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.