Articles of Faith, India, Revisited

‘This happens in India,’

I close my eyes, and the vast rush of Africa thrills like I can feel the mighty wind of the savannas in my hair.

Vivek would be in Zambia, shooting lions for National Geographic, he said. The picture is a difficult one for him to illustrate in the fog of the pre-dawn bender he’s just concluding, sprawled across the floor in the hall of a featureless 6th floor apartment in Chembur that he shares with his coworkers- engineers in their third year of work at a local truck company. The view from the floor to ceiling windows on his right, the one he wakes up to every morning is all flaming chimneys and the factory spires of a chemical and fertilizers plant that could give Isengard a run for its money. Zambia feels very far.

‘This happens in India,‘ he says, with a wry smile flickering on his lips. I think his eyes may have twinkled- once for something very old. His dreams have dried, wilted somewhere on a superfast highway he never stopped on. As I look at him now, with his bimonthly professional haircut now at least two weeks defunct and sagging in a sweaty mess upon his brow, I wonder what his thoughts were, during his most weightless moments- the excursions of his mind.

He tells me about the magazines. Born to language teachers, Vivek was no stranger to literature but the only books that seem to have made any impression on him were copies of National Geographic he received for his birthday from his uncle until he was 14. They were the most beautiful insight into the world beyond the small Uttarkhand hill station he’s from.

Ranikhet. The lush, verdant cantonment town of around 20,000 people sounds like it’s been lifted right out of a story by Kipling- a place littered with relics from our colonial past, full of lakes and streams and any number of waterfalls; a place where at dusk the sun sets last on the western-most peaks of the Himalayas, bathing their summit in a soft golden light that lingers until the rosy glow of the ‘pahadi’ twilight cedes completely to the thin, starry veil of the frigid night. This was the view from his childhood bedroom window, one shared across time, in humility, by Jim Corbett, Keki Daruwalla and many others. The hours Vivek spent scouring the pages of his uncle’s magazines had nurtured his perspective into a vision through which he wanted to capture the beauty and relevance of his surroundings, and utilize them as a means to express himself.

He was, after all, ambitious.

Crop 1880's PHOTO INDIA VIEW OF RANIKHET

Ranikhet, circa 1880

‘Andhon mein kana raja,’

Vivek grew up in a colony built by the East India Company to house military staff, his parents taught English and Hindi courses in government schools nearby. Being a first rate student, he was sent off to a district army boarding school when he was 11.

Run by an Anglo-Indian brigadier, the institution was tailored to provide a standardized education gleaned from the remnants of the British method dating back to the colonial era, complete with the Tom Brown setting and a singular focus on discipline. Being an army establishment, visiting officials and dignitaries would come to the school and give talks about patriotism and national defense, few of which Vivek ever attended. For all its talk about nationalism and retaining identity in changing times (something that used to lead Vivek to long arguments with his father concerning his job as an English teacher), it was a finable offense to be caught speaking in Hindi at the English medium school, and Vivek was a serial violator. As was usual in his circle of friends he would take off from the school premises at first opportunity to any one of a number of ‘jharnas’ nearby where he’d shed the navy blue blazer and striped tie school uniform, somehow extraneous without a Buckinghamshire backdrop to go, and swim in the clear cool waters of the ebullient streams of the hilly North.

Vivek says he cut his teeth on ‘reality’ in 9th grade and gave up his aspirations toward photography. Towards the end of the first half of the 2000’s, with the globalization tempest in full swing across the country and MNCs launching operations and markets in every major city, young Indians were beginning to find a host of new ways to use their education. Vivek saw his cousins and older friends find respectable, if conventional, employment and address their responsibilities towards their families and their upbringing far faster than used to be the norm. During the same time he also saw the varied ambitions of his classmates sieved evenly into medicine and engineering, as coming of age in a country spinning with the new energy of massive foreign investment clearly set practicality against, well, impracticality.

It isn’t hard to understand how these circumstances impacted Vivek to give up his longstanding dream, but the abrupt ruthlessness he did it with was startling. Earlier, he had spoken earnestly of having always known he could perform, in academics and much else, better than his peers. ‘Andhon mein kana raja,’ he said dismissively, but this was coming from a star student and athlete whose picture had been on those ‘state topper’ banners you see on roadsides until he finished high school. He would be ‘the best’ at anything he tried, and his success pushed him to adjust to the idea that if he wanted to, he probably should rise to the top of every list he signed himself up for. Perhaps he came to see employability through the same competitive lens that he viewed education with. Either way, he dedicated the next few years of his life to raising himself, further, to the absolute limits of the education circus and decided to go to Kota, Rajasthan- a coaching hub- to prepare for. All he had in mind at this point was his career.

Army School Certificate

Army School Certificate

…he was one of those peculiar kids solving questions from textbooks 2 or 3 years above his grade in school

Kota is a horrifying city. If you go there, you will be terrified,’ he tells me, ‘You don’t do anything else there (but study). It is the hub.’ 

Vivek is adamant I understand the gravity of his decision to go to Kota. His parents, seasoned educators, knew exactly what he was getting into. For a student of Vivek’s caliber it was the only logical step to take before appearing at the All India Engineering Entrance Examination, the results of which would determine the course of the better part of the rest of his life. He ranked in the top 1 percent in that exam, at number 2017 amongst 300,000, a feat that got him into NIT, one of the best rated universities in India.

In the year he spent in Kota, he says he realized that there was nothing special about him. Nothing about what he had achieved and what he had given up stood out among the trials and sacrifices of the many thousands of other students he met there. He called Kota a place where ‘machines are made, programmed to do things that would make them the best in the world.’ He reminded me of a Chinese student I had met in Edinburgh. This guy was doing a Masters in chemical engineering, studying plastics. A little surprised, I’d asked him how he’d come to develop an interest in plastics. He told me it was no such thing- he had given an exam and the government had decided to allot him to a subject according to his score. I asked him what it took to get into arts, and why he hadn’t gone into that ‘field’ if it was easier, as is the case in India. He said that it is nearly impossible to get into arts because only the highest scoring students qualify.

Vivek is something of a mathematician; he was one of those peculiar kids solving questions from textbooks 2 or 3 years above his grade in school. Today, they have him figuring out itineraries and overseeing sales and shipping at AMW trucks.

He and his colleagues are paid well for what they do, but probably ‘more than we deserve,’ observes a fellow NIT graduate who lives and works with him. Vivek’s situation clearly touches the heights of the ‘best case scenario’ as far as education and employment go. The prospects are endless, if slow to mature, and the potential is undeniable.

It is disappointing to observe that Vivek’s story just kind of middles and while he did earn the security he was looking for, it’s difficult to say he enjoys it very much. I have this empty feeling that there’s an army of hard working, hard drinking Indian geniuses in this country chasing after spare parts and processing email inquiries that would otherwise have been shaping the face of our nation at unexpected and groundbreaking avenues. But the national fear of failure persists and breeds within most a reluctance to experiment, to wander within themselves and explore not only what truly makes them happy, but even what they can be most productive at. It isn’t hard to boil down the issue at hand to the tyranny of circumstance, national or otherwise; or to our half-baked system of education- the one that was imparted to us by our colonial masters to educate us to a degree that would enable us to be more dynamic in our servitude. But must we?

Vivek in his flat

Vivek in his flat

…we’re only wetting our lips from a cup when there’s an ocean of possibility we remain… ignorant of

It is fruitless to blame the British at this point; they’ve been gone for a while now. The real problem is that other one- circumstance.

The fact is that things are no longer dire. Actually, things have been getting better and better, and I’m not one to pick a fight with the statistics. But however better off we might be than whatever we’ve been comparing ourselves with, it is my unshakeable feeling that as a nation, we stopped too early, and still on our colonial tracks, at the earliest signs of actual prosperity and said, well this is it, we’re here. India has always been bridled with the best, but we found contentment too many trials too soon, and we put a label on it and declared it right and practical. Vivek could have settled for the peak at his bedroom window, but fueled by the belief that he could invent a future for himself among churning things, he chose a different one- a faraway one that can barely fit itself upon the landscape where it now stands.

But that is not my problem with his situation. My problem with his situation is that he got there, and it’s boring, and it shouldn’t be. Not for him. But it’s the same story all over. By charting our perception of success and satisfaction on maps of experience drawn generations before us, we’re only wetting our lips from a cup when there’s an ocean of possibility we remain, in congress, quite ignorant of. But who’s to launch a debate on the mass perspective of a nation that gets by?

Vivek tells me that the only instance of failure in his academic life occurred when he was 4. Tasked with drawing an apple for some kind of exam, he drew a beautiful one and coloured it black, despite having spent the night before practicing the same endlessly with his mother, in the right colour. ‘I still don’t know why I did that,’ he says, it seems to be something he’s wondered about on occasion. Had it been some kind of act of preemptive mutiny, an early premonition of a rebellion that would never materialize? The black apple hangs in his childhood home, a vision of possibility framed unwittingly by his mother on a wall in his room, a constant reminder of untaken paths to ponder over whenever he can steal a couple of weeks off work and take the train home. Ominously, he says he will ‘return’ to photography and the other things he’s put off when he’s 40 or 50. It’s a feeling a lot of us know.

I feel like I have shared sweet smiles with the gone children, a generation of men and women who never had a chance to wander at leisure and examine their souls. It is a generation doomed to the turmoil of uncertainty concerning its decisions and the guarantee of the now classic executive mid-life crisis that goes with a moderate monthly salary. They are deaf to the calamity of their situation. ‘This happens in India,’ and dreams are lost, regurgitated in a youthful mist that vanishes a little more every day. But between every shaft of the harsh glare of the sun is shade, and we thrive there.

Vivek is asleep on the floor, surrounded by empty glasses and a bottle of rum he couldn’t quite finish. I lift his jacket, a Pepe Jeans sleeveless fleece, from the sofa-cum-bed adjacent to the window and throw it over him. Shimmering in the shaky glow of the flames from the fertilizer plant, a Union Jack glares at me dimly from the back of it.

The night speaks in tongues; I switch off the lights and leave.

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Bob Dylan WFMT Chicago radio – May 1963

http://tinyurl.com/qymqjd3

The song and dance man at 22 (I think), being interviewed very early in his career by some guy who totally knew where this was going to go. Dylan responds to the interviewer’s enthusiasm with an openness and honesty that you wouldn’t believe the guy possessed seen 4 years later in Pennebaker’s documentary. Somehow it’s always very late in the AM when I do anything on this blog so I’m gonna go back to my Stallone flick and hopefully sleep at some point and you can go ahead and listen to the tracks I’ve compiled for you (start with the second). It was very important for me at one time, although just right now I’d rather join the SS and give up processed sugar again.

Tempora mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis

Which sounds like something from Game of Thrones but it’s not.

Thanks to original uploader, long lost and forgotten

View to a

Here’s our featured guest post by Rosheena Zehra. You can find more of her work at her blog here

It’s a fine bright day and the classroom discussion is about being stuck in an empty bus with only the driver, the conductor and a seedy looking passenger. The participants of the conversation sit and laugh about the number of times they have been stranded in similar situations, the fear they felt and how they are glad it all ended in a way that has allowed them to sit and chat about it in a classroom today. It’s indeed funny how the possibility of rape is part of the normative order to the point that there is no choice but to include it in our lives, garbed in the form of humour. We live a reality where it’s an achievement to survive every day without the threat of physical and sexual violence. Good, you were not asking for it by dressing in a particular manner. Pat on the back. Good, you were not out after dark. Pat on the back one more time.

It is a strange world where the eyes of a seven year old rag-picker at the nearest Community Centre have a disturbingly ill-placed maturity staring back at you.  They tell me there is no hope left for the world, but sometimes I choose to believe otherwise.  It is sad to have children lose their innocence before their due time. When a friend tries to adopt an orphan child from the same community, one of the two contenders of the struggle is the possibility of education, a stable roof over their head and regular meals on a daily basis- a phenomenon previously unheard of. However, it loses to its far stronger adversary – the addiction of sniffing a specific item of stationery.  Soon the orphan slum-child refuses to eat with you, or take the clothes you give, or attend your lessons.  He already accepted his fate somewhere during the course of his eight year old existence, and now refuses to see any other reality beyond it. They tell me there is no hope left for the world.

A country where land mines are part of the daily reality of school children is yet another achievement. Ladakh- it’s a bitter realization that there exists a world where courting death on an everyday basis is a lived reality, where warning signs of land mines are just as normal and mundane as the nearest sign post around the corner.  Kindly stay close to the main road, to avoid being blown up into chunks smaller than your pinkie. Have a good day!

A little world of comforts- which in turn gives rise to more illusions prepared, garnished and served on the silver platter of neo-colonialism, patriarchy and First World privileges- is sufficient to make us feel good about ourselves, probably even indulge in a feeling of self-importance. However, beyond this world of palatable truths lurks a reality somewhere out on the streets -that place we have never been to, completely untouched by the naiveté of the existence we are often deluded into leading.

We Are Everywhere – Jerry Rubin and We Are Everywhere – The Irresistable Rise of Global Anticapitalism

There are two books here. Yes, with the same name and pretty much about the same thing. Each worth going through- do so with caution. Caution caution caution. Sounds like

We Are Everywhere – The Irresistable Rise of Global Anticapitalism

Very 2000’s-sy, which is to say that thanks to the flashy editing and clean, uncluttered type, this book very nearly sucks and is almost unreadable because it looks so fucking boring, but there is some very good writing in there (check out the article by Kate Evans on page 290 and the one immediately after it by Medha Patkar and other stuff I haven’t had time to go through)

We_Are_Everywhere_The_Irresistible_Rise_of_Global_Anti-Capitalism_2003

We Are Everywhere – Jerry Rubin

My kind of book, all stitched up and with pictures of kids posing with guns, using guns, getting shot by guns; though no idea what it’s about. Some stuff on Black Panthers, lots of naked hippies, writing like

“Can we take your handcuffs off, Jerry?” asked the sergeant.

“Will you behave?”

I growled.

They got the message and stood back. “Cutting our hair is like taking off your black skin!” I barked to one sergeant.

“Jerry, I wish you could,” he answered. “You don’t know how much trouble my black skin has given me”

What contempt the black bourgeoisie hold for us white hairy niggers! They have fought so hard to become an equal in the white man’s society and we are trying to give up out white skin to become a nigger.

We don’t appreciate what they want so much.

The barber made good on his whispered promise and left much of the hair on my head.

Sheared, humiliated, beaten-yet still proud of ourselves for resisting…

We_Are_Everywhere_smllr

Reflections: On Character

‘What do you do?’ ‘I’m a writer’

1. I’m trying to keep up but A is moving quickly. Already L had been shed from our company, lost somewhere in the bazaar behind us. It’s my turn I guess, but I’m not quite done. I catch up to him, walking briskly beside him while I try to assimilate the sentence that will get me what I want. I want two things, I want my goddamn story and I want my goddamn flip flops.

Which A is wearing. I’m wearing his- a somewhat expensive looking foreign thing all black leather and cushy and a bit too cushy for my feet. I’m not sure A is even aware I’m beside him until he speaks over his shoulder, all matter of fact-like without breaking pace, ‘What the fuck are you doing?’

Glancing at his feet, I weigh my options. It’s unlikely I’ll get both, and I’m not going to try his patience now- he’s on his way to the Holy Family clinic to see his girlfriend, she overdosed a couple of days ago and will probably raise hell if he doesn’t show up now that she’s okay. Damn. ‘Remember, I need to meet your nephew, the street racer? I want to do a story on him’

A is stumbling around the busy intersection, hanging on to the roofs of autorickshaws as he peers inside each looking for one without a passenger. If he gets hit by one, I’ll take what’s mine and he can have what’s his and that shall be the end of that. Fuck the story. But he probably won’t. Too many people know him here. Too many people fear him. The guy has clout- enough that his awkwardly bent frame shuffling furiously through the crowded market street with a head full of opiates demands no consternation, not a second look from anyone. They’ve seen the gold chains, they’ve seen the expensive watch. They know him as ‘seth’ here- boss. No, he’ll be fine. I’ll have to think of something else.

‘Meet with L and give me a call in the evening, you can meet my nephew then.’

I say nothing, and taking one last look at his feet, I turn around and head back. He’ll find an auto eventually and take it to the girlfriend. He kept referring to her as the girlfriend , the female.

When I’ll call him at around 8 that night, he’ll be with her, still obstinate and still high, and his voice still like jagged stone- just like I had left him, and I shall know that nothing that I had felt earlier had been an exaggeration or a play of memory. The fear, the danger had been real. I had spent the morning with the wolf, and I was not yet done. He still had my story. He still had my flip flops.

‘Who the fuck is going to read your magazine?’

2. It was about 10:30 in the morning, L had asked me to come in and meet A, whom he had introduced as a guy that was starting a rehab clinic. I had been interested in the process and had set up a meet with him at L’s place- a rundown hovel of a room in one of the side gullys of the main market without water or electricity and a filthy mattress for a bed surrounded by strange trash that I couldn’t guess the purpose of if I tried. L had showed me the place a few days ago- pointing at the door he’d said that A had donated it a year or so back, and he’d made do with a curtain for the last 22 odd years. L thinks very highly of A, he thinks of him as a brother. But then L thinks very highly of me, and thinks I have been sent by God, because we had ended up talking once in the back lot of a nearby church, a place he hadn’t been for 15 years. He took that as a sign, even though I’d really only asked him if he knew a quiet place we could sit and smoke. I had been interviewing him for a small story-he had seemed to be an interesting character. ‘I really like you,’ he had told me at our first meeting, ‘if you ever need any help… if you ever need someone killed…’ His eyes had trailed off and the quick, excited smile that played on his lips when he would have a generous thought faded, ‘Yeah, I’ve been looking for a job these days,’ he’d said, the creases on his face returning until his face was quite lost in the intersecting folds of skin that seemed to lay the geography of his difficult life. L is 60, looks 30, and is insane; but he’s a nice fellow. But I won’t get into the things he told me about himself, or even the things that I understood because this is not his story. This is mine.

It was bad politics to hang out with L- I’d been told (and he’d told me as much) that he’d been in jail a couple of times, most recently for slashing a man’s stomach with a thermocol cutter. L is kind of an interior designer. The bazaar is a close-knit community where word travels fast. But he’d seemed interesting and I figured it was worth the damage. When he started speaking of A, I thought I’d hit a new break, found a greater perspective to the story. And yeah, I guess I did.

Right on time, I found my way to L’s door; it was open and the curtain that was usually drawn in the doorframe was pulled backwards and swung over the door to let the breeze in. I found the two of them sitting cross legged on the mattress with L holding up a thin folded sheet of aluminum and running a wax match under a fat drop of brown sugar that A was chasing with a small chillum fashioned out of a playing card. So much for the rehab clinic, I thought as I took a seat beside them.

‘What do you do?’

‘I’m a writer’

I lit a cigarette as I watched them continue, absolutely unabated by my presence or that of the chai walla that brought me a cup of tea on L’s insistence, or the few that paused in the door and looked in or the many that did not. A asked if I was a teetotaler when I declined his offer to have L bring some whiskey for me. Before the shock wore off, A explained what a teetotaler was and I mutely agreed. A would demonstrate his literacy and acumen several times in the next three hours. He recommended the novel ‘Valley of Dolls’ and spoke at length of an old de Palma film I had not seen. As he dived into the heroin again, I asked him if he was aware of Killer Joe, attributing it incorrectly to de Palma. He was. Great movie.

He had a thick gold chain around his neck and a couple of bracelets, also gold, also heavy, on his right wrist. He wore a beautiful watch on his other wrist that he told me was worth a small fortune. Its pale metal gleamed dangerously in the hole of a room we were sitting in. I wondered what a man of his stature was doing in a place like that. He began to tell me of a film script he’d been approached to write but refused to because the money wasn’t enough. I said sometimes you’ve got to take what you get. He said he didn’t need it. Said I didn’t know who he was, at which point L introduced him. Yes, I would say he was a big shot gangster. But I would say that he was a big shot gangster. He was in construction now- screaming at people on the phone, promising to hang them from the roof of his office. I made note to myself- Never go to his office. His ringtone was the cry of gulls.

I looked him in the eye, the casual slits he was talking from shining eerily in the light of the single candle L had set up on a plastic bottle for some reason. The glint made him look powerful. I wondered what he could do for me. I asked him if he would write an article on the state of the drug trade, that he had been a part of back in the day, in the city today. He said he wanted to co-author a book with me about the rise of the drug trade in Bombay from the 1950’s until today- naming names, all that. I said that sounded dangerous. He said if I put his name on it, no one would come after me, no one would kill me. I said I wasn’t willing to bet my life on that. And I was too busy with my magazine.

‘How many people do you think would read your magazine?’

Yeah, I know. He said he knew a publisher in Dubai that would buy the manuscript guaranteed for a crore. It was a story that would sell, and I knew it. We’d split the money even. I said I wasn’t ready for such a big commitment, especially on such a dangerous subject.

‘How much are you going to sell your magazine for?’

Nothing. It’ll be free. There’ll be a page at the back with information on how to donate.

‘How much does a printing press cost?’

A lot.

‘I can put up that money for you’

Fuck you.

‘I’ll give… lend… you this book called Acropolis, by Julius Caesar. “You too Brutus!” Kya line hai!’

L pitched in, taking his turn on the foil with the heroin.

‘If-you-stick-by-this-man-he-will-help-you,’ he droned, his voice shaking tersely, strangely elongated from the smoke he was inhaling even as he spoke.

I am Faust, about to make a deal with the devil? No.

‘You’re not an optimist,’ I pointed out, coming back to the magazine.

In his voice like gravel he spoke with an intelligence that frightened, intrigued me, ‘I believe that black is black and white is white’

What I saw was a 50 year old man sitting in baggy boxer shorts and a pink shirt smoking cheap heroin with a junkie in a slummy room surrounded by trash. Yes, I’d be in his 2 million dollar flat (next to his other 2 million dollar flat) in an exclusive part of town the next day, hoping to meet his nephew, the real story, the feature story for my magazine. But he’d be wearing the same clothes. Actually so would I and it was only L who had seemed to have changed his shirt into a white t-shirt with a large black screw printed on it under the word ‘WANNA’ in bold. I’d also get my flip flops back, but just barely.

He pressed me on the book, said it would be my ticket. He was right, but I wasn’t interested. It was pissing him off that I wouldn’t see reason. I told him he was a businessman, I an artist, we have a fundamental difference in perspective. But then I wondered, why was I there? If I never wanted to meet the likes of him what kept me there on that damp, disgusting mattress? Did I need him? We exist in different worlds- he, of actions and consequences- routine and I, of chaos, medley, a very pleasant and very comfortable and very generous kind of madness, where I do nothing and prosper, where I commit grave action and mistakes to no consequence. I could not say to him, to his face and mine, ‘Who you are looking for to write this book is a man, not a boy.’ Too big too fast- the way things can work sometimes in this city, but I will not yield to just any tide.

He’d been on and off the phone with his girlfriend a few times. ‘Kaun hai abhi tumhare saath?’ He got up suddenly and made to leave, in a rush putting on my flip flops instead of his slippers, and was out before I realized he wasn’t coming back.

L and I raced after him, I needed my appointment and footwear and L, I don’t think L knew what he was doing at this point. As I caught up to A, I realized he looked dofferent. In the market, in the bright light of day, this dominating, serious man had been reduced to a worn out shell struggling through the crowd. In his boxers and pink shirt, he looked pathetic and weak- a hunched, beat figure squinting in the sun. Where was the ‘seth’ now? Where was the snake eyed man that had frightened me?

It wasn’t until I called him later that day, imagining the wistful serenity of his ringtone as the bell rang, and spoke to him that I was reminded of the gravity of my situation. It was real. It returned. Did A carry his strength in his voice?

Suddenly I was very weary, and wanted nothing more to do with L or A or his nephew. I wanted the moment to pass and leave no refrain. Nothing. I had to set the alarm for 8:30 when A had said he’d meet me at L’s, but I didn’t want to associate that hour with him. In the morning I was 4 hours late, but I don’t think he noticed.

And what about my magazine? The one no one will read and I’ll give out for free?

The one with news but not hard news. The one with writing but nothing that would put me in harm’s way.

Won’t I need a graphic designer?

I don’t know. I can hear him taunt me, and he’s right. Maybe I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.

Hatred is an institution. We’re all playing catch up.

Hear – Advised on Urbanity

And here’s our first guest post- a poem by Alia Sinha, a student of Media and Culture at the TATA Institute of Social Sciences

Listen,
Before you spill your secrets to strangers
Or to me
This is the wrong time to be thus-
Wandering with swollen ankles and
Looking through curtained windows
For love.

Towers are crumbling into light splinters as
Helicopters crash in fields of wheat
While all along
Sorrow plays out in pink brassieres
Sold on the sides of streets

Here steel-shod golden eyed
Electric-lit
Monsters stand
Breathing mad music into sweet wine
Breathing sweet melodies into the night
They cannot roam with you
They can only grieve or charm.

Once
Dreamers owned these once-forests
Fire they cried. They were not wrong.
But so what?
Weep no more for the sensuous or the tender
Only remember
Once
They were strong.

Meanwhile torn-eared hyena be
With gilded fur and moony eyes
With delicate shoes
With throaty cries
Grin yellow toothed for cameras,
and acknowledge irony.

SIGHTS: MTV, LOWER PAREL; TAKING Part 1

“I say. You know this does utilize well” Ernest Hemingway, The Sun Also Rises

Acting on the information I know, I’m carrying a green Giordano blazer; It must be 35 degrees but not where I’m going; and headed to classy South Mumbai. I’m going to the Palladium, a gigantic mall where all the world class fancy tiling and foreign boutiques can’t seem to shake the evil stench of Neutrogena or mask the pallor of regurgitated creme fraiche – but I admit, the AC is top class and draws the potential from the city’s dress sense- Calvin Klein and Aldo, not exactly Versace but Tommy, and thankfully little in the way of Fab India. A foreign pianist plays elegantly on the Steinway parked next to the customer care counter. Brahms? Yes, yes, I think so… well, fuck knows.

Anyway I’m at the wrong place, the venue for MTV’s Youth Marketing Forum is next door, at an equally cushy ‘indie’ (in the way such things tend to be) furniture store, the Good Earth. I find the place- last stop in an enclave of exclusive decor stores and enter. Upstairs, against an arty little cafe filled with foreigners (good design, obedient art hanging against each table- very money), I find the door- it’s a large sized space with a stage set up against the wall, taking on the guise of a teenager’s bedroom with Bob Marley posters and stuff like that, and a huge LED wall playing an MTV graphic over and over. The cameras are just finishing setting up and there’s a crowd of some 200 people ambling in- I take a seat. Cyrus Brocha is mediating, assuaging the angst of those collected- no one seems to know what the thing is about. So we wait. The room is hot, the blazer is on my lap.

Aditya Swamy, MTV business head, comes on stage in an unimpressive, if shiny, gray suit jacket (that  is not quite Zegna and I wonder why, I’d be surprised if he can’t afford it) and begins to talk about some project they’ve been working on called ‘Curious Minds’.

“We’re in the business of young people,” he proclaims, and somehow the thought disturbs me- being the first hint of something I will figure out in the next few hours. The project turns out to be an international survey of some 11000 kids to gauge their priorities, desires, aspirations- information they used to hire experts for. I wonder at the change in tactics, but the graphics change and Swamy exits, leaving the stage for something I was not expecting.

So what they have come up with is Aryan Khanna, a 16 year old bastard child of consumption that seems to exist in a state of perpetual exhilaration. He has a little laptop with all his friends a on it and a compulsion to engage in spirited appreciation and sharing, centered suspiciously around electronic dance music defecated by MTV India’s most recent imports. As he air drums, guitars, etc to the music, sharing the passion of his consumption with his friends (all blown up on the LED wall for everyone to learn from) I realize I have walked in to something a little different from what I think it was supposed to be. Seated in the third row, I look at those ahead of me, on the reserved seats- Swamy, Brocha, other, nameless execs are studying the kid in engrossed detail. Suddenly I realize that MTV has no interest in catering to a market- it aims to create one– and this silent freak show of a human being that can’t enter a room without wearing Beats headphones and dribbling a basketball like it is so essential that every moment of his life, even the time it takes to cross over the room to his couch, is spent doing something, using something- is not only their imagination of what youth, all youth, look like, but also concept they’re trying their damndest to bring to actuality.

I think of S, and A, my friends that work here that invited me, is this the world like they see it? What are they building here?

A swarthy, glazed eyed European comes on and begins to drone about MTV having it’s “finger on the pulse” and begins to talk about youth. “Young people around the world are surprisingly similar,” he interprets from the statistics they’ve established from the survey. They’re “all travelling in the same direction.” The numbers are insane, perverse and the powerpoint slides conflict each other. They suggest a mechanical world that thrives in isolation, where consumption is achievement and social commitment and nuance boils down to “if you don’t share that funny thing, you’re out of it.” They’ve know, they’ve assessed the “market”.

Some guy comes on- it’s a politician, Shashi Tharoor. “India is owned by the young,” he says with a straight face, blown up incredibly on the large LED directly behind him. I wonder at the signs, the superimposition of Shashi Tharoor on Shashi Tharoor, what the hell does it mean? I’d be tired but this guy is electric and owns the room in 10 minutes with his irreverent banter with Cyrus and masterly command of memes. He has a voice like rough silk and is talking about the participation of youth in the election, saying exactly the right things- it’s easy to forget this guy was in the news recently- where the best case scenario, the one that the courts eventually believed, was that his wife had killed herself after learning of his infidelity and that’s all he had to do with it.

Inevitably, conversation turns to the Aam Aadmi Party, which he and Cyrus take turns bashing it until he turns and is serious, suggesting that while people may be sick of corruption, “there are no quick fixes, no easy solutions.” That’s what she said?

The interminable vision of a tyrant – a Czech guy comes on, he’s selling Tomorrowland some kind of EDM festival like a hundred others these motherfuckers seem to hold in Goa. Nothing new about this, nothing definitive- just one more. Taking in his short, stocky frame and the spotlights glinting off his white, shaven head, I think of the Portuguese, flooding the shores of our nation (if in khakis this time), wave after bloody wave of incursions that had cost us grievously then. He reads my mind, “We ARE coming” he says, describing his determination to win over the competition. No one contests, nobody cares. Yes, it’s finally sinking in- it’s all happened before and they’re back – this is the new Jalianwalla Bagh- Goa- a city we’ve set aside for them to see how far they can go. Describing Tomorrowland’s relationship with MTV, he slips, and he calls MTV a “big commercial monster” before he corrects himself, “of course I mean monster in a nice way.”

What I feel is dread. I realize I’m with the wolf in his den, where he thinks he’s among his own and speaks freely. I try not to blink when our eyes meet and say nothing. This will be over soon, I have only to sit still and make no sudden movements, and I shall pass unnoticed. All through the day I have been hearing the corporation talking, like from a huge machine head, delivering machine thoughts, perfectly rational in its mind, to an audience of mediums that will convey the message- and in the process, create the environment the message is to be delivered, and received in.

Collectively, we will await avatarati- our passage from this state of consciousness into the one they’re creating- a mass produced, perfectly referenced one that would be very viable indeed. They’d know. They took the goddamn survey, didn’t they?