The wisdom of Shashi Tharoor

The following excerpt is from Tharoor's The Great Indian Novel. To make understanding easier for the reader, a very short preamble - the novel presents modern Indian political history through the characters of the Mahabharata (hence the title). The passage presented here is Tharoor's take on history and memory. Brief list of parallels: 
Gangaji - M.K. Gandhi
Bibigarh Gardens - Jallianwala Bagh
Pandu - Vallabhbhai Patel Netaji Subhas Bose
Dhritharashtra - Jawaharlal Nehru

Independence was not won by a series of isolated incidents but by the constant, unremitting actions of thousands, indeed hundreds of thousands of men and women across the land. We tend, Ganapathi, to look back on history as if it were a stage play, with scene building upon scene, our hero moving from one action to the next in his remorseless stride to the climax. Yet life is never like that. If life were a play the noises offstage, and for that matter the sounds of the audience, would drown out the lines of the principal actors. That, of course, would make for a rather poor take; and so the recounting of history is only the order we artificially impose upon life to permit its lessons to be more clearly understood.

So it is, Ganapathi, that in this memoir we light up one corner of our collective past at a time, focus on one man's actions, one village's passion, one colonel's duty, but all the while life is going on elsewhere, Ganapathi: as the shots ring out in the Bibigarh Gardens babies are being born, nationalists are being thrown into prison, husbands are quarrelling with wives, petitions are being filed in courtrooms, stones being flung at policemen, and diligent young Indian students are sailing to London to sit for the examinations that will permit them to rule their own people in the name of an alien king. It is no different for the protagonists of our story, the little band of individuals and families selected from the swirling mists of an old man's memory to represent a past in which others too have played a significant but unrecalled part. Time did not stand still for them as Ganga plodded through Motihari or starved to such good purpose in Budge Budge. No, Ganapathi, our friends too lived and breathed and thought and worked and prayed and (except for Pandu) copulated the while, their endeavours unrecorded in these words you have so labouriously transcribed. History marched on, leaving only a few footprints on our pages. Of its deep imprints on other sands, you do not know because I do not choose to wash in the waters that have swept them away.

The compelling thing about Tharoor's book is that it packs wit, laugh-out-loud humour and wisdom often in the scope of the same line. And as far as I have read, there have been no faultlines. It's promising to be very enjoyable throughout - not in the least because Tharoor's recounting and evaluation of history, of which his current party has a major chunk of the action, is balanced and honest. I mean, did those self-righteous protectors of the honour of middle-class Indians travelling by air (read, the ilk of Tom Vadhakkan) read Tharoor's books before they allowed him a ticket? I doubt! Those tweets are far less forthright and biting than what's in TGIN.

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The opening chapters of the Mahabharat are real saucy, I'm having a roll imagining chaste good-natured grandmas of bygone generations stumbling over those parts while reading out to their wide-eyed patient grandchildren.

Rewind... Fast forward

I've been rather desperate to get down with writing some movie reviews for the past two weeks, given that my diet of cinematographic pieces, old and new, has been rather steady-- at least, one a day, and on some, two-- for the same period. Whenever I watch a film that I really like and have something to say about (which isn't always: some I love, but don't have anything to add in the form of appraisal or criticism), my temper gets a bit itchy unless I get down to the job. Given this nugget of a fact-- it's not without considerable restraint on my part that I've kept my promise of not writing a movie review after three straight ones preceding this current post! But, also, keeping in mind my record and inherent ability to be simultaneously dual, and possibly treading on what the great Siddhartha called the Middle Path-- this actually is a movie review, and a book review, and something more. Not with much of a disguise, I suppose. My aim is not to write the great mystery novel anyway. Enough of this bullshit beating about the bush and let's get down to the heart of the thing, if that's the phrase I was really looking for (if more-or-less avid readers find a shade of Wodehouse-ian humour in this introductory paragraph, it's not completely unfounded, let me assure you!)-- children.

Now, of course, children are cuddled by almost everyone-- as they indeed should be, till it doesn't start getting on their nerves-- but it's no small wonder when you start realising that the adjectives that qualify a little child are not just "sweet" and "cute". If anything, their ability to detect the true essence of almost anything that really matters is nothing short of uncanny-- I've met lots of kids who can make out good people from bad, though they can't of course articulate what it exactly is that makes a man good or bad in the first place. It is intuition that guides them in making choices like these, and funnily enough, they have little in the form of experience that helps them form an intuition. Isn't that a mystery then, how they know the very basics of moral judgement (be it in a rudimentary stage) without any external influence of any sort! To me, it is. That it is without any external influence is actually a great thing if you ask me-- the child's conscience still retains the pristine purity of something untouched by artificiality or evil, of any form. The sad thing is that in one of every thousand cases or so (or maybe an even smaller fraction-- I don't know what!) as the child grows up, his intuition is shaped by external factors, and shaped in a bad way. Which, of course, is mostly due to a grave mistake on the part of parents. Instead of clearly telling the child what is right and wrong, most parents try to shield children completely away from all wrong-- knowing well in their hearts that evil is sure to creep into the untrampled consciousness of the little one sooner or later. 'Creep' is the word, because it catches the child unaware, slowly tempting him into falsehood and untruth, all along quiet and imperceptible. Wouldn't it have been better just to show evil for what it is, maybe in a suitable and subtle manner, and give the child a fair idea of what he must resist as he starts absorbing the 'practical' ways of the world? That's just one of the several complaints about parenting I have, but digress I must not (maybe, if time and my whim destines so, I'll post a long essay on the subject-- something which has been drafted and saved permanently into my memory).

So where was I? Intuition. Which brings me to another I-word: intellect. The intellect of the child far outshines that of the grown-up. Be it the willingness to listen to the yarns from old grandpa or grandma, the instinctive questions that prop up as he starts learning the basics of science, and in my personal opinion (one that is thankfully shared by many great philosophers of the day and yore), some of the deepest questions in philosophy-- where did we come from, where did he come from, and where do we go; why is it that the Earth has been chosen for human existence of all heavenly bodies that we do know of, and what exactly is it that we are living for... Too many questions, and not without surprise, too few answers. Or maybe, too few people capable of understanding the questions to even start thinking about the answers! Predictably, a lot of these questions are dismissed as random banter-- but of course, that couldn't be far from the truth. It isn't hard to see why the gurukul system admitted mostly little children (at least, that's what I know!)-- the guru knew well enough that the most thoughtful and intelligent questions would come from the little toddlers barely capable of speaking clearly, and that these little children would be both the most attentive and intelligent audience he could wish for!

Another I-word for the record: imagination. That a child has in plentiful! There is no bound to his imagination-- and even the most unnoticed and silent of objects lying about in the melee of our day-to-day life can fire up his own wishful world of seeing what adults can't. Uh, adults can see little anyway-- they spend all their lives chasing nothing, nothing of real value anyway, and die unhappy. Well, most of them do. They are interested in what they call the real world, and tax their brains on stock markets, success, fame, money, power and what not. They sometimes have loads of that, and still they want more. And still more. They do not see that happiness eludes them, that peace leaves them sooner than they could have imagined. Oh, I forgot, adults can't imagine! They scorn the child for his ability, and ask him to prepare themselves for the fruitless endless chase of whatever practical mumbo-jumbo it is that they pursue. Not for once do they see that reality extends beyond what meets the eye. Reality is, in essence, abstract; well, real reality is, anyway! You create your own reality, and what is real to one may not be to others. Isn't it wise to practise and learn the art of creating reality than seeing what every other average Joe can-- a reality that has been met with common consensus (which naturally, following the example of the highest common factor, stands as the thing of least worth)?? The grown-up does not realise this, but he is scorned by children far more than he scorns their apparent childishness. When a child imagines a thing that is beyond the realm of 'practicality' (in my opinion, one of the several catchphrases which most adults use without pondering over or even knowing it's meaning!), he silently taunts and challenges the grown-up. Some of the greatest innovations and discoveries have in fact been extensive evaluations of little observations that children noticed. Recall: James Watt was a little child when he noticed the kettle singing, and his mind suddenly wondered why was it so. Was there a ghost somewhere inside that made the kettle hum so, and rattle its lid about? From that grew possibly the greatest invention of the industrial revolution: the steam engine! Think of our little Ishan, the protagonist of Taare Zameen Par, who imagined a great lot and painted his imagination in bold colours!

The child's ability to feel and express emotions far extends that of his elders. Whether it be a sudden unprecedented smile, or the look of wonder at having discovered a little something that has a natural charm of it's own, the quiet serene look of having all that he needs in the world, the playful cackle that precedes a small act of mischief, the hung-down face on the brink of bursting into tears... It all identifies the capricious child, and sets him apart. None of it is plastic, there because it has to be there, made-up or silly! He encompasses the whole world in his own little expressions of joy and sorrow. He is the antidote to the cynic's bitterness, a little reason to live on between the madness of this world that is both unthinkably cruel and randomly kind. The child feels for his dear ones without knowing why he must. He has guilt and conscience, and when he has done a little something wrong, his face expresses it better than words can!

When the wise sage called children the messengers of God, he wasn't joking at all. If there is hope for mankind, it is in following the way of the children. In deciding what is truly necessary to be happy and contented, in simple little ways much like toddlers, and what is lumber and can be easily laid down for good! If there is one thing that you can start doing today, respect little ones. A little less respect to elders would do no harm, believe me. As for me, in the footsteps of countless philosophers, thinkers, artists and my dearest friend, I vow never to grow up! :)

In case you're wondering what made me write this post, there are a few people I'd like to mention, without taking their names. My most baby-like dear friend, of course, and a little niece who adores me, and another very sensitive little child I know. And some people who have years behind them but are still child-like in many an aspect. Among other inspirations: Antoine de Saint-Exupéry's The Little Prince, parts of Khaled Hosseini's The Kite Runner, and Majid Majidi's Bacheha-Ye Aseman (Children of Heaven). All lovely pieces about the delightful world of children. Makes me want to become a leedle kid yet again!

P.S.-- Now some childish banter on my part. I was expecting a wee bit of extra response to my previous post on Ikiru, ah but anyway... Now, I suppose, I can get back to movie reviews yet again.

'Shei Shomoy' (Those days) by Sunil Gangopadhyay

I finished 'Shei Shomoy' (or 'Those Days', which I guess you have already read and enjoyed!) finally-- was a rather long, but equally enjoyable,read! I rate it as one of the best novels ever written in the historical fiction genre. To start with, the blend of real-life stars of yesteryears with fictional characters was awesome, to say the least. Vidyasagar, not really the protagonist in the book, strangely left the most lasting impression in my mind. In fact, now I have placed Vidyasagar up there in my list of the greatest men to have graced India-- along with Tagore, and my idol Gandhiji. Nabinkumar, and more importantly Ganganarayan, his elder brother, come just behind Vidyasagar. I literally wept when Ganganarayan's love, Bindubaashini died, ending her miserable life-- not only did she have to stay away from the man she loved, but she was already a widow; and then she had to stand the humiliation of being someone's hired prostitute in Benaras. And still she found enough reason to continue living after having a child!


And then when Ganga returned to fulfill his incomplete duties towards the farmers whom he once ruled, I couldn't help but idolise the man for his extreme sense of responsibility. It was somewhat good that Ganga learnt to love again-- his marriage to Kusumkumari was blissful.While Kusumkumari found a new lease of life, after her hellish marriage with a madman, Ganga found a reason to continue living. And given the useless and dreamy romantic that I am, I was of course quite happy for the two. It was also touching to note how Ganga remembers Bindu, saying that while he once again found life and love, she had to die a sad woman.


Nabinkumar (who is, I guess, based on Kaliprasanna Singha) is an altogether different story. The extremely whimsical, and yet superbly talented and kind-hearted, Nabin is torn between two different worlds. He leaves the world in a turmoil-- with lots of unfinished duties, dreams and ambitions. Nabin, is in my eyes, the best of Bengali multi-millionaires we've heard of. Not only is he extremely sensible and humane, he is always in search of something good and noble. And while all the others babus are busy engaging in wine and women, Nabin writes extensively, and tries to rid the society of evils. A rather nice thing about Nabin is that he likes people who speak frankly, and not sycophants and flatterers. One of the more subtle points in the whole book is the love triangle of Nabin, Ganga and Kusum. Nabin seems to love his wife, Sarojini, and yet he has very deep emotions for Kusumkumari. Nabin avoids talking much to Kusum, because he doesn't want to affect his brother's and his wife's lives. The more intriguing question is that: does Kusum love Nabin? Certainly seems so. After Nabin's death, Kusum is silently mourning. And yet Kusum actually still loves her husband Ganga. Isn't love a strange, and yet very beautiful, thing? Seems so to me!


Harish Mukherjee and Chandranath (the son of the prostitute 'Heera Bulbul') leave their footprints on my mind too. Harish is a tireless fighter, waging wars against oppression (and ultimately dying, leaving the whole thinking world in sorrow), while Chandranath has to fight society all his life long. Chandranath, an extremely intelligent and sensitive boy, is thrown out of school, and later hurt badly, only because he is the son of a prostitute. This makes me question: are we to blame the prostitutes for the sex trade? Don't the two-faced babus themselves go to the sex-workers, and later treat the same people as scum? Isn't the world a hypocrite's paradise? Determined to fight on, Chandranath returns as a gentleman, to eradicate blind-belief in sadhus, yogis and other crooks. It's quite funny to see how Chandranath turns the 'faithful' crowd of devotees against the very babas they worship. Ironically, Chandranath still has to fight society-- babus burn his house down and hurt him very badly, because he saves a prostitute from the hungry and violent claws of the rich and the famous. It's a cruel decision of fate by which Chandranath and Nabin never get to become good friends-- something that has saddened me quite a lot. The other figures whom I shall distinctly and fondly remember are Raimohan (I believe each society needs a master whistle-blower like him), 'Young Bengal', and of course, Michael Madhusudhan Dutta.


The hate-figures finally! Barring the usual plethora of disgusting babus and orthodox Hindus, I hated Bidhushekhar the most. Strange, isn't it? Let me explain. Bidhu never looked at Bimbabati with respect-- all he had for her was lust. What was most disgusting was the way Bidhu forgave his lust all by himself-- all the while saying that Ganga was wrong to desire his daughter, Bindu. That is damned hypocrisy! Also worth mention is the attitude with which Bidhu treated the Singhas-- he kept repeating in his mind that he could destroy the Singhas if he wished too, and the only reason why he didn't do so was his love for his late friend Ramkamal Singha. I believe no true friend ever thinks such about a "dear friend's" family! Also in the list of hate-figures is Thaakomoni, the widowed woman who went onto become a servant, and then the boss of them, in the Singha mansion. One can say that fate had forced her to become the way she was-- I say that if we don't allow fate to take control of us, we can always be free.

The Deathly Hallows.....

So, here I am. And I can barely control the flow of emotions and thoughts filling in my mind. Voldemort's finished and Harry, the Chosen One, has won. But does that say everything about the last instalment of the brilliant Harry Potter series? Well, yes and no. Yes, because good has triumphed over evil (and that's one thing that should theoretically mean 'all you had to know'), and no, because that doesn't say anything about HOW good triumphed over evil. That doesn't say how MUCH good had to pay to win. That doesn't say how MANY battles, both within the self and outside it, had to be won. And that doesn't say anything about the breathtaking book this is all about: Harry Potter and The Deathly Hallows.

Having finished the book in a blitz, I just can't get my thoughts under control. I can't decide if I should smile or cry. There's plenty of reason to do both: some of my very favourite characters (Dobby, Lupin, Tonks, Moody, Fred to name a few) died to make their (and this) world a better place. I cried inside my mind each time I encountered the news of the death of some Order member. But then, there's plenty to smile about too! One, Harry has defeated Voldemort, and this time willingly and with planned determination. And then, to my great relief, Snape was proved innocent and an indeed good and noble man. Dumbledore WASN'T wrong when he had trusted Snape. And believe me, o reader, that this is the first time I really cried and felt sorry for Snape. I always had the gut feeling that he was on Dumbledore's side, and I'm extremely happy that things turned out that way. That was the second reason to be happy about, though. The third, well you can call me a teenaged fool if you wish, is that Harry and his friends finally found a happy and carefree life. I can't express how happy I felt when I read about Ron and Hermione's and Harry and Ginny's marriage, though that was almost fully known to me by the time the 6th book ended.


But keep aside the emotions for the moment, and we shall return to them in due course. Because if you haven't yet figured out: Rowling's books are evergreen for the magic of emotions, of love and happiness, and the fight between good and evil: a magic more real than charms and spells and strangely-named amazing creatures. Look into the deep philosophy that Rowling has offered. The Dark Lord, who is the most feared wizard of all time, is a very frightened man himself: for he fears death. And he knows not what love and true happiness are. He knows only power and more power, but since when has blind power led to a man's rise to victory? What power is more powerful than true love and friendship and trust?-- things that Voldemort has never known or felt. And therefore underestimated. And therein lies his own fate written by none but himself. Voldemort chose to rush his own death, and he paid dearly for it. Think: true victory is not in conquering death, it's in facing death bravely and willingly, maybe if only death can set some things right. For once and all, can't we understand this deepest of messages? Consider how many Potter fans there are all around the globe. But how many of them have looked at the books this way: as an epic, as a Bible (I go so far as to give it equal status with any of the great scriptures of the world, and that doesn't at all mean that I've gone crazy!), as a guide to rule our lives? How many?


The reason why I think that this book is excellent is that it showed how even the greatest of people can be mistaken at times. How these people, almost superhuman in their nature, can forgive, trust and honour even the simplest of people. When Dumbledore guiltily confesses that he was once a deluded power-seeker, he has genuine remorse in his voice. He knows how one wrong decision on his part had led to his family's breakdown. When Ron gets impatient and leaves Harry and Hermione to fight by themselves, but realising his mistake comes back and saves Harry, I am happy beyond words. For true friendship can't be broken so easily: and inspite of minor and temporary differences, true friends can never stop being worried about each other.


And then when you start praising Rowling for her skill, her meticulous and fool-proof planning, combined with her capability to write such deeply, you can't help but rever her. Every small detail Rowling mentioned before has some or the other signficance: who could have done such a huge job so well?


There are certain words that remain etched in my memory.
Wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure.

Here Lies Dobby, a Free Elf.

[Harry:] Is this real? Or has this been happening inside my head?
[Dumbledore:] Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?


And there are many more words that could make the list. So much to be said but so little time to write down. As a parting thought: for each Voldemort the world has produced, there always has been a Harry Potter, a Ron, a Hermione, a Snape, a Dumbledore, a Dobby, a Fred, A Lupin, A James............ Evil has never won for long, and never will so happen in near or distant future.


Real people have always been true heroes. If you thought that I read the whole series just to look beyond the mundane and ordinary world, you couldn't have been wronger. And I was more of a Dumbledore fan before; I can say that I'm truly a Potter fan now...