Mahoum a Milo- le matin
Il est sept heure du matin. Mahoum s’amuse a glisser sur les rayons de lumiere, s’ecriant en traversant de Milo au soleil et retournant toute echaufee. C’est un jeu qui la sert comme petit dejeuner. Elle s’alimente de cette facon.
La mer au pres du prairie des anges est calme. Une bande ensoleillee flotte silencieuse. L’air parfumee penetre les eaux et chatouille les gilles des poissons qui nagent tranquillement, les yeux fermees. Les chevals de mer se frottent contre les petits rochers au fond, les algues ont l’air des doigts vertes d’une danseuse surprise.
La prairie n’est pas verte, la pelouse est jaune, blue, rouge, cela depend de qui la regarde. Les hommes la trouve orange, les animaux blue. Citroen se demande ce que c’est cette expanse blue, si il est suspendu sur le ciel. Mickey saute et se gratte la tete. Philome est prete a ecrire une these sur cette pelouse orange: la politique du pelouse non-verte. Il se demande si les autres aussi le trouvent orange. Mahoum s’amuse a voir tout le monde confu, elle sait ce que pense chacun. Pour elle, la pelouse est blanche, comme la neige coupee en mille parties.
Les arbres ont toutes les fruits ensembles qui ne pourissent jamais. Philome inspecte ce phenomene aussi, et Citroen tout habitué aux fourmis essaye une pomme. Il y croque, elle est juteuse. Il prete une mangue a Mickey qui tout curieux, le lance en air. La mangue ne retourne point. Une mangue lancee en air sur Milo est comme un objet dans l’espace, elle n’obeit pas la loi de la gravite. Pauvre Mickey, il pleurniche. Mahoum se precipite dans son cerveau pour rearranger les neurones de facon que Mickey n’est plus triste.
Mahoum se jouie de Milo. Qu’elle est belle avec la pelouse blanche, les arbres fruitees, la mer toute calme. Mahoum veut inscrire ses pensees maintenant. Karuwan la prete une machine a enregistrer.
“Je n’est pas envie de faire une voyage ajourd’hui. Il fait tres beau ici. Tout ces gens la, qui se trouvent sur la prairie des anges, ils m’etonnent. Karuwan repare la moto de Philome. Vous savez la machine dans une moto, c’est un merveille. Je suis y entre. J’ai vue les pistons, l’huile, toute cette energie qui traverse ce petit mechanisme, c’est formidable.
Je me pose comme philosophe aujourd’hui. C’est l’atmosphere de Milo je crois, c’est la prairie des anges qui a envahi mes sensibilities, a reflechir plus profondement, a demander des question qui n’auront pas de reponses tout de suite. Je me demande comment l’ourse Citroen et le singe mickey communiquent entrent eux, comment ils communiquent avec les hommes, comment les hommes communiquent entrent eux. La langue, a une pouvoir qu’on ne peut guere sous estimer. Les langues des hommes, il y en a des millions. Et toute cette politique des langues depuis la creation de la terre. Dit donc, est-ce qu’il y a une langue dans les autres planetes? En Milo, qu’elle langue parle-t-on?
Sur terre, si tout le monde savait toutes les langues des leur naissance, qu’est qui se passera? Les traductions disparaitrons, les instituts de langues etrangeres seront force de fermer, les anthopologues ne seront plus necessaries pour etudier les communautes, ils pouront parler a tout le monde sans interpreteur. Il n’y aura plus d’interpreteurs, la recession gravira, des tas de gens hors de travail. Peut etre il y aura une 3e guerre mondiale. On n’aura plus de secrets, tout le monde se comprendront entre eux... ben je ne veux penser plus davantage. C’est effreyant. Je suis chanseuse de ne pas connaitre le future. Toutes ces pensees me rendent melancholiques.” Mahoum soupire. C’est pas facile d’etre philosophe, laissont cela a Philome.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Reportage de Bahabou
8 mais 2019, planete Bahabou.
Mahoum, bacterie immortelle et hermaphrodite est venue aujourd’hui a Bahabou parler a la conference de l’histoire, l’experience et le bizarre. Voici ce qu’elle a dit lors de sa presentation. Je vous decrit ses mots a elle.
“Loge dans le cerveau de Hitler, j’ai vue son pistolet tenu a sa temple, ses idees toutes confuses, tumulteuses, l’une criant, l’autre imployante, et l’autre menacante. J’ai vecu dans le corps de Buddha, lors de sa meditation sous l’arbre Boddhi. Traversant son corps je me suis rechauffe dans sa flame d’aspiration, et ensuite, tout est devenu froid, le moment de nirvana.
J’ai senti la force du marteau, dans le main de Jesus Christ, les vessels se rupturer, les muscles deformer. J’ai vue l’inquisition en Espagne, entendu le Gita loge dans l’oreille d’Arjuna, temoigne la transformation d’Ashoka, regarde avec consternation les idees de Chanakya multipliant a la vitesse de lumiere.. ben le liste continue. Je peux parler pour des annees sur ce que j’ai vue, entendu at vecu. Si quelqu’un d’entre vous veux inscrire mes mots a la maniere de Ganesha, cela sera un epique formidable. Meme les prix nobeles ne suffirant. En tout cas, je continue.
J’ai vecu depuis la creation de l’univers. Toute bacterie comme je suis, les pralayas ne m’ont pas detruites. J’ai survi tout. En cours je suis le temoin de l’histoire.
Comme vous pouver voir, je n’ai pas de forme distinct. Je suis fluide, j’ai un visage, des yeux, une bouche. Mais comme vous voyez, pas de mains, ni de pieds. Je ne peux pas produire des texts culturelles: je peux ni ecrire, ni peindre, ni jouer a un instrument de musique. C’est pour cela que je vous parle aujourd’hui. Je n’ai pas de livre inscrit a mon nom. Je n’ai aucun papier a vous lire. Je vous parle du vecu, je vous parle de ma subjectivite, je transmet mes idees comme elles se forment dans mon cerveau.
Un moment voir anarkali danser et l’autre ecouter a Beethoven composer la 9e symphonie, je peux traverser le temps et l’espace avec le pouvoir de la pensee. Je peux retourner a la terre maintenant, etre en chine sur le grand mur, et ensuite me trouver le moment prochain ici, parlant a vous. Je peux me trouver a la prochaine seconde dans le pied de Tenzing Norgay grimpant l’Everest, ou dans les doigts de Simone de Beauvoir ecrivant Le Deuxieme Sexe. Je peux traverser dans l’histoire, mais pas dans le passé.
Je m’amuse a voir l’histoire et ses evenements. Aujoud’hui tout le monde discute les arts, la litterature, la theorie. C’est si enfantain. Le psychanalyse des textes, la deconstruction, le projet de l’etude du subalterne, c’est toutes des formations du cervaux mentale. C’est que pour la sastifaction intellectuelle, il n’y a aucune verite dans tout cela. Tout ces livres de l‘histoire, toutes ces discussions sur les evenements passees, ces efforts pour demontrer que ce que l’autre a dit est faux, c’est une perversion, une sorte de jeux qui ne finira jamais. Je vois l’histoire comme une serie de forces envahir l’univers. Il n’y a ni mauvais ni bon. C’est comme un spirale qui monte et descend. Qui tourne toujours. On ne cherche pas a blamer une spirale d’etre progressive ou detrimentale. C’est une spirale. C’est le meme pour l’histoire de l’univers. Donc quand je vois chaque evenement, je m’amuse grimper ou descendre le spirale. C’est un jeu eternel. Un jeu que je jouie de jouer.
Aujourd’hui je suis ici. En quelque moments quand j’ai fini, je retourne a la planete Milo pour la 1000e fois. On ma dit qu’une femme qui s’appele Caro se trouve aux Pre des Anges. Elle est venue dans sa caravane. Ben, je vais la rencontrer a Milo. Merci de m’avoir ecouter. Je vous souhaite une bonne soiree.”
Et Pouf, Mahoum a disparue. Elle est en Milo a ce moment. Peut-etre. A propos de ce qu’elle a dit a la fin, je me demande si elle a raison. Qu’importe, ca a ete une soiree stimulante pour tous.
Signe- Ketaki
Mahoum, bacterie immortelle et hermaphrodite est venue aujourd’hui a Bahabou parler a la conference de l’histoire, l’experience et le bizarre. Voici ce qu’elle a dit lors de sa presentation. Je vous decrit ses mots a elle.
“Loge dans le cerveau de Hitler, j’ai vue son pistolet tenu a sa temple, ses idees toutes confuses, tumulteuses, l’une criant, l’autre imployante, et l’autre menacante. J’ai vecu dans le corps de Buddha, lors de sa meditation sous l’arbre Boddhi. Traversant son corps je me suis rechauffe dans sa flame d’aspiration, et ensuite, tout est devenu froid, le moment de nirvana.
J’ai senti la force du marteau, dans le main de Jesus Christ, les vessels se rupturer, les muscles deformer. J’ai vue l’inquisition en Espagne, entendu le Gita loge dans l’oreille d’Arjuna, temoigne la transformation d’Ashoka, regarde avec consternation les idees de Chanakya multipliant a la vitesse de lumiere.. ben le liste continue. Je peux parler pour des annees sur ce que j’ai vue, entendu at vecu. Si quelqu’un d’entre vous veux inscrire mes mots a la maniere de Ganesha, cela sera un epique formidable. Meme les prix nobeles ne suffirant. En tout cas, je continue.
J’ai vecu depuis la creation de l’univers. Toute bacterie comme je suis, les pralayas ne m’ont pas detruites. J’ai survi tout. En cours je suis le temoin de l’histoire.
Comme vous pouver voir, je n’ai pas de forme distinct. Je suis fluide, j’ai un visage, des yeux, une bouche. Mais comme vous voyez, pas de mains, ni de pieds. Je ne peux pas produire des texts culturelles: je peux ni ecrire, ni peindre, ni jouer a un instrument de musique. C’est pour cela que je vous parle aujourd’hui. Je n’ai pas de livre inscrit a mon nom. Je n’ai aucun papier a vous lire. Je vous parle du vecu, je vous parle de ma subjectivite, je transmet mes idees comme elles se forment dans mon cerveau.
Un moment voir anarkali danser et l’autre ecouter a Beethoven composer la 9e symphonie, je peux traverser le temps et l’espace avec le pouvoir de la pensee. Je peux retourner a la terre maintenant, etre en chine sur le grand mur, et ensuite me trouver le moment prochain ici, parlant a vous. Je peux me trouver a la prochaine seconde dans le pied de Tenzing Norgay grimpant l’Everest, ou dans les doigts de Simone de Beauvoir ecrivant Le Deuxieme Sexe. Je peux traverser dans l’histoire, mais pas dans le passé.
Je m’amuse a voir l’histoire et ses evenements. Aujoud’hui tout le monde discute les arts, la litterature, la theorie. C’est si enfantain. Le psychanalyse des textes, la deconstruction, le projet de l’etude du subalterne, c’est toutes des formations du cervaux mentale. C’est que pour la sastifaction intellectuelle, il n’y a aucune verite dans tout cela. Tout ces livres de l‘histoire, toutes ces discussions sur les evenements passees, ces efforts pour demontrer que ce que l’autre a dit est faux, c’est une perversion, une sorte de jeux qui ne finira jamais. Je vois l’histoire comme une serie de forces envahir l’univers. Il n’y a ni mauvais ni bon. C’est comme un spirale qui monte et descend. Qui tourne toujours. On ne cherche pas a blamer une spirale d’etre progressive ou detrimentale. C’est une spirale. C’est le meme pour l’histoire de l’univers. Donc quand je vois chaque evenement, je m’amuse grimper ou descendre le spirale. C’est un jeu eternel. Un jeu que je jouie de jouer.
Aujourd’hui je suis ici. En quelque moments quand j’ai fini, je retourne a la planete Milo pour la 1000e fois. On ma dit qu’une femme qui s’appele Caro se trouve aux Pre des Anges. Elle est venue dans sa caravane. Ben, je vais la rencontrer a Milo. Merci de m’avoir ecouter. Je vous souhaite une bonne soiree.”
Et Pouf, Mahoum a disparue. Elle est en Milo a ce moment. Peut-etre. A propos de ce qu’elle a dit a la fin, je me demande si elle a raison. Qu’importe, ca a ete une soiree stimulante pour tous.
Signe- Ketaki
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Caught in the NET
A literary KBC, written instead of oral, without any lifelines, or phone a friend and most importantly sans cheque awards, this sums up what NET is: the formidable National Eligibility Test or JRF : Junior Research Fellowship exams, due this year on the 28th June.
All enthusiastic about it initially, I ignorantly picked a preparation book from Upkar Publications, prepared by a certain Dr. B. B. Jain. I soon discovered that Dr. Jain merrily thinks that Chinua Achebe co-wrote the seminal The Empire Writes Back, (postcolonial enthusiasts please don’t tear your hair) that the epic is the most sublime form of poetry (what ever happened to concrete poetry) and that a writerly text has nothing to do with Roland Barthes’ le scriptable (this takes the straw).
Dr. Jain, or should I say the NET bureau also thinks that it is most important to know that Spenser dedicated his Faery Queene to Walter Raleigh, which year a certain King/Queen died, which year O’Neill was awarded the Nobel and what was the correct chronological order of Thomas Hardy’s novels. The NET bureau is so particular about dates that I don’t seem to be able to read anything (read as magazines/newspapers) without having the dates pop in front of my eyes, waiting to be duly memorized.
What irks me about this whole business is the utter irrelevance of the test, its ancient format and the stupidly/nonsensically, Victorian/Augustan/Puritan kind of approach to Literature. Knowing about how many times Milton married will not make anyone a qualified lecturer. No lecturer needs to know that useless piece of information by heart. Nor is it necessary to even pass it on to students, especially the next generation. This will only perpetuate English lecturers who unwittingly refer to the back benchers as the backside of the class, pronounce Herbert as Harvard, can’t spell Chaucer correctly, and teach material downloaded from Spark notes. Students need teachers who are more competent than them, not less competent.
From the research point of view (for JRF) it is unnecessary to know how many pilgrims went to St Thomas a Beckett. It would rather be better to know that Chaucer might have had feminist leanings while writing the Wife of Bath’s portrait, and analyse his depiction of her. And who the hell researches on all the crap that is asked in Paper 2 and 3 of NET? There should be sections on Postcolonial studies, contemporary theory, feminist theory, Marxist theory, post structuralism, cultural materialism, new historicism, psychoanalysis, cultural studies, subaltern studies, linguistics, ELT, eco criticism, translation studies, media studies… the list can go on. Students will be then required to answer pertinent questions from their related research areas.
And for lecturers, wouldn’t it be simpler if there was an interview, or just a solid PhD, not written entirely by the guide or copy-pasted from a previous thesis. Being thorough in what you teach is more than sufficient, and please, no substandard lecturers/researchers in the name of reservations. It simply marginalises competence.
But there’s a catch. The new HRD minister has made clearing the NET a necessity for anyone who wants a lectureship. If this trend goes on, we will not produce intelligent teachers, but machines and that too rusted and outdated ones.
All enthusiastic about it initially, I ignorantly picked a preparation book from Upkar Publications, prepared by a certain Dr. B. B. Jain. I soon discovered that Dr. Jain merrily thinks that Chinua Achebe co-wrote the seminal The Empire Writes Back, (postcolonial enthusiasts please don’t tear your hair) that the epic is the most sublime form of poetry (what ever happened to concrete poetry) and that a writerly text has nothing to do with Roland Barthes’ le scriptable (this takes the straw).
Dr. Jain, or should I say the NET bureau also thinks that it is most important to know that Spenser dedicated his Faery Queene to Walter Raleigh, which year a certain King/Queen died, which year O’Neill was awarded the Nobel and what was the correct chronological order of Thomas Hardy’s novels. The NET bureau is so particular about dates that I don’t seem to be able to read anything (read as magazines/newspapers) without having the dates pop in front of my eyes, waiting to be duly memorized.
What irks me about this whole business is the utter irrelevance of the test, its ancient format and the stupidly/nonsensically, Victorian/Augustan/Puritan kind of approach to Literature. Knowing about how many times Milton married will not make anyone a qualified lecturer. No lecturer needs to know that useless piece of information by heart. Nor is it necessary to even pass it on to students, especially the next generation. This will only perpetuate English lecturers who unwittingly refer to the back benchers as the backside of the class, pronounce Herbert as Harvard, can’t spell Chaucer correctly, and teach material downloaded from Spark notes. Students need teachers who are more competent than them, not less competent.
From the research point of view (for JRF) it is unnecessary to know how many pilgrims went to St Thomas a Beckett. It would rather be better to know that Chaucer might have had feminist leanings while writing the Wife of Bath’s portrait, and analyse his depiction of her. And who the hell researches on all the crap that is asked in Paper 2 and 3 of NET? There should be sections on Postcolonial studies, contemporary theory, feminist theory, Marxist theory, post structuralism, cultural materialism, new historicism, psychoanalysis, cultural studies, subaltern studies, linguistics, ELT, eco criticism, translation studies, media studies… the list can go on. Students will be then required to answer pertinent questions from their related research areas.
And for lecturers, wouldn’t it be simpler if there was an interview, or just a solid PhD, not written entirely by the guide or copy-pasted from a previous thesis. Being thorough in what you teach is more than sufficient, and please, no substandard lecturers/researchers in the name of reservations. It simply marginalises competence.
But there’s a catch. The new HRD minister has made clearing the NET a necessity for anyone who wants a lectureship. If this trend goes on, we will not produce intelligent teachers, but machines and that too rusted and outdated ones.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
"I prefer men to cauliflowers" Do I?
Who died? Sunk in the cold waters, pebble in the coat pocket. Virginia Woolf? Clarissa Dalloway? Septimus Smith? Richard Brown? Richard Cory?
“…and put a bullet through his head.”
Richard Cory, he had a gun in his hand. The perfect gentleman, the perfect good morning, till, he put a bullet through his head.
Wish I had a gun.
Open my brains, seek out my mind, wretch out the grapes, the cauliflower from the mental fruit basket, and close the lid again, the lid kissing the basket rim, two empty mouths meeting.
But “I prefer men to cauliflowers”. Men, cauliflowers, inedible, edible, hard, soft.
Wish I had a gun, like Richard Cory. But no, I won’t pull the trigger. It’s infinitely better to live.
Cauliflowers, men, soft, hard.
Maybe I want to pull the trigger after all. I open my eyes. The stone is slowly sinking in the cold waters, blue, dark. No. No gun, no bullet. Who knows what’s behind the bullet.
The grapes are still outside, or was it the cauliflowers? I said I would buy the grapes myself, the cauliflowers myself, the men myself.
Stomach touching the white sheets, mouth open, soft noise emerging from it, head on the pillow, enclosed in a mosquito net. It rained. It’s a dark night.
08-01-09
“…and put a bullet through his head.”
Richard Cory, he had a gun in his hand. The perfect gentleman, the perfect good morning, till, he put a bullet through his head.
Wish I had a gun.
Open my brains, seek out my mind, wretch out the grapes, the cauliflower from the mental fruit basket, and close the lid again, the lid kissing the basket rim, two empty mouths meeting.
But “I prefer men to cauliflowers”. Men, cauliflowers, inedible, edible, hard, soft.
Wish I had a gun, like Richard Cory. But no, I won’t pull the trigger. It’s infinitely better to live.
Cauliflowers, men, soft, hard.
Maybe I want to pull the trigger after all. I open my eyes. The stone is slowly sinking in the cold waters, blue, dark. No. No gun, no bullet. Who knows what’s behind the bullet.
The grapes are still outside, or was it the cauliflowers? I said I would buy the grapes myself, the cauliflowers myself, the men myself.
Stomach touching the white sheets, mouth open, soft noise emerging from it, head on the pillow, enclosed in a mosquito net. It rained. It’s a dark night.
08-01-09
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
NEXT IS WAT?
It’s that time of the year again. It is that damn blasted time when everyone seems to be part of a conspiracy in nagging you with the same question- “What next? Or what will you do after this?” It is a very pertinent question, but unsettling nevertheless. And the answer isn’t easy. Well how could it be when even Samsung and Aamir Khan ask Next is Wat?
Jokes apart, this is a very serious issue. It causes not only weight and appetite loss, but also immense tension. The mind is engaged in a tug of war with not two but a dozen teams simultaneously. Sleepless nights follow and the dark circles forget to vacate. It is not a healthy trend.
I thought I had got rid of it when I graduated, especially when I entered an M.A. programme. With a great sense of relief I thought I would be secure for two years, but the expiry date of security is ending, and I’m panicking.
Solutions are not easy to come by, especially not when people pretend to be helpful by giving advice, for it is the only free thing on earth (damn the phrase there is no free lunch). So advice comes in various forms. “So you’ll do an MPhil?” Or, even better, “You’ll go in for a PhD then.” I say- well I wish I could have said it but I didn’t owing to years of being taught not to talk back- give me an exciting research proposal and I’ll apply today.
Research topics don’t fall out of the sky. After years of schooling in Romantic and Victorian literature, it is unsettling to be exposed to literary theory, eco-criticism which negates a lot of what Wordsworth wrote, post-colonialism, post-modernism, and the delightfully difficult gender studies. That’s when all the old ideas and interests vanish into the air and one is thrown into a sea of ideas which are new to you but old to the world. Research in literature is out, cultural studies is in. So are gender studies and media studies. But pray, (see the influence) what is Cultural Studies? And hasn’t a lot been written about it already? No one said research was easy. I should have known that before straying in to the M.A. programme. But it is too late now.
Well, I yet don’t have an answer. This has just helped me vomit the anxiety. The solution will take awhile. Till then keep watching this space.
Jokes apart, this is a very serious issue. It causes not only weight and appetite loss, but also immense tension. The mind is engaged in a tug of war with not two but a dozen teams simultaneously. Sleepless nights follow and the dark circles forget to vacate. It is not a healthy trend.
I thought I had got rid of it when I graduated, especially when I entered an M.A. programme. With a great sense of relief I thought I would be secure for two years, but the expiry date of security is ending, and I’m panicking.
Solutions are not easy to come by, especially not when people pretend to be helpful by giving advice, for it is the only free thing on earth (damn the phrase there is no free lunch). So advice comes in various forms. “So you’ll do an MPhil?” Or, even better, “You’ll go in for a PhD then.” I say- well I wish I could have said it but I didn’t owing to years of being taught not to talk back- give me an exciting research proposal and I’ll apply today.
Research topics don’t fall out of the sky. After years of schooling in Romantic and Victorian literature, it is unsettling to be exposed to literary theory, eco-criticism which negates a lot of what Wordsworth wrote, post-colonialism, post-modernism, and the delightfully difficult gender studies. That’s when all the old ideas and interests vanish into the air and one is thrown into a sea of ideas which are new to you but old to the world. Research in literature is out, cultural studies is in. So are gender studies and media studies. But pray, (see the influence) what is Cultural Studies? And hasn’t a lot been written about it already? No one said research was easy. I should have known that before straying in to the M.A. programme. But it is too late now.
Well, I yet don’t have an answer. This has just helped me vomit the anxiety. The solution will take awhile. Till then keep watching this space.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
DEATH OF BHARAT MATA
Last year’s defining moments which will go down public memory are Obama’s historic win and the terror attack in Mumbai. Both events have been widely discussed and dissected. While Obama’s victory is celebrated, 11/26 which is touted by the media as India’s 9/11 has seen an upsurge in nationalism. Suddenly everyone feels Indian; patriotic songs are played on news channels as the martyrs are honoured, people are out on the streets expressing solidarity and constructing a new kind of unity. Nationalism is being formed again with the ‘other’ being Pakistan. The ‘imagined community’, to use Anderson’s phrase, of the victims is playing out images of war, and supported by the media, is urging everyone to rally around the event. Among the demonstrations of nationalism emerges the banner of allegiance to Bharat Mata, reminding one of the independence struggle.
Nationalism has been defined and redefined over the ages. Every time a new nationalism is born, the old one is rejected and termed inadequate. Is the use of the gendered Bharat Mata in today’s context necessary?
‘India’ was imagined during the colonial period as a woman, a beautiful mother who had to be saved by her sons, the men of the country. The image of the beautiful young mother gave rise to the erotics of nationalism and proved to be a rallying point for men. Imagining the body of the woman on the map was also necessary to enliven a dead space. It was necessary to attach the label of Bharat Mata to ‘India’ to fight the colonial power and form what we now know as India. The gendered image of land was a necessity of the moment.
In today’s world, with the political space of India formed for more than 60 years, it seems unnecessary to imagine India again as a gendered being. The label of Bharat Mata seems to be carrying forward an old nationalism no longer needed. New nationalisms are being formed. One no longer needs a gendered image of the country to form a rallying point. There are other centres of convergence today, like cricket and Bollywood, and new terms like cricket nationalism. One thus needs to move away from gendered notions of nationalism or gendered references to the country. India needs to be imagined differently, in accordance with the post-modern age, and a rethinking required in our demonstrations of nationalism.
01-01-2009
Nationalism has been defined and redefined over the ages. Every time a new nationalism is born, the old one is rejected and termed inadequate. Is the use of the gendered Bharat Mata in today’s context necessary?
‘India’ was imagined during the colonial period as a woman, a beautiful mother who had to be saved by her sons, the men of the country. The image of the beautiful young mother gave rise to the erotics of nationalism and proved to be a rallying point for men. Imagining the body of the woman on the map was also necessary to enliven a dead space. It was necessary to attach the label of Bharat Mata to ‘India’ to fight the colonial power and form what we now know as India. The gendered image of land was a necessity of the moment.
In today’s world, with the political space of India formed for more than 60 years, it seems unnecessary to imagine India again as a gendered being. The label of Bharat Mata seems to be carrying forward an old nationalism no longer needed. New nationalisms are being formed. One no longer needs a gendered image of the country to form a rallying point. There are other centres of convergence today, like cricket and Bollywood, and new terms like cricket nationalism. One thus needs to move away from gendered notions of nationalism or gendered references to the country. India needs to be imagined differently, in accordance with the post-modern age, and a rethinking required in our demonstrations of nationalism.
01-01-2009
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
THE VISIT
They boarded the bus together. A few seats were empty. Kamala settled down near the window. Vinay sat next to her.
She opened her handbag. The red, yellow and orange strands hanging from the bag were yet fresh after two years of use. Slipping her hand inside, she took out some coins. They felt cold against her palm. She glanced at Vinay. He was staring straight ahead.
Beep. The bus avoided a dog on the road. “These stray animals on the roads are a nuisance”, she thought. “They should be kept away. They’ll kill themselves and us too. Foolish dog.” The conductor, swaying along with the moving bus, came up to them. She gave him the coins. Flicking open the ticket book, he tore two tickets and handed them to her. Vinay hadn’t moved.
The bus stopped. “Get out, get out. Hurry man. You wait there. Wait. Ok now climb in. Hurry up.” The women muttered, pushing their fish baskets, holding babies and tugging at the children. The men got on from the other gate, folding their lungis[1]. The seats were occupied. “Get in, get in. Go on. There’s place there. Move” The women pushed in, crowding the aisle, holding on to the bars above their heads. The conductor tapped a young girl’s shoulder. “Move”, he said, his face dark and angry. The women standing beside defended her. “There’s no place man. Where do you want us to go?” The bus moved off again.
The woman standing next to Vinay handed him her baby. His nose was streaming. The mother leaned over and wiped his nose. Kamala looked fondly at the baby and made a chuckling noise. She glanced at Vinay. He was still looking ahead. The baby looked at Kamala then at his mother and started crying. The bus jolted. The women and men on the aisle almost fell over each other. People got down at the stop and more climbed in. The driver switched on the music.
As the bus picked up speed Kamala felt the breeze against her cheek. Her hair flew loose from the clip and tickled Vinay’s face. He removed it. Kamala looked at him again. The smooth cheek, the well-curved lips, the sharp jaw, she knew it all too well. His lashes were long, just like her’s. Her fingers itched to caress his hair, thick and unruly. But he was fiddling with the bag’s zip.
“Vinay,” she said softly. “Listen.” He looked at her. His look was empty. “Oh dear, please don’t do this to me and to yourself.” She pleaded. He looked away. She hesitantly held his hand. It was limp and damp. His shoulders were pressed into her. There was no place even on the seats in the crowded bus.
She removed her hand after a while. She sighed. It was no use.
A few men got in at the next stop. They stank of cheap liquor. Some others had sprayed a strong deodorant. Kamala held her hand to her nose. The mixture of liquor and deodorant smelt awful. But it didn’t touch Vinay. Kamala’s patience was waning. “He’s so moody and gets angry so easily. At least it makes him immune to these smells, jolts and the rough travel.”
Their stop was two minutes away. Kamala combed and retied her hair. Lifting the bag from her lap, she smoothed her dress. She had now given up on coaxing Vinay. “Let him do what he wants. I’ve had enough with him and his temper. His hair is unruly. Let it be. I won’t say a thing. He never listens anyway.” Hardly anyone was standing on the aisles now. Most had got down at the previous stops. As the bus halted, they made their way out.
They walked along the road silently. Vinay was staring into the traffic. They reached a yellow building. Kamala rang the doorbell. There was a pause. Vinay lowered his head. “Sorry. I’m sorry Ma. It was my fault. Please forgive me.” Kamala’s anger vanished. She smiled and kissed her son.
The door opened.
She opened her handbag. The red, yellow and orange strands hanging from the bag were yet fresh after two years of use. Slipping her hand inside, she took out some coins. They felt cold against her palm. She glanced at Vinay. He was staring straight ahead.
Beep. The bus avoided a dog on the road. “These stray animals on the roads are a nuisance”, she thought. “They should be kept away. They’ll kill themselves and us too. Foolish dog.” The conductor, swaying along with the moving bus, came up to them. She gave him the coins. Flicking open the ticket book, he tore two tickets and handed them to her. Vinay hadn’t moved.
The bus stopped. “Get out, get out. Hurry man. You wait there. Wait. Ok now climb in. Hurry up.” The women muttered, pushing their fish baskets, holding babies and tugging at the children. The men got on from the other gate, folding their lungis[1]. The seats were occupied. “Get in, get in. Go on. There’s place there. Move” The women pushed in, crowding the aisle, holding on to the bars above their heads. The conductor tapped a young girl’s shoulder. “Move”, he said, his face dark and angry. The women standing beside defended her. “There’s no place man. Where do you want us to go?” The bus moved off again.
The woman standing next to Vinay handed him her baby. His nose was streaming. The mother leaned over and wiped his nose. Kamala looked fondly at the baby and made a chuckling noise. She glanced at Vinay. He was still looking ahead. The baby looked at Kamala then at his mother and started crying. The bus jolted. The women and men on the aisle almost fell over each other. People got down at the stop and more climbed in. The driver switched on the music.
As the bus picked up speed Kamala felt the breeze against her cheek. Her hair flew loose from the clip and tickled Vinay’s face. He removed it. Kamala looked at him again. The smooth cheek, the well-curved lips, the sharp jaw, she knew it all too well. His lashes were long, just like her’s. Her fingers itched to caress his hair, thick and unruly. But he was fiddling with the bag’s zip.
“Vinay,” she said softly. “Listen.” He looked at her. His look was empty. “Oh dear, please don’t do this to me and to yourself.” She pleaded. He looked away. She hesitantly held his hand. It was limp and damp. His shoulders were pressed into her. There was no place even on the seats in the crowded bus.
She removed her hand after a while. She sighed. It was no use.
A few men got in at the next stop. They stank of cheap liquor. Some others had sprayed a strong deodorant. Kamala held her hand to her nose. The mixture of liquor and deodorant smelt awful. But it didn’t touch Vinay. Kamala’s patience was waning. “He’s so moody and gets angry so easily. At least it makes him immune to these smells, jolts and the rough travel.”
Their stop was two minutes away. Kamala combed and retied her hair. Lifting the bag from her lap, she smoothed her dress. She had now given up on coaxing Vinay. “Let him do what he wants. I’ve had enough with him and his temper. His hair is unruly. Let it be. I won’t say a thing. He never listens anyway.” Hardly anyone was standing on the aisles now. Most had got down at the previous stops. As the bus halted, they made their way out.
They walked along the road silently. Vinay was staring into the traffic. They reached a yellow building. Kamala rang the doorbell. There was a pause. Vinay lowered his head. “Sorry. I’m sorry Ma. It was my fault. Please forgive me.” Kamala’s anger vanished. She smiled and kissed her son.
The door opened.
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