Lashkar-e-Shivoba

After the terror attacks in Mumbai on 26th November 2008, the Lashkar-e-Taiba, one of South Asia's most active terrorist organization headquartered in Lahore, has constantly been in the news. The title, which in both Urdu and Arabic mean Army of The Good/Army Of The Pure, is a dreaded name. A few months ago, I noticed a green bus on Tulsi Pipe Road in the heart of Mumbai with the image of a tiger and the words, Laskhar-e-Shivoba. Loosely translated, the words mean The Army of Shiva. The use of Urdu words with the name of a Hindu God is enigmatic. The association of the name with LeT, suggests a Hindu terrorist group united to fight Islamic terrorism. Green is rarely used in Hinduism, and is the the color of Islam. Therefore the use of green as opposed to safffron, the colour of Hinduism, for the bus, is also puzzling.

The symbol of the tiger is also so the symbol of one Maharashtra's major right wing political parties - The Shiv Sena. Laskhar-e-Shivoba seems to be an Urdu translation of The Shiv Sena, and this organization could be the Gujrati wing of the Shiv Sena.

A blog, http://csimumbai.wordpress.com/2008/11/09/lashkar-e-shivoba/, notes that Lashkar-e-Shivoba means Army Of Shivaji. Shivaji was the famous 17th century Maratha king and warrior, who prevented the Mughals from conquering what we today call the state of Maharasthra, by using guerrilla warfare techniques.

Greek Art and The Italian Renaissance

It's common knowledge that the Renaissance in Italy, which began arguably in the late 12th century, was deeply influenced by Roman art and sculpture, which in turn was greatly inspired by Classical Greek art and sculpture. But seeing direct relationships between Renaissance paintings created during the 1400s and Greek sculpture from around 500 BC - a gap of 2000 years - in the flesh, is quite a delight.

The Greek relief sculptures below (both are from the Archaeological Museum in Athens) are marble stelae (or upright slabs) used to decorate the graves of Greek nobility. The composition of the relief with the woman bowing down in grief, closely resembles the structure of Annunciation paintings of the Renaissance. Even the hand gesture of the figure holding a bowl predicts the hand gesture of the Angel Gabriel as he blesses the Virgin in some paintings. The Annunciation is the announcement by the Angel Gabriel to the Virgin Mary of the Incarnation of Jesus Christ. I've chosen Fra Angelico's Angelico's fresco in Florence (1437-1446) here as an example.

The second stelae, which shows (if I remember correctly) a father bidding farewell to his young son, suspiciously resembles the composition of the right side of Masaccio's The Tribute Money (1427) fresco in Florence. Masaccio's painting shows St. Peter paying off a tax collector.

Makis and Greek Roadside Shrines

I wish I'd met Makis Rafailidis at the beginning of my trip to Greece. This Athenian taxi-driver was super-friendly, and I quickly trusted him to take me on two day-trips (at the end of my holiday) - one to Delphi and the other to Mycenae/Naphlion/Epidaurus/Corinth. His rates were reasonable and he seemed to have a special affection for Indians, as he had close friends from India. He had a loud and raspy voice, and used a range of hand gestures to complement his intelligent comments. I liked his frankness, and he didn't pretend to know more than he did. If you are ever in Athens, give him a call - 697 7085927.

On my second day-trip, he explained that religious shrines, such as the one in the photograph, were built alongside roadsides, at the site of fatal car accidents. I was intrigued by the connection to the Kerala roadside shrines I wrote about in January. However, the ones in Kerala are probably the result of the cultural exchange between Hinduism and Christianity, and have nothing to do with accidents.

The Secret Life Of Mumbai Tap Water

There's a lot of crap inside Mumbai tap water. If you use an electrolyzer, clouds of sediments suddenly appear out of nowhere, as if by (black) magic. It is rumoured that tap water is not as harmful as people think, because it is heavily chlorinated. This process kills most of the germs in the water. However, these photos aren't very reassuring. But there's something to be said about building your resistance...

In the second photo, the clear water is virgin tap water. The other two glasses have been "electrocuted"; the lighter one contains purified water, and the darker one contains tap water. To make a long story short, it's worth investing in a water purifier.

Red Cars On Hire

On a recent trip to Hyderabad, I noticed a battalion of red cars parked on the roadside. These cars are rented for weddings. One surprisingly frank driver, anxiously waiting for a customer, said that business was down. Even without this information, a close inspection would reveal that the cars weren't in great shape. But that said, they had a nostalgic old-world charm to them. Not a bad idea to spruce up the romance factor in an overly practical world, especially on a wedding day. Note the lovely car on the right (a 1950s Morris?). If I'm not mistaken, the top two car are a 1980s Contessa (manufactured by Hindustan Motors) and a 1970s Chevy.

Two Book Exhibitions

Last Friday, I went to two book exhibitions – one at Crossword, Kemps Corner and the other organized by a local bookseller at Sunderbai Hall, Churchgate. Both promised fantastic discounts and both were well attended. However, both offered significantly different book-buying experiences.

The books at Crossword, were as expected, well organized by subject. The clientele was well-off and was mostly from the surrounding upscale residential areas. The Sunderbai Hall exhibition was an example of “disorganized” retailing. Books were not well displayed, and stacked around as if in a vegetable market. The attendants did not know where specific books would be, and book billing was done manually. The hall was hot and your finger tips would be doused in dust before your left it.

However, I stayed longer at the Sunderbai exhibition and bought four books there versus none at Crossword. I enjoyed the surprise of discovering a book that was possibly out of print or a commercial failure after minutes of foraging through the book aisles. There was no specific reason why a particular book was displayed except for the fact that the organizer had purchased it at a rock-bottom price and wanted to make a cool profit. Crossword, on the other hand was brim-full with the latest bestsellers.

I bought a book titled Raja Deen Dayal: Prince of Photography, which contains photographs of Hyderabad taken during the Raj. It was quite relevant as I was on my way to Hyderabad the next day. The second book was Myself Mona Ahmed – a heartrending pictorial documentary of 13 years in the life of a eunuch photographed by Dayanita Singh. I had been to an exhibition of the photographer’s recent work just a few months ago at the NGMA. The third one was a book on office design (I'm looking for some tips on how to spruce up my new office), and the fourth one was Bandits by Eric Hobswam. I had read a chapter or two from this book while doing an undergraduate English Literature/Film course called Outlaw Heroes.

I’m glad that both type of exhibitions co-exist in the same city, just a few kilometers from each other. That’s the wonder of the delicately fragmented customer segments that exist in our growing economy. Choice is what I love best.

The White Tiger Celebrates an Independence Day of Another Kind

In a week's time, we will be celebrating our Independence Day. What will you be doing then? Waking up late, watching a movie or reading a book, or beginning a long-weekend holiday? The significance of our freedom from foreign rule has been reduced to a break from our whirlwind urban lives. Aravind Adiga's novel The White Tiger, which has recently been long-listed for the Booker Prize, is about a more active and contemporary process of independence that is gathering momentum across the country. It's about an independence from the evils of our heritage: caste and illiteracy. It's about an independence from the bondage of Karma, a mental block that has stunted the growth of billions of Indians for millennia.

Balaram Halwai, the anti-hero, is a self-made man, who strives to live a life that is different from the ones that his ancestors have lived for centuries as poverty-stricken labourers, eternally in the clutches of the village zamindar. His family members continue to live that shackled life. He first becomes a driver in his birth place, Laxmangarh and then Delhi. He also yearns to break free from the "rooster-coop" mentality and behaviour of his driver colleagues, which he does. After murdering his master, he becomes a taxi-service entrepreneur in Bangalore with ambitions to become a real estate tycoon. He exhibits courage, endurance, intelligence and decisiveness - characteristics of today's super-successful businessmen.

But this freedom from India's past comes at very high cost. The book is about the moral and spiritual corruption of this once-innocent villager. In a delightful, yet sarcastic passage entitled, "How Does The Entreprising Driver Earn a Little Extra Cash?" that author suggests ways in which Balram cheats his boss. Balram, while exhibiting the rampant selfishness of the new India, essentially sacrifices his family for his freedom. The village landlord of Laxmangarh massacres Balram's family once Balram flees Delhi for Bangalore after murdering the landlord's son, his former master. In Bangalore, Balaram uses his money to bribe the local police in advance to prevent his impending arrest. He uses the lesson he learned from his former master effectively - money is used by the rich to protect themselves from the law, which the poor are powerless against.

An important idea in the book which the author revealed to me during a conversation was that it's amazing that the number of national servant larcenies/murders is very low despite ample opportunities for servants to steal/murder their masters. Most of us living in India have encountered loyal servants who serve their masters late into old age. Adiga is sure that this is going to change. Household crime will be on the rise, as servants realize that they are masters of their own fate.

Adiga captures the positives of change, but warns us that that the downside of "progress" is goddamn dark.

Some "In-House" Monsoon Photography

Bleak, grey skies. No sun in sight. What a perfect time for "in-house" photography. How does one use the monotonous greys both within the apartment and outside to one's advantage? Well, here's what I came up with.

The "Rentiyo-Generator" would have saved the Congress Truckloads of Cash

A close family friend and former NASA researcher, Gautam Patel, combined an old tape deck motor with a charkha or spinning wheel to create electricity. As you spin the wheel, electricity is generated and the circuit board glows with light (I couldn't capture it in my photo unfortunately). If the Congress party leaders had seen Gautam's contraption, christened, "The Rentiyo-Generator,"and believed in the applications of Gandhiji's apparently outdated self-sufficiency ideology a little earlier, they could have avoided today's "Trust Vote" and saved truck loads of cash used to buy-out wavering politicians. There are alternatives to Nuclear Energy, my dear. Imagine loads of people spinning charkhas and generating electricity - surreal or what. The charkha in the photo was used by Gautam's aunt Maniben to make cloth. And she had load of it; enough to make new clothes for her entire family.

A Punjabi-Australian Roadside dish

Toni Daa Dhaba is a roadside restaurant on the old highway between Lonavala and Pune that serves emu meat. It's hard to believe but true. These birds, native to Australia, are not endangered. But that doesn't help. One still feels pretty sad for these caged nomads that love to roam the outback freely for miles. The guy trying to fix his


car in the third photo looks oddly like the emu's African relative, the ostrich.

The Mystery of Maganlal Chikki

If you are an economist-cowboy riding through the Lonvala one-horse-town market, your brain cells will go into overdrive as you notice that on both sides of the street are shops of various sizes but with the same name, Maganlal Chikki and that too, in the same font and design. Professor Landsberg, my economics teacher in college, would have a field day here. I won't be surprised if The Economics of Maganlal Chikki, would outsell his current bestseller, The Economics of Sex (at least amongst his economist buddies, if not among Lonavalites).

For those connoisseurs of chikki and fudge who were introduced to these sweetmeats in their childhood, would agree that they don't make 'em like they used to. But such discerning sweet lovers are in short supply.

What's behind this Maganlal Chikki Phenomenon? The other twist to this mystery is that fact that most of Maganlal Chikki stores have the words, "Best And Original" above their name. If the name is not copyrighted, many shop owners can use it without any legal complications. But why Maganlal Chikki? Why not A-1 or the other names that are now minorites? What made Maganlal Chikki the brand of choice?

One theory propounded by a learned architect friend is that Maganlal Chikki is a franchise. Great idea. But we come to same question, what makes Maganlal Chikki the brand of choice? Anyone know where to start?

Bollywood is a Temple

Two friends and I halted at the Khirdeshwar temple enroute to Ambernath last Sunday. The photo on top is of a hall adjacent to the main temple. There were a couple of sadhus sitting on the floor, recouping from a sleepless night on the road or recovering from austerities.

Note the Bollywoodization of temple architecture here. The arches and the make-believe roof of thin logs could be part of a set for any Hindi movie, especially with the fresco of the dramatic image of Lord Shiva meditating on the inside wall. However, the difference is that this structure is made to last. The roof gives the hall a homely feel, while the arches add a touch of formality.

The design of the arches is heavy and stark. Don't you feel as if your arm would be cut off if it brushed past the sharp ridges of one of the arches? I'm thinking Mantis razor-hands. The abstract geometrical designs in the space between the arches remind me more of Mughal rather than Hindu architecture. The body of the (plaster of Paris?) pillars seem oddly Romanesque, with a number of design variations. The balustrade below, which is a part of anyone's apartment in Mumbai lucky to have a view, and the black and red (granite or marble ?) plates on the right, drag you back to reality - all this is just a show. We are still steeped in mediocrity, despite bold attempts to break out of it. Wait there is hope! The cornice is refreshingly designed with reliefs of a horizontal trishul, swastika, Om, and a shell - all symbols of the Great Yogi. This pastiche of styles, some intentionally mixed and others not, is at the heart of Bollywood.

The second photo is of the right side of the main temple. You can see at least 3 different phases of its construction. At the base are the carvings of the original structure. Later large rectangular stones were placed to rebuild the ruins. On top you see the ugly concrete additions of our age, just above the protruding water pipe.

The Invisible Indian

As I walked through a construction site in Ambernath last Sunday, I had an innocent revelation. Construction is a miracle. One just has to mix cement, small stones, gravel, and some water and wallah! you have concrete, the flesh of most modern buildings. The long rusty iron rods are their bones. But as I looked at the hardy migrant construction workers, some from Andhra Pradesh, and others from Bihar and Madhya Pradesh, who toiled laboriously through the stark sunshine and the miserable downpours, I realized how unaffected they were by the enormous changes that were occurring all over India. Their lives seemed untouched by the strides in technology, education, and incomes that most Indians are experiencing. They are in a time-warp, living in a black-hole at the heart of India.

They lived in shanties on the site. I couldn't detect any antennae so I doubt there were any TV sets around. Some youngsters taking a break played cards. In contrast to the shanties of the poor who live permanently in the city, but move from one street to another, and have some access to modern appliances such as TV and fridges, migrant labourers have no such luck. They are to the modern urban world what cattle are to farmers.

My Claim To Fame

My friend Aravind Adiga wrote the highly acclaimed book, The White Tiger, which was recently published internationally. My humble claim to fame, is the author photograph which I took just outside the Museum Gallery in Kala Ghoda one afternoon. Aravind said he liked it very much, but I suspect he's just being polite (the polite man he is), because it doesn't make him look too good. Only the American edition (published by Free Press / Simon and Schuster) carried my photo. I even got a byline, "AUTHOR PHOTOGRAPH BY AKASH SHAH."

Allen Ginsberg in India

Deborah Baker, wife of acclaimed author Amitav Ghosh, explores the iconoclastic American poet’s adventures in India during 1961-62, in her book, A Blue Hand: The Beats In India. A recent New York Times review prompted me to buy the book. I read it quickly, and completed it on my flight back to Mumbai from New York.

I’ve always been interested in travelers' perceptions of India. This book was an opportunity to look at the experiences of an intense, politically charged poet, who came to India with the goal of “finding God through a guru,” he could “love.” When he was in college in the early 1950s, he had a vision in which he saw the hand of god and heard a divine recitation of one of William Blake’s poems. This vision was the beginning of his spiritual yearning, and India was the only place in the world where he could explore the full dimension of this yearning.

He, and his lover, Peter Orlovsky, travel to holy places such as Rishikesh, Benares, Tiruvanamalai and Pondicherry; have dinner with Papul Jaykar in Mumbai; become the heart of a Calcutta poet group; work with lepers as part of Mother Teresa's ashram; and are almost expelled from India on the ridiculous charge of being spies by a paranoid police/government. They travel in 3rd class train compartments, live in filthy rooms, wear local clothes, mix with local people, and almost become one with the streets of India. I was fascinated by the passion, energy and curiosity with which Ginsberg lived in India. He was a man on a mission (however unclear that mission was!). He fell serious sick a number of times, but he never ever thought of going back home. His ultimate lesson was that what he was looking for was not in India, but within himself (sorry if this sounds trite!).

Ironically what interested me the most in the book was the first 40% where the author rummages through Ginsberg’s college career and his friendships with the Beat writers and poets - Jack Kerouac, Neal Cassidy, William Burroughs, and Gregory Corso. All of them were on drugs and alcohol and on the verge of madness. Ginsberg was even sent to a psychiatric institute for a while. The author weaves a realistic picture of their relationships, based on solid research. Each character comes alive, as if one had just met them.

Another highlight of the book is Hope Savage, a teenage beauty, who is fiercely independent, almost anarchic, and is driven by an inexplicable wanderlust to travel the world (which she does). She hated her parents for sending her to an asylum, and spent all her life, trying to bury her familial relationships and memories. The Beat writers and poets were mesmerized by her. Corso was madly in love with her. Ginsberg met her in India a couple of times. But no one had any control of her, and she ultimately disappears and is nowhere to be found, despite the author’s rigorous searches for her whereabouts via the people Hope knew and available documents. She was a lost soul, and I feel for her more than any other character in the book.

An Ethical Dilemma on the Streets of New York

I was walking down 28th street at the corner of Lexington on Monday, when I accidentally brushed a man’s arm. A pair of spectacles he was carrying, but wasn’t wearing, fell on the footpath causing one lens to crack. I apologized quickly and walked on. In a few minutes, this large man, tapped me rather firmly, and said I should compensate him for the broken glasses. I was surprised, and didn’t give into his request. He seemed to be getting rather upset and said it would cost him $200 to fix the spectacles. I tried to downplay the situation by remaining calm and tried to calm him down. He continued his request for money, and I finally said that I was meeting a friend, and I would ask him if he could give some since I didn’t have any and I was a visitor to the city. Only then did he walk away. I felt intimidated throughout the exchange, and didn’t want to give in, and was curious to see where things would lead; I had the safety of being in mid-town Manhattan in broad daylight.

I’m curious to know what you would have done in this situation? Would you feel indebted to him and give into his request despite feeling intimidated?

Is the Joke on Pollock?

I may miss the sacred 3: MOMA, MET and the Guggenheim, but I won't miss the new galleries in Chelsea. 22st street between 10th and 11th avenues, is like art town: full of snugly set art galleries. These beautiful large white spaces, are always a treat to walk through, regardless of the quality of the art they display.

Rodney Graham’s self-portrait (left), in 303 Gallery, called The Gifted Amateur, November 10, 1962 could be a play on the iconic photo showing Jackson Pollock intensely at work on his painting (right). Pollock, who was "the archetypal abstract expressionist" (gallery PR notes) is caught in a moment of action, his body in a position almost suggestive of a tiger about to leap on his prey. Jackson is watched by a female friend/companion, in rather sculptural pose. The photo is staged, to create an aura about the artist, as if he is a male hero fighting with paint, while the prized maiden, looks on, in awe of her knight. It looks like a publicity photo.

In contrast, Graham stands rather passively over his canvas in pajamas; the slope of the canvas does most of the work, as he pours paint with a limp out-stretched hand. Though he appears relaxed, and all the items of the painting, appear natural, this photograph is more staged than Pollock’s. Each stool, table, book, and newspaper sheet is placed deliberately. One newspaper masthead has the date on which this photo is meant to have been shot – November 10, 1962. The old film/music system and the style of furniture, are also strong indicators of the time period in which this scene is set.

The quality of Graham’s image is exceptional, and one can see details of each newspaper sheet. The grain of the wood laminate on the wall in the background, interestingly echoes the painting in the foreground.

But why did Graham create this image? I think it’s a sort of joke; He may even be suggesting that Pollock’s work doesn’t deserve the attention it gets - It’s easy to do what Pollock did. Don’t you hear people saying, “ I could have done that with my left hand!” when mocking a modern work of art. Graham, seems to be playing on this sentiment – and he literally uses his left hand. But the fact that he would create such a photograph, suggests that he knows that modern is much more that what meets the eye.

An Afghan Adventure

The Scottish journalist, Rory Stewart's death-defying walk from Herat to Kabul in 36 days during the peak of the Afghan winter, is chronicled in The Places In Between. Stewart risked his life on two counts - he could freeze to death (which he almost did), or be killed by a local tribesman (which almost happened). The book is simple in its structure and message. Written in the aftermath of 9/11, the author explores the fragmented politics, communities, and religion and customs of Afghanistan. In the process, he emphasizes how superficial the world's understanding is of this poverty-stricken country.

Stewart follows the route taken by India's first Mughal emperor, Babur 500 years ago. He shares Babur's experiences of the bitter winter, and his interaction with various communities on the way, such as the Hazara, an ancient Mongol tribe. The author intermittently quotes from the emperor's "autobiography" as their thoughts and experiences mirror each other's.

The book is also the story of the touching relationship that develops between Stewart and a dog, which he names Babur. For much of the journey, Babur is his only companion.

I was far more impressed by this book that I was by Theroux's South American journey in the Patagonian Express. Theroux may be a more subtle writer, but Stewart's journey is hard to fathom, and his clear, crisp and powerful writing is a treat to read. Ironically, a friend of mine gave it to me in London, to ease my pain when I was reading Theroux's book.

Monks and a Starlet in the City of Angels

The sunlight was warm and the skies clear. I walked along the path of a well-landscaped garden built around a man-made lake, lead by latter-day monks, some dressed partly in orange and others in casual business clothes. We stopped at three different locations to meditate, in this lovely Santa Monica shangri-la. My favorite spot was the front of a docked white boat, through which one could see the tall palms across the lake. Direct light burst gently through the clear windows, and white room was aglow with spiritual energy and silence.

I won't reveal the identity of the monks (nor the name of their organization), for whom I developed a great deal of respect for with each passing minute, because I'm sure they would rather remain anonymous. They spent each moment with us, completely focused on us, never letting their attention wander. They explained the history and relevance of each building and monument on their premises, with intense devotion. We saw an ancient Dutch windmill; observed photographs at a museum which highlighted events from the life of their guru; sat in meditation halls for both adults and children; fed some swans, ducks, turtles and fish; and finally ogled at the beauty of the Pacific Ocean. At one point, we were served tea, delicious goat-cheese sandwiches, and biscuits as if we were long-awaited guests in a small English town.

Two evenings later I went out for dinner with my college friend, Marc, to a Japanese restaurant on the "Sunset Strip." From our host and waitresses to the female customers around, we were surrounded by beautiful women. One of them, apparently a starlet, wearing a silver-scaled tight dress, did everything to attract attention. Every time she got up from her table, all heads would veer in her direction. When her limousine drove up, she posed like a model or actress on a red carpet, much to the delight of every male around. A group of older men, caught her attention and tried to chat her up. I was quite fascinated by this aggressively extroverted and exhibitionist culture.

It's amazing that two such diametrically different cultures thrive so close to each other.

A Gentleman's Travels through the Americas

That's what Paul Theroux's The Old Patagonian Express should be re-titled. I was enticed to buy the book after hearing the famous travel writer speak at a book-reading in Bombay. I even got my copy autographed. However, I was as relieved to have finished the book as the author was to leave Argentina for Boston, at the end of his journey.

His journey is rather placid - just short trips on and off the train. To make matters worse, today we have been spoiled into thinking that all worthwhile travel experiences are extreme ones. For 75% of the book he drags the reader through what he sees as hopeless countries with hopeless people. He hates the poverty, the illiteracy, the weather and the crumbling infrastructure and governments. At times I fancied putting the book away. But then I remembered all the books that are lying half-read on my bookshelf and how piqued I feel when I see them staring at me like little Bombay street urchins, saying, " What did we do to deserve this fate?" So I trudged on.

My friend Shivjit had heard enough of my complaining one evening, and went straight to a Canadian couple sitting next to us at coffee shop for their opinion. One of them read a few pages quite carefully and said that it may not be the best book in the world, but Theroux was a good writer, and that the book was filled with subtle humor. I trusted her judgement and decided to trudge on with the book.

The author is frank that he prefers order over adventure and he writes, "It was not enough for me to know that I was in uninhabited altitudes; I needed to be reassured that I had reached a hospitable culture that was explainable and worth the trouble." He was comforted by the European feel of Argentina, after the the rugged landscapes of Bolivia and Peru. Ironically, during my own travels to Peru I was enthralled by the very same desolate moonlike landscapes. Of course my trip was far shorter and I traveled quite comfortably. So it's not right to compare the two experiences. But I loved the diversity of the continent, the different topographies, the history and culture. The travel through thick forests was a dream come true for me.

Theroux redeems himself a little with his decriptions of his meeting with the great Argentinian writer Borges. They connected immediately and each meeting was a delight to read about. But it's going to be some time before I think of picking up another book by him.

As Clear As Can Be

This past week, despite the searing heat and pollution, the skies have been very clear. One can see far out into into the sea from my apartment window. Bombay is surrounded by hills on the mainland and islands, often hidden by haze and smog. The morning light is wonderful. Anyone know anything about the island in the photo?

Manil Suri and the Mathematics Of Fiction

I went to hear Manil Suri, a mathematics professor at the University of Baltimore, and the author of The Age Of Shiva and The Death Of Vishnu, speak at the USIS auditorium earlier this week. The basic aim of his lecture was to reduce his audience's anxieties towards maths. At the outset, this phobia of math isn't too much of an Indian phenomenon. It's an issue the west may be facing more acutely. However, it was still an engaging talk.

He started off by explaining Fourier Analysis. On a basic level Fourier Analysis is the breaking down of complex wave patterns into simpler wave forms, called "basic functions". He likened this process to "deconstruction," a word that was in vogue a few decades ago amongst philosophers and critics. For example, the sound of an orchestra, can be broken down into the wave forms of the component instrument sounds. Colour can be broken down into light waves of red, green, and blue. He then took a leap into the world of folktales. He spoke about a Russian scholar who studied over 100 Russian folktales in the first quarter of the 2oth century, and broke them down into 30 "basic functions." There's a website where you can ask the computer to put some of the 31 parts together, and a completely new story is written by a software program. The beauty of basic functions is that they can then be re-assembled to make a new new form. Imagine applying this concept to Bollywood films, Suri joked. That would be a bit boring wouldn't it? He did admit that modern fiction couldn't be analyzed so easily.

Another interesting concept he spoke about was the process of counting. What is counting? It's merely the assignment of a series of number to a series of objects. When you count, you are bringing various completely different forms to the common platform of numbers.

He's on youtube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kBS_cNHvnBE. He's presenting a lecture called Taming Infinity. I still need to watch it myself...

Progression/Regression...

Last Sunday I went to see Duchamp Man Ray Picabia, at the Tate Modern, along with my friend Kiran. I was quite amazed at the quality of prints that Man Ray made while experimenting with photographic techniques. They were delectable. I reminisced about my undergrad college course in photography in which I exposed objects on photographic paper directly (without the camera), while in the darkroom, which is what Man Ray did almost a century before me. Man Ray created a wonderful new world of art by layering the images of objects on paper. Picabia, on the other hand created a new style of painting by playing with this layering of objects, but on canvas. Thus using traditional materials of painting, Picabia was influenced by what was happening in avant-garde photography at the time. An older form of art was renewing itself with the influence of a new art form.

I found this cross-pollination of artistic mediums very interesting, as it doesn't follow a linear or predictable trajectory that our limited minds impose on the future development of art. You would expect the artist to explore new paradigms of painting rather than compete with the photographic world.

While watching Beowulf, while half-asleep on the plane to London, I was delighted by the thought of how a film made with live actors was adopting a video game syntax. While video games programmers try to emulate movies by making the games more “realistic,” the last thing I expected was a movie-maker to emulate video games by making the movie more “ game-like.” There’s a curious link between the Picabia-Man Ray and movie-video game cases.

A Nabob's Pleasure - This isn't your Usual Colonial Architecture

While reading the March issue of Marg magazine, I was pleasantly surprised to see an article, A Delhi Nabob's Pursuit Of Pleasure: The Transformation of Build-heritage into a Pleasure Retreat, on the East India Company's Delhi Resident, Thomas Metcalfe 's (1795-1853) building activities. He was a memorable character in Dalyrmple's The Last Mughal, and the father of the revengeful Theo Metcalfe, who massacred a number of natives during the revolt of 1857. Thomas represented the last of a dying breed of Englishman; one who appreciated local arts and culture and incorporated elements of Mughal life into his own. He wasn't as extreme as some Nabobs before him such as David Ochterlony who dressed in Mughal clothes, kept harems, and probably was more comfortable with speaking Urdu than with speaking English.

Metcalfe built three major buildings - Ludlow Castle, Metcalfe House and Dilkusha. He built them as his claim to English nobility, and as a rival and a parallel to Bahadur Shah Zafar II's Mughal's buildings. All three were pulverized during the revolt, and the Marg article tries to makes sense of what's left. Dalyrmple writes that Metcalfe House, called Jahan Numa (World Showing), was "an expansive and palatial Palladian bungalow, on the banks of the Yamuna, north of the city." While Dilkusha (Delighter of the Heart), a country house, was a "converted octagonal Mughal tomb near Mehrauli." Dalyrmple adds, " both Metcalfe's houses were surrounded by extensive gateways; both were deocrated with follies, and even, in the case of Dilkusha, a lighthouse, a small fort, a pigeon house, a boating pond and an ornamental ziggurat." The idea of combining Mughal and English architecture with European sensibilities is fascinating. Having ancient ruins as part of the estate, added a Romantic feel to it. However the internal rooms were quite English: There was a library of over 25,000 books, a Napoleon Memorabilia room, and an oratory. The house was essentially an art gallery, with numerous paintings and art objects on display.

The author of the Marg article, Jyoti Sharma, seems to equate Thomas with the other Nabob's such such as David Ochterlony and Willam Fraser. However, Thomas was far less a true Nabob than the others before him. Based on Dalyrmple's writing, Thomas clearly followed English patterns of behaviour, such as following a very rigid daily schedule and wearing English clothes tailored by his London tailors. The design and architecture of Dilkusha are ample evidence of his strong Western tastes and life-style. The Mughal elements are "just for show." Thus Thomas is a symbol of the changing attitudes of the English towards India. He is a transitional figure; he fits between the Nabobs with their harems and future English leaders with strict Victorian sensibilites and a passion for religious conversions.

Bhindi is Forever

Bhindi (Ladies Finger) is disputably the current king, sorry, queen, of vegetables. I love it and have it at least once everyday. My brother loves it and when he is in Mumbai, he eats it twice a day. My mom cooks it in two different styles daily for some variation. On my recent trip to Corbett, I met a mother and daughter duo. The mother was extolling the wonders of the vegetable and how much her daughter loves it. We went into a rather deep discussion as to why bhindi has become so popular. Our parents don't seem to be such big fans of it. My dad won't touch it. But the majority of people my age whom I know well enough to venture into the intimate topic of whether or not bhindi is their favorite vegetable, have tended to cast their vote in favor of this sexy plant.

When sliced vertically, the geometric star shape is a sight to behold. The lush green color is both soothing and attractive. It is crunchy and doesn't have too strong a taste and takes on the additional flavor of the spices it is cooked in quite comfortably.

Above is a photo of an article from Air India's Swagat Magazine. The model Rajneesh Duggal has a bhindi tatooed on his back. Apparently it is his favorite vegetable too and the photo is part of ad campaign for People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA). The bhindi is moving up in the world and the media is taking notice. Here's to a world of the Trendy Bhindi!

Raju

During my recent trip to Corbett National Park, Raju was one of my guides. He took me (and my two hiking companions) on a steep hike behind our campsite. He lived in a house with his mother, wife and children just 5 minutes from the campsite. He talked to us about his walks through the jungle at night, braving his fears. He once encountered a tiger, but the moment passed, and the tiger walked away.

He had excellent vision and spotted a wild elephant walking on the edge of a river bed and the forest miles away. His frank and friendly manner was refreshing, and we felt very comfortable with him. He told us that as soon as children finish school he will send them to the army, as this was a family tradition. He didn't enlist in the army though, because his mother needed him around the house after his father's (a former soldier) death. He was the only other male member of the family.

When we stopped by his house at the end of the hike, he offered us tea. It took a while to come, and it tasted quite odd. My friend immediately asked him how it was made. He said it was powdered milk! He told us that his family believed that if visitors are given milk from his farm cows, it brings bad luck. Ten years ago when some visitors had come, farm milk was offered to them. That night one of their cows was lethally mauled by a wild animal. Since that incident, the family decided never to give home milk to visitors. I was shocked to hear this from an otherwise level-headed and affectionate man. That's the way it goes...

Spaghetti Shiva - A Banana Republic

I was reading the New York Times Book Review and came across a book review of Bananas: How The United Fruit Company Shaped The World. Here's a quote: "The company was, Peter Chapman writes in “Bananas,” his breezy but insightful history of the company, “more powerful than many nation states ... a law unto itself and accustomed to regarding the republics as its private fiefdom.” United Fruit essentially invented not only “the concept and reality of the banana republic,” but also, as Chapman shows, the concept and reality of the modern banana."

Here's Wikipedia's definition of BR: "Banana republic is a pejorative term for a small, often Latin American, Caribbean or African country that is politically unstable, dependent on limited agriculture, and ruled by a small, self-elected, wealthy and corrupt clique.^{[citation needed]} In most cases they have kept the government structures that were modeled after the colonial Spanish ruling clique, with a small, largely leisure class on the top and a large, poorly educated and poorly paid working class of peons. The term was coined by O. Henry, an American humorist and short story writer, in reference to Honduras. "Republic" in his time was often a euphemism for a dictatorship, while "banana" implied an easy reliance on basic agriculture and backwardness in the development of modern industrial technology. Frequently the subject of mockery and humour, and usually presided over by a dictatorial military junta that exaggerates its own power..."

In this context, isn't it odd that the retail store chain we know so well is called Banana Republic? The name suggests that the people who shop at the store are a "wealthy and corrupt clique" (See the Wikipedia definition above). I know I'm being unnecessarily serious, and that maybe Banana Republic is just a cool name, but somehow I feel the reasons the retailers chose that name for their store requires some playful investigation.

Spaghetti Shiva - Mailer and Schama

Creative Non-fiction. What a wonderful phrase! Norman Mailer developed this technique of writing which applies fiction writing techniques to non-fiction. I haven't read any of Mailer's works, but heard this on a NPR radio "obituary" on Mailer who died late last year. His most famous work was The Naked and The Dead, and was married 6 times! He even stabbed his second wife; luckily she didn't die.

Yesterday evening I was watching Simon Schama's (the great art historian) The Power Of Art. I was amazed at the style and production quality of this work. It included features on seminal artists of the western world. The basic structure was to combine dramatized biographical episodes with Schama's commentary on specific works of the artist. At the end of each episode I came away with a wonderful general sense of the artist's life and work and how it changed the direction of art. Schama doesn't get technical and keeps a consistent birds-eye view of the artist's life, while following a carefully selected threads of events. This focus fits the medium of short documentary extremely well.

Caravaggio lived a tortured life, full of brawls, affairs, jail-terms, poverty and murder. He filters his painful life experiences through his paintings mixing amazing beauty with death, very often ruthless and without salvation. With each artist, Schama also comes to important conclusions about art in general. In the case of Caravaggio, Schama notes that realism of death without redemption was a ground-breaking "modern" concept, and in this sense, Caravaggio took western art in a new direction.

Schama also uses well-selected footage to make his points effectively. He connects Picasso's Guernica with footage from the Nazi bombing of this Spanish city that symbolized the Basque people's opposition to fascism. Throughout the documentary images from the war are presented as if in an avant-garde film, creating the world of a nightmare in our minds, which Guernica is.

Early Bahamani Architecture

On Monday I attended a super lecture on Early Bahamani Architecture (1350-1450) given by an Indian art and architecture professor from Greece. I was amazed by the details she had gathered during her visits to the Deccan, especially the border areas between Maharashtra, Karnataka and Andhra. She had taken photos of monuments in Bidar, Gulbarga and other adjoining towns. I especially loved the Takht Mahal (c.1450), Bidar. The professor had an intriguing theory that the throne, which was arguably at the center of a large room, was placed on the axis of two doorways, both of which overlooked lotus ponds. The professor felt that this was potential evidence that Muslim and Hindu ideas were comfortably exchanged in everyday life there. The ponds are references to lotus ponds of Indian gods and is reminiscent of the images of Gaja Lakshmi. This may be one of the few direct structural references in Muslim architecture to Hindu mythology and customs. I was also very impressed with the professor herself who was very clear in her ideas and speech, and very open to questions.

Beatrix Potter Meets Dali (or someone like him)

Earlier this week I went to a refreshing exhibition of paintings and sculptures at Chemould Prescott Road, titled An Advertisement for Heaven or Hell (a reference perhaps to William Blake's collection of poems titled, The Marriage of Heaven And Hell) The artist Suhasini Kejriwal, who is from Calcutta, had a lovely collection of artwork that depicted a dream-world of insects, animals and plants that bordered comfortably between peace and violence/death. The style in which the creatures were painted seemed vaguely reminiscent of children's book illustrations, and to some extent the works of Beatrix Potter (the artist obviously didn't think too much of this analogy understandably!). However in this cute world were large cockroaches, spiders and termites. The fear and repulsion that one feels towards these insects was softened by way they were created. The cockroach seemed rather friendly, and its body parts so intricately painted, that it seemed as if it was dressed in it's Friday-night clothes. Only the spider's legs were visible, as it was just about to enter the frame of the canvas. However, all the rabbits, rats, and plants around showed no sign of fear. So a potentially harmful creature is ignored by its potential prey. The white backgrounds held the diversity of plant and animal life together and added to the overall calmness of the paintings. But terror could strike anytime.

There was a series of crafty and intricate images of plants that fused into human body parts. The bright colours captured one's attention as did the composition, but did not impress me as much as the paintings described above did. Overall, the exibition, didn't seem revolutionary; you could connect the strands of the works to various past art movements and artists. However, the work is innovate in how it puts all the strands together.

Jenny's MokshaShots

I was stunned out of my morning reverie by what I initially thought were Buddhist prayer horns, but actually were the sound of fumigators. "Fumigator" has such a deadly ring to it. Moving from spirituality to the thought of a smoky death in a moment was the highlight of my walk.

Another surprise was seeing two of Jenny Bhatt's paintings from her MokshaShot series at an art exhibition at the Mumbai University convocation hall this evening. Ironically, I had chatted with her about her work at the Museum Gallery last Sunday. This particular series of works reminded me of Rorschach inkblots and art from the psychedelic era. However, the colour combinations she uses are contemporary, and the ambiguity of the shapes, reminiscent of water colour strokes, create a range of references to femininity, fusion/creation, and sexuality. The stretched ovals remind you of mandalas and the primordial egg; the influence of Tantric art is apparent.

Jenny includes golden intertwined lines that wobble in and out of myriad eggs, accompanied by odd creatures that look like cartoons of aliens or insects. Have you seen spilled petrol on the ground as it breaks-up into the colours of a rainbow? Don't these lines remind you of that pool of petrol?

Kerala moves to Mumbai

I just got back from an amazing concert. An army of bare-chested, lunghi-clad musicians from Kerala, with their drums, cymbals and circular trumpets, enthralled its audience into a trance. One observer, a slightly built, greying man was in the throes of ecstasy as the music reached one of its many climaxes. He gestured commandingly at the audience, encouraging them to move their bodies to the music, while occasionally throwing his white handkerchief into the air and then deftly catching it. The people around him didn't mind too much, and just smiled at him. I was quite surprised by the audience's tolerance; I expected someone to nudge at him or make a rude comment.

It's been a while since I've had a "perfect" experience. This was definitely one such rare occasion. The music was devoid of melody, and comprised the pounding of various instruments at unimaginable speeds and intensities, resulting in a mind-bogling cacophony of noise. The rhythms were new to my ears, and the feeling of listening to something completely alien, was exhilarating. The music often seemed martial, like an introduction to war, especially when the cymbal players went berserk. It was a very physical form of music, loud and dominating and therefore reminded me of hard psychedelic trance.

Bored at Jehangir Art Gallery

I drop by Jehangir Art Gallery often, and more often than not, come out with a feeling of smug superiority, thinking I could have done much better. But there's always a surprise lurking somewhere in the gallery. It may just be one painting in an ocean of art that gets you thinking. Pritish Nandy's exhibit called Bored, was an exception, in that all his works got me thinking. I wouldn't call it good art, but it was different and attracted my attention.

You get a strong sense of Nandy's advertising and commercial background; selling an idea is in his blood, even if it's poetry. His works are very self-conscious and well thought-through. There seem to be no accidents. The craftsmanship on each canvas was very good and the text was very clear (it may have been screen-printed for precision). But when commercial media and poetry meet, the product just doesn't have the authenticity of an artwork created by a "true" artist or a poet. I know there's nothing such as a "true" artist, but what I mean is someone who is naturally creative and not self-consciously so.

Each of his short poems seemed like copy for advertisements. Most of them were perceptive, and did strike an emotional chord in you, but at the same time, predictable.

Kerala: Christian Imagery and Churches

The history of Chrisitanity in Kerala goes back to the visit of St. Thomas in 52 AD. However much of the current imagery is reminiscent of Italian Renaissance paintings and sculptures and seem to be derived from Italian Catholicism. There are a number of direct references to Raphael's Transfiguration of Christ, and Michelangelo's Pieta. Orthodox Syrian Christian imagery is also a relatively common sight.





I just read on the web (http://www.ananthapuri.com/kerala-history.asp?page=christian) that Christianity in Kerala has been influenced by Syrian, Portuguese, Dutch, English (protestant) and American brands of the religion over the past 2000 years. The history of Christianity in Kerala therefore mirrors to some extent the development of the religion internationally, and the rise and fall of European Christian powers and their adopted ideology. To complicate this further, the local Christians have also had their share of rifts and break-aways resulting in a mind-boggling variety of Christian sects. This may explain the drastically different styles used in Church designs. Some use Gothic elements, others are a product of wildly modern sensibility. You also have classic Italian/Portuguese designs for churches built during the 1600-1700s.

Kerala: Christian Wayside Shrines

I was fascinated by the Christian way-side shrines scattered along the roads in Kerala on my last trip there about 4 years ago. This time I took a number of photos to see how each was different. Some of them strangely resemble Islamic minarets, and are also reminiscent of Hindu road-side temples - quite a concoction. They are usually three to four-story brick and concrete structures exhibit amongst others, statues of Jesus, St. Francis, St. Sebastian, St. George, The Virgin Mary and Joseph protected by a glass casing or grills. Some designs are amazingly modern such as this Pieta, some have Gothic references. I wonder what the origin of these structures is. Or is this a purely an Indian invention? An interesting inversion is that some Hindu gods are now displayed in a similar fashion, albeit on a smaller scale.

I also find an interesting parallel between fast-food and these wayside shrines (both Hindu and Christian for that matter.) Just as you drive by a McDonalds for a burger or fries to fill you stomach, during one's hectic day you can easily get a little bit of prayer in on the way home or to work, to satiate your soul.