Books of June 2009
1. The Britannica Guide to The Islamic World (Non-Fiction)
Alright I never finished this book ( though I had picked it up in May itself, remember?). My bad. This book was not just a book after all. It was a fucking encyclopedia – as expected. It was non-juicy – again, as expected. I did read three of the five parts though. No, I don’t remember much of what I read. I seriously think that I need to re-read the book to remember even a quarter of the history stuff that it has.
2. Graphic Design – a concise history by Richard Hollis (Non-fiction)
All I can say is that you don’t need to read it till you really really care about the history of Graphic Art. This book was full of names – Russian, Americans, Germans, Brits, French and Swiss. Like that book on Islam , I don’t remember much of what I read but I do appreciate this whole deal about the evolution of Graphic Designing better now. I do know what Dada means or for that matter Avante Garde. I also know that Lissitzky played an important role. The bottomline is that now, if I am thrown amidst a bunch of fanatic graphic designers and they start speaking shit about the early days of photomontage, I won’t freak out and kill them. I might actually ask them what their opinion on ‘The Constructor’ is. 
3. The Collected Short Storis of Roald Dahl (Fiction)
Two collections – a) Kiss Kiss & b) Swith Bitch were kickass. The other’s weren’t. In any case, not even a single story was so bad that you could skip it. So I read the entire book – 760 pages. My recommendation to those who haven’t read Roald Dahl would be to read at least the four stories in Switch Bitch. They are hilariously ironic and exemplify black humor. Thereafter, if you like the guy, you can pick up Kiss Kiss. But don’t venture beyond that.
4. Indian Identity by Sudhir Kakar (Non-Fiction)
This one was once again a collection where you got to read 3 books in one. All of them were psychoanalysis of Indians. The first book (Intimate Relations) analyzed the psychology of sexual behaviour of Indians. The second one (Analyst and the Mystic) tried to explain what goes inside the minds of the Indians who choose to become mystics. The last in the series (The Colours of Violence) was a psychoanalyst’s effort to deconstruct the minds of those who participate in riots.
I recommend this book to everyone. A novice could have written boring shitty crap but Kakar has kept all the three parts interesting. His funda to sustain a reader’s interest is simple – talk about stories – real and mythological and talk about personal experiences of junta in their own words. So you get to read a lot of interesting stuff – interviews of lower class women about their sexual experiences and their married life styles, extracts of Gandhi’s letters and his autobiography, mythological stories about Ganesha and Shiva and Vishnu, opinions of pahalwans on riots in Hyderabad etc. Of course all these stories and interviews and opinions are followed by his explanation of varied behaviours – but the balance is such that you really do absorb most of what he has to say. Thumbs up.
5. Sea of Poppies by Amitav Ghosh (fiction)
Picked it up this Sunday itself and have read only 1/5th so far. This is my first Amitav Ghosh. This one is the first in the series of a trilogy (the other two books haven’t come out yet). I don’t want to comment any further on this book till I have finished it. All I can say is, I am hopeful of it being a rather good story. By the way, Neelabh, if you are reading this post – some characters speak Bhojpuri in this book, so you might as well pick it up and read.
Happy reading everbody!
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Between Floating
There is this feeling of floating. Floating in air. The air is mostly humid. Flesh wet. Occasionally it gets hot. Occasionally, air turns into water. Liquid. Cold. Warm. Boiling. Gravity is mostly weak. The difference between closed eyes and open eyes is marginal. I talk and yet I am silent. I smile and yet I am lost. I work and yet I am asleep. I might be floating, but a particular direction of flow, there is none. Bubbles surround me. Some burst the moment they are sighted. Some grow in size, and then burst. Sometimes I am floating alone – everything else left glowing white by sun’s glare. At other times, it is dark. In the moon-light, I can see bodies other than mine. Some stink. Some smell of jasmine. They all float. Once in a while, a drifting body gently collides with my own flesh. Liquid turns to solid. Everything freezes. The limbs, the eyes. The entire body. And yet breathes the soul. The soul whispers something sweet. I smile. I chuckle. I am a kid who is floating no more. I am running. I am running with a grin on my face and a spring in my legs. I am running with a glow in my chin and a shining shin. I am running over water and running over air. I run, and then I trot, and then I stride and then I slow down and then I fall and then I drown. I go deep inside till I touch the bottom. And then I feel something. There is this feeling of floating.
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When I went to see the Ratha
I am sure there are more sarkari holidays in Bhubaneswar than anywhere else in India. Yesterday was a holiday. Yesterday was Ratha Yatra. I went to Puri to witness the religious tamasha. I went pretty early – eightish in the morning. Crowd had only started to build up. There was a wide paved road with hotels and shops on both sides. Between the edges of the road and the permanent structures along the road, lay several vendors – some selling jadibuti, some beads – some selling miniature wooden idols of Jagannath, some water. There was energy in the air. It was hot and sunny and humid but the heat was less than what it had been a day ago – thanks to the faint presence of clouds. As I walked on the road, passing one vendor after another, I saw three red coloured temple-domes on one end. I kept walking in their direction till I was close enough. They were red coloured wooden temples – three in number – built atop a wooden platform. The platform was supported on wooden wheels. This was the Ratha – the chariot. The yatra (journey) would begin only later in the afternoon.
One couldn’t go all the way to the Ratha. I went as far as one could – a mere hundred meters away from the wooden structure. A line of CRPF jawans formed a human chain that ran parallel to a rope-chain. On one side of the chain were the Ratha and the pandas (priests) and the volunteers. On the other side were the devotees and I. I had a camera. I shot pictures. I stood right next the to the barricade. Few volunteers were busy sprinkling thin spray of water over everyone’s head. Everyone who didn’t have a camera liked the sprinkling – it gave a lot of relief to the body being tortured under the sun. I tried my best to keep my camera dry. I more or less succeeded. I got bored and moved away from the Rath. I was still amidst the crowd. The crowd was building up. Every second.
There was a middle-aged red coloured hanuman swaying his cheap golden gada around to get some attention. He got a lot of attention. The hanuman loved it when I took his pictures – he knew how to pose when in front of the camera. Hanuman was not alone. He had a middle-aged friend with a shining paunch over which ran a thin line of hair. His entire body glittered like gold – thanks to the chemical lotion he had applied all over his skin. He wielded a sword now and then and almost always maintained a dumb killer look in his eyes. Mythology was bright and gleaming out there in the open. So were the admirers – both rich and poor.
The poor dressed in bright, gay and flashy clothes ambled around flashing their white teeth over their tanned skins. They looked more happy than excited. They were as happy as children. The not so poor ones, dressed in lighter shades tried to compensate for their lack of child like happiness with that extended bout of excitement that engulfed them. There were losers too. They were the ones sitting in comfort of the hotel balconies, sitting under shades, blowing fans with hands and with their eyes – looking below at the Ratha and the fervent crowd that smelt of sweat and incense. Everything that could be sold was being sold – peacock feathers, cheap chunris, books on religion printed on recycled paper, flutes, plastic whistles and space on hotel balconies that promised eagle views. There were saints and sanyasis – some sitting quietly while others charged up beating dhols and singing bhajans.
All the while I was there, the Ratha never moved. I returned. I returned via Konark because the Bhubaneswar Puri road had been turned one-way yesterday. So I spent some time in Konark – in the Sun temple. It immediately reminded me of Khajuraho. It was a shade smaller. The sculptures were a shade less erotic. But it was good. It was brownish, stony, arty, spacious, enchanting, erotic, attractive and rustic.
Dark clouds hovered all over Bhubaneswar in the evening and later light rains did occur. I lived yet another day.
PS: Pics of Puri | Pics of Konark
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