Ashi, Kolkata. M. and I leave today after our brief visit. The afternoon sounds filter in through open windows - a crow cawing insistently, a car's engine turning, sparrows and mynahs chirping. Somewhere in the distance, a politician rides around in a cycle rickshaw with a megaphone, declaiming to his constituency. I've always loved this time of the day in Kolkata when the bright sunlight gets trapped in the mellow filters of my mother's curtains to make everything glow, even the grime of the city looks less obnoxious when viewed through this lens. The Kolkata light was captured best (albeit romantically) by Pradeep Sarkar in Parineeta (I've linked to the video, and if that video is removed, there's always Wikipedia).
So until next time, Kolkata. We enjoyed the weather this time - warm but not uncomfortably so, like late spring in Fairfield County, and the occasional need for a ceiling fan during the mandatory afternoon siesta. Next time we visit, the city will be in a different mood altogether, when the blazing heat and unsparing humidity of summer drives everyone indoors. And then we will lie gasping, breathless, reeling from the hard blows of a Kolkata summer, but lured back again, inevitably, to the City of Joy.
Monday, November 28, 2011
Monday, November 21, 2011
The Way We Walk
I'm back in Kolkata after a substantial amount of time. A short break, mainly family business that takes its own time and has its own dimensions. On the sidelines, I observe the changed contours of the old hometown.
Kolkata was not a place I ever lived in, properly. It was the city of my ancestors, to which I returned periodically, the mention of whose name evoked memories of a creepy, narrow, three-storeyed house in a very congested part of the city. Childhood routines involved travelling from farflung places in India - mainly border towns - to Kolkata for the inevitable summer holiday pilgrimage to visit elderly relatives and distant cousins. In those days, the city was a place of overwhelming sensation - people spilling out of crowded buses, walking on the broken streets, cars honking madly while belching dark petrol and diesel fumes. What saved these memories from becoming one of many cliched tales of Kolkata impressions was the sudden movement of detail in these mass frescoes of humanity - a man who found the time (and the energy) to wink at me despite hanging on for dear life to the outside of a lopsided bus, a fruitseller at New Market, so old that my mother stopped deliberately to buy his wares, despite not needing (or subsequently eating) his wilting jamuns. I still remember the faded checked bush shirt of the former man, and the grizzled white stubble of the latter.
Aeons later, I notice how the urban spaces here have shifted, as have their uses. First, the positives. There is no question that people in general look better-fed and are better-dressed Maybe they don't appear so to untrained foreign eyes, but those of us who grew up here know the extent of the changes for the better that have taken place. The absolutely destitute who crowded around our childish elbows in the 1970s and 1980s, have receded into the occasional beggar at the Topsia traffic light. And all of this is a good thing, despite its incompleteness and unevenness as a process.
The spaces between the haves and the have-nots have increased, however, quite literally. As M. and I look over the balcony each morning, I notice that the street in front of my parents' house is walked most often by the people who service the homes of this middle class residential neighborhood - maids, fruitsellers, fishmongers, lock-repairmen - and by stray dogs and crows who fight for territory. The Kolkata middle classes who made up such a large chunk of the flaneurs of the preceding era are less visible. Their preferred stroll now is within the more sanitized territory of the shopping malls where the unpredictabilities of the street are well-controlled. Women stroll, window shop, eat pastries and drink cold coffee in relative calm. Part of me sympathizes - the unruly streets outside are particularly hard for the female pedestrian. Who wants to deal not only with stray dogs but with other menacing predators who also hunt in pack - eve teasers? Still, the other part of me laments the separation and segregation of the classes. A middle class teenager now might not learn from her mother to stop out of compassion for a geriatric fruitseller. For such a girl these days, that fruitseller is not only invisible, he is a fellow citizen with whom she will never learn to interact. A pity, really.
Kolkata was not a place I ever lived in, properly. It was the city of my ancestors, to which I returned periodically, the mention of whose name evoked memories of a creepy, narrow, three-storeyed house in a very congested part of the city. Childhood routines involved travelling from farflung places in India - mainly border towns - to Kolkata for the inevitable summer holiday pilgrimage to visit elderly relatives and distant cousins. In those days, the city was a place of overwhelming sensation - people spilling out of crowded buses, walking on the broken streets, cars honking madly while belching dark petrol and diesel fumes. What saved these memories from becoming one of many cliched tales of Kolkata impressions was the sudden movement of detail in these mass frescoes of humanity - a man who found the time (and the energy) to wink at me despite hanging on for dear life to the outside of a lopsided bus, a fruitseller at New Market, so old that my mother stopped deliberately to buy his wares, despite not needing (or subsequently eating) his wilting jamuns. I still remember the faded checked bush shirt of the former man, and the grizzled white stubble of the latter.
Aeons later, I notice how the urban spaces here have shifted, as have their uses. First, the positives. There is no question that people in general look better-fed and are better-dressed Maybe they don't appear so to untrained foreign eyes, but those of us who grew up here know the extent of the changes for the better that have taken place. The absolutely destitute who crowded around our childish elbows in the 1970s and 1980s, have receded into the occasional beggar at the Topsia traffic light. And all of this is a good thing, despite its incompleteness and unevenness as a process.
The spaces between the haves and the have-nots have increased, however, quite literally. As M. and I look over the balcony each morning, I notice that the street in front of my parents' house is walked most often by the people who service the homes of this middle class residential neighborhood - maids, fruitsellers, fishmongers, lock-repairmen - and by stray dogs and crows who fight for territory. The Kolkata middle classes who made up such a large chunk of the flaneurs of the preceding era are less visible. Their preferred stroll now is within the more sanitized territory of the shopping malls where the unpredictabilities of the street are well-controlled. Women stroll, window shop, eat pastries and drink cold coffee in relative calm. Part of me sympathizes - the unruly streets outside are particularly hard for the female pedestrian. Who wants to deal not only with stray dogs but with other menacing predators who also hunt in pack - eve teasers? Still, the other part of me laments the separation and segregation of the classes. A middle class teenager now might not learn from her mother to stop out of compassion for a geriatric fruitseller. For such a girl these days, that fruitseller is not only invisible, he is a fellow citizen with whom she will never learn to interact. A pity, really.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
The Outsider
Like many other viewers, I tuned in to CBS's 60 Minutes program to watch President Obama describe the most stressful 40 minutes of his presidency. I listened to him explain his decisions to CBS's Steve Kroft in the Roosevelt Room. There were many interesting things the President mentioned (carrying on with routine things like the White House Correspondents' Dinner and so on), but one thing stuck in my mind. It was this exchange, where President Obama explained witholding information about the operation from the Pakistani establishment.
KROFT: You didn't trust 'em?
PRESIDENT OBAMA: If I'm not revealing to some of my closest aides what we're doin', then I sure as heck am not gonna be revealing it to folks who I don't know.
And that summed up to me why it took an Obama to nail Osama. No, not because Obama is a superhuman or a saint or a god**mn tactical genius. Nor is it because he likes to shoot from the hip. Rather, it's because Barack Obama is an outsider. He has nothing invested in maintaining networks of spy contacts in Pakistan, he has no relationships built up over decades with the Pakistani military and intelligence outfits. Donald Rumsfeld (who still calls for the US-Pakistan relationship to be safeguarded), and Dick Cheney spent the 1970s cultivating the Pakistani establishment, and were reluctant to throw away all that history by breaking with those relationships. Instead, they hoped that coaxing and cajoling the Pakistani establishment with aid and armaments would both deliver Osama bin Laden and safeguard a relationship that had been fathered by the ideological necessities of the Cold War, i.e. anticommunism. This led predictably to the (greedy and corrupt) Pakistani establishment milking the relationship for all it was worth, while never delivering the top symbol of the War on Terror. If the Pakistani security outfits had delivered OBL rightaway, they would have lost their golden goose. So the War on Terror continued for years, while terror alerts in the US changed colors with the season, and bin Laden continued to remain a hidden force, emerging occasionally to lecture and harangue the world via videotapes.
Obama , when he took charge, was least concerned about hurting the feelings of the Pakistani High Command. He had not toured Pakistan as a government official but as a backpacking student. He had no links to the inner, twisted corridors of Pakistani power. In turn, the Pakistani High Command probably dismissed Obama as a lightweight, did not see the point in currying favor with him or his administration of political novices, and were keeping bin Laden safe, waiting out the four years until a Republican administration with familiar faces returned and picked up the threads of an old and familiar relationship.
Neither the Pakistanis or the American Old Guard (in which I include Democrats of a certain vintage) reckoned with the fact that Obama was an outsider who would break with the past in foreign policy. Unlike other outsiders like Sarah Palin or Mike Huckabee who are combative about domestic politics but quite unsure about foreign policy (and therefore dependent on the old guard for guidance), Obama is willing to think independently. Because a seriously-cheesed-off Pakistani military means absolutely nothing to him. He is an outsider.
KROFT: You didn't trust 'em?
PRESIDENT OBAMA: If I'm not revealing to some of my closest aides what we're doin', then I sure as heck am not gonna be revealing it to folks who I don't know.
And that summed up to me why it took an Obama to nail Osama. No, not because Obama is a superhuman or a saint or a god**mn tactical genius. Nor is it because he likes to shoot from the hip. Rather, it's because Barack Obama is an outsider. He has nothing invested in maintaining networks of spy contacts in Pakistan, he has no relationships built up over decades with the Pakistani military and intelligence outfits. Donald Rumsfeld (who still calls for the US-Pakistan relationship to be safeguarded), and Dick Cheney spent the 1970s cultivating the Pakistani establishment, and were reluctant to throw away all that history by breaking with those relationships. Instead, they hoped that coaxing and cajoling the Pakistani establishment with aid and armaments would both deliver Osama bin Laden and safeguard a relationship that had been fathered by the ideological necessities of the Cold War, i.e. anticommunism. This led predictably to the (greedy and corrupt) Pakistani establishment milking the relationship for all it was worth, while never delivering the top symbol of the War on Terror. If the Pakistani security outfits had delivered OBL rightaway, they would have lost their golden goose. So the War on Terror continued for years, while terror alerts in the US changed colors with the season, and bin Laden continued to remain a hidden force, emerging occasionally to lecture and harangue the world via videotapes.
Obama , when he took charge, was least concerned about hurting the feelings of the Pakistani High Command. He had not toured Pakistan as a government official but as a backpacking student. He had no links to the inner, twisted corridors of Pakistani power. In turn, the Pakistani High Command probably dismissed Obama as a lightweight, did not see the point in currying favor with him or his administration of political novices, and were keeping bin Laden safe, waiting out the four years until a Republican administration with familiar faces returned and picked up the threads of an old and familiar relationship.
Neither the Pakistanis or the American Old Guard (in which I include Democrats of a certain vintage) reckoned with the fact that Obama was an outsider who would break with the past in foreign policy. Unlike other outsiders like Sarah Palin or Mike Huckabee who are combative about domestic politics but quite unsure about foreign policy (and therefore dependent on the old guard for guidance), Obama is willing to think independently. Because a seriously-cheesed-off Pakistani military means absolutely nothing to him. He is an outsider.
Tuesday, May 03, 2011
On Gloating
I'm very satisfied with the outcome of the events that played out over last weekend. I have expressed this satisfaction numerous times to family, friends, and acquaintances, and even on my limited social media circle. As an Indian army brat, I am also having my "Told you so" moment now that OBL was found "hiding" in luxury 800 yards from the elite Pakistan Military Academy (that country's equivalent of West Point). I (like millions of others) am also impressed at the measured calm of President Obama's actions and pronouncements, so refreshingly different from the screeching high decibel noise that some other incumbent would have brought to the occasion.
Yet, I cannot bring myself to condone the street celebrations outside the White House or in New York City. I grant that these two places that were hit the hardest by the Sept 11 attacks, have the most to celebrate, but still....call it my middle class upbringing or whatever, but pouring into the streets to celebrate the death of someone, even a monster? I don't know...candlelight vigils would do, public meetings, too. Even as I was expressing my happiness that the monster was gone, I couldn't imagine rushing out or lighting firecrackers or anything like that. In my opinion, there was something unseemly and inappropriate about those images. Maybe it was the jarring contrast of so many young people celebrating something that they, hopefully, are far from - death.
Is there any appropriate way to gloat other than in private? I wonder.
Yet, I cannot bring myself to condone the street celebrations outside the White House or in New York City. I grant that these two places that were hit the hardest by the Sept 11 attacks, have the most to celebrate, but still....call it my middle class upbringing or whatever, but pouring into the streets to celebrate the death of someone, even a monster? I don't know...candlelight vigils would do, public meetings, too. Even as I was expressing my happiness that the monster was gone, I couldn't imagine rushing out or lighting firecrackers or anything like that. In my opinion, there was something unseemly and inappropriate about those images. Maybe it was the jarring contrast of so many young people celebrating something that they, hopefully, are far from - death.
Is there any appropriate way to gloat other than in private? I wonder.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
News of the World - Or How Paywalls Can't Stop Me Getting the News
These days the New York Times has gone behind a paywall. I stop by every morning, with my nose pressed against the cyberglass, gazing at the tempting treats in the form of headlines and first lines. Surprisingly, I don't ache for the days when I could read the content for free. Or, perhaps, not so surprisingly, since the same news is available everywhere else and not just on American websites.
In fact, what has changed thoroughly is the automatic association of certain organizations with news. There was a time when news meant the BBC, and later CNN, for electronic news and the New York Times and the Washington Post for printed news. In India, it meant such creaky oldtimers such as The Times of India and The Statesman and The Hindustan Times. My first few years in the U.S. there were no other options and if I wanted news about India, I had to rely on snippets here and there. There were of course the now defunct soc.culture groups in the days before the Internet became the World Wide Web. My biggest grouse against the western media in those days was that I hungered for news from India and couldn't find any, except silly pieces here and there. And certainly none in an Indian voice. Even further back in the day, way, way way back in the day, I had an opposite grouse with the Indian news media. There was no coverage of the world outside. My connection to world news was BBC World Service on shortwave frequencies. The BBC may or may not have been objective. I realize now, that it was then and remains now the British Broadcasting Corporation, so yes, it was the broadcast arm of the British government. But it was also often the only radio act in town, the behemoth with a presence worldwide, with reporters and cameramen on the ground. So if I wanted to know what was going on in the Middle East, South Africa, Australia and Europe, I would tune in to the fuzzy, scratchy reception of the BBC World Service and listen to what was going on in the rest of the world. When we finally acquired a television in the late 1980s, it was CNN that brought home the vicarious experience of war via its 24-hour coverage of and reporting from Iraq in 1991. Even when the World Wide Web made news more available, I would go to the Indian websites such as rediff, for news about India only, rarely for foreign news.
How the times have changed! For the recent developments in the Middle East, I don't even miss the New York Times. In fact I turn not even to the standard chatter of the talking heads on CNN or MSNBC. Both their reporting and their analyis is at least 24 hours late and often just surface impressions. I find more timely reporting and more accurate analysis on Indian websites and television stations such as NDTV , Headlines Today, and on international news websites like Al-Jazeera English. Thanks to the Internet, they all stream live. I also found interesting and relevant analysis by Indian bloggers, one of whom is a defence journalist working for the TV channel Headlines Today. Shiv Aroor recently spent time in eastern Libya, in Ben-Ghazi, and both tweeted and blogged about the situation on the ground there.
When I stepped back to consider, I found this amazing: for perhaps the first time in my life, I was reading an Indian correspondent's reporting on a foreign war. This would have been unthinkable in the 1980s not because Indian reporters were not good enough but because back then, most Indian news organizations simply did not have the resources to send out reporters to cover foreign wars. So we had no other sources of information except the BBC and CNN. Now there is a variety of sources from which to get news, and in comparison with the competition, western news organizations are coming up short, both in quality and in terms of boots on the ground (or microphones on the ground).
This is because first, there is the undeniable fact that western news organizations are unable to staff bureaus worldwide. Funds are tight, western journalists represent a burden on expenditures, they have to be housed and fed expensively, unlike resourceful Indian and Qatari reporters who are willing to live more modestly in exchange for the excitement of reporting live from international troublespots. In light of this, western news organizations are simply cutting back operations and there are fewer reporters on the ground (with the notable exception of NPR).
However, there also still remains the problem of voice. Caught up in trying to keep in place the shredded lens of a world order that is irrefutably over, western news organizations simply cannot comprehend the sheer mindboggling changes that have taken place in the world. I find it embarrassing to read or watch western analysts struggle to make sense of the situation in Libya, Bahrain and Saudi Arabia. They try to fit it into a narrative that is fast unravelling - that of western political and economic dominance. As a result, many western journalists are perceived to be tied to western foreign policy, so much so that their stated objectiveness no longer carries weight, and they are often treated as agents of their countries' governments. It's particularly sad that really good journalists like Anthony Shadid have to bear the consequences of the deteriorating analytical standards of their colleagues. The recent brutal treatment of the four New York Times journalists who were roughed-up and molested by their captors before being, thankfully, released into safety, would not have happened in the heyday of Christiane Amanpour when western journalists were treated as protected celebrities covering important world affairs for the only news channels then available.
In my opinion, the far greater problem is that western foreign journalists are just too...foreign. So they neither seek out nor are they given access to places and people whose sights and voices need to be seen and heard in order for a truer picture to emerge (again with the notable exception of the exceptional Anthony Shadid of the New York Times). Often, it's locally-hired minions who do the bulk of the hard work and the actual reporting. And so the interesting perspectives these days are mostly non-western. Also, the non-western perspective does not, yet, present itself to the world as the voice of power and/or domination. Even though India is rising, it has not yet risen to the point where its journalists can head out into the world with the self-assurance of power, either military, economic or political. Their voices come through, therefore, as the voices of genuine observers and reporters, not as interlocutors or players in international politics. It's a new and very interesting development in the history of foreign correspondence.
And that's why I can live without access to the New York Times on the Internet.Sorry, NYT, whether or not you like it, content can no longer be hoarded or guarded. I suggest you hike your advertising rates to compensate for the free content and to pay your reporters and cover operational costs.
In fact, what has changed thoroughly is the automatic association of certain organizations with news. There was a time when news meant the BBC, and later CNN, for electronic news and the New York Times and the Washington Post for printed news. In India, it meant such creaky oldtimers such as The Times of India and The Statesman and The Hindustan Times. My first few years in the U.S. there were no other options and if I wanted news about India, I had to rely on snippets here and there. There were of course the now defunct soc.culture groups in the days before the Internet became the World Wide Web. My biggest grouse against the western media in those days was that I hungered for news from India and couldn't find any, except silly pieces here and there. And certainly none in an Indian voice. Even further back in the day, way, way way back in the day, I had an opposite grouse with the Indian news media. There was no coverage of the world outside. My connection to world news was BBC World Service on shortwave frequencies. The BBC may or may not have been objective. I realize now, that it was then and remains now the British Broadcasting Corporation, so yes, it was the broadcast arm of the British government. But it was also often the only radio act in town, the behemoth with a presence worldwide, with reporters and cameramen on the ground. So if I wanted to know what was going on in the Middle East, South Africa, Australia and Europe, I would tune in to the fuzzy, scratchy reception of the BBC World Service and listen to what was going on in the rest of the world. When we finally acquired a television in the late 1980s, it was CNN that brought home the vicarious experience of war via its 24-hour coverage of and reporting from Iraq in 1991. Even when the World Wide Web made news more available, I would go to the Indian websites such as rediff, for news about India only, rarely for foreign news.
How the times have changed! For the recent developments in the Middle East, I don't even miss the New York Times. In fact I turn not even to the standard chatter of the talking heads on CNN or MSNBC. Both their reporting and their analyis is at least 24 hours late and often just surface impressions. I find more timely reporting and more accurate analysis on Indian websites and television stations such as NDTV , Headlines Today, and on international news websites like Al-Jazeera English. Thanks to the Internet, they all stream live. I also found interesting and relevant analysis by Indian bloggers, one of whom is a defence journalist working for the TV channel Headlines Today. Shiv Aroor recently spent time in eastern Libya, in Ben-Ghazi, and both tweeted and blogged about the situation on the ground there.
When I stepped back to consider, I found this amazing: for perhaps the first time in my life, I was reading an Indian correspondent's reporting on a foreign war. This would have been unthinkable in the 1980s not because Indian reporters were not good enough but because back then, most Indian news organizations simply did not have the resources to send out reporters to cover foreign wars. So we had no other sources of information except the BBC and CNN. Now there is a variety of sources from which to get news, and in comparison with the competition, western news organizations are coming up short, both in quality and in terms of boots on the ground (or microphones on the ground).
This is because first, there is the undeniable fact that western news organizations are unable to staff bureaus worldwide. Funds are tight, western journalists represent a burden on expenditures, they have to be housed and fed expensively, unlike resourceful Indian and Qatari reporters who are willing to live more modestly in exchange for the excitement of reporting live from international troublespots. In light of this, western news organizations are simply cutting back operations and there are fewer reporters on the ground (with the notable exception of NPR).
However, there also still remains the problem of voice. Caught up in trying to keep in place the shredded lens of a world order that is irrefutably over, western news organizations simply cannot comprehend the sheer mindboggling changes that have taken place in the world. I find it embarrassing to read or watch western analysts struggle to make sense of the situation in Libya, Bahrain and Saudi Arabia. They try to fit it into a narrative that is fast unravelling - that of western political and economic dominance. As a result, many western journalists are perceived to be tied to western foreign policy, so much so that their stated objectiveness no longer carries weight, and they are often treated as agents of their countries' governments. It's particularly sad that really good journalists like Anthony Shadid have to bear the consequences of the deteriorating analytical standards of their colleagues. The recent brutal treatment of the four New York Times journalists who were roughed-up and molested by their captors before being, thankfully, released into safety, would not have happened in the heyday of Christiane Amanpour when western journalists were treated as protected celebrities covering important world affairs for the only news channels then available.
In my opinion, the far greater problem is that western foreign journalists are just too...foreign. So they neither seek out nor are they given access to places and people whose sights and voices need to be seen and heard in order for a truer picture to emerge (again with the notable exception of the exceptional Anthony Shadid of the New York Times). Often, it's locally-hired minions who do the bulk of the hard work and the actual reporting. And so the interesting perspectives these days are mostly non-western. Also, the non-western perspective does not, yet, present itself to the world as the voice of power and/or domination. Even though India is rising, it has not yet risen to the point where its journalists can head out into the world with the self-assurance of power, either military, economic or political. Their voices come through, therefore, as the voices of genuine observers and reporters, not as interlocutors or players in international politics. It's a new and very interesting development in the history of foreign correspondence.
And that's why I can live without access to the New York Times on the Internet.Sorry, NYT, whether or not you like it, content can no longer be hoarded or guarded. I suggest you hike your advertising rates to compensate for the free content and to pay your reporters and cover operational costs.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Writer's Block
Sitting down every morning in front of the computer, I move the mouse and the cursor clicks almost involuntarily on the Internet Explorer icon, rather than the Windows Explorer icon. Almost involuntarily, because it is, in fact, quite deliberate. I don't want to write, I'll read anything instead. Whether it's some starlet's new wardrobe malfunction, or the current revolutionary upheaval in the Middle East, or a new recipe that I tell myself I will try out soon - all this reading is just an excuse for me to avoid writing.
Having completed and submitted one manuscript, and now a hundred pages into the second, writer's block has struck in a terrible and paralysing blow. In its grip, I read about the commercial success of the Mommy blogger brigade, and tell myself that that's what I need to do. To break out of my current state I have to offer up more of my inner life. Maybe the thought of being able to single-handedly fund my children's college accounts will spur me onto writing more and completing this second manuscript. But, I already don't like this option. Although a creature of the era of mass communication, and completely embracing its technology, I am at best a cautious participant in the culture it has spawned, except in unavoidable ways through the cookies that websites install on my computer and through the terms I leave behind on search engines. I want to use the tools of my times, not be shaped by them (although that is not wholly possible, I understand).
I am not a confessional sort of person. I realized that neither is my son. In his elementary school, the local police department offers a prize for the best essay on alcohol and drugs and the harm they cause. Awareness-raising, early education and all that. S. wrote a great essay on the dangers of tobacco and alcohol advertising. When the best essays were read out, I discovered a common theme: all of them touched on either a family member or a close friend whose early death or substance-abuse had deeply affected the young essay-writer. Not that the essays were not good or powerful, but the judges went for the ones where the writers had offered themselves and their families up for evaluation. Perhaps this is a sign of the times? We like to read blogs where people write about themselves, watch TV shows where people reveal themselves (literally and metaphorically), and love to hear other people discuss their personal lives in agony aunt columns (I do, anyway, but that's the subject of another novel). When it comes to expression though, my son, like me, tends to draw on other sources of ideas, write about everything else except his family, unless he is asked specific questions.
So there remains the question of the writer's block. What to do, what to do? Well, they do say that writing through it, like working one's way through pain, is the way to go. And that's what this post has been about.
Having completed and submitted one manuscript, and now a hundred pages into the second, writer's block has struck in a terrible and paralysing blow. In its grip, I read about the commercial success of the Mommy blogger brigade, and tell myself that that's what I need to do. To break out of my current state I have to offer up more of my inner life. Maybe the thought of being able to single-handedly fund my children's college accounts will spur me onto writing more and completing this second manuscript. But, I already don't like this option. Although a creature of the era of mass communication, and completely embracing its technology, I am at best a cautious participant in the culture it has spawned, except in unavoidable ways through the cookies that websites install on my computer and through the terms I leave behind on search engines. I want to use the tools of my times, not be shaped by them (although that is not wholly possible, I understand).
I am not a confessional sort of person. I realized that neither is my son. In his elementary school, the local police department offers a prize for the best essay on alcohol and drugs and the harm they cause. Awareness-raising, early education and all that. S. wrote a great essay on the dangers of tobacco and alcohol advertising. When the best essays were read out, I discovered a common theme: all of them touched on either a family member or a close friend whose early death or substance-abuse had deeply affected the young essay-writer. Not that the essays were not good or powerful, but the judges went for the ones where the writers had offered themselves and their families up for evaluation. Perhaps this is a sign of the times? We like to read blogs where people write about themselves, watch TV shows where people reveal themselves (literally and metaphorically), and love to hear other people discuss their personal lives in agony aunt columns (I do, anyway, but that's the subject of another novel). When it comes to expression though, my son, like me, tends to draw on other sources of ideas, write about everything else except his family, unless he is asked specific questions.
So there remains the question of the writer's block. What to do, what to do? Well, they do say that writing through it, like working one's way through pain, is the way to go. And that's what this post has been about.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Inquilab Zindabad!
Need more be said - right now? Let the people who thronged Tahrir Square in Cairo celebrate themselves, let them enjoy their hardwon victory, let them savor the freedom they wrested from the old dictator. Allow them to congratulate themselves heartily. When the dust settles, we can analyze and add all the qualifiers. But for now, joy to you, Misris!
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Walk Like An Egyptian
Yes, yes, the title's corny and it's been done to death this week, but the protests in the Middle East, all those walking Egyptians, Tunisians and Yemenis (and now Sudanese too, apparently), are worthy of commentary and analysis. So here is my two cents' worth, adding to the general cacophony of voices on the issue.
First, what strikes me is that all three countries where dissent has outstripped the state's ability to contain it, are not oil-rich ones. The lack of oil is an important factor, because it means that in tough economic times the state is not able to buy peace and time for itself. Over two years ago, protesters came out on the streets of Egypt to protest rising prices. That should have been a warning sign. Commodity prices have continued to rise over the past few years and for governments with no financial wiggle room, it means that their authoritarian character can now no longer be sugar-coated with dollops of subsidies.
How did these countries manage to limp along for so many years? I mean, Hosni Mubarak has been around for 30 years. His erstwhile counterpart in Tunisia, Zin el-Abedine Ben Ali, ruled for 23 years. And our man in Yemen, Ali Abdullah Saleh, has also been in power for more than 30 years. If one examines their finances, I wouldn't be surprised to find that American and Saudi subsidies probably kept these regimes going for the longest time as they were seen as pragmatic allies in a difficult region. Economics has again become crucial in 2011. The patrons of these client regimes are themselves undergoing a prolonged economic crisis and are cutting subsidies or are being stricter with how the money is spent. So, there is less money to trickle down to the public, as the corrupt elites in these countries are certainly not going to reduce their take from the coffers. And so protest, revolution, and change.
I think, though, that while all these protests have similar inspirations - a yearning for political change and a striking out against crippling corruption - how they will end depends upon the specific regional combination of domestic politics and foreign relations. Will Israel intervene to prop up a trusted partner, Mubarak? Will Saudi Arabia do the same for its Yemeni client? I don't think the United States has any leverage in this situation and should wait for the dust to settle before making any plans. But the folks at Foggy Bottom, the Pentagon and in the administration should take note - this truly marks the end of the Cold War in the Middle East, and the end of the useful idiots one appointed as allies to contain the Reds. And no, the Islamists are not just an extension of the Soviets. So back to the foreign policy drawing board for all of you in D.C.
First, what strikes me is that all three countries where dissent has outstripped the state's ability to contain it, are not oil-rich ones. The lack of oil is an important factor, because it means that in tough economic times the state is not able to buy peace and time for itself. Over two years ago, protesters came out on the streets of Egypt to protest rising prices. That should have been a warning sign. Commodity prices have continued to rise over the past few years and for governments with no financial wiggle room, it means that their authoritarian character can now no longer be sugar-coated with dollops of subsidies.
How did these countries manage to limp along for so many years? I mean, Hosni Mubarak has been around for 30 years. His erstwhile counterpart in Tunisia, Zin el-Abedine Ben Ali, ruled for 23 years. And our man in Yemen, Ali Abdullah Saleh, has also been in power for more than 30 years. If one examines their finances, I wouldn't be surprised to find that American and Saudi subsidies probably kept these regimes going for the longest time as they were seen as pragmatic allies in a difficult region. Economics has again become crucial in 2011. The patrons of these client regimes are themselves undergoing a prolonged economic crisis and are cutting subsidies or are being stricter with how the money is spent. So, there is less money to trickle down to the public, as the corrupt elites in these countries are certainly not going to reduce their take from the coffers. And so protest, revolution, and change.
I think, though, that while all these protests have similar inspirations - a yearning for political change and a striking out against crippling corruption - how they will end depends upon the specific regional combination of domestic politics and foreign relations. Will Israel intervene to prop up a trusted partner, Mubarak? Will Saudi Arabia do the same for its Yemeni client? I don't think the United States has any leverage in this situation and should wait for the dust to settle before making any plans. But the folks at Foggy Bottom, the Pentagon and in the administration should take note - this truly marks the end of the Cold War in the Middle East, and the end of the useful idiots one appointed as allies to contain the Reds. And no, the Islamists are not just an extension of the Soviets. So back to the foreign policy drawing board for all of you in D.C.
Friday, January 21, 2011
A Suitable Reader
Now that the book is under contract and is awaiting its turn in the editorial queue to be tweaked, turned, printed and marketed, I think about the readers out there. I think of my book as a person and the future readers as future partners for my book with whom its life will be intermingled. I know, I know, such anthromorphism, tsk, tsk. And such possessiveness. I wouldn’t have thought it possible of myself either.
But the book is my baby, my third, silent baby. And who is its future partner, the reader of my book? The more partners, the more successful my offspring (such a wrong thought for a person, but so true for a book). I ask myself this in various settings.
This week, I was at a small lunch with other around-town moms. All of us were Indians from different states, speaking different languages, conversing in English and Hindi, discussing things. We sat around a well-lit suburban dining table, eating delicious food, and chit-chatting, and I was suddenly very aware that these women were not the readers of my book. Well, maybe two of them were, including the hostess. OK, three.
I judged them out of my own insecurity – would X be able to empathize with the dilemmas of I., an important character in my novel? Would Y be able to overcome her antipathy to people of a certain community? She would have to at least suspend it in order to respond sympathetically with some situations in the novel. Why is it that I disapprove of prejudice, but when it comes up in a drawing room situation, I am unable to do more than smile and change the subject? Would any of these beautiful women in their lovely clothes and styled hair really be able to imagine situations and lifestyles such as the one I describe in my book? Could such lives as I talk about even be believable to them? Perhaps not.
But perhaps, yes. After all, I am a suburban mom too, aren’t I? What right do I have to believe that these well-educated women could not reach out to another world and time? Ashamed of my own thoughts, I teetered between remorse and criticism. I talked too much, was too witty and too loud, too giggly, trying to find a balance between sociable and withdrawn. And I noticed that one of the other potential readers at the gathering was like me – somewhat insecure, trying too hard. I was awkward and out of place in this setting, even though I fit in so well, in terms of class and ethnicity. And even though all of those present, without exception, were thoroughly nice people. Thoroughly nice people, but not the readers of my book.
I’ll write more about other potential readers in the future. Or other potential non-readers.
In the meantime, as more snow heads our way here, stay dry.
But the book is my baby, my third, silent baby. And who is its future partner, the reader of my book? The more partners, the more successful my offspring (such a wrong thought for a person, but so true for a book). I ask myself this in various settings.
This week, I was at a small lunch with other around-town moms. All of us were Indians from different states, speaking different languages, conversing in English and Hindi, discussing things. We sat around a well-lit suburban dining table, eating delicious food, and chit-chatting, and I was suddenly very aware that these women were not the readers of my book. Well, maybe two of them were, including the hostess. OK, three.
I judged them out of my own insecurity – would X be able to empathize with the dilemmas of I., an important character in my novel? Would Y be able to overcome her antipathy to people of a certain community? She would have to at least suspend it in order to respond sympathetically with some situations in the novel. Why is it that I disapprove of prejudice, but when it comes up in a drawing room situation, I am unable to do more than smile and change the subject? Would any of these beautiful women in their lovely clothes and styled hair really be able to imagine situations and lifestyles such as the one I describe in my book? Could such lives as I talk about even be believable to them? Perhaps not.
But perhaps, yes. After all, I am a suburban mom too, aren’t I? What right do I have to believe that these well-educated women could not reach out to another world and time? Ashamed of my own thoughts, I teetered between remorse and criticism. I talked too much, was too witty and too loud, too giggly, trying to find a balance between sociable and withdrawn. And I noticed that one of the other potential readers at the gathering was like me – somewhat insecure, trying too hard. I was awkward and out of place in this setting, even though I fit in so well, in terms of class and ethnicity. And even though all of those present, without exception, were thoroughly nice people. Thoroughly nice people, but not the readers of my book.
I’ll write more about other potential readers in the future. Or other potential non-readers.
In the meantime, as more snow heads our way here, stay dry.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)