thesocratespot: LIII - Annie and the Underworld 1

thesocratespot: LIII - Annie and the Underworld 1: Annie was disgusted, the guy Schreidhorn, who impressed her at Oxford and then who happened to also meet her at the Cambridge get toge...

LIII - Annie and the Underworld 1

Annie was disgusted, the guy Schreidhorn, who impressed her at Oxford and then who happened to also meet her at the Cambridge get together.Kind of impressed her. 

He introduced himself as Shrek, and he had carried out an impressive talk on Schopenhauer, during Oxfords Golden Jubilee conference of the John Locke lecture series, they were then together at the after party, Prof. Bernstein had to attend to several other friends and  acquaintances - Annie’s presentation on the potential of Nucleic, Cellular and Cosmic aspects of Philosophy was simply the most sensational presentation at the conference, Prof. Bernstein had introduced her as his enemy and nemesis to the audience.

Annie proved it.

With such aggression.

Many of Prof. Bernstein’s colleagues, friends and admirers were left a bit burnt.  

But should Annie care ?

Not the least .

When it came to her subject she was merciless.

Ruthless.

Brutal.

Her points even during the ‘Q & A’ post presentation were so well researched and presented, even the most senior luminary present had to take cover in case he , she entered the post presentation Q & A session with a question.

But once all that was over, she was out partying.

She jumped in with this new wondeerboy ‘Shrek’ and was off plundering various eastern Philosophy myths like Shiva the mystique, Rama of Ethics and Krishna of love, sex and erotica.  Durga the feminine barbarian.

To defend ‘Shrek’ , he was indeed brilliant, but he was so brilliant he felt every other fellow human equally intelligent, he couldn’t help ‘coz otherwise he couldn’t relate with the world around him .

Other things like Music, Rock n Roll were etc’s of his intellectual life.

Nothing much.  

When Annie met ‘Shrek’ , he was way too enamoured by her, he simply had no words to describe the feeling, while She was taking all the envy, the admiration, the patronage, the jealousy , the hate and the wish that ‘I wish I were Annie’ feeling among many, with nervous and ‘not quite natural’ aplomb.

They kept bumping on each other , since the after theme party was that of an impromptu rotating Tango party where the moment the music started you had to dance with the person standing next to you.

When the music stopped you just let her go.

You could talk to her . Hold her.

Even propose.

But then it’s entirely different with Annie.   

It was then that he proposed a Rock n Roll + Trance show follow up at Lisbon, over a rare Depeche Mode + Tiesta concert.

Pretty rare.

He was this 6’ something, white, glib talking, reasonably savvy, had a swagger of a confidence that seemed to be something of an embellishment meant to make men, women, girls swoon and eat from his palms.   

And it worked . Famously.

Listen, give a 6 footer with a face of a Asian slum pig and a matching body and gait.

Women, across any part of the world will still love him just for physical fantasy.

Listen Physics matter . They do.

But then , often chemistry matters too.

So

Love

Infatuation

Doubt

Infatuation

Doubt

Vomit

size

Love

Clarity

Doubt

Height

Love

Empathy

Sympathy

Pity

Love

Hate

Doubt

Colour

Intellect

Style

Food

Habits

Tongue

Saliva

Alcohol

Wretched

Doubt.

Wretched

Doubt.

Rage, Row, Anger , Disgrace.   

Yet

Love.

That’s love. 

thesocratespot: LII : Yours truly

thesocratespot: LII : Yours truly: Faith is a generic word Love, God , Religion too very, very generic Mother Father Brother Sister Wife ...

LII : Yours truly

Faith is a generic word

Love, God , Religion

too

very, very generic

Mother

Father

Brother

Sister

Wife

Husband

Daughter

Son

Generic

Generic

Generic

Friendship?

Archaic.

Stop laughing .  

Work

 is the only serious word

you either

work

or

you

die

unemployed .

thesocratespot: LI : The verse

thesocratespot: LI : The verse: It wasn't like what it was something kept changing something kept clawing eating, cutting, searing yet something remaine...

LI : The verse

It wasn't like what it was

something kept changing

something kept clawing

eating, cutting, searing

yet

something remained

but

something slipped

yet

something grabbed

yet

something simply

blew up

and then

something

shut itself

so completely

out

completely

there was no world

no sky

no brothers

no sisters

no one

No mother

either

nothing  

Well that

Something

Remained

What I’m

What I call

Me. 

thesocratespot: L- Milonga Economics and The Tango at Lisbon.

thesocratespot: L- Milango Economics and The Tango at Lisbon.: Ann was not back at the Harvard, She was with a new date She met at Cambridge, they were both doing the rounds around Lisbon. Dan wa...

L- Milonga Economics and The Tango at Lisbon.

Ann was not back at the Harvard, She was with a new date She met at Cambridge, they were both doing the rounds around Lisbon.

Dan wasn’t in Bolivia, Henry Hoffman, his Editor-In-Chief, had called and asked him to proceed to Buenos Aires instead.

Dan and Ann weren’t together, they had split, disgusted with the event at The Royal Albert Hall, London, but they both knew their whereabouts.

For Dan the story was that the European economy was tanking and a few American and African neighbours were responsible.

But that wasn’t the reason the Generals had their guns out. Suddenly the political map of 2 of the planet’s most ancient Continents, except South Africa, had turned themselves suburban, they were either trapped under a Military rule or were caught in a civil war or were experiencing chaos and Anarchy.

And Reuters sensed that somehow the events were leading to a World Wide crisis. And they knew Danny was the best to collect the ground level perspective.

As to Ann She was with a Student of Philosophy from the Berlin University, who had come to visit Cambridge on an exchange note, during the conference, found him interesting and then they were off.  

For some Sex, Philosophy and fun.

For Dan it was a sensitive Political assignment.

Buenos Aires was going for another election, it was rumoured that the Ex President Nestor Kirchner’s widow Christina Kirchner was going for the full monty. She had to.

It was all or nothing, for her party The Fronte Paro la Victoria and the tri party confrontation between The Front of The Popular Movement led by Adolfe Rodriguez Saa and The Front For Loyalty belonging to the fast sinking boat of Carlos Menem, a twice President of Argentina, whose popularity was plunging, both in his country and outside, taking away the frontline access that he had to the likes of Ronald Reagan, Mikhail Gorbachev, Indira Gandhi, Mubarak and even Zhao Zhiyang the Chinese Premiere during his hay days, he, Menem, was rumoured even for a Nobel.   

Until the day it came to light that he was a part of a corruption scandal into Millions of Dollars and that he was also sympathetic to Iran and Iraq due to the Oil connection.

When Dan landed Argentina was caught in a state of frenzy. He and his friend, Photographer, Brian Messe, were in for a huge amount of action. Daniel always enjoyed watching, observing Nations across different parts of the planet transform themselves from being a weak and insipid Political Economy to a vibrant, thriving buzz. Their cycle often involved vast Political and Civilian struggles to engage and change into a responsible Democratic society and coming to terms with aspects of Capitalism – somehow the two always seemed corollaries.

Democracy and Capitalism – the increasing weakness of Socialism were becoming embarrassing, even to many hard core leftists.      

South America has always been this ‘ we love a political mess’ kind of a continent. While all its political pangs and upheavals across Chile, Argentina, Brazil, or Bolivia, Columbia and Venezuela deserve to be termed more as an aspect of Political evolution and the problems related to citizen apathy than say a corresponding problem of the continent, lying exactly opposite viz Africa.   

Being a crossbreed of Spanish emotions and native American naivety. The region’s emotions- its revolutions, riots, coups were all different in Character in comparison to say a similar coup or a riot in Africa or say in regions like Egypt or Istanbul. Daniel knew the region intellectually since he used to have extensive discussions with his Father’s friend and later his Mother’s companion Arvind.

Arvind had a deep interest in the affairs of almost every country in the world that espoused Leftism.

And used to get quite agitated everytime he came across news that a budding revolution in say Chile or Argentina was thwarted by some Military junta. Or when there was news that the Russian Government had refused to get involved in the Falkland war between Argentina and UK.     

Arvind had through his party administration and their offices a large amount of literature on Eastern Europe, South America, Cuba , Africa and China. He even had extensive access to literature on the Naxal movement and their inroads in the States of West Bengal Andhra Pradesh, Orissa, Madhya Pradesh, Maharashtra, Assam, Manipur, Meghalaya, Nagaland and even neighbouring countries like Nepal and Burma – he called it inputs from his party cadres ‘intelligence units’.

Daniel and Brian, Daniel’s Reuter colleague, went to Political Rallies of all the three incumbent presidents, conducted interviews of important political figures like Duhalde and Ferdinando and strolled into restaurants, took bus drives to Santa Fe and then walked along the Palermo or the Ocean front always looking for the public pulse. All through the days a constant theme that was coming back through all their discussions and meetings was a fear of an impending economic crisis, the possibility of a Nation going bankrupt.       

But despite all the apprehensions life on the streets of the la Telmo, Beunos Aires most favoured Street Shopping and tourist destination was full of Tango, Daniel sometimes found Argentina dancing on until 5or 6 am in the morning. The city’s very own Milonga Tango parties were as wild as a rave night club party in Pataya. The Milonga party locations too kept shifting places but Brian knew all the right keys to land at the best for any night. Brian was a hard worker, who loved his work in the morning and then liked letting his hair down in the night. Once he did that anything was game, Dan often himself sitting outside a brothel or a Milango bar at 2 or 3 in the morning, himself down by at least a few bottles of Argentinean wines and admiring some of the most beautiful women he had ever seen in his entire life. The good part about an Argentine woman is not just her looks, 9 out of 10 young women you meet on the streets of Argentina are intelligent beyond your average global women, they are more assertive and to a large extent grounded and more than willing to be the woman they are supposed to be , She simply did not hide any of her assets, which often included a well rounded political knowledge of both the left and right .

 It was 3 AM as usual Brian was inside a brothel, he had by now become friends with some of the more glamorous prostitutes around Palermo, Daniel somehow was never attracted to the proposition, he preferred the old form of acquiring an asset, and just sex wasn’t really the only objective, it wasn’t like he fell in love with all his women, but he had to come to like them before entering into their physic. Nor was his avoidance of a Prostitute anything moral, he was beyond such traps, in fact he could sit and sip coffee or a drink with a Prostitute and have a healthy conversation about life and the traumas of growing up and such, pay the bill, give a hug and meet again the following day.

Brian was an opposite pole – once the clock struck down 5pm, his mind could only think of Sex , Women and partying.

Dan was beginning to get weary, waiting. For an instant he thought he could call Annie in Lisbon but then decided against it.

Just then his mobile started ringing and he picked it up, to his surprise it was Annie. He picket it up even before he could say Hello, Annie was off talking with a flurry of words, She saying –

“Dan listen, where are you ? You still in Buenos Aires? Ok, great! Its like this I want to get out of this place. Lisbon sucks and this German with whom I came over here is a moron, I want to get out this minute, wouldn’t want to spend a minute more in this place and maybe join you at Monte Video”.

Monte Video was an Uruguayan port that was easily accessible by ferry from Buenos Aires. And click the phone was cut.

Dan tried calling her back, in fact his work in Argentina was finished and he was planning to check out after resting, but Annie was not answering her phone. So he sent her text asking her to call back. But there was no response. Eventually Brian came out, cursing the bitch, saying she fleeced him out, Daniel shook his head in consternation and started walking back to their hotel.

It was about 4AM and Daniel could still hear a number of Milango parties still going strong. Must have been about 8AM in Lisbon.

Buenos Aires was tangoing and so was Daniel’s head.

But while Buenos Aires enjoyed, Dan clearly wasn’t.

Before long he just let go off all the nuclear activity inside his head and simply crashed.  

thesocratespot: XXXXIX The Tropics of Henry Miller be damned

thesocratespot: XXXXIX The Tropics of Henry Miller be damned: They, the group from the Royal Albert Hall, had to report to the Scotland yard, everyone was screened, finally let off. The Mayor, refus...

XXXXIX The Tropics of Henry Miller be damned

They, the group from the Royal Albert Hall, had to report to the Scotland yard, everyone was screened, finally let off. The Mayor, refused to file charges.

Not without a warning to “behave”. 

The Mayor’s family too had come in, they, the siblings, made sure they expressed their love for their Father, by quietly spreading the word that they would soon retaliate at the University, but the problem really was which University ?

Annie had a group from Merton, Oxford and Wembley.

So it was not sure where the group would strike.

Wherever.

Both Annie and Dan weren’t really gonna hang around.

They were from across the aisle.

The Atlantic.

Listen, someone out there felt that the Atlantic is a small Ocean, and the Pacific, the really large Ocean.

It’s so Anglical, these figures and fiduciary maps of Oceans, and then come the description of the Tropics.

Crazy, the Tropic of Cancer, the Tropic of Capricorn,       

Henry Miller be damned.

Today, it’s not as it was imagined.

Cancer had cured itself of its malice. Capricorn was drowning and it needed help.

Between the two floated Annie and Dan.

Call it the Isle of man and woman.

thesocratespot: XXXXVIII Someone puked at Wembley

thesocratespot: XXXXVIII Someone puked at Wembley: They were in the middle of the play. When suddenly a commotion started .  They, Dannie and friends of Annie from Cambridge, were a...

XXXXVIII Someone puked inside The Royal Albert Hall

They were in the middle of the play. When suddenly a commotion started . 

They, Dannie and friends of Annie from Cambridge, were all watching an adaptation of the P.B. Shelley musical epic 'Prometheus Unbound' adapted to stage by Kate Losowsky, an Andy Webber prodigy.

It was being staged at the Royal Albert Hall.  

Danny stood up, to check, suspecting the worst, found it was someone from his group, arguing, he walked through the seats and managed to reach the spot of consternation, by then the sounds were becoming loud.

He checked with one of Annie’s classmate as to what happened.

She told him.

One member from the group who was sitting at the very end of their seat line had stood and then puked , all that she could, onto another person’s trouser sitting on the opposite side. The one who took the puke happened to be the Mayor of Bristol.

Soon a group of good Samaritan belonging to Annie’s friends joined to apologise, another group swished their kerchief, scarf, whatever available to clean the Mayor’s trouser, even as the friends worked hard to control the situation, the Mayor, the hurt party, kept hurling abuses, on colors and racial slurs, by now the Play had been suspended and the Theater Marshalls were seen rushing to quickly delete the situation, but the Mayor wasn’t to be cajoled all that easy, someone had puked onto him, he was a hurt soprano hurling out the choicest abuses,.

Somewhere in the middle of it all Danny decided that the Mayor deserved a whack and he gave it, with his left fist first and it landed right on the Mayors nose, which started bleeding without any delay, by then Annie’s other friends watching also decided that the Mayor deserved more and they piled on, by the time Annie, who was seated at the other end joined it was all too late.

The Mayor was mauled. And the Marshalls clearly knew who were to be blamed. 

The whole play was screwed, and there was blood all over, almost like a riot.

The Royal Albert Hall had a taste of Birmingham.

Via Wembley.           

The Mayor had a good black eye, a swollen lip and was cursing in a language that the Royal Albert Hall was not used to. 

Brown fucking Son's of Bitches.

Even if the one who had actually puked on the Mayor was dutch. 

thesocratespot: XXXXVII Byron , Mary, aMistress , Prometheus...Unb...

thesocratespot: XXXXVII Byron , Mary, aMistress , Prometheus...Unb...: Shelley was a poet of a true poetic mind, depressed, brooding and suicidal   Byron was a Lord. A poet. Masculine, free willed. Depress...

XXXXVII Byron , Mary, aMistress , Prometheus...Unbound - II

Shelley was a poet of a true poetic mind, depressed, brooding and suicidal  

Byron was a Lord. A poet. Masculine, free willed. Depressed, Yes, but all that it was required for Byron was a woman, even a maid servant, will do, was enough, for him to sublimate his idea of life.

Mary Shelley was a god send for him. For Byron, when they met in Italy. Bright, intellectual willing to carry his Childe.

Byron and Shelley’s wife Mary Shelley were good friends. 

While Mary was a little moralistic, Byron had no such qualms. The Chronology of Percy Byshe Shelley’s poetry shows marked change in his approach to poetry by the time he comes across Byron.

Lord.

  

Prometheus Unbound in fact is but ‘Ode to Skylark’ rewritten with a biblical flourish and touché. 

It’s Moses like feel and its Miltonian fight with his creators, its Nietzschean like philosophy and Shelley’s first recorded rebellion – this time showcased against Zeus & Co. for the Theft of Fire - is a collective effect of Mary Shelley and Byron working in Collaboration with Shelley.

Shelley as a person was more a pure poet, lost in its metaphorical ‘naiveness’, it was Mary and Byron who brought him down to the Byzantian life.   

Don Juan turned, churned, returned.

Childe Harold rejuvenated.

 Prometheus, Unbound. 

thesocratespot: XXXXVI Annie's butt and Milton

thesocratespot: XXXXVI Annie's butt and Milton: They were back at the hotel, now, it was late in the evening, just when they were getting ready, both nude, both had their Cigarettes and ...

XXXXVI Annie's butt and Milton

They were back at the hotel, now, it was late in the evening, just when they were getting ready, both nude, both had their Cigarettes and their drink glasses on the table, but neither was conscious about it, both were trying on things to wear for the show, to go to the Royal Albert Hall, to catch the show, Prometheus Unbound, by Kate Losowsky, a Andrew Lloyd Webber prodigy, somewhere around they realised that it was Daniels B’day.

22^nd Jul.

He was drunk and he couldn’t care less. He was already swinging, and he had enough weed to smoke.

He was singing ‘Bye Bye Miss Amercian Pie’

Don Maclean.

Watching Nicole Kidman on TV .

He was good.

Annie, put on a maroon Cotton tanker top with spaghetti strings, a black silk Scholl and a khakhi silk short, her hair was natural black silk, with no streaks, she had on a very light pink contrast lip stick, she looked sleek and child like in her appearance, with a light brown Greek sandal, stringed to her ankle, moderate heel stiletto, She wore her white leather Omega, and had nothing else, She hated to carry the usual feminine carry bags,.

Some Brits would have felt that it was a shocking dress for the show.  

Dan did not even bother doing much, he put on his blue jeans, a V neck sweat shirt and a Anand Jon cotton Jacket.

A Converse brand cotton shoe. And a dark grey cotton scholl picked on the way.

And he was good to go.  

They were pulling off music on each other, singing songs of their favourite.

Life.

Was smiling.

They were waiting for Annie’s friends from Cambridge to join.

They tried some close dance and stuff before the bell rang.

They were friends. It was a cauldron of people, men and women, from Argentina, Mexico, Spain, even Albania.  

All stoned. All drunk. But all dressed in embarrassing student kitsch.

Suddenly someone broke a glass, sounded like it was thrown, deliberately, someone in the crowd was really drunk. There were arguments and some fists thrown too, but they were all , forgotten once the caravan decided to move to the Royal Albert Hall.

There were enough cars, but yet people had to squeeze.

Annie had to sit with her butt exhibiting out of the car window.

But she was yet laughing and singing some Greenday number that someone else had started.

The crowd really did not look like a crowd meant for a literary play. It looked more tuned for a Rolling stone gig at Liverpool.

But the fact that they had a Cambridge pass made things different. Because soon the chorus was singing Milton, if one one group sang The Paradise Lost, another threw back verses from Pradise Regained, for those few who knew the contrast, it was a fascinating give and take.

If The ‘Paradise Lost Group Sang -  

"oF Man's First Disobedience, and the Fruit

Of that Forbidden Tree, whose mortal tast

Brought Death into the World, and all our woe,

With loss of Eden, till one greater Man

Restore us, and regain the blissful Seat,

Sing Heav'nly Muse, that on the secret top

Of Oreb, or of Sinai, didst inspire

That Shepherd, who first taught the chosen Seed"

The ‘Paradise regained Group replied -

“Who e're while the happy Garden sung,

By one mans disobedience lost, now sing

Recover'd Paradise to all mankind,

By one mans firm obedience fully tri'd

Through all temptation, and the Tempter foil'd [ 5 ]

In all his wiles, defeated and repuls't,

And Eden rais'd in the wast Wilderness.”

Youth and youthful arrogance were on display with no real consciousness.

The group was having fun.  

thesocratespot: XXXXV Our Archetypes , we the

thesocratespot: XXXXV Our Archetypes , we the: They were out, Annie and Dan, drunk, partying, Annie was showing Dan her side of London, all intellectual and Philosophical, it was all ...

XXXXV Our Archetypes , we the

They were out, Annie and Dan, drunk, partying, Annie was showing Dan her side of London, all intellectual and Philosophical, it was all driving through Oxford & Cambridge, and the pubs around.

They still had time for the show on Prometheus that Annie had invited Dan for.

Prof. Bernstein had given a Jaguar with a driver, Annie was thinking about the way Dan had walked out of the Heathrow, Bermuda shorts, printed shirt,  straw hat, a Greek leather sandal.  A guitar in hand and searching for chords, for a song she had no idea about. It took a while for Annie to get hold of Dan. To get his attention.

By then Annie already had a few thousand passes on her from the London crowd.

Her sleek frame, her general joie de vivre, her intellect, her very spirit caught people’s attention she was a person that people wanted to touch, dance, talk, rape.

Whatever.

Loose, drunk, floating .

She was.

Her friends spoke Ibsen, like others spoke Queen, they spoke about Kant, Russell, Husserl and Schopenhauer, like others discuss Pink Floyd.   

Dan was a Musician inside. A Nomad, a dilettante, a nowhereman.

In search of a chord.

Who, currently, found meaning in deciphering the life of the utterlessly powerless vis a vis usurped Democracies. Individuals who had more rights. More needs and wants. Politically.

The politics of anthropology.

The racial and the insane.

Still being the most powerful.

The beast.

Within and outside.

Again a primordial type. 

thesocratespot: XXXXIV Vaali. Dan's native poet. RIP

thesocratespot: XXXXIV Vaali. Dan's native poet. RIP: Somehow as soon as Daniel landed in London, it wasn’t Annie who occupied his mind, all he could think of about were about his friends ...

XXXXIV Vaali. Dan's native poet. RIP

Somehow as soon as Daniel landed in London, it wasn’t Annie who occupied his mind, all he could think of about were about his friends and mates from The Loyola College , Chennai - Lucy, Jennifer and Sharon – great people, he even had a face book update from them informing about their retrospective of the Tamil Poet Vaali. Annie was not even in the background.

At least not immediately. As soon as he landed.

Strange is the way that mind works.

Really.

He was waiting for his fragile baggage at the Heathrow. Despite all the care and precaution Lufthansa had broken the view finder glass of his Nikon. And he was not very happy about that.

But his thoughts simultaneously went into thinking about the Sangama Thamizhan poet Vaali. 

Daniel spoke the language, an ancient classical language that pre dated Latin and Greek.

Danny’s mind threw up a quick poem, one of his favourite, from the vast ‘Vaali’ anthology

Thithikkum paal eduthu

Dheyvathodu koluvirindhu

Muthupol vazhvadharka

Maali sudum manavirindhu

Ponnai pol nal irundhu

Annampola nadai nadandhu

Unniathan madiirundhu

Alli vaaypaay then virunthu.

The imagery, the grace, the translation of a mundane action into sublime metaphors, the sheer magnification of a simple emotion was always the hallmark of the poet. He was the poet of the young and the rebellious. Daniel made a mental note that he should try and one song dedicated to Vaali one of these days and upload it onto his blog,

He tried humming an old song written by Vaali. 

Back in India a poet had to adapt to the needs and vagaries of the Film industry in order to survive but that also meant that a poet had to pen words according to the demands of a “situation”  a mere event, under the patronage of the films Music Director, whose vision it was to translate a Film Director’s Visual communication into a musical adverb. Often inn India, the Music Director could make or break a film’s success.   

And a music Director’s fate was in the hands of the Lyricist.

A.K.A the poet.  

“Kannaivittu ponalum

Karuthai Vittu poga villai

Mannai Vittu Ponalum

Unnai Vitu Poga Villai

Inno Oruthi Udal eduthu iruppavalum

Naanallovo?”

The above lines formed a part of film by name Karpagam, an old Black & White film that yet had Daniel’s admiration.  

Vaali was a versatile genius, and a great admirer of Bharatiar. The Prometheus of Tamil literature.   

Daniel’s mind somehow continued to think about Vaali.

He was a romantic , Daniel thought, as his mind analysed some of Vaali’s songs written for a number of Tamil films, he could match a Wordsworth and then have the remorse of Keats, he could then build strands of Satire like Alexander Pope and then elevate things like Shelley, even when one looks at more contemporary poets like Donne , Yeats, Elliot or Hughes or even Octavio Paz- poets like Vaali could pen a Poem , a song, to match a “Situation”.  

Vaali’s stamp of one’s identity in the midst of names like Kannadasan, Karunanidhi, Vairamuthu and Pulamai Pithan ( and yet walk with a stamp of authority ) had a truly Johnsonian proportion to it.   

“ Potri padadi ponney

Thevar kaaladi manney

Thekkudisai aanda

mannar ilamdhan hoi…

…munnorukku munnor ellam

innarunu kandu kola

edu eduthu ezhithi solla

onnu rendu moonu alla”

ding dangu dangu ding dangu hoi.  

Daniel hummed softly as he checked his guitar at the Heathrow.

thesocratespot: XXXXIII Tarkovsky and Shelley in Mumbai

thesocratespot: XXXXIII Tarkovsky and Shelley in Mumbai: Listen, Tarkovsky’s ‘Andrei Rublev’ is but a neo modern take of Milton’s classic epic Paradise lost, but produced with a far more comp...

XXXXIII Tarkovsky and Shelley in Mumbai

Listen, Tarkovsky’s ‘Andrei Rublev’ is but a neo modern take of Milton’s classic epic Paradise lost, but produced with a far more complex cantology, made with a complex master class embellishment of Russian literary and artistic history, the influence of Dostoyevsky’s Brothers Karamazov and Idiot loaded in , as a backdrop tribute, catapults the film to a league of its own , the film surely deserves a massive round of all round applause, it’s probably one of Cinema’s and Cinematic history’s most defiant product yet, the industry’s most complex cinematic treatise, ever thought of, ever even dreamt of, creating, anything of that scale, in modern cinema, by a single director with the help of a single production house is just not ever possible.

Ever.

That was Prof. Ezekiel, Annie’s father talking.

Annie and Dan were seated right next giving the Prof all their attention.

Dan agreed

“ Tarkovsky’s epic, was what it turned out to be , in every frame. A rare and almost impossible epic of art.”

Now Annie added

“But it failed in doing what it was it was supposed to do. It succeeded, where it was not supposed to. It was started as a journey to put Russia and Russia’s Renaissance in perspective to European Renaissance, but ended up becoming a paean to World Cinema and put Tarkovsky in the list of all time greats.”

That was not the really the whole real objective. Interjected the Prof.

Annie nodded and so did Daniel. They were both now with Mr. Ezekiel, Annie’s father - a film historian, critic and teacher of Cinematography. They were with him when he had chosen to visit the Mumbai University, Daniel was then a student of J.J School of Arts. Annie, had just come visiting on a University exchange program, as a graduate student, invited by Mumbai University.

Prof. Ezekiel was then a Phd. Guide at Mumbai University for Research Scholars contributing their thesis on Post Modern art and Expressionism.

Tarkovsky’s Andrei Rubalev had just been screened at the University’s auditorium .

Annie was invited, since she was around.

She in turn had invited Daniel.

Since he too was around.   

They were at Daniel’s pad opp. Kala Ghoda in Mumbai.

They were sitting over a circle of marble chairs fixed on the Penthouse, terrace garden of Daniel’s house that was overlooking Mahalaxmi and Worli on one side , the left.

Sandhurst Road and Parel on the other side, the right.

The south side faced the dockyard.    

The Mumbai night air was warm, mild and balmy.

Daniel rolled a weed and lit.

Prof. Ezekiel and Annie took a drag each and returned to their chat.

Prof. Ezekiel continued .

Tarkovsky’s grand epic worked because right from the start the journey between the then Government of Russia , under Brezhnev and the ‘advisors’ of Tarkovsky were very clear, create a Russian chapter that would equal the might and power of the European renaissance with a Russian garnish.

Many of Tarkovsky;s attempts to finish Rubalev were Quixotic since it was one man’s broad interpretation of a humungous idea, to put together an artistic journey that took great pains to chip in a piece of cheese into the cauldron called European Renaissance the 17^th Century Russia and the almost current.

In the end if you notice, the film ends with a sense of decadence. With the camera panning on close up shots of the worn, peeling out , ill maintained paintings of Rubalev.

It was Annie’s turn to contribute

“Russia always has felt that it is indeed the very fountainhead of European intellectual history and progress but somehow also felt that most European nations were too cynical in allowing the country its due”.  

Annie was about to continue, but Daniel waved to signal Annie to pause, since he wanted to make sure the dictaphone they had kept on the marble table in the centre could record their conversation without the sound of the Mumbai sea breeze sounds contaminating the content of their chat.

So he was in charge of continuously changing the angle of the Dictaphone’s micro phone to face away from direct breeze and place it closer to the person talking.

He had already met a number of Critics of the Post Modern European Art and a few other friends talking on the subject Cinematic Art and Aesthetics, being a student at the JJ School of art , he had already met a number of  Critics of Cinema Aesthetics talking and airing a lot of stiff on a lot of things, he for his part always ensured he archived most of their chat .

So he was quiet.

Prof. Ezekiel – Annie’s father - looked set to talk well into the day.

Annie and Daniel sat cross legged, smoking and giving all their attention.   

The Prof. helped himself to a light drag of the weed from his daughter and then returned it, this time to Dan.

To ensure continuity to the conversation Dan chipped in –

‘But Europe had always failed to recognise Russia as a country with any kind of artistic flair, other than some bits of literature and poetry.

Purely lead by Tolstoy and Pushkin. Right ? He asked.

Annie came in

Russians always felt that somehow it had ignored to aggressively counter the consistent attempts of the likes of Gibbon, Huxley, Russell and even George Bernard Shaw and  others and grudged the fact that these people had collectively usurped the true superiority of Russia and Russian artistic leadership.  

Now the Prof. added

‘Russia always felt that had been deliberately left out of most of the intellectual movement of Europe and that Europe often reserved just left handed compliments to the likes of Tolstoy and Turgenev as opposed to a Proust or a Goethe or Shakespeare, on that side, in America even a Arthur Miller managed better appreciation, the exclusion of Russia and the efforts to keep it outside of the European art scene and beyond finally culminated in Russia funding Tarkovsky’s magnum opus Andrei Rublev.

And it cannot be denied that he film did manage to bring Russia and Europe closer using Greece in place of Italy as a common ground , to bind the two tectonic polar plateaus together, and then try merge the two while at the same time assuage a deep- felt anguish, in Russia.

Dan looked at Annie

As She added

“that Europe largely ignored the Russian Renaissance.” The Prof nodded at his daughter and then smiled at Dan making it clear how much he enjoyed their company.

They too acknowledged with a smile.

You should not miss the same director’s Mirror, it is a semi-auto biographical film but the Tarkovskyan motifs by hen become very clear.

Daniel by then had already made a decision to create a Musical art production of Shelley’s Prometheus. And he had already spoken to Prof. Ezekiel about the project and how he looked forward to his help.

Prof. Ezekiel had gracefully agreed to assist Daniel on the project.

Daniel's thoughts veered back to reality when he was woken up by the stewardess of Lufthansa who was doing her duty of informing passengers, the flight was all set to land.

London.    

thesocratespot: XXXXII Chimera , so what do you see ? do you see ?...

thesocratespot: XXXXII Chimera , so what do you see ? do you see ?...: Its not genetic really, when men are alone, driving, listening to music.  And then they see women, first, and then they see men, c...

XXXXII Chimera , so what do you see ? do you see ?

Its not genetic really, when men are alone, driving, listening to music. 

And then they see women, first, and then they see men, children, old hags, beggars, discards, rich, poor, happy - hues and shapes - walking on the pavement, looking at windows, talking on the phone, smiling, shouting, fighting, running, standing, waiting, looking - oh so there's a pro, how good? 

Sorry not my type. 

Surrounded by an ant factory of automobiles, spewing smoke, honking their butts out. 

Nor is it politics.

Daniel suddenly remembered the woman on the other side of his sit out , at home,  who was looking at him when he was playing on his guitar and then vanished, by the time he took Annie’s call.

The chimera. The Agora.

She could have stayed back just a wee bit longer, he was looking forward to her, as an appreciative audience.

She was wearing a short underpants, dark blue denim, was wearing a panty bra and nothing else on top, her hair was tied on a pony.  She was white. She looked young. 18 at the most. Her hair was blond.

Daniel shook his head and smiled as the traffic snailed on, he was still somewhere on 14^th Avenue, Danny smiled again, its primordial, or even beyond , it is . 

Especially at the great Longacre Square. 

His regular briefing in New York usually took place on the 30^th Floor office , of Reuters’ landmark # 3 Times Square building, overlooking Broadway and The Central Park on the North, but today Hoffman, his Editor–in- Chief,  suggested they meet on the 16^th, at the Cafeteria, not the most pleasant place ( considered the most wretched cafeteria in New York that even had the NYCHD warning several times for cockroaches), but for Daniel it did not matter ‘coz anyways it would just be for an hour or so. And his actual role at Reuters put him through worse.     

And so Daniel’s mind went on and on.Sometimes listening to music, sometimes talking to him, sometimes watching. Sometimes simply driving. 

Smiling, tapping, shaking.

Driving. 

Thinking.  Moving. 

Yet. Pausing. 

Hey? 

Mind, the mind, our mind.

Will it ever stop working? 

will it ever stop talking? 

Will it ever ? 

as long as it talks you’re alive, when it stops you’re dead? 

Not really. Its much more complex. 

As long it talks and you don’t

You are

A thinker.

As long as it talks

And you talk

You are

Normal.

As long as it talks

But you talk

Different

You are

Abnormal.

As long as it talks

And you don’t know what is its talk

You

Are

Insane.  

You’re .

No sirens please. 

Suddenly Daniel saw some open road space for a change and he started speeding, he noticed another car, in front, doing the same. 

It was somewhere about Duffy Square .

All of a sudden, the open space widened,  it just turned out that the two cars, got caught in an impromptu race . 

He sped them out like they were kids. 

Just When they were about to turn into the 57th Street from the Joe Di Maggio, the boys whom Dan was chasing left, Dan thought

Hey!

C'mon, let's do some more !

And stopped.'

He saw the car that had turned left had also stopped. 

He traversed , back, for he had driven ahead, thinking he would at least shake hands with the kids of the other car, they had managed to race for about 10 minutes real fast and with no cops monitoring. 

It was a rare joy inside New York.  

Dan, drove and parked the car just behind the other waiting car. 

He saw about 6-8 kids sitting inside. He walked forward with a beam of a smile, with his hand stretched. The guy who was driving the other vehicle, seemed white, also gave a smile and stretched his hand. 

The time Daniel reached the drivers' side.'He saw an avalanche of people from inside the car attack him. They were beating him from all sides, kicking, punching, butting, suddenly one of them brought a baseball bat and started bashing, they were young, drunk, A mix of Black, Brown and White.

Dan saw a cop walking forward, and then wait and watch. he was shocked. He gestured to the cop and maneuvered near him while defending himself from a drunk mob of 8, and asked for hrlp. 

The cop simply watched. Impassive. By then the 8 bevdas also rounded the cop telling the cop how Danny provoked for a race and how he had comem back ( from a road ahead ) and he was the one who had started the whole thing. 

The cop simply watched. 

Daniel knew the cop wasn't gonna be any help, he started running back to his car, even while the 8 member mob chased him, he ran a bit defended a bit, kept a few stones that were lying around handy , punched some of the guys with the stones, quickly opened his car door , got in and locked the door from inside, the boys chasing were not that easily coyed, they got hold of the stones he had used and banged at his glass, the Silverado's synthetic glass cracked but did not break, he lunged his car forward in a bit to get out. 

Daniel had banged the car in front.

The rare bumper flew out. Half way. and then hung. Midway. Dan's car did have much of a damage, it just had sime paint remived off its own front bumper. And its right side light assembly broke.   

New York , was alive. And Kicking. 

The cop had to reach them now, he stretched his book. Asked for ID's and etc., 

Daniel and the boys withdrew. Took the cop aside and aplogised. 

All of them gave the cop souvenirs of their own. The cop waqs reluctant, but later consented.

Before long. They were all off, shaking hands and bidding goodbyes. 

Danny was bleeding from his eye. But he still made it to # 3 , Times Square. 

Hoffman called for first aid. And told Danny - 

His cover story had to start at London. 

Before moving to Bolivia. 

thesocratespot: XXXXI Plotting the route map

thesocratespot: XXXXI Plotting the route map: Daniel was on his way to the # 3 Times Square, the iconic, 32 floors, New York office of Thomson Reuters. For him the drive from his Breez...

XXXXI Plotting the route map

Daniel was on his way to the # 3 Times Square, the iconic, 32 floors, New York office of Thomson Reuters. For him the drive from his Breezy Point neighbourhood circumventing the Upper River Hudson side, tracing out the Queens and inner Brooklyn towards lower Manhattan was like a Roosevelt –Marcy trail, starting with the backdrop of the Adirondack, ending almost near the harbour, tracing the intercourse of the mountain river and the Ocean right through its sleek estuary, it took him through a road trip that read like the history of modern New York, taking him across all the 3 bridges, as a choice, he could miss them if he was in a hurry, but he never really was.

He completely enjoyed driving his Silverado through the long and winding trail that took him at times over two hours when the traffic was at its peak. For him it was all about he, himself, the car, the car stereo and soaking in the experience of New York. It never really mattered that he had to drive like a migrant peasant across the 5 boroughs.

Henry Hudson, Dutch East India Company. On a drive.   

Many a times if he found the traffic too heavy, he would park by at any of the closest available private parking lots and take off on his unique 24 Shimano gear, bamboo bicycle, that he had imported from China, and which he always carried as a permanent part of his station wagon.  

In fact the rare portion of his SW was an extension of a multiple utility garage of sorts, it had all sorts of things, a Bamboo bicycle, a sleek, portable, Segway scooter, an inflatable 4 Seater Canoe with short oars, a surf board, a skateboard, a tent, a barbecue, gadgets for climbing and survival kits.  

His passion for the outdoors was tremendous. Daniel often shipped his Car along during his long tours.    

The radio jockey was belching out stuff that kept him marooned to his thoughts. It was Coldplay number streaming as he cruised the Atlantic Expressway His conversation with Annie and the prospect of visiting London lingered at the back of his mind.  

New York was so much like Bombay. Where Daniel had started his early adult life. As a teen, Sarsu was by then a Journalist with the Asian Age and a vociferous writer, after a bitter separation from Mohan, and closer to Arvind. Who was by then a Member of Parliament.

The radio jockey sneaked in with a Karen Carpenter number, Jambalaya, She was hinting that She gotta go down the bayou, Daniel simply hummed along.

 

thesocratespot: XXXX London Calling

thesocratespot: XXXX London Calling: Daniel, took Annie’s call on his mobile, which was located above his sleek , compact 'Bechstein' Piano he had recently bought ...

XXXX London Calling

Daniel, took Annie’s call on his mobile, which was located above his sleek , compact 'Bechstein' Piano he had recently bought from a friend, that was now positioned as a masterpiece in the hall that was his living space, which had the sea on one side and the New York City traffic on the other side.

As he shouted his 

'Hello' 'Annie' ? with a decibel level that was required to be heard above the New York din. 

Annie, who was in London shouted back ' Hey , Stop Shouting into the phone, my ears are splitting'  

They were soon having a normal conversation as Danny walked back to his Sit out area, hearing out Annie talking and giving him a ‘heads up’ about her London landing. 

He observed that the Woman on the other far side of his apartment ‘Ocean Promenade’ who was until a while ago looking at him playing his guitar and singing, was not around anymore.

As he stepped onto the wide Greek architecture balcony of his New York home, his clothes once again started flapping, it was late afternoon in New York, and he knew it was quite early in  London.

Going by the sound of Annie - the time of her call, her energy etc., - Daniel guessed Annie was probably just out of a party and she wanted to catch up.

Annie was excited. And She was talking . The need to ask whether She was alright was just not required. She just was.

Feeling good. Feeling great.

Apparently the presentation at the T.S. Elliot Memorial Hall, at Merton College, Oxford University, went off famously. In fact gave her a surprise by inviting her over on the dais and allowing her to co-present.

She even took the Q & A.

And She was taking and answering questions from the Rushdie’s, the Chomsky’s, the students, the press and soon became a small celebrity.

She loved it. Then.  

Later at the post Conference Dinner ball, She had all of them extending courtesies.  She met Pamuk, met Harry Frankfurt and several more. 

She had stepped out sometime back, many of the ‘great contemporary thinkers were still drinking and toasting and debating’.

She was back at her Hilton room.

Daniel hard all of that and then suddenly became alert .

Annie was saying

Dan, just found out through Annie that there’s this Andrew Lloyd Webber’s apprentice, staging a musical on Shelley’s Prometheus Unbound at London’s Royal Albert Hall and She wanted him to join in.

Dan had no words to speak at first – a mixture of envy, jealousy and then later superiority of his own idea, criss-crossed his mind in a flash.

Danny was saying : But Annie, I’m supposed to be off to Bolivia, in the next few days.

Annie was not the one to let go ‘coz she knew the subject was pretty close to Danny, She said

Listen Dan , C’mon! ? You don’t get to see ‘Prometheus Unbound’ everyday ? will ya? C’mon!? We’re talkin about ‘Prometheus Unbound’ ok? Do you get that? a musical ! and in London?

Annie was on alcohol for sure, but Danny was already a sucker to the topic that she was alluding to, and so it did not take too much Annie talk for Danny to come to a decision.

Dan’s defence was getting weak.

He replied ‘Ok, Annie, maybe I’ll book my tickets such that I meet you at London, we’ll see this musical and then I’ll move on to Bolivia , so that I don’t displease my bosses at Reuters.          

Annie gave an excited ‘hiss’ and said ok ‘ Mr. Mettuguda’ come on over. I’ll pick you up from the airport.

Page me your itinerary.

In the background, the seagulls were still shrieking. In New York.

In London.

It was quiet.

Except for the Ghost like lights that hung around, the London skyline,  just so that the city remained – global.

Annie finally wished G'nite and hung up.

Dan washed up , changed over, took the elevator, started his Chevy and drove down to his office.

Reuters.

New York.

thesocratespot: XXXIX The big, bad, rodents drink

thesocratespot: XXXIX The big, bad, rodents drink: James Mohandas Jesudasan. S/O Cherian Thomas Mohandas Jesudasan ( Bsc.) Sr. Chief of Railway Control Room, Railway Divisiona...

XXXIX The big, bad, rodents drink

James Mohandas Jesudasan.

S/O Cherian Thomas Mohandas Jesudasan ( Bsc.)

Sr. Chief of Railway Control Room,

Railway Divisional Office,

Southern Railway

House  1/289, Hemambika Nagar,

Railway Colony,

Olavakkod. Palakkad.

Pin Code : 678001.

Mohan was drunk. He had just split with his friends after a round that he had sponsored. After a tea round at Skylab. And some calming down. And some cigarettes. 

They had Old Monk rum, first, then they found it wasn’t enough and then went in for a round of Peter Scot, finally for a choice between Kalyani Beer , Khajuraho , Haywards 5000 and KO.  And when they found that even that had not settled their appetite they then settled down with Godamba outside the bar.

Until by about 11.40pm. Finally they split. Each moving on their own    

Mohan, despite the alcohol intake, was managing it well. Only people coming very close would have found he was piss drunk. He wasn’t yet measuring the street. Horizontally. He could walk straight, but his mind was -

Fucked.

He was thinking and cursing the apathetic Indian and their complete lack of civic sense. Mohan cursed loud – Fucking country, had No real Citizens. All were nomads. No one cared.

No one.  

He was thinking about the incident of drunken mob fury in front of Skylab, this evening.  

And suddenly a whole lot of past emotional wounds were spurting venom. Especially when he analysed the necessity of becoming Urban and Civilised and the complete lack of such an idea in India.

Then.

He knew it better ‘coz he himself had a circle who were all educated, aspiring, coming from “decent” family background { a word most commonly used in India to suggest a very docile, submissive, middle class family} .

But there was a problem. A huge problem.   

Almost all of them were people who hardly knew any sense of the word ‘Urbanism.

Mohan knew of a friend who was working in the Dept. of Urban Planning with absolutely no knowledge of anything called ‘Urban Planning or Aesthetics or Architecture or History or even anything about basic ‘Amenities’ and this friend of his has confessed even his super superior IAS officer, to whom he reported, who was the head of the Dept. of Urban Planning, knew any such thing.

Mohan, crunched his teeth. As he headed towards his home. Walking alone.

Arvind, who usually accompanied him during these walk back, had left today with some other friends.  

 Mohan’s mind continued its voicing its frustration.

For that matter, no One in India understood Democracy.

No one really had any understanding of the word ‘Democracy’, ‘Fundamental rights’ and so on  – in fact the failure of India or even most Indian cities, either Politically or in terms of the theory of ‘Self Governance’ – innate and critical for all Democracies to succeed - to adapt and evolve their limitations, their plundering or their corruption is all a fact with roots in India’s unshapely population ‘exodus’ from a rural hopelessness to a bigger urban hopelessness. The official Village Officer or a Town planner or a Water Works Department Inspector or a Inspector general of Police or a Constable or even an Officer of the Indian Railways or the local MLA / MP – they all hailed from a deep rural mindset.

India of the seventies and eighties was imploding with everything inhuman, ‘people’ they came cheap, generated virtually in millions ( by the second ) by a juggernaut of sexually super prolific , almost uncontrollably prolific, moronic men and women who were cloning out equally brainless babies by the millions, the irony of the situation was that the socially well to do were producing less children and it was the utterly poor ‘jobless, idle class’ who were producing “off-Springs” by the millions, it was normal for a poor jobless man to have no fewer than 6-8 children or more, and almost all the children would start some manual labour or the other by the time they were 5 or 6 years old , girl children were murdered even if they could contribute to the family earning, only since they would have to be married off by the time they were 10-12 ( so they would start benefitting a family other than the family were they born ?) .

The difference between a street dog producing puppies by the dozen and a penniless peasant labourer who hardly had food and shelter for his own self also producing in equal numbers might have appalled anyone with even basic intellect , but not an Indian, they just went on and on and on – producing babies pushing India’s population below poverty to alarming levels.

But Indians didn’t seem perturbed, the idle class went about producing babies , the middle class went about working, the rich were corrupting, leaving the Political class gleefully exploiting everything.

Poverty had already become a hugely useful tool for self sustenance in the hands of politicians , who loved it - when the poor remained poor, the illiterate remained illiterate, the docile remained docile and the bonded labour – a term unique to India . Refers to labourers contracted to a landlord as their slaves – remained bonded , severely.

But the irony was none of them – be it the poor, the illiterate or the slaves - ever realised they were bonded, or they were poor and so a Democracy should address their plight and help them lead better lives , the illiterate never knew that they had to become literate , all of them just thought that that’s the way it was supposed to be, no bonded labourer in India ever thinks he has a right for a better life – with no home, no food, no health care, no transport, no electricity, no schools, no roads, no water, no cloths, nothing – the biggest problem of the Indian poor, was they were poor in the head too. Nobody cared, nobody knew what it meant to manage a democracy.

Democracy was just a tool in the hands of a corrupt ruling class to amass wealth, unprecedented wealth.

Accountability and standing up for rights, dreaming and aspiring for a better life was more or less unheard of in the country, most just accepted what was given or what was available, even the rich were as fatalistic as the poor or the middle class – it was a que sera sera, sera feeling all around - the poor living in the vast rural hinterland areas of the country were the worst for their lack of struggle, intellectual struggle. An existential crisis eluded India.

The middle class, essentially rural migrants, were effectively made subservient to everything, since ‘working’ was equivalent to ‘loyalty’ which was equivalent to being ‘fortunate’, so one was expcted to be subservient to the Government or one’s employer which was in turn appreciated as a form equivalent to patriotism.

Brahminism , as opposed to Hinduism, was probably to be blamed to a certain extent, while land reforms brought in these ‘upper class brahmins’ by wagon loads looking for ‘secure’ Government jobs, these ritualistic pseudo vedics also brought in a society that built a ‘aura’ of a guru status for all ‘employers or yajamans’ and a status of  ‘eternal shishyas, naukars’ for all employees.  

Popular movies on those lines only furthered the idea.

The whole thing smacked of a pseudo socialism born out of a very naïve and imbecile political intellect – driven by thinkers who cared nothing for the apparent empirical evidence and preferred grandiose, Quixotic, social schemes which soon deprived a country, already deprived severely, of whatever was left in its economy.   

Conditions extremely ripe for Naxalism and Feudalism to exploit, thrive and eventually crush and trifle the Indian dream.  

Naxalism, a political ‘ism’ unique to India - was a relatively new political dragon with revolutionary ambitions that hid behind the romance of upturning India’s class struggle on its head - but the essential problem with Naxalism was it failed to recognise one fact, it took the success of Mao in China and the perceived power, influence and success of the Marxist Leninist ideology that propelled United Russia to heady heights - in the their eyes and mind- as almost the de facto proof for their own progress and inevitable success – success was taken for granted by the Naxalites. They were so naïve, they thought a few guns and a few armed assaults once a while alone would get them the critical mass to rule India.   

What most Commies , esp. those involved in the Naxal movement failed to comprehend was that these countries that ‘they’ worshipped were not just built by the likes of Mao, Lenin or Stalin through, the now famous ( or infamous whichever way you look at it ) Red March or the Bolshevik revolution, they were blind to the fact that both China and Russia had a huge number of ‘other’ factors going in favor of these Despots that worked in their favour ( not the least being the fact that they were anti Monarchy first, not anti social ) and the fact that these countries already had a large working class that was already urban built on the vanguard of  Two wars, the rural labour class in both China and Russia really had very negligible role in any of these so called uprisings, in fact it may be safe to say that no uprising in world history could have ever occurred ‘purely’ lead by a rural populace, more so if they were illiterate and subject to feudal subjugation ) but that was lost on India’s Naxal clan – so they, the early Naxal movement leaders, fell neatly into the hands of the more powerful political class to exploit them according to their own needs, leaving them with just small pockets of influence.

Feudalism re-emerged with a vengeance, almost every political leader of any substance belonged to one or the other feudal lobby. Probably one of the most unfortunate events for India, because feudalism was almost crushed by a resurgent and fiercely intellectual society that had emerged at the dawn of the century, that had ruthlessly changed many an archaic, incredibly shocking aspects India’s caste and religious bigotry.      

In just 4 decades the country's political system had more or less turned idiotic, falling backwards at a rate of no return, even the most optimistic had no words left to find hope and progress. Governance and bureaucracy had fallen into the clutches of fat, ugly, rich, hypocritical and feudalistic ruling class who found great comfort in hiding behind insipid economic thought that bordered on the pantomime, corruption was at all time high, the political class in fact were having a dream run , since they had a near absolute access to everything - Power, luxury, money and unimaginable control on the masses with negligible accountability.

The country in fact was still emerging from the shadows of an emergency - by the eighties it was more or less clear that the Indian democracy had serious flaws - the political class had become a vicious , corrupt juggernaut - with no stops, no questions. Like the dogs, bitches and pigs of Mettuguda – India and Indians had plunged themselves to openly defecate around Parliament and then war over who would get to eat the shit.

Clans ruled, dynasties re-emerged, governance learnt the art to stifle life, stifle voices. Life at the bottom of the well was hell.

In fact it is very safe to say that most Indians really do not understand the essence of Democracy.  In fact something in the Indian psyche is dead, especially that side that has to stand up and assert for rights, the more one experiences the typical Indian psyche the more you'll find a docile, obedient, insecure and ever fearing slave - every Indian is a born slave, the best slave in the world.

Reasons for such a 'psychological death' isn't far to find - one they are a product of centuries of subjugation, that continues till date, Indians have been never known to be assertive in their culture its a culture that promotes subservience, complete and total and they take pride on it, Democracy was thrust upon India by a few well meaning leaders but then the country never had the likes of Benjamin Franklin or a    Patel who survived to actually teach and educate the Indians certain fundamentals of democracy   you'll find them eking out their living without a whimper under virtually any type of governance - be it fascists, dictatorial, fundamentalist, feudalistic,  

Our noble, non violent country of great thinkers and reformists that the citizens had dreamed off had all but been packed and thrown into a ugly, filthy douche bag. Even normal life was like a rat rummaging through the aftermath of a medieval human massacre. Many a haloed leader who had fought hard to get the country its freedom had been turned into a mere rotting carcass either dead or killed or have evolved into either cynical despots or sycophants desperate to gain preferential public gains at any cost”. 

The situation was compounded by a weak Press, anaemic judiciary, spineless police and a voting class manufactured by the patronage of the political class using money, liquor, sex, rape and murder - as their fuel that they used to push their draconian voting machine to chase and catch hold of poor, rural, illiterate Indians who had no idea about the fundamentals of democracy.

Mohan’s internal voice kept the train of thoughts going.   

For an Indian caste, feudalism and poverty had become manipulative for ones exploitation – both ways - the people belonging to a clas or caste or religion thought they could exploit the government, those governing in turn knew they could throw sops and bones and buy power.

Mohan was almost near his door . His mind too arrived at a partial conclusion.

The educated Urban Indian was probably the greatest “betrayer” of India's fledgling democracy, many simply fled to enjoy the comforts of Dubai, America or Europe, those who could not bail out of the country were insecure, cowardly and spineless hiding behind their so called despise for politics to remain inactive and dumbed out.

Permitting, Allowing  the creation one of the world's most wretched political class ever known to have entered politics, permitting and allowing ‘them’ to usurp power and rule like insipids- insipidus.  

Until one day they, the insipid class knew, it was too late.

They had let the big , bad, fat, rodents out. Free.

And they were eating and chewing the country out with no remorse what so ever.

Mohan rang the bell.    

thesocratespot: XXXVIII James Mohandas Jesudasan

thesocratespot: XXXVIII James Mohandas Jesudasan: James Mohandaas  Jesudasan. He was at the Skylab. Sipping Chai, having a smoke. He had to satisfy himself to sit and be alone, mis...

thesocratespot: XXXVIII James Mohandas Jesudasan

thesocratespot: XXXVIII James Mohandas Jesudasan: James Mohandaas  Jesudasan. He was at the Skylab. Sipping Chai, having a smoke. He had to satisfy himself to sit and be alone, mis...

XXXVIII James Mohandas Jesudasan

James Mohandaas  Jesudasan.

He was at the Skylab. Sipping Chai, having a smoke. He had to satisfy himself to sit and be alone, missing his friends, who had already stepped out for a drink session that he was told Arvind had agreed to sponsor.

At least that’s the news he was given by the - ‘Server’ , ‘Abbas’ -  who regularly served them at Skylab.  

Abbas was 13.

James or Jimmy or Mohan or Anna , people called him by so many names and he too responded to them all.

He too had stepped out late in the evening to walk towards Skylab for the usual rendezvous with friends over tea and cigarettes. He too saw the sky sending out hordes of orange flame clouds chasing after the setting Sun. He too felt a bit circumspect, that Sunday, when he stepped out. He too had to pass through the basthis as he walked with cigarette in hand.

Head bowed down, long hairs flying, a beard waving –an old faded blue jeans, and an equally old khadi kurta, flapping, slow , as he walked.

He was again a typical South Asian guy, 5’8” , a bit dark brown, long hair as was the youth style then ( even if he was a bit older than his actual ‘gang’ he still looked their age, not older ) his hair had a thinner feel, so even if he had long hairs it did not look ominous, it just floated nice and heavy.

James Mohandas Jesudasan was born to a Malayalee father who had a Tamilian Wife from Madurai. 

But, despite his deep rural family background, he was cosmopolitan, well read, well aware and someone whose point of view on almost all things , mattered. To all who he spoke to,

He spoke with authority and knowledge.

Mohan had finished his tea and had stepped out of Skylab to check out how to reach his other friends who had left to catch up on some beer and whiskey, he too ached for a drink.

Just then, he saw a small crowd rushing towards his direction, there was someone running his way, and someone else chasing with inanities in Hindi and Telugu, Mohan soon realised that it was a local rogue who was running towards him and he was being chased by none other Arvind. , Mohan could hear Arvind screaming  – Maakey loudey ! Madarchoth ! Nee Amma ! Naa Tho denguntava ? Loudey key baal ? Nee Amman dengesthaa ra reyy ! the words flew. 

Actually they were just a few of the normal stuff that was spewed at times like these in Hyderabad, so for those who knew it, it was really like sipping tea. 

Arvind’s drunken fury was also being seconded by a few of Mohan’s friends who had also joined Arvind in a mob attack of one poor rogue who seemed alone, defenseless.  

Before Mohan knew what was happening, Arvind was on the guy, and so were many others, beating the hapless rogue like one would beat a dog, Arvind was clearly drunk, and so were most of his gang members, a part of Skylab had stepped to watch the melee but a few remained sipping chai, those staying inside were either inside ‘coz such incidents were not new or they were inside ‘coz they were more ‘decent’.  

Those who were outside were either those who wanted to know if it was any of those they knew who was getting thulped  or to just to watch the act of pseudo masochist sadism. For whatever it was worth.

Mohan, finally thought enough was enough as he watched , he knew the cops would soon be in - he stepped in, kicked the rogue who was in the middle of the whole mob attack to scoot, the scoundrel simply ran for his life making sure he profusely Thanked Mohan before fleeing -  Mohan then restrained Arvind and all the others to calm down by screaming well above their own ‘collective’ voices.

Soon they had stepped once again inside Skylab.

The Radio was still on . It was now Binaca Geeth Mala on Radio Ceylon. Ameen Sayani was going all out giving Indians their count down of the best Hindi film songs.

 They ordered tea for all.