..."I got my call."
Was it the magi-noodles or the raw apricots that I had pigged on? I really couldn’t care less to investigate. I knew I had to answer my call. My churning bowels would not negotiate with me. My brains, being oxygen-depleted already, had no will to fight back. I had to answer!
I asked my friends to go ahead as privacy is ever at a high premium on these barren slopes. As they accommodatingly vanished from my sight, solitude set in for me to make my move. I had to improvise a balance for my lumbering body on a near vertical rock face. The winds were still determined to dislodge me. I could hug the mountain and let the wind face the problem. Or, I could face the wind and dig in my fingers like pitons into the rock-face. I chose the second. Till this point, it was all an idea and now I have to execute the plan. The wind was relentless. The rush of cold air was intimidating. With a deep breath and focused concentration, I slowly moved in to strike a pose, carefully placing my feet on the surest footing. I didn’t want to tempt a free fall or an embarrassing slide on my back. A contortionist would marvel at how my muscles locked in to keep a steady position. Just when you think you have everything in order, Murphy slams you with one of his laws. The purification rites that would inevitably follow struck me before I could answer my call. The mountains around here could not be more barren especially when you are desperate. Where was the shrub that comes as a last resort? Even a stinging nettle wouldnt hurt but then again, this was above the tree line. We had just a bottle of water and I reckoned we would need it at the summit before our descent. Leaves were out of the equation. So was water. I had already started eyeing the pebbles with their raspy edges that were strewn around when ‘aha.’ Never one to carry a handkerchief, I found one in my pocket. Minor problems though; this was a gift with my initials woven on to it. How could I desecrate someone’s remembrance? Improvisation being the need of the hour, I ripped the monogrammed half putting it back into pocket hoping my benefactor would not take it personally. I did not have time to gauge the odds.
Like the Matrix-ian Trinity poised in suspended animation, I was splayed across the mountain face. I had firmly moved into position. My purification rite was in place. I was ready to answer my call.
There I was, perched on an unknown mountain somewhere in interior Ladakh, wind beating up my you-know-what, my muscles locked in without which I’d be free-falling. Though not to belittle the sacrosanct inclinations generally associated with a ‘call’, I see a Moses ascending Mt. Sinai or an Abraham heading out to Moriah, out there on that precarious ledge I was whistling a tune, oblivious to the strained muscles but acutely cognizant of the fine line between relief and a free-fall. I had answered my call.
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
Thursday, November 22, 2007
THE CALL: Part One
Driving through the Zanskar Valley in Ladakh, one cannot but be overwhelmed by the imposing range of mountains that dwarf your puny Sumo jeep as it winds its way through the circuitous rock-hewn dust tracks. Our journey to Padum would have to be halved at Panikhar because, well, we had the time and luxury to lap up the breath-taking scenes that unraveled as we progressed. The first leg from Kargil to Panikhar was shorter than we expected and by noon, we were able to check into a decrepit tourist lodge that, for obvious reasons, didn’t seem to be listed on any tourist catalogue. The rather scruffy attendant was at his solicitous best even as he washed his rather grimy hands. Our request for food was promptly met with bowls of steaming maggi-noodles garnished with strands of frond-like green. It being a welcome filler, none of us even dared to ask why the noodles had turned deep saffron. The overall effect of the food was patriotically Indian!
As we were gorging on the entrée along the apple tree-strewn banks of the Suru river, we were suddenly aware of the twin peaks of the Nun and the Kun rising, phoenix-esque, before us. The fabled ‘lure of the mountains’ struck but there was no way we’d ever be able to summit it, we reckoned. What, with no gear, training, conditioning or the vital acclimatisation? Come to think of it, we had to humbly accede that we were just a bunch of fanciful and amateur tourists on a passive drive to Padum that would ask no more than patience as we jarred along the unpaved track. So much for the one shot at etching our names in the mountaineering hall of fame. “Wait, what about this hillock across the river...piece of cake, right?” The fabled ‘lure of the mountains’ refused to shoo off! Only later would we find out that the ‘lure’ came with strings attached. For starters, mountains look closer and easier to climb from a distance. Before we could untangle the ‘strings’, we were already at the base of the mountain unaware of the arduous trek that lay ahead. We were high in spirit but low on gear. One bottle of water for three people cannot but be a sign of ineptitude and foreboding disaster.
Our climb started off rather effortlessly. An occasional sheep would pass by staring at us as if to ask what we were up to without the conventional shepherd’s crook! A spring gurgled out a limpid flow of water with a mossy turf growing along the edges of its stream. Our pace soon became irregular with every step needing more effort. The mountain now, at over twelve thousand feet, was downright bare. The surface was pebbled and every step had to be carefully measured to secure a footing. Living organisms of any genus would have a snowball’s chance in hell of surviving on the rocky and windblown surface. The near vertical cliff-faces seemed to pull one in for a kiss as if to rub in the ‘strings’ we should have accounted for before we ever thought of climbing. Every step had to be preceded by huge gasps of breath in order to catch every wisp of oxygen in the rarefied air. To make matters worse, the post-noon anabatic winds were determined to dislodge our already precarious footing. This was no place for an acrophobic. “Hey mountain, give us a break,” I thought with fists gesticulating in the air when...I got my call!
...to be continued.
As we were gorging on the entrée along the apple tree-strewn banks of the Suru river, we were suddenly aware of the twin peaks of the Nun and the Kun rising, phoenix-esque, before us. The fabled ‘lure of the mountains’ struck but there was no way we’d ever be able to summit it, we reckoned. What, with no gear, training, conditioning or the vital acclimatisation? Come to think of it, we had to humbly accede that we were just a bunch of fanciful and amateur tourists on a passive drive to Padum that would ask no more than patience as we jarred along the unpaved track. So much for the one shot at etching our names in the mountaineering hall of fame. “Wait, what about this hillock across the river...piece of cake, right?” The fabled ‘lure of the mountains’ refused to shoo off! Only later would we find out that the ‘lure’ came with strings attached. For starters, mountains look closer and easier to climb from a distance. Before we could untangle the ‘strings’, we were already at the base of the mountain unaware of the arduous trek that lay ahead. We were high in spirit but low on gear. One bottle of water for three people cannot but be a sign of ineptitude and foreboding disaster.
Our climb started off rather effortlessly. An occasional sheep would pass by staring at us as if to ask what we were up to without the conventional shepherd’s crook! A spring gurgled out a limpid flow of water with a mossy turf growing along the edges of its stream. Our pace soon became irregular with every step needing more effort. The mountain now, at over twelve thousand feet, was downright bare. The surface was pebbled and every step had to be carefully measured to secure a footing. Living organisms of any genus would have a snowball’s chance in hell of surviving on the rocky and windblown surface. The near vertical cliff-faces seemed to pull one in for a kiss as if to rub in the ‘strings’ we should have accounted for before we ever thought of climbing. Every step had to be preceded by huge gasps of breath in order to catch every wisp of oxygen in the rarefied air. To make matters worse, the post-noon anabatic winds were determined to dislodge our already precarious footing. This was no place for an acrophobic. “Hey mountain, give us a break,” I thought with fists gesticulating in the air when...I got my call!
...to be continued.
Monday, October 29, 2007
Unwritten Scriptures
The tendency to reify the twin concepts of ‘scriptures’ and ‘race’ over-simplifies the freighted history of how both concepts are invoked as human collectives configure themselves. Substantiating the concepts with concretized objects makes for a convenient reference but, in the process, blurring the dynamics at play in the concretizing processes. For instance, to objectify ‘scripture’ as a the sacred written text of a particular faith community does make for a helpful reference point but on probing further, one is lead to the question of how the text is accepted in its decisive and normative capacity. The idea of ‘race’ again makes ‘sense’ when one refers to color or geopolitical location and yet, to collapse ‘race’ into such ‘visible’ difference is to ignore how such perceived differences were constructed through complex social and political dynamics into hierarchical positions so that ‘race’ becomes a power signifier for superiority and also inferiority. Put the two concepts together and one finds oneself faced with a whole new set of questions. How does one capture the perceived differences and make sense of it with the available knowledge bank of a particular epoch so that the differences can fit in within the known limits of the known world? With knowledge more expansive than ever before, how do scriptures inform and shape our 'others' or what new scriptures do we forge to make sense of the differences that so often overwhelm us?
While on the topic of scriptures, I came across a post that reported on a certain Mizo clergyman's writings going to be the focus of the adult sunday school for the coming year. For those not in the know, he died recently under rather dubious circumstances and thereby upping the ante on how Mizos in particular come to terms with it. (http://misual.com/2007/10/27/nakumah-revchanchinmawia-ziak-zir-dawn/#more-3554) With the posthumous valorization of his writings, one may speculate his person itself being scripturalized as an exemplar for how things should and could be. And yet beneath the smoothened projections of the church, the scripturalizing process flattens a whole lot of issues and questions that unsettle many but are left unsaid because they, the issues and questions, will have been 'canonized' in our collective memory, or literally 'cannonized.'
While on the topic of scriptures, I came across a post that reported on a certain Mizo clergyman's writings going to be the focus of the adult sunday school for the coming year. For those not in the know, he died recently under rather dubious circumstances and thereby upping the ante on how Mizos in particular come to terms with it. (http://misual.com/2007/10/27/nakumah-revchanchinmawia-ziak-zir-dawn/#more-3554) With the posthumous valorization of his writings, one may speculate his person itself being scripturalized as an exemplar for how things should and could be. And yet beneath the smoothened projections of the church, the scripturalizing process flattens a whole lot of issues and questions that unsettle many but are left unsaid because they, the issues and questions, will have been 'canonized' in our collective memory, or literally 'cannonized.'
Friday, October 12, 2007
Chuck This...India!
A friend recently suggested I watch "ChakDe India" . The idea was tempting because we had a Mary Ralte and a Molly Zimik (Tangkhul Naga, i think) on the cast and I was curious to see how they'd be scripted alongside Shah Rukh Khan. This also would probably be the first time a Mizo has been a sustained part of the script in a Bollywood movie (there have been the odd Mizos popping up on screen).
Here's the plot: X misses a crucial penalty stroke-labelled a traitor-'exiled'-comes back to coach the women's team-teaches them a few lessons in life along the way-win the championship-restored. This was how I replied to my friend:
"First, it was a pirated screen print so the viewing wasnt a great experience. Then again, the movie just failed to capture my imagination, too many holes in the plot and as many have already noticed, too many simplistic reductions riddling the screenplay. I had read some previews and so was relishing the possibility of something commendably different. A bollywood production without song and dance sequences, a non-glamorous topos, no item-number (what!!), a cast with the majority being first-timers; elements that seemed to infuse freshness. And yet all these novel potentials got subscripted under a glamorized male narrative. The uneasy dynamics of a multi-regional team getting to live and play together is always underscored by the 'disgraced' coach's attempt to see his present in light of his past failure. That his penalty was for missing a crucial penalty stroke etches the performative angst only to be rectified decades later and vicariously by his team. Hence, even the fantastic euphoria of a championship victory is eventually a subscript of the male coach's road to redemption while his team members are back to the harsh mundanity of haggling with an autorickshaw driver. This grand narrative seems to be unable to function without the metonymic assistance of trite reductions: the Pakistani other (how else does one rouse patriotism in the subcontinent?), the easy 'chinky', the silently compliant to-be-bahu, the incomprehensibility/barbaricity of the 'tribal',--all which serve to etch out the indispensable brilliance of the coach.
I thought the text could be done without Mary, Molly and the 'others' serving as mere props...who though not running around trees were just running around on astro-turf at the command of the coach's whistle. The most problematic scene however would be when they go for lunch to McDonalds (really, which sports team goes to gorge on junk...or was it a MacDonalds, im a little confused) and again, my NE sisters are singled out for harrasment. The team gets together to thrash the eve-teasers while the coach smiles with an epiphanic nod. The women have spoken through their collaborative thrashing and yet as the scene fades, one wonders if they were heard? Like all the subscripts in the movie, one really wonders how subjectivities are contructed to perpetuate a marginalisation that eerily over time becomes 'acceptable'...Bollywood being one such pervasive media. Mary gets no lines, Molly has three forgetable ones but both immediately, and for no fault of theirs, feed the repressed fetish for gori/fair-chinky flesh!! Het Saaalaa! Sorry.
As you see, i doubt whether my views are going to be helpful for a write up cause they are so partisan. Cinematically, it just pushed my patience and then the subscripts were rather apalling. "
Postscript: Nehru's vision of 'unity in diversity,' that has become a free-for-all site, will be flattened by such reductionist projects like ChakDe India. U-i-D as a process serves us better than U-i-D as an event because differences will perpetuate and should. As a process, U-i-D would serve better in setting up negotiations across the diversity while being open to shifts as differences are nuanced and mulitplied. Sadly, Shah Rukh's moment of victory and redemption set us back a few steps; and maybe one needs to emphasize that at the completion of a game or in packaging a bollywood productions, "winning isn't everything" because the winners seemingly always need the losers. http://www.yashrajfilms.com/microsites/cdi/cdi.html
Here's the plot: X misses a crucial penalty stroke-labelled a traitor-'exiled'-comes back to coach the women's team-teaches them a few lessons in life along the way-win the championship-restored. This was how I replied to my friend:
"First, it was a pirated screen print so the viewing wasnt a great experience. Then again, the movie just failed to capture my imagination, too many holes in the plot and as many have already noticed, too many simplistic reductions riddling the screenplay. I had read some previews and so was relishing the possibility of something commendably different. A bollywood production without song and dance sequences, a non-glamorous topos, no item-number (what!!), a cast with the majority being first-timers; elements that seemed to infuse freshness. And yet all these novel potentials got subscripted under a glamorized male narrative. The uneasy dynamics of a multi-regional team getting to live and play together is always underscored by the 'disgraced' coach's attempt to see his present in light of his past failure. That his penalty was for missing a crucial penalty stroke etches the performative angst only to be rectified decades later and vicariously by his team. Hence, even the fantastic euphoria of a championship victory is eventually a subscript of the male coach's road to redemption while his team members are back to the harsh mundanity of haggling with an autorickshaw driver. This grand narrative seems to be unable to function without the metonymic assistance of trite reductions: the Pakistani other (how else does one rouse patriotism in the subcontinent?), the easy 'chinky', the silently compliant to-be-bahu, the incomprehensibility/barbaricity of the 'tribal',--all which serve to etch out the indispensable brilliance of the coach.
I thought the text could be done without Mary, Molly and the 'others' serving as mere props...who though not running around trees were just running around on astro-turf at the command of the coach's whistle. The most problematic scene however would be when they go for lunch to McDonalds (really, which sports team goes to gorge on junk...or was it a MacDonalds, im a little confused) and again, my NE sisters are singled out for harrasment. The team gets together to thrash the eve-teasers while the coach smiles with an epiphanic nod. The women have spoken through their collaborative thrashing and yet as the scene fades, one wonders if they were heard? Like all the subscripts in the movie, one really wonders how subjectivities are contructed to perpetuate a marginalisation that eerily over time becomes 'acceptable'...Bollywood being one such pervasive media. Mary gets no lines, Molly has three forgetable ones but both immediately, and for no fault of theirs, feed the repressed fetish for gori/fair-chinky flesh!! Het Saaalaa! Sorry.
As you see, i doubt whether my views are going to be helpful for a write up cause they are so partisan. Cinematically, it just pushed my patience and then the subscripts were rather apalling. "
Postscript: Nehru's vision of 'unity in diversity,' that has become a free-for-all site, will be flattened by such reductionist projects like ChakDe India. U-i-D as a process serves us better than U-i-D as an event because differences will perpetuate and should. As a process, U-i-D would serve better in setting up negotiations across the diversity while being open to shifts as differences are nuanced and mulitplied. Sadly, Shah Rukh's moment of victory and redemption set us back a few steps; and maybe one needs to emphasize that at the completion of a game or in packaging a bollywood productions, "winning isn't everything" because the winners seemingly always need the losers. http://www.yashrajfilms.com/microsites/cdi/cdi.html
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)