WAKING UP

WAKING UP

“What happened?” I asked, waking up to the gentle nudge of an elbow of my colleague.

“Nothing, the speech is over. You may now rise and shine.” He said.

For the past one and a half hours I was in Neverland and an observer would have decided I was in a comatose condition. That’s what happens whenever the bosses speak and especially if he is the one right there at the top. When we came out of the conference hall I asked my colleague once again “What happened?”

“Forget it, you didn’t miss much.” He replied.

I remember going into the hall and taking my seat only to get up soon after when the Boss entered and then sitting down again. The next thing I was aware of was that nudge. What transpired in between is not even in my memory. I never went to sleep and that’s the truth.

Frankly there have been many such occasions when I did not need a knock on my head to become comatose. . I still remember the various times when I had fallen into induced comatose condition especially when I was studying. These occurrences were mainly during the afternoon sessions, after a hefty lunch attending the ‘Magnetic Fields’ class. As the professor waved his hands in a bid to illustrate how the magnetic lines of force flowed from one pole to the other, I would feel them pass through my head on their way . As the intensity increased I would slowly be pushed into an abyss. Then all would be dark. Once again it was that gentle nudge from the person sitting next to me that would indicate the class had ended. I would wake up to a deafening silence around me and as I stared at the blackboard filled with what resembled hieroglyphics, a strange feeling of having travelled through a time warp and landing in the midst of an ancient Egyptian civilisation would envelop me. I would turn towards my friend and ask him ‘What happened?”

“Nothing” he would say and grin “The class is over and you may now prepare for the next period. Don’t worry the professor was too involved in his magnetic fields to notice you. But I should say that you do have a wonderful knack of appearing awake and paying attention to what is happening in class and I guess those specs of yours are a big help.” I have never been able to recollect what happened during those classes and my subsequent performances in that subject will bear testimony. It was when I opened my note book to study for the exams that I would be confronted by those blank pages.

Sometime ago I saw a very interesting Tamil film ‘Naduvula Konjam Pakkatha Kaanom’. Translated in English it means ‘A few pages are missing in the middle’. It is a comedy about a man who gets injured in his head while playing cricket with his friends just two days before his wedding. Though outwardly no injury is evident and he gets back on his feet after the fall, his friends realize that though he remembers events just before the fall, like his bid to catch the ball, he is unable to recollect anything that happened during the one year preceding the accident. As a result he does not recognize his girl- friend of the last one year and the fact that he is to be married to her. The events leading to his marriage in the end and the efforts of his friend to ensure that the others do not come to know of his condition is just hilarious. Every time they try to make him recover his lost memory, he only narrates his bid to catch the ball and falling down and ending up asking ‘What happened?’ This is repeated so many times during the movie that you also find yourself asking ‘What happened?’ after the movie ends.

I have tried to understand how this happens and did refer to a few books especially Dr. V.S. Ramachandran’s ‘The Tell-Tale Brain’, a masterpiece like his earlier work ‘Phantoms in the Brain’ on neuroscience. But I should admit that midway through such scholarly works I once again lapse into those Neverlands. Ramachandran says while talking about amnesia (that’s what we are interested in right now) -

“Almost everyone has heard of amnesia following head trauma: The patient has difficulty recollecting specific incidents that took place during the weeks or months preceding the injury, even though he is smart, recognizes people and is able to acquire new episodic memories. This syndrome –retrograde amnesia – is quite common, seen as often in real life as in Hollwood.”

Well that’s what I was looking for – whether Hollywood or Kollywood this is a favourite – amnesia. There is so much more in the book and so much more to the head that if we try to delve into the mysteries of our lost memories we are sure to become comatose. I have tried to understand it my own way.

Leaving aside the trauma part of it due to a head injury most of us suffer memory loss as we grow older. This is attributed to the progressive death of those little grey cells we keep hearing about but have not seen –

“So what’s happened to him? He keeps forgetting things.”

“Poor guy, he is suffering from Alzhemiers.”

I don’t mind if they are referring to me. It suits me fine. For me now there are only two states – absent mindedness and selective memory loss. Let me clarify - my slippages are always pardoned, for I suffer from this syndrome ‘Poor man!’ they would say. While I have the last laugh for I choose what to remember and what not to.

But I should accept that I do suffer from short term memory loss distinct from the other two I mentioned above.

There have been occurrences of recent origin that would evoke snide remarks from those around me, that I am growing old. On quite a few occasions I have searched for my mobile in the pouch on my belt and panicked without realising that I was actually talking on the phone or say the time when I ended up searching for my spectacles while wearing them.

Putting aside all that light hearted banter this loss of memory due to an injury to the head or due to a sickness like encephalitis etc is a serious condition. I read an article ‘Waking up from the big sleep’ by Shobita Dhar  in the TOI few days ago. Of course this was on the heels of the news that Michael Schumacher has woken up from an induced coma but that it’s going to be a long and painful road to recovery. The article talks of those coma patients who are slowly rebuilding their lives. Waking up is never like they show in the movies. There is no miraculous recovery. Recovery is a long process and is also dependent on the extent of brain damage. In the most severe form of injury to the head patients rarely come out of coma. The article highlights the fact that though advances in critical care have resulted in better chances of recovery from coma the steep cost of such treatment keeps it restricted to a few.

That brings me to the question – where do memories go when they are lost? If it is because the brain is damaged they are lost, they ought to be somewhere or are they wiped out completely? Such an inane question you may say, but doesn’t it bother you also?

Talking of brain damage reminds me of one of my favourite Pink Floyd compositions ‘Brain Damage’ from the album ‘The Dark Side of the Moon’ a theme based on mental disorder -

The lunatic is on the grass.

The lunatic is on the grass.

Remembering games and daisy chains and laughs.

Got to keep the loonies on the path.

The lunatic is in the hall.

The lunatics are in my hall.

The paper holds their folded faces to the floor

And every day the paper boy brings more.

And if the dam breaks open many years too soon

And if there is no room upon the hill

And if your head explodes with dark forebodings too

I'll see you on the dark side of the moon.

The lunatic is in my head.

The lunatic is in my head

You raise the blade, you make the change

You re-arrange me 'til I'm sane.

You lock the door

And throw away the key

There's someone in my head but it's not me.

And if the cloud bursts, thunder in your ear

You shout and no one seems to hear.

And if the band you're in starts playing different tunes

I'll see you on the dark side of the moon.

THE ABSTRACT THING

“How do you like it?” J asked me.

“It’s beautiful. I like it. Whose painting is it?” I asked.

It was a photo print of an abstract painting. I have always liked abstracts. They are colourful and at the same time you could never find the form, something like KV’s briefs always colourful but out of shape. Don’t ask me how I know about those briefs, you can never miss them as you stand on your balcony and look at the clothes line down below. Another great thing about abstracts is that you need never go into details and your interpretation remains yours only whatever other people say. You can never be wrong or can never be right and that’s where the beauty of the entire abstract thing lies. I remember the time when I had hung the painting of a famous artist in my living room, an abstract painting and very colourful. Any visitor to my house would stand in front of it, gaze at it for some time and then nod their head in appreciation saying that it was very beautiful and I would look on with pride at my possession till one day my daughter came visiting and the first thing she said was “By God! Papa you have hung that painting upside down.”

For a moment I looked at her and then at the painting. I gathered my wits around and not wanting to sound like an ignoramus told her “But that’s how everyone likes it.”

She didn’t let me go off with that excuse for she continued “Ok, why don’t you turn it around and place it the correct way? Let’s see what they say now.” As luck would have it, just when I had finished turning it around one of my friends landed. He took one look at the painting and then said “Hey where is the other painting? I can see you got another one there now. Frankly I liked the earlier one better. Where is it? Did you sell it off? You should have told me earlier I would have bought it.” I just gave him a sheepish grin and turned towards my daughter with a ‘I told you so’ look. She just nodded her head in exasperation and went to the next room.

Well coming back to J and his abstract, he avoided replying to my question as to who the artist was. He just said “If you like it, get it framed and just hang it in your living room.”

That’s dangerous I thought, so I asked him “But at least tell me which side is up.”

J looked at me with a look that seemed to say ‘why did I have to give it to this guy’ but then he said “Just hang it whichever way it suits you, it will still look good. You can change it every fortnight so that it does not become monotonous.” With that he even promised to let me know who the artist was after making sure that the painting had found a place in my living room.

So I did. The first friend who walked in asked me whether it was a Klee’s painting and when I asked him as to what made him say that, he replied “I just guessed for that is the only name I know when it comes to abstract painting.” I said that I was not sure but it is a present from a friend. Well the next guy who came in gazed at it for some time and said “I know it. It is by Gsski.”

For a moment I kept quiet for it did sound familiar at least the first three letters. Then it dawned on me “You don’t mean to say you think that this is my painting?”

“Oh! Of course dear chap, who else can churn out something like that!” he replied.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Come on, don’t be upset. It’s so colourful and I can’t understand it, just like I can never understand a word of what you write in your blog.”

A few days later KV landed up at my house. I am always scared of this guy for you can never anticipate what he would rattle away and especially after what I have been saying about his colourful and out of shape briefs. But whatever he would say will never be brief. As he settled down on the sofa and his gaze went to the painting on the wall, he perked up and I could see the glitter in his eyes. I knew then it was coming and prepared myself for the torrent that flow, with anticipation.

He gave me a look and a smile which suggested that he knew it all. He said “I know this is by Yana Ndgovinni who did this painting in an Italian village Milazzo in Sicily in 13 days in November 1985. You know he did this painting for reasons other than artistic and was later hauled up for sexual harassment by the model, a young and good looking woman who posed for this painting. Yana in his defence said that he was painting her soul and he asked her to disrobe only to see the soul more clearly.”

He sounded so convincing that for a moment I did not know whether to believe what he said or that he was just pulling my legs, which of course was his favourite pastime. I realised that the latter was true when soon after he had left I turned to my favourite friend, philosopher and guide ‘Google’ who told me that even he did not know of any such artist or such a sexual harassment case.

That was it. I rang up J and insisted that he tell me the name of the artist as I was being bugged by all these guys turning up at my house and offering their learned opinions and in the process making me look like an a------e. I could hear his chuckle on the phone and then he asked me to come over to his place “Come over to my place and we shall discuss this over a peg of single malt or any other malt that you prefer.”

And so I went and when I returned home I was an enlightened man. This is what J had to say after that second peg “Boss, have two more and you will start seeing that all things around here are abstract. My advice to you is to let things be as they are. It is always nice to be in a state of suspended animation and that’s what everyone wants. Life would be boring otherwise. Anyway I shall let you know the secret of that painting if it will ease your mind.” He paused to have another sip from his glass and then proceeded to unravel the secret hither to untold –

“It is not a painting after all. It is just a photo that I took of a pattern painted on one of the fishing boats when I had gone on a photo shoot to Kasimedu. Some poor fisherman must have painted his boat in these bright colours and with the passage of time and the effects of the elements especially the salty deposits has given the boat this look. But in case you still insist on knowing the name of the artist you can always give me the credits and say it is J. You will notice that I have written J at the far right hand corner.”

Yes I said to myself, it’s the way we look at things around us and how authentically we are able to capture those moments as they come and go that determines the artist in each one of us. The boats were there, the sea was there and the colours on the boat were there and it was left to J to capture some of those patterns through his instrument of expression- the camera. Yes J was the artist and so also was that poor fisherman who made it happen through the colours that flowed from his soul.

The next time my daughter came home and when I told her the secret of my new abstract, she said “I know your pal J is a great wildlife photographer. How did he end up capturing boats?”

Though that was a light hearted look at the abstract in art, abstraction as a movement in art was a fall out of the parallel development of the existentialist philosophy. While realism involves the transcription of the scene or character as the eyes see it avoiding any selective bias, abstraction involves the emotional response freed of any imitative intentions and that’s where it relates so closely with the primal responses of the prehistoric man or peasant art. They are indications that the artistic impulse is a natural impulse in even the least cultured of folk. We may surmise that while realism is all about the perception of the external, abstraction is the realisation of all that is internal in our psyche.

  

Any movement into abstraction is always associated with the spiritual. It was Kandinsky the Russian painter and art theorist who in 1910 published his book ‘Concerning the Spiritual in Art’. He says ‘an exploration of the deepest and most authentic motives for making art, the “internal necessity” that impels artists to create as a spiritual impulse and audiences to admire art as a spiritual hunger.’

THE DEATH OF A LAPTOP

THE DEATH OF A LAPTOP

I knew that something was wrong with him about eight months ago when suddenly in the midst of our conversation he blinked. Though this was not the first time, I was concerned, for in the past I knew it was due to a lack of energy and because he was fatigued. He used to come back to his normal self once he was plugged on and the charge started flowing through him. For a long time now he was on support system for his batteries had stopped functioning. I did not get him new ones as I found out they were costly and I couldn’t afford to buy them, but then it did not matter for he was quite comfortable being plugged on directly. It was only later that I realised that he had a major flaw. He used to start getting hot and ultimately too hot for me to handle. I found that the only way I could cool him down was to place him over a cool pad when I woke him up. Of course he was quite considerate for he always kept my coffee warm whenever I placed the cup next to him while working. It was my daughter who ultimately told me that the problem with him was in his genes (you see I never question her in such matters as she is into this biotech and genetics stuff and I have grown to rely on her for such advices from time to time). She said “Pa, he belongs to the AMD family of processors and they have a habit of getting hot very quickly. Why did you in the first place get him when there are more cool headed chaps out there?”

I told her “See he was given to me by Bank and I could take him with me when I retired and do you know he was one of the costlier and smarter ones out there and I did not want to let go of the Bank cheaply. What more, this guy had the ability to turn his head 180 degrees and I could fold him and also use him as a notebook (though of course I never did have the opportunity to work with him that way but I was always proud of showing of his abilities to others around).”

She only said “Since you do not want to let go of him I can only advice you to back him up every time you talk with him, after all you have put all your bets on him and if he decides that enough is enough and calls it a day you will be left high and dry. You see all these guys belong to an older generation and have lost their relevance now. You should seriously be in sync with the new generation.”

I kept quite thereafter for I was not sure whether she was advising me or taunting me. But I did follow what she told me and diligently followed her advice of backing up.

And then it increased the number of blinks in frequency and duration. That was not the only thing. I had also noticed that over the last two years his response time had slowed down considerably and he was finding it hard to recollect his memory. It could have been due to overload on account of my persistent conversations with him, but the doctor told me that he had viral infection. I told him “But doctor I have had him vaccinated a number of times, this should not have happened.”

He replied “You see every day a new strain of virus is causing more complications. I feel that you have exposed him to all sorts of unwanted sites from where he could have picked up the infection. If you ask me his days are numbered. You should actually look for newer and better options. The pity is that you cannot even go for an exchange as no one would want him and even if they do it will be a pittance.”

That was it but I continued with him for he had been a loyal companion all these years and was privy to all my secrets. I watched as he slowly started slipping into coma and then one day he blinked one last blink and then closed his eyes. I tried to revive him with all the methods I knew (quite a few of them had been effective on previous occasions). I wrung his neck 180 degrees and then folded him in and out trying to elicit some response, but to no avail. I knew he was dead, but I called in the doctor anyway and he repeated what he had said earlier and added nothing much can be done except that he can take his brains out and give it to me to be kept as a memory. I accepted his offer.

Now he lies buried below all my dresses in the cupboard much to the consternation of my wife who is ever annoyed with my habit of keeping all dead things with me and these include all my old cameras and watches. But I calm her down saying that who knows one day there might be a museum of all my dead possessions when I become famous and rich. She knows that I am an incorrigible optimist.

My daughter rang me up the next day and said “though in a way I am sad for you, one has to accept the reality that the old order gives way to the new. There is this latest generation Laptop that I am sending you – very sleek and fast and has a good memory and I am sure that I shall at least be able to hear and see you on Skype when next time you call.”

Yes the old order gives way to the new and that’s how it will always be. So what’s the difference between us and a laptop?

BOB DYLAN – A TRIBUTE

 

 

 

 

 

 

BOB DYLAN – A TRIBUTE

If one wants to read about Bob Dylan there are any number of biographies, his own autobiography and the ever dependable Wikipedia. So I cannot really write anything new and nor do I know anything special about him except as to how special his music was to me. It was sometime in the late sixties that I first had the chance to be exposed to his music (I prefer to call it music rather than say songs). Having entered college with an overdose of The Beatles, Elvis, Cliff Richards and the like I was thrown into the world of Santana, CCR, Pink Floyd and the rest of the gang of Hard rockers or whatever you may call them. In the midst of all this melee and pulse beating sounds three voices stood out – Simon and Garfunkel, Joan Baez and Bob Dylan. Though his music has stretched on from the early sixties through to the nineties my personal preference has been the songs he wrote and sung during the sixties.

I remember the first song that I heard was the ‘Tambourine Man’ a song where Dylan accompanied himself on the acoustic guitar and the harmonica (this was of course a trade mark in most of his compositions). We had been practicing the song for the music festival and so had to hear it a number of times again and again to get it right. The person who sung it, I remember was himself as wild looking as Bob Dylan, of course the harmonica and the guitar were played by other musicians. It ultimately came out well but the song remained with me long after. It does even today.

You see there was something about his voice which is hard to explain, but it has the capacity to keep on ringing in your years. I am quoting a piece that I have read elsewhere that would best describe his singing - “The rough edge of Dylan's singing was unsettling to some early listeners but an attraction to others. Describing the impact that Dylan had on her and her husband, Joyce Carol Oates wrote: "When we first heard this raw, very young, and seemingly untrained voice, frankly nasal, as if sandpaper could sing, the effect was dramatic and electrifying."

Bob Dylan was born Robert Zimmerman on 24^th May 1941 he subsequently changed his name to Bob Dylan. In his memoir, Dylan acknowledged that he had been influenced by the poetry of Dylan Thomas. Explaining his change of name in a 2004 interview, Dylan remarked: "You're born, you know, the wrong names, wrong parents. I mean, that happens. You call yourself what you want to call yourself. This is the land of the free.”

I have most of his songs on my ipod and listen to them on my walks. But I have my favorites – ‘Blowin in the Wind’, ‘A Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall’, ‘The Times They Are A-Changin’ and of course ‘The Tambourine Man’. Whether Civil Rights or the Vietnam war Dylan was always there and along with Joan Baez represented the voices of protest and that perhaps captured the imagination of that generation to which I belong. I felt like reproducing some of the most significant lyrics he has written, which gives an idea of the man -

Yes, how many years can some people exist

Before they're allowed to be free?

Yes, how many times can a man turn his head

Pretending he just doesn't see?

Yes, how many ears must one man have

Before he can hear people cry ?

Yes, how many deaths will it take till he knows

That too many people have died ?

The answer my friend is blowin' in the wind

The answer is blowin' in the wind.

 

Come mothers and fathers

 Throughout the land

 Don't criticize

 What you can't understand

Your sons and your daughters

 Are beyond your command

 Your old road is

 Rapidly agin'

Please get out of the new one

 If you can't lend a hand

 For your times they are a-changin'

 

I again end with a quote here which best describes Bob Dylan and what he meant to a generation.

In December 1997, U.S. President Bill Clinton presented Dylan with a Kennedy Center Honor in the East Room of the White House, paying this tribute: "He probably had more impact on people of my generation than any other creative artist. His voice and lyrics haven't always been easy on the ear, but throughout his career Bob Dylan has never aimed to please. He's disturbed the peace and discomforted the powerful” – source Wikipedia.

I am posting this on the eve of his birthday which falls on 24^th May. I never forget it for that is one thing I share with him.

 

THE WRITER’S BLOCK

THE WRITER’S BLOCK

I never knew that I was suffering from a very serious condition till I met this friend of mine during the weekend.

He looked at me for a moment and then remarked -

“You look constipated.”

“I just can’t get it out” I said.

“That’s why I said you look constipated. If you are having difficulty you should seriously consider seeing a doctor.”

“What do you mean? I only said I just can’t seem to be able to get it out. Oh s_ _t! You didn’t think it was that?”

“Yes, that’s what I meant” he replied.

I held my head with both hands and looked at him exasperation and nearly screamed at him –

“I meant that I am unable to get all that stuff out of my head. It’s been like that for the last ten days and my head feels like it’s going to burst.”

He looked at me as if in shock and then said “It seems more serious than I thought. You have to see a Neuro immediately. This could potentially be a big problem if not treated in time. Come let us go, I know a good one.”

“What? You must be joking. How do you think a Neuro can be of any help to get me out of this predicament?”

“May be he can just tighten a few screws here and there. You see you can’t have all that s_ _t up there. That’s not where it’s supposed to be, unless you have been doing those Sirsasans more than required. It was when I did not see any of it on your blog for some time now that I knew something was wrong. That’s why I decided to check in on you. I agree the condition is serious. Ok I don’t think that a Neuro is required at all, but I seriously suggest you see a psychiatrist.”

“And how do you think he will be able to help?” I asked.

“Oh don’t worry, maybe he will connect some electrodes on your head and then connect them to a computer to find out all the patterns up there. I think it is possible that he will be able to download it on to your documents file straightaway. I think that should do it and your next post on your blog will be ready.”

That guy really gets on my nerves. One does not really know when he is being serious or when he is joking. I literally ran from there, went home and rushed to the toilet.

Forget all these psychiatrists, all those Neuros, doctors etc., I have found that the best place for introspection is on the toilet seat, that is where you are left undisturbed, the seat of all inspirations.

Maybe it was the Chennai heat that caused all my inspirations to flow out through all that perspiration, added to that my laptop was in its final hours. At present it is in the intensive care unit and is not expected to recover. You see that’s why I am writing this obituary on my good old desktop. Well like I said it is good and old and I do not know how long it will keep me company. Maybe this was also a reason why I could not get all that stuff out.

I know that you may laugh about all that s_ _t that has been written here, but believe me it is a serious matter. I found out that it is known as ‘Writer’s Block’. I wondered whether one has to undergo a bypass surgery to set it right. So like everyone else I googled to find out how serious my condition was but when I went to the Wikipedia page I was overtaken by what I can only term as ‘Reader’s Block’.

So not knowing what to write about, I wrote all this s_ _ t above with an apology to my readers and a sincere thanks if they have read this to the very end. I promise to come back with a bang after all I have been busy watching ‘The Big Bang Theory’ on the television and that’s all I have been doing.

BOOK REVIEW – ‘AJAYA’ BY ANAND NEELAKANTAN Epic of the Kaurava Clan – Book 1- Roll of the Dice

‘AJAYA’ BY ANAND NEELAKANTAN - BOOK REVIEW

Epic of the Kaurava Clan – Book 1- Roll of the Dice

Anand Neelakantan in his author’s note says that-

 Ajaya is an attempt to view the Mahabharata from the side that lost the war. It is a narrative of the others- the defeated, insulted, trampled upon– who fought without expecting divine intervention believing in the justice of their cause. Duryodhana is described as a brutally honest prince, brave and self willed, willing to fight for what he believed in.

I personally feel that it would be an injustice to label this work as a retelling of the Mahabharata, not only to the author but also to the epic itself. The original epic is so much ingrained in our psyche that it still stays where it should and nothing can change that, though there have been many versions of it written down the ages, the essence has never suffered. The Mahabharata is a complete chronicle of human fallibilities. There is nothing that we see around us which is left uncovered. And ultimately it has given us the greatest message of the purpose of our human existence and the paths to achieve it – ‘The Bhagavad Gita’.

So I thought that the best way I can do justice to this book of Anand Neelakantan was to shut out making comparisons and to read it as a story that would stand on its own. I was fresh after seeing all the three seasons of the ‘Game of Thrones’ when I started reading ‘Ajaya’ and as I continued reading it I wondered why it should not be made into India’s own version of the English TV serial for it is equally engrossing. Anand Neelakantan is a great story teller and has produced a very interesting book. It is obvious that he has done extensive research and has intelligently interpreted them to write his story. He has written a story culled out of the characters in the original epic with some additions and deletions. It is therefore not a critique of the Mahabharatha though some readers may interpret it as such. Having said that, I will add I enjoyed reading the book as I had while viewing the ‘Game of Thrones’. All in all it is a good read.

Though I empathise with the author when he says that he “felt impelled to narrate the stories of the vanquished and the damned; and give life to those silent heroes who have been overlooked in our uncritical acceptance of conventional renderings of our epics” it is evident that the plot is culled out from our own historical and contemporary happenings. The author’s strong and at times scathing views on the caste system comes to the fore. One of the significant passages on page 26, where Vyasa replies to Dhaumya when asked what right does a Shudra have to quote the scriptures “Why don’t you say what you mean, young man? I am a Shudra. Moreover I was born out of wedlock. I am the illegitimate child of a dark-skinned fisherwoman and the scholarly Brahmin, Parashara, who did not think twice about my caste when imparting knowledge of the scriptures to me.” Vyasa continues “I have added to my father’s teachings by virtue of the knowledge gained through my travels and discourses with saints and scholars throughout the land. None of these savants ever asked me what my caste was” This is a longish passage and perhaps one of the best I liked in the book.

But one thing intrigues me – why should the author continue referring to the empire as India when no such word existed at that time. In all fairness it should have been referred to as Bharata if he wanted to make it relate to the period of the book, but may be his intention was to make the reader connect with the contemporary scenario.

Another important page in the book is 69, where Acharya Kripa explains to Karna about what the Vedas say about the caste system. While this is something which we have time again read in our epics and scriptures, I reproduce the last portion of Kripa’s exhortation –

“Whatever the silly Priests say, nowhere in any of our scriptures is it written that any one way of finding God is better than all the others. They do not even say that finding God is better than not doing so. The Vedic mind wonders about the mysteries of creation and the universe, but it does not speak in the voice of absolute truth. The Vedas merely hold the wonder of Man regarding the universe in which he lives.”

One should appreciate Anand Neelakantan for bringing out such gems in the form of a dialogue in a simple way intelligible to the reader. But personally I find that his repeated references to the caste system in nearly every page, makes you wonder whether this is the central theme of the story. Only he can answer for some readers may not find it too palatable.

In page 119 the author describes the two faces of Hastinapura – one of luxurious villas, broad, tree shaded avenues, golden temples, swanky shops that sold diamonds and silks and noblemen and beautiful women and the other a world of filth, where the streets coiled in on themselves like leeches; the open drains overflowed and the narrow pavements served as garbage dumps. This was the dark underbelly of India’s cities, where the majority lived. The other was just a charade, as hollow and fake as the promises made by the rulers to the ruled. Doesn’t this sound as a very contemporary scene? I guess we all live in Hastinapuras now.

Similarly the chapter 10 on Nagas reminds one of the Naxalite movement and to cap it, “Victory to the people’s revolution” cried Kaliya on page 133 does resonate with the slogans which we had become very familiar with during our growing years.

But there is a lyrical quality in the author’s narration throughout the book, to give an example, the chapter 13 starts with on page 171 – The air was hot and humid, but that did not take anything away from the bewitching beauty of the surroundings. To the east, majestic blue mountains kissed the skies and verdant valleys slept in their misty quilt. On a narrow strip of land, myriad colours bloomed, as if nature was celebrating her fecundity. Tall coconut palms stood like sentinels beside the winding rivers and enchanting backwaters. A deep-green sea caressed the sun-kissed beaches, while a gentle breeze played hide- and- seek in the cool shade of gigantic trees. Obviously this is the author’s own land.

I find the southern empires of the Cheras, Cholas, Pallavas and other such references in the book and this makes you wonder what they were doing at the time of the Mahabharata.

At the end of the book in his short notes there is one sentence that says it all- the truth remains that all writers use imagery that is accepted and understood by contemporary society. I have also viewed this book from that angle. The author says that the advice received from his father was not to approach the Mahabaharata just as a story, for it contains hidden symbolism. That exactly is the point as I said in the beginning itself that the Mahabharata is a chronicle of all the human fallibilities. Ajaya is a story well told and this is only part 1 ending with the game of dice where the Pandavas lose everything. I look forward to the part 2 of the book with interest mainly to see how the author treats the role of Krishna and the ‘The Bhagavad Gita’ in his story, for this could be tricky.

I cannot agree that this is from the Kaurava viewpoint. It is not, for it is only a story about Kauravas with Suyodhana as the hero told by Anand Neelakantan and that’s it.

Two interesting acknowledgements of the author I would like to mention here – 1) To my country and my people, for tolerating different points of view and for the richness of our history and mythology and 2) To Vedavyasa, the patron of all Indian writers, the greatest writer to have walked this earth. Yes that is the greatness of this country and that is why the Mahabharata cannot be rewritten.

In summing up I should say that this book is well crafted, well written and an easy and interesting read, even though it is about 450 pages (and mind you this is only Part 1). The book stands on its own merits.

WHAT’S IN A NAME

WHAT’S IN A NAME

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose
by any other name would smell as sweet."

                                                            ‘Shakespeare – Romeo and Juliet’

Yes, I said to myself, after all I’d still be bald and bearded whatever my name. I thought a name like ‘Vicky Donor’ sounded good as long as the others did not know what you were donating (I had just finished watching the movie on TV). One of course never gets to choose his name. Midway through, if you feel dissatisfied with your name, you will have to undergo the hassle of going through a number of formalities to change it and ultimately announcing to the world that you are so and so and henceforth will be so and so. Imagine the troubles you have to undergo to have your new name incorporated in the passport, ration card etc. As it is you have had enough problems obtaining those in your old and original name. So why all the trouble, let it stay and learn to live with it till the end of your days. Imagine yourself starting all over again with your girlfriend or your wife, whichever the case may be or your friends for that matter.

It all started one day when I was filling up the application form for the GRE exam after graduation, the spaces allotted for filling in the name was not enough to accommodate mine. When I received the admit card I found a truncated version of my name – Gopalsam S Subramanian. It sounded good I thought, like all those NRI’s, the only difference was I was trying to go there and not returning. I have always found it difficult to fill in those various application forms, whether it be for passport, ration card, aadhar card etc. I have been confused when they require your first name, middle name and your last name. I wondered whether my name should be the first name or the last name, there being no confusion regarding the middle one as it has to stay put where it is. You see we South Indians incorporate our entire address in our names, it makes it easier for you to be traced in case you are lost – the village name followed by the father’s name and then your name in that order, so you see where the confusion arises. So ultimately you can guess what my name is in the passport. Last time I went to the US, I got used to being addressed as Mr. Gopalasamudram, which is my village name, of course it was shortened to Gopalsam as mentioned in my GRE application form, may be they had an inkling that I shall be coming over there one day. I am sure they did for I found that there was a placard with my name on it when I landed in Saint Louis and it read ‘Mr. Gopalsam’.

But one gets used to various pet names as they call it during one’s life, a sign of endearment. The only problem is you end up feeling like a pet yourself. I do not know how they (the pets) feel being called Jimmy, Tommy etc. I remember when I was in school our neighbours had two dogs named- Caesar and Brutus. I always waited for the day when Caesar would be done in by Brutus. I did like and continue to like some of the names I have been called by (by the way that does not include the number of times I have been called names). One name that still stands out is the name given to me by my seniors in IIT KGP during the course of ragging – ‘Submarine’ and that stuck on till I was there, though I never did go underwater.

I could have dropped my village name and made it simple like they do nowadays – just your given name and your father’s name, but I have a problem as my father’s name is also same as mine and please don’t ask me why, for it will require more space here to explain and you will lose patience. For all you know I could end up being called ‘Subramanian squared’. I wouldn’t mind though.

There are any number of Shahs, Patels, Subramanians, or Smiths for that matter, but we have still managed to exist as ourselves. I thought that it is really not fair cribbing whether you have one, two or even three names. Remember the Lord Vishnu he has a thousand names or more but he does not complain.

I like it whether you call me Subramanian, Subbu, GS or Gopalsam or Submarine for nothing can take away the fact that I shall still be bald and bearded. After all ‘What’s in a name’!