The seafaring litterateur

Józef Teodor Konrad Korzeniowski, born in Russian-occupied Poland and better known as Joseph Conrad, is hailed as a master storyteller worldwide, but precious little is made known or discussed in mainstream circles about his astounding ability to convert regular adventure tales into profound philosophical discourses.

Notwithstanding the stereotypical depiction of Africa in his ‘Heart of Darkness’ (‘merely as a foil to Europe’ as the great Nigerian poet-author Chinua Achebe aptly put it), there are few authors in the league of this mariner-turned-author who wrote probing fiction in an acquired language to underline the deep, dark truths of human existence and ambition.

Passing through Pimlico in Central London, Conrad’s home in London, I was instinctively reminded of his penetrative short story “An Outpost of Progress” about two shallow Europeans deputed to a remote African trading region, which most powerfully underlines the fraud and falsity of the far-from-civilised imperial enterprise, more so its golem-like hunger to invade foreign lands. Following the delay of their supply ship and amid depleting provisions, they agree to an immoral deal of trading local men for ivory. Later, one of them is shot dead by the other over a petty argument, and the slayer hangs himself in shame just as the supply steamer arrives.

This is uncannily similar albeit in a different context, to what happens to the two hedonistic and hypocritical landlord friends in Munshi Premchand’s iconic short story “Shatranj ke Khiladi” (The Chess Players), who are more than happy to shun family chores, marital duties, cheating wives, social pressures, and marching troops to reel in the hypnotic spell of chess. Fearing mandatory participation in the war against the Company in the light of the growing adversity, they flee to the outskirts and simulate their relaxed surroundings only to drown back in the game of chess. A trivial dispute in the game soon takes the shape of a war and all of a sudden, family honour is found at stake. Accusing each other of swindling, fraud, borrowed royalty and inferior roots, both lose their lives in a terminal combat, a mutual checkmate of sorts. Through the conflict of the two, Premchand highlights the irony of their beliefs - it was the false pride of individual honour, not the larger cause of their state that was found worthy of sacrifice.

A couple of lines from “An Outpost of Progress” have stayed with me, both for the style of the prose and the profundity it is lush with:

“Few men realize that their life, the very essence of their character, their capabilities and their audacities, are only the expression of their belief in the safety of their surroundings.”

“To the sentiment of being alone of one’s kind, to the clear perception of the loneliness of one’s thoughts, of one’s sensations—to the negation of the habitual, which is safe, there is added the affirmation of the unusual, which is dangerous; a suggestion of things vague, uncontrollable, and repulsive, whose discomposing intrusion excites the imagination and tries the civilized nerves of the foolish and the wise alike.”

The more you read and reflect on them, the more timeless they become—and so do the story and its author.

An Ode to Panini

 

 For many Indians, if not most, the noun Panini (plural in Italian, singular in English) is only an  yummy grilled sandwich stuffed with mozzarella, prosciutto, and pesto, not a certain revered scholar who conceived and created the grammar which forms the soul of Sanskrit and guides sincere seekers across disciplines to this day. For them, even the noticeable difference in pronunciation is hardly a cue, for what they see is what they fetch over-the-counter in inviting eateries across US, Europe, and Asia (not what they will never read; neither online on their laptops, nor off-line in the dusty corners of termite-infested libraries)

Ironically, I have met a handful of Italians who fondly associate the noun with the great grammarian who dexterously mapped the astounding territory of the human tongue, taking inspiration from founding scholars like Āpiśali, Kāśyapa, Gārgya, Gālava, Cākravarmaṇa, Bhāradvāja, Śākaṭāyana, Śākalya, Senaka, and Sphoṭāyana.

At home, amid the politically motivated religious jingoism, most of Panini’s life work does not get the recognition it deserves, including his eight chapter-long ‘Turing Machine’ magnum opus Ashtadhyayi with 4000 intricate and interconnected sutras.

Save for the discussion in stringently fortified scholarly and academic circles, Panini remains virtually unknown to most modern-day inhabitants of India, except if or when they

come across the glowing tributes of yesteryear scholars like the great Stanford linguist and Chomksy’s partner Paul Kiparsky,

or casually sift through Vikram Chandra’s Geek Sublime (probably mistaking him for Vikram Seth of ‘A Suitable Boy’ fame),

or learn in the course of their entrepreneurial and employment careers (from Western experts) why and how Panini can help AI move from convenient approximations towards reliable frameworks in addressing the sticky challenges of natural language processing, computational efficiency, logical reasoning, pattern recognition, exception-handling and a lot more.

This is a bigger tragedy than the scarceness of Panini's ‘part history part legend’  life story, including his sudden death while working on the last sutra of Ashtadhyayi, when he fell prey to a lion in the forest wilderness.

PS: I find Panini sandwiches irresistible, and I found ‘A Suitable Boy’ an engaging read.

of man in beast, of beasts in men

I am overjoyed to know that this 1980 David Lynch masterpiece, which followed his 1977 surrealist body horror debut 'Eraserhead', will be screened and studied at the Boston-based Coolidge Corner Theatre on Jan 12, 2025.

Here's the link to the event: https://coolidge.org/films/elephant-man

Lynch’s gradual unfolding of the protagonist’s plight with minimal cinematic action and sound akin to sensitive brush strokes was a great ode to the real life tragedy of the Leicester-born Joseph Carey Merrick, born with severe physical deformities, and who endured the pain and pathos of being a freakshow exhibit named Elephant Man, before relocating to a London Hospital, courtesy of surgeon and appendicitis pioneer Sir Frederick Treves who found in Merrick a kindred soul with artistic flair (creating intricate models of architectural buildings and chaste recitation of hymns) as also perhaps a prized specimen for medical research and pathological exhibition.

Hats off to both John Hurt and Anthony Hopkins for their memorable portrayals as Merrick and Treves respectively. Hurt is a timeless case study in how not to let heavy prosthetics come in the way of a sensitive-ahead-of-superlative performance. And for those who know Hopkins only as the brutally ‘hannibalised’ and ‘lamb-silenced’ Hollywood specimen, and are even oblivious of his soulful products like “The Father” or “The Remains of the day” this film is a five-course treat. The support cast is at its stellar best featuring the likes of Anne Bancroft, John Gielgud, and Wendy Hiller.

Having said that, the film largely relies on the memoirs of Treves and does not account for the chronicles of Tom Norman, Merrick's London manager, whose contrary tale claimed Merrick was quite happy with the freak shows.

The truth, if there’s anything that can come close to it, probably lies somewhere in the middle, for it is clear and evident that Merrick’s exhibition was common to both stations – as much to the hospital as to the freakshow.

Wonder whether the lopsided reference is also the culprit for the dilution of the subject matter which is evident in the not-so-convincing frames of Merrick’s exploitation at the hospital premises, as also his kidnapping by his former master, or was it simply a directorial flaw?

Paritosh Raikar make the most of this terrific opportunity of listening to the eminent Boston University Professor, the 'Novel after film' fame Jonathan Foltz.

Coolidge Corner Theatre Foundation

There will be blood, but none like DDL's

In Hollywood, as also all other woods and their OTT extensions, we have scores of decent actors who love being called institutions the moment they sense even a semblance of stardom coming their way. There are exceptions, but they only prove the rule.

Thanks to the razzle-dazzle, most gallery-attuned players lose their poise and purpose, almost to a point of no return. These infected souls will do well to grasp the essence of scores of powerful Danny Day-Lewis quotes even before they turn to study his performances in films like My Left Foot, There will be Blood, Lincoln, Phantom Thread, The Last of the Mohicans, The Age of Innocence, and the latest Anemone among others.

Sad that DDL's theatre stint ended abruptly ever since he left stage mid-performance playing Hamlet at the National Theatre, but no worries, DDL's cinematic masterclass has enough nutrients to teach our high and mighty stars of every screen about how to rise above anything and everything including a flawed script to render performances that are several storeys above what many of our everyday actors would happily flaunt as 'true to life'

but yes, beginning the learning voyage with a few quotes is absolutely imperative. Here goes:

“I follow my curiosity and it takes me into all kinds of strange places.”

"I suppose I have a highly developed capacity for self-delusion, so it's no problem for me to believe I'm somebody else." 

"The thing about performance, even if it’s only an illusion, is that it is a celebration of the fact that we do contain within ourselves infinite possibilities." 

"Life comes first. What I see in the characters, I first try to see in life…" 

“It’s essential to continually question the rightness of what one is doing in life, and the place one occupies within it.”

If our 'perfectionists' of both genders succeed in grasping what DDL has to say, they will wilfully land on the ground with a loud thud and stop giving crappy gyan in Low IQ roundtables hosted by no IQ hosts.

Instead, they will attempt to relearn the art and science of their profession in the hope to be reborn as better actors in a new innings.

Padmakar Ranjit: everyday chronicler in a league of his own

 

I was always positively intrigued by the Pathare Prabhu community of Mumbai, the early settlers of what was way back then called the Mahim Island. The descent of this remarkable clan is linked to the Nepal monarch and Suryavanshi King Ashwapati, and his descendants reportedly came to Mumbai via prior relocations to Bihar and Gujarat. Their language, culture, customs, and cuisine are a fine blend of diverse communities, and they are deservedly known as the city’s earliest mavericks, thanks to ahead-of-time reforms like women’s education and widow remarriage. What truly sets them apart, however, are visionaries among them like the revolutionary Shivkar Talpade, wet dock pioneer ‘Bhau’ Lakshman Harichandra Ajinkya, Barrister M. R. Jayakar, and freedom fighter and ardent Tilak follower Dr. M. B. Velkar. More about the last mentioned can be accessed at the link: https://www.fitforpurposecontent.com/2019/09/the-veracious-velkars-of-good-ol-mumbai.html

                 

So, I was naturally overjoyed when wedlock inadvertently brought me closer to Pathare Prabhus, my wife being a peculiar mixed breed, the offspring of a Koknastha Brahmin father and a Pathare Prabhu mother. While the marriage was celestially arranged and has provided me with a lifelong anchorage, it didn’t take me long to become completely disillusioned by the obnoxious behaviour of some of these ostensible descendants of a great lineage – given their idiotic obsession with speaking (broken) English at social gatherings, blatant favoritism and brazen prejudice towards blood relations, fake and hypocritical family and community  pride, a savagely hedonistic culture of partying like there is no tomorrow, and compulsive disorders of a few miserly beings among them (who throw marriage treats like they were a favour on the world, and make preposterous ‘you will get either this or that’  propositions while gifting on joyous occasions.) 

 

Of course, this cultural degradation is not restricted to Pathare Prabhus alone, it pervades all castes, creeds and communities. My own Brahmin tribe is well known for its hollow ideals and shallow conduct, all in the delusional belief that it is the most superior race meant to rule the world. The most retarded specimens - koknastha Brahmins in particular - can be found in the Dadar area of Mumbai and the Peths of Pune.   

Whether Brahmins or non-brahmins, the majority populace of any caste has allowed their pride to turn into vanity which in turn has wiped out the underlying ethos. This is precisely why Indians can't collectively initiate any grassroots movement and still depend on individual crusaders to bring about lasting change in the right direction.   

 

 

Coming back to my story, in the chaos and commotion caused by these repeat offenders, he invariably stood tall on the dais of his unassuming nature, simple ways, and an affable persona, keen to build Fevicol bonds with like-minded folks, irrespective of caste, creed, religion and economic status. He was my wife's maternal uncle, and thanks only to his reassuring presence, I could overlook the toxic manoeuvres and machinations of most others, who from time to time have underscored pettiness and parochialism as their defining character traits.  

 

I have fond memories of the few interactions with him, which revealed a truckload of insights into his mind and method. I have no doubt whatsoever that he would have made an excellent screenplay writer, incisive chronicler, and  decent actor, given his uncanny knack of animatedly recounting experiences and anecdotes of a bygone era, of the Mumbai of his time with its eateries and other landmarks, his formative years of schooling, his tryst with banking that began immediately after matriculation and ended with his retirement, and his passion pursuits including his foodie adventures pan Mumbai, and of course his obsession with films, theatre and music.

 

Talking of his narration skills, I can’t ever forget the picture-perfect description of his day to day schedule – how the day starts with the milkman announcing his arrival with the ear-splitting high-decibel sound of the rusty grill door at the entrance of his housing society being ruthlessly pushed to the side and how it ends with the loud hawking of the Kulfi seller. There was a P. L. Deshpande-like touch to the humorous discourse.

 

It was a royal treat learning about his fag-end tryst with learning harmonium, marked by the inimitable description of the process including an impressionistic portrayal of the teacher and his mannerisms. Every description was a film in its own right – whether the family visit to a Lonavala acquaintance in the wee hours of the morning, or a mishap en route an official stock inspection that manifested into ankylosing spondylitis.    

 

 

It was through him that I could trace many authentic non vegetarian joints of vintage Mumbai, as also know about astonishing tales like one stall owner from Fort area who became part of the city’s folklore selling butter milk with thick malai, till it was found that the so-called malai was nothing but gelatin paper.        

 

Over time, he confided in me about many tightly encrypted family secrets about how a few so-called near and dear ones caused him considerable mental anguish, and how he decided to steer clear of making any claim to family property or inheritance, choosing instead to start a new life built on hard work and magnanimity in the distant Mumbai suburb of Goregaon.

 

His demise happened in the most tragic circumstances sometime before the advent of the pandemic, close on the heels of his wife’s death from a terminal illness. We were not informed of his demise for reasons known only to those who took this mindless decision, and it was several months later that we came to know he was no longer in our midst.

 

Fate has its own cruel ways to prevent kindred souls from spending quality time with each other, but it can’t take away the inexplicable charm of remembrances that stay with you all your life, nor can it take away the human ability and agility to summon the good times with good people at will; you can make them reappear in your mind’s eye more than even before, even when they are no more.  

Padmakar Moreshwar Ranjit, you are sorely missed but more importantly, you are alive and kicking in our hearts and minds. 

 

PS – I shall be forever indebted to Padmakar Ranjit’s niece Bharti Desai for sharing his vintage snaps at short notice; she is yet another good soul like him, so is her son Vaibhav Vilas Desai, the most deserving inheritor of a founding legacy of goodness. May it continue unimpeded for generations to come. Amen!

Metaphysics of music unleashed for posterity

To this day, a great many artists present his renditions across different platforms and forums, trying to reproduce the same hold over a mystifying genre, which is a fine blend of Arabic, Persian and Urdu verse.

However, we trust the orginal and nothing but the original - the one and only Sheheshah-e-ghazal to convey the intended meaning in his husky and resonant voice, exactly as the shayar constructed it piece by piece: all the way from the Matla to the Maqta, while cherishing the sonic identity through the immutable Radeef and the variable Kafiya.

Born in Luna, Rajasthan to a musical family of Darbari Ustads who were also into wrestling, Mehdi Hassan saab delivered his first public performance at the tender age of 8 before the Maharaja of Baroda. He never looked back ever since and took his vocalism to new highs across diverse forms, whether Dhrupad, Khayal, Thumri or Dadra. Thanks to his selfless contribution, the ghazal form enjoys a Pole Star position of pride today, which cherishes the legacy of all-time greats like Begum Akhtar through purposeful improvization.

Post partition, Mehdi saab’s family relocated to Pakistan where he ran errands at a bicycle shop before becoming a competent auto-mechanic, as well versed with engine makes as he was with raga types. Never abandoning his riyaz, he kept exploring opportunities and the Radio Pakistan stint as a thumri singer was the perfect foundation that unleashed his lifelong passion as a world-renowned Ghazal exponent.

His renditions are not just about the gayaki and raagdaari, there’s something deeper about his singing that makes the discerning music lover wilfully and gainfully introspective. After identifying the most appropriate raga for the ghazal’s defining mood, he innovates on it with astounding dexterity, impeccable pronunciation and enunciation, and prudent phrasing, and all this without disturbing the raga’s integrity. He entertains the audience and leaves them mesmerised but there’s no playing to the gallery.

Think of Mehdi saab, and you yearn to lose yourself again and again in the hypnotic spells of Ranjish Hi Sahi, Gulon Mein Rang Bhare, Ab Ke Hum Bichhre, Baat Karni Mujhe Mushkil, Woh Zara Si Baat Par, Zindagi Mein To Sabhi, Mohabbat Karne Wale, Ku-Ba-Ku Phail Gayi, Shola Tha Jal Bujha Hoon…the list is endless.

Here I recount one of his lesser known but highly incisive ghazals 'Kaise Kaise log', a masterpiece penned by Munir Niazi saab. Each couplet is true to life – both in terms of the lyrics and the composition. Ask those who intuitively sense the hollowness of social interactions, and they will profusely agree:

कैसे-कैसे लोग हमारे जी को जलाने आ जाते हैं, अपने-अपने ग़म के फ़साने हमें सुनाने आ जाते हैं।

मेरे लिए ये ग़ैर हैं और मैं इनके लिए बेगाना हूँ फिर भी एक रस्म-ए-जहाँ है जिसे निभाने आ जाते हैं।

इनसे अलग मैं रह नहीं सकता इस बेदर्द ज़माने में मेरी ये मजबूरी मुझको याद दिलाने आ जाते हैं।

सबकी सुनकर चुप रहते हैं, दिल की बात नहीं कहते आते-आते जीने के भी लाख बहाने आ जाते हैं।

I am not attaching Mehdi saab’s elaborate version given the poor quality of the Youtube tracks; here’s the compositionally-truncated film song version which has enough nutrients to organically lead the true music lover to the full-blown rendition.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2kJmdw3S04U