Mayank Chhaya Daily

It is that time of year

It is that time of year, meaning the time for the annual Jaipur Literature Festival.

Last year at this time, a great deal of poorly confected tumult, controversy and fake heroism surrounded this signature literary event over whether author Salman Rushdie should be allowed to attend. It was a heady cocktail of individual freedom, religious sensibilities, literary license, corporate sponsorship, possible arrests and authorial defiance.

This year as the festival is about to begin (January 24-28) , there is another round of fresh controversy. It seems unlike last time when some obscure Muslim groups objected to Rushdie’s presence this time some Hindu groups are objecting to Pakistani authors having been invited.  Of course, Muslim groups, whose default position is one of having been permanently wronged, have demanded that the authors who read out passages from Rushdie’s ‘The Satanic Verses’ in defiance last year should not be allowed to attend this year.

I would like to republish two posts from last year related to the event. One is a piece of fiction about a gangster called Ganja Pistoolwaley and the other a set of tips I had for the festival organizers as the event was winding down. I wrote the following on January 27 and January 23 , 2012 respectively.

Some ideas for Jaipur Literature Festival, 2013

Given my unique standing in the world of literature, journalism, security and graphic art I have designed a possible logo for The Jaipur Literature Festival (JLF), 2013. It is still early days but the one above could make the cut.

I am also suggesting that the organizers lay down the following conditions for participating authors and panelists.

It is mandatory for authors and panelists to carry a/an:

* Reinforced steel helmet

* Bulletproof vest

* Firearm

* Attorney

* Olympic grade running shoes

The order of the conditions above is not random but very carefully thought through.  If the first two do not work, try the third, failing which turn to the fourth and, if everything fails, just run. We learned that in the festival that just concluded some authors exercised the last option first which was a bad  idea, not to mention an embarrassing one.

The festival authorities should set up a store at the entrance of the venue to sell JLF branded helmets, vests, firearms, running shoes and attorneys. To make the merchandise attractive, the festival should offer early registration discount. The money earned from the sale of the branded merchandise can help minimize the festival’s dependence on corporate sponsors whose balls can be easily twisted by the government.

Additionally, the festival organizers should require a disclosure from all those who are planning to read passages from works banned in India to bring their own handcuffs to save the local police the trouble to bring so many.

This is just the first draft of what can be done. I propose to have a more comprehensive blueprint ready soon. I will not be able to share this for reasons of client confidentiality.

***

Ganja Pistoolwaley plans a hit

Ganja Pistoolwaley a.k.a. Pistool Ganja nervously pulled his underwear wedged deep inside his buttocks. Unexpected phone calls from his boss Raqeeb Tadipar had that effect on him.

Pistoolwaley stood up whenever Tadipar called. Unlike in the past, with video phones Tadipar would know instantly if his underlings were sufficiently deferential when he called. He didn’t like his men sitting around because he thought that made them slow on the draw.

It was only during extreme emergencies when Tadibhai (as Raqeeb was known) would call himself. The hit Tadibhai was calling Ganja about involved a high profile author.

“Han Tadibhai. Mein khada hai na. Mein to kabhi kidhar baithta hai?” Ganja said with insincere obsequiousness. (Yes, Tadibhai I am standing up. Do I ever sit down?)

“Saaley, yeh video phone hai. Mein dekh sakta hai. Abhi supari ka photu SMS kiyela hai,” Tadibhai said. (This is a video phone. I can see you. I have just SMSed a picture of the hit).

Ganja: “Han bhai mila na. Dekha. Boley to aadmi to chusey hue aam ki mafik lagta hai.” (Got it. The man looks like a shriveled up mango.)

Tadibhai: “To yeh kaun sa chikna hero hai. Sala kitaab likhta rehta hai.” (He is no slick movie star. The bastard writes books).

Ganja: “To likhne do na bhai. Apney ko kya karne ka hai? Apan log kidhar padh sakta hai?” (So let him write.What do we care? We are illiterate anyway.)

Tadipar: “Arey who sab mereku mat sikha. Aaj kal teri zabaan pistul se zyada chalti hai) (Don’t teach me all that. These days you talk more than your pistol.)

Sensing Tadibhai’s irritation, Ganja immediately corrected himself. “Tadibhai, mein to aise hi gammat kiya. Aap ne bola aur sala writer dola.” (Tadibhai, I am kidding. You say the word and the writer is gone).

Tadibhai: “Arey Pistool teri ma ki usko dolane ka nahi hai rey. Woh video pe aa ke kuch bhashan dene wala hai. Uska bhashan rokna hai.” (Hey Pistool, he is not to be bumped off. He is giving a video speech. That speech should not happen.)

Ganja: “Boley to zinda rakhne ka par acting nahi karne ka” (That means he may live but not act)

Tadibhai: “Ab ghusi baat tere bheje mein goli ka tarha. Yeh hona mangta hai.” (Now sense has entered your brain like a bullet. This needs to happen)

Tadibhai’s menacing face went off Ganja’s phone. Ganja placed a call, also a video call, to his trusted tech support Chandu Ghaslet.

Chandu stood up as he answered the call. “Han Pistoolbhai. Mujhe kyun yaad kiya?) (Yes Pistool, how come you remembered me?)

Ganja: “Yeh address likh. Idhar kal ek video bhashan hai. Who bandh kara.” (Take this address. There is a video speech scheduled there tomorrow. Stop it.)

Chandu Ghaslet, who hardly ever figured in any of the exciting hits that his gang carried out, was thrilled to have been called. Naturally, he felt he needed to make this his best job.

Ghaslet: “Video bhashan matlab bandwidth bada zyada hoga. Mein 30 mein se 15 frame drop kara dunga. Sala breakdance ke jaisa lagega woh writer.” (Video speech means high bandwidth. I can drop 15 of the 30 frames. He would be so jerky he would look like a breakdancer).

Ganja: “Ey Ghaslet, baat sun le. Band wand kuchch nahi. Udhar ja, do kan ke neeche baja aur cable kaat dal.” (Hey Ghaslet, listen to me. Forget bandwidth. Go there, thrash a couple of them and cut the cable).

Ganja disconnected.

So now we wait to see what happens.

Note: Excuse the inordinate use of the Mumbai street lingo. I had no choice because that’s how these tough guys talk.

Rahul Gandhi as Congress vice president, meh

Congress Party president Sonia Gandhi, left, and vice president and her son Rahul Gandhi (Picture: www.aicc.org.in)

The most I can summon on the rise of Rahul Gandhi as vice president of the Congress Party, India’s oldest political movement, is meh. Unless he chooses to streak across New Delhi’s Raj Path his ascension to high political power has long been a fait accompli.

Since his father and former Prime Minister Rajiv Gandhi’s gruesome assassination on May 21, 1991, it has mainly been a question of when and almost never if Rahul would emerge as his eventual successor. Equally, it was entirely his choice whether or not to join public life.

Coming from a family for whose members public life is an inheritance and which seems to discourage pursuit of any other skill set, it makes no news that Rahul is now the official number 2 in the Congress Party. His mother, Sonia Gandhi, of course, remains its main force until such time as she chooses not to.

While reporting the immediate aftermath of the Rajiv Gandhi assassination, when Rahul was just about 21, I came across several ordinary members of his party who had already anointed him as their future leader in their mind. For Congress, this is like a reflex action. Although many senior leaders were keen that Sonia Gandhi take over the reins of the party without losing a moment after her husband’s death, there were as many who had invested in the eventual rise of the son.

Rahul has had the luxury of taking his own time and choosing his own path to get there but no one had any doubt that whatever position he wants in the party would be his for the taking. It was/is equally the case for his sister Priyanka who has so far stayed away from a formal position.

Although in theory the Congress Party has never been a Gandhi-Nehru fiefdom, in practice it has almost always been so. Think of the party as a giant jetliner where everybody else has to scramble to get a seat of any consequence or any seat at all. For the Gandhis, however, there is a perpetual first right of refusal. They are not just first among equals but first among firsts. It is not surprising that the Gandhis never seem to be in a hurry in any situation in life. They know there are flunkies nationwide who would usher them in with utter servility. Everything in life is a choice for them and not a necessity. In his defense though, at least Rahul tries his best not to be imperious about his uninterrupted passage through life.

Privilege and power have been so deeply woven into the fabric of the Nehru-Gandhi family that they warp political gravity around them irrespective of whether they have any individual competence. Deference and derision come in equal measure if you happen to be a member of that family. Derision, of course, is a small price to pay come as it does being ridden rough shod by deference.

It is clear now that it will be for Rahul to accept or reject India’s prime ministership if his party manages to produce winning numbers in the 2014 general elections. At 42 he is relatively young by the standards of Indian politics where power has to be pried from the hands of politicians. If Rahul does indeed become India’s next prime minister, then he would have taken office three years older than when his father became one at 40. He was the country’s youngest prime minister.

Now that the Congress Party has possibly chosen its prime ministerial candidate, although one cannot be certain, the main opposition Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) will have to think along those lines. The BJP too remains restricted by its limited national reach and will be forced to choose a name that will have resonance beyond just its own rank and file. While Gujarat Chief Minister Narendra Modi is an inevitable choice for a certain segment of India’s urban middle class population, it is not done until it is really done.

If Modi is indeed chosen as the BJP’s prime ministerial candidate, then India would witness a clash of strikingly contrasting styles—one a tentative articulator of broad themes propelled by family privilege, namely Rahul, and the other a man of political bombast fueled entirely by self-belief, namely Modi.

Come 2014, and I will be there to report no matter what.

A must see interview with Martha Gellhorn

It is embarrassing to acknowledge that I did not know about Martha Gellhorn, considered one of the great war correspondents of the 20th century, before HBO brought to me a rather thin slice of her brilliant life in its movie ‘Hemingway and Gellhorn.’

The movie is a tobacco hued and visually saturated reminiscence of a brief and tumultuous love affair between Earnest Hemingway and Gellhorn against the backdrop of war. Hemingway, as played by Clive Owen, is an inevitably larger than life portrait of a grimy, tobacco stained masculinity defined by conflict, and Gellhorn, as played by Nicole Kidman, is as a minor appendage to Hemingway’s loud and monstrous presence. I liked many parts of the movie but their sum total turned out to be inadequate, particularly Gellhorn’s character in Kidman’s interpretation.

It is a pity that I chanced upon this powerful interview with the real life Gellhorn by John Pilger much after watching the movie. Although I did some reading about Gellhorn after the movie, it is this interview that offers compelling insights into this truly great journalist.

While she appears very well grounded in her bearing throughout the interview despite being someone who reported on the horrors of all major wars of the 20th century for close to six decades, there are signs of inner turmoil that manifest themselves rather tellingly. In particular, I was struck by the way she lights up perhaps half a dozen cigarettes and then rummages through the ash in the ashtray as if looking for many lost moments. There is a certain urgency, edginess really, to the way she moves the ash around the ashtray. It also appears as if doing that helps her concentrate her thoughts. It can be a bit distracting unless you pay attention what she is saying.

I watched the interview twice, once just to observe her body language and the second time to actually listen to what she is saying. There are many interesting things that she talks about in response to Pilger’s quietly probing style. A couple of things caught my attention. One was about the day she arrived at Dachau just as the second world war was winding down. Pilger asks her, “What happened on the day you entered Dachau extermination camp? How could you be objective about what you saw in that extermination camp?”

Gellhorn: “I was not objective. I did not have to be objective. What I saw was my personal war aim.. my personal war aim was to get into Dachau. It was the first concentration camp, extermination camp. I did get there and I was there the day the war ended. I did not have to be objective in the sense that how could you..what was there to be objective about? It was a total and absolute horror. And all I did was to report it as it was. I did nit invent anything. If you mean…I don’t even know what you mean exactly by objective…”

However, what Gellhorn offers in reply to the question that follows is such a strikingly visual and yet spare description of what she saw. Cue the clip at 16. “There was a train on the siding. That was a death train…” is how she begins and then goes on to paint a remarkable word portrait of what she saw. This is what makes a great storyteller. It is at once a clinical and yet heartfelt description of a horrific extermination camp. I could not help but notice that as she was narrating the horrific story, behind her in the garden outside a butterfly was going about its business of extracting the nectar from the flowers. It is amazing how many different realities unfold around us all the time.

I strongly recommend this interview to all those who are already journalists and those aspiring to be journalists everywhere.

A few observations about Tahawwur Rana sentencing

The standard issue ankle chains are designed to obstruct a quick and free movement of prisoners taken outside of the controlled environment of a prison.

However, there are those veteran criminals who wear them and still manage to walk as if taking the last few measured, thoughtful steps towards a lofty goal they had long set their eye on. In reality, it is anything but that.

As I watched Tahawwur Hussain Rana with ankle chains shuffle into the courtroom of U.S. District Judge Harry Leinenweber yesterday, it struck me that he was not one of those criminals. In his orange prison jumpsuit and blue lace-less canvas shoes Rana cut a sorry figure.

Described by his particularly sharp attorney Patrick Blegen as “unerringly polite”, Rana did not seem to give away much of his inner turmoil as he heard a quick back and forth between the defense and prosecution represented by Assistant U.S. Attorney Daniel Collins.

After exchanging a brief smile with his family members sitting together, he sat there waiting for the pronouncement of his actual sentence, although he has been in prison for nearly three years. Rana was originally accused of providing material support to his childhood friend David Coleman Headley carry out reconnaissance and planning for the November 26, 2008, Mumbai terrorist attacks that killed 164 people and wounded hundreds of others as well as to an abortive plot to attack the office of the Morgenvisen Jyllands-Posten newspaper in the heart of Copenhagen, Denmark and indiscriminately killing its employees because it published cartoons of Prophet Mohammed offensive to Muslims. Rana was acquitted of any involvement in the Mumbai attacks but was found guilty of two counts in the Danish case.

While sentencing the 52-year-old  Rana to 14 years yesterday, U.S. District Judge Harry Leinenweber used the word “mindset” at least four times.

His main point was that he did not understand a “mindset” that was so contrary in itself.  "On the one hand we have a very intelligent person who is capable of providing assistance to many people," the judge said. "But what is difficult to understand is: a person with that intelligence and that background and history of helping others ... how that type of person could get sucked into a dastardly plot that was proposed."

The judge said, “I am not sure anything I do will deter the mindset of people who really don’t care what happens to them…(That) mindset is not going to be deterred.” It was obvious that the judge did not have deterrence in mind while announcing a sentence that was at the top of the sentencing guideline between 135 and 168 months.

Judge Leinenweber did not elaborate much during his pronouncement but it was clear that he was truly intrigued by the kind of mindset that seems to propel such terrorist plots.

It is conceivable that Rana, a Pakistani medical doctor by training, will be out of prison in about 11 years once good behavior reduction of about 15 percent as well as the time served are factored in. He will be 63 and most likely be deported to Canada, where he is a citizen.

In appealing to the judge for a lighter sentence Blegen said, "Judge, he is a good man and he got sucked into something, but there's no risk that he's going to do it again. None.” I don’t think the judge was fully convinced by that.

Blegen also pointed out that his client’s health was poor because he had suffered a heart attack last year and had a stent put in as well as has kidney trouble. Keeping that in mind the judge did grant him a prison facility with access to medical care.

A cursory reading of the Pakistani media this morning indicated that the Rana case has not received much attention in his native. That is easy to explain. Pakistan is so besieged by its own existential challenges that this case does not come even close to being even remotely consequential.

The Conquest: A short story

Alexander

I had written the following short story some ten years ago. It is being republished.

It is a fictionalized account inspired by historical research on two very real and powerful personalities: Alexander and Calanus. While Alexander has been talked about extensively, Calanus has remained a bit elusive. History is not quite clear as to the religious persuasion of Calanus but it appears that he was from the Jain sect founded by Gautam Buddha's virtual contemporary Mahavir. Jainism proscribes violence in any form. At its extreme Jain renunciates choose to remain naked so as not to hurt any form of life.

Some other historians say Calanus was a Hindu sadhu named Kalyan. However, his religious affiliation does not change the basic thrust of my short fiction.

Incidentally,I emailed this story to Oliver Stone’s office during the run-up to his pre-production for his movie ‘Alexander’. I thought this would make a perfect ending. I got no response.

The Conquest—Mayank Chhaya

Early winter breeze strummed the tranquil waters of the Beas like the harp as the sun set on the western mouth of the river. Alexander's copper-iron armor shimmered leaving a mauve glow on his worried face. Signs of mutiny in his army's rank and file were unmistakable.

After eight years of bloody triumphs through the Tigris, the Nile, the Euphrates, the Oxus, the Jaxartes and now the Beas, Alexander wanted one final conquest. His men though had had enough. The great warrior had decided to make one last attempt next morning to persuade his commanders to march on. He retired to his tent and fell asleep.

Dawn came but did not bring with it the promise of a new day. Alexander reluctantly put on his armor, fastened the buskins, grabbed the helmet in his armpit and stepped out of the tent. His commanders were waiting, not knowing what to expect but expecting something they knew would not be.

"Over half a dozen great rivers, thousands of adversaries who fought as if there was no tomorrow, cold that could freeze the finest of horses and heat that could singe one's conscience did not stop us for eight years. Civilizations will grow out of the footprints left by our horses' hooves. We have left in our wake history's greatest conquests. History will know no warriors like you and imagine a conqueror like me. I am asking you for one final conquest. I appeal to you valorous soldiers to take the final step and conquer the last great stretch," Alexander said pointing east.

"Violence is what happens without your knowledge or consent. I both know of and consent to my death," Calanus said to Alexander.

The last great stretch was a fabled empire controlled by the Nandas north east of the great city of Takshila. "We have heard great stories about their army of 200,000, 20,000 cavalry, 2,000 four-horse chariots and 6,000 elephants. You might see that as an unconquerable force, I see it as a great empire that is ours for the taking," the warrior said.

For a brief while blood rushed through the commanders' veins with the visions of defeating the Nandas. Then came a sense of deep fatigue that had set in their bones after eight years of invasions spread over 25,000 kilometers. Alexander was nothing if not an intuitive thinker. He changed the mood of his address: "Retreating now means humiliating death. Retreating now is turning the vanquished into a formidable foe yet again. Retreating now is ignoble."

The commanders seemed moved but not enough to rise and fight. Alexander stomped back into his tent and surrounded himself with singular gloom for three days. After 72 hours he emerged again to address his men. This time, it was to announce a withdrawal.

"I am a great conqueror because you great warriors are with me. I may slay a few robust men single-handedly but an entire army? Even I cannot. We withdraw in glorious victory," he said. The banks of the Beas shook with loud cheers from the great army. Alexander knew in his heart he was returning with an incomplete victory. "In the end my own men defeated me," Alexander told himself as he plotted his departure by sailing down the Jhelum river.

As Alexander and his exhausted men set sailing, some 50 kilometers downstream a group of naked men sat by the river bank chanting mantras in unison. Each mantra seemed to rise from the core of their being and attain an exalted spiritual harmony. One of the naked men, apparently quite old, was the only one not chanting with the rest. He was their leader in as much as ascetics could ever have one and he had earned his right to pursue silence.

The sight of naked men radiating some strange sounds out of their seemingly closed mouths was too much for Alexander to resist. The sails were brought down, the boats anchored and the ascetics summoned. They did not oblige. Instead their leader said if he wanted to meet Alexander would have to come ashore himself. The idea that men with no possessions, not even clothes, could look so calm and content attracted Alexander to them. Alexander's commanders were offended that naked men could summon history's greatest conqueror.

"Who are you and why are you naked and what are you chanting?" Alexander asked with the finality of someone accustomed to being deferred to.

"You have many questions but no manners?" said the ascetic. Two of Alexander's commanders were about to unsheathe their swords but he stopped them. The ascetic looked at the commanders and said, "Those who are always ready to commit violence are cowardly. We do not fear death, we invite it. We believe life is but a brief interlude before death."

Alexander was struck by the strange aura surrounding the ascetic's weather-beaten face. "Forgive me for being insolent. I am a warrior and manners are not useful in my occupation," he said.

"You call conquering others an occupation? Aren't you struck by the irony of your expression? To answer your questions we are men in search of eternal peace.

We wear elements and so do not need clothes. What we chant is a vehicle to that eternal peace." "Can that peace be sought anywhere?" Alexander asked surprising his commanders not used to hearing him indulge in a pacifist discourse.

"Peace like violence resides within you. You seem to have chosen violence and we peace. Yes, peace can be sought anywhere," the ascetic said.

"If that be indeed so, why don't you join me on my voyage? I don't know what I need but peace might not hurt," Alexander said.

"A peace that hurts is merely thinly disguised violence. Don't be fooled by it. You look like a warrior from a far land. What use do you have for someone like me? I don't even wear clothes," the ascetic said.

"What do I call you? How about Calanus?" Alexander asked.

"You may call me what you desire. It does not change anything. Yes, I will join you," Calanus said.

"You don't know me. You don't know what lies ahead for you and yet you are coming with me. Have you now doubts?" Alexander asked.

"Our needs are few. We have conquered the most important territory for humans to conquer. We have conquered self. We have nothing more to conquer. Wherever we go is our home," Calanus said.

"Wherever we go is our home. I feel the same way. How are you different?" Alexander asked.

"You need an army to create a home for you wherever you go. We need nothing. Not even clothes," Calanus said.

"We have a long journey ahead full of uncertainty. We don't know if we will reach the sea where my ships are being readied. Babylon is calling me," Alexander said.

"We all have long journeys ahead full of uncertainty. You are nothing special in that," Calanus said.

"You would make a great companion," Alexander said.

"So will you," Calanus said.

It took Alexander and his men six months to reach the sea. The great warrior survived a near fatal attack by fierce riverine peoples. An arrow almost punctured his heart perhaps making him realize his own frailty as his entourage reached what is now the Arabian Sea.

Before set sailing, Alexander asked Calanus, "You know there is no turning back for you once we sail. You are an old man. Are you sure you want to leave the familiar for the uncharted?"

The ascetic replied, "I left the familiar for the uncharted the day I was born. Let us sail."

325 BC Desert coast of Gedrosia, Babylon

After weeks at sea, Alexander along with Calanus and his men reached the desert coast of Gedrosia . Alexander had not yet given up his dreams on conquering the Nandas. He had strategized in his mind he would bring in more troops and return to India.

However, once in Babylon, Alexander's famous appetites for food and liquor took over. There were frequent banquets. At one such banquet he invited Calanus and his naked ascetics.

As always the banquet was full of wines and dead animals cooked to satisfy Alexander's gargantuan appetite. Weeks of sea journey to Babylon had already prepared Calanus to expect Alexander as the embodiment of the very anti-thesis of what he stood for.

Calanus waited outside the main tent where the feast and merry-making was in progress. The frail, wasted body of Calanus made a stunning contrast with the two robust armed men who stood guard outside the tent. Even in their aloof and authoritarian gait, there was an element of respect for the ascetic.

Calanus looked pale and weak. Nudity compounded by the severe winter and undernourishment had all taken their toll on the ascetic. He was lost in his thoughts about his early life as a renunciate when Alexander came out with a goblet of wine in his hand. "Calanus, why must you wait outside in the cold? You are enlightened but not invincible. You will catch a cold."

"I have come to tell you that my journey has ended. Tomorrow at dawn I shall cease to be." Alexander was perplexed by Calanus' tone. "What do you mean? Have you had a premonition of some kind?" "There is no premonition. It is knowledge. I know because I have decided to do it," Calanus said.

"What have you decided to do?" Alexander asked even as he handed over the goblet to one of the guards. With his hands akimbo the conqueror asked even more forcefully, "What have you decided?"

"Tomorrow at dawn I shall immolate myself," Calanus said. One of the guards dropped the goblet out of shock. Alexander looked at Calanus with a mixture of disbelief, incomprehension and anger.

"Immolate yourself? How? Why? I would not let you," Alexander said.

"You have too many questions. You may control territories but you do not control individuals. It is not for you to let me do anything. I came of my own volition with you," Calanus said.

"I always make the mistake of not remembering that with you I am not a conqueror. What can I do to dissuade you?" Alexander asked.

"Nothing," Calanus said, "So dawn it is. If you are awake come to bid me goodbye. If you are not able to rise early because of your abuse at the feast, goodbye now."

Calanus walked back with the support of his disciples. Alexander stood there transfixed. Rather than rejoining the banquet, he went back to his tent. That night he could not sleep.

The sun had not yet come out when Calanus awoke. He bathed in cold water, while his disciples began piling wood to make a pyre. After his wash Calanus went into deep meditation chanting mantras. Some distance away in his tent Alexander sat up in his bed as if stung by some bad dream. He realized it was already dawn and remembered Calanus' words. He came out of the tent and ordered his commanders and soldiers to get ready in full battle gear. "We shall lead Calanus on his final journey," he declared.

With his joints stiff because of old age and lifelong exposure to the elements, Calanus began walking towards the pyre. Behind him walked his naked disciples, Alexander followed by his commanders and men. Alexander and his commanders knew what lay ahead, his soldiers did not. They were intrigued by Calanus walking towards the burning pyre. Calanus stopped a couple of feet away from an end of the pyre that had still not caught fire. He chanted mantras again and then turned around to address his disciples.

"This is just an end of one phase of my life. You in your wisdom will choose my successor. I am moving on to another level. I was happy throughout my life. I am happy at its end," he said even as he began climbing the pyre.

Alexander, who was pacing up and down nervously, said, "Wait! You claim to believe in non-violence. You would not even kill an insect. What then gives you the right to kill yourself?"

Calanus did not wait to answer. He sat cross-legged on top of the pyre waiting for the flames to consume him.

"What gives you the right to kill yourself?" Alexander asked again as Calanus' disciples signaled him to be silent.

"Violence is what happens without your knowledge or consent. I both know of and consent to my death," Calanus said.

Minutes later there was no trace of Calanus. His disciples began walking away from Alexander. The Greek army men stood frozen not knowing how to react.

Finally, Alexander spoke. "Calanus was of a different world. We celebrate his passage through our world."

Rana sentencing foreshadows similar fate for Headley?

I did the following story for the IANS wire yesterday.

By Mayank Chhaya

Chicago, Jan 16, (IANS) By seeking a prison term of 30 years for Tahawwur Hussain Rana, US federal prosecutors are probably foreshadowing a similar length of imprisonment, if not longer, for David Coleman Headley, a key plotter behind the Mumbai terrorist attacks of November 26, 2008.

Although it will be up to District Judge Harry Leinenweber to decide the quantum of Rana's sentence, the fact that the prosecution is asking for 30 years could be regarded as a benchmark for Headley's sentence scheduled for Jan 24.

Having pleaded guilty to all the 14 counts of his involvement in the plotting of the Mumbai attacks, which resulted in the deaths of six US citizens, as well as the abortive Denmark plan, it seems logical that at the very least his sentence will match Rana's, if not much longer.

Rana, a childhood friend of Headley's who will be handed a sentence on Jan 17 by a court here, was convicted in June 2011 of two counts of conspiring to provide material support to a plot to commit murder overseas from October 2008 to October 2009 and providing material support to the foreign terrorist organization Lashkar e-Tayyiba from late 2005 to October 2009. The plot could have led to murder on what is described by the prosecutors a "grand, horrific scale."

That plot, also being initiated by Headley, involved storming the offices of the Danish newspaper Jyllands-Posten in the heart of Copenhagen and beheading its employees and throwing their heads on to the street. The newspaper had earlier published cartoons of Prophet Mohammed offensive to Muslims.

The prosecution had produced a recording where Rana was heard saying the Denmark plan was "good" and "this would be a huge event in the media."
In pressing for a 30-year sentence for Rana, the prosecutors made several references to the Mumbai attacks for which too he was accused of providing material support to Headley but acquitted. This was not the first time that Rana applauded mass murder.

After approximately 164 men, women and children were mercilessly slaughtered by the foreign terrorist organization Lashkar e Tayyiba, Rana simply stated that the victims "deserved it". Rana praised the attacks, stating in a recorded conversation that they struck "fear in the hearts of Indians".

Instead of showing any compassion for the innocent victims, the defendant believed that the Lashkar leader who planned the attack and the nine Lashkar operatives who carried out the attacks, "deserved medals."

A couple of pieces of so far unknown information to have come forth in the prosecutors' position paper relate to an intercepted conversation of Rana's wife Samraz as well as the fact that he suffered a heart attack in June last year.
The documents say, "Defendant (Tahawwur Rana) repeatedly attempts to draw a contrast between Headley and himself, relying upon letters from various family members, including his wife. His wife, however, was intercepted in a recorded conversation prior to his arrest in which she expressed that Rana was just like Headley. She stated, "Dawood [Headley] is absolutely crazy. . . . Both [Rana and Headley] are alike [and] have ended up together. They talk nonsense all day, idiots. That's not how Islam spreads! . . . Such as, 'kill him, he is not practicing like us - kill him, do that to him, do this to him, he is like this - look, how that woman is - is this how Islam spreads? . . . Hatred spreads like this, not Islam."

It would be extraordinary if a lighter sentence is sought for him despite the absence of any mitigating circumstances other than that he has cooperated with US investigators to their satisfaction. However, it was in exchange for that cooperation that the prosecution took the death penalty off the table as well as a likely extradition to India where too he is wanted to stand trial.

Indians predate Europeans in Australia by thousands of years

The headline in The Proceedings in the National Academy of Sciences (PNAS) of the United States is understandably complex. It says, “Genome-wide data substantiate Holocene gene flow from India to Australia.”

In ordinary, conversational English it could be, “Indians arrived in Australia 4000 years before Europeans, Suck on it.”

The findings in a new study by a team of US and other researchers run contrary to the established view that after early human migration to Australia 40,000 years ago, the continent remained isolated from the outside world until Europeans arrived in the 17th century.

A summary of the study published here says it detected, “a signal indicative of substantial gene flow between the Indian populations and Australia well before European contact, contrary to the prevailing view that there was no contact between Australia and the rest of the world. We estimate this gene flow to have occurred during the Holocene, 4,230 y ago.”

It also says, “This is also approximately when changes in tool technology, food processing, and the dingo appear in the Australian archaeological record, suggesting that these may be related to the migration from India.” The dingo, incidentally, is described as a free roaming dog found across Australia.

On reading the summary, my first thought—and I have to be honest here about this even if it underscores how flippant my mind is—was “Next time when the Australian immigration asks me for a visa, I could say ‘We were here 4,230 years ago before you, Suck on it.”

The authors of the study are Irina Pugach, Frederick Delfin, Ellen Gunnarsdóttir and Mark Stoneking. Of course, being serious scientists working in areas such as genetics and forensic molecular biology their perspective had to have been much more fundamental than just the Australian immigration authorities.

Hidden behind my facetiousness was the larger philosophical point about the restrictiveness on the movements of people now so inherent to the modern idea of nation-states compared to the freedoms of the ancient times. I can say it with a fair degree of certainty that neither when early descendants of the people of Africa arrived in Australia 40,000 years ago nor when Indians arrived 4,000 years ago, there were immigration officers at the shores checking on passports and visas.

Separately, it strikes me that the migration to Australia from India was taking place almost around the same time as when the Indus Valley civilization was flourishing along India’s northwest, including in Lothal, a site barely 80 kilometers from my hometown of Ahmedabad. Lothal, one of the most important trading centers of the era, dates back to 2400 BCE. The inhabitants of Lothal were industrious traders engaged in regular commerce with Egypt and Sumer.

There is no immediate relevance to all this except that it may help while taking a long view of who we are. My idea of a long view is somewhat different in that I would regard the discovery of a group of quasars stretching four billion light years across as one. Perhaps more about that discovery tomorrow.

Trying to understand Jodie Foster

Jodie Foster during a backstage media interaction on Sunday (Screen grab from www.goldenglobes.org)

I have decided to write about Jodie Foster entirely because she is trending on the social media and might get this obscure blog some peripheral traffic.

Other than that I have no interest whatsoever in whether she is straight or gay or straight single or gay single or she was kind of/sort of/may be/probably/ likely contemplating whatever it is that she was contemplating, including retirement.

I do not hold the sheer self-absorption and self-indulgence of her Golden Globe acceptance speech last night against her because she was in a room full of self-absorbed people. She belongs to a profession where self-absorption and self-indulgence are not just a requirement but are institutionally enshrined, celebrated and rewarded. So none of that is objectionable.

There was nothing objectionable even otherwise in what she said except that I am not entirely certain what she was saying. Was she mocking or being ironic or in character or putting her own ambiguities out there or simply talking to herself? And even if it was a combination of all of the above does it merit any editorial comment?  I told you my reason for writing about it is self-serving in the vain hope that it may generate some more hits.

It sounded like her very private rumination which she deliberately allowed to escape. Since her Cecil B. Demille lifetime achievement award was no surprise one can presume that whatever she wanted to say in acceptance was thought through carefully. Being an actor of her obvious talents she also pitched it rather effectively. And yet it was so remarkably nebulous and full of grievance.

For a brief moment or two I attributed my failure to understand the substance of Foster’s speech to the fact that it was late at night (late for me because I am awake by 4 a.m.). But as she rambled along I realized that it was not me but her. I did sense a great deal of grievance in her speech, grievance at having been deprived of a normal life. Here is how she put it, "If you had been a public figure by the time you were a toddler, if you had had to fight for a life that felt real, and honest, and normal against all odds, then you too might value privacy above all else.”

"Privacy. Some day in the future people will look back and remember how beautiful it once was," she said.

She made it sound as if the world had wronged her in making her a child star and then somehow pushing her along the trajectory of a celebrated public life against her wish. I do not understand celebrities who benefit a great deal from their celebrity in every possible worldly way and then express dismay and anguish about the angularities of celebrity. It is not my case that Foster had not had to “fight for a life that felt real, and honest, and normal against all odds.” I am sure she had to but is it that harrowing considering what that life also brings in terms of rewards? I am not so sure simply because I have not lived that life. I do not know enough about her life but it seems to me that her profession was chosen for her and, in looking back at 50, she does not entirely approve of what that choice engendered. Particularly because celebrity somehow obligates her to forsake her privacy that she cherishes.

She first tantalized the audience saying she was going to make an announcement that she was “a little bit nervous about” and then in a pretty clever twist declared, "I'm just gonna put it out there … I'm single."

That accomplished, she answered the longstanding perceptions about her sexuality saying this: "I already did my coming out about a thousand years ago, back in the stone age. In those very quaint days when a fragile young girl would open up to trusted friends and family, coworkers and then gradually, proudly, to everyone who knew her. To everyone she actually met.

"But now, apparently I'm told, that every celebrity is expected to honor the details of their private life with a press conference, a fragrance and a primetime reality show. You guys might be surprised, but I am not Honey Boo Boo child."

As her speech proceeded the cameras panned over many moist eyes, especially when she said "I may never be up on this stage again, on any stage for that matter." Was she signaling retirement? Evidently not because backstage she told reporters she “could never stop acting.” “You have to drag me behind like a team of horses,” she said. Then what did she mean and why did her fellow actors cry? We may never know. We do know that she was just being self-indulgent, which on a scale of things, is not so grave.

I think this post too sounds quite like Foster’s speech but then I have the protection of my near anonymity. Also, I am not in a room full of self-absorbed people who would cry if I were to announce my retirement. On the contrary, there would be jubilation, which is such a self-indulgent thing to say because it presumes that anyone cares.

I also came out a thousand years ago when I said that I bring nothing of any value or consequence whatsoever to human discourse. I write simply because I do not know any better.

The kite fliers of Ahmedabad, again

‘Kites’ by Mayank Chhaya

Tomorrow, January 14, the sky over my native Ahmedabad will witness its annual kite wars as part of the Uttarayan celebration. To mark the occasion and to spare myself the trouble of writing a fresh piece today, let me reissue a piece I wrote on January 14, 2011. Here it is:

I don’t do nostalgia that well. Coming from me, it sounds bogus. But I am going to indulge myself anyway considering that today happens to be Uttarayan, the D-Day for the kite fliers of Gujarat in general and Ahmedabad in particular.

While residents of many other cities wannbe kite fliers in the league of those in Ahmedabad, there is really no comparison. Kite flying in Ahmedabad is an experience of near nirvanic bliss. When I was growing up learning to fly kites was a defining rite of passage. I got defined when I was nine.

In my extended family the ultimate test of one’s kite flying skills was to be able to fly a kite even while holding a firki (a string spool) and finally cutting a rival’s kite. I did all that without much fuss. So yes, I have been a bloody good kite flier. But then Ahmedabad is teeming with bloody good kite fliers.

Kite flying in Ahmedabad was and remains today an aerial war where victims are almost invariably anonymous. You never really know whose kite you are cutting because there are thousands in the sky. There are two broad ways to wage this war. One is to attack your adversary from below and the other is to swoop down from top. Once your kite gains a certain altitude because of the Uttarayan wind, the taut string becomes a potentially lethal weapon. It is laced with what is called the manjo or manja. In fact, making the manja is quite a process and there are manja makers who have become legends because of the sheer abrasiveness of their product. When I was growing up some of them in the walled city guarded their formula as zealously as the makers of Coca Cola.

The manja is a mixture of flour, industrial adhesive, aluminum oxide, zirconia alumina, powdered glass and various types of colors. The raw string is laced with the manja and allowed to dry for several hours, sometimes overnight. My mamas, maternal uncles, who grew up in the walled city had “undisclosed” sources of specially made string spools which would be delivered in the dark of the nigh away from the prying eyes of neighboring spies. A dozen or so firkis would be brought wrapped in newspapers as if they were some rare contraband.

Coming back to the two main ways to cut your rival’s kite, one of my uncles specialized in attacking from below. What it meant was that he would circle his kite around the rival’s, and at a precise point start pulling the string back with considerable hand coordination. That would rapidly raise his kite’s height again and the resultant contact of his string with the rival’s string would create a cutting edge. That’s where the quality of the manja would come into play. I do not remember a single occasion when this particular kite flier lost his. There were times when after cutting a dozen or so kites, he would cut his own string and let his kite go. Mahesh Mama, that was his name, was a kite flier whose prowess was discussed by us boys in whispered tones.

The other strategy is to swoop down and rapidly release the string as one makes contact with the rival. That rapid release causes friction and eventually cuts either your string or the rival’s. The second way of attacking was preferred by those not blessed with swift arms.

Kite flying began as early as 4 a.m. and went on till 1 p.m. when we would break for lunch. Even though we had protection on (that does not sound right), our fingers would have been slashed at several spots in the first ten minutes. That made eating an excruciatingly painful affair. It was literally rubbing salt and other spices in one’s wounds. At one point my throat was virtually slit because I came in the middle of Mahesh Mama’s ambush of a kite being flown by someone several streets away.

Mahesh Mama’s signature gig was to cut kites rising from nearby terraces even before they had gone up ten feet. That’s how good he was. Let’s just say he was a top gun among kite fliers. For some men in the neighborhood that was nothing short of public emasculation. And we would rub it in by banging on steel platters in a tribal ritual proclaiming triumph.

It was only fitting that such triumphs were celebrated with deliciously rich food. It was a tradition in my maternal grandparents’ family to hide money, coins really, in food. So one had to watch out for a pawali (a quarter) in the daal or 50 paise in the pooris. There was no FDA to enforce rules about choking hazards. Since it was expected that money would be hidden as an Uttarayan gift, we would eat carefully. It never exceeded 50 paise.

At its core flying kite is as much about liberation, as signified by a soaring kite, as it is about being tethered, as signified by the string. It is a great thrill.

Doors shut tightly for decades have opened

‘The M River’ (Drawing by Mayank Chhaya)

At the risk of overpraising let me praise Google Transliterate. It is an extraordinary tool which has opened two doors tightly shut for decades.

Ever since I became a journalist in 1981 English has become my default language. It is a great language which is both pure and promiscuous and that’s what makes it paradoxical. Having been the language of commerce and colonizers for centuries it has acquired that rare suppleness so necessary to advance both. I am grateful to it mainly because it has helped me create a tidy little career for myself.

Before I digress any further from the main theme of the post let me pull myself back. The point I was trying to make is after becoming a journalist first the typewriter and then the computer keyboard became an indispensable tool of my life. While I was very glad to have taken to both these technologies, one inevitable fallout was that I gradually stopped handwriting anything. So much so that I can no longer write more than a couple of lines in longhand without feeling peculiarly exhausted and disengaged.

One of the casualties of this very primitive form of technological singularity was poetry. I have written poetry in Hindi and Gujarati since my teens. However, because it required me to handwrite I practically stopped writing poetry. Of course, over the past decades there have been many which formed in my mind and stayed there.

This is where Google Transliterate and Facebook come in. Poetry is as much about actually putting it down on paper as it is about finding an audience. With these two fabulous technological advances I am able to do both. One consequence of this convergence for me personally has been that I have started writing more poetry in Hindi and Gujarati than ever before. While in Hindi my preferred genre is the ghazal, in Gujarati it is the haiku.

Google Transliterate allows me to type Hindi and Gujarati in the Roman script and simultaneously offers words in the respective scripts. Those are the two doors that I was referring to as being shut for decades and now having been opened because of Google Transliterate. So thank you, techie nerds.

There is, of course, the flip side to being poetically prolific all over again. I end up ambushing unsuspecting Facebook friends with frequent poetic updates. To be fair to myself, for a poet I do not seem to have too much of that irritating habit of buttonholing people randomly and reciting my work.

Being a weekend post, indulge me a bit as I publish a couple of my latest ghazals and three of my dated haikus. Incidentally, the structure of haikus in Gujarati is 5-7-5, or five letters, seven letters and five letters. Or at least that’s what I have understood from childhood. If that is not the pure haiku structure, so be it. I have lifelong poetic license which requires no renewal.

I have written quite a few ghazals lately but let me just publish two here with approximate translation.

 

What is that which is rising like a black serpent

Or perhaps it is dark smoke emanating from many hearts

The leaping flames tell but one story

There is a cavalcade of ill-will in the city underway

Covering your ears won’t change reality

Come out on the street, there is a silent revolution on

Those who are carrying lamps in the broad daylight

Are tailed by a shadow of dark smoke

 

Hey life, just do this much

Bless me with some craft to live it

If the feet must remain unshod

At least heal my lacerations

I accept all your hard vagaries

Spare an occasional benign gaze too

In the grimy palm of my destiny

Infuse some good kismet

If I must live in Chhaya’s shadow*

Let some light break through

(* Chhaya, my last name, also means shadow)

Now three old Gujarati haikus written in 1979.The translation is understandably not in haiku.

૧) સત્તર શબ્દો

ગોઠવી ને કવિઓ

હાઇકુ રચે

૨) બંધ બારણે

‘ભલે પધાર્યા’ એમ

તોરણ શોભે

૩) સાંજ તો આવી

પણ તેમની યાદ

ન આવી હજી

 

1) Seventeen words

Poets arrange and

make haikus

2) On a door that is shut

Hangs a sign

‘Welcome’

3) Dusk has arrived

But her memories

Have not, yet