost entirely on this monumental work, culminating in the publication, over a period of 11 years, five slim editions comprising of verses culled from the original.

'Awake, for Morning, in the Bowl of Night,
Has flung the stone that sets the Stars to flight.
And lo! The hunter of the east has caught
The Sultan's turret, in a noose of light.'

The task of translating Omar's mystical metaphorical flights into a more accesible language, Persian gradually becoming defunct, required an Oriental mind acquainted with medieval Persian culture at an intimate level. The task was accomplished, in part, by a personage uniquely suited for the purpose. Ladies and gentlemen, Harivansh Rai Srivastava.

'Madiralaya jane ko ghar se, chalta hai peene wala,
Kis path se jaoon, asmanjas mein hai yeh bhola bhala.
Alag, alag path batlate sab, par main yeh batlata hoon
Rah pakad too ek chala chal, pa jayega Madhushala.'

Harivansh Rai Srivastava was born in Allahabad on November 27, 1907. He graduated from the Benares Hindu University. During his college days, he acquired his celebrated nom-de-plume, 'Bachchan'. In later life, by virtue of his son's exploits onscreen, he was known exclusively as Harivansh Rai Bachchan. He went to Cambridge in 1952 , where, in 1954, he became the first Indian ever to complete a Ph.D in English.

'Sun kal kal chhal chhal, madhughat se girti, pyalon mein hala
Sun run jhun run jhun, jal vitran karti madhu-saki-bala,
Lo aa pahunche, door nahin, kuchh char kadam ab chalna hai,
Chahak rahe sun peene wale, mahak rahi le Madhushala.'

'Madhushala', earned Harivansh Rai instant fame upon its publication in 1935. However, it must not be assumed that, as in the case of Fitzgerald, Bachchan's work was a simple translation. He himself acknowledged his inspiration to the original. But that was as far as he went. This technicality essentially absolves him of any liabilty corresponding to liberties in translation , the bane of Fitzgerald.

'Ek baras mein ek baar hi jalti Holi ki jwala,
Ek baar hi mane Diwali, jagmag deepon ki mala
Duniyawalon, kintu kisi din, aa madiralaya mein dekho
Din ko Holi, raat Diwali, roz manati Madhushala.'

As is evident, Madhushala is not meant to be a translation of the Rubaiyat, as the poet uses Omar's medium to communicate in a very different cultural milieu. To clarify his position, he later published a literal translation of part of the Rubaiyat, which unfortunately, does not live up to his usual high standards. Madhushala, it is contended, is not a linguistic translation, but a mystical translation of Khayyam's philosophy.

'Lal sura ki dhar lapat si, kah na ise dena jwala.
Phenil madira hai, mat isko kah dena ur ka chhala.
Dard nasha hai is madira ka, vigat smritiyan Saki hain
Peeda mein anand jise ho, aye meri Madhushala.'

Thus, the hiatus in Fitzgerald's is complemented by Bachchan's Indianized rendition of the same theme. In metaphorical terms, Fitzgerald provides the body, and Bachchan provides the spark of soul to enliven the translation. It is a matter of dispute as to whether Bachchan was influenced by the English translation to a very great degree. Some verses in Madhushala hint at the likelihood of this being the case. Contrast, for instance the following :

'Yama will then be thy cup-bearer, and bring thee the dark cup,
Drink, and know no more consciousness, O carefree one.
This is the ultimate trance, the final Saki, the last goblet.
O traveller, drink well, for you will never find the tavern again.'

'So when at last the Angel of the darker drink
Of darkness finds you by the river-brink,
And, proffering his Cup, invites your Soul
Forth to your lips to quaff it - do not shrink


Bachchan succeeded where Fitzgerald failed for he inherited a rich and vibrant culture of Urdu poetry, that, to an infinitesimal extent, kept alive, as it still does, vague memories of the forgotten days of Islamic world domination. To describe Omar's poetry is to describe the revolt of a fertile mind against the decadence fomented by rigid fatalistic doctrines that pervaded Persian society for the entire period of its decline, beginning in mid-11th century. It is the rebellion of a free spirit against dogmas perpetuated by the existing oligarchy of ulemas, and at the same time a heart-felt expression of sorrow at the irrationality of existence.

'Oh Thou, who didst with Pitfall and with Gin
Beset the Road I was to wander in,
Thou wilt not with Predestination round
Enmesh me, and impute my Fall to Sin?

Oh Thou, who Man of baser earth did make,
And even with Paradise devise the Snake,
For all the Sin wretched Man's face is
Black with, Man's forgiveness give - and take.'



Postscript: Alas! I just remembered. Owing to the legerdemain of the philistine Fudu, four paragraphs of the article were lost irretrievably at the time of composition when he leaned on the 'Delete' key and saved the document in one smooth motion. He shall pay for this in blood when we both stand in the literary Valhalla when the last trump sounds.

Drunkennesh is the besht policy, hic!

hi all
i guess the title says it all, doesn't it. yes, this is what i wrote when i woke up around one in the afternoon today. i am beginning to enjoy this relaxation of quality criteria in my writing. it is making me a lot more prolific and a lot less portentuous. however, if i end up writing without having anything to say, well then, it shall be this blog to blame. anyway, the poem is called

Drunkenness is the best policy

A dark, musty room, stuffy with Ego
A nostalgic rain falls sullen outside
The air depressedly stagnant with ennui
Despite the efforts of a valiant fan
A fan that looks just like my conscience

Yawning deliberately, forcing my mind
To reconcile itself to intellectual exile
For looking inside is just too hard
And all my hopes swirl in as murky a puddle
As waits to greet me outside the door

In my little hole, safe from the rain
And a chill wind, mindful of loneliness
Refusing to peep out, grow up
Into an irrational, confused world
Trying hard not to wake up
On a rainy Sunday morning

Go Kerry go!

hi all, well here i am, figuratively, fiddling while Rome burns. Mihir Mysore expects me to come up with a 10000 word play for the institute dramatics contest by tonight. progress?

let me put it this way. there are to be two acts and an intermission. i've just about finished the intermission.

Chestnut!

anyway, having tasted the forbidden fruit of free versification i just had to have another go at it. this is what did/did not ensue...

A literary abortion

The poet grimaces, head in hands
Gazes despondent at his juvenile scrawl
Digits on the watch metamorphose
One into the other as political alliances
While his mind races, the intellect drills
Alack! the track is a circle, the soil barren
Fold the foolscap, twice tear symmetric
Bury the corpse with averted eyes, unsung
Consigned to oblivion at the verge of utterance
Inchoate thoughts march solemnly to their Bardo
As the Muse, coquettish, withdraws her lips.
A literary abortion.