The Autodidacts



Russell Brand, who I think is quite easily the best looking man I've read this year and most certainly the funniest, at the Oxford Union with his autodidact's take on racism and the BNP.


Another autodidact (he claims somewhere in one of his essays) whose works I have read and loved is Ved Mehta. Author of the wonderfully amusing Delinquent Chacha, his essays on Oxford intelligentsia (he studied History at Balliol) containing amusing tidbits about English philosophers make his Reader a delightful read. And like all art that deals with one's recent history we all but succumb to the pleasure of its consumption. Having desired to write about Oxford and failed, I resort to Mehta's version of the truth of academia past, present and future.

As we grew older, we discovered, of course, that many of these supposed certainties did not always hold true even in England, to say nothing of the larger world. Moreover, there was a definite closing in of options for clever men, and one could sense a creeping gloom among top undergraduates as they approached the end of their Oxford years; it sometimes made them reactionary in politics and out of sympathy with the mass culture that was taking shape around them. (Now that the mass culture has arrived, some people at Oxford speak of it as the New Dark Age.) They felt like misfits in their own country and culture. Many of them settled for an academic career, doing so not because they were natural teachers or because they felt there were certain books that had to be written but because there was nothing better to do out there. In contrast, like many good students from America, I had come to Oxford in the hope of perhaps being an academic, but I was beginning to doubt my abilities. I felt I could never be as good as , say, the Greats men (those who workd toward a degree in ancient Greek and Latin literature, ancient history, and ancient and modern philosophy), because I had long since missed the bus for learning the ancient languages thoroughly. Nor could I comfort myself with the thought that I was as knowledgeable about Indian culture as they were about Judeo-Christian culture.

In the Force and Road of Casualty - Ved Mehta

The Memory of All that

What nerve. Asking the Bangladeshi man at the corner store if the bootleg cd of Jaane Tu Jaane Na has "come out" even before it's release. My friend who seems quite thrilled at her audacity is rewarded with the disconcerting availability of the two dollar cd of the film. And thus came about the viewing of this ridiculous film about two college going students who refuse to acknowledge their love for each other.

I choose to ignore the many scoffs that I have had to suffer after my own declaration of love for this film. I like this movie; despite it's antediluvian (indeed, S.) relationships formed in colleges so devoid of the heirarchy that typified all of mine. Because it gives me an opportunity to tell a tale about someone, not unlike the central male protagonist, who was not only an equally adroit singer and dancer around trees but also (accepting the inescapability of common jargon) a wonderful person.

Despite being the recipient of this person's numerous generosities the only incident concerning her that I re-remember has little to do with generosity or goodwill. We had just gotten off a rickshaw and the rickshaw wallah seeing that we were of that bohemian tribe of guitar strumming, non-college-going college student chinkies, demanded ten more rupees than was the normal fare. My hindi speaking abilities having a rather strange way of faltering and spiralling into blubber did not help. My friend spoke little Hindi. She was annoyed, she said, not at having to pay ten extra rupees at this obviously overworked and malnourished rickshaw wallah, but at his impertinence to demand that extra ten rupees because she aspired to loftier goals than bachelor degrees. We then went to the English department's seminar room and watched Sooraj Ka Satva Ghoda.

I drink now. Wine. And I am now able to distinguish between red wine and what only looks like red wine (partially fermented grape must, Sainsbury's tells me). Beer must be an acquired taste, I think. I've also gotten terribly lost for almost four months now. I blame the all too many pictures people have taken of me. The camera was given away but it hasn't helped; there's the boy's iphone.




To make up for the terrible post.

Memento Mori

After a point even an image was not enough, and he invoked concepts, like Post-Impressionism or Neo-Plasticism, and favourite of favourites, the Lyapunov functions, he seized upon an idea, a theory, a searing flame of thought, to match the jolt of bloodlessness between his ears, he told you and you laughed, perhaps you should cultivate blankness, you advised, that perfect blankness essential to any man's happiness.
The Glassblower's Breath-Sunetra Gupta

I realize I've neglected the blog for far too long now. But then why ought I fill spaces with the pain quotidien? Precious little has been done. Today. I feel like a little decadence. I'd like to see my words form, savour their uselessness, reject nourishment that would never arise from their pointlessness. Et in Arcadia ego. And so, a little triteness won't hurt Jack.

Why don't you just kill me?

I sometimes covet phronesis. Wishful thinking, perhaps, to assume it would temper my sudden griefs. I shy from using the term “violent griefs” because my mind is still ripe from the pounding it received at the meeting. Luke’s paper on violence seemed just an excuse to drink the Corpus Christi wine. But all these digressions distress me so. Am I not capable of discipline of any sort? My tutor has decided to take draconian measures to keep my wild and untamed metaphors in check.
I want only that my grief be checked. The grief that in quite an admirable display of coquetry coaxes me to lie like a turquoise in the depths of the Teesta. The dream, the triumphant return of the exile weighs on my soul. The need of more beauty than mine is required to sustain you, him, a grief.



(Niggling passages. Albee's latest wasn't impressive.)

I doubt I shall be writing much for the next few weeks. The weeks past have been far too interesting for me to do it unnecessary violence by recording it. Oxford's been gentle so far; I have managed to write perfectly sensible essays without really reading the texts. That makes me happy. The ciabattas (excellent ones found in almost every shop) make me happy too. I am in love again. The tutorials once a week have softened the scars left from the numerous hours of being in lecture halls. Mike, my tutor of Ancient Philosophy, talks to me about coconut climbers and crocodiles. I am going to watch a silly musical in London, dance on a boat the same weekend and visit old friends.
Now is not the time to mull. I shall have my share of fun and frolic. I shall sing.

Augusts were glorious when I was in school. It was the busiest month for me in terms of quizzing.
This August I come across this church and a plaque so small one would never even notice it and ruefully acknowledge the three Augusts I have let pass without awakenings.

Question: We are celebrating the 70 year anniversary of which popular board game?

My answer, ludo, was wrong.
My indignation was wrong too; 2pac did sing "Missing You." His, I doubt, was dedicated to the memory of B.I.G.
My apologies to the Master.

Struggles could have been a dog I
Make houses shrink
And trees diminish
Marauders' eyes and one anna hats. By going far; my look's leash
Maiden's hair and shoe lace traps. Dangles the puppet-people
Actors' heath and bamboo rings. Who, unaware how they dwindle,
Coffee spoons and fake fish scales. Laugh, kiss, get drunk,
Laura and Lizzie dream ten times tonight. Nor guess that if I choose to blink
They die.

- Sylvia Plath

And now for some frivolity.

Waugh

I have desisted from writing about the immense pleasure Evelyn Waugh’s writing has always provided me with for various reasons that need not be recounted here. However, a recent re-perusal of Brideshead Revisited seemed to agree with the prevailing mood of hesitant anticipation of the year I shall spend in Waugh’s alma mater. So much so that I think it’s only right I share my new found state of warm waiting with the four (?) people who read this blog. Infact it even brought about strong bouts of giddy whoops when I successfully pulled out it’s tableau. I have one for every book and it is with some amount of pride that I say I could recall quite a few minute details. For example the strange turn of fancy that made me model Sebastian in the image of a young man whose picture I’d found in a book; Delinquent Chacha, I think it was. I also remember how I’d decided to name an ugly neck-less stuffed toy “Adrienne” much in the same vein of Sebastian’s “Aloysius.” I suppose this will disappoint some but my reckless christening of all objects dear is to be credited to Waugh and not Murakami. Yes, myths do edify quickly, do they not? And Stephen Fry hovers in the horizon for some strange reason. Awful isn’t it?
Any which way I shall promise some other time a fuller account of my Waugh-picaresque when I am settled in a ground floor room in the front quad - happy coincidence permitting . At present a very short snippet from Brideshead ought to do:

It was not until I was within a fortnight of going up that he mentioned the subject at all; then he said, shyly and rather slyly: “I’ve been talking about you. I met your future Warden at the Athenaeum. I wanted to talk about Etruscan notions of immortality; he wanted to talk about extension lectures for the working-class; so we compromised and talked about you. I asked him what your allowance should be…”

A good friend tells me that I should leave out the last line. But I insisted that it be included.

In a failed defense of the text and other four letter words

I’ve had to dive deep and long into that long forgotten, itinerant form called memory to be able to continue with my study of literature. For months I’ve been abandoning, little by little, plucking and casting away tools that I have been handed with purposes of dismantling; and reconstructing on the other hand the idyll, memories of which result in whimsical and ill advised (academically speaking) papers entitled “Bringing Lit back into the Crit.” What was supposed to have been a defense of the text has metamorphosed into a wobbly articulation of the bewilderment, resentment and loss that stabs incessantly, the intensity of which increases when having to write analytic papers longer than 7 pages. Negotiations and attempts at reconciliation have been numerous. A recent one being slicing the work into 1) the text and 2) the eminent progeny of the author - each existing independently of the other. I undertake this splintering in as non-Barthean an approach as possible. I encountered some resistance in putting forth the last stipulation and so am prepared to encounter some more from you. Although I do believe that some of you misunderstand me. I acknowledge the inescapability from the Barthean approach when I limit it to the realm of possibility. Oh, the joy that we are taught to feel for the endless possibilities within the chalked lines. This last half-hearted reconciliatory effort will not see further elucidation because I fear it borders on the plain ridiculous. Yea, I’ve always been aware that I did not possess the peasant-variety bullishness required of an academic.
I have decided (and perhaps the most important of my decisions stemming from my reconstructive phase is) not to deny having read the various pieces of literature that I had lovingly perused in days where I referred to everything as “stories.” You see after my first year in college I had determined to sift through all works familiar and then conclude if I had indeed read it. If I could not tease the work into a satisfactory state of having-been-read-ness I refused familiarity. I hadn’t the epistemic access then to comment on the amorphous nature of meaning (or the ability to toss about other such terms in the same way I did the Nepali-fied bong I interspered my discourses with back in school). Had I access to it I would have atleast written a humorous “Autobiography of a Word - Read” much like Pamuk’s little tidbits about coins and horses and colours. Epistemic access - I’ve been chided by several for using this phrase so flagrantly. So, it is only right that I leave you with a defense of sorts (how fitting to end it like this, no?). I use the word just as Monsieur Foucault is wont to use it; with all of its breaks and warts and moles.
Thereby I absolve myself of all guilt.

On a totally unrelated note I ask that you listen to Steve Reich’s music and read this. I have fallen in love with Reich’s music. "Check it out."

I am very very happy. Strawberry happy. Yellow happy. So happy I am not afraid to write it down. I told you I was on the brink of something, didn't I Sannie?

In Memoriam : The Spectre in the Mirror

What foolish pleasures I derive from myriad sources,
Have you any inkling of?
If only I could have read to you.
Why are all blown into closures as I walk and walk?

Non, je ne regrette rien. C'est vrai.



Discarding winter dourness and the accompanying maudlinism with the inimitable Edith Piaf.

darjeeling

I will be going home soon. I shall have to settle for "happiness" to describe what I feel, failing to find a word for the cool vapors that tickle my insides and make me cry with the relief I feel when I get something I want. I don't miss Darjeeling. Darjeeling is too large for me to miss. It embraces hamlets and pockets of human habitation I have never visited or even known to exist. What I miss then are my own experiences and darjeeling. The darjeeling I drew; the map of darjeeling with short cuts marked out by me, the people's houses I traversed impishly and the stubborn resistance of the flights of stairs to being quantified. Every time I have thought about darjeeling these two years I have never failed to conjure first the image of the "70 Steps." How many places, I wonder, have as many "stairs" as darjeeling does. When coming back from school we would decide if we wanted to climb all four stairs. Sometimes we would count the number of steps as we climbed up. The number always varied. I had a favourite, the stair leading up to Tara Hotel and leading down to Rink Cinema Hall. Rink Cinema Hall no longer stands, they tell me. A multiplex has been erected in its place. Does it sadden me? No, it doesn't. The Hall was ugly and smelt of piss. I just feel a little betrayed by the tiny cottage that served as a homeopathic store. For years they had held out against the builders. They sold out the year before last. I am angered too. I had never been inside the store and only knew of it as the purveyor of tiny white pills that my friend took for her moles to disappear. I feel deprived of the long-warranted visit. I just hope the tiny eateries are not bought by contractors who come back from the "plains" with dreams of making Darjeeling into a gaudy little outpost of mindless consumerism. Be that as it may I shall now talk about the flight of stairs I mentioned earlier. It is untidily set between rows of buildings. Climbing the stairs on our way home made us all happy. The exhaust fan of Washington (?) warmed our cold stockinged legs. We would linger on that step and hope the warmth would fortify us for the 15 more minutes of walking up the hill. The stairs are privy to countless stories. Stories I told them, stories I was told. It was also the stairs I climbed with a sharp and a then new awareness of occupying an other's map. When we reached the top my friend and I had to part ways. I would have to turn right and she left. I would walk past chai dokaans that sold chai, jalebis, rasogollas, shingaras, ladoos and other forbidden delights. We were forbidden to buy anything from shops like that in uniform. Sometimes I took a chance anyway. All of this reminds me of my school uniform; grey and shapeless; it made me feel secure in its lack of colour. Ah, but I fear I prattle too freely. Let us leave my reminiscences at that. I shall come back to it again soon. I still have Chowrasta to talk about and Daara, Oxford, the only book store in town, Bholaa's aloo, Kev's...

Pro~po~gundah



I found myself singing about ek ghilahri, anek ghilahriya for my Russian friend just last night. Therefore, I am pleased and bewildered at having come across the video today. The strangeness of its materialising is further compounded by the intertexuality of it all. You see, my week -long nocturnal jousting with Said ends today.
I am happy.

At 3 in the morning I realize how much time I have wasted.
I will waste some more.
I look at pictures, mine and yours.
I can always slice away at un-selves caked onto me, in the mornings.
I want to wail.
I rise.
Laconia.
My brilliance, they tell me, will never let me be.
But, but, but.
I don’t want a Gala.
All fall down.
Distend.

Effrontery

It isn't very often that I despise a book. Accusations of e~l~i~t~i~s~m rising out of my instinctual dislike of bestsellers, and harbouring a profound distrust of anything that has been inscribed upon by the Women's Era-type book clubs I have tried to quel. Exculpating onself is so hard these days, especially when one happens to be a scholar of Literature. But before I start writing about the perils of being a littérateur (I promise a post about the perils after my duel with the exams) I shall make known my views of a certain Danielewski's "House of Leaves."
I dislike the book.*
Nothing about or in the book has any redeeming qualities.
I feel I have been basking in the warm ambivalence that my present phase has been emanating for far too long. Therefore, no wishy-washy 10-page paper about latent/hidden from the untrained eyes of sophomores/possible greatness of a text this.
*This...a one sentence bilious verdict.

Malbouffe

Various pieces of music I have been listening to and have been made to listen to have put me in a particularly gravid state where it sloshes about (not unharmoniously, though). Writing about it appears to me the only way to help settle this pabulum. It will take time but here's what I will be writing about in a notebook that has already seduced a page and two quarters from me:

Descent into the Maelstrom - Philip Glass (apropos Glenn Freeman)
1000 Airplanes on the Roof - Philip Glass ( " " )
Soli e Deuttini - Milton Babbitt

Babbitt I listened to out of pure narcissism. But that too shall be explored later.