West End Window
I love windows. I love old, untended buildings. I loved this window and this building, and painted them from a photograph which I took last year in Bangalore. While I painted I listened to songs by Kabir. Everything came together in my mind, though of course, the painting is full of flaws. It was a good learning experience. Ramesh Gandhi gave me valuable colour advice when I needed it. So there it is.
Vegetable Thoughts
(Please click to enlarge!) Cool weather flowers, in Coonoor:
(Pansies = pensées = thoughts)
(Pansies = pensées = thoughts)
Coonoor: A Morning Walk
On my first morning in Coonoor, in the cool Nilgiri hills, I went for a walk. Here are some of the things I saw:
All Saints' Church
A troop of monkeys living in style above a roadside garbage heap
Empty, meandering one-lane roads lined with wildflowers
Attractive bungalows, half-hidden behind trees
A No Tresspassing sign -- but since it was in Tamil I felt that I could ignore it ;). I walked down a path and saw
A tea garden, planted on a steep hillside, with a gurgling stream at the bottom, and forest rising on the opposite side
Dilapidated but charming buildings
More tea gardens, with a poor section of town below
A dead rat
Flowers!
All Saints' Church
A troop of monkeys living in style above a roadside garbage heap
Empty, meandering one-lane roads lined with wildflowers
Attractive bungalows, half-hidden behind trees
A No Tresspassing sign -- but since it was in Tamil I felt that I could ignore it ;). I walked down a path and saw
A tea garden, planted on a steep hillside, with a gurgling stream at the bottom, and forest rising on the opposite side
Dilapidated but charming buildings
More tea gardens, with a poor section of town below
A dead rat
Flowers!
Excavations
I was roaming around the house aimlessly, wondering what I should be doing, and suddenly I saw it as if I were a visitor. When you pass through the same rooms everyday, their contents are hardly visible, a white-noise hum. The indistinct background of a dream. Turn on a light switch, and things pop into view. That (object)! How long has it been lying there?
My paper stash! I must throw it all away. Seize the moment! I reach to clear the shelf, and almost before I know what my hands are doing, I am folding papers into signatures, punching holes, hunting for the waxed linen thread. I sew graph paper, wrapping paper, opened-out envelopes together, and make a book.
R's photographs are lying all over the house. Boxes of enlargements, envelopes of negatives. In a plastic shopping bag I find faded 2x3" prints, outtakes. Their blandness is mysterious: I feel obliged to look long enough to find meaning in them. I glue a few into my book.
I can’t sleep. At 3:00 a.m. I come downstairs to get some writing paper. As I pass through the atrium I hear a splash. In the fish pond, concentric rings of water are lit by the moon. A dull brown fish has made itself known. Usually they are silent, gliding along their underwater paths. They eat puffed rice and mosquito larvae, and survive. I feel a pain in my chest, as though they were very dear to me.
I draw Julius Caesar, his stone face split down the middle as if struck by lightning, and then other statues. Repetition is order is harmony. Their blank gaze is soothing: they are not interested in my nooks and crannies.
Should these water buffalo vertebrae, which I picked up off the ground from some land we had once, still be on that table, fifteen years after I casually dropped them there?
And those chairs in the hallway! Only crazy people would not have discarded them long ago – their foam collapsed, home to generations of lizards, whose miniature broken ping pong ball eggs we sweep up from time to time. Can I point my finger and dissolve them into atoms?
The big copper water vessel, those pinecones from the hills. That brass thing from Thailand that someone gave me, I never even liked it much, but here it is. Too many books! Too many dishes! I'm sinking, I'm about to disappear.
The utility room! so full of old newspapers, bottles. I must call the scrap man with his cycle-cart. But first I pull out some torn paper, and glue it in.
Okay, I'm feeling calmer now. I’m listening to a cheerful Hindi song, with a chorus which means approximately, "You bastard, you're finished! You've had it!" It's so incongruous with the bouncy music that it makes me smile. I'm drawing and singing along under my breath -- 'tu saala kaam se gaya!' The house is still a mess. Never mind.
My paper stash! I must throw it all away. Seize the moment! I reach to clear the shelf, and almost before I know what my hands are doing, I am folding papers into signatures, punching holes, hunting for the waxed linen thread. I sew graph paper, wrapping paper, opened-out envelopes together, and make a book.
R's photographs are lying all over the house. Boxes of enlargements, envelopes of negatives. In a plastic shopping bag I find faded 2x3" prints, outtakes. Their blandness is mysterious: I feel obliged to look long enough to find meaning in them. I glue a few into my book.
I can’t sleep. At 3:00 a.m. I come downstairs to get some writing paper. As I pass through the atrium I hear a splash. In the fish pond, concentric rings of water are lit by the moon. A dull brown fish has made itself known. Usually they are silent, gliding along their underwater paths. They eat puffed rice and mosquito larvae, and survive. I feel a pain in my chest, as though they were very dear to me.
I draw Julius Caesar, his stone face split down the middle as if struck by lightning, and then other statues. Repetition is order is harmony. Their blank gaze is soothing: they are not interested in my nooks and crannies.
Should these water buffalo vertebrae, which I picked up off the ground from some land we had once, still be on that table, fifteen years after I casually dropped them there?
On the way to the car, bones:
White shards half-buried. Old news,
not enough to make a whole of anything.
And those chairs in the hallway! Only crazy people would not have discarded them long ago – their foam collapsed, home to generations of lizards, whose miniature broken ping pong ball eggs we sweep up from time to time. Can I point my finger and dissolve them into atoms?
The big copper water vessel, those pinecones from the hills. That brass thing from Thailand that someone gave me, I never even liked it much, but here it is. Too many books! Too many dishes! I'm sinking, I'm about to disappear.
The utility room! so full of old newspapers, bottles. I must call the scrap man with his cycle-cart. But first I pull out some torn paper, and glue it in.
Okay, I'm feeling calmer now. I’m listening to a cheerful Hindi song, with a chorus which means approximately, "You bastard, you're finished! You've had it!" It's so incongruous with the bouncy music that it makes me smile. I'm drawing and singing along under my breath -- 'tu saala kaam se gaya!' The house is still a mess. Never mind.
Twittering My Life Away II
R advised a friend to start an effigy-making business. “Since they are burned every day in India, it’s a good source of income.”
My cook asked if she could sell ten of our surplus coconuts for 30 rupees. I said okay, while holding a packet of imported pasta costing 285 rupees.
A Marwari wedding procession passed my house, the band blaring triumphal music from a film about a Mughal emperor. The bridegroom on horseback, not quite kingly.
A rare sight: a monkey loped into the garden, bearing a stolen melon. I went out, our eyes met, it leaped into a tree.
The monkey coolly picked insects from an extended leg, while all the crows in the area gathered to heckle it. I went back inside.
All became calm again. From the window I saw crows pecking at the melon, and no sight of the monkey. Order was restored.
Indian sounds are different from American ones: I heard a hissssss today from the pump; Lakshmi said it was a pusssss.
Our good new gardener has not been seen for two days. The cook says young men are too distractible: they always want to go to the movies.
It may be 104 degrees outside, but on the other hand, it's mango season. Something is taken away; something is given.
Saw old movie Deedar. Blind hero regains sight, is rejected by beloved, blinds self again. I groan. My husband says: You don't understand that kind of love.
Days of unbearable heat suddenly broken by darkness, wind, thunder... the merest dribble of rain. Then back to our regular programming.
The monkey who crossed our garden last week is back. My neighbour prowls his garden with a stick in each hand, looking up, wondering what to do.
Spicy snacks frying, attar, vehicle exhausts, stirred together and baked in tropical heat. The perfume of urban India.
A man at the party said, In a cave in Uttaranchal a stalagmite/stalagtite will meet in 200 years; then the world will end.
I suppose it's only in Indian film songs that lovers vow to meet up with each other lifetime after lifetime.
My cook asked if she could sell ten of our surplus coconuts for 30 rupees. I said okay, while holding a packet of imported pasta costing 285 rupees.
A Marwari wedding procession passed my house, the band blaring triumphal music from a film about a Mughal emperor. The bridegroom on horseback, not quite kingly.
A rare sight: a monkey loped into the garden, bearing a stolen melon. I went out, our eyes met, it leaped into a tree.
The monkey coolly picked insects from an extended leg, while all the crows in the area gathered to heckle it. I went back inside.
All became calm again. From the window I saw crows pecking at the melon, and no sight of the monkey. Order was restored.
Indian sounds are different from American ones: I heard a hissssss today from the pump; Lakshmi said it was a pusssss.
Our good new gardener has not been seen for two days. The cook says young men are too distractible: they always want to go to the movies.
It may be 104 degrees outside, but on the other hand, it's mango season. Something is taken away; something is given.
Saw old movie Deedar. Blind hero regains sight, is rejected by beloved, blinds self again. I groan. My husband says: You don't understand that kind of love.
Days of unbearable heat suddenly broken by darkness, wind, thunder... the merest dribble of rain. Then back to our regular programming.
The monkey who crossed our garden last week is back. My neighbour prowls his garden with a stick in each hand, looking up, wondering what to do.
Spicy snacks frying, attar, vehicle exhausts, stirred together and baked in tropical heat. The perfume of urban India.
A man at the party said, In a cave in Uttaranchal a stalagmite/stalagtite will meet in 200 years; then the world will end.
I suppose it's only in Indian film songs that lovers vow to meet up with each other lifetime after lifetime.
The Inner Life of Things
When I drew this, it was metal; but my drawing seemed alive - not 'human', but 'animal' -- a streamlined relative of a pony perhaps, ready to nod its head at me. A little awkward, but good-natured. Thus we infuse ourselves into the things we produce.
I began twittering at the end of 2007. Since my early efforts are buried somewhere in Twitter's back pages, I'm posting a selection of some tweets that I like, that bring back sharp memories:
My cook's granddaughter started menstruating yesterday. Big loan from us for the festivities. She gets a ring and a silk sari for her pains.
At dusk small bats swoop through the garden. One divides our conversation with a swift brown blur.
Driving home under a discarded lemon-rind moon, a yellowed fingernail-paring moon.
I love the sound of the Urdu word 'chilman' -- a split bamboo or reed curtain; and its half-concealing, half-revealing qualities. It’s a one-word poem.
In Mahabalipuram: A sea-turtle dead on the sand. It must have been caught in a fishing net. Crows crowd it, pecking.
A friend who came with us to Mahabalipuram showed me a rubber wedge, brought to keep the door from blowing shut. "They say you should always pack a wedge."
From Hindi film Jab We Met: "No no, it's not what you think: we are just by-the-way friends."
A typical-looking Indian godman interviewed on TV - long hair, flowing robes - said in an American accent: "This is not a fashion statement."
Movie review: ''Sharath Kumar's new film is a reincarnation and revenge drama.” Ho hum. How many r&r dramas can there be?
At Amethyst, I bought magenta orchids and a bouquet of long-stemmed pineapples, each fruit 2 1/2 inches long. Slender spiny leaves - ouch.
There's a big snake in the garden, watchman says. Not a cobra. Poor creatures, where can they go, with construction everywhere.
A giant ant bit the side of my toe like the sliding in of a splinter of glass.
Our three coconut trees are being poulticed with neem powder, turmeric, camphor and salt. The coconut-man shinnies 30 feet up to the crown on a circle of rope.
Cleaning out a cupboard, I found a stack of old 25-paise postcards and gave them to my maid, who said, "But everyone talks on the cellphone nowadays."
Man on the Street on the TV news: "This area has been called Prabhadevi [Hindu goddess] since the time of Baba Adam [Muslim/Christian first man]."
My cook's granddaughter started menstruating yesterday. Big loan from us for the festivities. She gets a ring and a silk sari for her pains.
At dusk small bats swoop through the garden. One divides our conversation with a swift brown blur.
Driving home under a discarded lemon-rind moon, a yellowed fingernail-paring moon.
I love the sound of the Urdu word 'chilman' -- a split bamboo or reed curtain; and its half-concealing, half-revealing qualities. It’s a one-word poem.
In Mahabalipuram: A sea-turtle dead on the sand. It must have been caught in a fishing net. Crows crowd it, pecking.
A friend who came with us to Mahabalipuram showed me a rubber wedge, brought to keep the door from blowing shut. "They say you should always pack a wedge."
From Hindi film Jab We Met: "No no, it's not what you think: we are just by-the-way friends."
A typical-looking Indian godman interviewed on TV - long hair, flowing robes - said in an American accent: "This is not a fashion statement."
Movie review: ''Sharath Kumar's new film is a reincarnation and revenge drama.” Ho hum. How many r&r dramas can there be?
At Amethyst, I bought magenta orchids and a bouquet of long-stemmed pineapples, each fruit 2 1/2 inches long. Slender spiny leaves - ouch.
There's a big snake in the garden, watchman says. Not a cobra. Poor creatures, where can they go, with construction everywhere.
A giant ant bit the side of my toe like the sliding in of a splinter of glass.
Our three coconut trees are being poulticed with neem powder, turmeric, camphor and salt. The coconut-man shinnies 30 feet up to the crown on a circle of rope.
Cleaning out a cupboard, I found a stack of old 25-paise postcards and gave them to my maid, who said, "But everyone talks on the cellphone nowadays."
Man on the Street on the TV news: "This area has been called Prabhadevi [Hindu goddess] since the time of Baba Adam [Muslim/Christian first man]."
Waking Up
I had left this blog behind, but my sister kept telling me that I should return to it, and how could I refuse her. Let's see how it goes. While I am putting the key in the ignition, releasing the clutch, etc., I can be found on Twitter:
In its first incarnation, this blog was focused primarily on my life as a foreigner (American) living in India, and on Indian arts and culture. I'd like to be a little looser now, and to throw in a few sketches and this and that. Nothing fancy.
So. Onward.
In its first incarnation, this blog was focused primarily on my life as a foreigner (American) living in India, and on Indian arts and culture. I'd like to be a little looser now, and to throw in a few sketches and this and that. Nothing fancy.
So. Onward.
How to Sell Arms to India
This was so embarrassing I couldn't watch it all the way through -- via Wired, which writes, "Let's say you're a defense-company marketing executive. And you want to make a splash at the Indian defense ministry's annual air show. Do you: (a) buy expensive gifts for New Delhi's generals; (b) treat the press to Kingfishers and samosas; (c) produce a Bollywood-esque video featuring bare-midriff girls, flower-draped missiles, and the catch phrase "dinga dinga dee?" Unfortunately for us, Israeli arms-maker Rafael chose C.... "
An interesting interview with Danny Boyle, about filming Slumdog Millionaire in Mumbai. I particularly identified with this paragraph:
AVC: Were there places it was difficult to get permission to film?
DB: There's lots of things that can be solved with cash. [Snickers.] And there's occasional things that can't be solved with cash, which become a bureaucratic nightmare for some reason, and there's no distinction between the two. There's no way of reading a situation and saying, "Yes, that'll be a bureaucratic nightmare, but that one we'll be able to buy off." It just depends on the day, apparently. The most extraordinary thing, you'd be given permission for, and then the weirdest, simplest things, you just wouldn't be able to obtain permissions. And it would go on and on and on forever and ever, and there was no way to know. You have to kind of approach it with an open, quite optimistic mind, no matter what's thrown at you, because it will only ever result in damaging the film if you let any kind of despondency get to you. You have to remain optimistic, and that's clearly how people live their lives there. Against all the odds, they retain kind of a spirit which allows them to get through against insufferable odds...
Wit and Humour
Wondering what to post, I fell back on the amazing Wit and Humour in the Tamil Nadu Legislative Council 1921-1971, Volume I.
It is best to let such books fall open at random, so I did -- and found this:
It is best to let such books fall open at random, so I did -- and found this:
Humorous Definition of 'Tiller of the Soil'
On the 24th of September 1956, during the Debate in the Council on the Madras Cultivating Tenants Protection (Amendment) Bill, 1956, a humorous situation erupted when the Minister (The Hon. Thiru M. A. Manickavelu) tried to give a "layman's definition" as he himself put it, to the term 'tiller of the soil' by saying: "As I understand, a tiller of the soil is a person who, with a very scanty dress -- he has no coat, no turban and no umbrella in hand -- takes a plough and ploughs the land. There is sweat on his brow."
The following exchanges then took place:
"Sri A. M. Allapichai: Is it a crime to wear coat?
The Hon. Sri M. A. Manickavelu: No, not at all, even a long coat can be worn (referring to the Member's long coat). (Laughter) So, the tiller of the soil is the opposite of one who wears a coat and turban holding a walking stick or umbrella in hand and goes round his field, comes back home, takes coffee and chews pansupari.
Dr. V. K. John: Is he too old or too young?
Sri. A. M. Allapichai: Suppose he applied his mind? Application of mind also is physical labour.
The Hon. Sri M. A. Manickavelu: Yes, Sir. He must very much apply his mind because if he wants to take away the weeds, he should not pull out the crops in the process. Mind also plays its part."
Power Holiday
In India, power failure is called load shedding. At the moment, we're having 1 1/2 hours of it every day; the Chennai suburbs three hours a day; the rest of the state five hours a day, for an indefinite period.
Today I saw in the paper a new (to me) word for it: 'power holiday.'
The government's explanation is interesting. According to The Hindu:
Opposition leader, Jayalalitha's response to this was succinct: she was quoted as saying that the reasons cited by the government for power shortage are "strange and ridiculous."
Today I saw in the paper a new (to me) word for it: 'power holiday.'
The government's explanation is interesting. According to The Hindu:
The revised system of intensive load shedding... has been designed to ensure that there are no unscheduled disruptions in power supply.i.e., we're having scheduled outtages (I think this word is also local?) so that we don't have unscheduled outtages. Further,
... the main cause for the frequent interruptions in the supply is the under-frequency relay factor...inadequate capacity addition... poor rainfall ... substantial reduction in the State’s share of power from Central Generating Stations that are hit by the shortage of lignite and uranium... [and] ... sudden loss of wind energy...
Opposition leader, Jayalalitha's response to this was succinct: she was quoted as saying that the reasons cited by the government for power shortage are "strange and ridiculous."
Vogue India's latest
Boy, this is disgusting, from the New York Times: Vogue’s Fashion Photos Spark Debate in India
That bib is likely priced at about two months' wages for this lady. This looks like cruelty to me -- let them eat cake.
That bib is likely priced at about two months' wages for this lady. This looks like cruelty to me -- let them eat cake.
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