Random Musings on Language
A few nights back, I watched three Kurosawa films back to back (to back ?). It had been a tough day and I needed my fix. There is something to be said about the stress-busting properties of such an experience, but perhaps later (I need non-cinematic memories/subjects and fast…)
Somewhere into the first half of Yojimbo, I realised that I was not really looking at the subtitles anymore.Well, after you have seen a movie many (ever enough?) times, familiar plot and characters mean that you do not need subtitles anymore. Yes, you may not be able to follow the dialogues word-for-translated word, but your mind can paraphrase enough from memory for comprehension to occur. While you do not have to then juggle observing action and reading the words, you cannot internalise them (words), in a manner you would of a familiar tongue. A linguistic limbo, I guess.What you are left with however, is the music of the language.
You don't need a degree in linguistics to tell you that language is a complex mixture or words, expressions, gestures, tone, rhythm and peculiar nuances (common to all but unique to each language). Minor variations in tone and subtle gesture changes can sometimes communicate so much. And therein lies the joy of just experiencing a language as it happens - to listen, to see, to feel, and hopefully even comprehend.
And what of writing, the spoken word (and speaking?)? and word association and those million other things that can be written on language. Whether in a familiar tongue or otherwise, it is better sometimes, to leave things to be said by people who have said it before, more succinctly, and way better than you ever can.
The tawny guttural water
spells itself: Moyola
is its own score and consort,
bedding the locale
in the utterance,
reed music, an old chanter
breathing its mists
through vowels and history.
"Gifts of Rain" ~ Seamus Heaney
Somewhere into the first half of Yojimbo, I realised that I was not really looking at the subtitles anymore.Well, after you have seen a movie many (ever enough?) times, familiar plot and characters mean that you do not need subtitles anymore. Yes, you may not be able to follow the dialogues word-for-translated word, but your mind can paraphrase enough from memory for comprehension to occur. While you do not have to then juggle observing action and reading the words, you cannot internalise them (words), in a manner you would of a familiar tongue. A linguistic limbo, I guess.What you are left with however, is the music of the language.
You don't need a degree in linguistics to tell you that language is a complex mixture or words, expressions, gestures, tone, rhythm and peculiar nuances (common to all but unique to each language). Minor variations in tone and subtle gesture changes can sometimes communicate so much. And therein lies the joy of just experiencing a language as it happens - to listen, to see, to feel, and hopefully even comprehend.
And what of writing, the spoken word (and speaking?)? and word association and those million other things that can be written on language. Whether in a familiar tongue or otherwise, it is better sometimes, to leave things to be said by people who have said it before, more succinctly, and way better than you ever can.
The tawny guttural water
spells itself: Moyola
is its own score and consort,
bedding the locale
in the utterance,
reed music, an old chanter
breathing its mists
through vowels and history.
"Gifts of Rain" ~ Seamus Heaney
Sing to the Exponential Thermo-stellar Device
Many years ago, many many years ago (before Bruce I-can-tilt-my-head-and-squint-at-the-same-time Willis’ Armageddon), when Star Movies had the balls to play some real cinema for Indian audiences, they managed to run a sci-fi classic called Dark Star. Created by John Carpenter and Dan o' Bannon in the days before they met Kurt Russell and the m^%#$fuckin Alien respectively, Dark Star was a school project turned cult film.
The movie revolved around the inter-galactic travels(travails?) of the unglamorous spaceship Dark Star and its haggard crew. Their job - to boldly take their spaceship where no toy has gone before and destroy unstable planets with smart-ass bombs and baby-sit a polka-dotted beach-ball alien along the way. The movie had low-budget sets and rather primitive graphics (although the narrative hardly suffers for lack of visual support); a cast that included Dan O’ Bannon (that's how low-budget) - all mashed together with a kick-ass whacky script.
Sample this – An intuitive bomb (Bomb #20) with a Cartesian disposition, discovers its true purpose in life after getting a crash course in phenomenology from a crew member, who does so in order to stop the bomb from exploding within the ship, and is acting on the advice of a dead and cryogenically frozen ex-captain, who is understandably feeling lonely. Fuck yeah!
It is precious and just goes to prove that having Americans bombing the world (you know like real-life) can make better cinema than having them saving the world. Again. And Again.
In one word, the movie is "friggin awesome". Ok, two words. I wanted to write more words, but as usual, once you read Ebert's review on something, you kinda quit that idea on account of feeling small. Note to self: Next time you want to write about a movie, do not read Ebert's review of the same prior to the initiation of writing. Simple.
But I have one memory of this movie that Ebert doesn’t have a clue about. The first time I watched the movie, I had no clue about its cult status. In fact, I came upon the movie when it was close to rolling credits. It was ending with a song. A sweet little ditty that caught my ear and refused to let go. I waited for a rerun of the movie just to hear the song. And when it came, I grabbed it on compact cassette tape (Yes TAPE!) with the aid of an ancient recorder. It even recorded the sounds of a sunday afternoon and mixed it with one special Bhangaaarwaaaleeeeeeyyyaaaaaa...Baatli Bhangaaarwaaaleeeeeeyyyaaaaaa....
The special remix tape may be lost to fungus, but the song lives. The song was Benson, Arizona. It still is happily enough the same Benson, Arizona.
Benson, Arizona, the same stars in the sky
but they seemed so much kinder when we watched them, you and I…
Nice Knowing New
"I fantasize about a massive pristine convenience. Brilliant gold taps, virginal white marble, a seat carved from ebony, a cistern full of Chanel no.5, and a flunky handing me pieces of raw silk toilet roll."
~ Renton (Trainspotting)
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They are breaking it down now. They have taken off that roof with its mosaic tiles. Taken off? Ok, they have fuckin hammered it down. How else do you bring down a roof? Laughter?
Below me, it stretches out in a manner similar to what must have adorned/cluttered its architect's drawing board many years ago. The walls, the rooms, the staircase - all must have been a tiny little dream in his head then. I hope it was a nice dream come true for him to see the place when it was built. I hope he is dead now. He must be. As if he would care anyways. Ring out bile wells…and let him die...
The rooms are eerily empty except for the crumbling ruins of the roof scattered around mixed with all kinds of filth. Bricks. Mud. Bird faeces. Memories? Rain water. Yes, all that filth.
Its rather obscene to see a building being broken down. To see it being torn apart inside out. Its ghastly. You end up as a reluctant voyeur peeping into some sadistic fantasy of Darth Vader. Vader? Breathe heavy, speak harshly and carry a shiny phallic stick. Look! I am your Fragger. Fuckin Star Wars. Stupid fuckin franchise. But, Big Shiny Sticks. Big enough to frag houses. Homes?
I am sure there will be a tall building coming up soon in that space. Scraping skies. Bigger. Better? Less decrepit. Not decrepit at all. No faults. Like the building on the other side of my house. Diametrically opposite to this one in all ways. B.I.G. MASSIVE. etc etc. Big enough to cover the third side of my house with a hastily, yet beautifully landscaped municipal garden complete with delightful artificially laid grass, jogging track, etc. Note: The odds of there being people with powerful political connections in a big huge fucking building are directly proportional to the Huge Fuckingness of the building.
Perfection of a kind is what we are all after. No no. Not the Auden kind. This is straightforward. Not ironic in any anti-demagogueish way. Not ironic at all. Once old, dispose. Also, if we buy something, we do not want it to be flawed. By law. There are no grey areas in shopping - unless the prices are marked down, of course. Or there are no alternatives. Or you are stuck with what you bought because you were blind-sighted to flaws. Bring out your dead! Bring out your dead!
We all want conformity. You can take uniqueness and flush it. Even those who want uniqueness want conformity... To uniqueness? To ideas. To people. Acceptance. Acknowledgement. Satisfaction. Give me standardisation with sustained renewal/additions or strangle me to death. I have a shiny new iPad and its not a fuckin tampon. Acknowledge me for I am one of of you, better thank you and I am ok. Shiny, Happy People. Glossy People?
What about the new building then?
Back in my school days, there was a building in my school complex called the “new building”. It had always been there since the time I went to school. But it was called the new building because if it isn’t fuckin obvious - it was built after the others and was ‘newer’. Everyone wanted to be in the new building. Even the old building wanted to be in the new building. All old things want to be inside new things. Sick! The old building that looked almost the same, but older was just a staging point for lower divisions before they moved into the new building. When children finished schooling, they passed out from the new building and were damn proud of it. I miss the old building now. I wish I had taken longer, harder looks at those rooms. Nostalgia is so pathetic.
Buildings. Rooms. Big fuckin rooms with curtains. Yellow-green from Sarojini or Lajpat? No. Good Bargains? No..No.. Not anymore. That just won’t do. Anymore. Crate and Barrel? Is that upmarket enough? Maybe. Ok then.
New. Newer. Out with the old. A winner. Survival of the fittest. Ambitious. Successful. Are we still talking of buildings then? Yes.
Lets face it - the old house never showed any ambition to grow beyond its tiny frame. Pathetic. It seemed absurdly happy enough to be tiny with its stupid mosaic-tile design roof. To enjoy the rain falling on its ridiculous mosaic tiles. So Die! Die! you unambitious, old, shit-faced, rain-drenched, small, middle-classish house.
A new shiny thing is always better than old rusty shit. Sometimes we wake up years later thinking - What the fuck was I thinking when I bought that shit? Its so rusty. Was it always rusty? I never noticed how rusty it was. Sometimes we have been thinking all those years about that same shit, but couldn't bring ourselves to throw it away, because it was of some use or it still meant something. But don't hang on too long then after realisations. If you are nauseated, insert finger into throat and puke. You will feel better. There are always shinier things out there. Never too late to dispose of old things to get bigger, better, shinier new things? Why hang on when you can hang up?
The sooner the better. Isn't it? What pain?
Seriously, the building then. What of it? Its fucked for sure. And the new one? Does it have a fancy job or a fancy lineage? For a building? Really! Come off it then. Ok. Ok.
All things must come to an end and make way for the new. The new building will have about 2 million to 5000 floors. Oooooooo……nice. So much more novelty to be had then. Jolly good. Surely the new place will be as shiny as it will be utility driven. The kind of place where you can invite families to come and visit without shame. Shame of the cracks in the wall. Shame of the crumbling paint. Shame of the leaking roof. More practical. With humonfuckingous parking space to accommodate your little SUV. That’s just practical. All everyone needs is space for their little SUV. And an Uzi inside their SUV.
Love with lofty-principled stuff is just goddamm inconvenient. More so if its shitty-looking. Everyone knows that. Don't say no one warned you. At some point we all have to settle down and fall out of love with inconvenient shit. Fuckin inconvenient shitty-looking stuff. Like an Ambassador Car. Sure, it carried you around in the the rocky villages and scary-looking small towns. But you in the big city now. An Ambassador? Buy one? Now Now. There There. What will people say then?
And why can't you love the new building? What original sin does it get born with? Will it not be spacious, pretty, and family-friendly. Yes. Whose family? Does that really matter? It will be the trophy spouse to archetypal marital fantasies. Perhaps a tad less romantic, but romance has had its time. Its not a make-out pad for sophomores. Its a place to discuss marriage for the wiser elders. And elders are always wiser. Let me tell you that. No matter how shitty, arrogant or evil they might be, they are always wiser.
It will be a place to make scholastic, athletic babies. To plan vacations in foreign lands. To plan immigration to foreign lands. I (will) love Paris in the springtime. Paris? Yes. Security and stability are in. So is reliability. Is Love unreliable per se? No, love with inconvenient stuff is. Fuck off.
Non, je ne regrette rien... Non... Nolan? Non..Non.. Moltov Bertolucci, monsieur... But romance will not bring home the bread. Love will not keep anyone alive. At least not all love keeping everyone alive. New love might not keep old love alive. In fact, it will positively fuckin murder old love. So love gets old and dies? Apparently, yes...of old age, disease or accidental murder, whichever comes first. Some love might keep some alive. Hmmmmm… I stopped caring at hello.
But, is that not what we all need? More? More than what is. More than more. More than. More. Better than. Or is it just about different? As oppposed to? Defeating boredom, perhaps. A lot to be said about boredom then. What fun!
Buildings. Build. Destroy. Build. Cycles then? No. Circles. Big fuckin circles of life and existence. With little useless objects attached to the circles. Awaiting tangential ejection into the void. On account of their impracticality/uselessness, innit? Sure, why not. Fair enough.
...
There was a tiny one-storeyed house with a beautiful blue-white mosaic tiled roof next door. Under the soon-to-vanish trees that ringed it, there must have been something about that place that people who lived and possible died there would have liked to call home. There must have been love, death, despair, sex, struggle, frustration, loyalty, success, heartbreak, slander, anger, hope, dreams...and all such manner of worthless shit that define human existence. And just like all human existence, once things, (often people) outlive their utility value, its time to say goodbye.
Who the fuck gets nostalgic nowadays, for fucks sake? Don't be a turd that refuses to be flushed. Move on and let all of us or at least some of us be happy in a next somewhere.
So with a light heart, happiness and good cheer all round, here's saying good riddance to the sodden old piece of shit. It was an eyesore anyways. Thanks for the memories for whoever. Goodbyeeeee...
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The life of a man-
burn it with the fire.
The life of an insect-
Throw it into fire.
Ponder, and you'll see
The world is dark
And this floating world is a dream.
Let it burn (Burn with abandon).
Throw it into fire.
Ponder, and you'll see
The world is dark
And this floating world is a dream.
Let it burn (Burn with abandon).
~ The Fire Festival Song (The Hidden Fortress)
Vaya con D10s
At 49, Diego Armando Maradona was in resurrection mode. And what a tremendous spectacle it was!
24 years after he put in a titanium-clad case for greatness, he was looking to script another one for the history books, this time from the sidelines. You could sense that he was - with his superhuman stature almost willing his team to the Golden Cup. His legendary status was on the verge of becoming mythic. Well, almost.
Then again, 6 years ago, he was almost down and out, battling a whole plethora of inner (and outer) demons. While his fans mourned, he was written off as a joke. Well, almost.
You don't get called great just for your skills. There have always been many skilled players in the beautiful game, some probably (Ha!) more gifted than him. But to reach a level of greatness that he has, you need to transcend what mere mortals do. Here was a fighter used to be being brutalised on the field by opponents who had no other way of stopping him. But he always got back on his feet and got around them, time and again and again. Everyone loves a fighter. Well maybe not everybody. In the country he humiliated 24 years ago, there might be a grumble of respect, but never love. They would much rather use their hands to wring his neck than salute him. Among the greats with whom he jostles for space in the pantheon of soccer legends, he might be acknowledged for his game, but don't try pushing it beyond that. With good reason, one might add.
Well let's face it- he is not a nice man. A God on the pitch and Devil off it. He is not a gentleman in the manner of a man like Beckenbauer, for example - who he almost followed into the history books. Even his formal attire for the Cup was more due to the intervention of his daughters than a wardrobe choice. And he couldn't wait to get it off as well. Promising to run naked down the streets of Buenos Aires - is not in any coaching behaviour manual. Managers are supposed to clap and beam, and at most throw a couple of punches in the air (and maybe throw shoes at star players accidentally). Be subtle. But El Diego doesn’t do subtle, or normal.
Then again, he was never anyone's idea of a coach. An inspiration maybe, a name to invoke of the eve of battle, but not a teacher or manager. Becoming a poster-child for cocaine addiction, driving over and shooting at reporters are not things desirable enough to be followed as an example - although there might be a case to be made for the latter. But, as many pointed out, his personal demons are behind him and if anyone deserved redemption, he surely did.
And a nation embraced their God and believed in him. But Argentina lost, and horribly at that, in a massacre, that must have been painful to watch from where he stood. The manner of their exit might put his strategy - to go top heavy with strikers while leaving a thin blue line at the back - into question. There are many waiting to pull him down, question and malign his legacy, and they just might do that. After such a defeat, he might not want to hang around or be allowed to either.
But for the gloating Brazilian soccer legend who will say I told you so, he might want to hold on to those words - for eating later. There are four years till the next cup, but to write off Maradona would be as mad as the man himself. And, incidentally - the World Cup of 2014 is in Brazil. Well...
24 years ago, the little man they call Dios ‘single-handedly’ and then single-handedly vanquished an arch enemy on the field of battle. From the ultimate sporting glory to the verge of self-destruction and back to ultimate glory. Well, almost. But maybe there's another avatar left in D10s after all. Something tells me we ain't seen nothing yet.
Muddat
अबकी बरसात में कोई वादें नहीं
मौसम का बदलना कोई इनकीलाब नहीं
तुम से भी छूटेंगी वोह यादें
हाथों पर तराशे लकीरें तो नहीं
भूलने की तो हैं सब बातें
आवाज़ भी यह कोई क़यामत तक नहीं
गुज़र भी गयी वोह मेहकी रातें
माहताब की वफ़ा सेहर तक भी नहीं
मौसम का बदलना कोई इनकीलाब नहीं
तुम से भी छूटेंगी वोह यादें
हाथों पर तराशे लकीरें तो नहीं
भूलने की तो हैं सब बातें
आवाज़ भी यह कोई क़यामत तक नहीं
गुज़र भी गयी वोह मेहकी रातें
माहताब की वफ़ा सेहर तक भी नहीं
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